Bran Mak Morn Story Excerpt

I am very excited about my latest book, 4 Blades of
Ruin, a series of short stories of Robert E. Howard's heroes, Conan the Barbarian, Bran Mak Morn, Solomon Kane, and King Kull. The book is available on Amazon in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition and on Kindle. Here is an excerpt from one of the Bran Mak Morn stories entitled:

Nil Desperandum

Bran Mak Morn, King of the Picts, peered out from under concealment among the trees. Even if Caius Dracus or any Roman had been looking directly at the Pict, they would not have seen him, camouflaged as he was. Bran watched the Romans march down the road toward the trap he had set. Hidden among the pine and fir trees that grew on the incline next to the trail, his men lay waiting. The Pictish king had thought of this plan weeks ago, when, after Bran and his men set fire to a Roman watchtower, the Romans retaliated and then marched on a Pictish village, burning it to the ground. Bran knew if he repeated an attack on the Romans, they would retaliate. If the Roman army was anything, it was predictable. The Pictish king would have his revenge.

Lying still undercover, Bran listened to the tramp of Roman feet and the rattle of their armor and weapons. He shook his head at their foolishness. They marched as if announcing their coming.  

Mak Morn watched the Romans getting closer. He had to trust that none of his men would give away their location. Living their lives close to nature, Picts respected their environment and natural settings. They were well known for blending into their surroundings, whether it be the woods, tall grass, or even the rock. Bran had seen how some of the smaller men could find hiding places in rock crevices where it did not appear possible.

The Romans were close now. Bran raised his arm. His men’s eyes were on him. Almost there. Now!

Bran lowered his arm, and a flight of spears were loosed at the Romans. Two spears barely missed Caius Dracus, who drew his gladius and yelled, “Ad Scutum Clina! To your shield, turn!”

Arrows rained down from the trees and onto the Romans, but most were deflected by the large, curved rectangular shields. The shields were made of multiple layers of wood glued together, and covered with leather and canvas, with a metal boss fixed in the center.

“Testudo!” Dracus shouted, instructing his men to create a tortoise formation of interlocking shields in front and overhead, creating an almost impenetrable shell.

The Picts exhausted their arrows and rushed at the Romans with swords and axes, screaming their war cries.

Bran focused on only one man. The centurion was his. Bran ran down the slope, picking up speed, aiming directly for Dracus. Bran leaped at the Roman and knocked him from his horse as Dracus called out orders to his men. In the impact, Dracus lost his short sword, and the force of Bran’s attack sent them across the road and down the slope, locked together in a strong grip. They tumbled down the incline, rolling faster and faster as nothing impeded their descent, neither man releasing his opponent. They were still gripped together when they landed in the swift-flowing river, which carried them along and away from the battle. Now Dracus’s armor put him at a disadvantage, weighing him down, but not much more than Bran’s mail shirt helped keep him underwater. Somewhere before landing in the river, both warriors lost their weapons, and the two fought hand-to-hand, trying to drown the other. The Pict managed to get behind the Roman and wrapped his legs around the centurion’s torso, while his right forearm clamped around the man’s throat. Dracus felt his vision grow dim until the current threw them against a boulder in the river with resounding force. Bran struck the rock with his head, and he lost his grip on the centurion. But even this did not shake them apart. They sought each other's throats in hopes of drowning their foe. At one point, Bran found himself being forced under the water for a long time. Struggling against his opponent, he fought his way to the surface and gasped for air. The pair went over two short waterfalls, but still they refused to break their hold on their opponent. After a long, mortal struggle, they released one another, choking and sputtering. The current slowed and thoroughly exhausted, they each dragged themselves onto the riverbank, half-drowned and breathing heavy. They lay upon the grassy sward about thirty feet apart, coughing up water and trying to regain their breath. Finally, they each turned and glared at one another. Slowly, they stood weaponless. Each read the hate in the other’s eyes. Neither thought of their men left on the road nor of how they were faring. They were too far away to care. Their only enemy was before them; that is all they knew or cared about.

