Conan felt exceedingly nervous as he walked between the armored guards down the long dark hallway. The torches, blackened ash stems bracketed to the dirty stone walls with pieces of iron, glimmered eerily in the squirming shadows. They passed by a high window and Conan saw stern gray snowflakes drifting down the frosty panes. The young minstrel shivered as he remorsefully recalled the happy snowfalls that had blanketed Kentle when he was but a stripling of a lad. He remembered playing in the cold wet white, loving the bite of it in his fingers, liking the way his friends’ cheek grew ruddy when they went inside to their cottage and drank melted chocolate, a treat reserved only for the heath winters. The snow back then had been merry and white, something to look forward to, a cold sweet taste on his tongue. But this, this terrible gray stuff falling from a broken sky, was a depressing reminder of where Conan had been taken and who he should be. He wondered if Northumbrio himself had beckoned the glum weather down from the heavens with his strange powers. Who really knew what Conan’s new master was capable of, what his cold-fire heart was made of? No one in the mountain peak dwelling seemed eager or willing to speak of Northumbrio as if he were human. He was like an essence, always present, inescapable and looming black over the hearts of otherwise cheerful and innocent folk. For indeed, the people could be happy if only they would embrace the life they were forbidden to.

The minstrel nearly stopped in his tracks at the rebellious thought, feeling a sudden pain split his head, but the guards shoved him on. They seemed vaguely frightened, as if they were unused to escorting servants to Northumbrio’s chambers. They had barely given Conan enough time to grab up his lute and long black cloak before they led him up a side flight of stairs, into a boiling blackness. It enveloped them, swirling around them in cold gusts from a draft in the cracks of the windows, chilling Conan until his nose was sore and his feet like hard blocks of unmovable ice. He grasped his lute tighter as the hallway gave way to yet another twisting, cobwebby flight of stairs. Dust arose from Conan’s stub-nailed boots as the guards pointed for him to continue alone. Conan wondered idly whether they were afraid to look upon Northumbrio’s face. Throwing his head back, the minstrel determined to look the huge man right in the eyes, forgetting all else, ignoring the horrible purplish blue sphere resting in the middle of that little lion-paw table.

He did not see the big wooden door before him and very nearly smashed his face into the rotting wood. He felt around in the thick darkness for a knob. Finding none, he pushed gently on the wood and it gave way with a silence that unnerved him. Wooden doors were supposed to creak! Bats were supposed to fly out at him! Yet nothing happened, the door only opened into more darkness, blacker than the stuff that held Conan outside. He finally made his feet move forward into Northumbrio’s chambers.

“Hello,” he said in a tight constricted voice, “my master?” Conan carefully shut the door behind him and felt his body grow warm with his master’s hot breath. The heat curled around him with a long, low moan and Conan knew Northumbrio was hiding amongst the shadows. He bowed his head and moved to the middle of the room, his foot feeling the lion paw leg of the sphere table. “You sent for me, master,” he said.

Northumbrio’s voice rasped from the darkness. “I know what happened in the mess hall, slave. Yet I wish for you to tell your side of the story to me.” Conan dared not look up. All thoughts of staring down those smoldering eyes and standing tall had been swept away with the onslaught of Evil. For indeed it was Evil that dwelled in the chamber, the very essence of Evil itself. Conan was frightened and wondered suddenly whether it was right for him to give in to fear. The now-familiar pain cut right through the middle of his thoughts, like a knife through a loaf of bread.

“You do right to fear me,” Northumbrio’s voice purred. “I want for it to remain that way.” There was an awkward pause. “Well?”

“What do you wish me to tell you?” Conan sighed.

“Why were you fighting in the mess hall? How did it start, why did it end with you being pinned to the wall, helpless?” The cruel words made Conan suddenly wish he had fought back vehemently, perhaps bashing Garlic over the head. Northumbrio heard this wish and smiled to himself.

“That guard wanted me to move aside for him and his companion,” Conan answered. He realized how ridiculous it sounded and felt tempted to be ashamed. Northumbrio quickly said “Good, good! So you would not move aside for him.”

“No, great master.” Conan’s doubt vanished. He had actually pleased his supreme master, the giver and caretaker of his needs and wants! This thrilled his very soul. “I would not.”

