Free Conan the Barbarian by L. Sprague de Camp, Lin Carter

lingering cry of agony faded into nothingness.
    Bathed in cold sweat and weak from the release of tension, the young Cimmerian sank to his knees and began groping for his clothing.
    “Crom!” he exclaimed, and followed the word with a curse.
    The stench of burning flesh was swept from the room by the night wind that poured in through the open door. The hearth fire sank to a bed of smouldering coals.
    As Conan went to close the door against the chill wind and the evil things that infest the dark hours, his eye fell upon the huddled being whose alert gaze reflected the red glow of the fire. Enscorcelled by the witch-woman, Conan had completely forgotten the miserable creature, who now regarded him inscrutably.
    “Food!” the prisoner croaked. “I starve, barbarian! I've had no food for days.”
    “Who says you’ll have some now?” scowled Conan. "What are you doing here?”
    “I’m dinner for the wolves, pets of the witch-woman. She put a spell on me and bound me here. Just leave me food, so I may have the strength, when the wolves come, to die fighting like a man.”
    “Who are you?” rumbled Conan.
    The small man rose and faced Conan with a dignity that belied his misery and his rags. “I am Subotai, a Hyrkanian of the Kerlait tribe. In happier days, an archer, an assassin, and a thief.”
    Conan studied the Hyrkanian. He was small and as lean as a ferret. His set of head and shoulders reflected stealth and cunning, hard-bitten courage, and an honesty that Conan found to his liking. Here, he thought, is a man who might throw a lie in your face but would never stab you in the back.
    As beady black eyes watched hopefully, Conan searched the hut, located the keys and, by the light of the rising moon, unlocked the shackles. The little man grinned crookedly as he staggered toward the open door, rubbing his unshackled limbs.
    Conan waved him in. “Eat and drink,” he growled.
    While Subotai gnawed on the remains of Conan’s supper and guzzled the wine, the Cimmerian prowled around the hut, selecting things that he might need and things that pleased him: a silver-mounted belt, a sheath for his sword, gem-studded wristlets, a pendant carved in a strange design, and a hooded cloak of heavy fur to replace the untanned wolf skins, which had begun to stink.
    Dawn was a pale gleam across the vast reaches of the treeless plain, as Conan threw open the door of the witch’s cabin to watch the break of day. Silver light glinted on a thin blanket of new-fallen snow, snow that would melt in the sun’s warmth but now wrapped the bare earth in the shell-pink mantle of a queen. The barbarian youth, breathing the clear air, was eager to be gone from this place of vile enchantments. He turned to his companion who sat, hugging his knees, beside the embers.
    “Now that you are free, whither do you go?” he asked.
    “To Zamora,” the Hyrkanian replied, grinning. “The capital, Shadizar, is a city of thieves, and thievery is my business.”
    “You told me that you were a man of war,” said Conan, looking at the small man keenly.
    “I come from a race of generals. The essence of warfare is deception; so I learn the way by practising the art of theft.” Subotai, black eyes sparkling, looked up at Conan with his crooked smile.
    “An unhealthy profession, so they say.”
    “And what do you do, Cimmerian?”
    “I am a slayer of men.”
    Subotai’s laugh rang against the stone walls of the hut. “More sanguine than thievery, to be sure. But of a more limited future. Thieves seldom get caught and, if they are, get beaten; but murderers are crucified.”
    “Then why were you trussed up out here for wolf bait?” “I did not know it was a witch from whom I tried to steal. She caught me in the web of her enchantments, as she did you. Now, thanks to you, I have no need to steal.” Conan, restive, lingered at the door, while Subotai rummaged among the witch’s things, plucking a fur garment from a chest, choosing a bow and quiver