docwebster (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
docwebster) wrote2004-12-30 12:28 pm
docwebster) wrote2004-12-30 12:28 pm
The death of Conan The Barbarian
This just came spilling out of my mind, today. One of these days I'll write the rest of the story, but for now enjoy the first draft of the ending.
"By Lir's green tail and Mannan's wet lair, you'll not have him!"
So saying, Sigurd roared defiance and lumbered at the sorcerer who stood with hollowed poniard poised over Conan's drugged form. Struggling, the Cimmerian moved an arm. Just slightly, but enough to bring his aged thews into play.
Startled, Drakkathus whirled about in time to see the great crimson-and-silver bearded giant descending on him like an avenging fury out of the myths. Sigurd raised his burly arms on high to swat the wizard like a gnat, and in that instant lost his life. Drakkathus moved with the speed of a striking adder and buried his poniard deep in the old Vanir's massive chest.
Conan, still struggling, watched with a mixture of grief and amazement as the old Vanir still drove forward, wrapping his arms around the scrawny form of the sorcerer. Even in his death throes, the self-proclaimed "Terror Of The Barachas" shook Drakkathus like a gazelle rattled about in the jaws of a lion.
Even so, the loss of his life's blood wreaked havoc on Sigurd. Drakkathus howled in triumph as the Vanirman's arms at last gave way and he dropped to the floor. Drakkathus stumbled to his feet, regained his poniard, and tottered over to stand over his fallen prey to deal the death blow.
Drakkathus grinned madly, but his emaciated arm was stopped on the downstroke, clutched in the grip of a vengeance crazed Conan. For that moment, Conan was the blood maddened reaver of forty years agone as he swatted the gaunt arm aside, sending the poniard skittering across the floor. "Now, summoner of foul gods, you go to your damnation!"
Drakkathus flailed a strike at the Cimmerian giant, but his arm was again seized. The blood spattered old barbarian grinned such a grin as would have frigthened Set himself and snapped the sorcerer's arm like rotted kindling.
His wail was a nerve shattering thing to hear, but it was cut off short as Conan's viselike grip seized his throat. With nary a grunt, Conan heaved Drakkathus off his feet and flung him across the room like so much wheat. The wizard slammed against the wall with a sickening thud and fell headlong to the floor, his skull a bloody ruin.
Conan knelt by Sigurd, lifting his old friend's great head in his hands, but the old Vanir was already dead. He wore a pleased smile despite the trail of gore that issued from the corner of his mouth. "Take a pull on the hellhorn for me, you old bear."
Suddenly, the weight of long years and many battles seemed to settle on Conan all at once. His own injuries and loss of blood were not small, and he collapsed into dazed oblivion on the body strewn floor.
How long he lay there as though in a fever, none could say. But a vision came to him of a tempest blown summit, a furnace large enough to mold worlds and the grim old chieftain who ruled there, Crom himself. Conan did not question, but walked cautiously to stand before his god. "So, Conan, at long last you are come." Crom fixed his piercing gaze on the Cimmerian. "You have done well, and I do not dispense praise often. You have fought battles beyond numbering from the instant you were born, gave no quarter lightly, and for that you have earned your place in the hall of warriors."
Conan nodded briskly by way of acknowledgment. Then, with a hesitancy altogether unfamiliar to him, he rumbled "My thanks, great chieftain. I would ask one boon of the gods before I get me to my rest." Crom raised a shaggy eyebrow by way of query, and so Conan continued. "My son, he.. how goes things in fair Aquilonia? I left it to do the bidding of the gods, so I would like to know something of it before I go."
Crom's very brows became thunderclouds, causing a ripple of worry to cross Conan's scarred visage. "My child.. I would not lie to you. All is not well in that land. It's enemies have risen to seek vengeance, Turan to be exact, and your son is hard pressed to keep his head on his shoulders, much less his crown. At this very moment, a lance is poised to seek his heart.. through his back."
Conan's nails had dug furrows into his palm during this speech. The very fire of the gods was reflected in those glacial orbs that so many foemen had known as their last sight on the earthly plane. "Send me there," Conan grated. "I will not suffer my son to be mown down like a stalk of wheat without even the chance to see his enemy!" Crom shook his head wearily. "It is not your destiny. Remember you what Epemitreus said.."
With a roar of rage, Conan lept to a wall of Crom's smithy and snatched there a great broadsword. Addressing himself to his god, the old warrior growled "Epemitreus be damned! By.. by your name, if I have to hew you like a crop of weeds to stand by my son, I'll do it! God or man, none denies me justice and lives to tell the tale! Well, which shall it be?"
Thunderclouds gathered on his brow, but then Crom broke forth in gusty laughter by way of answer. As the scene faded around him, Conan heard in his head "You truly are my only begotten son, by your very actions! Go, proud warrior, and I myself shall stand you to your first pot of ale in the beyond!"
