More Conan Fan Fiction!
Since the last Conan fan fiction post was such a big hit (well, no negative comments anyway), here we go again! This time round, I give you three short stories that were out and about on the web at one time, but may be a little hard to come across these days. I've read them all, and rather enjoyed them!
First up, it's Conan, The Temptress, and the Serpent by one Sermon Bath, who according to Marek has written a few stories and poems about REH characters, and posted them to the mighty interweb...
Conan, The Temptress, and the Serpent
Sermon Bath
The dusty little town on the Turanian border was called Et but Conan had already forgotten. He'd ridden in from the desert thirsty, tired, and hungry. Fortunately the barbarian learned that the one tavern in Et had a reputation for providing travelers palatable food, good cheap wine, and surprisingly attractive companionship. Conan had just collected a bounty for the head of the bandit chief Ludar the Lucky. His purse was stuffed with silver and he'd found a place to spend it. For the moment at least, there was little else the warrior needed or wanted.
Conan's head was reeling dangerously. Several hours of heavy drinking had left him more than a little drunk. As his wobbly legs carried him up the long flight of stairs to his quarters, he relied substantially on the support of a serving wench as he clung to her shoulders. Luckily, she was not only buxom but stout. No doubt Conan was not the first drunken customer she'd escorted thusly to an awaiting bed. He struggled to recall whether or not he'd previously made the proper arrangements with the comely wench.
"What do they call you girl? I seem to have forgotten..."
"Lessyndra barbarian, have a care now, its only a bit farther."
"You be a fetching lass Lessyndra...and the wine here is very tasty. I had not thought to find such fine accommodations so near the desert," Conan said, trying hard not to slur his words. It was difficult.
"Thank you barbarian, now one more step and we'll be on solid footing again," the girl giggled and the sound shot fire through Conan's mighty thews. He stole a glance in the direction of the girl's ample bosom. He took his time admiring her immense cleavage and noticed something that he'd either forgotten or missed completely. About the girl's neck was a small but bright amulet. A cold sensation ran down the warrior's spine when his volcanic blue eyes espied the coiled serpent engraved upon the face of the amulet.
"Hold girl, that amulet you wear, I had not noticed it before. I have no use for the servants of Set..."
The girl shook her head vigorously and her blond curls trembled in kind. "Oh no barbarian, this trinket was a gift from a soldier. He said that he won it from a Stygian in a game of dice. It is solid silver you see, and there is a small but precious gem set in the eye of the serpent. I only wear it to prevent the other girls from stealing it away from me; which they surely will if they can. I was going to sell it as soon as the next trade caravan passes through our village. With any luck, it will fetch me a handsome price."
The sincerity in the girl's huge dark eyes was enough to convince Conan and the couple stumbled on to his room. They barely made it to the bed when the barbarian and his comely companion crashed loudly onto the goose down mattress. Most beds would have collapsed beneath Conan's considerable weight alone, but the beds in Turanian brothels were build to stand heavy usage, as well they should.
Conan was drunker than he'd been in a long time but the softness of the woman's body pressed against his, and the sweet smell of her perfume soon rekindled a fierce fire that quickly surged through his veins. The couple's lips met and the next two hours were consumed by intense lovemaking that eventually drained all the lust from the barbarian's powerful body. Well sated, he fell into a long and deep sleep.
Bright sunlight poured through a large crack in the shutters of the room's single window. Conan felt the warm light on his face and he blinked. With a mighty paw he wiped the sand from his eyes and sat up on the side of the bed. His mouth was unbearably dry and his head seemed to have been stuffed with cotton. He massaged his face and temples vigorously before standing to stretch. He noticed his heavy sword propped against the wall with the rest of his belongings piled underneath. He was grateful to see that his purse was part of the pile...and it appeared to contain something save only air. Perhaps for once he'd wisely spent his coin on an honest trull. Now what was her name? Lessyndra wasn't it? What a night she'd given him!
Having reminded himself of Lessyndra, he turned his gaze back to the bed. There his startled blue eyes received a shock of near overwhelming proportions. Expecting to see the winsome naked body of a beautiful young girl, he instead found a great coiled serpent lying opposite the very spot where he'd slept the night away! The creature's eyes followed him as he stepped backwards in a sudden state of complete alertness. At this moment Conan noticed a thing even more dreadful. On that very pillow where Lessyndra had rested her long blond curls, there lay the silver amulet with the engraved image of a coiled serpent! "Sorcery!" Conan growled. "The wench was indeed an accursed servant of foul Set." A cold sweat had broken out on the body of the warrior and the clammy moisture glistened on his powerful arms and deep, muscular chest.
