Stephen Gaspar: 3 Blades Against Darkness

Here is an excerpt from a Conan the Barbarian story that is featured in my book, Three Blades Against Darkness. The book is available in a graphic version, a non-graphic version, Kindle, and as an audiobook. All of them are available on Amazon. The story is entitled:

Rendezvous With Death

THERE had been a longstanding feud between the neighboring countries of Brythunia and Nemedia. Neither nation could recall a time when there was no strong animosity between them. Wars, rivalries, skirmishes, and assassinations came and went, but nothing was ever resolved; only new grievances. Certainly, peace was not a desired goal.

It was hardly necessary to say which nation began this latest war, as each was always eager to fight the other.

Nemedia, not wishing to lose too many of its own people, hired a mercenary band from half a score of nations. They were good fighters if paid well enough.

The mercenary band, numbering almost four hundred men, was ordered to hold a pass where a Brythunian host of the same number was suspected of attacking. The main Nemedian force was sent to the south, in a push for the Brythunian capital.

Nygard, a warrior of the Aesir, had been with the mercenary band for almost a year. He stood straight and tall, well-muscled but limber. He had a ruggedly handsome face, with a straight nose, a wide mouth, and light grey eyes. His hair was blonde, and his trimmed beard held a hint of red. He had come to Nemedia with a reputation. Many had heard of him. In his life, he had seen many battles, killed many foes, and seen many comrades die. Killing and fighting were the two things at which he excelled.

When the mercenaries reached the pass they were to hold, they found the Brythunian host before them. There were more than expected. The leader of the mercenaries, a Kothian, cursed the Nemedian commanders. He did not know if their intelligence regarding the enemy's numbers was poor or if the Nemedians were purposely sacrificing the mercenaries. The Kothian consulted with Nygard, whom the Kothian knew was an experienced warrior. The two of them were contemplating issuing a retreat order when they received information that their escape route was blocked by another contingent of Brythunians of comparable size. The Kothian and his men were outnumbered four to one. They could not surrender. That would mean death. Death was inevitable. The only choice now was to surrender and be killed, or to fight and die. The Kothian knew the men under his command. There was only one choice. Better to die standing with a sword in your hand.

Seeing that the Brythunian forces were holding their position, presumably waiting for the outnumbered force to surrender, the Nemedian mercenaries attacked the enemy force closest to them. The armies collided with shouts and the clashing of swords and axes on shields.

The Brythunian side did not expect this, and some fled at the sheer viciousness of the Nemedian mercenaries. The mercenaries could have defeated one of the Brythunian armies, and were indeed in the midst of slaughtering them, when the other contingent of Brythunians joined the fray and the tide turned.

Nygard was killing more than his share, slaying with his broadsword and fending off attacks with his small, metal buckler strapped to the back of his left hand. He hacked and stabbed relentlessly as bodies fell at his feet, and he was forced to move on so as not to stumble over the corpses. More times than he could count, his metal helm had fended off blows. Nygard did not appear to tire of the carnage, but he did notice the enemy soldiers were closing in around him. He feared most of his comrades had fallen. The enemy soldiers who hemmed him in grew cautious after seeing their comrades fall mercilessly before the blonde warrior.

Nygard was aware of another warrior approaching him, cutting a deadly swath through the enemy. The man was younger than Nygard, with black hair under a horned helm. This man’s eyes were volcanic blue, and he roared as he slew.

“Come and die, you hellhounds!” the dark-haired warrior bellowed, as if to let Nygard know he wasn’t alone.

Nygard recognized the man as a fellow mercenary, though he did not know the warrior’s name. Soon, the two stood back-to-back, hacking and stabbing at an incredible rate. Bodies piled up at their feet. At one point, a wounded Brythunian who lay on the ground grabbed Nygard by the ankle in an attempt to trip him. Nygard cut the man’s hand off at the wrist, but in its death grip, the hand still clung to Nygard’s ankle. With a quick kick, Nygard dislodged the hand, and it struck a shocked Brythunian in the face.

From the corner of his eye, Nygard saw a savage-looking Brythunian with his axe raised, ready to come down on Nygard’s head, but in a flash, the black-haired youth thrust the tip of his blade into the Brythunian’s heart, and the axe-wielder fell away.

Amazingly, the two men held their own against all odds. Their swords cut down the Brythunians like wheat at harvest. Bones crunched and broke. Limbs and heads were severed, and brains dashed out. The mercenaries’ blades pierced armor, flesh, and organs. Pain-filled cries and moans of the Brythunians filled the air, while the only sounds emitted from the black-maned and blonde-haired warriors were their own steady breathing.

Some Brythunians fled the scene, not wishing to lose their lives at the hands of these two berserkers, who appeared possessed by killing and bloodlust.