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sought never to fail. When I have, however, I survived and have learned.”
    A certain melancholy had entered his father’s voice. Conan’s eyes narrowed. “Is this why you have never taken another wife?”
    Corin folded his arms over his chest. “Your mother, and her death, were not a failure. We have you as proof of that. But when she died, my heart ached terribly. I survived. It may make me a coward, but I never dared love again. When you find that one woman, Conan, the one who fires your heart, who makes you feel alive and makes you want to be a better man than you are, never let her go. I was that fortunate once . It would not have been fair to hold anyone else up to comparison with your mother.”
    Conan’s father fell silent, and the boy said nothing to break the silence. He’d seen his father turn reflective before—often while watching him, but at times when Conan didn’t think his father knew the boy could see him. His father had always displayed serenity and wisdom, but this time pain creased his brow. Conan did not see this as weakness, however. To surrender to it would have been weakness.
    Survive. Learn . The boy nodded solemnly. “I will make you proud, Father.”
    Corin’s expression lightened. “You already have—even though there are times you disappoint me.”
    “Father, I won’t ever again.”
    Corin crouched and looked up at his son. “Don’t make promises you cannot keep, Conan. We all disappoint others. If we never do, it’s because we never take a chance, we never live. What your mother wanted, what I want , is for you to live and live wonderfully large.”
    The smith rose to his full height and tousled the boy’s hair with a scarred hand. “You’re not yet the man for that sword, but tomorrow we begin getting you there.”

    OVER THE NEXT month Corin began training his son. “The first thing you must remember, Conan, is that men call it ‘sword fighting’ but it is really ‘man fighting.’ A blade is only as keen as the mind driving the arm.”
    To make his point, Corin extended the sword they’d made full out, resting the tip at the top of his son’s breastbone. “Cut me with your sword.”
    The black-haired boy, eager, thrust toward his father. The man’s longer reach, and the length of his sword, brought Conan’s effort up short. The boy ducked away from Corin’s sword, but Corin merely retreated a step and again pressed the tip to his son’s chest. The boy’s eyes narrowed, then he beat Corin’s blade aside with a great clang and clash of metal.
    Yet before he could get close, Corin had slipped back again. He met every harsh parry with a retreat, every bulllike rush with a sidestep. Conan’s face flushed. Lips peeled back from teeth in a feral snarl. The boy knocked the blade aside, then spun, but Corin likewise pivoted, then slapped the boy across the buttocks with the flat of the sword. Conan slipped and flew headlong into a snowbank.
    He came up sputtering, spitting out snow. “You’re not fighting fair!”
    The smith stabbed the blade into the ground and rested his hands on the pommel. “Do you think anyone you ever face across a blade will fight fairly?”
    “Men fight honorably.”
    “No. If you choose to believe that, you’ll die in your very first battle.” Corin shook his head slowly. “Men who survive tell other men that they fought honorably. They lie. Remember all the tales your grandfather has told? Has he ever mentioned a Kothian or Gunderman or Shemite who fought honorably?”
    Conan shook himself like an animal, flinging snow off his clothes. “No.”
    “And you do think anyone who survived fighting against him ever described him as honorable?”
    “No.”
    “If you remember nothing else, my son, remember this: it’s not the man who slays the most who wins a battle; it’s the man who survives who wins it.”
    The boy, frowning, rubbed his bottom. “And what if I kill them all ? ”
    “Then you are the only survivor.” Corin pulled