A new but actually very welcome member of previous forums asked me to post this story - apparently the thread here already with it has gone wonky and won't open. Some of you will recognize this - it's over 10 years old - my little tribute to Robert Howard and one of his more interesting characters.
Last Stand of Balthus
As the first wave of Picts descended upon Balthus and his fierce canine comrade, Slasher, he turned his back to the breastwork
of fallen logs along the trail, crouched, and planted his feet firmly with all the strength left to him after the
battles of that mad night. Over him flew three screeching Picts painted garishly, reflected in the orange firelight of the nearby
settlers' huts still on fire. Out jumped Slasher straight at the neck of the smallest of the Picts, toppling him
flat on his back and instantly ripping his whooping throat to pieces. But the beast, as brave as it was, sank his fangs too deep and
could not pull back in time as the Pict with his last breath slipped his knife into the dog's own thick throat. He did not yelp, nor moan, but
kept tearing into the man, and the two locked into each other, biting, stabbing, biting, stabbing, until at last both were silent, wrapped up
in each other and drenched red with each other's life's blood.
Balthus in silent anger then flung himself on the two other Picts momentarily caught off guard in surprise at the attack of the muscular hound upon their helpless companion.
He sped close between them, whipping his long knife blade from his boot snatched up in his left hand across the chest of the Pict on his left, and in passing
twixt them slinging his axe hard against the back of the skull of the one on the right. The Pict clutching at his deeply gashed pectoral,
turned stumbling, and the other groaned and gaped upward right then, crashing immediately to the ground. Balthus turned and without
hesitation swung his axe full into the wounded Pict's stomach, planting it with full force and blade horizontal into his painted flesh. The Pict staggered,
tipped forward and with some difficulty Balthus extracted the buried steel from the body of his victim as the dying barbarian almost fell into him. But as he
barely side-stepped him, Balthus heard the crisp singing of the bow-string, followed by a slight thud and a distinct shock to his
body. Then an increasingly stinging feeling came to him. He looked down, to see the shaft of a Pictish arrow protruding from his stomach,
about a handwidth distance above his navel deep inset in his muscular abdominals, the arrow set right perfectly at the top of the pyramidal thatch of belly hair flaring
up from below there. He stopped, thinking he could not quit now no matter how great the hurt, with all the settlers still on the road to hoped for safety from the
horrendous predations planned by this horde flooding in from west of the river.
He dropped his knife, took the arrow in his left hand, lodged halfway into his stomach, heaving in and out, despite his efforts to
ignore the point of the pain so deep and growing now, held his breath and yanked the shaft out, straight from his body. He gasped against his best will, and
looked down to see the wickedly barbed point conceived with all the primitive wile these dwellers of the farthest wild could muster in their
savage zeal to do bodily harm, and knew it was not good. He almost sank to the ground, but regained his strength mostly from surprise as three more Picts came
crashing towards him from inside the breastwork of logs. He swept up his knife, rolled instinctively to his right to avoid the two
hurtling at him, axes raised above their heads, and stumbled just enough to lose his footing and glide down on one knee, not falling
completely, at the same time lashing out with his own axe and catching the third Pict in what turned out to be a brutally slashing
motion right across his lower gut, all but disemboweling the Pict who then unwittingly aided his own demise by rushing onto Balthus' waiting blade keenly
ripping across him as Balthus slid to the ground. He then hissed oddly, clutched his slit-open gut with both hands, and collapsed to his knees.
Balthus quickly rolled back up on his feet and twisting brought the ax up and straight out and direct back into the waiting
forehead of the hapless wounded Pict who instantly flailed out his arms and awkwardly spiraled up backwards, already dead before he tumbled in the dirt. But the other two Picts turned, one drawing his bow all too quickly, and the other pitching his axe back over his head to throw, just as Balthus turned to face them.
Both missiles it seemed but instantly found each their mark.
The axe whipped unbelievably fast whirring through the air, such was the sure skill at hurling held by these merciless barbarians. It twisted
flat in midflight as if by some evil magic known only to its owner, and landed blade horizontal, straight across and deeper than could be
imagined into Balthus' lower gut, halfway down from his navel, just above the edge of his low slung breeches.
And barely after, the arrow hit its mark, right below his navel. Such hits as these, even Conan himself could not withstand, nor any other
Cimmerian, and not so brave an Aquilonian as young Balthus, fighting to the last for his people.
Against his will, but very slowly, he went to his knees.
Another one now, the seventh and largest, a giant of a Pict, appeared in front of him, staring down into his face, smiling cruelly. He raised his axe to bring it
down on Balthus' tousled head, but then stopped dead and grunted.