This was Bran Mak Morn, Dracus surmised. He had heard stories of the Pictish king and had been given a physical description. The man stood somewhat taller, and his skin was a bit lighter than most of his people. His wet mop of dark hair hung in his eyes. He was not as tall as Dracus, but compact, with a powerfully built body, and the eyes that glared at Dracus were piercing with a visage set like the hard, flinty stones of this country.

     The Pict faced his adversary in a crouching attack posture, every muscle tense, and his lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral gesture.

Almost casually, Dracus began taking off his armor. He removed his scarf, his curiass, his belt and straps, and all his undergarments. His helmet was lost in the river. 

Bran Mak Morn looked at the Roman curiously, nodded, then stripped off all his clothes. The two warriors faced one another naked. They were both well-muscled, but the Roman was a bit taller and had a longer reach. Dracus had been a wrestling champion in Rome and was technically proficient. Bran had naturally grown up wrestling, as did every boy of their clan, and was quite adept. The Picts' form of wrestling was not as structured as Greco-Roman wrestling. Bran’s advantage was his fierceness, a wild animal-like fierceness. There were no rules and disciplines, there were no fouls, but this was a combat between two warriors, and Bran would try to refrain from biting and eye-gouging if he could. 

“I would wager you are Bran Mak Morn, King of the Picts,” Dracus said.

Bran did not confirm or deny, but said, “And you are the centurion Caius Dracus of the Twelfth Legion.”

Dracus gave a brief bow, complimenting the Pict.

“I’d like to know the source of your intelligence gathering,” the Roman said.

“A Roman would not understand it. It is carried on the wind,” Bran said. “The trees speak to us.”

Dracus smiled at this. He knew he was about to engage with a savage, undisciplined, and unsophisticated barbarian. Still, he had heard rumors of Black Bran, the hereditary king of the Picts, and as king, he held some honor. Though, how much honor could a barbarian have? Dracus crouched and approached his opponent warily, his hands in motion, his fingers splayed.   

All of Stephen Gaspar's books are available on Amazon!

Another Conan Story Excerpt

  I am very excited about my latest book, 4 Blades of
Ruin, a series of short stories of Robert E. Howard's heroes, Conan the Barbarian, Bran Mak Morn, Solomon Kane, and King Kull. The book is available on Amazon in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition and on Kindle. Here is an excerpt from another one of the Conan stories entitled:

The Well

“READY with those grappling irons!” Conan of Cimmeria yelled from the deck of the Tricos. “You men, prepare to board her!” He stood upon the poop, the highest deck, where everyone could see him.  He cut a manly figure, his long black hair tied with a crimson kerchief, red silk breeches, a white silk shirt open at the neck and chest, a colorful broad sash, and tall leather boots. The sea pitched and rolled gently.

As the two ship scraped their sides against each other, some of the pirate crew threw their grappling hooks, snagging the rigging and rail of the ship alongside them. The rest of the crew, swords and knives in their teeth, prepared to board the vessel, a merchant ship.

Holding a rope tied to a yard overhead, Conan sheathed his sword and swung across, landing on the deck of the other ship, Baltar. He drew his cutlass and began battling the opposing crew. By now, some of his men had joined him; swords flashed, men yelled out, and blood stained the decks. Crewmen from both ships fell or were pushed overboard.

“Surrender, you men, if you want to live!” Conan called out as he ran a 

man through.

Seeing the way the battle was going, the Baltar crew surrendered.

“Where is your captain?” Conan demanded of the men who stood weaponless before him.

The crew members exchanged wary looks until one of them said, “Cap’n be in his quarters.”

“Get those men out of the water before they drown or the sharks start feeding on them,” the Cimmerian ordered, his blue eyes ablaze.

Conan thought it strange that the ship’s captain would not be on deck to defend it; then again, Conan’s captain, a Zingaran named Oscuro, was not seen fighting but remained on his own ship.