The barbarian's head had cleared in an instant and he snatched up his great broadsword. In the meanwhile the huge serpent had risen up until it towered even above the head of the tall swordsman. It glared balefully at Conan and hissed as if to taunt the still naked Cimmerian. The warrior was scarcely fond of sorcery and he had doubts that even his strong arm could prevail against the power of dark gods but the heavy steel felt good in his hands and he would wield it...let the fates and fools decide the outcome.
Whilst bellowing curses, Conan slashed with the big broadsword and the razor sharp steel severed the thick trunk of the serpent in twain. Both sections of the great snake spewed forth dank life's blood and they writhed fiendishly in what Conan hoped was death throes. The talisman on the pillow was knocked to the floor and clattered noisily against the hardwood. The barbarian watched the grisly scene play out as he stood breathing heavily with the great sword poised to strike yet again if need be.
Suddenly there came a loud knocking at the door to the room.
"Enter, but bewares!" Conan shouted in warning.
The door opened and a tall slender warrior with long blond hair and a noble face entered the room cautiously. The girl named Lessyndra followed him sheepishly. Her big dark eyes fell on Conan and she smiled.
Conan's surprise at seeing the girl paled in comparison to his shock when he recognized the man. "Amalric! What brings you to this remote inn, and what do you with that girl there, I had thought...?"
The young Aquilonian nobleman raised his hand in a playful salute as he carefully stepped around the still writhing serpent. "It has been some time since we rode together as comrades-in-arms. I was not certain that you'd remember me...why only last night...."
"Hold Amalric, what know you of last night? And why are you with that girl there? My senses have been dulled by much wine but I am beginning to smell some devilry afoot here, devilry that bares your trademark, you Aquilonian lout."
Amalric laughed loudly and slapped his muscular thigh. " Last night I arrived at this tavern to wet my throat and espied you already here. You were obviously so far into your cups that you couldn't even recognize me. I thought it only fair that, with the help of my cousin Lessyndra who owns this establishment, you be fattened for a merry deception. We thought you would never wake...and there was no danger, the snake was not venomous. It was quite harmless in fact, a mere pet, although I had hoped to return it to its former owner and reclaim some of my coin. Sadly it appears that is not to be...."
"A blight be upon the souls of all damned pranksters!" Conan roared and then belched forth a stream of much fouler curses. "You're lucky I don't flay you alive for this black deed!" Conan suddenly fell silent and sat down heavily in the room's only chair. He allowed the broadsword to fall in the floor as both of his huge hands clutched at his head. The insides of his brain throbbed like the awesome banging of a Khitain gong and his mighty thews ached with stiffness.
Conan's voice had become a dry croak. "Send the lass to fetch me a jar of her strongest wine, Crom, I need a drink!"
Sermon Bath
The dusty little town on the Turanian border was called Et but Conan had already forgotten. He'd ridden in from the desert thirsty, tired, and hungry. Fortunately the barbarian learned that the one tavern in Et had a reputation for providing travelers palatable food, good cheap wine, and surprisingly attractive companionship. Conan had just collected a bounty for the head of the bandit chief Ludar the Lucky. His purse was stuffed with silver and he'd found a place to spend it. For the moment at least, there was little else the warrior needed or wanted.
Conan's head was reeling dangerously. Several hours of heavy drinking had left him more than a little drunk. As his wobbly legs carried him up the long flight of stairs to his quarters, he relied substantially on the support of a serving wench as he clung to her shoulders. Luckily, she was not only buxom but stout. No doubt Conan was not the first drunken customer she'd escorted thusly to an awaiting bed. He struggled to recall whether or not he'd previously made the proper arrangements with the comely wench.
"What do they call you girl? I seem to have forgotten..."
"Lessyndra barbarian, have a care now, its only a bit farther."
"You be a fetching lass Lessyndra...and the wine here is very tasty. I had not thought to find such fine accommodations so near the desert," Conan said, trying hard not to slur his words. It was difficult.
"Thank you barbarian, now one more step and we'll be on solid footing again," the girl giggled and the sound shot fire through Conan's mighty thews. He stole a glance in the direction of the girl's ample bosom. He took his time admiring her immense cleavage and noticed something that he'd either forgotten or missed completely. About the girl's neck was a small but bright amulet. A cold sensation ran down the warrior's spine when his volcanic blue eyes espied the coiled serpent engraved upon the face of the amulet.
"Hold girl, that amulet you wear, I had not noticed it before. I have no use for the servants of Set..."
The girl shook her head vigorously and her blond curls trembled in kind. "Oh no barbarian, this trinket was a gift from a soldier. He said that he won it from a Stygian in a game of dice. It is solid silver you see, and there is a small but precious gem set in the eye of the serpent. I only wear it to prevent the other girls from stealing it away from me; which they surely will if they can. I was going to sell it as soon as the next trade caravan passes through our village. With any luck, it will fetch me a handsome price."
