Conan the Barbarian-Roanoke, Warrior of the Snowhawk Clan

Roanoke, Warrior of the Snowhawk Clan

I remember vividly bracing myself against the storm. Lightning flashed with fury as the wind howled and warred against the thunder. It seemed fitting to me that the biting wind burned like hot fire against my wounds. This day, my fate would arise. I spat Crom’s name, I dared the god to appear before me, to meet me on the field of battle. Echoing from the rocky ridge of clear swept snow, the thunder seemed to mock me. I knew that I was nearing the end of my journey.

I met the girl Vallah by sheer accident, for she was the member of the Murrogh clan, a rival and enemy of my own clan. I could not fight her, I could not harm her, nor would I. I knew that the men of her clan would slay me on sight, but for an instant I cared not. Her gaze burned with fires that were at once primal and fierce, yet calm and comforting. We were the enemies of an old blood feud, but, it mattered not. It was her idea to challenge me; never had I met a Cimmerian girl that boasted a hunting prowess of no equal. I couldn’t, no, I wouldn’t let her out of my sight, her beauty captivated me. Had I not followed her trail closely, the snow leopard would have killed her. I broke the animals neck, just before it completely closed it’s mighty jaws around her throat. No more would I hear that beautiful voice, for perhaps in trade for her life, the gods only took her power of speech. For two years we were able to meet in secret, taking careful measures to hide our tracks in the snow. I waited that alone that day, for she never arrived. The sun gave way to the silver skulled moon, the winds moaned eerily, the emotions and fears of the supernatural began to surface in my brain. I waited until the sun once again gave light to the gray mists, and still, no sign of Vallah.

At that age, a Cimmerian’s bravery wed stupidity, and against my better judgment, I crept towards her village. Putting a handful of snow in my mouth to hide my breath in the cold of night, I listened intently for any sounds that would give way to her location. The fires of the huts cast fiery orange glows that danced wickedly on the gleaming ice crystals of freshly fallen snow. The Canach’s hut, large and tall, sat at the edge of the village. It shook with the rumble of maddened roars of fury, frightening the wind to a mere whisper. With the ease and caution of the hunted snow rabbit, I quietly gained an ear at the rear of the Canach’s hut. Picts! The Picts had taken my Vallah along with a few of the village’s young women. Time was not a friend, nor were the Picts known to keep Cimmerians alive for more than the length of their savage ceremonies. I vowed to return Vallah to her village. By Crom, I would return with her.

The Picts were a fierce and terrible race of savages. Their trail was not easy to find, but find it I did. At irregular intervals, blood cloaked the snow, contrasting vividly, even in the darkest of night. My pace quickened, stealth quickly became haste and carelessness soon overtook my thoughts. Again, another blood covered patch of snow, though fresh in touch and taste and scent. I was close, I could feel it. Crom’s laughter rang in my ears as lightning again flashed against the tortuous sky. I cursed Crom and his devils for this mischief among the lives of men. The smell of burning wood wafted to my nose, and soon the glow of fire fought mightily against the oppressing darkness. I crept slowly, my heart was near bursting in my throat, it pounded my ears to a near maddening deafness. My breath came in gasps, my senses were ablaze with hate and loathing for the Pictish savages. There she was, just inside the fiery ring of light, I saw Vallah’s face. No longer could I control the beast that fought wildly to jump out of my chest. The first two Picts never had the chance to see what devil had sprung forth from the bowels of the earth, for two heads fell clean away from their shoulders. I rushed in on the remaining two heathens like a madman, sword held high. The first Pict nearly cleft my skull as I sidestepped his deadly axe. It sliced into my shoulder, and my blood sprayed and ran thick. I swung wildly and struck his thigh, nearly severing the limb. Before I could bring my steel around, the last Pict pounced on me, slicing and stabbing at my torso. The blade burned like white-hot iron, I fought him, and finally my own blood began loosening his grip on his long dagger. As the wolf attacks the hunter, it was then that I sank my teeth into his throat. I was in control, the chief of his life, and I took it. Only until the foul taste of his rotten and black hearted blood sickened me did I release my savage and deadly bite.

Staggering, near death, I yelled for Vallah. I stumbled over the bodies of the Picts, only to find horror and dismay. My Vallah. It was but her face that I was able to see over the fire. Adorning a spear driven into the packed snow rested the head of Vallah. I searched frantically, but could not find her body. My mind cleared, and I knew at once what had to be done. I removed her head from the heathen’s spear, then gathered a few important remnants together, and bundled them tightly in a makeshift cloak of what was left of blood soaked ragged and tattered clothing.

Hours felt like days, then years as my strength began to fail, my muscles burned and ached. Blood ran freely from my wounds. Every breath showered me in a mist of bloody red specks as the wind howled uncaring in my face. I made it to Vallah’s clan. Only seven days before had I left my village under the cover of dark night, I thought. Here, now, I stand before the Canach facing certain death.

He threatened to have me run through. He ranted and roared and boasted of mighty and terrible things that would befall me, his power was that of a man that could seal one’s fate on a whim's passing. It mattered not to me. I would draw steel and fight until I could draw no more breath. I told him what happened to Vallah. She, mighty and beautiful and graceful, had been the only daughter of the Canach. With the fury and heartache of the father he commanded in volumes as loud as the thunder, the tribesmen closed near me with steel drawn, sharpened edges gleaming in the light of the torches in the hut. I sat my makeshift sack down and unfolded the edges. At the sight of it’s contents, the Canach gasped, and ordered the men to stand down. For inside, rested his Vallah, along with the heads of four fierce and terrible, but dead, Picts.

“Your passage out of my lands will be free of harm until the dawn. Let this man be. He has taken the lives of four savage Picts. My daughter……” lamented the Canach.

“What name do you go by, so I am able to have my women sing for you?” he asked in a choked and harsh tone.

As I stumbled towards the hut’s wooden framed door, I answered the Canach.

“I am Roanoke. Warrior man of the Clan Snowhawk.”