His father slid the bowl onto the table and began to pace. Firelight burnished gold onto Corin’s face. His eyes grew distant, as did Connacht’s when the old man prepared to tell a tale. “They were Vanirmen, Conan, sloppy, yellow-haired dogs come to worry us. Truth be told, I cannot remember why they came that day. Greed, lust, maybe one of our tribe had just happened to slay one of their kinsmen. The cause of that war—as with so many others—is hardly as important as the result. Had they won, some Vanir would be telling his son a tale of glory this night.”

Corin looked down at his son, his hand resting on Conan’s shoulder. “Eat, boy, this is a tale long in the telling.”

Conan nodded and found hunger overwhelming shame.

“We had little warning—even less than Ardel afforded us after your trick. The Reivers came from north and south. I led the defense in the south. Your grandfather, were he there that day, could have told you which ax clove which head, which spear impaled which warrior. He’d have kept count of his cuts taken and given, but I’ve never had that gift. I’ve never had the desire to remember. All I do know is that steel flashed and rang. I took pride in the fact that my sword, crafted by my hand, rang purely and notched Vanir steel. It whittled spear hafts and harvested fingers. It chopped men down and chopped them up.”

Corin paused by the hearth, leaning against it with both hands, staring into the flames. He fell silent for a moment. For reasons he could not explain, Conan felt his own throat tighten.

When his father began speaking again, his voice was low and thick. “Your mother, Conan . . . your mother was a true Cimmerian woman. You have her eyes, the blue, but your black mane comes through me by my father. But your mother, so fierce and brave. Though swollen with you in her belly, when the Vanir broke through in the north, she charged out to meet them. She killed one man with a spear thrust, then knocked another down with the haft. Had our warriors not crumbled around her, she’d have held the line. But they ran and a Vanirman stabbed her in the belly, almost killing you.

“She didn’t cry out, your mother. Not a sound. She’d not give the Vanir the victory. But I saw her go down. With one hand she held her belly, keeping you within her. With the other she reached for a sword, even as her killer stood above her.” Corin snorted. “Stupid man hesitated. I don’t know why. I don’t care. It just gave your mother enough time to get that sword and drive it into him where he’d stabbed her. And before he could strike and finish her, I split him in half.”

Corin’s hands tightened on the mantelpiece. His shoulders shook. Conan was certain it was from rage. His father could not cry, and yet as the boy made that determination, a tear rolled down his own cheek.

Corin, his face shadowed, turned toward his son. “Your mother was dying. She knew it. She drew a dagger from her belt and pressed it into my hands. ‘Take your son,’ she said.”

The smith looked down at his hands. “I tried to refuse her—never had before, and never after—but she would brook no resistance. ‘I will see my child before I die.’ And she watched me, Conan, steadied my hand as I finished what the Vanirman had done. I cut you from your mother’s womb and laid you on her breast. She kissed you. You tasted your mother’s blood, and never heard her scream.”

Corin pressed his hands together. “She knew she was dying and she said to me, ‘See that there will be more to his life than fire and blood.’ And then, with her last breath, she named you Conan.”

The boy set his spoon down.

Corin turned his face toward the door and the village beyond it. “What they remember of your birth is that it came on the day of a great victory. Born on a battlefield, destined for glory. Suckled on blood, not milk. A wolf, not a dog, meant for wonders and miracles. You remember my father telling you stories of heroes and kings, where their scribes claimed they were born of virgins, or strangled monsters at birth, or made up any number of legends to make these men seem greater than they were. So our people have done with the truth of your birth.

“And yet, had one more Vanirman had breath left in his lungs, had he slain me as I held you, then all the wonders and miracles would have been soon-forgotten tragedy. A life of great destiny may be nothing more than a life that avoids serial tragedy.” Corin sighed. “But I see the day of your birth differently. I knelt in the snow, my beloved Fialla dead, her naked child so fragile, nestled in hands covered in blood: that of the Vanir and of your mother, mayhap even some of mine. I knelt on a battlefield where dying men wailed as if infants and called for their mothers—and you remained silent, and your mother would never answer your call. I heard men cheer victory and praise the gods for their survival; yet ’twas your mother’s wish that filled my head. For you, more than fire and blood.”

Conan’s confusion drew his brows together. “Are you saying she did not want me to be a great warrior?”

Corin laughed and rested his hands on his son’s shoulders. “Even as she died she knew there would be no preventing that. But she sensed in you, and I have seen in you, the potential for more. You can be the best warrior of your generation. You could be the best warrior of our village. You could make men forget that Connacht ever existed. But those are foothills, and you are destined for mountains, Conan, and the stars. Others see you as born to a great destiny, and I know you are born to great responsibility.”

“What responsibility, Father?”

