The Modern Barbarian (Patreon)

There was one hotel in San Constantino. Conan drank at its bar.

The place was open to the street, with a tile floor that gave way to pockmarked pavement. A dozen wooden chairs and tables were on the far side of the room, as if sheltering in the shadows from the harsh light. They nearly crowded out the benches along the walls. A metal-topped counter led to a narrow staircase, which was the only way up to the second floor of the five-story building. There, and only there, rooms were rented by the hour. Conan would’ve gone up there with one of the mulatto whores of this place, but his purse was light and his mood was dark.

This time was not his own. This place, ‘Meh-he-co,’ was not on any map he’d ever laid eyes on. He was in a world as far removed from his own as these people’s tiny yipping dogs were from the wolves of his youth.

The sweep of time awed him. He had known, with a dreamy vagueness, that the world was old beyond measure and would live even longer than it had yet existed. His life was but one drop in an endless pool—an ant trying to know the shape of an imperial palace from the one tile it was given to scrutinize.

And yet, those nebulous concepts that the thinkers and scribes sought to grasp were truth to him now, cold and hard as good steel in his hand. His people the Cimmerians were extinct… drowned so deep in the well of history that even the thought of them was lost to the ages. The life he had gloried in, the challenges that had tested him, the terrors that had merited his fear—all gone now. A foundation beneath a foundation below a foundation.

Even the lore he’d thought he’d known, of dark Acheron, treacherous Zamora, of men who were not human and nameless gods to whom blasphemy and worship were one and the same… this too was built upon Crom knew how many eons.

What heroes and villains, long dead and long unspoken of, were trod underfoot with each step Conan took? And who had they walked upon, in their own brief moment of the sun? Where had it all begun, and for what purpose? Could anything have a purpose, when the most hard-fought victories, deeply debated wisdom, and exquisite pleasures were all crushed beneath a mountain of time that grew taller endlessly—that already towered above the sky?

Another drink was called for. This Meh-he-co had little of the civilization that strangled decent savagery, giving rise to hypocrisy and deception, but had the feel of a frontier. Not into untried land, but down, into the depths of human obscenity. The lotus eaters had come again to this world, in spirit if not in name, and men vile as serpents fed their loathsome need. It made for a warren of rogues, where Conan suspected that he could pry his trade, soon as he’d shaken this unlovely glimpse of the mountain he was destined to be buried under.

‘Te-key-lah’. He hoped this would not be forgotten for a long, long time—with its alluring ritual of salt and lime.

Something penetrated the fog of darkened thoughts and sickly fixation. Conan was not one to ignore the darting of his attention. If something shadowed his mind, he would resolve it… his brow would never be untroubled, so the less that furrowed it, the better.

He looked about him and quickly saw a woman worthy of notice. She wore a white cotton blouse that left her shoulders bare. It was high on her long belly and her skirt was low, leaving an appealing segment of her flat stomach bared to view. And though her skirt was long, it was tied together in the left dimple of her slender waist, so that it opened up and let out all of one graceful leg, though the other was covered to the calf. As was, of course, the space between legs.

The woman was trying to show off her body and she had a body to show off. She was trim, with just the right amount of hips and chest to fill out her garments. Conan didn’t pretend that full, pendulous breasts weren’t to his liking, but he wasn’t ignorant to how well-shaped these were, and nicely toned, sculpted perfection in all their subtle curves.

Her hair… a shade of black like a raincloud just as the storm ended… was carefully brushed. Her nails were manicured. And there was supple muscle in the thigh of her exposed leg. Conan figured her for a dancer, if not one that did it every day, or so exhaustively that it was the only thing that brought coin. Perhaps she had done well for herself—now dancing only for her own pleasure, instead of others. And intent on another pleasure for herself; one she couldn’t have by dressing more modestly.

