Miscellaneous
THE ORDEAL
rev. H4
by
Steve Block & Brian
Bevel
Screenplay copyright 1998
Steve Block and Brian Bevel
Conan and other characters
their ©®?
respective owners.
FADE
IN FROM STANDARD INTRO:
EXTERIOR:
BIRD’S-EYE SHOT -- CIMMERIA - NORTHWESTERN FOOTHILLS -- THE “WINTER VILLAGE” OF
CONAN’S TRIBE.
Zoom
down to a stockade- walled village of small log cabins, in the foothills. It is
late spring; hardly any snow is left. As we draw closer, we see that the
village is under siege. Picts swarm around the outside of the stockade. Some of
them are throwing ladders against the stockade and starting to climb up. The
parapet is lined with armed and armored Cimmerians.
Howling
Picts, muscular brown men of medium height, decorated with war paint but no
armor, are swarming over this section of the stockade. Roaring Cimmerian
defenders are fighting back, thrusting with spears, chopping with swords and
axes, killing Picts or shoving them back off the wall; they show no fear, only
anger, no thought of retreat, only the desire to kill, and the determination to
stand their ground. There is a deafening clamor of shouting and screaming and
the clash of arms. Among the defenders is a big, muscular youth wearing a
chainmail shirt and a plain helmet. He moves with the swift springy grace of a
young panther as he uses a spear to impale Picts or shove them backwards,
parrying with the shaft as necessary. Unruly black hair escapes around the
edges of his helmet; his blue eyes blaze with volcanic fury. This is CONAN.
He
spears another Pict; as he strains to pull the imbedded spear out of the
sagging body, a group of Picts vault over the wall. One of them raises his
sword and launches a blow at the youth. The young Cimmerian instantly releases the
spear, and with his left hand seizes the descending wrist of his attacker while
his right hand clamps on to the attacker’s throat. He lifts the attacker bodily
off the catwalk and bears him backward against the sharpened stakes of the
palisade. He bends the screaming attacker backwards over the stakes, until
suddenly a loud crackling SNAP is heard. As the attacker collapses, the youth
rips the sword from his dying grasp, turns, and begins raining blows two-handed
on the nearest Picts. With the aid of this violent counter-attack, the
Cimmerians start to clear the parapet of this latest Pictish incursion. Conan
sees another Cimmerian, a big burly young man named BRAN, locked in combat with
a Pict; each gripping the other’s weapon arm with his own left hand. Meanwhile
a second Pict is sneaking up along the parapet behind Bran, knife raised for a
stealth strike.
CONAN
Bran, look out!
Bran
glares momentarily at Conan, then back at the Pict he is fighting.
BRAN
I’M BUSY, BOY!
Conan
can’t get at the second Pict, who is on the other side of Bran, and is raising
his knife to stab Bran from behind. Conan picks up a loose spear, and, leaning
as far out as he dares, he throws the spear at the second Pict.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE PARAPET -- CONTINUOUS.
Bran
sees the spear heading straight at him and the Pict he is fighting, and his
eyes bug out with shock.
The
spear barely grazes over the shoulders of Bran and his Pict.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE PARAPET -- CONTINUOUS.
The
spear strikes home in the chest of the Pict who was sneaking up behind Bran,
wounding him mortally. The Pict falls off the parapet, into the village. Conan
moves up on the first Pict, who is between him and Bran, and still grappling
with the latter. Conan twists the sword out of the Pict’s hand and immediately
smites him with it, cutting a huge horizontal gash between his neck and
shoulder. Bran is outraged as the Pict collapses.
BRAN
(Angrily.)
Damn it, Conan, I was winning! That was my kill! And
you could have KILLED me with that spear throw!
CONAN
(Just as angry)
I wasn’t throwing at you OR your Pict, dolt! I was
throwing at the Pict behind you.
Bran
quickly looks over his shoulder - the parapet is empty behind him. He turns
angrily back to Conan.
BRAN
There’s no Pict there. You can’t get enough glory
stealing my kills, you have to make up stories, too?
CONAN
Fool! We don’t have time for this. There are still
Picts up here!
He
turns away from Bran and runs to where a fresh incursion of Picts is
threatening a section of parapet. He attacks the Picts with concentrated
ferocity.
BRAN
(Yelling.)
This isn’t over, Conan!
When
there are no more Picts on the catwalk, Conan grabs a ladder they had been
using to mount the wall. Instead of pulling the ladder up and over the
palisade, as the other Cimmerians have been doing, he brandishes the ladder
over his head at the Picts outside the wall and taunts them in loud, scornful
tones.
CONAN
(In Pictish, subtitled)
Is that the best you can do? Send more Picts! Look,
it’s only I, Conan. Surely the Picts are not afraid of a mere boy! A Cimmerian
boy!
The
other Cimmerians look at Conan in surprise.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE PARAPET -- ANOTHER SECTION.
Bran
is watching Conan with a look of outrage and disgust.
BRAN
(Growling angrily under his
breath.)
Look at that glory-hog! No, this isn’t
over!
EXT.
CONAN’S SECTION OF PARAPET.
But
this attack was, in fact, the last hurrah for the Picts. Discouraged, they
retreat from the wall.
CONAN
(In Pictish, subtitled)
Come back, brave Picts, courageous Picts! Don’t be
afraid! Try again, I haven’t killed enough of you yet!
The
other Cimmerians happily join Conan in hurling taunts and insults at the Picts.
FADE
OUT.
FADE
IN: EXT. CONAN’S VILLAGE -- THE MEN’S LODGE -- EVENING. Starting with a full
shot of the Men’s Lodge, the camera slowly zooms in on the door. The Men’s
Lodge is the most impressive building in the village. Taller and wider than any
other cabin, it is longer than four cabins placed end-to-end, although its
construction is based on the same principles: a log cabin with a high-peaked,
thatched roof. It is fronted by a roofed veranda as long as the Lodge itself.
We are already hearing the voices of the men inside as we zoom in on the door.
As our viewpoint zooms through the front door, we see that the interior of the
lodge is one large room with stout wooden pillars holding up the beams that
support the roof. There is a hearth at each end of the Lodge, and a big firepit
in the middle; the hearths and the firepit each have their own chimney. The
hearths are both equipped for cooking; only embers burn in them now, after the
Victory Feast. Pallets piled with hides and furs are arranged near the hearths;
this is where the unmarried men sleep. Benches and stools are arranged around
the central firepit. This is the social and political arena, where the men sit
to eat, drink, palaver, hold council, tell tall tales, and sing. The dividing
line between social, political, and administrative activities ranges from thin
to nonexistent, and it is not unusual for some or all of them to take place at
the same time.
CONN
(Connell’s father) and Connell are talking with DORBHA the Headman and several
of the tribal elders. All are equipped with drinking jacks of ale; one of the
elders is still gnawing on a meaty bone.
CONN
Any of you lot notice my grandson Conan on the wall
today? What a lion!
ELDER #1
Notice? He even scared me! I think that boy has some
berserker in him.
DORBHA
(Thoughtful)
No. He always knows what he’s doing. His
battle-rages are not blind rages. Today he strode through the Picts like a god
of destruction, but not once did he even accidentally slash a Cimmerian, even
in the thick of battle.
ELDER WITH BONE
(Mumbling
around his bone.)
I was impressed by his taunts. Very artistic. His
Pictish is a little rough, but excellent use of irony for one so young. Good
presence.
CONNELL
(Speaking with grave formality over the murmur of
crowd.)
Conan is fourteen, and I think it is time for his
Ordeal.
Dorbha
The Headman stands to address the room.
DORBHA
Attend! Give ear! Hey, I said shut up!
(He waits for the dull roar of conversation to die
down, then continues in Formal Mode.)
Connell, Conn’s son and father of Conan, has
requested the Ordeal for his son. Be there any man here who would speak against
this? I declare that you may speak on this matter without risk of offense or
feud.
The
crowd of Cimmerian warriors roars its assent, all except Bran, Conan’s
rival. Bran, as one of the youngest men,
is sitting near the back of the circle. He stands.
BRAN
(Incensed.)
He was inexcusably reckless today! I was fighting a
Pict on the wall, I had the situation under control, and Conan threw a spear at
us. It missed the Pict, and missed me, too, fortunately, but I might have been
killed! And then he...
ERIM (a warrior)
(Interrupting heatedly.)
Bran, you idiot, he saved your life. I saw the whole
thing. You weren’t watching your backside and a Pict was sneaking up on you. If
Conan hadn’t speared him, we’d be lighting your pyre tonight.
BRAN
I looked, Erim, there was no dead Pict
behind me!
ERIM
(Exasperated)
Of course not, addle-wit. He fell off
the wall.
BRAN
(Confused and angry)
But...
Jeers
rise from the assembled fighters, drowning out Bran’s complaints.
THE CROWD
Sit down, Bran!
Shut up, fool!
Ingrate! He saves your life, and you
slander him!
Dorbha
the Headman waits a moment longer, until a few greasy bones join the flight of
insults at the scowling Bran. Although there is some dissent, the majority
clearly approve.
DORBHA
I hereby declare that the Men’s Assembly has
approved Conan Connell’s son for the Ordeal of Manhood!
Cheers
and grunts of approval fill the Lodge. Bran is still standing, fuming silently.
FADE
OUT.
FADE
IN:
INT:
CONN’S SMITHY -- EARLY MORNING. Conan is sleeping on a pallet by the hearth,
rolled up in a bearskin. Connell steps up to the pallet, and, without touching
Conan, speaks.
CONNELL
Conan.
Conan
wakes instantly.
CONAN
Father. What is it?
CONNELL
Put on a tunic and come with me.
Conan
crawls out of his bearskin. He is wearing only a breechclout. He rummages in a
pile of stuff next to the pallet and pulls out a tunic, which he puts on. With
a curious look on his face, he follows his father out the door.
EXT.