The sincerity in the girl's huge dark eyes was enough to convince Conan and the couple stumbled on to his room. They barely made it to the bed when the barbarian and his comely companion crashed loudly onto the goose down mattress. Most beds would have collapsed beneath Conan's considerable weight alone, but the beds in Turanian brothels were build to stand heavy usage, as well they should.
Conan was drunker than he'd been in a long time but the softness of the woman's body pressed against his, and the sweet smell of her perfume soon rekindled a fierce fire that quickly surged through his veins. The couple's lips met and the next two hours were consumed by intense lovemaking that eventually drained all the lust from the barbarian's powerful body. Well sated, he fell into a long and deep sleep.
Bright sunlight poured through a large crack in the shutters of the room's single window. Conan felt the warm light on his face and he blinked. With a mighty paw he wiped the sand from his eyes and sat up on the side of the bed. His mouth was unbearably dry and his head seemed to have been stuffed with cotton. He massaged his face and temples vigorously before standing to stretch. He noticed his heavy sword propped against the wall with the rest of his belongings piled underneath. He was grateful to see that his purse was part of the pile...and it appeared to contain something save only air. Perhaps for once he'd wisely spent his coin on an honest trull. Now what was her name? Lessyndra wasn't it? What a night she'd given him!
Having reminded himself of Lessyndra, he turned his gaze back to the bed. There his startled blue eyes received a shock of near overwhelming proportions. Expecting to see the winsome naked body of a beautiful young girl, he instead found a great coiled serpent lying opposite the very spot where he'd slept the night away! The creature's eyes followed him as he stepped backwards in a sudden state of complete alertness. At this moment Conan noticed a thing even more dreadful. On that very pillow where Lessyndra had rested her long blond curls, there lay the silver amulet with the engraved image of a coiled serpent! "Sorcery!" Conan growled. "The wench was indeed an accursed servant of foul Set." A cold sweat had broken out on the body of the warrior and the clammy moisture glistened on his powerful arms and deep, muscular chest.
The barbarian's head had cleared in an instant and he snatched up his great broadsword. In the meanwhile the huge serpent had risen up until it towered even above the head of the tall swordsman. It glared balefully at Conan and hissed as if to taunt the still naked Cimmerian. The warrior was scarcely fond of sorcery and he had doubts that even his strong arm could prevail against the power of dark gods but the heavy steel felt good in his hands and he would wield it...let the fates and fools decide the outcome.
Whilst bellowing curses, Conan slashed with the big broadsword and the razor sharp steel severed the thick trunk of the serpent in twain. Both sections of the great snake spewed forth dank life's blood and they writhed fiendishly in what Conan hoped was death throes. The talisman on the pillow was knocked to the floor and clattered noisily against the hardwood. The barbarian watched the grisly scene play out as he stood breathing heavily with the great sword poised to strike yet again if need be.
Suddenly there came a loud knocking at the door to the room.
"Enter, but bewares!" Conan shouted in warning.
The door opened and a tall slender warrior with long blond hair and a noble face entered the room cautiously. The girl named Lessyndra followed him sheepishly. Her big dark eyes fell on Conan and she smiled.
Conan's surprise at seeing the girl paled in comparison to his shock when he recognized the man. "Amalric! What brings you to this remote inn, and what do you with that girl there, I had thought...?"
The young Aquilonian nobleman raised his hand in a playful salute as he carefully stepped around the still writhing serpent. "It has been some time since we rode together as comrades-in-arms. I was not certain that you'd remember me...why only last night...."
"Hold Amalric, what know you of last night? And why are you with that girl there? My senses have been dulled by much wine but I am beginning to smell some devilry afoot here, devilry that bares your trademark, you Aquilonian lout."
Amalric laughed loudly and slapped his muscular thigh. " Last night I arrived at this tavern to wet my throat and espied you already here. You were obviously so far into your cups that you couldn't even recognize me. I thought it only fair that, with the help of my cousin Lessyndra who owns this establishment, you be fattened for a merry deception. We thought you would never wake...and there was no danger, the snake was not venomous. It was quite harmless in fact, a mere pet, although I had hoped to return it to its former owner and reclaim some of my coin. Sadly it appears that is not to be...."
"A blight be upon the souls of all damned pranksters!" Conan roared and then belched forth a stream of much fouler curses. "You're lucky I don't flay you alive for this black deed!" Conan suddenly fell silent and sat down heavily in the room's only chair. He allowed the broadsword to fall in the floor as both of his huge hands clutched at his head. The insides of his brain throbbed like the awesome banging of a Khitain gong and his mighty thews ached with stiffness.
Conan's voice had become a dry croak. "Send the lass to fetch me a jar of her strongest wine, Crom, I need a drink!"
FIN
And here's another one from Sermon Bath, Conan and the Head of Ludar The Lucky...