The Cimmerian tried the door of the captain’s quarters. Finding it locked, he kicked it in. Standing within was the Argossean captain, sword in hand, a desperate, determined look on his face. Behind him, sitting on the bunk, sat a young woman with light brown hair and eyes. She wore a look of concern, but was in no way hysterical, considering the situation. Perhaps she was too naïve to understand her position.

“Put down your sword, Captain, I claim this ship!” Conan said calmly, but with authority.

“Aye, the Baltar may be yours, you barbarian pirate, but I mean to protect this woman!” The merchant captain said with as much mastery.

Conan sought to understand the captain's motivation for risking his life to safeguard this woman. What was she to him?

“Guarantee our lives and promise to put us ashore the first chance you get,” the captain said.

“You are in no position to bargain, Captain,” Conan said.

“Would you bargain for a portion of the treasure?”

Conan was doubtful about the proposal. A man would say anything in this position, but as the Cimmerian was not willing to blindly accept this story of treasure, he was also not about to dismiss it. 

“Where is this treasure?”

“First, you must give me your word of honor that this girl will come to no harm,” the captain said.

“You are willing to trust the word of a barbarian pirate?”

“At a time like this, I do not have much of a choice. I am willing to die to protect her. Are you?” The Argossean brandished his sword.

“You should not test me, Captain. You don’t know me.”

“But you are a man; I can see that. Will you swear to protect her with your life?”  

“What have we here?” These words were spoken with menace and pleasure.

Conan knew that voice. It was Oscuro, his captain.

Captain Oscuro stood in the doorway. His dark complexion looked greasy, his dark eyes reflected danger, and his black mustache hung down the sides of his mouth, giving him a perpetual grimace even when he smiled and showed his crooked teeth. 

“Conan, kill this man and have the woman taken to my cabin,” Oscuro said menacingly.

Fearing for his life and the fate of the young woman, the Argossean captain lunged at Conan with his sword. Purely by instinct, Conan parried the captain's blade and sank his cutlass into the man, who fell dead on the cabin floor.

Oscuro grinned wolfishly, as if he had done the slaying. “Take her to my cabin,” he said.

Conan looked at the dead captain, then at the girl who was now cowering on the bunk. She may have thought the Argossean captain would save her, but with her protector dead, she feared for her fate with these strangers. Conan wondered why that captain had thought so much of her that he died to protect her. It had been the barbarian’s experience that no woman was worth dying for.

Conan turned his cutlass on Oscuro, whose wicked smile diminished only slightly.

“I said, take her to my cabin,” Oscuro reiterated.

“This ship is mine,” Conan announced. “We agreed upon it. I spilled blood to get it.”

“By all means, take the ship; the girl is mine.”

“She goes with the ship,” Conan said, with defiance.

“We also agreed to split the plunder evenly.”

“How do we split one woman?”

“What do you think is happening right now, barbarian?” Oscuro said. “Plunder from this vessel is being put aboard my ship.”

“And what do you think will happen if I drag your corpse out on deck. Who do you think the crew will follow: me, or a dead man?”

All of Stephen Gaspar's books are available on Amazon!

Conan Story Excerpt

 I am very excited about my latest book, 4 Blades of Ruin, a series of short stories of Robert E. Howard's heroes, Conan the Barbarian, Bran Mak Morn, Solomon Kane, and King Kull. The book is available on Amazon in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition and on Kindle. Here is an excerpt from another
one of the Conan stories entitled:

The Ice Castle

CONAN of Cimmeria was struck by a bitter cold blast of wind in his face. His eyes were almost frozen shut. Perhaps that was for the better, for his vision had grown blurry, and it felt like there was grit in his eyes. His head ached as if his brain were freezing. The wind cut like a knife’s edge, and it seemed that no matter which way he turned, it was always in his face. It was a peculiar wind that whispered an alluring song just beneath its currents. The snow was getting deeper, but he trudged relentlessly onward, for what was he to do? Lie down and freeze to death in the snow? He had never felt such cold, even in his native Cimmeria, by Crom. Best not to swear by Crom, for Crom would not help him. Then Conan’s frigid mind began to think that he was dead, slain in battle, and he was trudging to Crom’s mountain. It would be just like Crom, that gloomy, moody god, to make a fallen warrior struggle through the ice and snow even after death.