THE VILLAGE -- THE FRONT PORCH OF THE SMITHY -- CONTINUOUS.
It
is still dark. The sky is just beginning to show a glow of light in the east,
precursor of dawn.
Conan
follows Connell out the door, then halts when he sees that his grandfather and
all the village elders are waiting for him in front of the porch.
CONAN
(Eyes shifting to possible exits.)
Unhh - hello! Umm, is something wrong?
DORBHA
(Sizes Conan up, but pointedly ignores his question)
Come, boy, walk with us.
The
adults all head off towards the Men’s Lodge. Conan trails along, his eyes
darting in all directions, looking for a trap. He manages to stroll alongside
his father.
CONAN
(Whispering to his father.)
What’s this all about? Did I do something wrong
again? Is it something to do with the battle yesterday? I thought I did well.
Was it that quarrel with Bran?
CONNELL
(Speaks firmly, trying to appear
impassive.)
Don’t whisper. Speak up like a man or don’t speak at
all. Try to comport yourself with some dignity, not like a child.
Conan’s
eyes are rolling with dismay and nervousness. He has been in trouble before for
high-spirited pranks, but never anything like this. They approach the Men’s
Lodge. Conan looks to his father and grandfather in mute appeal, but he can’t
seem to catch their eyes. Dorbha the Headman steps up onto the veranda, and
turns to Conan, pointing forcefully through the doorway.
DORBHA
Enter, boy.
Conan
takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and follows the men in with the air
of a doomed soul marching in to Hell.
CUT
TO:
INT.:
THE MEN’S LODGE -- CONTINUOUS.
The
men lead Conan to the central firepit. He is looking everywhere at once,
intensely curious; he has never been in here before. After all, he is just a
boy, and this place is reserved for men only. The men sit on benches around the
firepit; Conan remains standing.
DORBHA
Conan, it is the considered opinion of the Men’s
Assembly, in solemn deliberation, that...
Conan
steels himself, looking as though he’s waiting for a sword to fall on him as he
mentally enumerates the various fates worse than death that these, the most
powerful men in the tribe, can mete out.
DORBHA, CONT’D
. . . . that you be offered the opportunity to
undergo the Ordeal of Manhood. This was at the request of your father. You may
refuse this offer once and only once. If you refuse, you will receive the offer
a second time in one year. If you refuse again, you will forfeit forever the
right to be a man of the tribe; and be cast out from your family, clan and
tribe. What say you, boy?
Conan’s
jaw works silently for a moment as he tries to find his voice. Then he takes a
deep breath and ...
CONAN
(Loud and proud.)
I accept!
DORBHA
Your father, and an elder of your choice, will
instruct you in the duties and perquisites of manhood.
CONAN
I choose my grandfather, Conn.
DORBHA
Very well. Elder Conn will instruct you in the
Mysteries of Crom and the Mysteries of Manhood. The first Trial begins now, the
Trial of Silence. Speak not to any, save your instructors and at ceremonies
until you return from Crom’s Shield and can speak as a man among men!
(Dorbha cracks the butt of his staff sharply against
the floor three times.)
DORBHA, CONT’D
Let the Manhood Ordeal of Conan, son of Connell, son
of Conn commence!
THE MEN, IN UNISON
So be it!
DISSOLVE
TO:
EXT.
CIMMERIA -- A MOUNTAINSIDE --A WIND-SWEPT ROCKY LEDGE -- DAY
Conn
and Conan are sitting on a pair of boulders, overlooking part of the
white-capped mountain range to the northwest of the village. To the east and
south are endless, rolling, forested hills. Conn has been talking, and his
words gradually fade in:
CONN
Chief of our gods is Crom, who dwells on the great
mountain. There is no use in calling on him. Little he cares if men live or
die. Better to be silent than to call his attention to you; he will send you
dooms, not fortune! He is grim and loveless, BUT at birth he breathes the will
to strive and the power to slay into a man’s soul. What else shall men ask of
the gods?
DISSOLVE
TO LATER, SAME SCENE:
CONN, CONT’D.
. . . and after dying, the souls of the dead enter a
gray, misty realm of clouds and icy winds, to wander cheerlessly throughout
eternity. Therefore, Conan, while you live, you must LIVE! Revel in the rich
juices of red meat and stinging wine on your palate, the hot embrace of a
woman’s arms, the mad exultation of battle when the blue blades flame and
crimson!
DISSOLVE
TO:
EXT.
CONAN'S VILLAGE -- THE STOCKADE PARAPET -- NIGHT.
Connell
and Conan are standing guard on the stockade parapet. The village is dark, only
a couple of watchfires are burning on a distant part of the parapet. They are
talking quietly while they keep watch on the countryside.
CONNELL
What do you know of the Ordeal of
Manhood, Conan?
CONAN
I know I must speak to no one but you and
Grandfather. I’ve seen the Candidates come running out of the Men’s Lodge,
barefoot and clad only in a breechclout. They run all the way to the foot of
the cliff we call Crom’s Shield, and climb it. And then they usually come back
a few days later with food they’ve caught, and there’s a big feast. That’s all
I’ve ever seen, and that’s all I know.
CONNELL
Hmph. That’s enough for any boy to know. Now I will
tell you why it is an ordeal. Before you can assume the responsibilities of
Manhood, responsibilities for the welfare of the Tribe, you must be tested. You
must prove that you have the wisdom, strength, courage, endurance, and skills
to carry out those responsibilities. You must spend all day in a sweat bath,
purifying yourself. You must then dance all night long around the fire in the
Men’s Lodge, reciting the history and lore of the tribe. During this time you
will eat nothing, and you will drink only enough water to wash your childish
ways out of your body.
CONAN
History and lore - I’ve been singing those songs
since I was a little boy.
CONNELL
Of course. You will sing of the creation of the
world and of the Cimmerian people and of the heroic history of our clan and
tribe, praising the exploits of your lineage and forebears.
CONAN
Including you and Grandfather?
CONNELL
Of course.
CONAN
(Grinning)
If I’m to do it all in one night, I’ll have to leave
out a lot of Grandfather’s exploits.
CONNELL
(Smiling)
That will test your ability to organize your thoughts.
If you get through the Test of Lore without serious error, you will be allowed
to begin the Second Day of the Ordeal: clad only in a breechclout, carrying no
weapons or tools, and with nothing in your belly, you must climb the sheer
cliff of Crom’s Shield, find a place to camp, and sit and wait for Crom to send
you a Spirit Guide.
Your Spirit Guide will appear in the guise of some
animal, usually something on the order of an elk or a mountain goat. It is
expected that a Candidate will in some way partake of the qualities of his
Spirit Guide. But if Crom chooses to send you a ground squirrel or a coney or a
sparrow, you must accept it as Crom’s will. On the other hand, it is a great
honor to be visited by a predator like a fox or a lynx, indicating that you
will be a true warrior. To be visited by a large beast of prey, like a wolf or
an eagle, is an indication that you are destined to be a great hero. Your
grandfather was visited by a great gray wolf. My Spirit Guide was a cliff
eagle. Your Spirit Guide will give you a gift or tell you a secret --
(Pauses dramatically.)
-- or kill you if you are unworthy.
Conan
looks surprised, then thoughtful at this news.
CONNELL, CONT’D
Only then are you free to hunt for food, armed only
with your bare hands, and whatever you can make with them.
CONAN
So that’s why you taught me to shape flint like a
savage, even though we know steel.
CONNELL
That’s right. You will start with nothing but what
is in your mind and heart; you will repeat the achievement of the First Man,
who started with nothing and became lord of the world. But what you catch, you
may not eat by yourself. You must carry it back to share with the men and women
who will be waiting for you at the Men’s Lodge, where it will be ceremoniously
eaten as part of your Celebration of Manhood. This will test your ability to
provide for the welfare of the village, even when your own belly is empty.
CONAN
But suppose I only catch a rabbit? I remember the
Manhood Celebrations of the older boys. There was always plenty to eat.
CONNELL
There will be food enough for everybody, but your
contribution must be the centerpiece of the feast.
CONAN
(Looking crafty.)
What if I catch two or three rabbits? Could I eat
one then?
CONNELL
(Angry)
Conan! This is not a game of wits! This is your
ORDEAL! You are on your honor! And if you lie about your Spirit Guide, or about
your catch,
(He violently grabs Conan across the mouth and makes
HARD eye contact with him.)
then Crom will rot your bones for a base-hearted
nithing!
Conan’s
eyes get big, and he swallows hard. He nods. He has gotten the message. Connell
nods and releases him.
CONNELL
Now remember, above all else, if you speak of this to
anyone but me and your grandfather, ANYONE, you will forfeit your Ordeal and
bring shame on our family.
CONAN
Not even Mother?
CONNELL
Especially not women. They have their Rites of
Womanhood that are taboo to men; we have our Ordeal. It will be hard, my son,
but speak to NO ONE.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
CIMMERIA -- JUST OUTSIDE THE VILLAGE WALLS -- THE NEXT DAY.
Conan
is walking up to the stockade gate with an elk draped over his shoulders. A
youth of about his own age runs up to him. This is PADRUIG, a friend of
Conan’s. He is about Conan’s height, but slimmer, although still
athletic-looking.
PADRUIG
Conan, is it true? Are you a Candidate? Are you
going to have an Ordeal and become a man?
Conan,
under the Trial of Silence, can only smile and nod.
PADRUIG
(Eagerly)
What’s it like? What are they going to
do to you?
Conan
rolls his eyes and shakes his head at Padruig’s silly questions, and shrugs
under the weight of the elk.
BRAN (O.S.)
Yes, Conan, why don’t you tell him? Go on, tell him.
Conan
and Padruig whirl around; it is Bran. Bran slowly circles Conan, taunting,
trying to get Conan to speak and invalidate his Ordeal.
BRAN
(Smiling cruelly.)