Conan and the Head of Ludar The Lucky
Sermon Bath
Conan wiped some of the sweat away from his troubled brow. The desert sun was merciless, and the exertion necessary to slay the three filthy hill bandits had given cause for the huge barbarian to perspire much more than even he was used to.
The massive swordsman appeared to be very deep in thought indeed as he stared into the unseeing eyes of the severed head lying near to hand upon a large, dusty boulder. Conan was becoming frustrated, he needed to make a decision and was experiencing a moment of unaccustomed conflict.
The head, had until just a few moments earlier belonged to one Ludar, nicknamed "The Lucky" for his ability with the dice. Most likely loaded dice Conan mused as he scratched his chin remembering how Ludar had recently won a considerable number of coins from the barbarian's own purse. Just three days earlier in a small Turanian village the Cimmerian had noticed a posted bill proclaiming that Ludar had a bounty on his head of no less than three pieces of good silver.....a tidy sum. Conan was no bounty hunter but the bandits had attacked him....and now he stood to profit.
Wisely spent, three pieces of silver might mean a good two days of lodging, drinking, gambling.........and most importantly...wenching. Conan could use some of all of the above, and obtaining said goals without killing somebody else or stealing something was substantially appealing. However there was more to consider than just the possible reward. Much more unfortunately.
It was a good two day ride back to that same dirty Turanian hamlet. And there was no guarantee that the proper official, with payment handy, could be easily located. Conan had no patience for waiting around whilst his belly complained from lack of food, his throat scratched from lack of wine, and his ....well, other parts, whined for a female.
And there was more. Ludar was exceeding ugly. Conan wasn't sure he could tolerate looking at those repulsive features for two days without vomiting....even with an empty stomach. And what of the smell!? The heat was oppressive.....the odor promised to be horrific within the span of mere hours.....and two days of that? Not an appealing thought.
Conan glanced at the head once more before shifting his focus to the task of cleansing the blood from that same heavy broadsword that had sent Ludar and his cohorts into their long overdue retirement. It was unbecoming for a man to fret over such a trivial matter....but still, three pieces of good silver....and the wenches!
Conan cursed loudly and became angried by his indecision. It was hardly his fashion to vent on himself however. The heavily corded muscles of a great arm shot out and grasped the thick wooly hair on top of the head. With another curse he yanked the gruesome trophy away from its boulder perch and hurled it with fearsome force against yet another silently observing rock. Ludar's former head smashed against the unyielding stone with a pronounced thud, then bounced a time or two before settling ingloriously amongst the sand and gravel. The skull had split open... allowing brains, blood, and cranial fluids to ooze down the bandit's uncaring face. Conan observed and shrugged, he was still not happy but at least he had made a choice. Whether it was a good one he'd let the Gods decide. At least he'd re-arranged the bandit's ugly features considerably.
"No need to thank me Ludar The Lucky", Conan said as a hint of a smile crossed his somber, dark features. He continued with his dark joke, "and it looks like you won't be going to jail after all you worthless carrion."
The head remained silent and the eyes did not blink as the big Cimmerian threw himself into the saddle and prodded the horse to a slow trot. Conan shot a disgusted scowl in the direction of the burning sun before he spat and growled another curse. He'd prefer the ice and snow of his frozen homeland over this devilish heat any day. "Crom send to hell all southern lands", he grumbled as his weary animal trudged carefully through the rocks and potholes of the rugged terrain.
Horse and rider had made their way for about fifty yards when they halted suddenly, accompanied by another loud curse. Conan's fevered brain had wandered all of a sudden back to a certain tavern wench he'd noticed with long legs, soft wavy hair, and proud shapely breasts. The barbarian had almost forgotten how much it pained him that he hadn't been able to afford her expensive services for even so much as one mere hour. His desire had been so great that he'd pondered selling his horse for a little coin....or even his sword. What damned foolishness!.......still.......wise men had committed much worse offenses for the embrace of a comely female.
Conan jerked the bridle and the horse wheeled about. Swiftly the barbarian returned to where the Ludar the Lucky's head was patiently waiting. It troubled the warrior some that the thing might have become so mangled and bloody that it would be unrecognizable....thus no bounty. "No," Conan commented to the nothingness of the wastelands. "No doubt anyone who has been cheated of their purse by this scum could easily testify as to whom this head once belonged. And besides, I can clean it up some if I have to. At worse, I might have to throw one or two coppers in the direction of some minor wizard to pretty it up by means of some dark craft." Regardless, the barbarian was willing to take a chance, and at least he'd reached a decision he could finally live with. That was the important thing...peace of mind. Or at least the Cimmerian version of such.
The big warrior had also come upon another idea that weighed heavily in favor of his abrupt change of mind. He skillfully entwined The Lucky's long coarse locks with those of his horse's tail, all the while being mindful of making the connection very near the animal's rump. This prevented being struck in the back by the gory object whilst the mount used its long tail to swat away annoying flies or other insects that plagued the desert.
