SAILOR: Ship!
North-northeast!
TITO: A merchant vessel.
Not that different from the Argus, actually.
No doubt, from the same shipyard.
Something's wrong.
CONAN: What is it?
TITO: Sweet Mitra.
CONAN: Belit.
TITO: You don't know.
CONAN: Belit.
TITO: Conan!
CONAN: Belit.
Belit!
By Crom!
Gahhh.
Alarm!
Alarm!
Belit?
BELIT: Do you believe you've beaten me, Barbarian?
My lungs still draw air, my heart still beats, and I
retain control of my ship.
I am utterly unvanquished.
You really must do better.
TITO: Bend to it, lads!
Cimmerian!
Conan!
CONAN: They're a half league out, but closing fast.
I promised you my sword, Tito, and I reckon you will have it
before the sun hits midday.
TITO: Sooner, by the looks of it.
They have archers.
CONAN: Give me a bow.
Not really my idea of a manly weapon.
But the Hyrkanians taught me its secrets well enough.
The gods help me if I can't plug one of those men on
yonder deck.
Or all this will go very poorly for us, my friend.
TITO: Shall I order the men to make for shore?
Perhaps we can lose them on foot in the jungles.
CONAN: We've run out of time and I'm not dying with an
arrow in my back.
Keep us steady, Tito.
NARRATOR: It was the first of dozens of arrows to bite the
crisp ocean air that morning.
The Hyrkanians taught basic principles of bow mastery.
The Cimmerian listened and learned, the typical arrogance
of a young swordsman momentarily tempered by
pragmatism.
ENEMY SAILOR: Return fire!
NARRATOR: Who could say he would never have
to use these skills?
TITO: Row, lads!
Row!
CONAN: I see you, you she-devil.
Crom.
TITO: You nearly got her!
Well done, Cimmerian!
CONAN: They've nearly caught up, Tito,
and I'm out of arrows.
Order your men to stand to it, one last push!
TITO: Our numbers have dwindled, Cimmerian.
We'll never outrun the buggers, now!
CONAN: Order your men to arms then--
Tito?
And you held your ground, as well as any warrior I've met.
I will strive to do the same, my friend, in your memory.
Up, lads, on your feet.
Useless to bend your backs anymore.
They'll board us before we can row another fifty paces.
Grab your steel and give these dogs a fight, by Crom!
If we're to die by their hand, we'll drag them down with us!
Steady, lads!
Steady.
Steady!
NARRATOR: And much like the timber, the crew of the Argus
was beaten.
Oars are not the same as spears and swords.
Remembering his promise to the shipmaster Tito, the Cimmerian
fought and avenged every one of those noble sailors.
To an outside observer, the fight on the Argus was short
and bloody.
But to the Cimmerian, time was as if it stood still.
The warriors of the North have a term for this--
Battle calm.
--fear.
No hesitation.
The very idea of losing is not just inconceivable, the
thought simply never occurs.