     The few furs he wore did little to keep him warm. The snow was beginning to feel like ice pellets, and he felt frigid cold through his body, those parts that weren’t turning numb, that is. He tried breathing through his nose, for his teeth ached and his very lungs felt frozen. He could not remember when he had last eaten, and he considered cutting off a piece of his leather belt and chewing on it. Still, he tramped onward, like an automaton, trying not to feel or think. He did not think of how he got here, where he was, or where he was going. He automatically put one foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. He did not know how long he had been in the grip of this winter’s blast, nor how long he could go on without some respite. He thought it best not to eat the snow, for his insides were cold enough. He needed some nourishment, for he could not continue much longer relying only on his indomitable will. Surely this was a frozen wasteland with not a tree or an outcropping of rock for shelter. The sun overhead did not seem to move, and its light on the snow cast a blinding glare that stung his eyes.     

He rubbed his sore eyes and tried to wipe off the frost so he could see. His vision grew hazy, his mind swirled, and this young barbarian, who prided himself on his strength and endurance, collapsed in the snow and lay still.

Something caused him to wake. Some primitive survival instinct woke him. Get up! Move on! You are not going to die today!

He stirred. His vision was still blurry. Was it the same day? It looked the same. The wind and snow persisted, but it was not as intense. Perhaps he had slept for only minutes, or was it hours? He did not know. He rose to his feet, looked ahead, and was stunned by what he saw. Was he dreaming? Was that real, or only a figment of his frozen imagination? It must be a dream, he thought, for what he saw in the distance was an anomalous vision that could not possibly be real. But there it was, a castle, and not an ordinary castle, for this one looked like it was made of ice. Instead of stone, it was made of huge blocks of ice. Conan shook his head to clear his mind. He looked again, and there it was.

With hope restored, the young man summoned up an untapped source of will and walked toward the castle. The ice crystals in the snow crunched under his feet with each step. He half expected the castle to disappear like some mirage in the desert, but it was still there; he stood before it. The translucent walls, peaks, and towers were all made of ice and parts of them reflected the sunlight. Wide steps carved of ice led up to an arched doorway.

Conan trudged up the steps, his strength waning. If he could only get inside and away from the wind and snow. The ice door was tall and wide, and he pushed it open. The door opened into a narrow hall where two statues carved of ice stood on either side, as if on guard duty. Conan regarded the statues for a moment and walked down the hall to another door guarded by two more ice statues. The Cimmerian pushed open the door to a large chamber with a tall arched ceiling. The walls, floor and ceiling gave off a glare that stung his eyes. He brought up a hand to block the glare. He lowered his hand, and at the far end of the room was an ice throne. Again, he thought his eyes were playing him tricks, for upon that throne sat a young, beautiful woman whose garment, face and hair appeared as white as snow and shone like sparkling diamonds. Her head was lowered, looking at her lap. At first, Conan thought it was another statue, but surprisingly, this statue moved. She raised her head slowly and looked at him. Her face was lovely and innocent, and she regarded him with detached curiosity. It was just then that he collapsed on the floor.

All of Stephen Gaspar's books are available on Amazon!

4 Blades of Ruin - Review

 Gary Romeo reviewed my latest book, 4 Blades of Ruin. Here it is.

4(Four) Blades of Ruin is available in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition, and on Kindle. Find them on Amazon! 

This is the second collection of stories using Robert E. Howard’s characters by Stephen Gaspar. I enjoyed his first collection, 3 Blades Against Darkness, and I enjoyed this one as well.