What’s the matter, little boy? You’re always so full
of words, what’s different now? Oh, that’s right! You think you have it in you
to be a man? Ha! You’ll never make it, boy.
Padruig
steps forward, fists balled up, ready to fight for his friend.
PADRUIG
You leave Conan alone!
Bran
ignores him and keeps circling the plainly angry Conan.
BRAN
You know, lots of little boys like you never come
back from their Ordeals. They DIE! You can die on your Ordeal!
Bran
stops and stands nose to nose with Conan. Snarling silently, Conan refuses to
give so much as an inch to his tormentor.
BRAN, CONT'D
Even when we were boys, you were always able to
out-wrestle or out-box me. You always won, because you were stronger than me.
Then, just as I got strong enough to beat you, they made me a man . . .
Bran
steps back and looks Conan up and down contemptuously.
BRAN, CONT’D.
(Sneering)
Well, a MAN can’t go beating up on little boys. But
if you survive - IF - then I can fight you, and at last I’ll be able to crush
you as you deserve! But . . .
(Bran pauses with a sly look)
.
. . you can refuse the Ordeal, boy. If you never become a man, you won’t have
to fight me.
PADRUIG
(Interrupts, sneering back at
Bran)
And here we all thought you’d stopped picking fights
with Conan because you were a coward!
Bran
ignores the pest.
BRAN
What’s the matter, Conan? Do you need another, even
littler, boy to defend you?
Conan,
his lips white with compressed fury, abruptly turns towards the gate, so
suddenly that Bran has to dodge the elk’s antlers. Conan and Padruig continue
towards the gate. Bran yells at Conan,
BRAN
You’ll never make it, boy! Maybe you’ll get lucky
and die!
(Muttering as Conan and Padruig
walk away)
Maybe I’ll even help you.
CUT
TO:
INT.:
THE SMITHY -- EARLY EVENING.
It
is almost supper time. Conn, Connell, Marigan, and Brigidda are already there.
But Brigidda is setting the table for two only. Conan comes in the front door
looking hungry. He stares at the table, surprised.
CONNELL
You won’t be eating here tonight, Conan. It’s a
meeting night tonight, and we men will be feasting at the Men’s Lodge.
Conan
casts a questioning glance at Connell.
CONN
As one who is about to become a man, you need to
become familiar with a man’s duties.
Marigan
snorts. Conn glares at her.
CONN,
CONT’D.
Keep your ears open and your wits about you. Learn
how men conduct business. You won’t be allowed to say anything, but you can
listen and learn.
Conan
grins, clearly pleased. He follows the men out of the cabin, swaggering.
Marigan and Brigidda roll their eyes at the silliness of men, sit down to eat.
BRIGIDDA
(Wistfully.)
I wish a few more of my children had survived. Maybe
a daughter . . .
Marigan
puts a hand on Brigidda’s forearm. She smiles.
MARIGAN
Conan will bring you home a daughter. And if she’s
as wonderful as the daughter that Connell brought home for me, you’ll be happy
enough.
Brigidda
puts her free hand over Marigan’s hand, and smiles back at her.
BRIGIDDA
Thank you, but no, not that one. There's too much
wildness in his eyes, too much of his grandfather, I fear.
Marigan
smiles ruefully and nods. They both know
it is not Conan’s fate to settle down.
The
sounds of their eating, and conversation, seem to become drowned out in much
noisier sounds of eating, and masculine conversation as we . . .
DISSOLVE
TO:
INT.:
THE MEN’S LODGE -- LATE EVENING.
The
men are sitting or squatting around the central firepit. The most important men
are closest to the fire. The youngest men, and Conan, are in the outermost
ring. They are mostly finished eating, and are noisily sucking bones, or their
fingers. But the ale is passing freely, and everybody is in a very good mood.
Conn
stands up near the fire, and, at his gesture, another man stands up. By his
size, coloring, and build, he is also a Cimmerian, but his black hair is cut in
a Mohawk, unlike anyone in Conan’s village, and his clothing is of a different
style.
CONN
(Banging a battered metal shield with the bone he
was just chewing.)
All right, you louts, this is a friend of mine from
one of the southern tribes, Donall of Rocky Valley. He’s making a circuit of
the clans, and he has something to tell you. It’s important, so be silent and
give ear.
DONALL
(Serious, with a slight accent.)
My home, Rocky Valley, is near that damned
Aquilonian “trading post”, Venarium. I tell you, it was bad enough having those
people living practically next door to us, even though some thought it
convenient to trade with them, but lately they’ve gotten out of hand. They’ve
started hunting in our territory, instead of just trading with us for food. And
they’re starting to clear the forest around Venarium for farming, driving away
the game!
THE CROWD
Well, that’s what Aquilonians are like, always
wanting to grab dirt and grub in it.
Leave them alone; let them get their fingers dirty!
I wouldn’t want to get in a feud with those
Aquilonians. They look soft, but when they get together, they’re damn tough!
Why should we listen to this fellow? I never heard
an accent like that before.
That’s a long way south of here. What’s all the excitement about, anyway?
Who is this fellow with his funny hair-do? I never
saw anybody wearing their hair like that.
Are you sure he’s a Cimmerian?
DONALL
You want to know what all the excitement’s about?
And you want to know who I am? I’m Donall of Rocky Valley, and two months ago I
was hunting in my own clan territory, when I came across a party of Bossonians
from the western marches of Aquilonia. I told them politely they were on Rocky
Valley land, and they laughed at me! They said it was empty land, and anybody
could hunt there who wanted to.
(Gasps and growls and other expressions of
disapproval from the crowd, at such inexcusable rudeness.)
DONALL (contd.)
So I ordered them off, as is my right and duty, and
they aimed their bows at me! On my own territory! I saw that I had to teach
them some manners, so I attacked them.
VILLAGER #1
Then what happened?
DONALL
They shot at me!
He
pulls down the front of his tunic, revealing a livid, ragged, puckered scar on
the front of his left shoulder.
DONALL
Here’s where one of the bastards hit
me.
VILLAGER #2
Well, you’re still standing, so I gather they
aren’t?
Donall
reaches down and picks up a long, narrow bundle of hides. With a flourish, he
discards the wrappings, revealing four Bossonian longbows, the six-foot
longbows that have terrorized Hyborean armies for generations.
DONALL
Let’s just say they don’t need these anymore.
There
are murmurs of appreciation and awe from the assembly. Then a grizzled oldster
speaks up.
OLDSTER
Four archers? You killed four archers and you think
that’s something to be proud of? Is this the kind of Cimmerian they’re breeding
in the south? You think four archers, men - if you can call them that - who
aren’t even willing to trade blows toe-to-toe, are worth boasting about?
Donall
is confused and at a loss for a moment, then he brightens up as inspiration
strikes him.
DONALL
I only slew the brave ones! The other ten ran away!
The
Lodge erupts in rowdy cheers and laughter. They don’t believe it for a minute,
but it was a good save, and makes a great story. But Conan’s eyes are shining.
He believes. Conn stands up to regain the men’s attention.
CONN
(Sarcastic, then serious)
HEY! If I could have your attention for a while
longer, there’s something I would like to point out to those of you who think
that the doings of the Aquilonians around Venarium are no concern of ours. If
the squatters at Venarium start raising their own food instead of importing it
from the South or bartering with neighboring Cimmerians, pretty soon Venarium
won’t be a trading post any more; it will be a colony, and the Kingdom of
Aquilonia will claim the territory occupied and farmed by Venarium as part of
Aquilonia. Then they’ll move in women to further expand the colony, and troops
to defend it, and before long, a big chunk of Cimmerian land will belong to
Aquilonia. And that will just be the first step in the conquest of Cimmeria!
The
men are outraged; shouts and threats fill the air. Everyone seems resolved that
something must be done about this land grab. However, the evening, and the
drinking, are already advanced, and any possibility of concerted planning
against Venarium soon degenerates into drunken rambling and extravagant
boasting.
THE CROWD
We should send those land-grabbing Aquilonians back
where they came from . . .
Help the Rocky Valley people . . .
Aquilonians aren’t so tough . . .Kill
‘em all . . . We can do it . . .
Let’s march down there tomorrow . . .Wars are even
more fun than bloodfeuds . . .
Been a long time since we had a good bloodfeud . . .
Reminds me of the time we . . .
Remember when . . .
A Pict with a club this long . . .
An ape-man with a member this long . .
.
A saber-tooth tiger with fangs this
long . . .
A snake-headed demon with claws this
long . . .
Conan
tires of the aimless, drunken boasting and slips out of the Men’s Lodge.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE VILLAGE -- NIGHT.
Conan
ambles through the village, then takes to the shadows as he approaches a
particular cabin. Trying to act casual while being stealthy, he sidles over to
one side of the cabin, by a window. He listens, with his ear against the wall
close to the window, for a moment, then taps lightly on the window frame.
He
appears poised to take off at a dead run at the slightest provocation.
A
pretty teenage girl, DIEDRA, sticks her head out of the window.
DIEDRA
(Whispering)
Conan?
Conan
turns to her, smiles and winks. Diedra smiles delightedly and vaults out the
window, and, giggling sotto voce, embraces Conan. They kiss. Arm-in-arm, they
walk away from her cabin, and continue conversing in whispers as they stroll.
DIEDRA
What kept you? I thought you weren’t
coming.
Conan
shrugs and gestures towards the Men’s Lodge proudly.
DIEDRA
(Impressed)
Then it’s true! You are going to have your Ordeal!
That’s why you’re not speaking!
Conan
looks surprised and concerned that she, female, knows of this part of the
sacred ritual. Diedra sees his concern and dismisses it with a wave.
DIEDRA
Oh, of course I know about it. We women aren’t
stupid. Three of my brothers have gone through it, and Padruig will in a year
or so. It’s not like the Silence Trial is any big secret.
They
walk on, hand in hand.
