Conan stood by the fire, aged, unbowed. The three in front of him had survived a number of horrors to reach him. He had the option of taking up his sword, but he thought they deserved to be rewarded, not killed, and none of them seemed to have interesting treasure.
“Very well,” he said. “You’ve won. Dine with me this night, sleep here, and tomorrow you shall ride the back of a Dragon to civilization!”
The three looked at each other, a combination of joy and relief passing their faces.
“In the meantime,” said Conan, “Allow me to tell you what is worst in life.”
The three looked at each other again. They shrugged as Conan led them to a huge dining table, which would have groaned with food if the amount of food had permitted any sounds.
“Now, you came to ask me something?” he said, as servants brought in soups, tantalizing spiced puff pastries, and other appetizers.
The one in the center, the Drow lass, nodded.
“Conan, what is worst in life?”
Conan nodded solemnly. He got up and walked to the room’s singe great bookcase. From there, he pulled a tome which clearly only he might lift. He brought it to the table, balanced it in one hand, and moved two pitchers and a dessert. He dropped the huge book on the table. It landed with a reverberating THUD.
He looked at the three of them and smiled. “Many years ago, I determined what was best in life. Determining what was worth took years, and countless horrible experiences. I had lots of both. Death didn’t make the top ten, but the first third of the book is taxes. May I recommend drinking some more wine now?”
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