Zub Tales

Continuing my Conan reread for Cimmerian September, the thirteenth published Conan story is The Servants of Bit-Yakin, which arrived in the March 1935 issue of Weird Tales magazine under the renamed title Jewels of Gwahlur.

This story starts with our hero in the midst of an intense challenge – Conan scales an incredibly steep cliff wall:

The cliffs rose sheer from the jungle, towering ramparts of stone that glinted jade-blue and dull crimson in the rising sun, and curved away and away to east and west above the waving emerald ocean of fronds and leaves. It looked insurmountable, that giant palisade with its sheer curtains of solid rock in which bits of quartz winked dazzlingly in the sunlight. But the man who was working his tedious way upward was already halfway to the top.

He came from a race of hillmen, accustomed to scaling forbidding crags, and he was a man of unusual strength and agility. His only garment was a pair of short red silk breeks, and his sandals were slung to his back, out of his way, as were his sword and dagger.

The man was powerfully built, supple as a panther. His skin was bronzed by the sun, his square-cut black mane confined by a silver band about his temples. His iron muscles, quick eyes and sure feet served him well here, for it was a climb to test these qualities to the utmost. A hundred and fifty feet below him waved the jungle. An equal distance above him the rim of the cliffs was etched against the morning sky.

The Cimmerian is taking this treacherous route to reach a mysterious temple and its hidden treasure, jewels called “The Teeth of Gwahlur”, before another group lead by opportunists named Zhargeba and Thutmekri beats him to it. The entire first chapter sets up why Conan is racing there and exploration of the temple. It’s not action-packed, but Howard’s prose has an immediacy and lyricism that makes the location feel rich with texture and atmosphere:

Conan passed into a broad, lofty hall, lined with tall columns, between which arches gaped, their doors long rotted away. He traversed this in a twilight dimness, and at the other end passed through great double-valved bronze doors which stood partly open, as they might have stood for centuries. He emerged into a vast domed chamber which must have served as audience hall for the kings of Alkmeenon.

It was octagonal in shape, and the great dome up in which the lofty ceiling curved obviously was cunningly pierced, for the chamber was much better lighted than the hall which led to it. At the farther side of the great room there rose a dais with broad lapis-lazuli steps leading up to it, and on that dais there stood a massive chair with ornate arms and a high back which once doubtless supported a cloth-of-gold canopy.

In one chamber he finds the perfectly preserved body of Yelaya, the famous oracle of the temple:

It was no effigy of stone or metal or ivory. It was the actual body of a woman, and by what dark art the ancients had preserved that form unblemished for so many ages Conan could not even guess. The very garments she wore were intact—and Conan scowled at that, a vague uneasiness stirring at the back of his mind. The arts that preserved the body should not have affected the garments. Yet there they were—gold breast-plates set with concentric circles of small gems, gilded sandals, and a short silken skirt upheld by a jeweled girdle. Neither cloth nor metal showed any signs of decay.

Yelaya was coldly beautiful, even in death. Her body was like alabaster, slender yet voluptuous; a great crimson jewel gleamed against the darkly piled foam of her hair.

There’s so much exploration described, room by room with traps, secret doors, and tucked away treasures, that it really feels like the pre-cursor to old school Dungeons & Dragons adventures. By the end of chapter one Conan has fallen through a collapsed section of floor and carried deeper into the depths by a rushing current.

Conan slowly makes his way back to the oracle chamber, and when he returns he’s in for a surprise:

The breath sucked through his teeth, the short hairs prickled at the back of his scalp. The body still lay as he had first seen it, silent, motionless, in breast-plates of jeweled gold, gilded sandals and silken skirt. But now there was a subtle difference. The lissome limbs were not rigid, a peach-bloom touched the cheeks, the lips were red—

With a panicky curse Conan ripped out his sword.

“Crom! She’s alive!”

At his words the long dark lashes lifted; the eyes opened and gazed up at him inscrutably, dark, lustrous, mystical. He glared in frozen speechlessness.

And for a few moments, Yelaya’s words send a chill down his spine, but then he realizes something is wrong:

“Goddess! Ha!” His bark was full of angry contempt. He ignored the frantic writhings of his captive. “I thought it was strange that a princess of Alkmeenon would speak with a Corinthian accent! As soon as I’d gathered my wits I knew I’d seen you somewhere. You’re Muriela, Zargheba’s Corinthian dancing girl.

Zargheba is setting up a scam to trick the priests who worship at this temple to give Thutmekri the priceless jewels by using Muriela as a stand in for the real oracle. The fact that she looks like the real oracle is far-fetched to say the least, but in a dimly lit temple with the priests rarely looking directly at her out of deference it stumbles over the line into plausibility.

Conan convinces Muriela to work with him instead and then sneaks outside, with one of my favorite sections of prose in this story:

He glided down the marble steps like a slinking panther, sword in hand. Silence reigned over the valley, and above the rim of the cliffs, stars were blinking out. If the priests of Keshia had entered the valley there was not a sound, not a movement in the greenery to betray them. He made out the ancient broken-paved avenue, wandering away to the south, lost amid clustering masses of fronds and thick-leaved bushes. He followed it warily, hugging the edge of the paving where the shrubs massed their shadows thickly, until he saw ahead of him, dimly in the dusk, the clump of lotus-trees, the strange growth peculiar to the black lands of Kush. There, according to the girl, Zargheba should be lurking. Conan became stealth personified. A velvet-footed shadow, he melted into the thickets.

Chapter two ends with Conan finding Zargheba’s severed head. Someone or something else is in the area and on the hunt.

Chapter three gets jumbled as Conan watches the ceremony with Muriela play out, there’s a betrayal, she gets kidnapped, and there are more traps and secret chambers. The story feels like it could run out of steam until, finally, in chapter four the Servants of Bit-Yakin emerge and start tearing people apart in an adrenalin-pumping scene:

Conan saw bodies tossed like chaff in the inhuman hands of the slayers, against whose horrible strength and agility the daggers and swords of the priests were ineffective. He saw men lifted bodily and their heads cracked open against the stone altar. He saw a flaming torch, grasped in a monstrous hand, thrust inexorably down the gullet of an agonized wretch who writhed in vain against the arms that pinioned him. He saw a man torn in two pieces, as one might tear a chicken, and the bloody fragments hurled clear across the cavern. The massacre was as short and devastating as the rush of a hurricane. In a burst of red abysmal ferocity it was over, except for one wretch who fled screaming back the way the priests had come, pursued by a swarm of blood-dabbled shapes of horror which reached out their red-smeared hands for him. Fugitive and pursuers vanished down the black tunnel, and the screams of the human came back dwindling and confused by the distance.