DIEDRA
(Excited)
I can hardly wait! Once you’re a man, you can get
married.
Conan
is startled and a little worried. He tries to do some fast, clear thinking, but
doesn’t get anywhere. Diedra continues, planning their life and the changes she
wants to make to Conan. As she talks, Conan’s expression gets sicker and
sicker.
DIEDRA
My father can build us a nice cabin, but of course
you’ll have to cut your hair and you won’t hunt so much anymore . . .
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE VILLAGE -- IN PARTIAL SHADOW NEAR THE WALL --CONTINUOUS.
Bran
is leaning agaist the wall in the shadows. He has a big jug of ale which he
swigs from, from time to time.
BRAN
(Whispering bitterly to himself.)
I suppose everybody knows, now. That show-off, that puffed-up glory-hog! I
can’t BELIEVE they can’t see through him!
(Swigs some ale.)
Well, I’m not going to take it. I won’t STAND for
it!
(Swigs some more ale.)
He
spots Conan and Dierdra walking down the lane between cabins, holding hands.
BRAN
(Indignant)
LOOK at that! He gets the glory AND the girls! And
he isn’t even a man yet!
(Regretfully)
I can’t kill him.
(With bitter, resentful determination)
But I’ll think of something.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE VILLAGE -- THE MAIN VILLAGE LANE --CONTINUOUS.
DIEDRA
-- and you won’t be a smith, no, too smelly. A
carpenter, like my father! And we’ll have lots and lots of --
Conan
is almost in a panic now and, since he can’t talk and fleeing would be
cowardly, he does the only thing he can to shut Diedra up. They have come to a
very heavily shadowed place between the stockade wall and a storage shed. Conan
grabs her arms, stares deep into her eyes and they kiss. As the kiss becomes
more passionate, they move into the shadows and become lost to sight. We hear
another giggle from Diedra.
FADE
OUT:
FADE
IN:
EXT.
A CREEK NEAR THE VILLAGE -- EARLY MORNING.
A
group of Elders accompany Conan to a creek near the village. While the Elders
watch, Conan shucks all his clothes and steps into the water. He wades out
until he is neck-deep, then submerges.
DISSOLVE
TO:
EXT.
THE WOODS NEAR THE VILLAGE -- MORNING.
The
Elders conduct a dripping, breechclout-clad Conan from the stream to a small,
earthen dome-like building. Attached to the outside is a small fireplace,
designed to heat a pit of rocks inside the building. This is the sweat lodge.
Bran is in the crowd outside, glaring at Conan.
INT.
THE SWEAT LODGE -- CONTINUOUS.
One
of the Elders pours a bucket of water on the pit of hot rock, filling the room
with steam. Conan enters the sweat lodge, and they close the door after him.
CUT
TO:
INT.
THE SWEAT LODGE -- MOMENTS LATER, AND ALL DAY.
Conan
is sitting cross-legged in the small, close, steamy sweat lodge. He is wearing
nothing but a breechclout, and his muscular body is slick with sweat.
DISSOLVE
TO:
INT.
THE MEN’S LODGE -- THE FIRST NIGHT -- EVENING.
Conn
conducts Conan out of the sweat lodge, through the woods and into the main part
of the Men’s Lodge. Conan staggers a little at first, as circulation returns to
his legs. His attention is involuntarily riveted by the remains of dinner which
some of the young men have been finishing up. He almost stumbles again as his
head rotates irresistibly to stare at the leftover food. Conn whispers at him:
CONN
Conan!
Conan
stares straight ahead at the central firepit, which they are approaching.
CUT
TO:
Close-up
of Bran among the men, fuming with suppressed rage.
CUT
TO:
FULL
VIEW:
The
space around the firepit has been cleared.
Dorbha the Headman addresses Conan in a tone of formal, ceremonial
solemnity.
DORBHA
Art thou he who seeketh to become a
man?
CONAN
Aye!
DORBHA
Then dance thou for us!
One
of the Elders begins beating a bodhrán to provide a primitive rhythm. Conan
begins to dance around the central firepit. It is a high-stepping dance, with
acrobatic leaps; from time to time he pirhouettes and dances backwards; all
steps designed to display his athletic ability and test his stamina.
DORBHA
Thou who seekest to become a man: tell us of the
creation of the World, and of Man.
Conan
chants in heroic strophe, in time to the bodhrán, and his own dancing:
CONAN
Before the Beginning, bereft was the
World/
of warmth, light, and life; only Crom
was.
For eons Crom slept, dreaming the
World/
then . . .
CUT
TO:
MONTAGE
of scene dissolving into scene, showing Conan dancing and chanting,
interspersed with close-ups of Bran glaring resentfully or sneering with
surreptitious contempt, and close-ups of Conn and Connell proudly and raptly
watching Conan. From time to time we catch snatches of Conan’s chanting.
CUT
TO:
CLOSE-UP
OF BRAN.
Scowling
fiercely, he looks around, scanning the crowd.
CUT
TO:
Conn
and Connell. Their attention is totally
riveted on Conan.
CUT
TO:
Bran,
showing sudden, grim decision, begins casually snaking his way through the
spectators, gradually working his way to, and out, the door.
CONAN
...
Then Crom, World-Creator, wielder of
weapons/
named Strength, Courage, and Power
to strive and to slay: the gift of a
man,
...
Thus gave He the Gift to the
newly-wrought Man,
to witness the power of Great Crom, the World-Maker.
Dorbha
the Headman stands up and raises his arms.
DORBHA
(Proclaiming loudly)
Thou who seekest to become a man: tell us now of our
own past; tell us of the heroism of the forbears of our own clan and tribe.
Conan
begins to chant the heroic history of his clan and tribe.
CONAN
Sired in Atlantis, soil drowned ‘neath shining seas,/scions
in Cimmeria’s harsh land did grow....
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE VILLAGE -- NIGHT.
Bran,
sneaking through the shadows, towards Conn’s smithy.
CUT
TO:
INT.
THE MEN’S LODGE -- CONINUOUS.
CONAN
Then came Kull, mightiest of kings,/
Son of Atlantis, Steel of Atlantis.
...
CUT
TO:
INT.
THE MEN’S LODGE.
DORBHA
Now sing to us of thine own lineage
and forbears.
Conan
begins to chant of his own ancestors, starting with his earliest-known forbear,
and working forward to his own grandfather and father, as we dissolve through
scene after scene.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE VILLAGE -- NIGHT.
Bran
has reached the Smithy. The windows are dark, and no sound comes from the
cabin. Bran looks in all directions,
listens a moment at the door.
CUT
TO:
INT.
THE BEDROOMS IN THE CABIN -- CONTINUOUS.
Marigan
and Brigidda are sleeping in their respective beds.
CUT
TO:
INT.
THE MEN’S LODGE -- CONTINUOUS.
CONAN
...
Now sing I of Conn, far traveling
Smith:/
from southern Cimmeria exiled by
bloodfeud,
Searching the World for secrets of
smithcraft,/
he seeks to decipher the riddle of
steel.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE VILLAGE -- CONTINUOUS.
Bran
enters the cabin.
CUT
TO:
INT. THE SMITHY -- CONTINUOUS.
The
interior of the cabin is dark except for some dim, red coals in the
hearth. A shaft of moonlight briefly
lances in as Bran stealthily comes in through the door, then closes it
carefully behind him. Gliding catlike,
he slinks around the cabin, conducting a swift search. He sniffs the air, then heads towards the
pallet by the hearth where Conan is accustomed to sleeping. Throughout this action, he has been utterly
silent, making not a sound. But now his
tunic sleeve accidentally catches on a piece of furniture, making a slight
metallic scraping sound. Bran instantly
freezes motionless, his face betraying a tremendous increase in tension.
CUT
TO:
INT.
MARIGAN’S BEDROOM -- CONTINUOUS.
Marigan’s
eyes snap open. She lies motionless for
a moment, while her eyes flicker in all directions. Then she slowly, carefully, silently pulls a
short leaf-bladed sword from next to the mattress and gets out of bed.
CUT
TO:
INT.
BRIGIDDA’S BEDROOM -- CONTINUOUS.
Brigidda’s
eyes snap open. She lies motionless for
a moment, while her eyes flicker in all directions. Then she slowly, carefully, silently reaches
for a pair of knives sheathed on the bedpost near her head and gets out of bed.
CUT
TO:
INT.
THE MEN’S LODGE -- CONTINUOUS.
Conan
is dancing and chanting.
CONAN
...
Thus Connell the Smith, in defense of
Brigidda
quenched fiery blade in berserker foe.
...
CUT
TO:
INT.
THE SMITHY -- CONTINUOUS.
Bran
has reached Conan’s pallet, and is rifling through Conan’s belongings with
frantic, silent speed. Bran, momentarily displaying all the elation of Little
Jack Horner pulling a plum out of his Christmas pie, pulls a big knife out of
Conan’s stuff.
CUT
TO:
INT.
MARIGAN’S BEDROOM -- CONTINUOUS.
Marigan,
sword in hand, is creeping silently toward her bedroom door.
CUT
TO:
INT.
BRIGIDDA’S BEDROOM -- CONTINUOUS.
Brigidda,
knives in hand, is creeping silently toward her bedroom door.
CUT
TO:
INT.
THE SMITHY -- CONTINUOUS.
Bran
sticks the knife in his belt, then hurriedly rearranges Conan’s belongings,
smoothing the bearskin, etc.
CUT
TO:
INT.
MARIGAN’S BEDROOM -- CONTINUOUS.
Marigan
carefully puts an ear to her door and listens.
CUT
TO:
INT.
BRIGIDDA’S BEDROOM -- CONTINUOUS.
Brigidda
carefully puts an ear to her door, but her door is not as well mounted on its
hinges as Marigan’s and there is a barely audible scrape as the door settles
slightly.
CUT
TO:
INT.
THE SMITHY -- CONTINUOUS.