A large number of Robert E. Howard fans like to erect barriers preventing their enjoyment of things. They hate pastiche, they hate AI art, they hate unauthorized books… they hate a lot of things. I’m not going to spend anytime addressing those hates. This is a book review for people who prefer to enjoy things.

Stephen Gaspar writes clear unadorned prose. That is his strength. He strives to tell a good story. Unfortunately he tries to get a little fancy and inserts epigraphs at the beginning of every chapter. Ignore them.

Stone of Doom. This story starts by having Conan racing ahead of a pack of angry pursuers. Arrows are fired and Conan is hit. He rides harder into the sandstorm and escapes. Conan passes out and is rescued by Augur, a man on a quest to eradicate evil. The dialogue between Conan and Augur is quite good. Most authors are afraid to have Conan talk too much. Conan agrees to join Augur in his search for fragments of “The Black Stone” thinking there might be profit in the adventure. After a decent action scene, in which Conan kills three men, he learns there isn’t going to be any profit and abandons Augur. Conan later learns that Augur has been killed and the fragment of rock they found has been stolen. The story becomes more of a typical Conan tale at this point. Conan decides to find out who was responsible for Augur’s death and encounters bad men and a bad woman. This story beats 90% of the Heroic Legends e-books for pure entertainment.

Nil Desperandum. This a Bran vs. Rome tale. The story starts with a good description of Bran’s latest nemesis, Caius Dracus, and segues into a battle between Romans and Picts. Bran and Dracus end up in a wrestling contest that lasts a while and separates them from their men, They end up getting captured by another band of Picts hostile to Bran. The author has Dracus and Bran talking to each other (and their captor.) I remembered that Bran spoke Latin. It isn’t mentioned if Dracus speaks Pict. When Bran has to ask Dracus what “Nil Desperandum” means and Dracus responds “Never despair,” I was taken out of the story wondering who was speaking Latin and who was speaking Pict? The story continues on with Norseman attacking the hostile Picts and taking Dracus and Bran as prisoners. Dracus and Bran apparently understand Norse. They escape on a small boat and see the Loch Ness monster. Bran and Dracus part on possibly grudgingly friendly terms. But then Dracus is immediately captured by the remnants of the hostile Picts. What will Bran do regarding his Roman foe? This was a good story despite the language confusion.

Demon of Darkness. This story takes a few too many paragraphs to get started. There is a short history lesson regarding the town of Kirkland in the center part of Northern England and mood setting regarding Solomon Kane and Travis March, a cheating barkeep. All this to introduce another haunted moor story. Kane goes to investigate Blaec Moor and meets a father and his daughter who tell him about the scary place that they live in. Kane asks to spend the night. They sneak out after Kane goes to bed and Kane follows them to a field of stones. All the villagers are there and chanting hooky spooky words. An evil but handsome fellow named Dinger-Kek materializes. Dinger tells the crowd to keep repeating this ritual every night and eventually Dinger will reach full power. Kane travels back to the house and confronts the returning couple. Dinger-Kek is a dark god, blah, blah, blah. Kane decides to confront Dinger and knows God’s righteousness will prevail. They fight until the sun rises. Dinger is defeated. Ho-hum.

The Steward of Time. This story starts with Ka-nu telling King Kull about “The Black Stone.” It is a bad stone, causing madness in people, a gateway to hell, pure evil. The gods cast lightening and broke the stone but it can be reassembled. (All this ties back to the first story “Stone of Doom.”) Then others tell Kull more scary stories. Kull is intrigued and wants to visit a scary place. The next day, Kull, his soldiers, and Brule the Spear Slayer travel to a known mysterious location, an empty field giving off weird emanations. Kull starts hallucinating, passes out, and wakes up in a curved color changing environment and meets “the steward of time.” What follows are lots of paragraphs about the nature of time. Kull eventually snaps out of it and everybody wants to leave this uncomfortable place. Kull sees it is late now and asks, “my, where does the time go?” Not as clever as I would have liked but it brought a smile.