Thusly, and having tied the head securely to the horse's backside, Conan remounted and rode away once again. However this time he was of a much better frame of mind. The barbarian even hummed an out of key bit from a gay tavern tune as he visualized long slender legs and plump breasts....breasts that his memory would recall considerably larger the nearer Conan came to his destination.
Dirt, sand, and pebbles disturbed by the horses iron fitted hoofs formed a thick cloud, appearing to almost insult the sulking desert as it trailed behind the disappearing rider. Conan spat and laughed whilst the head once belonging to Ludar The Lucky bounced against the sweating flanks of the Cimmerian's excited horse.
Sermon Bath
Conan wiped some of the sweat away from his troubled brow. The desert sun was merciless, and the exertion necessary to slay the three filthy hill bandits had given cause for the huge barbarian to perspire much more than even he was used to.
The massive swordsman appeared to be very deep in thought indeed as he stared into the unseeing eyes of the severed head lying near to hand upon a large, dusty boulder. Conan was becoming frustrated, he needed to make a decision and was experiencing a moment of unaccustomed conflict.
The head, had until just a few moments earlier belonged to one Ludar, nicknamed "The Lucky" for his ability with the dice. Most likely loaded dice Conan mused as he scratched his chin remembering how Ludar had recently won a considerable number of coins from the barbarian's own purse. Just three days earlier in a small Turanian village the Cimmerian had noticed a posted bill proclaiming that Ludar had a bounty on his head of no less than three pieces of good silver.....a tidy sum. Conan was no bounty hunter but the bandits had attacked him....and now he stood to profit.
Wisely spent, three pieces of silver might mean a good two days of lodging, drinking, gambling.........and most importantly...wenching. Conan could use some of all of the above, and obtaining said goals without killing somebody else or stealing something was substantially appealing. However there was more to consider than just the possible reward. Much more unfortunately.
It was a good two day ride back to that same dirty Turanian hamlet. And there was no guarantee that the proper official, with payment handy, could be easily located. Conan had no patience for waiting around whilst his belly complained from lack of food, his throat scratched from lack of wine, and his ....well, other parts, whined for a female.
And there was more. Ludar was exceeding ugly. Conan wasn't sure he could tolerate looking at those repulsive features for two days without vomiting....even with an empty stomach. And what of the smell!? The heat was oppressive.....the odor promised to be horrific within the span of mere hours.....and two days of that? Not an appealing thought.
Conan glanced at the head once more before shifting his focus to the task of cleansing the blood from that same heavy broadsword that had sent Ludar and his cohorts into their long overdue retirement. It was unbecoming for a man to fret over such a trivial matter....but still, three pieces of good silver....and the wenches!
Conan cursed loudly and became angried by his indecision. It was hardly his fashion to vent on himself however. The heavily corded muscles of a great arm shot out and grasped the thick wooly hair on top of the head. With another curse he yanked the gruesome trophy away from its boulder perch and hurled it with fearsome force against yet another silently observing rock. Ludar's former head smashed against the unyielding stone with a pronounced thud, then bounced a time or two before settling ingloriously amongst the sand and gravel. The skull had split open... allowing brains, blood, and cranial fluids to ooze down the bandit's uncaring face. Conan observed and shrugged, he was still not happy but at least he had made a choice. Whether it was a good one he'd let the Gods decide. At least he'd re-arranged the bandit's ugly features considerably.
"No need to thank me Ludar The Lucky", Conan said as a hint of a smile crossed his somber, dark features. He continued with his dark joke, "and it looks like you won't be going to jail after all you worthless carrion."
The head remained silent and the eyes did not blink as the big Cimmerian threw himself into the saddle and prodded the horse to a slow trot. Conan shot a disgusted scowl in the direction of the burning sun before he spat and growled another curse. He'd prefer the ice and snow of his frozen homeland over this devilish heat any day. "Crom send to hell all southern lands", he grumbled as his weary animal trudged carefully through the rocks and potholes of the rugged terrain.
Horse and rider had made their way for about fifty yards when they halted suddenly, accompanied by another loud curse. Conan's fevered brain had wandered all of a sudden back to a certain tavern wench he'd noticed with long legs, soft wavy hair, and proud shapely breasts. The barbarian had almost forgotten how much it pained him that he hadn't been able to afford her expensive services for even so much as one mere hour. His desire had been so great that he'd pondered selling his horse for a little coin....or even his sword. What damned foolishness!.......still.......wise men had committed much worse offenses for the embrace of a comely female.
