Conan, Barbarian Dwarf: Part 5 – Shackled God
Victory over Sarevok brought no peace. In the days that followed, whispers filled Baldur’s Gate of the First Warrior reborn, the dwarf who fought like a god. Some called him savior, others demon. And in the shadows, a man in dark robes came forward. He spoke softly, promising what no priest or wizard had dared: knowledge of the spell that bound Conan to this world. Perhaps even a way home.
Conan’s eyes narrowed. He trusted no mage. But he wanted answers more than he wanted ale. He listened… and the trap closed. Chains, black fire, and the laughter of the sorcerer they would later call Irenicus.
What followed was torment. Conan did not measure time, only the pain and the visions. Were they dreams, or memories? He could not tell.
Two snakes coming together… facing each other… but they were one.
Valeria’s face… golden hair bright as flame… her smile gone too soon.
The Wheel of Pain… his youth chained and broken… the endless circle turning.
His throne room… Aquilonia’s banners high above… his crown heavy with blood.
And then… some lost adventure, a battlefield from the old tales of Hyboria… a hundred foes screaming his name.
The flashes came faster, sharper, until he roared against them — and the chains rattled back in answer.
Until one day the cell door creaked open. A young woman stood there, eyes full of fire.
“Time to wake up, little brother.”
Conan squinted at her, head pounding. “
I’ve no sister. But if you’ve come to free me, stand behind me and keep your skin unbroken.”
Imoen blinked. “...‘
Skin unbroken’? What does that even mean? You sound like a bad tavern poet.” She shook her head. “
Torture really does scramble people.” Then, with a shrug, she pressed on.
They fought their way through the dungeon’s black halls. Then Conan’s hands found a familiar hilt — heavy, balanced, true. His lips curled in a grin. Atlantean steel, or close enough.
He paused, the world narrowing to the weight in his grip. Slowly, deliberately, he raised the blade. The metal sang in the air. Once. Twice. Again. Each swing carved through the shadows, steady as breath, his body remembering forms long thought lost.
It felt like freedom — as if he were standing barefoot on some distant shore, cool salt air in his hair, the horizon endless before him. Freedom, pure and unbroken, carried in the arc of steel.
The rhythm of his movements grew measured, almost ceremonial. The blade cut the air in time with some silent drumbeat, echoing like a recovery song from another life. Each stroke carried both memory and promise, the music of a barbarian reborn.
The rage in him cooled to an ember, then flared again — controlled now, sharpened. It was not mere anger. It was strength, discipline, and recovery.
By the time he finished, sweat darkened his brow, but his back was straighter, his gaze harder. He rolled the sword once in his grip and gave a short, savage smile.
“I am whole again.”
From behind, Imoen muttered, “
Well that’s nice… maybe next you can recover some pants that don’t smell like rat dung.”
Conan ignored her, striding on, fury rekindled and ready.
A mage stood barring their path, arcane words spilling from his lips. Conan wasted no breath. His fury exploded, the torture sharpened into a storm. He cut the wizard in two before the final syllable left his tongue:
Imoen wrinkled her nose. “Yup. Definitely faster than Fireball. I should probably be writing this stuff down.”
Later, the earth shook as two golems thundered down a corridor. Imoen gasped, fumbling for spells. Conan merely climbed the rubble for high ground, calmly drew a sling, and sent a stone cracking into one’s skull. As it reeled, he leapt, sword first, splitting the second apart like firewood:
Deeper still, another prisoner spoke from the shadows:
“So, there is sanity in all this madness…I am Yoshimo, thief and an archer!”
For a heartbeat Conan saw Subotai — his old companion, laughing beside a campfire. Then the vision shattered, pain stabbing his temples. This was no friend, only another liar cloaked in mystery. Conan spat. “
I’ve no time for this. Begone dog!”
The man slunk back into shadow.
Imoen tilted her head. “
...Well, that was awkward. Y’know, most people just say ‘hello’ and move on.”
Another mage raised his hands to cast. Conan didn’t wait. The rage was already rising. One charge, one swing, and silence:
At last, they burst into the night. Freedom. But not safety. A ring of hooded mages waited, their staffs glimmering with restrained power. Local guild enforcers, by the look of their cowls.
“
The girl comes with us,” one intoned, his voice cold as stone.
Conan’s hand tightened on his blade. “
No.”
Another mage stepped forward, lip curling. “
She is marked. Her power is dangerous—even to herself. Our order will contain it.”
Imoen’s eyes widened. “
Contain me? I’m not some… bottle of lightning!”
“
Enough prattle,” the first hissed. “
Give us the girl or we’ll take her.”
Conan’s eyes narrowed, the rage surging up like a tide.
“
Enough talk!” he roared, and his dagger flashed from his hand. It buried itself in the speaker’s chest before the mage’s spell could leave his lips.
Imoen blinked, then muttered under her breath, “
...Remind me never to argue with you about curfew little brother.”
Chaos erupted. Spells, steel, shouting — hazy flashes of battle. And when the dust cleared, Imoen was gone, dragged into the night.
Conan staggered into the nearest tavern, demanded ale, and drank deep. A new city stretched around him, one he did not know. He thought himself a stranger here — until a ragged orphan tugged at his belt.
“
Mister, aren’t you the First Warrior? I saw you fight the Cowled Wizards!”
Conan grunted, lifting the mug. The boy’s eyes shone as he ran off, and soon he returned with a whole pack of orphans. They crowded the table, wide-eyed, begging for tales. Conan gave them scraps of stories between gulps of ale — of thrones toppled, beasts slain, and treasures stolen. Their laughter filled the tavern, the legend growing larger with every word. His reputation in these parts has grown:
Imoen’s absence hung in the air, but the children laughed, eyes wide. For a moment, the dungeon felt far away.
Later that night, drunk as a lord, Conan staggered into the middle of Waukeen’s Promenade. Exotic beasts were caged for spectacle: striped cats, horned lizards, even a great humped camel. Conan swayed, pointing at the animal with his mug.
“Can you believe that, hah?” he slurred to a passing stranger.
The camel lumbered closer, curious. Instinct took over. Conan’s fist shot out, cracking the beast square in the jaw. The camel groaned and toppled with a heavy thud.
Conan blinked down at it, then drained the rest of his ale.
“
Stranger lands every day,” he muttered, and wandered off.
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