I’ll leave it up to you to read the rest to find out if Conan gets the treasure and saves Muriela. The amount of character names, lore, and keeping track of locations gets a bit much in spots, but on the whole it’s a solid Conan adventure elevated by Howard’s intense writing.

Roy Thomas and Dick Giordano adapted the story in Savage Sword of Conan #25 in 1977 and P. Craig Russell skillfully adapted it in 2005 for Dark Horse.

If you haven’t read the original Conan prose stories, I recommend the Del Rey 3-book set, which has each story unedited and essays that add context around their publication.

Continuing my Conan reread for Cimmerian September, the twelfth published Conan story is A Witch Shall Be Born, which arrived in the December 1934 issue of Weird Tales magazine.

Our story opens on Taramis, the Queen of Khauran, as she awakens to a shocking revelation- Salome, the twin sister she thought died in childbirth, is alive and in her royal chamber.

It was as if she gazed upon another Taramis, identical with herself in every contour of feature and limb, yet animated by an alien and evil personality. The face of this stranger waif reflected the opposite of every characteristic the countenance of the queen denoted. Lust and mystery sparkled in her scintillant eyes, cruelty lurked in the curl of her full red lips. Each movement of her supple body was subtly suggestive.

Yup, it’s evil twin time and there are almost 2800 words as Taramis fails to figure out Salome’s painfully obvious plan – Bad sister is going to imprison good sister and pretend to be the Queen, kicking off a reign of witch-ful evil. Despite Howard’s efforts to make this opening hit the mark, it’s so slow and trope-laden that the whole thing feels inert right off the starting blocks.

Chapter two moves ahead as a courageous warrior named Valerius (you know, like “valorous”) tells a young woman about the Queen suddenly betraying her people, letting enemy forces in the front gate, and Conan, the Captain of the Guard, boldly stating that she is not who she appears to be:

“He shouted to the guardsmen to stand as they were until they received an order from him—and such is his dominance of his men, that they obeyed in spite of the queen. He strode up to the palace steps and glared at Taramis—and then he roared: ‘This is not the queen! This isn’t Taramis! It’s some devil in masquerade!'”

Which might have been interesting if we didn’t already know that Conan is 100% correct. The problem with this section is that it’s a character telling us exciting stuff that’s already happened instead of experiencing any excitement in the moment. A character relaying past events is a valid storytelling choice, but after that rough opening it once again struggles to generate story momentum.

Finally, after Conan is captured by Constantius, Salome’s new evil general-consort, we cut to the present and the narration fights to get back on track. Conan is dragged out to the desert outside the city walls and crucified, an iconic moment captured in several famous illustrations and reproduced on the “Tree of Woe” in the original Conan the Barbarian movie:

Blood started afresh from the pierced palms as the victim’s mallet-like fists clenched convulsively on the spike-heads. Knots and bunches of muscle started out of the massive arms, and Conan bent his head forward and spat savagely at Constantius’s face. The voivode laughed coolly, wiped the saliva from his gorget and reined his horse about.

“Remember me when the vultures are tearing at your living flesh,” he called mockingly.

Including the infamous “vulture bite”:

Instantly the vulture exploded into squawking, flapping hysteria. Its thrashing wings blinded the man, and its talons ripped his chest. But grimly he hung on, the muscles starting out in lumps on his jaws. And the scavenger’s neckbones crunched between those powerful teeth. With a spasmodic flutter the bird hung limp. Conan let go, spat blood from his mouth. The other vultures, terrified by the fate of their companion, were in full flight to a distant tree, where they perched like black demons in conclave.

Our hero is left to die, but a group of Zuagir tribesmen happen across him, including their leader, Olgerd Vladislav. Olgerd decides to give Conan a chance to live, if he can survive the crucifixion post being cut down with him still on it:

“If it falls forward it will crush him,” objected Djebal. “I can cut it so it will fall backward, but then the shock of the fall may crack his skull and tear loose all his entrails.”

“If he’s worthy to ride with me he’ll survive it,” answered Olgerd imperturbably. “If not, then he doesn’t deserve to live. Cut!”

It’s a nasty bit of business, but dramatic and well done, ending the chapter with intensity as Conan joins the Zuagir.

Unfortunately, chapter three switches back to a passive approach. A scholar named Astreas writes a letter describing the events of the past seven months as “Taramis” rules cruelly and terrifies the populace with her reign of terror. Again, exciting events that could have worked if unveiled in the moment are rendered distant and less engaging.

We find out that Conan has worked his way up to second in command of the Zuagir and they’ve been successful in building up their forces and raiding other settlements. We also find out that Salome now has some kind of monster:

“Taramis, apparently possessed of a demon, stops at nothing. She has abolished the worship of Ishtar, and turned the temple into a shrine of idolatry. She has destroyed the ivory image of the goddess which these eastern Hyborians worship and filled the temple of Ishtar with obscene images of every imaginable sort—gods and goddesses of the night, portrayed in all the salacious and perverse poses and with all the revolting characteristics that a degenerate brain could conceive.”

The rest of the chapter is Salome gloating to the imprisoned Queen Taramis, cutting off the head of one of her allies (who we didn’t know about until this moment), and then Salome tossing that head to a deaf beggar in the streets while talking about her secrets to one of her minions…which is just as sloppy as it sounds.

Chapter four returns us to Conan in the present. Olgerd Vladislav is flush with confidence from his recent success, but Conan turns the tables on him, revealing that he’s secretly built his own loyal force amongst the Zuagir and is ready to take over:

“And what did you tell these outcasts to gain their allegiance?” There was a dangerous ring in Olgerd’s voice.

“I told them that I’d use this horde of desert wolves to help them destroy Constantius and give Khauran back into the hands of its citizens.”

“You fool!” whispered Olgerd. “Do you deem yourself chief already?”

The men were on their feet, facing each other across the ebony board, devil-lights dancing in Olgerd’s cold gray eyes, a grim smile on the Cimmerian’s hard lips.

They fight, Conan easily bests him and, since Olgerd saved his life, our Cimmerian sends him into exile instead of killing him.

Chapter five kicks off with a person, not named, who reveals to a group of rebels meeting in secret that he has discovered that Taramis is a fake because he pretended to be a deaf beggar for months so he could sneak around the palace and find out information. It’s clunky, but now there’s a rebel force ready to fight from inside the city gates and Conan’s Zuagir ready to attack from outside.

