Conan the Barbarian by L. Sprague de Camp, Lin Carter Read Free Book Online Page A

these strangers with questions about methods of organized warfare. His questions amused the war leaders, who thought the principles of strategy and tactics of little use to a mere Pit slave, whose fate it was to fight a single adversary again and again, until death overtook him.
    Yet Conan realized that the more he knew of matters such as these, the better would be his chances of survival. He began to think ahead. He would not, he resolved, be a Pit slave forever. Since the world appeared to be a place of constant conflict, where the strong took whatever they had the power to take, he would learn to do likewise.
    On one occasion, after rolling up the large hide map that he had spread out across the carpet, it pleased a Hyrkanian general to query those who sat late in Toghrul’s yurt over cups of fine white wine.
    “What is the best thing in life?” he asked a Turanian princeling, resplendent in silken trousers and boots of scarlet leather strapped in silver.
    Gems sparkled in the lamplight as the Turanian spread his hands in a graceful gesture. “The good life is on the open steppe, under a clear sky, with a fleet horse between your knees, a well-trained falcon on your wrist, and a cold, fresh wind in your hair.”
    The general shook his head and smiled. “Wrong, Highness! What say you to this, Khitain?”
    He shot the question at a small, elderly man who had spoken little. Conan understood that the man had come from a land called Khitai, a year’s journey to the east. The small man had a wrinkled, parchment-yellow skin, stretched over a flat, slant-eyed face. He huddled in his quilted robes, which were drawn tightly to protect his thin frame from the evening's chill. Slowly, he murmured, “I say that life is best when a man can boast a love of learning, and has acquired wisdom and an appreciation for fine poetry.”
    Again the general shook his head. Then he caught the intense gaze of Conan, who sat cross-legged on a low, circular dais in the centre of the yurt, clad in a warm tunic, but chained as before. With ill-concealed amusement, the Hyrkanian general asked, “What says the young barbarian giant in answer to my question?”
    Conan’s mouth twitched in a shadow of a smile as he replied, “The best of life is to confront your enemy face to face, to see his hot blood spill upon the earth, and to hear the lamentations of his women!”
    Approval lit the dark eyes of the general. “The Pit has not broken the spirit of your champion, O Toghrul. Neither has it sapped his will. Beware lest this young tiger some day turn and rend you!”
    “He wears chains so that he cannot,” said Toghrul, chuckling.
    Conan said nothing more; but a strange volcanic fire smouldered briefly in his fierce blue eyes.
    With the coming of spring, Toghrul gathered his people and horses for another trek. This time he headed into the west wind, back across Hyperborea to the lands of the Æsir and Vanir. Once again he had a full complement of Pit fighters; and he looked forward to a profitable season among the Nordheimers.
    At length the caravan stopped at the village of Kolari, a mere crossroads encampment. Here, in the lone tavern, traders from near and far rested before continuing on across the steppes and tundras. Kolari lay in a region of rolling hills; and in a hillside cave, Toghrul found a place to keep and exploit his champion during his few days’ halt. The cave had once been the abode of a holy hermit, who had brought to it some amenities and, to deter unwanted petitioners, had fitted a door of iron bars across the entrance. To make the place more comfortable, Toghrul added wall hangings and cushions from his own yurt. He locked the Cimmerian within; and for hours every day he stood outside collecting fees from people who wished to gaup at his famous Pit-fighting champion.
    One evening at sunset, the curious departed for their evening meal. Conan, his massive physique contrasting sharply with the dainty comfort of his furnishings,