The man with her seemed to be where she sought that pleasure. Thin and mannered, he didn’t look good for much else. He carried a gun, but it was a tiny, womanly thing that easily hid in his shoulder holster—he bore it like he’d forgotten about it. His face was overweeningly young, effeminate… he clung to boyishness until it became ladylike.

With his prettiness, his carefully curated wardrobe, Conan could see him garnering the approval of women, but not of men, except if it be that shadow species of the breed known as catamites. If he did bed the woman (or rather, was bedded by her) Conan sensed it would be a matter of convenience rather than pursuit and conquest. The woman was foolish to settle for such meager delights, just because they came in a form that was easily managed.

Conan was not the only one who had eyes for her. Five men were looking at her and not with the lust that she deserved. They traded scurrilous glances, wordlessly agreeing on their plans. They looked to her, to the exits, and to the girlish bodyguard who lingered at the girl's side… until he excused himself and left the girl to her own devices.

Conan watched the men nod to each other. They stood as one, almost motionless when they were at their full height. Hands reached into jackets–Conan saw the charge of excitement that came when a man had his hand on a weapon.

The girl was nothing to him, but it was clear she was an innocent. He didn't doubt that a woman could deserve such a treatment, but such a creature would be cynical, hard bitten, knowledgeable that death could come at any time. This one didn't even know she was in danger. And she had too much beauty to go to waste, simply because she was too ignorant to know it could be destroyed so easily.

Conan came out of his chair. His sword was too overt for him to wear casually, even in such a lawless place… the police would take notice of him. They might not have cared about lawbreaking, but the appearance of the law had to be maintained. The illusion was worth more and easier to conjure than the reality.

But he never went unarmed. Conan drew a Bowie knife from his belt–one of the few knives made in this world worth the name. He slid up behind the back of one and cracked his skull with the pommel, driving shards of bone down into his brain.

As the slayed thought his death thoughts, Conan went for the assassin who'd been sitting with him. He drove the Bowie into his gut, steaming entrails straining to get out through the hole he made, transmitting a lurid heat along the blade. With a tight grip on the knife, Conan pulled the second dying man along. It sawed the impalement along his belly, making his guts slough out like spaghetti spilling from a plate.

The first man was gurgling as he died; the second was screaming out what little life he had left. They distracted the killer who was approaching the girl, intent on firing at point blank range. He whirled, aiming for Conan, but stopping when he saw his comrade in the way. It was a mistake. Conan ripped the knife free of its human sheath, pulling out a vomit of organs behind it, and he plunged the blade into the killer. Deep into his sternum, almost through it, piercing his spine and stealing any motion he might make.

Conan threw his paralyzed body into the girl, knocking her to the ground and shielding her from harm. The man had been armed with a gun, a Uzi. Conan knew little about their workings, but he understood they destroyed what they were aimed at. He pointed the thing at the nearest assassin and held down the trigger.

The Uzi jerked and spat in his hand like Conan was trying to hold a furious cat under water. Bullets flew everywhere in front of him, but many lodged in Conan's target: drilling into his chest, his thighs, groin, throat. Blood flung from the impacts like sparks struck from a flint, setting the floor ablaze with gore.

The Uzi abruptly stopped its seizure. It clicked, resoundingly empty. One last assassin remained. With no more use for the firearm, Conan pitched it at the man. It broke against his chest like a flimsy toy, robbing the breath from him. Before he could take another, Conan was upon him. Fists like boar's jaws dug into his throat. One would've been enough to wring his neck. Two crushed it into gristle and bone powder.

His knife was still in the body on top of the girl. She was crying out for Ricardo—obviously her bodyguard. Conan pulled out the Bowie; doing so spilled the corpse off of her. She reared up, the recipient of the blood that the corpse had loosed.

“Ricardo? Where are you, Ricardo? Por favor, I need you…”

“Your man's betrayed you,” Conan interrupted, doing nothing to ameliorate his harsh voice. “If you wish to live, trust yourself to me, now.”