Once again, Howard leans away from his strengths as an action-packed active storyteller and tells us about events happening at a distance. Salome gave a crystal ball-like device to a character we’d never heard of before so he can report from the battlefield when Constantius and Conan’s armies clash:

“They have ripped our ranks apart, broken and scattered us! It is a trick of that devil Conan! The siege engines are false—mere frames of palm trunks and painted silk, that fooled our scouts who saw them from afar. A trick to draw us out to our doom! Our warriors flee! Khumbanigash is down—Conan slew him. I do not see Constantius. The Khaurani rage through our milling masses like blood-mad lions, and the desert-men feather us with arrows. I—ahh!”

There was a flicker as of lightning, or trenchant steel, a burst of bright blood—then abruptly the image vanished, like a bursting bubble, and Salome was staring into an empty crystal ball that mirrored only her own furious features.

Chapter six has a pitched battle with Valerius finding and freeing the real Taramis while Conan storms the gates. It’s finally written in the active prose readers expect but, by this point it feels too little, too late. A Witch Shall Be Born may have a really iconic scene, but almost everything else around it feels rushed and unpolished.

I think that, even with the evil twin trope central to the story, a lot of this could be fixed by structuring it so we experience each event as it happens instead of being told about it second-hand. Epistolary writing can be an interesting creative choice, but feels at odds with the action here.

All that said, once again John Buscema’s artwork propels the comic adaptation in Savage Sword of Conan #5 to impressive visual heights, turning a clunker into a near-classic.

If you haven’t read the original Conan prose stories, I recommend the Del Rey 3-book set, which has each story unedited and essays that add context around their publication.

Continuing my Conan reread for Cimmerian September, the eleventh published Conan story is People of the Black Circle, which originally serialized across three issues of Weird Tales magazine, from September to November 1934.

Picking up from where we left off in Part 1 – Conan and Yasmina escape from the Wazuli tribe and Conan pays a traveling villager they happen across for her clothes so Yasmina will have something more appropriate for travel and also have a better disguise. When Yasmina changes he’s impressed with what he sees-

Conan waited with some impatience while the Devi, for the first time in her pampered life, dressed herself. When she stepped from behind the rock he swore in surprise, and she felt a curious rush of emotions at the unrestrained admiration burning in his fierce blue eyes. She felt shame, embarrassment, yet a stimulation of vanity she had never before experienced, and a tingling when meeting the impact of his eyes. He laid a heavy hand on her shoulder and turned her about, staring avidly at her from all angles.

“By Crom!” said he. “In those smoky, mystic robes you were aloof and cold and far off as a star! Now you are a woman of warm flesh and blood! You went behind that rock as the Devi of Vendhya; you come out as a hill-girl—though a thousand times more beautiful than any wench of the Zhaibar! You were a goddess—now you are real!”

In the distance they see Mount Yimsha, home of the Black Circle Seers, and Yasmina realizes she may be able to use her feminine wiles to enact her original plan and have Conan slay her brother’s killers-

She stared at the peak as at a human enemy, feeling all her anger and hatred stir in her bosom anew. And another feeling began to take dim shape. She had plotted to hurl against the masters of Yimsha the man in whose arms she was now carried. Perhaps there was another way, besides the method she had planned, to accomplish her purpose. She could not mistake the look that was beginning to dawn in this wild man’s eyes as they rested on her. Kingdoms have fallen when a woman’s slim hands pulled the strings of destiny.

Khemsa, the mage who rebelled from the Black Seers, and Gitara, Yasmina’s traitorous handmaid, intercept them on their journey, intent on taking Yasmina for themselves as leverage. A quick scuffle breaks out until even more trouble arrives-

The crimson cloud balanced like a spinning top for an instant, whirling in a dazzling sheen on its point. Then without warning it was gone, vanished as a bubble vanishes when burst. There on the ledge stood four men. It was miraculous, incredible, impossible, yet it was true. They were not ghosts or phantoms. They were four tall men, with shaven, vulture-like heads, and black robes that hid their feet. Their hands were concealed by their wide sleeves. They stood in silence, their naked heads nodding slightly in unison. They were facing Khemsa, but behind them Conan felt his own blood turning to ice in his veins. Rising, he backed stealthily away, until he could feel the stallion’s shoulder trembling against his back, and the Devi crept into the shelter of his arm. There was no word spoken. Silence hung like a stifling pall.

All four of the men in black robes stared at Khemsa. Their vulture-like faces were immobile, their eyes introspective and contemplative. But Khemsa shook like a man in an ague. His feet were braced on the rock, his calves straining as if in physical combat. Sweat ran in streams down his dark face.

Khemsa’s former masters have arrived and they are none too pleased that their boy betrayed them. The Seers try to overpower Khemsa’s mind and, at first he’s able to resist thanks to his deep love for Gitara. Unfortunately, that also means she’s a weakness they can exploit-

The girl shrank and wilted like a leaf in the drought. Irresistibly impelled, she tore herself from her lover’s arms before he realized what was happening. Then a hideous thing came to pass. She began to back toward the precipice, facing her tormentors, her eyes wide and blank as dark gleaming glass from behind which a lamp has been blown out. Khemsa groaned and staggered toward her, falling into the trap set for him. A divided mind could not maintain the unequal battle. He was beaten, a straw in their hands. The girl went backward, walking like an automaton, and Khemsa reeled drunkenly after her, hands vainly outstretched, groaning, slobbering in his pain, his feet moving heavily like dead things.

On the very brink she paused, standing stiffly, her heels on the edge, and he fell on his knees and crawled whimpering toward her, groping for her, to drag her back from destruction. And just before his clumsy fingers touched her, one of the wizards laughed, like the sudden, bronze note of a bell in hell. The girl reeled suddenly and, consummate climax of exquisite cruelty, reason and understanding flooded back into her eyes, which flared with awful fear. She screamed, clutched wildly at her lover’s straining hand, and then, unable to save herself, fell headlong with a moaning cry.

Even though Khemsa and Gitara are traitors and villains, the tragic way they’re destroyed by the Seers of the Black Circle is wonderfully dramatic and engaging. Punchy and powerful. Then the Seers turn their focus to Conan and Yasmina-

He saw their outlines fading, dimming, becoming hazy and nebulous, as a crimson smoke billowed around their feet and rose about them. They were blotted out by a sudden whirling cloud—and then he realized that he too was enveloped in a blinding crimson mist—he heard Yasmina scream, and the stallion cried out like a woman in pain. The Devi was torn from his arm, and as he lashed out with his knife blindly, a terrific blow like a gust of storm wind knocked him sprawling against a rock. Dazedly he saw a crimson conoid cloud spinning up and over the mountain slopes. Yasmina was gone, and so were the four men in black.

