Conan

Annaki: Legend of the Death Bird 10

************** A Song of Ice **************

It had been some pass now, aye, some moments hence the young Cimmerian had journeyed down the corridor he had chosen. How long, or, for what measure of distance, well that was unknown to the lad. In the darkness all he knew was that the heat and the light of the cavern (he'd first ventured into after his fall), were far behind.

The tunnel Conan was traveling through had grown darker, almost pitch as he had moved forward. And too it seemed colder, much colder. Where it vented was unknown, and with each step he took he could feel the ice give way beneath his hefty tread. The ice crystals beneath his feet were crunching like the snap of a crackling fire. And, even with the Cimmerian's stealth, he was unable to keep the breaking ice from making sound. Although it was not loud, it still echoed down the chamber.

This was of some concern to the young barbarian. His advantages against Annaki were slim enough, but subtract silence from his surreptitious approach and that left him with but sword in hand to battle the Winged God, once found. Still, Conan had his will and determination, and too, his confidence. These traits the dark haired Cimmerian had in abundance. And he would keep them his whole life. He wasn't afraid to die, but he did not possess a death wish either.

Conan continued along his path for what seemed like the time it takes the moon-god to travel halfway across the heavens, and then suddenly he became aware that something had altered. He could see a change in the tone of darkness ahead. His keen vision noticed that, full-on in front of him the darkness had turned into a deep shade of blue rather than the inky tone of black. And too, there were twinkling things, sparkling shiny objects.

Conan immediately realized that this was not the reflection of jewels or treasure, it was stars. He was nearing the entrance or exit of the tunnel he had chosen. Maybe now he would meet Annaki up close, face to face, or face to whatever. Had any living soul ever really met a god up close?

Conan lowered his stance. His legs were taunt, knees bent, he was ready to spring into action at the slightest hint of detection. Suddenly he heard something that gave him pause. Was it a dragon's breath? No, it was wind. It was rushing past the opening and blowing frigid air into his face. That was a good thing by Crom, he was thinking. Maybe it would assist in covering up the sound of his approach.

Another step forward and Conan suddenly heard the crackle of shattering ice beneath his boot. The frozen floor was thicker here, and slicker. The ground gave way so that the barbarian found himself tumbling.

"Crom's grey whiskers!" Conan exclaimed as he began slipping and sliding forward in an uncontrollable manner. He hadn't realized that the tunnel in which he'd traversed had slightly angled down. He dropped his sword and turned onto his belly in an attempt to dig his fingers into the solid bone surface. Useless, the Cimmerian's slide remained constant and Conan did not possess the ability to turn around and see were his fate lie. He could be traveling straight into the jaws of the Death Bird for all he knew. And his weapon (?), the sword crafted by his own father, well its whereabouts were unknown.

"Crom you can kiss my ass." Conan cursed his god with his breath. However, in the darkness he knew that soon enough he may be able to do it straight to his face.

************** Saved by the White Stuff ****************

Conan opened his eyes. He could still see stars. He had fallen a second time, and again he lived to tell the tale. That is, if he were truly still alive. Maybe Crom had banished him to the primordial realm of Niflheim.

Conan realized that he was buried full deep in snow, to the depth of a horse's knee. The fall should have killed him and would have if not for the cushion of white which had saved his life.

"By Crom I know not rather to curse you or kiss you," he said. He sat up and glanced around, he was surrounded by it, snow. He had fallen onto a covered slope. He looked straight up. Although it was still night Conan instinctively knew that before long the light of a new day would be welcomed by the mountaintops. The young barbarian tilted his head back and a roar of mirth escaped his lungs. His laugh was hardy. What was life without adventure, and what was adventure without knocking on death's door once in a while? what good was living?

And then, still looking at the stars he bellowed to Crom.

"Aye, I've cheated you again you bastard."

Conan's relationship with his god was capricious (admire/distain).He…..like many mortals, saw the gift of their power (or their misuse of it), as something which made them no better than the creature that they had molded into life. Which gave one ponder as to why, why had they been allowed to have it? Anyway, Conan never balked at the opportunity to laugh in Crom's face. However, it did seem that his creator was always a step in lead of him.

Conan turned around to look back at the place from where he'd fallen. Suddenly he paused, and his jaw dropped down to his chest. There, not a fist away from where his head had lain, Conan's sword was buried near to the hilt in snow. Just a finger closer and it would have been found buried in his skull. It was like Crom was telling him that he had not been cheated. That Conan was still alive because he had ordained it. His adventures were not over until his god said they were. And Crom was likely sitting on his throne at this very moment bellowing his own merry mirth.

Conan mumbled something to himself, rather curse or damnation, it was too quiet for even a god to hear.

END PART 10