The Ice Castle. This story starts with Conan in the freezing cold. He spots a castle made of blocks of ice and escapes the blistering winds. He meets the beautiful woman who lives in the Ice Castle. She tells her story of being cursed by an evil wizard. Conan stays with her for a while and believes he has fallen in love. She recites poetry to him and it all seems chastely happy. Months pass and Conan is ready to leave. Trouble. The story ends rather predictably.

Dark Covenant. A Christian church was founded long ago in a remote part of Africa. Time has passed and the church has been reestablished by a near madman named Biruk. A beautiful woman named Zeria decides to use Biruk and his church and its now corrupted teachings to her benefit. Enter Solomon Kane. Zeria has followers now and a local tribe has resisted her warriors. Kane is perplexed by the Christian imagery being used to scare the local tribe. Kane investigates and is captured. Biruk and Kane have some dialogue about King Solomon and Bible verses. Zeria meets Kane and we get “The Moon of Skulls” vibes with Zeria coming on to Kane the same way Nakari did in that story. The story gets a little convoluted but remains interesting. Kane receives a vial of the Apostle Matthew’s blood from a spirit of the Church’s founder. The Lord’s help is needed to triumph over Zeria. I think Mr. Gaspar has captured a slight Howardian feel in this story.

The Dark Man’s Revenge. Gonar is worried about Bran Mak Morn’s future. Bran is preparing for a big battle with the Romans. Bran is worried and wishes he had had a normal life. A man named Nothus (Latin for bastard) shows up. He is the offspring of Bran and Atla (from “Worms of the Earth”). Gonar tells Bran he is working on a statue to encase Bran’s spirit when he passes (see “The Dark Man”). Bran makes a deal with the leader of a rival Pict tribe saying he will abdicate his throne if he joins the fight against Rome. And if there wasn’t enough happening already, Brule the Spear Slayer time travels to visit. The big battle starts and the rival Pict tribe deserts leaving Bran’s army outnumbered. Bran dies in the battle. Gonar does his magic and “The Dark Man” statue is created. The story doesn’t end here. The author adds an ending that mixes Howard’s Picts with the real life Onuist. The timeline really doesn’t work historically. Onuist was king of Pictland (Scotland) from 732 to 761 but I suppose the Onuist in this story could be a forefather of the later Onuist.

The Well. Conan is working for Captain Oscuro and has taken over Captain Bosmer’s ship, the Baltar. Bosmer is only concerned about a woman named Narissa. He offers Conan a bargain for treasure in return for the woman’s safety. Before Conan can make a deal, Captain Oscuro appears, Bosmer attacks and is killed by Conan. Oscuro tells Conan to take the woman to his ship. Conan advises Oscuro that the Baltar now belongs to him per their agreement and that he is keeping the girl. Oscuro, now Conan’s enemy, leaves for his own vessel. Narissa shows Conan a pink diamond and tells of a treasure. What follows is a halfway decent adventure with giant sea creatures, humorous pirate banter, rock monsters, and the bride of Quetzalcoatl.

4(Four) Blades of Ruin is available in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition, and on Kindle. Find them on Amazon!

4(Four) Blades of Ruin is available in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition, and on Kindle. Find them on Amazon!

All of Stephen Gaspar's books are available on Amazon. 

Four Blades of Ruin - Cover Art

 My latest book, Four Blades of Ruin, is another series of stories of Robert E. Howard's heroes, Conan, Kull, Bran Mak Morn, and Solomon Kane. 

The book is available in a graphic edition with AI cover art and interior graphics.

Some readers do not like AI graphics, so I released another version with no AI.

This is a cover for the non-graphic edition.

I was not certain what I wanted to use for the cover of the non-graphic edition, but one day, on my walk, I thought of the weapons I had, some of which were tucked away in the crawlspace. So I dug them out and started arranging them on a tartan towel I had bought at a Scottish shop in Stratford, Ontario, years ago. I took the picture myself.