Conan is enraged and heads toward Mount Yimsha intent on getting Yasmina back, but there’s even more trouble brewing for our hero. The barbarian tribesmen he leads have found out that their seven brethren are already dead and they blame our hero. Conan has to run from his former allies, find a way to break into the near-impregnable fortress of the Black Circle and try to rescue Yasmina. It’s a tightly churning stew of loyalty and betrayal, lust and courage, all of it written with bombast from scene to scene.

I won’t spoil how it all turns out, but I do need to include an excerpt of the hauntingly powerful sequence where the Master of Mount Yimsha uses his mental power to try and break Yasmina’s will. The way Howard describes her surreal psychic journey is top notch pulp-drama:

She knew the agonies of childbirth, and the bitterness of love betrayed. She suffered all the woes and wrongs and brutalities that man has inflicted on woman throughout the eons; and she endured all the spite and malice of women for woman. And like the flick of a fiery whip throughout was the consciousness she retained of her Devi-ship. She was all the women she had ever been, yet in her knowing she was Yasmina. This consciousness was not lost in the throes of reincarnation. At one and the same time she was a naked slave-wench groveling under the whip, and the proud Devi of Vendhya. And she suffered not only as the slave-girl suffered, but as Yasmina, to whose pride the whip was like a white-hot brand.

Life merged into life in flying chaos, each with its burden of woe and shame and agony, until she dimly heard her own voice screaming unbearably, like one long-drawn cry of suffering echoing down the ages.

I’d read People of the Black Circle before, but previously it hadn’t made a strong impact on me. This time it really hit the mark and I may have to reevaluate my Top Five Favorite Conan Stories list when Cimmerian September is complete…

This story was first adapted to comics in Savage Sword of Conan #16-19 with jaw-dropping artwork by John Buscema and Alfredo Alcala:

If you haven’t read the original Conan prose stories, I recommend the Del Rey 3-book set, which has each story unedited and essays that add context around their publication.

Continuing my Conan reread for Cimmerian September, the eleventh published Conan story is People of the Black Circle, which originally serialized across three issues of Weird Tales magazine, from September to November 1934.

Given the larger format of this Conan story, I’m going to gloss over quite a bit, but there’s still a lot to cover so it’ll take two blogposts.

Chapter one opens with the King of of Vendhya lying on his deathbed, struck down by some kind of mystic curse from afar. His sister, the Devi Yasmina, is by his side, distraught and unable to stop the inevitable:

“Swift!” he gasped, and his weakening voice was rational. “I know now what brings me to the pyre. I have been on a far journey and I understand. I have been ensorcelled by the wizards of the Himelians. They drew my soul out of my body and far away, into a stone room. There they strove to break the silver cord of life, and thrust my soul into the body of a foul night-weird their sorcery summoned up from hell. Aie! I feel their pull upon me now! Your cry and the grip of your fingers brought me back, but I am going fast. My soul clings to my body, but its hold weakens. Quick—kill me, before they can trap my soul for ever!”

And kill him she does, kicking off our story with dark intensity.

Chapter two keeps things rolling by moving the narrative ahead to another location. Chunder Shan, the governor of Peshkhauri, writing a letter to the king to tell him he has seven tribesman captured from a barbaric horde that’s hounded their borders, and is ready to negotiate terms with their leader, as per Devi Yasmina’s orders, when he’s interrupted by an unexpected visitor – the Devi herself in person, which is high unusual and incredibly dangerous.

Yasmina’s research has uncovered that her brother was struck down by the Black Seers of Mount Yimsha and, since the barbarians know the untamed lands better than any other, she wants to trade the seven prisoners for the heads of those Black Circle Seers. And that plan might have worked, but the barbarian leader sneaks into the governor’s chamber and, wouldn’t you know it, it’s our boy Conan:

The invader was a tall man, at once strong and supple. He was dressed like a hillman, but his dark features and blazing blue eyes did not match his garb. Chunder Shan had never seen a man like him; he was not an Easterner, but some barbarian from the West. But his aspect was as untamed and formidable as any of the hairy tribesmen who haunt the hills of Ghulistan.

The governor is so shocked that he blurts out Yasmina’s identity and Conan immediately springs into action:

The governor shouted desperately and caught at his sword, but the hillman moved with the devastating speed of a hurricane. He sprang, knocked the governor sprawling with a savage blow of his knife-hilt, swept up the astounded Devi in one brawny arm and leaped for the window. Chunder Shan, struggling frantically to his feet, saw the man poise an instant on the sill in a flutter of silken skirts and white limbs that was his royal captive, and heard his fierce, exultant snarl: “Now dare to hang my men!” and then Conan leaped to the parapet and was gone.

Chapter three changes focus as the reader finds out that Gitara, Yasmina’s handmaid, is betraying her by aligning with Khemsa, a dark mage who serves the Black Seers. Khemsa is deeply in love with Gitara and she wants him to break ties with the Black Seers so they can strike out on their own and kidnap the Devi themselves and, with some lusty encouragement, he agrees:

“I love you!” she cried fiercely, writhing her body against his, almost strangling him in her wild embrace, shaking him in her abandon. “I will make a king of you! For love of you I betrayed my mistress; for love of me betray your masters! Why fear the Black Seers? By your love for me you have broken one of their laws already! Break the rest! You are as strong as they!”

A man of ice could not have withstood the searing heat of her passion and fury. With an inarticulate cry he crushed her to him, bending her backward and showering gasping kisses on her eyes, face and lips.

Neither of them realize a mercenary named Kerim Shah has overheard their rooftop conspiracy plot. He sends a message to notify a neighboring kingdom that the King is dead and the Devi has been kidnapped so now is the time for them to make their move. Meanwhile, Khemsa uses magic to slay the seven tribesman (ruining any leverage the Vendhya have over the barbarians) and we get our first glimpse of magic hypnosis as he kills a guard in this nasty passage:

Lifting his voice slightly he spoke to the guardsman. “I have no more use for you. Kill yourself!”

Like a man in a trance the warrior thrust the butt of his spear against the base of the wall, and placed the keen head against his body, just below the ribs. Then slowly, stolidly, he leaned against it with all his weight, so that it transfixed his body and came out between his shoulders. Sliding down the shaft he lay still, the spear jutting above him its full length, like a horrible stalk growing out of his back.

