Conan the Barbarian by Michael A. Stackpole Read Free Book Online

the blade from the snow. “So, first I shall show you how to survive, then I shall train you in how to kill.”
    Conan watched him warily, but did as he was told. Corin began by showing his son how to retreat and keep his footing. He showed him the four gates—up-right, up-left, down-right, down-left—that would block all slashes. He showed him the five sweeps to turn lunges and the brushes to guide blades wide.
    The boy’s natural speed and agility made him adept at all of them, but his impatience to strike back diluted his focus. More than once, when Conan tried a clumsy riposte, Corin bound his sword and knocked him to the ground. The boy would bounce up again, fury blazing in those blue eyes, and would come on. Because of his size, skill, and reach, Corin never feared injury. He knocked his son down again and again, until the boy could no longer rise—which took well into the night on some occasions.
    Corin stood over him one night as large snowflakes drifted down. “Do you know why I keep beating you?”
    Conan spat blood from a split lip. “Because you will not teach me to attack.”
    “It takes no skills and no intelligence to stick something sharp into someone. A scorpion can do it. A wasp. An elk.” The smith sighed. “All the times we have trained, what have you learned?”
    “You don’t fight fair.”
    “The whispers of ghosts bother me not at all. What have you learned?”
    The boy sat up in the snow, his sullen eyes covered in shadows. “You have a longer reach than me. You move too quickly for me to close.”
    “And what does that tell you?”
    “I have to be quicker. I have to be stronger.”
    “No, son.” Corin shook his head. “It means you shouldn’t be fighting me with a sword.”
    The boy blinked.
    “Every man you face will have his strengths and weaknesses. Every group of men. Every army—anything you will ever fight will have strengths and weaknesses. If you attack his strengths, you will lose. If you bring your strength to bear on his weakness, you will win.”
    Conan scowled. “You don’t have a weakness.”
    Corin sank to a knee and rested his hands on his son’s shoulders. “I do have a weakness, Conan. You don’t see it as such, but I do. It’s not one you’ll ever be able to use against me, but it is there.”
    The boy looked up. “Then I will never be able to beat you.”
    “You will.” Corin smiled. “Tomorrow, in fact, I shall teach you how.”
     
     
    CORIN MOVED ONTO the sheath of ice that covered the river and waved his son out after him. Winds had scoured the ice clean of snow, so he spread his feet carefully, setting himself. “Two weeks you’ve spent learning to attack, Conan. Do you really think you’ve earned this blade?”
    The youth nodded, setting himself.
    “Then come take it. Take it and it’s yours.”
    Conan’s eyes widened for a moment, then he darted forward, roaring a war cry. He slashed low, but Corin blocked low-left. The smith brought the hilt up, deflecting the quick high slash, then shoved.
    Conan, off balance, scrambled to keep his footing. He went down hard, but never lost his grip on the sword. Ice cracked beneath where he’d fallen, but the boy bounced up again and drove at his father. High cuts and low, thrusts and feints, the boy began combining things he’d been taught in ways Corin hadn’t imagined he’d figure out so quickly. And the blows came fast, forcing Corin to dodge more than he ever had before.
    Conan’s effort made no difference. Corin never tried to attack, but concentrated on fending off his son’s blows. Whenever Conan tired, whenever he hesitated, the smith would bind his blade and shove him back, again and again spilling him to the ice.
    “You are still all fire, boy.”
    Snarling, Conan regained his feet. His eyes narrowed, his face tightened. He charged forward, his sword aimed to deal blow that would split a man up from down.
    Corin ducked back. “No. Slow down. Find your footing!”
    The blow’s