King Conn swung his sword like a farmer harvesting wheat, slicing down Turanians by the score. The Aquilonian host had been set upon in vengeance for the long ago death of Yezdigerd, and not many of those who started the battle were still there to finish it. He heard the gallop of hooves behind him, but he could not afford to spare a glance and risk death at the hands of those in front of him. Though Conn knew it not, a knight of Turan had fixed him in his sight and couched the lance just so, to run him through like a fly on paper.
But then, just as the lance was mere inches from it's target, a leathern buckler smote lance tip aside. Unable to believe his eyes, the knight was soon dead, sliced nearly in twain by a broadsword such as might have been swung by giants. Conn sent a Turanian solder down the dark road at the same time, then heard a well remembered chuckle. "Son, how many times have I told you? Never let your guard down."
Unable to check himself, Conn swung around to gaze upon.. his father, back from his travels! Even as he did, a dying Turanian seized up a spear and prepared to fling it. Dying even as his arm lashed forward, the spear flew. Conan wasted no more words in greeting, but flung his son aside and took the spear himself.
With a cry of anguish that might well have been heard in the halls of the gods, the Aquilonians set upon their foes with a will.. a will born of the savage need to avenge Conan The Great. In short order, the tide of battle was turned and the Turanians put to rout.
Conn pulped the skull of the warrior who had flung the spear with his boot, then kneeled by his father, trying in vain to wrench the spear-head free. Smiling weakly, Conan raised a tottering hand to rest on his son's tear-flooded face. "No, son, it is not meant to be. I get me to my rest, and you to rule f.. fair Aquilonia. This is how I wanted to die, you know, not sick in some bed."
Perhaps it was a trick of his dying, but.. Conan could swear he saw.. Juma.. and Sigurd! His father.. his mother.. Belit.. Zenobia! "It is well," he whispered. Then his leonine head sank limply to the earth, and Conan.. mighty Conan of legend.. was no more.
---
Days later, even as Conan's funeral pyre had but recently cooled to ash, Conn dreamed a strange dream indeed. His father, looking once more as he had in his youth, was engaged in a lusty battle in some great hall. Sigurd and Juma looked on, laughing and shouting encouragment. Zenobia, his mother, shook her head and chuckled ruefully while sharing tales with with a woman he knew to be Belit. At that, his father paused in his exertions long enough to seemingly look him in the eye.. and winked, then resumed battle with a shout of purest joy.
Perhaps, thought Conn in his slumbers, I'll go there one day.
"By Lir's green tail and Mannan's wet lair, you'll not have him!"
So saying, Sigurd roared defiance and lumbered at the sorcerer who stood with hollowed poniard poised over Conan's drugged form. Struggling, the Cimmerian moved an arm. Just slightly, but enough to bring his aged thews into play.
Startled, Drakkathus whirled about in time to see the great crimson-and-silver bearded giant descending on him like an avenging fury out of the myths. Sigurd raised his burly arms on high to swat the wizard like a gnat, and in that instant lost his life. Drakkathus moved with the speed of a striking adder and buried his poniard deep in the old Vanir's massive chest.
Conan, still struggling, watched with a mixture of grief and amazement as the old Vanir still drove forward, wrapping his arms around the scrawny form of the sorcerer. Even in his death throes, the self-proclaimed "Terror Of The Barachas" shook Drakkathus like a gazelle rattled about in the jaws of a lion.
Even so, the loss of his life's blood wreaked havoc on Sigurd. Drakkathus howled in triumph as the Vanirman's arms at last gave way and he dropped to the floor. Drakkathus stumbled to his feet, regained his poniard, and tottered over to stand over his fallen prey to deal the death blow.
Drakkathus grinned madly, but his emaciated arm was stopped on the downstroke, clutched in the grip of a vengeance crazed Conan. For that moment, Conan was the blood maddened reaver of forty years agone as he swatted the gaunt arm aside, sending the poniard skittering across the floor. "Now, summoner of foul gods, you go to your damnation!"
Drakkathus flailed a strike at the Cimmerian giant, but his arm was again seized. The blood spattered old barbarian grinned such a grin as would have frigthened Set himself and snapped the sorcerer's arm like rotted kindling.
His wail was a nerve shattering thing to hear, but it was cut off short as Conan's viselike grip seized his throat. With nary a grunt, Conan heaved Drakkathus off his feet and flung him across the room like so much wheat. The wizard slammed against the wall with a sickening thud and fell headlong to the floor, his skull a bloody ruin.
Conan knelt by Sigurd, lifting his old friend's great head in his hands, but the old Vanir was already dead. He wore a pleased smile despite the trail of gore that issued from the corner of his mouth. "Take a pull on the hellhorn for me, you old bear."
