Conan didn’t hate his parents exactly. He knew that there were children worse off than him. He had a bed to sleep in and that was more than some. His bed may have been no more than a bunch of rags in the corner of the small one room cottage although more travelled folk might have looked upon it more as a hovel. It was one of a score of such dwellings located between the Manor House and the local village. The square layout of the building had never exactly looked homely even when first built. The current owners, his parents, had neglected all the annual and routine maintenance required to keep a home in good order. A wooden wheelbarrow with no wheel lay upturned in the front garden which was overgrown but looked as if it may have once had a well organised vegetable garden judging by the unnaturally straight manner the weeds seemed to grow. The house had been a gift from the local lord to his father for an act of bravery in a local border dispute before Conan was born.
His mother was not so bad. She was a serving lady in the village tavern and made out ok on tips except that she spent her pay before she stumbled home in the early hours of the morning. The good nights were when she collapsed on the bed snoring before her head hit the pillow. The worst were the maudlin moods that sometimes overtook her. Then Conan became a prime target, in some strange way it seemed to cheer her up to tell him how she wished he had never been born and that he had ruined her life. She was going to be a famous singer until he came along apparently. Conan had given up trying to impress her a long time a go.
His dad on the other hand was gone for weeks sometimes months at a time. He had fought in the Great War and was now a mercenary for hire. He worked for small merchants travelling between the four large cities of the realm. Something had broken in his dad during the war or perhaps he had always been like this, for Conan had only known him to be this way. Sometimes on one of his infrequent visits he would take Conan to the river and show him how to cast a line and where to find bait that would have the fish biting all day long. He patiently helped his son reel in his first fish and show him how to clean it ready for cooking when they got home. Other times he would fly into a rage and become cruel under the guise of toughening up his then young son.
One day as they lay by the banks lazily casting their lines in companionable silence his father asked “Can you swim to the other side of the river?”. Conan having never learnt to swim and having no one his own age who would be his friend had spent many a hot summers day enviously watching the children from the village plunging into a favourite watering hole further up the river that had a large rock on the bank perfect for leaping off. Realising that his father might teach him if he expressed his desire to learn he replied “I don’t know how to swim but I would love to learn!”.
His father let out a derisive snort... Uh oh, Conan knew that sound, it was the one often employed when his parents were arguing. The argument usually ended with his mother stomping off to the tavern after his father called her something along the lines of a drunken trollop. It was a cruel dismissive sound, disdain dripping from the acerbic words that Conan knew were coming “Boy when I was half your age I could swim further than I could walk. What have you been doing while I have been away? Eight years old and you can’t swim. Perhaps your mother is too coddling of you. Do you not swim with the other boys or are you too scared? No son of mine will be a coward!”.
Conan was sitting on a stone only a few feet from his father and could see his father had decided on something. He quickly began sliding off the rock with the intention of hiding in the forest waiting for his father to return to normal as he usually did after some time but he wasn’t quick enough. A large meaty hand caught his shoulder. He knew it was useless to struggle in the large mans grip but fear of what might happen if he didn’t get away drove him into an animal fury to escape. A sudden pain in his head stunned him, his limbs going limp as his addled mind struggled to understand what had happened. Before he had even realised that his fathers knuckles had wrapped him sharply on the back of the head he felt himself go weightless. His body seemed to be flying through the air. Ah he was falling unconscious thankfully. Usually his fathers’ beatings could last several painful minutes and left him feeling like his body had been tenderised like a steak. He wasn’t looking forward to waking up later; the effects of the beatings were always worse the following days, once the violence had stopped. His small malnourished body took a long time to heal from the bruising and the recovery time could take weeks.
He wasn’t unconscious. The water enveloped him. Flowing down from the snowy mountains that could be seen in the distance the ice melts supplied the bulk of the water in the river in the dry season. The sudden cold caused him to attempt a sharp intake of breath. Water entered his lungs and he struggled to what he thought was the surface. After what seemed an eternity with his head still foggy from the blow he broke the surface flailing as he tried to fill his lungs with life giving air. He managed to breathe in but his splashing only succeeded in putting more water into his lungs. He continued to bob just above the surface seeing the brilliant sun through droplets of water as his vision began to dim the sun becoming a small pin prick then blessed darkness.