Chapter four showcases Yasmina kidnapped by Conan. He knows that she is the perfect leverage to get his seven tribesman back, but first he has to lose their pursuers. That gets more difficult when a group of other tribesman attack and kill Conan’s horse. Luckily, the leader of this tribe owes Conan a favor, but they’ll need to hide out in their village for now. Yasmina’s had a stressful couple of days, and falls unconscious in this lyrical bit of prose:

Yasmina, snuggled warmly in her captor’s arms, grew drowsy in spite of herself. The motion of the horse, though it was uneven, uphill and down, yet possessed a certain rhythm which combined with weariness and emotional exhaustion to force sleep upon her. She had lost all sense of time or direction. They moved in soft thick darkness, in which she sometimes glimpsed vaguely gigantic walls sweeping up like black ramparts, or great crags shouldering the stars; at times she sensed echoing depths beneath them, or felt the wind of dizzy heights blowing cold about her. Gradually these things faded into a dreamy unwakefulness in which the clink of hoofs and the creak of saddles were like the irrelevant sounds in a dream.

Chapter five is the next morning. Yasmina and Conan banter and bristle a bit at each other before the chief of this tribe holds court with his people. The warriors want to kill Conan and take Yasmina for themselves, but the chief will have none of it. Khemsa and Gitara secretly arrive and Khemsa uses his magic to control a villager and have him deliver a magic trap to the chief:

He no longer held a smooth shining sphere in his fingers. And he dared not look; his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not open his hand. His astonished warriors saw Yar Afzal’s eyes distend, the color ebb from his face. Then suddenly a bellow of agony burst from his bearded lips; he swayed and fell as if struck by lightning, his right arm tossed out in front of him. Face down he lay, and from between his opening fingers crawled a spider—a hideous, black, hairy-legged monster whose body shone like black jade. The men yelled and gave back suddenly, and the creature scuttled into a crevice of the rocks and disappeared.

With the chief dead, the villagers immediately attack, intent on killing Conan and taking Yasmina, kicking off a wild chase and escape. That completes the first part of three when it was originally serialized in Weird Tales, so it’s a natural point for us to end here as well.

There are a lot of characters and moving parts to the plot, but all of it is well introduced, and events move at a nice clip. Magic is critical to the story, but feels substantial and atmospheric instead of just a way to handwave events.

This story was first adapted to comics in Savage Sword of Conan #16-19 with jaw-dropping artwork by John Buscema and Alfredo Alcala:

CLICK HERE FOR PART TWO!

Continuing my Conan reread for Cimmerian September, the tenth published Conan story is The Devil In Iron, which arrived in the August 1934 issue of Weird Tales magazine.

This story kicks off with a fisherman exploring a mysterious island called Xapur and finding something strange in and amongst the ruins there:

Within the ruined dome, surrounded by stone-dust and bits of broken masonry, lay a man on the golden block. He was clad in a sort of skirt and a shagreen girdle. His black hair, which fell in a square mane to his massive shoulders, was confined about his temples by a narrow gold band. On his bare, muscular breast lay a curious dagger with a jeweled pommel, shagreen-bound hilt, and a broad crescent blade. It was much like the knife the fisherman wore at his hip, but it lacked the serrated edge, and was made with infinitely greater skill.

He grabs the blade, awakening an ancient evil…

Chapter two is centered on Jehungir Agha, lord of Khawarizm, and his counsellor Ghaznavi as they scheme to stop a group of outlaws called the Kozaks, who have been terrorizing their borders and staying one step ahead of the law thanks to their fearless new leader:

‘That is because of the new chief who has risen among them,’ answered Ghaznavi. ‘You know whom I mean.’

‘Aye!’ replied Jehungir feelingly. ‘It is that devil Conan; he is even wilder than the kozaks, yet he is crafty as a mountain lion.’

‘It is more through wild animal instinct than through intelligence,’ answered Ghaznavi. ‘The other kozaks are at least descendants of civilized men. He is a barbarian. But to dispose of him would be to deal them a crippling blow.’

Their plan: Use Jehungir’s irresistibly attractive slave Octavia as bait, letting Conan see her during a prisoner exchange, and then have the rumor reach him that she has escaped enslavement and headed to Xapur Island. When he heads there to find her, they’ll ambush him with archers. Things get a bit messy here as even the plotters see flaws in their strategy:

‘The chances are all that he will go alone. But we will take care of the other alternative. We will not await him on the island, where we might be trapped ourselves, but among the reeds of a marshy point which juts out to within a thousand yards of Xapur. If he brings a large force, we’ll beat a retreat and think up another plot. If he comes alone or with a small party, we will have him.’

Chapter three is on Xapur and, surprisingly, Octavia is there. She wasn’t actually supposed go to the island, but after the set-up worked she was sold to a new master, escaped, and coincidentally ends up on Xapur anyways. It’s a pretty labored as the plot works overtime to try and get all these pieces in place.

Olivia stumbles across the evil unleashed in chapter one and we’re given a few more clues about what it is, but not a full view just yet:

With a stifled cry she shrank back, and as she did so, something that even in her panic she recognized as a human arm curved about her waist. She screamed and threw all her supple young strength into a wild lunge for freedom, but her captor caught her up like a child, crushing her frantic resistance with ease. The silence with which her frenzied pleas and protests were received added to her terror as she felt herself being carried through the darkness toward the distant drum which still pulsed and muttered.

It takes until chapter four for Conan to actually appear in this Conan story! When he finally shows up, at least Howard does lavish attention on him:

The muscles of his heavy bronzed arms rippled as he pulled the oars with an almost feline ease of motion. A fierce vitality that was evident in each feature and motion set him apart from common men; yet his expression was neither savage nor somber, though the smoldering blue eyes hinted at ferocity easily wakened. This was Conan, who had wandered into the armed camps of the kozaks with no other possession than his wits and his sword, and who had carved his way to leadership among them.

Conan explores the island (not realizing Jehungir’s crew will ambush him when he tries to leave) and sees that the ruins have somehow transformed into a fortress. That freaks him out and he’s ready to retreat, except he lucks across fabric from Octavia’s outfit, and carnal instincts drive his courage:

He stood silently facing the dark towers that loomed through the trees, his eyes slits of blue bale-fire. Desire for the yellow-haired woman vied with a sullen primordial rage at whoever had taken her. His human passion fought down his ultra-human fears, and dropping into the stalking crouch of a hunting panther, he glided toward the walls, taking advantage of the dense foliage to escape detection from the battlements.

The rest of the chapter meanders quite a bit with Conan finding sleeping citizens amongst the ruin, not understanding how they got there and then hearing the sound of an enemy moving around, but not finding them. The story definitely feels sluggish here.