Bran
looks up, alarmed.
CUT
TO:
INT.
MARIGAN’S BEDROOM -- CONTINUOUS.
Marigan
steps back and grasps the door latch, sword ready.
CUT
TO:
INT.
BRIGIDDA’S BEDROOM -- CONTINUOUS.
Brigidda
steps back and grasps the door latch with the little finger of one hand, the
thumb and forefinger still lightly holding the knife. She is ready to attack
with her other knife.
CUT
TO:
INT.
THE SMITHY -- CONTINUOUS.
Bran
looks to the door, but he can’t make it in time.
CUT
TO:
SPLIT
SCREEN:
THE
BEDROOMS - CONTINUOUS.
Marigan
and Briggida stand poised just inside their doors to the smithy.
CUT
TO:
INT.
THE SMITHY -- CONTINUOUS.
Desperate,
Bran takes four great strides across the room, almost too fast for stealth, and
dives past a leather flap and out an open window.
CUT
TO:
INT.
THE SMITHY, CLOSE UP OF BEDROOM DOORS -- CONTINUOUS.
Marigan
and Briggida burst into the smithy, Marigan leaping left and Brigidda
somersaulting neatly right. They check their headlong entrance and scan the
room, weapons at ready. After a long pause, they relax, but only minutely.
BRIGIDDA
(Whispering)
I heard something.
Marigan
nods agreement, then motions to the front door with her sword. With Brigidda
covering her, Marigan goes to the front door, opens it and steps to one side.
She pauses, then looks out cautiously. She closes the door and turns back into
the cabin, shaking her head.
MARIGAN
Nothing.
Brigidda
sniffs the air lightly.
BRIGIDDA
Not now, but someone was here.
Marigan
and Brigidda look at each other. Both are a little rattled. They perform a
quick search of the smithy, but nothing seems out of place.
MARIGAN
Maybe we’re both just a little too nervous about
Conan’s Ordeal. Why don’t you keep me company until the boys get home?
BRIGIDDA
(Thinks for a minute)
Good idea.
The
two women exit from the smithy into Marigan’s bedroom.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE VILLAGE -- CONTINUOUS.
Bran
is walking normally through the village, as a faint glow begins to light the eastern
horizon. He reaches the Men’s Lodge, and
enters.
CUT
TO:
INT.
THE MEN’S LODGE -- PREDAWN.
Bran
makes his way through the crowd, toward the back of the Lodge, occasionally
displaying the slightly embarrassed look of a man who is back from answering a
call of nature.
As
the sun rises, Dorbha the Headman clasps a groggy Conan by both shoulders and
in formal language congratulates him for successfully completing this part of
the test.
DORBHA
Conan son of Connell, thou hast passed the test of
knowledge. Thou art ready to endure the last part of thine Ordeal, and may the
day come when thy son will dance in this House in praise of thine exploits!
The
Men’s Lodge erupts in cheers. Connell hands Conan a waterskin.
CONNELL
Drink, Conan, but not too much. There isn’t much
water atop Crom’s Shield, but you don’t want to weigh yourself down.
Conan
drinks sparingly, then hands the waterskin back to Connell. Elders step forward
and paint Conan’s body with symbols in white, black, and red patterns.
DORBHA
(Lapsing back to the vernacular)
Now, Conan, it is time for the tests of strength,
courage, resourcefulness, and responsibility.
Everyone
heads for the outer door.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE VILLAGE -- OUTSIDE THE MEN’S LODGE -- MORNING.
A
multitude of women and children are gathered outside the Men’s Lodge, but clear
of the door. The men escort Conan out the door; clad in a breechclout, covered
with black, red, and white patterns, he pauses a moment and blinks in the
bright sunlight. The onlookers are mostly silent, except for a very low buzz of
conversation. As the camera pans the onlookers, we see Brigidda, Marigan,
Deidra, and Padruig, looking hopeful and proud. Random boys in the crowd are
watching with intense curiosity; they know that they will go through this some
day. Random teenage girls in the crowd are watching Conan with speculative
interest.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE VILLAGE -- OUTSIDE THE MEN’S LODGE -- CONTINUOUS.
Conan
starts jogging towards the stockade gate. Most of the men, and most of the
onlookers, jog right along with him.
DISSOLVE
TO:
EXT:
OUTSIDE THE STOCKADE -- MOMENTS LATER.
Conan
jogs out the gate, accompanied by most of the village.
DISSOLVE
TO:
EXT.
CIMMERIAN COUNTRYSIDE -- MORNING -- CONTINUOUS
A
montage of Conan running through the countryside, through various kinds of
terrain: forest, hills, brooks and creeks, etc. As he jogs north, the
countryside becomes hillier and more rugged. Most of the young or fit adults
jog along with him.
Eventually
they reach Crom’s shield. It is a gigantic sheer cliff, 500 feet high, with no
easy way up. It is vertical all the way up, except at the top, where it is
mostly overhung. Dorbha the Headman addresses Conan in his formal, public
voice:
DORBHA
Boy, today you die. Return as a man of the tribe,
prepared to fulfill the responsibilities of a man!
Conan
begins to climb. Steadily, he inches his way up, his fingers and toes seeking,
and finding, every minuscule crevice and irregularity in the rock. The camera
pans to Conan’s family. Marigan is serene. Brigidda is biting one of her
knuckles. Conn and Connell are watching Conan with concentrated attention.
Their lips are moving as if they were talking to themselves. One might think
they were praying, except that no one prays to Crom. Perhaps they are
whispering advice that Conan cannot hear. Muscles twitch involuntarily in their
shoulders and calves as they unconsciously try to “help” Conan. Every once in a
while we cut to a close-up of Conan, breathing hard as he inches his way up the
cliff, literally hanging on by his fingers and toes. Everyone at the base of
the cliff holds their breath as Conan reaches the overhang. Hanging on by his
fingertips only, his legs swinging freely in the air --
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE ONLOOKERS -- CONTINUOUS.
Brigidda
is chewing on her whole fist as Marigan rubs her neck; Conn and Connell are
staring wide-eyed, twitching and swaying in time to Conan’s movements as they
“help” him with all their might.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
CONAN ON THE CLIFF -- CONTINUOUS.
-- Conan brachiates like a spider monkey past
the overhang and over the edge. Everyone heaves a collective sigh of relief.
Conan reappears briefly, waves, and disappears. Talking quietly, the crowd
turns to walk home.
As
they depart, Bran is revealed, leaning against a tree trunk in the shadows,
cleaning his fingernails with Conan’s knife, looking wickedly smug.
BRAN
(Talking to himself)
(Reciting in sarcastic tones)
“clad only in a breechclout, carrying no weapons or
tools, and with nothing in your belly, you must climb the sheer cliff of Crom’s
Shield, find a place to camp, and sit and wait for Crom to send you a Spirit
Guide... then you are free to hunt for food, armed only with your bare hands,
and whatever you can make with them.”
(With thoughtful determination)
So - I follow Conan atop Crom’s Shield, and blood
his own knife with his own kill. Then I’ll bring the knife back down and return
it to his cabin. When the elders examine
his kill, they’ll find marks of a steel blade. Then I’ll - regretfully - suggest
we look for Conan’s knife. They’ll find
the bloody knife: evidence that Conan slew or butchered his prey with a steel
knife! Oh, the horror! The dishonor! His Ordeal will be invalidated, and he’ll be
disqualified from manhood and exiled. As he deserves.
Bran
turns to leave.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
ATOP CROM’S SHIELD -- DAY.
Conan
pauses to admire the extremely impressive view of:
Dark
woods, masking slopes of somber hills;
Vista
upon vista marching, hills on hills,
Slope
beyond slope, each dark with sullen trees,
endless
vista--hill on hill,
Slope
beyond slope, each hooded like its brothers.
(Excerpted
from Cimmeria, a poem by Robert E. Howard)
Then
he turns and begins trotting easily uphill from the cliff-edge.
DISSOLVE
TO:
EXT.
ABOVE CROM’S SHIELD -- LATER.
Conan
has been trotting uphill for some time now. He finally finds a rocky overlook,
with flint outcrops, above a stand of pine trees, with a view of the entire
nearby mountain range.
CONAN
(To himself, as he examines the outcrops.)
Flint. I’ll be able to make tools and weapons after
I’ve seen my Spirit Guide. But by Crom,
I'm hungry!
He
gathers firewood, lays kindling for a fire, and starts it by rubbing sticks
together. He feeds larger pieces wood onto the fire until he has a small blaze
going, then sits to await his Spirit Guide.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE BOTTOM OF CROM’S SHIELD -- DAY.
Bran,
in full kit: steel cap, light chainmail shirt, spear, sword, and assorted gear,
and a light backpack, is trotting northward along the bottom of the face of
Crom’s shield. He doesn’t give the mountain a second glance.
DISSOLVE
TO:
EXT.
THE VILLAGE -- OUTSIDE THE MEN’S LODGE -- AFTERNOON.
The
crowd arrives at the Men’s Lodge and immediately breaks up, the women and
children splitting up and going their separate ways to whatever activities
await them. Brigidda and Connell grip each other’s hands, look into each
other’s eyes, and part. The men stand aside and allow Connell and Conn to enter
the Lodge first.
CUT
TO:
INT.
THE VILLAGE -- THE MEN’S LODGE -- AFTERNOON.
The
men enter the Lodge and sort themselves out. Connell and Conn are granted a
place of honor by the central firepit. Some of the men begin carrying in goat
carcasses for Conan’s Feast of Manhood. They impale four of them on spits and
begin roasting them in the two hearths.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
ABOVE CROM’S SHIELD -- LATE AFTERNOON.
Conan
is sitting by his fire, awaiting his Spirit Guide. From time to time he adds
more fuel to the fire. He looks relaxed yet alert, in a glassy-eyed sort of
way.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE BACKSIDE OF CROM’S SHIELD -- LATE AFTERNOON.
