Conan slays the Hyperborean warrior-woman

In the blood-soaked arena of the Pit, where slaves battled to feed the blood lust of the Nordheimers, Conan faced an opponent unlike any he had encountered before: a woman. She was a Hyperborean warrior, tall and lean, almost the height of the full-grown Cimmerian himself, who towered a head above even the tall Vanir. Her hair, the colour of moonbeams, was woven into a thick braid, and her small breasts were bare. Although her supple body exuded an aura of sensuality, her green eyes were deathly cold. From the way she grasped her weapon, Conan sensed that she was well-practised in her art. The fight was a spectacle for the chieftains, who had gathered to watch the young barbarian champion test himself against a dangerous foe reputed to be a wizard and sorcerer.

The Duel in the Pit

Sent into the Pit in loincloths and sandals, with short swords in their hands and bucklers on their left arms, the two combatants circled warily before engaging. Steel rang on steel and thudded against the wood and leather of the shields, the clatter resounding above the shouts of the spectators. Despite the sinewy strength in the warrior-woman's arms, Conan's musculature, toughened at the Wheel of Pain and hardened in the Pit, was decisive. For all her skill, speed, and subtlety, Conan stolidly batted her sword aside time after time. A heavy blow knocked the sword from the woman's hand, and from the benches above rose a yell of "Drep! Kill!" For an instant, the woman presented a wide opening, standing immobile as if reconciled to death.

The Cimmerian Code and Hesitation

Conan hesitated. Among the compelling customs of the Cimmerians, drilled into the boy Conan, was that a man's foremost duty was to protect the women and children of the tribe. Although Cimmerians might cheerfully ambush and murder the men of another clan with whom they were at war, deliberately to slay a woman who had done no crime was an unheard-of brutality. His hesitation lasted no longer than two heartbeats. Then the Hyperborean woman sprang back, retrieved her fallen sword, and rushed upon Conan with renewed fury. When one of her blows gashed his forehead and blood dripped into his eyes, he was hard put to defend himself. At last, fatigue slowed the warrior-woman's attacks. Striking alternately with sword and shield, Conan beat her back against the wall of the Pit. A powerful backhand stroke split her shield and ploughed into her side. As blood gushed forth, staining her white flesh, the young woman cried out and slumped to the rough dirt floor, pressing her hand against the gaping wound, as if to hold back her entrails.

The Order to Kill and the Execution

Conan stepped back and glanced up. Toghrul caught his eye, pointed, and made a chopping motion with one blunt-fingered hand. When Conan still hesitated, the Pit-master repeated the unequivocal gesture with greater emphasis. The young barbarian bent over the crumpled woman, who seemed to have lost consciousness. His sword swung up and fell in a chopping blow. Still bent, he thrust the point of his sword into the earth, grasped the blonde braid, and raised the severed head for the enjoyment of the chieftains. The crowd roared its satisfaction.

Shame and the Vow of Vengeance

The deed left an indelible mark on Conan's soul. As the king later related, "At that moment, I hated myself. Never have I told this tale before, for the deed is one of the few of which I am ashamed. True, the woman was dying, and the death I dealt her was perhaps more merciful than letting her die slowly; but still, the deed was vile and cowardly to a Cimmerian. Then I bethought me of Toghrul, who had made me thus to despise myself. All my hatred focused on him, and I swore that one day I would repay him for my shame." The welled scum along his brow, etched by the Hyperborean woman's sword, was only one of several that scarred Conan's face and body during that summer in the Pit. The barbarian youth became a good rough-and-ready fighter, making up in sheer strength and reach what he lacked in the more subtle understanding of the martial arts. But his lack of these refinements worried Toghrul. Some day, he feared, his youthful champion would be pitted against a swordsman of comparable strength but of superior skills. Then Conan would be maimed or slain and, in either case, would have no further value to the games-man.

The Forging of a Killer

The killing of the Hyperborean warrior-woman was a crucible in Conan's transformation from a dehumanized slave into a hardened man-slayer. The life of a Pit fighter was not quite the worst of lives, Conan grimly discovered. To face an adversary and kill him was to enjoy, for a fleeting moment at least, the illusion of freedom. It was, in a way, to be a whole man again. The gruelling torment of the Wheel had dehumanized him; the fierce battles of the Pit restored something of manhood and self-love. Yet the shame of this particular kill festered, and it was the seed of his hatred for Toghrul, a hatred that would later find expression in his famous declaration that the best of life is to confront your enemy face to face, to see his hot blood spill upon the earth, and to hear the lamentations of his women. The event also foreshadowed the monstrous-feminine figures Conan would later encounter, from the demon-woman whose teeth lengthened into fangs and whose fingers became flesh-searing claws, to the cult of Set with its corpse-littered pits and its doctrine of a Great Cleansing. In the Pit, Conan learned that a blade of well-forged steel was the only thing a man could count on, and that the heart of a man, like a piece of unworked iron, must be hammered by adversity and forged by suffering. The scar on his brow was a permanent reminder of the cost of that forging.