His body convulsed as his eyed opened and he began heaving what seemed to be a pitcher of water on to the bank of the river. His eyes watered and his chest stung as the bitter bile dripped from his mouth. He spat to get rid of the foul taste and noticed a shadow towering over him. His father dripping wet glowered down upon him.
Once he was sure that the boy would live he decided to teach him a lesson. He swung his military boot into the boys gut pulling the power as he was a merciful man. This was a lesson after all and not one his son would soon forget. This would teach the boy, how dare he be so useless and how selfish was the child that he had made him get in the river soaking his clothes. He continued his lesson for several more minutes leaving the little puke to continue retching on the bank whether from the drowning or the educational beating he wasn’t sure and frankly did not care.
Curled up in a ball Conan sobbed uncontrollably. His father had left some time ago. The sun was beginning to set as he finally struggled up to a seated position placing his back against the stone he had previously been leaning on. Despite the sobbing a resolve was growing in the now empty pit of Conan’s stomach. Never again would he be so powerless. Never again.
His father stayed with them for several weeks and his moods progressively deteriorated as his money from his last job dwindled due to his terrible luck with the dice. He complained about having two lazy mouths to feed even though Conan brought back berries he found on the outskirts of the forest and even managed to get a loaf of bread for spending a day carrying several bags of flour from the water mill to the baker and his mother was the only one who earned any steady coin at the moment.
During this time Conan spent as much time as possible away from the hovel. He had taken to spending his days on the edge of the large forest nearby. The forest was not exactly dangerous but the local townsfolk were a superstitious lot and attributed any unusual events to the “Grim forest”. Having spent a lot of his time outside avoiding both of his parents Conan knew better, yes the forest had an eery feel to it but there were animals such as rabbits and foxes who lived there. How dangerous could it be if it was teeming with wildlife. True deeper in all manner of dangerous beasts could be stalking the dark forest floor but Conan never ventured too far from the tree line that butted up against the local farmland. The forest ran from the foothills of the distant mountains sprawling for miles in all directions.
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Conan spent the time away from his parents planning. As his plans developed he prayed that his father would soon leave for the city to find a job with a merchants’ caravan so that he could begin to make moves to escape his currently futureless predicament. Since that day by the river he had sworn an oath to himself. He would never again be as helpless and weak as he had felt as his father’s boot pummelled his ribs. He had been sure he was going to die and had prayed that the creator would let him survive the ordeal. Now he owed a debt to the creator, he had to do something exceptional with his life.
What was he to do? He was barely old enough to begin working as an apprentice and he knew no one in town would take him on even if he showed an aptitude for a craft. His mothers reputation was less than stellar with many of her drunken actions resulting in many heated arguments over the years. If his mother had one power it was knowing the exact words to say to inflict maximum pain. It was as if she could spot someone’s weakness and did not hesitate to plunge a dagger into the vulnerable point. That was the main reason that the parents of the other children wouldn’t let him play with their children. The other reason was that they were sheep who followed around Karl like he was some kind of noble.
Karl had always been a quick witted and mean spirited boy. When Conan had gone to school to learn his letters and basic numbers Karl had made sure to exclude Conan from the break time games and spread rumours about him and his family (no doubt embellished from what he had heard from his own parents). If he attempted to ignore Karls’ constant wheedling and join in with the other children’s games Karl and his cronies would soon create a game of their own whether it was to see who could hit Conan on the head with a stone or throw him into the neighbours pigsty. This had left Conan with no choice but to sit with the solemn school mistress in the classroom reading through the five books that the village could afford for educating their young. He had read these books so many times that he could almost recite them verbatim. This had meant that instead of the three years the children usually spent in the school Conan was able to leave after two, having learnt all he could.
He didn’t miss the teasing of the other children but he had led a lonely existence so far in life. Maybe he needed people, possibly friends, but one couldn’t just decide someone was a friend, there needed to be something more. He wasn’t sure what that something more was but he thought that it would be nice to have friends someday.
Like everything that happened in his life, matters were taken out of his control as he woke up to hands grabbing his ragged tunic roughly and hauling him into the air. The sun was just rising if the light through the window was anything to go by. His father was dangling him in the air. “Rise and shine you lazy shit” warm stale breath wafted over him, his father had spent another night in the back room of the inn gambling into the wee hours of the morning and from the angry tone it was a safe bet that his usual terrible luck still held. “You’re finally going to do something worthwhile” he slurred and dragged Conan out of the house.