“What ensued then, minstrel?” Northumbrio’s voice was as smug as a cat who had just partaken of a juicy morsel of prey.

“He grabbed me and pinned me to the table. I leapt from my helpless position and struck him.” Northumbrio was loving this. Yes, this man would make a fine soldier. For indeed, the huge dusky man did not intend to use Conan as his minstrel. Not for long, anyway.

“You struck him! Very good.” The voice suddenly grew cold and icy. “Then why, Conan-minstrel, did you have the need to be rescued from a burning across your throat?”

“I was not rescued, master.” It felt odd, contradicting him. “The guard did indeed burn my throat, for the whole barrack was against me, save your two armored guards, and I was no match for the man’s brute strength.” Northumbrio growled; it sounded too much like a wild beast ready to spring and kill.

“You should have fought until the death,” he snapped.

“But master, it was such a small thing to die for-”

“That is of no importance!” came the booming voice. “I wish all my servants to be willing to die for justice!” Conan cowered at the voice, yet something inside of him hated to do it.

“Next time, I will,” he said. “I give you my word, as your slave, for slave I am and live only to cater to your wishes, oh great master.”

Northumbrio’s hot presence biting into his head drifted away; he had pleased his master once more. “You are right, minstrel,” said the deep smoky voice. “You are only kept alive because I think you will be useful to me. Now play. Play a song on your lute and make me contented, for it has been a long, hard day.”

This was the part Conan had been fearing. He had no notion of what to play for his master. He quickly licked his dry lips and fiddles with his lute strings.

“Well?” came the impatient growl. “Are you going to play something for me on that little soup pot of yours?” Conan heard growing intensity in his master’s voice. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, dragging his boots along the floor, biting his tongue. “I…I…” he stuttered. Northumbrio’s purring snarl, rasping and hoarse, sounded in his ears again. “What is the matter, my foolish young minstrel?” Northumbrio’s voice seemed somehow to be closer than the last time he had spoken. The hot breath began to hurt like so much fire upon Conan’s bare neck; the burn across his throat throbbed painfully and he felt a slight waver in his master’s rising anger as he cursed Garlic for it. He swallowed with an effort and stood a little straighter.

“I know not what to play for you, master,” he said in a loud but respectful voice. He felt a sliver of relief leap into his heart as the hot breath turned away.

“Something agonizing,” Northumbrio’s voice said. Conan gave a violent jolt, nearly dropping his lute. Never had he been asked to play something as his master wanted; indeed, he could not even play a sad lay to suit the shepherd who had asked for one! Yet the desperate yearning to please his ominous master trampled his doubt and he began to play a song built from pain, sweat, tears and death. At first Conan’s fingers fumbled over the unfamiliar combination of strings, tripping up several times and feeling the heated breath for his mistakes; but as he played, the lute’s voice grew louder and fuller and Conan began to enjoy bringing forth the song for Northumbrio’s approval. It twanged and shuddered in the dark, yet is was as if some unseen agony, long hidden, was guiding Conan’s fingers to play something he had never dreamed of being capable of. The song spilled forth onto the wet slimy flagstones like so many tears from a tortured soul, nearly frightening Conan. It was so fierce, so ferociously passionate as his fingers bled upon the sharp strings that Conan’s breath came faster and faster, his heart beat quicker and quicker, the horrible song came to him in jumbled tatters that rearranged themselves into a bloodthirsty pattern. Northumbrio loved it. Conan could tell by the sudden dropping away of heat, the darkness as it became thinner and the snow outside grew white instead of brackish gray. Conan finally felt the inspiration fall from him and he sank to the ground, exhausted. Northumbrio’s huge dark body leered down at him but Conan could not muster enough energy to raise his head. After several moments, his master departed, leaving Conan shivering in the dark. The gray snow began falling again.

Finally the minstrel picked up his lute and, with shaky legs, walked slowly from his master’s chambers out into the hallway. As he was turning to descend the dusty stairway, Conan felt eyes upon him and turned. It was the little girl with bandaged hands. She stared at him with an intensity that frightened him. Then she turned and melted into the darkness.

Conan never forgot the strange longing and disappointment in the little girl’s eyes.