Free Conan of Venarium by Harry Turtledove

the campaign as a bad job and gone home,” said Mordec. “They’ve done that before. Now they’ve won, though. Now they’re settled on the land.”
    “All the more reason to drive them away,” said Conan.
    “All the more reason for them to stay,” returned Mordec.
    They eyed each other in perfect mutual incomprehension. “I never thought you’d turn coward,” said Conan.
    His father cuffed him, not as prelude to a beating like the one he’d had when he tried to go off to fight with the defeated Cimmerian host but simply as a warning to watch his tongue. “You have no call to use that word for me,” said Mordec. “After you have fought in war, you may say what you please, and I will bear it. Until then, you are only bleating out things you do not understand.”
    “You would not let me fight in war,” said Conan sulkily. “Now you blame me because I have not.” He did not speak of his exploit with the serpent. He was not sure his father would believe him. He was not altogether sure he believed it himself, and that despite the sinister stains on the shafts in his quiver.
    “I do not blame you,” answered Mordec. “I say that you are a boy, and I say that war is not a sport for boys.”
    That dismissal felt like a slight to the younger Cimmerian. Conan decided he would speak of what he had done after all, if only to show his father he was someone to be reckoned with. He asked, “Do you know of an ancient temple lost in the woods not far from Duthil?”
    Mordec, though, only shook his head. “No. There is none,” he said positively. “If there were, someone would have found it.” His eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask? Do the Aquilonians search for such a place?”
    “Not that I know of,” answered Conan.
    “Well, what nonsense are you spouting, then?” demanded his father.
    “Nothing. Never mind,” said Conan. No, the blacksmith would not believe him. Since that was so, no point to going on. Mordec would but thrash him for telling fables, and he had had enough of his father’s hard hands on him.
    When Conan kept silence, Mordec nodded in dour approval. “All right,” he rumbled. “If you’re going to settle down and be sensible, you can finish grinding this axehead. I have a great plenty of other work to do. Get busy!”
    From the bedchamber came Verina’s weak voice: “Are you nagging the boy again, Mordec? Can’t you leave him in peace?”
    Muttering under his breath, Mordec answered, “There is no peace in this land, nor will there be until the invaders are gone.”
    “That’s not what you told me just now,” exclaimed Conan.
    “By Crom, it is,” said his father. “I tell you it is useless to strike too soon, and it is. But we shall have a day of reckoning with the foe. Oh, yes—we shall have a day of reckoning indeed.” None of the Gundermen or Bossonians in the camp near Duthil would have cared to hear Mordec’s voice when the blacksmith made that vow. Conan’s father went on, “Meanwhile, though, there’s work to be done. Get on with it.”
    “Don’t carp endlessly at Conan,” said Verina. “He’s a good boy.”
    Such praise Conan could have done without. More than anything else, he wanted to be reckoned a man, a warrior, a hero. After his battle with the serpent in the temple from out of time, he thought he had earned the right to be so reckoned. But his father would not even hear of the fight. And hearing his mother call him a good boy made him feel as if he peeked out from behind her skirts. He knew she loved him, but it was a love that simultaneously satisfied and suffocated.
    He began pumping the foot pedal on the grinding wheel for all he was worth. A coruscating shower of sparks flew from the axehead as he held it to the rapidly spinning wheel. Mordec chuckled grimly as he fed the fire in the forge. Soon the axehead boasted an edge sharp enough for shaving. Conan tested it with his thumb, nodded, and thrust it at his father. “Here.”
    Not even Mordec could