On
the backside of Crom’s Shield, there is no steep cliff, just a moderate wooded
slope leading up to the peak.
A
small hunting party of four Picts enters the picture, moving carefully, looking
for spoor.
PICT #2
(In Pictish, subtitled)
We haven’t found any game yet, and we’re well into
Cimmerian territory.
PICT #1
(Subtitled)
Bah! Are you
a coward? If we meet any Cimmerian
hunters, we’ll slay them, and take their kill, if they have any.
PICT #2
(Indignant. Subtitled)
I’m no coward!
I hope we do meet some the pigs!
We’ll beat them! We’ll humiliate
them! We’ll stake them out and flay them
alive! And then we’ll...
PICT #3
(Subtitled)
Hsst!
Silence! Someone comes!
The
Picts halt, and switch to terse, rapid sign language.
PICT #1
(In sign language, subtitled.)
Hide. If
Cimmerians have game, we ambush and kill.
If no game, we follow and kill later.
The
Picts fade into the underbrush and disappear.
Bran
enters the picture from the north, jogging south, and exits south. The Picts reemerge from the underbrush.
PICT #1
( Sign Language. Subtitled)
Follow.
They
jog stealthily after Bran.
DISSOLVE
TO:
EXT.
FURTHER SOUTH ALONG THE BACKSIDE -- A LITTLE LATER.
Bran
turns left, and starts jogging up the slope.
After
an interval, the Picts appear, trailing Bran.
Without hesitation, they turn where Bran turned, and ascend after him.
CUT
TO:
INT.
THE VILLAGE -- THE MEN’S LODGE -- EARLY EVENING.
Meanwhile,
the men wait at the Men’s Lodge, drinking ale and snacking on the goats that
are being slow-roasted for Conan’s Feast of Manhood. Connell is chewing his
goat meat mechanically. He is not having a good time.
CONN
(To Connell)
Connell, don’t worry so much! Conan will make it.
There’s never been a better-prepared boy as far back as I can remember.
CONNELL
Worried? Who’s worried?
(He drains half a jack of ale in
one gulp.)
I have complete confidence in Conan. I’ll just get
another goat chop.
He
gets up and heads for one of the hearths, where goats are roasting. Conn
accompanies him.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
ABOVE CROM’S SHIELD -- NIGHT.
It
is a clear, starry night atop Crom’s Shield. Conan is sitting by his fire,
awaiting his Spirit Guide. From time to time he adds more fuel to the fire. He
looks relaxed yet alert, in a glassy-eyed sort of way.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE BACK SLOPE OF CROM’S SHIELD -- NIGHT.
Bran
is jogging up the slope. He halts. He is panting lightly, barely aerobic.
BRAN
(To himself.)
I should be above him now. I’ll start working my way
around, until I find him. Maybe he’ll get a pig for a spirit guide, he’s such a
glory-hog. Heh-heh.
He
resumes jogging, traversing the slope.
Moments later, the Picts appear, still trailing Bran. Looking at the ground, but also scanning
alertly for a counter-ambush, they turn where Bran turned and continue trailing
him.
CUT
TO:
INT.
THE VILLAGE -- THE MEN’S LODGE -- NIGHT.
Connell
is looking bleary-eyed as he quaffs his ale. Conn is being fairly non-indulgent
(for him) so he can comfort Connell. The crowd in the Lodge has gotten pretty
rowdy. There is a dull roar of talking, boasting, and singing.
CONNELL
(To Conn)
When I had my Ordeal of Manhood, you didn’t tell me
that there was also an Ordeal of Fatherhood!
CONN
You wouldn’t have believed me if I had told you!
Even if you had, you wouldn’t have cared. And if you tell Conan about it, he
won’t understand or care what you’re talking about, any more than you would
have.
One
of the men staggers by and slaps Conn on the back.
RANDOM CIMMERIAN
Don’t worry about him, Conn.
(To Connell)
The father is always the gloomy one at these things.
(Laughs)
CUT
TO:
EXT.
ABOVE CROM’S SHIELD -- DAWN.
The
glow of dawn is just beginning to touch the sky above Crom’s Shield. Conan is
sitting by his fire, awaiting his Spirit Guide. He looks relaxed yet alert, in
a glassy-eyed sort of way. As the sun’s fiery limb lifts above the horizon, the
light suddenly changes, imparting an aura of unreality to the surroundings. The
view of the mountain range seems to become a limitless vista, mountain range
after mountain range, beyond the limits of sight to the edge of the universe.
Shadows disappear in a misty, sourceless glow. All sound dies. Conan observes
this with interest, but no fear. Then, in the midst of the silence, the sound
of a shifting pebble is heard, and from around a huge boulder, with majestic
tread, there steps a LION. It is a huge cave lion, almost twice the size of the
tawny lions of the southern veldt, glossy black all over, with a coal black
mane, and fiercely glowing blue eyes. Conan’s jaw drops as if completely
unhinged, and he stares in admiring awe.
The lion props itself up on a stone outcropping, lifts its great head to
the sky, and ROARS, a roar that shakes the world and makes the mountains
dance.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
SOMEWHERE ABOVE CROM’S SHIELD -- CONTINUOUS.
Bran
is walking through the sparse woods, when the ROAR hits him like a solid wall
of sound. He jumps, startled, then grabs his spear and drops into a wary
crouch. Eyes wide, looking in all directions at once, he slinks into the brush
and out of sight.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
SOMEWHERE ABOVE CROM’S SHIELD -- BRAN’S BACKTRAIL -- CONTINUOUS.
The
four Picts likewise jump when they hear the ROAR. They cluster together, back to back to back
to back, weapons pointing outwards, as they scan the surroundings.
CUT
TO:
INT.
THE VILLAGE -- THE MEN’S LODGE -- CONTINUOUS.
Connell
is gazing into his alecup as Conn gnaws a bone. Suddenly the roof beams of the
Men’s Lodge are shaken by a thunder roll of sound. The assembled men look
around nervously and Connell jumps to his feet.
CONNELL
What the Hell was that?
CONN
(Reassuringly, but worried too)
Sounded like thunder.
CONNELL
(Snarling)
Thunder my ass! That came from Crom’s
Shield.
Connell
starts for the door. Conn grabs him and pulls him roughly back onto the bench.
CONN
(Stern)
And what if it is something else? He must face whatever the gods send by
himself. You go up there and even if
whatever that was doesn't kill him, you'll ruin his Ordeal. And then to the tribe - and that includes you
and me, son - he will be dead.
(Grabs a jack of ale from a passing man and thrusts
it into Connell's hand.)
Would you try to relax? It was thunder. A little
rain won’t hurt him. I did my Ordeal in a blizzard! And I’m here to tell about
it.
CONNELL
(Visibly worried, but trying to
calm down)
Again and again.
CONN
(Chuckling.)
Again and again. And some day Conan will be boring
his sons to tears telling them how he did his Ordeal in a thunderstorm.
CUT
TO:
INT.
AQUILONIA -- TARANTIA -- THE ROYAL PALACE -- THE ROYAL BEDCHAMBER OF THE KING
OF AQUILONIA -- EARLY MORNING, CONTINUOUS.
ONSCREEN
SUBTITLE CAPTION: “AQUILONIAN ROYAL PALACE - THE ROYAL BEDCHAMBER”
The
KING of Aquilonia and a gorgeous, voluptuous royal CONCUBINE are asleep,
seminude amidst tangled sheets in the king-sized royal bed. Suddenly the King
gasps in his sleep, then sits bolt upright in bed, wild-eyed, white-faced,
sweating.
KING
(Panting in terror. Subtitled.)
(Aquilonian is a Latin-esque
tongue.)
The lion!
CONCUBINE
(Waking, stretching, sleepily sensuous. Subtitled.)
What lion?
KING
(Subtitled.)
Didn’t you hear it? Its roar shook the pillars of
heaven!
CONCUBINE
(Stretching and yawning.
Subtitled.)
I didn’t hear anything.
KING
(Subtitled.)
It’s was stalking me!
CONCUBINE
(Subtitled.)
There isn’t any lion. Why don’t you stalk me for a
while?
She
pulls him down onto her.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
KUSH -- JUNGLE -- CONTINUOUS.
ONSCREEN
SUBTITLE CAPTION: “A JUNGLE SOMEWHERE IN KUSH”
Two
Black Kushite hunters are stalking through the jungle. They are tall, slim, and
muscled, like basketball players or Watusi warriors. One of them is almost
middle-aged, the other is a youngster. An ear-shattering roar blasts through
the jungle, and both hunters jerk to hyper alertness, eyes scanning in all
directions, spears at the ready.
YOUNG HUNTER
(Subtitled)
Lion! A big one, but far away.
OLD HUNTER
(Frowning. Subtitled.)
No, not just any lion.
The
younger hunter looks at the elder, puzzled.
OLD HUNTER
(Gravely. Subtitled.)
It is Amra. He wakes!
CUT
TO:
EXT.
ABOVE CROM’S SHIELD -- CONTINUOUS.
The
lion drops back to the ground, and paces towards Conan. Conan experiences a
flashback, remembering his father telling him:
CONNELL (O.S. / AUDIO
FLASHBACK)
Your Spirit Guide will give you a gift or tell you a
secret -(Pauses dramatically.)-- or kill you if it judges you unworthy.
And
it seems to him that surely he will die now, for how could SUCH a beast find
him worthy of anything but a quick snap and a gulp? But the face of the lion
betrays no hostility, only a great, calm wisdom. Conan remembers the formula he
had been taught.
CONAN
(In formal, archaic Cimmerian, concealing his nervousness)
O Spirit Guide, be thou welcome at my fire. I await
thy judgment.
