Conan and Three, chapter 1

Conan, the mighty ruler of Aquilonia, sat atop his throne, his sharp gaze piercing through his subjects as they presented their grievances to him. The Barbarian King wasted no time in delivering swift and decisive justice to those who deserved it.

When a man he had not noticed before, appeared at the front of the line. He had long grey hair, and held a staff in one hand, and a well used sword hung from his belt.

“King Conan of all Aquilonia, I am come to deliver to you a message. It is the Lord’s will to give you the kingdom, yet there are three.”

Conan scowled, not one for mystical mumbo-jumbo or riddles. “I worship Crom, not your gods, wizard.”

“You do not worship Crom except to curse by his name. First of the three, you have many sons who have not known their father.”

And before any man could say aught, he strode out of the hall. The king uttered many curses about wizards. He had no patience for them. Still, his words, heavy with fate, echoed quietly in his mind.

The next morning, before sunrise, the king awoke, and silently as a panther slipped from his chambers, so that not even his guards were aware he was gone. Silently, he saddled his two best horses, and rode out into the misty roads, clad in a long grey robe, so that none could see his face.

He rode through the cobblestone streets, his mind a tumultuous whirlwind. The morning sun cast a golden glow over the ancient kingdom, but he paid it no heed. His thoughts were consumed by the burden of his throne.

As he approached a well, he spotted a surly boy drawing water. With a grunt, he called out for a drink. But as he waited, his eyes caught sight of the nearby estate.

“Boy, whose land is this? Your father has a fine estate,” he rumbled.

“I am Ahren, son of no one. This is my stepfather’s land, and I will inherit none of it,” the boy spat.

Conan felt a jolt of recognition. The boy’s hair, his eyes, his build – all reminded him of his own youth. His mind drifted back to the wizard’s words.

“And who is your mother?” Conan demanded, his voice rough as sandpaper.

The boy hesitated, then spoke. His mother had been one of Conan’s dancers, years ago.

“I remember her well,” Conan growled.

“Were you in the palace then?”, the boy asked.

Conan pulled back his hood, revealing a face that bore the scars of a thousand battles. “Yes, I was, because it was I who conquered Aquillonia,” he said. “And you, boy, are the spitting image of me.”

The boy stared at Conan in awe, realizing the truth of his words. Conan could see the wheels turning in his mind, as he came to grips with his own heritage.

“Come, do you have horses?” Conan asked. “We ride today to inspect the kingdom.”

The boy nodded, and scurried off to fetch the horses. Together, they rode through the town in silence, as Conan contemplated the fickle twists of fate that had brought him to this moment.

Again, they stumbled upon a boy whose mother had been a shield maiden, or a wine bearer, or a courtesan, or a cook. By midday, there were about two dozen, though part of him wondered if this was just a small fraction of his seed. By this time, he had left the capitol, and began, without prior plan, to visit the smaller towns and villages. A few others spontaneously joined him. Some were descendants of former lovers, while others were the product of fleeting encounters. The king listened intently to their stories, observing each one carefully and noting the characteristics that reminded him of himself.

As night began to fall, he slew what is called by modern man, an Irish Elk. Part of him felt a bit manipulated by the wizard, but the boys were clearly his, and they just needed help. Some of them had never even camped beneath the stars! That made him angry as well, but there were a limited number of people to blame for that. So, under a full moon, and with a roaring fire, he sat and laughed with his impromptu army. He learned about each of them. And a few of them he was ashamed to learned, had begun to learn wizardry. He hated wizardry. And a few were scribes. Not much better. And one, Crom have mercy, was an artist. But they were young. He still had time to teach them the Sword.

So, they sat and ate by fire and moonlight. They laughed as though they had wine.

In the morning, Conan stood at the edge of the forest, brooding over the wizard’s words. He did not like being played for a fool. He was no pawn, so perhaps he should just turn around. Yes, that was a smart plan. As long as they were this far out, he could show them the Pass of Shemnon, and the guard tower in the grasslands nearby. That would be the most direct way home. Yet, he felt a pull towards the young boys who bore his blood. He would talk to them again later, at his leasure, so he wasn’t being moved like a pawn.

Continuing their ride, they hugged the edge of the forest, where the trees were sparse, and provided cover until they approached the cliff’s edge. Technically, the borders of Aquilonia extended to the river in the plains below, but this was the defensible position.

The air held an unseen tension only he noticed. Conan sensed the impending danger before he saw the army approaching below, bearing banners of Ophir. He ran to the top of the hill, but saw no warning flags on his watchtower to warn his people. There was but one place the armies of Ophir could approach the kingdom, the Pass of Shemnon. He could see conspiracy and treachery threatened to bring down the kingdom. It was about to all end. Yet… He was here. He was not one to let such treachery stand. He would fight to protect the land that had become his own.

“Ahren and Danto! Ride to the city gate. The Greater Gate! Demand to talk to Helren the Punt. Tell him ‘the raven sits on the spear’. Tell him about the army. Ride hard, boys, or we’ll all be dead before nightfall. Haste!”

Conan knew that time was of the essence. The fate of the kingdom hung in the balance, and if Ahren failed to deliver the message, they would all be lost.

Ahren’s eyes widened at the order, but he knew better than to question the barbarian king. With a nod, he mounted his horse and galloped off towards the city gate, with Danto at his heels.

Conan’s eyes fixed upon his band of lads. Striplings they were, caught in that awkward time where they had outgrown the trappings of childhood but had not yet attained the fullness of manhood. Their youthful faces contorted with fear, they were ill-equipped for the brutalities of war.

But the hour of reckoning was upon them, and Conan had no time for coddling these inexperienced youth. They lacked the hard-earned knowledge of battle, the scars of past struggles, and the sharpened blades of a true warrior. Instead, they held only paltry daggers and frail bows, hardly fit to confront the ferocity of their adversaries.

With a sharp, swift motion, Conan unsheathed his own blade and stood tall, his muscles taut with the anticipation of battle. He knew the fate of his sons and his kingdom was in his hands, and he vowed his life’s blood he would save both.

Conan looked upon his sons, his eyes blazing with the fire of a thousand suns. He spoke to them with a steely resolve, a warrior’s resolve.

“I speak plain to you, my sons. The armies of Ophir are upon us, and they come with a thirst for blood. We can die from the armies of Ophir here, or as they burn their way to the capitol. But fear not, for we shall meet them head-on. We may die this day, but we shall die as men.”

“How can we fight? We have no swords, no armor,” they cried.

Conan’s lips twisted into a grim smile. “We’ll make do with what we have. Be resourceful, use whatever you can find. We must hold the Pass at all costs, and give no quarter. No prisoners. Kill them all. We ride for the Pass now.”

And with that, Conan shed his robe, revealing his muscular, battle-scarred body clad only in a loincloth. He mounted his horse and rode hard, his eyes blazing with fierce determination.

As he neared the Pass, he could see the gate was held open by one of the tower guardsmen. The Pass was narrow and steep, only wide enough for two horses at a time. But horsemen dressed in Stygian black, and gold of Ophir, had begun pouring forward like a dark tide. Shouts of warning alerted them, but a savage bellow from Conan put fear in their hearts. Already it was at least ten to one. Their horses leaped to meet his challenge… And the two horses in front tripped. This broke their momentum and let the Barbarian King bring the battle to them instead. The battle had begun, and the fate of Aquilonia hung in the balance. He was ready to spill blood.

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This story has been percolating in my mind for a while now, and if there is any interest, I will continue it.