Read Online Conan the Barbarian by Michael A. Stackpole - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael A. Stackpole
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did with defiance. “I prefer death.”
The bandit leader nodded. “I thought you might. Lucius, to you goes this honor.”
The Aquilonian general drew his short sword and approached, raising it to behead the smiling Cimmerian.
CHAPTER 8
CONAN BURST FROM the woodshed. The short sword came up in a sharp, vicious arc. It lopped Lucius’s nose off. The Aquilonian stumbled back, hand rising to stem the bleeding.
Before the nose could hit the ground, Conan twisted and drove straight at Khalar Zym. The bandit leader whirled. The great sword came up, deflecting Conan’s strike. Khalar Zym kicked the boy in the chest, sending him back into the arms of the bandit’s Kushite confederate. Corin took a step toward Zym, but the large man in chains smashed him to his knees with a forearm shiver across the shoulder blades.
Khalar Zym turned away, his left hand coming up to his right ear. His fingers came away bloody. His eyes widened with shock, then he smiled. “Is that your son? He must be your son. I like him.”
Conan snarled and almost pulled free. The tattooed man grabbed him as well.
“Much fire in that one, Cimmerian. You’re clearly proud of him, as any father should be of a dutiful child.”
Corin said nothing, and Conan followed his father’s example.
“Alas, a child can sometimes be as much a heartache as a delight. Or a weakness.”
Khalar Zym barked an order in a tongue Conan did not recognize, but that rasped like a file over his brain. The Aquilonian and the chained man wrestled Corin over to the forge and there bound him with chains. The larger man walked out into the village and returned with a bucket-size steel helmet, which he filled with scraps of iron. He looped chains around it and fastened another chain to Corin. He arced another chain over a rafter and prepared to hoist the helmet into air above Corin.
Khalar Zym waved the acolyte forward. The sorcerer reached out and traced a finger over a patch of helmet. A gold sigil writhed there for a moment, then died, but a glow grew from within the helmet itself. Conan watched aghast as with that simple gesture all the nightmare stories whispered around fires about magick became real.
The large bandit hoisted the helmet clumsily as the acolyte withdrew. A golden droplet of molten steel splashed down to burn Corin’s thigh. The smith grit his teeth. The flesh tightened around his eyes, but he did not struggle or shift from beneath the helmet.
Khalar Zym shrugged. “You can cry out. I shall think no less of you.”
Corin said nothing.
“As a smith, I thought you might appreciate what can be done with a whisper and magick. For you to make metal fluid, it would be hours with the bellows. For him, a caress. Just think of the power I would share with you when I become a god.”
Corin snorted. “Cimmerians have no use for sorcery.”
“Pity. You would profit by it.” Khalar Zym frowned and looked at his subordinates. “Well? Find it!”
Lucius bowed his head. “Exalted one, it is not like finding the other shards. There is no temple, no sanctuary.”
“Fool.” Khalar Zym pointed around him with the great sword. “Cimmerians do not pray. They have neither priests nor preachers. This, here, this place of fire and steel, this is what matters to them. This is their church. It will be here.”
Khalar Zym’s subordinates, save for the Kushite who knelt on Conan to restrain him, searched the smithy. Though not terribly active in their search, they checked all the places where one could expect to find something that, if Conan figured correctly, could have fit easily inside his clenched fist. Father hid it well. They will never find it, and he will never reveal its location.
Father and son looked at each other in that moment, in silent agreement. They were Cimmerians. No matter the pain, no matter the torture, they would say nothing. Khalar Zym would never let them live, and a life granted because of surrender to a tyrant would not have been worth
The bandit leader nodded. “I thought you might. Lucius, to you goes this honor.”
The Aquilonian general drew his short sword and approached, raising it to behead the smiling Cimmerian.
CHAPTER 8
CONAN BURST FROM the woodshed. The short sword came up in a sharp, vicious arc. It lopped Lucius’s nose off. The Aquilonian stumbled back, hand rising to stem the bleeding.
Before the nose could hit the ground, Conan twisted and drove straight at Khalar Zym. The bandit leader whirled. The great sword came up, deflecting Conan’s strike. Khalar Zym kicked the boy in the chest, sending him back into the arms of the bandit’s Kushite confederate. Corin took a step toward Zym, but the large man in chains smashed him to his knees with a forearm shiver across the shoulder blades.
Khalar Zym turned away, his left hand coming up to his right ear. His fingers came away bloody. His eyes widened with shock, then he smiled. “Is that your son? He must be your son. I like him.”
Conan snarled and almost pulled free. The tattooed man grabbed him as well.
“Much fire in that one, Cimmerian. You’re clearly proud of him, as any father should be of a dutiful child.”
Corin said nothing, and Conan followed his father’s example.
“Alas, a child can sometimes be as much a heartache as a delight. Or a weakness.”
Khalar Zym barked an order in a tongue Conan did not recognize, but that rasped like a file over his brain. The Aquilonian and the chained man wrestled Corin over to the forge and there bound him with chains. The larger man walked out into the village and returned with a bucket-size steel helmet, which he filled with scraps of iron. He looped chains around it and fastened another chain to Corin. He arced another chain over a rafter and prepared to hoist the helmet into air above Corin.
Khalar Zym waved the acolyte forward. The sorcerer reached out and traced a finger over a patch of helmet. A gold sigil writhed there for a moment, then died, but a glow grew from within the helmet itself. Conan watched aghast as with that simple gesture all the nightmare stories whispered around fires about magick became real.
The large bandit hoisted the helmet clumsily as the acolyte withdrew. A golden droplet of molten steel splashed down to burn Corin’s thigh. The smith grit his teeth. The flesh tightened around his eyes, but he did not struggle or shift from beneath the helmet.
Khalar Zym shrugged. “You can cry out. I shall think no less of you.”
Corin said nothing.
“As a smith, I thought you might appreciate what can be done with a whisper and magick. For you to make metal fluid, it would be hours with the bellows. For him, a caress. Just think of the power I would share with you when I become a god.”
Corin snorted. “Cimmerians have no use for sorcery.”
“Pity. You would profit by it.” Khalar Zym frowned and looked at his subordinates. “Well? Find it!”
Lucius bowed his head. “Exalted one, it is not like finding the other shards. There is no temple, no sanctuary.”
“Fool.” Khalar Zym pointed around him with the great sword. “Cimmerians do not pray. They have neither priests nor preachers. This, here, this place of fire and steel, this is what matters to them. This is their church. It will be here.”
Khalar Zym’s subordinates, save for the Kushite who knelt on Conan to restrain him, searched the smithy. Though not terribly active in their search, they checked all the places where one could expect to find something that, if Conan figured correctly, could have fit easily inside his clenched fist. Father hid it well. They will never find it, and he will never reveal its location.
Father and son looked at each other in that moment, in silent agreement. They were Cimmerians. No matter the pain, no matter the torture, they would say nothing. Khalar Zym would never let them live, and a life granted because of surrender to a tyrant would not have been worth
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