As
it approaches him, it seems to stumble slightly, as if it had stepped on
something uncomfortable. With a growl, it lowers its head and seizes the
offending object in its jaws. It raises its head and continues toward Conan,
and offers the glittering object to him: it is a bejeweled crown of gold. As if
of their own volition, his hands reach out and accept the gift.
Conan
does not even breathe as his hands raise the crown to his head and place it on
his ...
as
the crown touches his brow, the light changes.
Conan
blinks. The world looks real again. It is dawn, the sun is clear of the
horizon, and shadows have returned. The wind rustles the pines and sighs over
the mountainside. The lion and the crown are both gone without a trace; not
even a pawprint remains. Conan is in control of his body again, and he has seen
his Spirit Guide. Suddenly a thunderous growl is heard. The camera zooms in on
Conan’s startled face, then quickly pans down to his chiseled abdominal
muscles. When the camera pans back to Conan’s face, his expression is one of
avid eagerness.
CONAN
Food! Now I can hunt!
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE VILLAGE -- THE MEN’S LODGE -- MORNING.
Back
at the Men’s Lodge, the men are still drinking ale and snacking on the last of
the barbecued goat. They really know how to appreciate a youngster’s Ordeal of
Manhood. But Connell is not having a good time.
CONNELL
(To Conn)
Do you think he was ready? Maybe we let him go too
soon.
CONN
(Blatantly displaying the long-suffering patience of
a saint.)
Connell, he was as ready as he could be. It would
have been a travesty to keep him waiting any longer.
CONNELL
But what about that ...
CONN
(Firm)
Thunder. Nothing you can do anything
about.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
ABOVE CROM’S SHIELD -- MORNING.
Back
on the mountain, Conan is weaving bark fibers together to make rope, and tying
sticks together to make a trap, which he baits with wild grain and berries.
Then he turns his attention to the flint outcropping. He selects a large stone,
knocks off a large piece of flint, which he chisels into a hand ax/hammer. With
this he flakes off a series of flint knives.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
NEARBY ABOVE CROM’S SHIELD -- MORNING.
Bran
is sneaking through the brush. Suddenly he straightens up and sniffs the air.
BRAN
Woodsmoke!
He
glides stealthily through the brush until he spies Conan knapping flint. He
settles silently into the brush, prepared for a long boring wait.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
BRAN’S BACKTRAIL -- MORNING.
The
four Picts have lost Bran’s trail and are casting about for it as they argue in
whispers.
PICT #4
(Subtitled)
(To Pict #1) You were tracking the Cimmerian. You shouldn’t have lost the trail! Are you a child, to lose a trail when a lion
frightens you?
PICT #1
(Subtitled)
Cimmerians aren’t that easy to
track. Have you found his spoor yet?
PICT #2
(Subtitled)
Silence! Are
you both children, to quarrel in the land of our enemies? Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouths
shut!
CUT
TO:
EXT.
CONAN KNAPPING FLINT -- CONTINUOUS.
Then
Conan is distracted from his labors by some snorts and scraping noises. He
looks up, and there is a bull Cimmerian mountain aurochs, snorting and pawing
the ground as it glares at him. It looks like a cross between a bison, a yak,
and a longhorn steer, only much uglier. As the bull prepares to charge, Conan
springs to his feet and waves his arms at it, yelling.
CONAN
No! I already have a Spirit Guide. I don’t need you!
Go away! Shoo!
His
efforts are useless. The bull charges. Conan looks at the puny flint chopper in
his hand, and tosses it away. With a disgusted oath to Crom, he sets himself.
As the bull is about to impact him, Conan pivots counterclockwise around his
right foot, evades the left horn as the bull hooks at him, and locks his arms
around the bull’s horns as it passes him. Suddenly, Conan is being propelled
forward with terrific speed and force. He tries to dig his heels into the
ground to slow the bull down, but the bull is ten times his mass, and it is
hopeless; he has no effect on the bull’s forward speed. He tries a different
tack, throwing his body from side to side with all his strength, trying to get the
bull off balance. Running along with the bull, he rocks back and forth a few
times to set up a rhythm, then with all his might he throws the entire weight
of his body to one side. The bull stumbles and goes down in a cloud of dust,
just before they go off the cliff, and a loud, dull SNAP is heard. For a
moment, Conan and the bull both lie motionless, but Conan is panting, a grimace
of effort still frozen on his face, while the bull twitches and shudders, then
lies still, its eyes glazed. After a moment, Conan moves cautiously, testing
his limbs for breaks. He is covered with dust and bloody scrapes.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
BRAN IN THE UNDERBRUSH -- CONTINUOUS.
Bran’s
body is concealed in the underbrush, but we can see his face. His mouth and
eyes are gaping in total disbelief.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
CONAN AND THE BULL -- CONTINUOUS.
Conan
climbs slowly to his feet, as if every joint in his body hurts. He raises his
face to the sky and yells. It is a yell that fills the sky and shakes the
world. Then he looks down at the bull.
CONAN
Crom’s
bones! How am I going to get this overgrown meat-mountain back to the village?
Shove it over the precipice? No, that would ruin it.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE VILLAGE -- THE MEN’S LODGE -- DAY.
Back
at the village, the Men’s Lodge is a scene of happy conviviality, except for
Connell, who has stopped eating and drinking, and Conn, who has cut down his
consumption in order to stay in good enough shape to reassure Connell. The rest of the men are starting to set up
more goats on the hearths.
GENERAL CONVERSATION
...Hurry up with those goats!
...Don’t you know anything? You can’t hurry meat! Do
you like it burned?
...Aw, just relax and have some more
ale.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
ABOVE CROM’S SHIELD -- DAY.
CONAN
(Looking at the bull and musing to
himself.)
I have to gut it and drain the blood or the meat
will be ruined. Crom blast you, why couldn’t you have been a mountain goat?
Conan
weaves some stout rope from vines. Then he ties the rope to the bull's hind
legs and throws the rope over a stout tree branch. He tugs on the rope and
succeeds only in lifting himself several feet off the ground. (Close-up of
Conan hanging from the rope, looking disgusted.) He shinnies up the rope until
his hands are almost to the branch. Then he jackknifes his legs up to the
branch and plants the soles of his feet against the underside of the branch.
There he is, standing upside-down on the underside of the branch, held there by
the tension he is exerting on the rope. Now, with much grunting, groaning, and
grimacing he starts hauling the bull up by sheer strength.
CONAN
(Grinding the words out through
his teeth.)
MOVE, you hell-spawned hunk of beef!
It
no longer matters that the bull outweighs him.
He crouches there upside-down, holding the rope in place with one hand,
while with the other he flips the free end of the rope over the branch again,
guides it through the loop, then grabs the free end with both hands. He relaxes
and lets himself fall, tightening the loop into a knot. The bull falls a foot
or two, then stops when the knot tightens.
The branch creaks ominously as it bobs up and down for a moment, but it
holds. Conan lets go of the rope and falls a few feet to the ground, landing on
his feet. He is panting and pouring sweat. He sucks air for a while, while his
face fades from purple to its normal color.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
BRAN IN THE UNDERBRUSH -- CONTINUOUS.
Bran,
concealed in the underbrush, looks absolutely sick as he watches this
exhibition.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
CONAN -- CONTINUOUS.
Conan
slits the bull’s throat with one of his flint knives, then makes a long
incision in the belly; guts spill out of the bull’s abdomen. Standing back to
watch the blood drain, he wipes his forearm across his forehead.
CONAN
WHEW! I wonder if everybody’s Ordeal is this much of
an ordeal! Now, while he’s draining, I’ll get ready to move him.
He
picks up his chopper and flint knives and goes into the woods, in a different
direction than Bran.
Bran
comes out of the underbrush and walks up to the bull. He walks all the way
around it, looking at it from every angle, while shaking his head in disbelief.
BRAN
I got a rabbit on my Ordeal.
If he returns with this, I will be less than the
dirt beneath his feet.
(Sighs.)
Well, that’s why I’m here.
He
pulls Conan’s knife out of an extra scabbard at his belt. He moves the knife up
to the bull’s throat. Then he suddenly stops and puts the knife back in the
scabbard.
BRAN
(Muttering)
Better idea.
He
pulls an arrow out of his pack, and breaks the steel head off the shaft. He
moves the arrowhead up to the bull’s throat, but before he touches the bull,
Conan emerges from the woods with an armload of vines and branches.
CONAN
BRAN! What in Crom’s blue-blazing hells are you doing
here? WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY BULL?
Bran
jumps two feet into the air, startled and guilty; the arrowhead goes flying.
BRAN
K-keeping you from being elevated to the status of
Crom’s Sacred Avatar on Earth, you - you puffed-up blowhard!
Conan
drops his armload of vines and branches and advances on Bran empty-handed, his
eyes blazing like the blue flames of hell. Bran backs up and draws his sword,
waving it at Conan.
BRAN
(Shouting.)
Stay away from me! I’m warning you!
CONAN
(Growling.)
You just couldn't wait, could you? Go ahead, try to
use that sword on me, you loud-mouthed sniveling coward! I’ll wrap it around
your neck and rip your heart out with my bare hands.
Without
warning, the four Picts step out of the woods.
CONAN AND BRAN
Picts!
Automatic
reflexes take over, and Conan and Bran turn away from each other and back up
until they are back-to-back, and keeping their eyes on the Picts. The Picts
circle them, taunting in heavily accented Cimmerian.
PICT #1
Well, well, well. What have we here?
PICT #2
The one we were trailing and another one, with a lot
of meat.
PICT #3
I recognize the paint on that one. He’s doing the
Cimmerian Rite of Passage - their manhood ceremony.
PICT #4
(Laughs)
This Cimmerian obviously needed some help to become
a man!
PICT #2
Let's kill them both!
PICT #3
No! I recognize these two now, from the last raid.
We kill the younger one, the one with the sharp tongue, and cripple the other.
Then he'll have to explain what happened when they find him. They'll exile him
for interfering in a manhood rite.
