The information obtained from the prostitute echoed in Brannok's mind like a summons. The Cult of Set destroyed, the High Priest beheaded, the princess rescued... His father had left a bloody and glorious mark on this world. Brannok felt a strange urge, a need to walk those same lands, to see with his own eyes the places Conan had trod. His goal was no longer just to survive or to hunt; it was to understand the legacy carried in his blood.
The city of King Osric. That was where it had all begun, the base of the wizard's search for his daughter. It was the logical starting point.
He came down from the room, returning to the morning hubbub of "The Bronze Pot." The innkeeper, a portly man with a greasy apron, was wiping tankards behind the counter.
"Bread, cheese, and dried meat. For several days," Brannok ordered, sitting at the counter. Then, he asked his crucial question: "And I need to buy a horse. A sturdy one. Where can I find one?"
The innkeeper looked him over, estimating his purse with an expert glance. "A month's travel to the lands of King Osric, or so the caravans say. A horse costs a pretty penny. The stables at the East Gate. Ask for Torvin. Tell him 'Barleeb' sent you. But be careful, he's heavy-handed with his prices."
Brannok nodded, finished his quick meal, and headed for the East Gate. Torvin's stables were large and stinking, filled with the whinnying of beasts and the strong smell of hay and manure. Torvin himself was a lean, nervous man with eyes that constantly calculated.
"A horse for a long journey? I've got just the thing," he announced, pointing to a beast. "A sturdy animal, that'll cost you... fifteen silver pieces."
Brannok didn't flinch. He had Zarekh's money, but he wasn't born yesterday. He eyed the horse, a bay gelding. It looked acceptable, but not at that price.
"Eight," said Brannok, his arms crossed.
Torvin let out a forced laugh. "Eight? You want my plow mare too? Twelve, that's my final offer."
Brannok simply stared at him with his grey eyes, saying nothing. The silence grew heavy, awkward. He knew his gaze, laden with the experience of the arena, could be more persuasive than words.
Under the weight of that silence and impassive stare, Torvin finally cracked. "Fine, fine, for Barleeb's sake... Ten. Not a bronze less."
Brannok counted out the coins into the merchant's hand. The deal was struck.
The next few hours were spent on meticulous preparations. Besides the provisions, he bought a saddlebag, an extra waterskin, a coil of stout rope, and a whetstone for his sword. He checked every seam of his gear, every strap. A month's journey through the wilds of Hyboria was no casual stroll. Preparation separated the survivors from the corpses.
As the sun reached its zenith, Brannok was ready. He took one last look at the anonymous city that had given him shelter and answers. Then, turning his back to the noise and stench, he led his new horse towards the East Gate and beyond.
Before him stretched the road, long and dusty, leading north towards the civilized kingdoms and the shadows of the past. He was no longer hunting for glory or for Zarekh. He was hunting for himself now, and for the truth about the blood flowing in his veins. The son of Conan was setting out on his father's trail.