Some of those weapons I have had since the 70s. The battle axe and mace I made in a tool shop when I was an apprentice. I actually have two Kukri blades, but I only used one in the picture. I bought the Kukris at a gift shop in Sauble Beach, also in the 70s. Everything else I acquired later, one piece at a time. The cloth with all the folds is a piece my wife uses as the Christmas tree skirt. I used it to cover up the carpet and the sofa.

Stephen Gaspar's books are available on Amazon!

4 Blades of Ruin - Conan Excerpt

 I am very excited about my latest book, 4 Blades of Ruin, a series of
short stories of Robert E. Howard's heroes, Conan the Barbarian, Bran Mak Morn, Solomon Kane, and King Kull. The book is available on Amazon in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition and on Kindle.

Here is an excerpt from one of the Conan stories. 

Stone of Doom

1.

“From the outside the stone is a riddle:
No one knows how to answer it.”

                     — Charles Simic

       

CONAN spurred his horse across the desert, its hooves pounding rhythmically on the hard, barren ground. A quick look over his shoulder told him his pursuers, six now, were closing in. It would be foolish to turn and fight, since they had bows, and he had only a sword. They were closing and would soon be in range. Some of these men were Hyrkanian, excellent bowmen who could shoot quite accurately while riding a speeding mount, their legs wrapped tightly around their beast’s belly.

When he had fled the city, there were at least ten who pursued him; now that number was almost half, but the Cimmerian did not think he could evade them for long. A north wind was beginning to blow, bringing stinging sand. Conan brought up his scarf to his eyes. 

An arrow soon whizzed past his ear. The wind continued to blow, and with it came a sandstorm that restricted his vision. Conan put his heels into the horse’s flank. An arrow struck him in the back. The barbarian winced in pain but still pressed on. He looked behind him and could barely see the lead archer through the blowing sand. Another arrow struck him, this one in the left shoulder. Despite the pain and a weakening feeling, Conan spurred his horse on, though the beast and rider could no longer see where they were going. Every stride of the horse sent pain coursing through his body. As blood oozed out of his wounds, Conan fought to maintain consciousness. He rode for miles, and for each one he bent over the horse’s neck a little more. How he stayed in the saddle was a testament to his incredible strength and stamina. He was clinging to the horse’s mane and did not remember passing out. 

When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the ground, facedown. It was night, and there was a campfire. His back and shoulder hurt. He started to rise.

“I wouldn’t get up just yet,” said a man’s voice. “You have to give your wounds a chance to heal.”

Despite the advice, Conan sat up to see who was speaking to him.

It was an older man, sitting by the fire, dressed quite modestly in breeches, sandals, and a homespun tunic. His features reflected intelligence but were nondescript, and Conan guessed he was a Westerner of mixed race. The man’s hair was greying, as was his light beard. Even his thoughtful eyes were grey. The man appeared to possess a certain calmness, as if he were not about to let anything vex him. He handed Conan a canteen of water. Conan drank great gulps of water, then suddenly stopped and considered that this might be all the water the man had.

Conan looked around and saw that he was no longer in the desert, but in the steppes, with grass and a few trees in the distance. He regarded the older man.

“Who are you?” Conan asked. He had a suspicious nature, especially towards strangers who did him a good turn for no apparent reason.

“My name is Augur. I found you in the desert, lying on your horse’s neck with two arrows in your back. Do you remember how you got them?”

 Conan nodded. “A certain prince in Akif took exception when I was caught with his favorite concubine. I was chased out of town by several of his men.”

“It can be dangerous to take what does not belong to you.”

“The prince had more than his share of women. He could afford to give me one.”

Augur nodded. “People who have less often feel that way about people who have more.”

Conan regarded the man. “What are you, some sort of philosopher?”

Augur grinned. “Just a man who has taken the time to observe people. What’s your name?”

“Conan of Cimmeria.”

“You are a little far from home, Conan of Cimmeria. What are you doing this far from home?”

“Whatever I can get away with.”

