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trapline.”
    “And how does that include tracking and harassing Ardel and the others?”
    “It doesn’t, Father.”
    “No, it doesn’t.” Corin shook his head, his shoulders slumping with evident embarrassment. “Take a look around, Conan. Two dozen men summoned to hold off a Pict war band so the others can prepare to defend our village. All because you decided to play a joke.”
    “Yes, Father.”
    “So, you will go back to the village. You’ll go to each of their homes, and you’ll complete the task they would have been doing but for your foolishness. You’ll muck out stables. You’ll chop wood. You’ll haul water. You’ll do what they need.” Corin’s head came up. “And not a one of you will let him off lightly. My son wishes to be a man, to abandon childhood. He’ll not escape punishment because he is a child. Do you understand?”
    Each of the warriors nodded grimly. Conan felt himself shrinking at the heart of that circle. He wanted so badly to fulfill his destiny as a man, as a Cimmerian, and yet he had diminished himself in all of their eyes. His stomach knotted up and his throat closed. Tears, born of frustration and shame, brimmed in his eyes, but he refused to let one fall.
    “Conan, go, get to those chores.”
    He nodded, his voice tight and hoarse. “Yes, Father.”
    “And, Conan . . .” His father held out a hand. “Your sword.”
     
     
    THE SUN HAD been asleep for three hours by the time Conan returned to his home. His father sat at their table. A bowl of cold stew waited for him, but the boy felt no hunger. He’d flown from the hill, thankful that no one could see the tears glistening on his face. He even let himself fall once, face-first, into the snow, so he could rise and rub away any telltale tear tracks. He’d done all the chores and then some, hoping that his effort might earn him back the sword.
    But deep in his heart he feared he had lost it forever.
    “Sit, Conan.”
    The boy sank to his knees near the door and studied the floorboards. “I am not hungry, Father.”
    “You don’t have to eat, just listen.”
    “I understand what happened. I understand why you punished me.”
    “You’ll need to understand more than that, my son, if you ever want to wield that sword again.”
    Conan dragged himself to his feet and staggered to the bench. “I did everything you asked, Father.”
    “I know. And more.” Corin nodded, stroking his beard. “As I expected. And you should know that there was not a single man who did not tell me, one way or another, that I was being too hard on you. Imagine. Cimmerians suggesting that.”
    Conan wanted to smile, but mirth eluded him.
    “Do you know why they did that, son?”
    The boy shook his head.
    “They expect big things of you, Conan. You were born on a battlefield. They see you as destined for great things.” Corin leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And do you know why I push you as hard as I do?”
    “Because I was born on a battlefield?”
    “No. Because your mother saw you as destined for greater things.”

CHAPTER 4
    CORIN ROSE FROM the table, poured the cold stew back into the cauldron over the fire, then ladled up a fresh serving. “You were born on a battlefield. As you’ll someday learn, a parent waits to hear his infant’s first scream. With you, it was doubly welcome. It meant you were alive. And it drowned out, just for a moment, the screams of dying men.”
    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