Suddenly, the weight of long years and many battles seemed to settle on Conan all at once. His own injuries and loss of blood were not small, and he collapsed into dazed oblivion on the body strewn floor.
How long he lay there as though in a fever, none could say. But a vision came to him of a tempest blown summit, a furnace large enough to mold worlds and the grim old chieftain who ruled there, Crom himself. Conan did not question, but walked cautiously to stand before his god. "So, Conan, at long last you are come." Crom fixed his piercing gaze on the Cimmerian. "You have done well, and I do not dispense praise often. You have fought battles beyond numbering from the instant you were born, gave no quarter lightly, and for that you have earned your place in the hall of warriors."
Conan nodded briskly by way of acknowledgment. Then, with a hesitancy altogether unfamiliar to him, he rumbled "My thanks, great chieftain. I would ask one boon of the gods before I get me to my rest." Crom raised a shaggy eyebrow by way of query, and so Conan continued. "My son, he.. how goes things in fair Aquilonia? I left it to do the bidding of the gods, so I would like to know something of it before I go."
Crom's very brows became thunderclouds, causing a ripple of worry to cross Conan's scarred visage. "My child.. I would not lie to you. All is not well in that land. It's enemies have risen to seek vengeance, Turan to be exact, and your son is hard pressed to keep his head on his shoulders, much less his crown. At this very moment, a lance is poised to seek his heart.. through his back."
Conan's nails had dug furrows into his palm during this speech. The very fire of the gods was reflected in those glacial orbs that so many foemen had known as their last sight on the earthly plane. "Send me there," Conan grated. "I will not suffer my son to be mown down like a stalk of wheat without even the chance to see his enemy!" Crom shook his head wearily. "It is not your destiny. Remember you what Epemitreus said.."
With a roar of rage, Conan lept to a wall of Crom's smithy and snatched there a great broadsword. Addressing himself to his god, the old warrior growled "Epemitreus be damned! By.. by your name, if I have to hew you like a crop of weeds to stand by my son, I'll do it! God or man, none denies me justice and lives to tell the tale! Well, which shall it be?"
Thunderclouds gathered on his brow, but then Crom broke forth in gusty laughter by way of answer. As the scene faded around him, Conan heard in his head "You truly are my only begotten son, by your very actions! Go, proud warrior, and I myself shall stand you to your first pot of ale in the beyond!"
King Conn swung his sword like a farmer harvesting wheat, slicing down Turanians by the score. The Aquilonian host had been set upon in vengeance for the long ago death of Yezdigerd, and not many of those who started the battle were still there to finish it. He heard the gallop of hooves behind him, but he could not afford to spare a glance and risk death at the hands of those in front of him. Though Conn knew it not, a knight of Turan had fixed him in his sight and couched the lance just so, to run him through like a fly on paper.
But then, just as the lance was mere inches from it's target, a leathern buckler smote lance tip aside. Unable to believe his eyes, the knight was soon dead, sliced nearly in twain by a broadsword such as might have been swung by giants. Conn sent a Turanian solder down the dark road at the same time, then heard a well remembered chuckle. "Son, how many times have I told you? Never let your guard down."
Unable to check himself, Conn swung around to gaze upon.. his father, back from his travels! Even as he did, a dying Turanian seized up a spear and prepared to fling it. Dying even as his arm lashed forward, the spear flew. Conan wasted no more words in greeting, but flung his son aside and took the spear himself.
With a cry of anguish that might well have been heard in the halls of the gods, the Aquilonians set upon their foes with a will.. a will born of the savage need to avenge Conan The Great. In short order, the tide of battle was turned and the Turanians put to rout.
Conn pulped the skull of the warrior who had flung the spear with his boot, then kneeled by his father, trying in vain to wrench the spear-head free. Smiling weakly, Conan raised a tottering hand to rest on his son's tear-flooded face. "No, son, it is not meant to be. I get me to my rest, and you to rule f.. fair Aquilonia. This is how I wanted to die, you know, not sick in some bed."
Perhaps it was a trick of his dying, but.. Conan could swear he saw.. Juma.. and Sigurd! His father.. his mother.. Belit.. Zenobia! "It is well," he whispered. Then his leonine head sank limply to the earth, and Conan.. mighty Conan of legend.. was no more.
---
Days later, even as Conan's funeral pyre had but recently cooled to ash, Conn dreamed a strange dream indeed. His father, looking once more as he had in his youth, was engaged in a lusty battle in some great hall. Sigurd and Juma looked on, laughing and shouting encouragment. Zenobia, his mother, shook her head and chuckled ruefully while sharing tales with with a woman he knew to be Belit. At that, his father paused in his exertions long enough to seemingly look him in the eye.. and winked, then resumed battle with a shout of purest joy.
Perhaps, thought Conn in his slumbers, I'll go there one day.
no subject
no subject
no subject