Augur smiled again. Smiles came easily. He reached over, picked up two arrows and tossed them to Conan.

“I pulled these out of you.”

Conan looked at the arrows. The heads were of metal, and well-barbed.

“They didn’t want to come out,” Augur said. “I had to push and pull, twist and turn them. I had to do a little cutting.”

“Why?” the Cimmerian asked.

“Because they were difficult to get out.”

“No, I mean, why did you do it?”

“I didn’t think you wanted to keep them inside you.”

“No, I mean, why did you help me? You don’t know me. You don’t owe me anything. Why do it?”

“It was an act of kindness. I did not consider it much trouble.”

The barbarian thought on this. “With less trouble, you might have let me die and steal my horse.”

“I thought your life was more important than me gaining a horse.”

“How do you know I won’t murder you to take what you have?”

“I don’t.”

Augur spoke with a calmness that led Conan to suspect the man was not overly concerned if he lived or died. To the Cimmerian, it was a bit perplexing and a trifle unnerving. He found this behavior uncommon.

“I have nothing to repay you for your kindness.”

“You don’t have to,” said Augur, then pointing over to the side. “Your horse is tied over there, but I don’t think you're in any condition to ride yet.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“You can stay or go; it is up to you, but as I said, you should let those wounds heal.”

For some reason he could not fathom, Conan decided to stay. In the morning, he cared for his horse. Augur shared what food he had with the barbarian. Conan saw that Augur had a heavy cart pulled by two mules.

“Where are you headed?” Conan asked.

Augur pointed west. “Into the hills.”

“Why?”

Augur regarded the younger man as if he were judging his character.

“I am searching for something.”

“What?”

“A stone.”

“A stone? There are stones everywhere. You can have your pick of them.”

Again, Augur paused, considering whether he should say more.

“The stone I am looking for is very special. I could use a little help finding it.”

Conan stopped and considered this veiled proposal.

“What is so special about this stone?”

“I know that a very wealthy man is willing to pay a lot of money to have this stone.”

Conan looked doubtful. Who would pay money for a stone?

“Is this stone a jewel?” he asked.

“No, but I have heard it is very old, and quite rare.”

“And you need a partner?”

“I suspect it is quite heavy. I need a strong back and a man I can trust. I trust you.”

Conan stopped to consider the offer.

“How do you know you can trust me?” Conan asked.

Augur shrugged. “You are under no obligation to help me, you know. We can part company here and now. You go your way, and I’ll go mine.”

Conan had good instincts. He liked this man and saw humility and honor in him.

“Crom!” Conan exclaimed. “There’s nowhere in particular I wanted to go, anyway. I’m with you.”

The pair travel west, out of the steppes and into the foothills.

After days of travel, Conan asked, “How do you know where this stone is?”

“Before I found you in the desert, I had sought out a man whom I heard had actually seen this stone in his youth. Only recently had I spoken to him and heard his story. Years ago, he had taken refuge in a cave and noticed a stone protruding from the ground. What was peculiar about this stone was that it was a shiny black color, its surface smooth and polished. In the darkness of the cave, the stone sometimes radiated. The man began to dig around the stone by hand, chipping at the packed, hard dirt with a knife. As he removed the dirt, he saw that the stone was larger than he had imagined. He also saw something else; there were markings on the stone, like ancient runes he could not read or even identify. Then he recalled a legend about this stone. It is a common legend, and he had once heard of it. This stone, so the story goes, was cursed, and so, fearing it, he covered it up again, with the intention that no one would ever find it.”

Conan thought about this for a moment. “Why did he tell you about it?”

“What was that you said?”

“If this man did not want anyone to find it, why did he tell you about it?”

“Oh… I suppose because… he is old now, and old men like to tell their stories. He must have thought it was time to tell his. It was the first time he had told this tale.”

Again, Conan thought on this in his own plodding way.

“Wait a minute, you said you sought out this man after hearing of his story. How could you have heard of it since the first time he spoke of it was to you?”

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