Conan of Venarium

Instead of running wild and exhausting himself, Conan moved with grim purpose, seeking a spot where he might make a stand against the beasts to which he was but so much meat. And, before long, he found one. Had he fled blindly, he might well have dashed past without realizing it was there.

Two boulders, each of them taller than a man, came together to leave a space between them shaped like a sword point, protecting him from either side. At the very tip, where there would have been an opening, stood the trunk of a tall spruce, against which he set his back. He had his bow, his arrows, and on his belt a long knife his father had forged. The wolves had their teeth and claws. They also had the innate ferocity of the wild. They had it, and so did he.

Their voices rose to high, excited howls when they realized they had brought him to bay. The first wolf loped toward him, snow flying up from under its feet, red tongue lolling out of its red mouth, slaver dripping from yellowish fangs, amber eyes gleaming with hate and hunger.

The pack leader leaped. Conan let fly. He shot it full in the chest with the one envenomed arrow he carried. He had to be sure, certain sure, of this kill. So potent was the poison that the wolf had time for but the bare beginning of a startled yip before it slammed down dead on the snow. Its blood steamed scarlet beneath it.

Conan's next shaft, driven by all the power in his smithy-trained arms, was in the air less than half a heartbeat later. It sank almost to the fletching in the eye of the wolf closest behind the leader. That beast, too, died in the instant of its wounding. The third arrow, also quickly shot, sank deep into the flank of the next nearest wolf. That was not a mortal shot, but the wolf belled in pain and ran from the man-thing who had inflicted such torment on it.

Three more shafts saw another wolf dead, one wounded, and one arrow flying far but futilely. Some of the yet unhurt wolves began tearing at the carcasses of a fallen comrade. In this desperate time of year, meat was meat, come whence it might. Gore stained the snow. Conan shot another wolf, and yet another, even as they fed.

But more of them kept him in their bestial minds. One sprang over the corpse of the first wolf he had shot while he reached for a fresh arrow. A civilized man would have gone on with the motion, knowing he would complete it too late, or else would have hesitated before throwing down the bow and snatching knife from scabbard —and, hesitating, would have been undone.

No hesitation lived in Conan. With the quicksilver instincts of the barbarian, he abandoned bow for knife, stabbing deep into the wolfs side even as it overbore him. Its rank breath stank in his nostrils as it snapped, trying to tear out his throat. He held its horrible head away from him as he drove the knife home again and again, until his right arm was red with blood to the elbow.

All at once, the wolf decided it wanted no part of him, and tried to break away rather than to slay. Too late, for its legs no longer cared to bear its weight. It sank down lifeless on top of Conan.

The blacksmith's son flung its weight aside and sprang to his feet ere others could assail him. He seized his bow again and nocked an arrow, ready — as he had been ready in the fight with Mordec —to go on even to the death. He might die, but if he did he would die striving.

But the wolves had had enough. Those that still lived and were yet unwounded trotted off in search of easier prey. Conan's shout of triumph filled the silent forest with fierce joy. He killed two wolves that were still writhing in the snow, then went about the grisly business of skinning the brutes — all but the one its packmates had partially devoured. That done, he also cut slabs of meat from the carcasses. At this season of the year, in this harsh country, he would have eaten worse meat than wolf, and would have been glad to have it.

Burdened as he was, he found going back to Duthil harder than coming out from the village had been. He floundered deeper into snowdrifts, and broke through crust upon which he had been able to walk. Despite the cold, he was sweating under his furs and wool by the time he finally reached his home. The heat of his father's forge, which had been so welcome in wintertime, struck him like a blow.

Mordec was striking blows of his own, on an andiron he held against the anvil with a pair of black iron tongs. The smith looked up from his labor when Conan came through the door. "Are you hale, boy?" he demanded, startled anxiety suddenly filling his voice.

Conan looked down at himself. He had not realized he was so thoroughly drenched in gore. "It's not my blood, Father," he said proudly, and set the wolf names and the butchered meat on the ground in front of him.

Mordec eyed the hides for some little while before he spoke. When at last he did, he asked, "You slew all of these yourself?"