Conan jerked the bridle and the horse wheeled about. Swiftly the barbarian returned to where the Ludar the Lucky's head was patiently waiting. It troubled the warrior some that the thing might have become so mangled and bloody that it would be unrecognizable....thus no bounty. "No," Conan commented to the nothingness of the wastelands. "No doubt anyone who has been cheated of their purse by this scum could easily testify as to whom this head once belonged. And besides, I can clean it up some if I have to. At worse, I might have to throw one or two coppers in the direction of some minor wizard to pretty it up by means of some dark craft." Regardless, the barbarian was willing to take a chance, and at least he'd reached a decision he could finally live with. That was the important thing...peace of mind. Or at least the Cimmerian version of such.
The big warrior had also come upon another idea that weighed heavily in favor of his abrupt change of mind. He skillfully entwined The Lucky's long coarse locks with those of his horse's tail, all the while being mindful of making the connection very near the animal's rump. This prevented being struck in the back by the gory object whilst the mount used its long tail to swat away annoying flies or other insects that plagued the desert.
Thusly, and having tied the head securely to the horse's backside, Conan remounted and rode away once again. However this time he was of a much better frame of mind. The barbarian even hummed an out of key bit from a gay tavern tune as he visualized long slender legs and plump breasts....breasts that his memory would recall considerably larger the nearer Conan came to his destination.
Dirt, sand, and pebbles disturbed by the horses iron fitted hoofs formed a thick cloud, appearing to almost insult the sulking desert as it trailed behind the disappearing rider. Conan spat and laughed whilst the head once belonging to Ludar The Lucky bounced against the sweating flanks of the Cimmerian's excited horse.
The End
Finally, it's Conan The Centurion, written by Ben Malisow (who sends along his apologies to Robert E. Howard with his short yarn)...
Conan The Centurion
Ben Malisow
The cold wind bit into the barbarian's neck as he trudged steadily upward in the darkness.
Crom, he thought, his teeth clenched tightly in a silent snarl, Being in royal service means having to take the bad with the good. While the Cimmerian usually wore his hair long past his shoulders (for warmth, comfort, and the tendency to cushion head blows and quickly mat bloody wounds), his latest position required he fit the mold created by the Baron- and that meant short hair. It also meant the grueling trek up from the second-class stables, where soldiers of Conan's rank had to tether their mounts. Conan grunted- whatever nephew or cousin of whatever duke or earl had gotten the contract to build such a thing had fled with a fat purse; the Cimmerian, having had the experience of living as a thief, appreciated a better one than he.
The frigid air burst over the foothills again, sweeping into the formidable frame of the large man, seemingly trying to brush him aside. The many stone of muscle and gristle were not swayed by the wind, but did not enjoy the sting of its passing. The northlands of the barbarian's home were cold, too, but in a much different way- there, the land was rich with water, steeped in it, flourishing with abundant life, if only the predator knew where to look. Here, in the rocky steppes of the western part of the continent, there was no water, and the coldness leeched into every living thing, through hair, fur, and skin, whether worn or grown.
Conan pulled his fur cape even tighter about him as he approached the final rock wall. He ascended quickly, catlike, easily shifting his bulky mass from one leg to the other and back again, almost striding up the face of the impediment. Without slowing, he quickly crossed the open courtyard and threw open the doors of the tower, and took the stairs three at a time, hurriedly seeking shelter.
Upon reaching the third-floor of the tower, the guard quarters, he was greeted by the age-old sounds of soldiers; yelling, griping, laughing, and, of course, steel on leather. Overpowering even the clamor, the smells of fighters washed up to him in a palpable miasma wave: the torches partially illuminating the halls, unwashed garments and humans, the illicit cooking in each of the bunks as hungry warriors stove off the growling in their bellies, light from travel. The barbarian had to suppress a smile, having acquired warmth and a feeling of nostalgia satisfied at the same time. Then he remembered the lithe, dark form of the Pict girl he had left at the inn where he had stayed for the past fortnight, and what the food was like in the Baron's dining hall, and he grimaced- it was definitely not a pleasure to return.
Except to satisfy that thing deep inside of him that whispered incessantly, reminding him it had been too long since he had been in battle.
As the warrior ambled down the hall towards his quarters, he was reminded of another reason he couldn't truly be glad to be back amongst his comrades in arms. At the end of the bunkhall, behind the chipped and battered wooden desk, sat the bursar, piggish eyes fixed on the newcomer, a smirk affixed firmly on his wide visage. Conan slowly trod towards the smug man, his own coal eyes meeting those of the priggish administrator.
Much as he hated being beholden to such a limp fop, he had little choice but to submit to the bursar's will; without bowing to protocol, the barbarian risked a detrimental mark in the oaf's ledger- such a thing would be noticed by the captain of the guard, as well as the paymaster. Conan recalled all too well the many items he had been issued by the quartermaster, for which he still owed a tidy sum, as well as the carefully-enumerated and long list of debts which many of the local merchants cheerfully attributed to the Cimmerian, happy to keep adding the interest and impart more goods to the warrior.