In chapter five Conan comes across an ornate room and he sees what he assumes is a sculpture of a giant snake, until he touches it, prompting this intense description:

An icy chill congealed the blood in his veins and lifted the short hair on his scalp. Under his hand there was not the smooth, brittle surface of glass or metal or stone, but the yielding, fibrous mass of a living thing. He felt cold, sluggish life flowing under his fingers.

His hand jerked back in instinctive repulsion. Sword shaking in his grasp, horror and revulsion and fear almost choking him, he backed away and down the glass steps with painful care, glaring in awful fascination at the grisly thing that slumbered on the copper throne. It did not move.

Leaving that room and exploring elsewhere, we finally encounter the ancient evil teased previously. It’s a being named Khosatral Khel that looks a giant glossy-skinned humanoid. When Conan hears Khosatral’s voice, it puts him in a strange trance and he sees the creature’s origin. There are some interesting bits of lyrical prose here but, once again, the plot feels sluggish instead of motivated and moving.

Chapter six opens with Jehungir Agha and his men getting sick of waiting for Conan to come back and setting forth on their own to find him. At the same time, Conan finally confronts Khosatral and realizes he’s in way over his head:

There was a fleeting concussion, a fierce writhing and intertwining of limbs and bodies, and then Conan sprang clear, every thew quivering from the violence of his efforts; blood started where the grazing fingers had torn the skin. In that instant of contact he had experienced the ultimate madness of blasphemed nature; no human flesh had bruised his, but metal animated and sentient; it was a body of living iron which opposed his.

Khosatral loomed above the warrior in the gloom. Once let those great fingers lock and they would not loosen until the human body hung limp in their grasp. In that twilit chamber it was as if a man fought with a dream-monster in a nightmare.

The rest of the story is a pitched battle between Conan, Khosatral, and Jehungir and his men, with the giant snake and saving Octavia thrown in for good measure.

The way to pierce Khosatral’s impenetrable skin is the magical dagger that the fisherman took and Conan glimpsed in his trance, and once he gets that the big bad guy gets wrecked pretty quick and turns into…dead evil goop? It’s not exactly clear:

Khosatral reeled and fell. In the shape of a man he reeled, but it was not the shape of a man that struck the loam. Where there had been the likeness of a human face, there was no face at all, and the metal limbs melted and changed…. Conan, who had not shrunk from Khosatral living, recoiled blenching from Khosatral dead, for he had witnessed an awful transmutation; in his dying throes Khosatral Khel had become again the thing that had crawled up from the Abyss millenniums gone. Gagging with intolerable repugnance, Conan turned to flee the sight.

Fantasy illustrator Boris Vallejo did a great job representing Conan about to fight Khel with the magic dagger:

This 12,000 word story feels like an awkward mix of ingredients from previous Conan tales – There’s an ancient enemy being reawakened like Black Colossus, an island with a lost secret like Pool of the Black One, a supernatural foe in a forgotten city of sleeping citizens like Xuthal of the Dusk, an iron statue-esque foe like Iron Shadows in the Moon, a treasure guarded by a creature like Tower of the Elephant, and even an out of body origin vision like Queen of the Black Coast. It’s not bad, by any means, but also feels like it’s trying to jam too much together in ways that don’t quite flow from scene to scene.

All that said, once again John Buscema and Alfredo Alcala really elevate the material in their comic adaptation from Savage Sword of Conan #15. Every page is a stunner:

If you haven’t read the original Conan prose stories, I recommend the Del Rey 3-book set, which has each story unedited and essays that add context around their publication.

Continuing my Conan reread for Cimmerian September, the ninth published Conan story is Queen of the Black Coast, which arrived in the May 1934 issue of Weird Tales magazine.

Each chapter of this story opens with a verse from “The Song Of Bêlit” which subtly gives the events to come more weight and pathos.

Believe green buds awaken in the spring,
That autumn paints the leaves with somber fire;
Believe I held my heart inviolate
To lavish on one man my hot desire.
—’The Song Of Bêlit’

Chapter one kicks off energetically with a chase in the coastal city of Argos. Conan is on the run from the law and, after heading to the pier, makes a dangerous jump to a trading ship leaving port. He negotiates joining this crew with a lot more intensity than we saw in Pool of the Black One, a story which takes place later in his adventuring career:

“Get under way!” roared the intruder with a fierce gesture that spattered red drops from his broadsword.

“But we’re bound for the coasts of Kush!” expostulated the master.

“Then I’m for Kush! Push off, I tell you!” The other cast a quick glance up the street, along which a squad of horsemen were galloping; far behind them toiled a group of archers, crossbows on their shoulders.

“Can you pay for your passage?” demanded the master.

“I pay my way with steel!” roared the man in armor, brandishing the great sword that glittered bluely in the sun. “By Crom, man, if you don’t get under way, I’ll drench this galley in the blood of its crew!”

But things soon calm down as Argos is left behind. The trading ship can use some muscle and Conan can certainly offer that.

That night, the Cimmerian talks about the circumstances that sent him running from Argos:

“Well, last night in a tavern, a captain in the king’s guard offered violence to the sweetheart of a young soldier, who naturally ran him through. But it seems there is some cursed law against killing guardsmen, and the boy and his girl fled away. It was bruited about that I was seen with them, and so today I was haled into court, and a judge asked me where the lad had gone. I replied that since he was a friend of mine, I could not betray him. Then the court waxed wroth, and the judge talked a great deal about my duty to the state, and society, and other things I did not understand, and bade me tell where my friend had flown. By this time I was becoming wrathful myself, for I had explained my position.

“But I choked my ire and held my peace, and the judge squalled that I had shown contempt for the court, and that I should be hurled into a dungeon to rot until I betrayed my friend. So then, seeing they were all mad, I drew my sword and cleft the judge’s skull; then I cut my way out of the court, and seeing the high constable’s stallion tied near by, I rode for the wharfs, where I thought to find a ship bound for foreign ports.”

The matter-of-fact way Conan relates cause and effect is both amusing and insightful:
Of course the guard had to die for threatening someone’s lover.
Of course Conan would not betray a friend’s trust.
Of course Conan had to kill the judge who tried to imprison him.

It’s another example of Howard’s thoughts on ‘Civilization VS Savagery’ and the difference between written law and moral justice.

The captain is no fan of courts and kings either, so he lets Conan stay and, over the next few paragraphs Howard confidently lays out a coastal journey filled with locations and details that makes the Hyborian Age feel like it exists well beyond the printed page:

They sighted the coast of Shem—long rolling meadowlands with the white crowns of the towers of cities in the distance, and horsemen with blue- black beards who sat their steeds along the shore and eyed the galley with suspicion. She did not put in; there was scant profit in trade with the sons of Shem.