With amazing stealth Balthus had reached up and shoved his knife into the navel of the man almost at face level to him there, before the other had any notion of the attack. Balthus
then jerked the knife down all the way to his crotch, twisted it hard in him and twisting it hard out of him, gutting the grinning monster of a Pict, who then let fall behind him the axe still held high above his head, screamed, and ran about holding his belly, finally crashing against the wooden breastwork behind Balthus and flopping down and about around on the ground there.
And then Balthus turned back only in time to see two more arrows arcing his way. One landed just above his navel. The other planted itself hard into
his stomach, high up, almost into his chest. And behind them the lunging figures of the other two Picts all but on him already just as they tossed their still twanging bows aside.
All this action had so swiftly fell upon him, he could no longer think, remember anything of that night, even mount some foolish hope that Conan might
now appear at this bloody last. The Picts smashed into him, kneeing him hard. But he had time and strength yet left, at the utmost, as his body
failed him, shot through with so much pain in his belly he cared not now what more he might inflict even on himself, as long as he took these two
beasts with him.
Balthus dropped his knife and reached down with his free hand and wrenched loose the Pictish axe from his gut, whipped his racked body excruciatingly from under them and
somehow he knew not how nor stopped to think of it up on his feet and with all his remaining might slammed the two axes in each hand down viciously onto
the tops of his two assailants' shaved Pictish heads, and then up and down again into them sharply at the closest range, cleaving their nasty skulls each clean in half.
The Picts both fell dead backwards in a pile like rotten logs. Balthus then felt himself go. All but collapsing forward onto the stinking creatures, he managed
to make it to his knees, before then looking back across at the breastwork, and beyond to the smoking huts in the distance, his head now wavering from side to side despite
his efforts to keep his wits.
He looked down at his belly, and knew the end was near.
He looked up at the top of the breastwork to see another wave of howling Picts piling over. And then came the hopeless whooshing onslaught of their terrible, jagged arrows winging towards him as he rose weakly now to meet them.
Balthus looked down again.
For the last thing he sensed that bloody night of savagery was the cruelest longest barb of all, as it sang its way deep and relentless into his
beautiful young navel heaving outward only once more upon his belly, tightened not in fear but defiance, as the Aquilonian youth became the hero upon his final ground, all his own, never yielded nor abandoned, not even then, at the end of all things.
Last Stand of Balthus
As the first wave of Picts descended upon Balthus and his fierce canine comrade, Slasher, he turned his back to the breastwork
of fallen logs along the trail, crouched, and planted his feet firmly with all the strength left to him after the
battles of that mad night. Over him flew three screeching Picts painted garishly, reflected in the orange firelight of the nearby
settlers' huts still on fire. Out jumped Slasher straight at the neck of the smallest of the Picts, toppling him
flat on his back and instantly ripping his whooping throat to pieces. But the beast, as brave as it was, sank his fangs too deep and
could not pull back in time as the Pict with his last breath slipped his knife into the dog's own thick throat. He did not yelp, nor moan, but
kept tearing into the man, and the two locked into each other, biting, stabbing, biting, stabbing, until at last both were silent, wrapped up
in each other and drenched red with each other's life's blood.
Balthus in silent anger then flung himself on the two other Picts momentarily caught off guard in surprise at the attack of the muscular hound upon their helpless companion.
He sped close between them, whipping his long knife blade from his boot snatched up in his left hand across the chest of the Pict on his left, and in passing
twixt them slinging his axe hard against the back of the skull of the one on the right. The Pict clutching at his deeply gashed pectoral,
turned stumbling, and the other groaned and gaped upward right then, crashing immediately to the ground. Balthus turned and without
hesitation swung his axe full into the wounded Pict's stomach, planting it with full force and blade horizontal into his painted flesh. The Pict staggered,
tipped forward and with some difficulty Balthus extracted the buried steel from the body of his victim as the dying barbarian almost fell into him. But as he
barely side-stepped him, Balthus heard the crisp singing of the bow-string, followed by a slight thud and a distinct shock to his
body. Then an increasingly stinging feeling came to him. He looked down, to see the shaft of a Pictish arrow protruding from his stomach,
about a handwidth distance above his navel deep inset in his muscular abdominals, the arrow set right perfectly at the top of the pyramidal thatch of belly hair flaring
up from below there. He stopped, thinking he could not quit now no matter how great the hurt, with all the settlers still on the road to hoped for safety from the
horrendous predations planned by this horde flooding in from west of the river.