The bursar could hardly contain his obvious glee as he turned the roster-ledger to face the tall, dark-haired barbarian. Conan grunted as he lifted the quill from its well and placed his mark in the appropriate spot on the parchment.
Without the slightest shift of his gaze, the bursar said to Conan simply, "Late."
Conan's head snapped up, staring over the bursar's head, to where the hourglass sat in its niche. The last few grains fell into the bottom bowl, the time for accountability finally arrived.
"No," replied Conan, bending his neck to once again face the bursar. The fat man favored the Cimmerian with an evil sneer, his plump cheeks twisted with the expression, and ruddy and florid with the heat.
"Hmph," the bursar snorted. "As both trusted timer and recordkeeper, I have the captain's ear; I have never been wrong. Docked three days' pay." The bursar's tiny eyes twinkled in self-satisfaction, enjoying the moment tremendously in a rather pompous manner.
The bursar hated Conan, ever since the time when the Cimmerian caught him taking extra servings of victuals from the mess hall- sustenance intended for warriors, not scribblers. The fat man patiently nurtured his displeasure, waiting for the moment to return the deed.
"Don't ire me, little man," Conan said quietly but firmly, slowly lowering his saddle and travel bag to the ground.
The bursar's eyes now registered shock and indignation that this hulking barbarian would challenge his authority. "Five days' pay," he yelped, the layer of fat around his neck now jiggling, swollen red as blood rushed to his angry face.
The berserker inside Conan was barely contained. The Cimmerian leaned across the desk and took the bursar by the shirtfront.
"Remove your hands, barbarian!" squealed the bursar, struggling to free himself from the steely grasp. "You'll find yourself in the stockade!"
With seeming effortlessness, Conan lifted the man forward and over the desk so that the bursar's feet were a good twenty inches off the floor, and the two men were eye-to-eye.
Others in the hall now quieted a bit and looked towards the scene as the bursar shrieked and batted ineffectually at the unmoving Cimmerian. Subtle and silent movements were made between pairs and threes of soldiers as wagers were tendered and accepted.
"The captain will hear of this!" the bursar screamed. "Drop me this instant."
Conan grunted again, suddenly smiling with half his mouth, as if pleased with this suggestion. Without a sound, he moved towards the window, carrying his squirming load easily in front of him.
"Conan!" screamed the bursar, tiny eyes now open wide, fear registered for the first -and last- time. The Cimmerian extended his broad arms to hold the bursar outside the window, then simply opened his clenched fingers. "Conaaaaaaaan!"
The barbarian turned from the window to face the silent room even before the barely-audible thump! sounded. Conan's head swiveled slowly, his eyes traversing the hall, surveying each soldier in turn.
With a suddenness belying the calm of the moment immediately prior, laughs rang out and coins exchanged hands as bettors settled their agreements and fighters lifted drink and returned to the clamor they'd been engaged in before the interruption.
Conan grunted quietly to himself and returned to the desk to retrieve his belongings. Unbidden, a smile crept across his chiseled visage as he bent to grab his load.
Yes, it was indeed good to be back.
Ben Malisow
The cold wind bit into the barbarian's neck as he trudged steadily upward in the darkness.
Crom, he thought, his teeth clenched tightly in a silent snarl, Being in royal service means having to take the bad with the good. While the Cimmerian usually wore his hair long past his shoulders (for warmth, comfort, and the tendency to cushion head blows and quickly mat bloody wounds), his latest position required he fit the mold created by the Baron- and that meant short hair. It also meant the grueling trek up from the second-class stables, where soldiers of Conan's rank had to tether their mounts. Conan grunted- whatever nephew or cousin of whatever duke or earl had gotten the contract to build such a thing had fled with a fat purse; the Cimmerian, having had the experience of living as a thief, appreciated a better one than he.
The frigid air burst over the foothills again, sweeping into the formidable frame of the large man, seemingly trying to brush him aside. The many stone of muscle and gristle were not swayed by the wind, but did not enjoy the sting of its passing. The northlands of the barbarian's home were cold, too, but in a much different way- there, the land was rich with water, steeped in it, flourishing with abundant life, if only the predator knew where to look. Here, in the rocky steppes of the western part of the continent, there was no water, and the coldness leeched into every living thing, through hair, fur, and skin, whether worn or grown.
Conan pulled his fur cape even tighter about him as he approached the final rock wall. He ascended quickly, catlike, easily shifting his bulky mass from one leg to the other and back again, almost striding up the face of the impediment. Without slowing, he quickly crossed the open courtyard and threw open the doors of the tower, and took the stairs three at a time, hurriedly seeking shelter.