Outside stood a sour looking man with sallow skin. His skin looked slightly damp but Conan imagined that it would be cold to the touch. “Is this the boy?” Said the sinister stranger examining Conan like he was a pile of excrement he had stepped in. His father nodded and the stranger peered closer “He’s malnourished and doesn’t look particularly intelligent, you’ve ripped me off Griff” he stated accusingly. “Ah he’s room to grow, he’ll fill out and if he’s got my constitution you’ll be able to find plenty of uses for him” he looked knowingly at the stranger. With a sigh and slight eye roll the pallid man bade Conan to follow him as he began striding away. Confused and still only getting over the fumes of sleep floating through his head Conan hurried to obey. Not sure what was going on or where they were going he decided to start with some simple questions. “Excuse me mister, where are we going? What is happening?” He asked in an unsure voice. The stranger continued striding with purpose a pointed silence was his only answer.
As his mind un-fogged he realised they were heading towards the Manor House. He had stayed clear of it as there were large hounds that he had seen roaming the grounds with guards and halberds that he had spied at the main gate. When they finally arrived at the gate to the grounds, a simple arch with a portcullis set in a stone wall 10 feet high the guards nodded to the stranger and ignored Conan altogether. To his amazement an apple orchard stretched for acres either side of the long driveway before a landscaped garden with a manicured lawn that led up to the Manor House itself. He could see a large glasshouse on one side of the property and stables on the other side.
The man led him up the long driveway towards the stables. He called out “Master Shrub I’ve got you the help you were looking for”.
Shrub turned out to be a small pot bellied man, the top of his head only barely coming up to the strangers’ chin. He looked at Conan then to the cold man and laughed “surely you jest sir, this one don’t look like much. He’ll make more work for me, I need someone who can pull their weight. He looks like he still be needing to suckle at his mothers’ teet.”
Conan bristled at this but not knowing what was going on he decided to hold his tongue, no need to defend himself to this lout.
“This is it Shrub, there will not be anyone else so either you make him useful or we’ll send him to the fields now, he’ll be going there eventually anyway”.
Noticing an angry tone in the strangers voice Shrub put his hands up in an appeasing gesture “No worries sir, I’ll take what I can get”.
Conan by this time had had enough. No one had explained anything about what was happening and had pointedly ignored him if not been openly hostile. “I think I should go home, I need to get something...” the excuse sounded lame to his ears but he needed to get out of here. He felt like he had just walked into a trap although he didn’t know what it was yet.
The stranger looked at him for the first time since he had appraised him like an animal outside his house. “This is your home now, you are now the property of Lord Jameson” he stared coldly into Conan’s eyes. He had a maddening desire to look away but he set his jaw and stared right back into the cruel eyes not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. Seeing no reaction he continued on neutrally. “Your father having run out of coins decided to put you on the table, I didn’t particularly want you but your father couldn’t win a hand all night so in charity I let him wager you giving him a chance to win back some of his losses. Needless to say he lost. Shrub here has been looking for some help with the horses and dogs so you will fill the gap. When you reach the age of maturity you will work in the fields serving the Jameson family. You are indentured for life to this noble family now. Things could be worse, the baker really wanted to win you and if the rumours are true his proclivities lean towards young fresh dough if you catch my meaning.” Conan did not but a disgusted look crossed Shrubs’ face. “My name is Overseer Crand, I do not expect to see much of you unless you make a nuisance of yourself and you do not want to see much of me either if you know what’s good for you.”
Overseer Crand turned on his heel and headed for the entrance to the house not giving the boy a chance to respond. Shrub grabbed him by the arm muttering something sourly under his breath about the baker and pulled him towards the stables. Conan felt like his brain was mush the rest of the day as Shrub showed him his new quarters in the hayloft and explained to him his main duties which for the most part seemed to involve cleaning up horseshit and ensuring the horses always had fresh hay. He realised quickly that Shrub although officially the “horse master” was more enthusiastic about his pack of hounds and Conan was expected to ensure the horses were well taken care off so that Shrub could spend more time training his pack.
Later that night as Conan lay in the hayloft, his new bedroom a pleasant upgrade from his corner of rags, he wandered if he would ever have any control over his life. He needed power. People didn’t treat those with power like he was treated. Someday he would have that power.