He dropped his knife, took the arrow in his left hand, lodged halfway into his stomach, heaving in and out, despite his efforts to
ignore the point of the pain so deep and growing now, held his breath and yanked the shaft out, straight from his body. He gasped against his best will, and
looked down to see the wickedly barbed point conceived with all the primitive wile these dwellers of the farthest wild could muster in their
savage zeal to do bodily harm, and knew it was not good. He almost sank to the ground, but regained his strength mostly from surprise as three more Picts came
crashing towards him from inside the breastwork of logs. He swept up his knife, rolled instinctively to his right to avoid the two
hurtling at him, axes raised above their heads, and stumbled just enough to lose his footing and glide down on one knee, not falling
completely, at the same time lashing out with his own axe and catching the third Pict in what turned out to be a brutally slashing
motion right across his lower gut, all but disemboweling the Pict who then unwittingly aided his own demise by rushing onto Balthus' waiting blade keenly
ripping across him as Balthus slid to the ground. He then hissed oddly, clutched his slit-open gut with both hands, and collapsed to his knees.
Balthus quickly rolled back up on his feet and twisting brought the ax up and straight out and direct back into the waiting
forehead of the hapless wounded Pict who instantly flailed out his arms and awkwardly spiraled up backwards, already dead before he tumbled in the dirt. But the other two Picts turned, one drawing his bow all too quickly, and the other pitching his axe back over his head to throw, just as Balthus turned to face them.
Both missiles it seemed but instantly found each their mark.
The axe whipped unbelievably fast whirring through the air, such was the sure skill at hurling held by these merciless barbarians. It twisted
flat in midflight as if by some evil magic known only to its owner, and landed blade horizontal, straight across and deeper than could be
imagined into Balthus' lower gut, halfway down from his navel, just above the edge of his low slung breeches.
And barely after, the arrow hit its mark, right below his navel. Such hits as these, even Conan himself could not withstand, nor any other
Cimmerian, and not so brave an Aquilonian as young Balthus, fighting to the last for his people.
Against his will, but very slowly, he went to his knees.
Another one now, the seventh and largest, a giant of a Pict, appeared in front of him, staring down into his face, smiling cruelly. He raised his axe to bring it
down on Balthus' tousled head, but then stopped dead and grunted.
With amazing stealth Balthus had reached up and shoved his knife into the navel of the man almost at face level to him there, before the other had any notion of the attack. Balthus
then jerked the knife down all the way to his crotch, twisted it hard in him and twisting it hard out of him, gutting the grinning monster of a Pict, who then let fall behind him the axe still held high above his head, screamed, and ran about holding his belly, finally crashing against the wooden breastwork behind Balthus and flopping down and about around on the ground there.
And then Balthus turned back only in time to see two more arrows arcing his way. One landed just above his navel. The other planted itself hard into
his stomach, high up, almost into his chest. And behind them the lunging figures of the other two Picts all but on him already just as they tossed their still twanging bows aside.
All this action had so swiftly fell upon him, he could no longer think, remember anything of that night, even mount some foolish hope that Conan might
now appear at this bloody last. The Picts smashed into him, kneeing him hard. But he had time and strength yet left, at the utmost, as his body
failed him, shot through with so much pain in his belly he cared not now what more he might inflict even on himself, as long as he took these two
beasts with him.
Balthus dropped his knife and reached down with his free hand and wrenched loose the Pictish axe from his gut, whipped his racked body excruciatingly from under them and
somehow he knew not how nor stopped to think of it up on his feet and with all his remaining might slammed the two axes in each hand down viciously onto
the tops of his two assailants' shaved Pictish heads, and then up and down again into them sharply at the closest range, cleaving their nasty skulls each clean in half.
The Picts both fell dead backwards in a pile like rotten logs. Balthus then felt himself go. All but collapsing forward onto the stinking creatures, he managed
to make it to his knees, before then looking back across at the breastwork, and beyond to the smoking huts in the distance, his head now wavering from side to side despite
his efforts to keep his wits.
He looked down at his belly, and knew the end was near.
He looked up at the top of the breastwork to see another wave of howling Picts piling over. And then came the hopeless whooshing onslaught of their terrible, jagged arrows winging towards him as he rose weakly now to meet them.
Balthus looked down again.
For the last thing he sensed that bloody night of savagery was the cruelest longest barb of all, as it sang its way deep and relentless into his
beautiful young navel heaving outward only once more upon his belly, tightened not in fear but defiance, as the Aquilonian youth became the hero upon his final ground, all his own, never yielded nor abandoned, not even then, at the end of all things.
