Conan the Barbarian Read Free Page B

thought Conan, might devils from the nether parts of Hell come howling up to ravage the green hills of earth.
    As the great beast paced the bloodstained snow, under the gloved guidance of its rider, all the Vanir bowed low, repeating one word like an incantation: “Doom... Doom... Doom!”
    The giant Rexor leaped forward to hold the hell-steed’s bridle as his master dismounted. The two exchanged but a word or two, then turned to scrutinize the Cimmerian woman, who stood, tense and level-eyed, grasping her broadsword. As Maeve returned their gaze and sensed the menace in it, like a mother panther prepared to defend her cub, she raised her weapon and moved one foot into position for a strike.
    The man in the jewelled helmet, still studying her with cool appraisal, drew off his glove and reached out one lean hand to accept from his lieutenant the sword of Corin the smith. Rexor bowed as he handed the weapon to his master.
    “Doom... Doom... Doom!” intoned the Vanir once again; and as he listened, Conan perceived that this was no mere word of welcome that the raiders chanted. It was a portentous name—a name to conjure with, a name to fear.
    Doom, a lithe figure in his serpentine mail, sauntered up to the embattled Cimmerians, mother and son. As he approached, his slitted eyes studied the sheer perfection of the weapon in his hands. Focusing his entire attention on the fine blade, or so it seemed, he turned it this way and that, admiring its razor edge, its flawless balance, its exquisite workmanship. Mirror-bright, the steel flashed in the low sun’s rays and immersed the waiting boy in a scintillating river of light.
    As the ring of armed men parted, Maeve drew up her splendid body, raised her broadsword, and set her jaw. A swift intake of breath between parted lips served as a warning of her intention.
    Suddenly Doom appeared to notice her. He doffed his jewelled helm, revealing a lean-jawed, darkly handsome face. A small smile flickered across his thin lips, and something akin to admiration flashed red in his coal-black eyes. The woman stood as if transfixed, fascinated yet repelled by his commanding presence and the overpowering aura of male sexuality that radiated from his person.
    “Doom... Doom... Doom!” shouted the motionless Vanir warriors in unison.
    For a long moment, Doom stared into the wide eyes of Conan’s mother. Her finely-sculpted breasts, kissed by the roseate light, rose and fell with rapid breathing. Then, careless of the woman’s upraised sword, he strolled past her, moving well within the range of her steel, but ignoring it, as if peril did not exist for such as he. The grace and bearing of his supple body, as he walked past the Cimmerian woman, was sensual, inviting, and vibrant with virility; but Maeve neither moved nor spoke. She remained utterly immobile, seemingly enthralled, as a partridge is fabled to be by the enticements of a serpent’s gaze.
    Once past her, with a gesture so casual as to look effortless, Doom swept the great sword upward with incredible skill and strength. The ugly sound the blade made as it struck rang loudly in the chill silence.
    Without a cry, or even a gasp, Maeve fell, as a tree falls before the axe of the forester. Dazed with horror, the boy Conan stared in disbelief as his mother’s severed head rolled in the mire at his feet. Her pale face displayed neither fear nor shock nor pain, only a dreamy-eyed look of fascination.
    Then as the boy, hate-filled, whipped about and aimed his knife at the broad back of Doom, the Vanir were upon him, dragging him into a snowdrift, and wresting his knife from his grasp.
    As the day faded, a weary column of captives, chained one to another, trudged across an endless expanse of pristine snow, shadowed by pines. The bedraggled line, a sad remnant of what had been a close-knit Cimmerian clan, were the sole survivors of the dawn raid on their village. Old men, women, and children, the ill-clad and the injured, slipped and slid