“Responsibilities you will acquire when you are a man full grown. Nothing to worry about at the moment, but there will come a time . . .” Corin came around and sat at the table, stretching out his legs and facing his son. “What you did today was irresponsible. It caused panic, and some of those boys, since panic was their first reaction, will always react that way. We may train that out of them, but you’ve made it that much harder.”

“Yes, Father.”

“The first lesson of a great leader, Conan, is not to expect his followers to do what he can do, but to learn what they are capable of, and teach them to do it as best they can. You shamed these boys. Your shame may push them to try harder to redeem themselves. So, this is what you will be doing from now on: you will continue your chores for me and the people in the village. You will not complain. When they tease you, you will hold your tongue and your fist. You will shame them into being better men than you are, and when they fail, you will say nothing.”

Conan frowned deeply. “Yes, Father.”

Corin laughed, slapping his hand on the table. “Your mother had that look. I only saw it once directed at me and vowed never to earn it again. Restraining yourself will not be the hardest thing you do in life, Conan; just the hardest thing you’ve done up to now. Aggression is a warrior’s virtue. Restraint is a leader’s. You must promise me to do this.”

“I promise, Father.”

“Good.” The smith nodded. “You have half a bargain to keep, and I will offer you the other half. Tomorrow morning you’ll find your sword in the smithy. You’ll put an edge on it, only a hand span from the tip down.”

The boy’s face lit up as his heart began to pound. “And you will train me. We will fight?”

“We will, Conan, we will. I have much to teach you, but not immediately.”

Conan’s shoulders slumped. “Why not?”

“It’s very simple, my son.” Corin met his son’s blue gaze. “You’re growing, and soon will outgrow that Aquilonian toy. It’s time you learned to forge a blade, a proper Cimmerian blade.”

The boy stood, weariness forgotten. “Crom made me to wield swords, not to hammer them.”

“Crom has shaped you, as he shapes us all, to his own cold ends.” Corin shook his head. “But if you want a blade to be part of you, if you want it to live in your hands, then you’re going to help bring it to life.”

The smith had not been easy on his son. He sent Conan out to the nearest mine to gather iron ore to smelt for the blade. Corin had borrowed a mule to aid him. Conan returned with two baskets of ore strapped to the beast, and another smaller one on his own back. The boy crushed the ore and prepared it for smelting, then worked the bellows until the iron became a red-gold river of molten metal.

Corin watched Conan’s pride rise to his face, lit by the iron’s backglow as it poured into the mold. The boy gathered wood while the metal cooled, and chose leather to wrap the oak on the hilt. The boy helped Corin pour the bronze for the pommel cap and cross hilt. Then the boy took the cooled steel and plunged it into the forge, burying it in charcoal. He pumped the bellows until the blade glowed, then brought it to the anvil to begin the shaping.

Here Conan encountered his greatest challenge, and watching him tightened a fist around Corin’s heart. The boy intended the sword to be perfect, but had no understanding of how much work that would entail.

The hammering on one side had to be matched equally on the other. Stretching the metal made it too thin. Cracks appeared. Pieces broke off. And while the metal could always be reheated, and the pieces folded back in, frustration led to hard blows where subtle were required . . . and subtle always seemed to take too long.

A boy forging a man’s weapon. Corin smiled as he watched, remembering his own first clumsy efforts. Connacht hadn’t been terribly patient with him, but that was because his father had assumed Corin intended to travel and see the world. Though Connacht had his reasons for remaining in Cimmeria, more than once, when he told tales, Corin was certain his father would vanish again if the slightest chance arose.

Corin’s father had been surprised when he realized the nature of Corin’s goal: it was not to create a sword he could take into battle, but to create the sword that was meant to be his in battle. Connacht could never understand that about his son, but at least he respected it. He was as proud of everything Corin did as he was of his own youthful adventuring.

Conan plunged his sword into a trough. The water bubbled and steamed. He pulled the blade out again, rivulets running. Corin felt certain that his son was seeing blood.

“Is it finished, Conan?”

Conan looked over at his father, then nodded.

Corin rose and crossed to the anvil. He took the blade from his son and turned it over. The boy had shaped it well. The forte would turn blades. The tang would not sheer off, yet was not so heavy as to unbalance the blade. It tapered to a point, but not too sharp a one.

“Nicely done, boy.”

Conan smiled, his soot-stained face streaked with sweat trails.

“But let me ask you this: Which is most important when forging a blade? Fire or ice?”

The boy snorted. “Fire.”

Corin raised an eyebrow as he continued to study his son’s handiwork.

“Ice?”

“Are you certain?”

Conan nodded, but hesitantly.

The smith smashed the blade against the anvil. It rang dully, then shivered into fragments. Conan stared down, his shocked expression mirrored in the metal shards. His expression darkened as he looked up at his father.

’Tis a lesson best learned now, my son. “We’ll begin again, Conan.” Corin knelt and began gathering metal shards. “You’ll learn what makes a great sword makes a great warrior. By the time you know that, you will be ready to wield the blade we shall make together.”