Nor did master Tito pull into the broad bay where the Styx river emptied its gigantic flood into the ocean, and the massive black castles of Khemi loomed over the blue waters. Ships did not put unasked into this port, where dusky sorcerers wove awful spells in the murk of sacrificial smoke mounting eternally from blood-stained altars where naked women screamed, and where Set, the Old Serpent, arch-demon of the Hyborians but god of the Stygians, was said to writhe his shining coils among his worshippers.

Master Tito gave that dreamy glass-floored bay a wide berth, even when a serpent-prowed gondola shot from behind a castellated point of land, and naked dusky women, with great red blossoms in their hair, stood and called to his sailors, and posed and postured brazenly.

The captain isn’t afraid of any kingdom. His only fear is being raided by a ship called the Tigress, captained by a fearsome pirate named Bêlit:

“The wildest she-devil unhanged. Unless I read the signs awrong, it was her butchers who destroyed that village on the bay. May I some day see her dangling from the yard-arm! She is called the queen of the black coast. She is a Shemite woman, who leads black raiders. They harry the shipping and have sent many a good tradesman to the bottom.”

Bêlit is an iconic character in Conan lore and she’s been illustrated many times in many styles. Becky Cloonan‘s version in the Dark Horse comic run is impressively creepy, especially in this early part of the story where her reputation is being built up:

Moments later, the Tigress indeed appears and their ship is under attack. Arrows are launched between the two ships until they get into boarding range, and then things get intensely bloody:

A tall corsair, bounding over the rail, was met in midair by the Cimmerian’s great sword, which sheared him cleanly through the torso, so that his body fell one way and his legs another. Then, with a burst of fury that left a heap of mangled corpses along the gunwales, Conan was over the rail and on the deck of the Tigress.

In an instant he was the center of a hurricane of stabbing spears and lashing clubs. But he moved in a blinding blur of steel. Spears bent on his armor or swished empty air, and his sword sang its death-song. The fighting- madness of his race was upon him, and with a red mist of unreasoning fury wavering before his blazing eyes, he cleft skulls, smashed breasts, severed limbs, ripped out entrails, and littered the deck like a shambles with a ghastly harvest of brains and blood.

The crew of the trading ship gets slaughtered so Conan is alone, armored up and raging with barbarian fury, killing as many raiders as he can before certain death…until Bêlit halts the attack:

She was untamed as a desert wind, supple and dangerous as a she-panther. She came close to him, heedless of his great blade, dripping with blood of her warriors. Her supple thigh brushed against it, so close she came to the tall warrior. Her red lips parted as she stared up into his somber menacing eyes.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “By Ishtar, I have never seen your like, though I have ranged the sea from the coasts of Zingara to the fires of the ultimate south. Whence come you?”

And, within a few swaggering paragraphs, Bêlit is deeply smitten with the barbarian and offers him a place by her side, which he accepts, kicking off a blood-soaked romance for the ages.

Chapter two opens with a montage of Conan aboard the Tigress and their pirate adventures, a sequence that spans years:

The Tigress ranged the sea, and the villages shuddered. Tomtoms beat in the night, with a tale that the she-devil of the sea had found a mate, an iron man whose wrath was as that of a wounded lion. And survivors of butchered Stygian ships named Bêlit with curses, and a white warrior with fierce blue eyes; so the Stygian princes remembered this man long and long, and their memory was a bitter tree which bore crimson fruit in the years to come.

But the heart of Chapter 2 centers around Bêlit’s desire to venture upriver to a mysterious civilization rumored to be flush with treasure. With Conan at her side and so many victories behind them, she thinks they’re invincible.

There’s an extended sequence with Conan and Bêlit on the deck discussing life, the gods, and their love. It’s jam-packed with quotable sections, but the most famous ones are Conan’s pronouncement:

“Let me live deep while I live; let me know the rich juices of red meat and stinging wine on my palate, the hot embrace of white arms, the mad exultation of battle when the blue blades flame and crimson, and I am content. Let teachers and priests and philosophers brood over questions of reality and illusion. I know this: if life is illusion, then I am no less an illusion, and being thus, the illusion is real to me. I live, I burn with life, I love, I slay, and am content.”

And Bêlit’s fierce declaration:

“My heart is welded to your heart, my soul is part of your soul! Were I still in death and you fighting for life, I would come back from the abyss to aid you — aye, whether my spirit floated with the purple sails on the crystal sea of paradise, or writhed in the molten flames of hell! I am yours, and all the gods and all their eternities shall not sever us!”

When it comes to emotionally-charged pulp writing, it doesn’t get any better than that. Bêlit is the bad girl your Mom warned you about cranked up to eleven, but that mixture of danger and desire is intoxicating. The intensity of those words and the bond it represents have made Conan and Bêlit an inseparable item in the eyes of most Hyborian fandom.

As a reader, you get caught up in their obsessive love, but also know their hubris is about to cost them everything. In that lost city they discover countless riches, but also terrifying traps and inhuman creatures.

When the water-casks aboard the Tigress are destroyed by one of the monsters, Conan and a small band of warriors head into the jungle in search of a fresh water source. Chapter two ends with Conan knocked unconscious by the potent power of the infamous Black Lotus.

Chapter three is a surreal journey as Conan ‘sees’ events happening in the deep past and present, glimpses of the history of this freakish place, the tragedy that leads to their corruption, and then the attack they unleash on the crew of the Tigress in Conan’s absence. Using the Black Lotus as a way to have Conan experience multiple places and times but unable to stop any of it is surprisingly effective:

Then abruptly, etched clearly in contrast to these impressionistic glimpses, around the jungled point in the whitening dawn swept a long galley, thronged with shining ebon figures, and in the bows stood a white-skinned ghost in blue steel.

It was at this point that Conan first realized that he was dreaming. Until that instant he had had no consciousness of individual existence. But as he saw himself treading the boards of the Tigress, he recognized both the existence and the dream, although he did not awaken.

When Conan finally awakens and returns to the ship, he discovers a haunting scene- Bêlit is dead, hung by the glittering necklace she stole:

Conan came silently upon the pier, approaching the galley above whose deck was suspended something that glimmered ivory- white in the faint twilight. Speechless, the Cimmerian looked on the Queen of the Black Coast as she hung from the yard-arm of her own galley. Between the yard and her white throat stretched a line of crimson clots that shone like blood in the gray light.

