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- Herausgeber: Titan Books
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Serie: Savage Tales Short Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
Capturing the electric short fiction energy that led Robert E. Howard to be one of the top fantasy writers of the century, with exclusive serialized eBook stories starring Conan, Solomon Kane, and more by many of today's top writers in fantasy and sword-and-sorcery. Conan is hired by a wealthy merchant to recover the man's wife and son, who have been abducted by a dark sorcerer. The money is good and he has no trouble seeing to it that there is one less sorcerer in the world. So with four soldiers, the Cimmerian follows the trail into a dense Stygian jungle. They are set upon by a demon spawn that kills the entire party—Conan only manages to escape death by wounding the creature during the melee. Doggedly he pursues and locates his quarry, only to discover that from the very start, his mission was a fool's errand—one with fatal consequences.
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Leave us a Review
Copyright
Map
1
2
3
4
5
6
About the Author
ROBERT E. HOWARD’S
THE CHILD
BRIAN D. ANDERSON
LEAVE US A REVIEW
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CONAN: THE CHILD
E-book edition ISBN: 9781803366364
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP
www.titanbooks.com
First edition: December 2023
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
© 2023 Conan Properties International (“CPI”). CONAN, CONAN THE BARBARIAN, CONAN THE CIMMERIAN, HYBORIA, THE SAVAGE SWORD OF CONAN and related logos, names and character likenesses thereof are trademarks or registered trademarks of CPI. ROBERT E. HOWARD is a trademark or registered trademark of Robert E. Howard Properties LLC. Heroic Signatures is a trademark of Cabinet Licensing LLC.
Brian D. Anderson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Typeset by Chris Chambers at CC Design.
CONAN:THE CHILD
BRIAN D. ANDERSON
Conan stared across the table, cold blue eyes drilling into the snaggle-toothed, foul-smelling Stygian who leaned back mockingly in his chair, using a short dagger to pick at grimy fingernails. He was thin and wiry, with dark tanned skin that was blotched and streaked with dozens of pale white scars. His nose looked as if it had been broken many times, and his right eyelid drooped half-shut. His attire was as much of a decaying, pitiful ruin as was its wearer—ragged blue-striped vest, no shirt, and calf-length skintight trousers, frayed and ripped at the hems.
The Cimmerian remained expressionless and silent. A mug of ale—offered only a moment ago—rested between a pair of meaty fists. His broad shoulders, recently tanned by the Stygian sun, rippled and flexed beneath a short leather tunic. His booted feet were parted wide, the corded sinews of powerful legs wound tight.
The air in the room was thick and foul, but Conan had experienced worse in his travels. A small gathering of a dozen cutthroats and thieves congregated mostly near the bar at the rear wall, though two stood in front of the door. They had disarmed him upon entry, believing this gave them an advantage against the hulking barbarian, should violence erupt.
All eyes were on the two men at the table. As the tension of the moment mounted, all hands were ready to draw steel.
“Will you not drink with me?”
The man had introduced himself as Jabari Ishman. His voice was rough and throaty like the crushing of dried leaves. He spoke in a southern Stygian dialect, and while this was his native tongue, he showed no more command of the language than a young child.
Conan leaned forward to peer down into the mug, then back up to lock eyes with Jabari.
The Stygian planted the point of the dagger into the tabletop, then raised an arm. A moment later a stout-looking Shemite crossed over and handed him a mug.
“I will drink even if you will not,” he said, spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke.
Conan could hear floorboards creaking behind him as the men at the door spread out. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, which grew to a quiet chuckle. Jabari narrowed his eyes.
“Is something funny, stranger?”
“There is,” Conan confirmed. “When I took this job, Magistrate Lanitar told me that cleaning out this rats’ nest would cost him more men than he could spare. He said it would be better if I picked you lot off one at a time.” He glanced up at the others. “But that would take days, and I have business in the north. Better to get this done with quickly.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “So, you come to our guild hall, working for the magistrate? Are you dim-witted? Or insane?”
Conan’s chuckle intensified to mocking laughter. “Guild hall? Is that what you call this shithole?”
“Watch what you say, scum,” Jabari snapped, placing his mug on the table, lip twitching. “Or we’ll nail your tongue to our walls.”
“Oh, this conversation is going to end, but not in the way you think.” The barbarian’s expression hardened, his voice a rumbling storm of menace. “And should you survive, you might consider using a better-quality poison.” He pushed his mug across the table. “The beads of white powder floating at the top make it obvious.”
Jabari furrowed his brow, snatching up the mug. “There’s no—”
Conan did not allow him to complete his sentence. He sprang up, sending his chair flying back as he reached out and snatched the dagger from the table. Jabari tried to rise, but Conan gripped the lip of the table and flipped it on top of him.
Then he spun and buried the blade in the neck of the man to his left, wrenching a sword from the man’s grip. A savage strike felled the man to his right, painting the door and walls with blood as the cut went from neck to collarbone.
Startled by the barbarian’s sudden ferocity, others fumbled for weapons, but Conan wasn’t about to allow his foes to gain the initiative. A dagger in one hand, sword in the other, he charged at the surprised group of assassins and thieves. So brutal was his assault that three more men lay dead before they could gather their wits enough to fight back.
“Kill him, you dogs!” Jabari screamed, then grunted against the weight of the table, slithering and wriggling until able to scramble to his feet. “Don’t just stand there!”
Conan silenced him, ramming cold steel into his mouth, nearly ripping his skull in two as he jerked the blade free. The remaining foes fled behind the bar, stricken with terror. One older Stygian drew up the courage to throw a knife, but the Cimmerian easily dodged it.
“Will none of you fight?” he roared.
