The lamentations of my enemies' women.
One of my favorite passages:
At Valamo, on the distant borders of Hyrkania, the master swordsman, a Hyrkanian named Oktar, imparted his secrets to the Cimmerian. All through the winter, the youth drilled and practiced under Oktar's direction. By the time spring melted winter's heavy snows, Toghrul was satisfied that nothing remained to teach his champion.
During his stay, Conan learned much about these eastern lands of which he had heard only the scantiest of rumors. As Toghrul's most favored Pit fighter, he was often allowed to spend the evening hours in the Pitmaster's yurt, when his master entertained the warlords and chieftains who drifted into Valamo from time to time to buy and sell or to trade gossip. Sometimes Toghrul was honored by the presence of Turanians, men of Hyrkanian stock who had drawn ahead of their nomadic fellows in the arts and sciences of civillization, and who, on the western shores of the Vilayet Sea, had reared glittering cities and learned the ways of urban life.
Most of the time,
Conan sat cross-legged and silent on the carpeted floor of his master's yurt. But when opportunity arose, he would ply these strangers with questions about methods of organized warfare. His questions amused the war leaders, who thought the principles of strategy and tactics of little use to a mere Pit slave, whose fate it was to fight a single adversary again and again until death overtook him.
Yet Conan realized that the more he knew of matters such as these, the better would be his chances of survival. He began to think ahead. He would not, he resolved, be a Pit slave forever. Since the world appeared to be a place of constant conflict, where the strong took whatever they had the power to take, he would learn to do likewise.
On one occasion, after rolling up the hide map that he had spread out across the carpet, it pleased a Hyrkanian general to query those who sat late in Toghrul's yurt over cups of fine white wine.
"What is the best thing in life?" he asked a Turanian princeling, resplendent in silken trousers and boots of scarlet leather strapped in silver.
Gems sparkled in the lamplight as the Turanian spread his hands in a graceful gesture. "The good life is on the open steppe, under a clear sky, with a fleet horse between your knees, a well trained falcon on your wrist, and a cold fresh wind in your hair.
The general shook his head and smiled. "Wrong, Highness! What say you to this, Khitaian?"
He shot the question at a small elderly man who had spoken little. Conan understood that the man had come from a land called Khitai, a year's journey to the east The small man had a wrinkled, parchment-yellow skin,stretched over a flat, slant-eyed face. He huddled in his quilted robes, which were drawn tightly to protect his thin frame from the evenings chill. Slowly he murmured, "I say that life is best when a man can boast a love of learning, and has aquired wisdom and an appreciation for fine poetry."
Again the general shook his head. Then he caught the intense gaze of Conan, who sat cross-legged on a low, circular dais in the center of the yurt, clad in a warm tunic, but chained as before. With ill-concealed amusement, the Hyrkanian general asked, "What says the young barbarian giant in answer to my question?"
Conan's mouth twitched in the shadow of a smile as he replied, "The best of life is to confront your enemies face to face, to see his hot blood spill upon the earth, and
to hear the lamentations of his women!"
Approval lit the dark eyes of the general. "The Pit has not broken the spirit of your champion, O Toghrul. Neither has it sapped his will. Beware lest this young tiger some day turn and rend you!"
"He wears chains so that he cannot," said Toghrul, chuckling.
Conan said nothing more; but a strange volcanic fire smoldered briefly in his fierce blue eyes.
-from Conan the Barbarian, by L. Sprague De Camp and Lin Carter.