PICT #4
Yes! They lose TWO men, their sacred ritual is
ruined, and one of the lost men is to blame!
PICT #1
Then we attack the village again while they’re
weeping and gnashing their teeth!
CONAN
Bran! Run for the village. You’ve got to warn them!
BRAN
And let you have all the fun? And four more kills
all for you?
With
high-pitched yells the Picts attack. Three of them go for the armed and armored
Bran, and one of them goes for the unarmed Conan. Bran rips into his three
Picts with a slashing counter-attack, and downs two. Conan’s Pict, armed with a
spear, jabs at Conan from spear-distance. Conan dances and jinks to avoid the
jabs, then suddenly grabs the spear-shaft and jerks it out of the Pict’s hands.
He instantly jabs the butt-end of the spear into the Pict’s belly. As the Pict
doubles over, Conan reverses the spear with a twirling motion and smashes the
spearhead up into the Pict’s face, gashing his face and forcing him back up
into a standing position. Then Conan lunges, driving the spearpoint into the
Pict’s chest. The mortally wounded Pict crumples to the ground. Still holding
the spear, Conan looks for the action and spots Bran, dueling with the last
surviving Pict. Conan starts towards the battling pair, as if to intervene,
then suddenly stops, grounds his spear, and stands, watching, as Bran kills the
last Pict.
BRAN
(Breathing hard.)
Whoosh! I saw you kill that Pict ... out of the
corner of my eye ... and I knew I had to kill this one in a hurry ... or you’d
steal another kill!
Conan
stands still for a moment, trying to master his temper. Then he strides rapidly to Bran, grabs the
neck of Bran’s chainmail shirt in his right fist, twists, and hauls Bran to
within an inch of his own face. With a
hard left backhand he knocks the sword out of Bran’s hand.
CONAN
Just what were you up to? Why did you lead those Picts up here?
BRAN
I didn’t know they were trailing me!
CONAN
Well, that’s just great! You left a trail that even a Pict could
follow. But WHAT WERE YOU DOING UP
HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE?
(Camera
zooms in for a close-up of their two faces)
BRAN
I... you...
CONAN
Save your lies! I’m no fool; you were going to spoil
my kill somehow - to ruin my Ordeal! And
you led a band of Picts right into the middle of one of our tribe’s most sacred
ceremonies. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE ELDERS
WOULD DO TO YOU IF THEY FOUND OUT?
Bran’s
eyes get very big and his mouth works soundlessly.
CONAN (continued)
(His lips draw back in a mirthless
grin)
A week ago you were saying how you wanted to fight
me and crush me once I became a man...
Bran’s
lips start to tremble.
CONAN
(continued)
...so here’s your opportunity.
Bran
starts to whimper.
CONAN (continued)
You can try your best to crush me - if you still
think you can. That means only one of us walks off this mountain alive, little
man.
Your other choice is to take a long trip. I care not
where you go, but if you set foot in Cimmeria within the year . . .
Conan
hurls Bran bodily toward the bloody ground at the base of the tree, a good ten
feet away, then bends and picks up Bran’s sword as Bran shakes his head clear.
Conan
advances on Bran, sword in hand, snarling as his rage cracks through his
composure. Bran scrambles backwards on all fours until he is up against the
tree, his face betraying his utter terror.
Conan
stands over Bran and bends Brand’s sword over one knee, folding the blade into
a U shape. The blade, incapable of taking such abuse, snaps. Growling, he
tosses the useless hunks of metal in Bran’s lap. Bran stares at the remains of
his once-beautiful weapon in horror.
CONAN
Chose now, Bran, or I chose for you.
Bran
looks from his ruined sword to the carcass above him, to the dead Picts. After
a long moment, he seems to collapse in on himself.
BRAN
Very well. I know I can’t beat you.
I’ll go.
Snarling,
Conan reaches down and hauls the broken Bran to his feet.
CONAN
Oh, you’ll go. But I’m not done with
you yet, dog!
Bran
blanches at the renewed danger.
CONAN (continued)
First, you are going to clean up your mess! Three of
these scum were killed with a sword, but not one of them bore one. You are going to drag these bodies away and
dump them and their weapons down a gully.
BRAN
(Slavishly eager)
S-sure, Conan, I’ll do it!
CONAN
And then I don’t want to see your face for a year.
Do I need to explain what will happen if I do? Or if anyone hears of this?
Conan
releases Bran; the two stare at each other for another moment, then Bran
breaks, looking down and shaking his head.
BRAN
No, no Conan.
CONAN
Then clean up this trash, boy.
As
the day advances, Bran disposes of the Picts’ remains while Conan weaves more
ropes and cuts and trims some tree branches with the aid of his flint hand-axe
and knives, tying them together into a large, rude contraption. He positions
the flat contraption under the bull, climbs up the free end of the rope, and
cuts the rope holding up the bull with one of his flint knives. The bull drops
onto the contraption. He ties the bull to the contraption, kneels by it, and
places a rope harness around his own shoulders. With a grunt of effort, he
stands up, partially lifting the contraption, now recognizable as a crude
travois, off the ground. He starts to lean into the harness, ready to haul the
carcass back to the village, but he pauses to take another look at the bull's
head. A mischievous grin creases his
face as he fingers his flint chopper, and we . . .
FADE OUT
FADE
IN:
EXT.
THE VILLAGE -- THE MEN’S LODGE -- EVENING.
Back
in the Men’s Lodge, Connell is very worried. It has been two full days since
Conan scaled Crom’s Shield.
CONNELL
It’s been two days! He wasn’t ready. We let him go
too soon.
CONN
Two days is nothing! Hell, your uncle Terli took the
better part of a week!
Connell
is not to be placated, and is slipping into a real funk. The other men are more
concerned over whether to put another goat on the fire.
Suddenly
a commotion, consisting mainly of fearful childish and feminine voices, is
heard outside the door of the lodge. One of the men opens the door and looks
out.
CIMMERIAN #2
Some... something approaches!
Connell
and Conn leap to their feet.
CONN
Is it Conan?
CIMMERIAN #2
(Looking fearfully over his
shoulder)
No! It's . . . Crom! I don't know what
it is!
A
murmur arises from the crowd. Several grab
their weapons. This is highly unusual,
and despite the party atmosphere, the supernatural roar has them all a little
on edge. Connell leaps to his feet and dashes for the door with the speed of a
starving leopard, followed by the other men. Conn is a little bit slower, but
when he reaches the door, he elbows everybody else out of the way, and shoves
himself to the front of the crowd at the door.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE VILLAGE -- RIGHT OUTSIDE THE MEN’S LODGE -- VIEW LOOKING IN THE FRONT DOOR
-- NIGHT.
From
outside the door, we see Connell and some other men, looking out the door with
amazed and horrified expressions on their faces. Conn shoves his way through
the crowd and elbows his way to the front, and looks out. An amazed look dawns
on his face, too, but he doesn't reach for his ax. Slowly he smiles.
CUT
TO:
INT.
THE MEN’S LODGE -- VIEW LOOKING OUT THE DOOR -- CONTINUOUS.
Approaching
down the dim, torch-lit path is a nightmare figure, a giant bull-headed
demon. Its body glistens with thick,
drying blood, and it is slumped over as though pulling a heavy load. Huge black flies swarm and buzz about its
head, attracted by the growing scent of blood and death that hovers over the
hell-spawn like a sickening cloud. As it gets closer, it becomes clear to us
the "demon" is Conan, wearing the bull's severed head like a foul
helmet or mask, tatters of its hide draped about his shoulders like a cape,
dragging the headless carcass of the slaughtered bull on the travois behind him
by main strength alone. Two tribesmen
who had been guarding the Village gate follow at a respectful distance, faces
grim and swords at the ready.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE MEN’S LODGE -- VIEW LOOKING IN THE DOOR -- CONTINUOUS.
It's
deadly quiet. No one says a word, some almost not breathing. Conn elbows Dorbha
and Connell in the ribs. The two do a
subtle double take. The three meet eyes,
then struggle to hide their grins.
CUT
TO:
EXT.
THE VILLAGE -- RIGHT OUTSIDE THE MEN’S LODGE -- VIEW AS IF LOOKING OUT THE
LODGE DOOR -- CONTINUOUS.
When
he gets within 10 feet of the nervous crowd, the figure drops the travois with
a loud thud. He stands erect and
stretches dramatically, his joints popping loudly in the still night air. Slowly he turns, giving the effect that the
"demon" is scanning the crowd.
The bull's dead eyes stop when they find Conn.
With
a dramatic flair and a muffled howl, the demon reaches up with both hands and
pulls off its own head, revealing a grinning Conan, covered in gore.
CONAN
Augh!
It's hot in there!
The
crowd gasps, then laughter breaks out as Conan tosses the bloody head to an
abashed Cimmerian #2.
DORBHA
(Formally, in a booming voice)
A man returns! The hunter returns to feed the clan!
The hunter returns a man!
Several
men run forward with yells of delight and pour pitchers of ale over a laughing
Conan's head, washing away the body paint, sweat and gore.
The
men see Conan, surrounded by a respectful circle of admiring villagers, mostly
women and children. He is talking with Brigidda and Marigan and Diedra.
Strapped to his shoulders is a harness, attached to a travois bearing the
carcass of a bull Cimmerian mountain aurochs. Deep drag marks in the soil
extending backwards from the travois testify to the weight of the burden. Conan
looks up at his father and grandfather.
CONAN
(Grinning)
Where would you like this?
Conn’s
and Connell’s faces light up like the rising sun._
CONN
By Crom, you stink! Run and get yourself cleaned
off, boy - Man! - and be quick about it. You don't want to miss your own feast!
With
a ferocious, joyful howl Conan runs off amid the cheers of his tribe.
CONN
(Yelling into the Lodge.)
Make some room on that fire! My GRANDSON has brought
a little something for us to eat!
FADE
OUT.