Upon reaching the third-floor of the tower, the guard quarters, he was greeted by the age-old sounds of soldiers; yelling, griping, laughing, and, of course, steel on leather. Overpowering even the clamor, the smells of fighters washed up to him in a palpable miasma wave: the torches partially illuminating the halls, unwashed garments and humans, the illicit cooking in each of the bunks as hungry warriors stove off the growling in their bellies, light from travel. The barbarian had to suppress a smile, having acquired warmth and a feeling of nostalgia satisfied at the same time. Then he remembered the lithe, dark form of the Pict girl he had left at the inn where he had stayed for the past fortnight, and what the food was like in the Baron's dining hall, and he grimaced- it was definitely not a pleasure to return.
Except to satisfy that thing deep inside of him that whispered incessantly, reminding him it had been too long since he had been in battle.
As the warrior ambled down the hall towards his quarters, he was reminded of another reason he couldn't truly be glad to be back amongst his comrades in arms. At the end of the bunkhall, behind the chipped and battered wooden desk, sat the bursar, piggish eyes fixed on the newcomer, a smirk affixed firmly on his wide visage. Conan slowly trod towards the smug man, his own coal eyes meeting those of the priggish administrator.
Much as he hated being beholden to such a limp fop, he had little choice but to submit to the bursar's will; without bowing to protocol, the barbarian risked a detrimental mark in the oaf's ledger- such a thing would be noticed by the captain of the guard, as well as the paymaster. Conan recalled all too well the many items he had been issued by the quartermaster, for which he still owed a tidy sum, as well as the carefully-enumerated and long list of debts which many of the local merchants cheerfully attributed to the Cimmerian, happy to keep adding the interest and impart more goods to the warrior.
The bursar could hardly contain his obvious glee as he turned the roster-ledger to face the tall, dark-haired barbarian. Conan grunted as he lifted the quill from its well and placed his mark in the appropriate spot on the parchment.
Without the slightest shift of his gaze, the bursar said to Conan simply, "Late."
Conan's head snapped up, staring over the bursar's head, to where the hourglass sat in its niche. The last few grains fell into the bottom bowl, the time for accountability finally arrived.
"No," replied Conan, bending his neck to once again face the bursar. The fat man favored the Cimmerian with an evil sneer, his plump cheeks twisted with the expression, and ruddy and florid with the heat.
"Hmph," the bursar snorted. "As both trusted timer and recordkeeper, I have the captain's ear; I have never been wrong. Docked three days' pay." The bursar's tiny eyes twinkled in self-satisfaction, enjoying the moment tremendously in a rather pompous manner.
The bursar hated Conan, ever since the time when the Cimmerian caught him taking extra servings of victuals from the mess hall- sustenance intended for warriors, not scribblers. The fat man patiently nurtured his displeasure, waiting for the moment to return the deed.
"Don't ire me, little man," Conan said quietly but firmly, slowly lowering his saddle and travel bag to the ground.
The bursar's eyes now registered shock and indignation that this hulking barbarian would challenge his authority. "Five days' pay," he yelped, the layer of fat around his neck now jiggling, swollen red as blood rushed to his angry face.
The berserker inside Conan was barely contained. The Cimmerian leaned across the desk and took the bursar by the shirtfront.
"Remove your hands, barbarian!" squealed the bursar, struggling to free himself from the steely grasp. "You'll find yourself in the stockade!"
With seeming effortlessness, Conan lifted the man forward and over the desk so that the bursar's feet were a good twenty inches off the floor, and the two men were eye-to-eye.
Others in the hall now quieted a bit and looked towards the scene as the bursar shrieked and batted ineffectually at the unmoving Cimmerian. Subtle and silent movements were made between pairs and threes of soldiers as wagers were tendered and accepted.
"The captain will hear of this!" the bursar screamed. "Drop me this instant."
Conan grunted again, suddenly smiling with half his mouth, as if pleased with this suggestion. Without a sound, he moved towards the window, carrying his squirming load easily in front of him.
"Conan!" screamed the bursar, tiny eyes now open wide, fear registered for the first -and last- time. The Cimmerian extended his broad arms to hold the bursar outside the window, then simply opened his clenched fingers. "Conaaaaaaaan!"
The barbarian turned from the window to face the silent room even before the barely-audible thump! sounded. Conan's head swiveled slowly, his eyes traversing the hall, surveying each soldier in turn.
With a suddenness belying the calm of the moment immediately prior, laughs rang out and coins exchanged hands as bettors settled their agreements and fighters lifted drink and returned to the clamor they'd been engaged in before the interruption.
Conan grunted quietly to himself and returned to the desk to retrieve his belongings. Unbidden, a smile crept across his chiseled visage as he bent to grab his load.
Yes, it was indeed good to be back.
The End
Yet another big CROM! shout out to Marek for hooking us up! Read more...
