Free Conan the Barbarian by Michael A. Stackpole Page B

over the body of a woman. He grabbed a double handful of her hair and pulled back, stretching her throat and opening her mouth in a silent scream. Then he pressed the edge of his sword to her hairline and, in one swift stroke, harvested her scalp.
    And, halfway between the raider and Conan, a Cimmerian sword had been stabbed into a snowbank, forgotten.
    Swiftly and silently, fluidly, the last Cimmerian warrior ran forward. He grasped the sword’s hilt with his left hand, mindless of the pain of bursting blisters. He splashed through a puddle of snowmelt that he could have run around, because he wanted the raider to know he was coming.
    The man heard the sound and half turned toward it. His right hand came up to ward off the sword, but Conan’s first cut separated wrist from arm. Before the raider could scream, a second blow dented his helmet. He sagged to the side, dazed, and stared up.
    Conan buried the sword in his throat and watched the light flow out of his eyes.
    Conan sat down beside the dead raider and looked at the burning village. The boy he had been that morning would not have wanted to cry, but could never have held back the tears. The man he had become understood the desire to weep, but could never let him give in to weakness. Crom cared not for the lamentations of mortals, and Conan, determined to be make Marique’s comment into a prophecy, had no time to mourn.
    As night came on and the warmth of fires faded, he freed the sword from the raider’s throat, took a knife from his body, scavenged meager supplies, and set off to find his grandfather.

CHAPTER 9
    CONAN AWOKE WITH a start. He couldn’t feel his hands. He pulled them from beneath the heavy aurochs skin that was all but smothering him. They’d become as large as hams, or at least the cloth wrapping them was. And when he tried to tense his fingers, he couldn’t move them much, but something inside the cloth squished and a noxious scent poured out.
    A stick clacked against the foot of the bed. “Boy, if you pull those poultices apart again, I will let your hands rot off.”
    He looked and could only see a silhouette moving through the hut’s darkened interior. Still, there was no mistaking the voice. “Grandfather?” Conan meant to ask the question forcefully—befitting a warrior—but it came out as a croak, and a weak one at that.
    “No other fool would take you in, Conan.” The old man stirred coals in the hearth, then tossed on more wood. A little blaze began to flare. Connacht, leaning heavily on the stick, walked to the bedside and peered down at the boy. He placed a hand on his forehead. “Good. I think the fever’s broken. Death wanted you, boy, but we cheated him, we did.”
    “Water?”
    The old man helped Conan sit up and drink. He didn’t let the boy have too much, or drink it quickly. With his bandaged hands he couldn’t have managed the cup anyway, so Conan drank at the dictated pace. He nodded when done.
    “How long?”
    “A week, though now’s the first you’re right in the head.” Connacht shook his head. “Came in fevered. Burns on your hands all infected. Had the blood poison. Lucky for you I remembered what a Shemite healer did for me once. Had to use bear fat instead of goat. Smells worse, seems to work the same.”
    Conan stared at his hands as they lay like lifeless lumps in his lap. “A week?”
    “Came crashing through the bush wild-eyed and burning up.”
    My father burned up . . .
    “Weren’t in your right mind. Went for me with your sword, you did.”
    Conan’s eyes widened. “I didn’t . . . ?”
    “Hurt me?” Connacht laughed. “You were too weak to break an egg with a hammer, boy. How in the name of Crom did you get here?”
    Conan closed his eyes. Is my father really dead? Are they all dead?
    “Conan?”
    The young Cimmerian shook himself. “Raiders destroyed the village. I was the only one who survived.”
    Connacht’s face became graven. “I know you didn’t run, boy.”
    “I wasn’t