Incredibly, the story isn’t over yet. Chapter 4 is Conan rearming up and on a mission of vengeance against the creature that slew his lover. It’s a brutal battle between man and beast and, when Conan is trapped under a fallen pillar, it looks like he’s done for, until Bêlit fulfills her promise and makes her spectral return:

In one mad instant she was there—a tense white shape, vibrant with love fierce as a she-panther’s. The dazed Cimmerian saw between him and the onrushing death, her lithe figure, shimmering like ivory beneath the moon; he saw the blaze of her dark eyes, the thick cluster of her burnished hair; her bosom heaved, her red lips were parted, she cried out sharp and ringing as the ring of steel as she thrust at the winged monster’s breast.

It’s an iconic moment that Doug Braithwaite and Diego Rodriguez absolutely delivered on in the new Conan the Barbarian #6:

(And, of course, was also the inspiration for a similar scene in the original Conan the Barbarian movie in 1982, with Valeria subbing in for Bêlit.)

Conan is able to rally and defeat the creature, and then sends the Tigress down river on fire as a funeral barge, leaving him brokenhearted in a hostile land with no sure way back to civilization.

In just over 11,000 words Howard weaves a wildly intense and deeply tragic tale, sending readers on a roller coaster ride of action and emotion. I’ve read it at least a dozen times and am still struck by how intensely it rips through each scene.

Even though Conan is with Bêlit for years, the transition between him joining her and their decision to head up the Zarkheba River to their doom is so brief that you can see why so many pastiche writers have sought to fill in that narrative gap (myself included).

At Marvel, Roy Thomas kept Conan and Bêlit together for 43 issues, from Conan the Barbarian #58 through to Conan the Barbarian #100, from October 1975 to April 1979:

At Dark Horse, Brian Wood‘s version of their time together spanned 25 issues, Conan the Barbarian #1-25, from February 2012 to February 2014:

I wrote about the aftermath of Bêlit’s tragic demise in the new Conan story ‘Thrice Marked For Death’ and will be showing them at the height of their pirate infamy in a 2-part story coming this Fall in Conan the Barbarian #17 and 18:

If you haven’t read the original Conan prose stories, I recommend the Del Rey 3-book set, which has each story unedited and essays that add context around their publication.

Continuing my Conan reread for Cimmerian September, the eighth published Conan story is Iron Shadows in the Moon, which arrived in the April 1934 issue of Weird Tales magazine under the renamed title Shadows in the Moonlight.

The story opens in the midst of action, with a woman named Olivia on the run from a man named Shah Amurath but, before he can hurt her again, Conan emerges from the dark and has his own vengeance ready for the Hyrkanian slaver:

“Shah Amurath, the great Lord of Akif! Oh, damn you, how I love the sight of you—you, who fed my comrades to the vultures, who tore them between wild horses, blinded and maimed and mutilated them all, you dog, you filthy dog!” His voice rose to a maddened scream, and he charged.

Even though we haven’t heard about this battle before, Conan’s rage-laden description of it gives us all the information we need and a distinct feeling that the Cimmerian’s adventures spill out past these pages.

This story has been adapted twice in comics, in Savage Sword of Conan #4 from Marvel and Conan the Cimmerian #22-25 from Dark Horse, and both versions of Conan’s arrival here are really effective:

Conan unleashes barbaric fury and Howard wastes no time in knocking out some blood-pumping prose:

There was an instant when the blades flamed and licked, seeming barely to touch each other and leap apart; then the broadsword flashed past the saber and descended terrifically on Shah Amurath’s shoulder. Olivia cried out at the fury of that stroke. Above the crunch of the rending mail, she distinctly heard the snap of the shoulder-bone. The Hyrkanian reeled back, suddenly ashen, blood spurting over the links of his hauberk; his saber slipped from his nerveless fingers.

Olivia is afraid of the blood-spattered warrior before her, but also knows she can’t survive on her own and can’t risk being recaptured by the Hyrkanians, so she goes with Conan, who has a small boat hidden amongst the reeds.

Howard is really on the mark when it comes to lyrical writing in this story, because even when the plot drags there are wonderfully evocative sentences that conjure up tons of atmosphere:

The sun sank like a dull-glowing copper ball into a lake of fire. The blue of the sea merged with the blue of the sky, and both turned to soft dark velvet, clustered with stars and the mirrors of stars. Olivia reclined in the bows of the gently rocking boat, in a state dreamy and unreal. She experienced an illusion that she was floating in midair, stars beneath her as well as above. Her silent companion was etched vaguely against the softer darkness. There was no break or falter in the rhythm of his oars; he might have been a fantasmal oarsman, rowing her across the dark lake of Death. But the edge of her fear was dulled, and, lulled by the monotony of motion, she passed into a quiet slumber.

John Buscema and Alfredo Alcala must have been deeply inspired as well, because their vision of that moment is one of my favorite Savage Sword panels ever:

Conan rows all night and the island he brings them to is filled with mystery. As they explore, a large stone comes crashing down, almost hitting them. Just looking at it, Conan knows that no human being could have thrown it, and now he’s on guard as they approach an overgrown ruin. Again, Howard is on point with effective description:

On all sides lay bits and shards of masonry, half hidden in the waving grass, giving the impression that once many buildings rose there, perhaps a whole town. But now only the long hall-like structure rose against the sky, and its walls leaned drunkenly among the crawling vines.

Whatever doors had once guarded its portals had long rotted away. Conan and his companion stood in the broad entrance and stared inside. Sunlight streamed in through gaps in the walls and roof, making the interior a dim weave of light and shadow. Grasping his sword firmly, Conan entered, with the slouching gait of a hunting panther, sunken head and noiseless feet. Olivia tiptoed after him.

Inside the ruins are a series of large black iron humanoid statues, unmoving but foreboding. As they continue investigating the island and take to a higher vantage point, Conan sees a large ship arriving below. The first chapter ends with Conan and Olivia deciding they don’t want to be found by sailors, so they take refuge in the ominous ruins for the night.

Chapter two kicks off with a dream, as Olivia sees strange events from the past, dark warriors torturing a youth and then the arrival of a deific force punishing them:

At the blast of that awful cry, the figures stiffened and froze. Over their limbs crept a curious rigidity, an unnatural petrification. The stranger touched the limp body of the youth, and the chains fell away from it. He lifted the corpse in his arms; then ere he turned away, his tranquil gaze swept again over the silent rows of ebony figures, and he pointed to the moon, which gleamed in through the casements. And they understood, those tense, waiting statues that had been men…

When Olivia awakens she’s suitably freaked out by that vision, so Conan takes her away from the ruins and soon realizes that the ship that came ashore is manned by a group of pirates called the Red Brotherhood. Conan is confident he can negotiate his way aboard so they can get off this island, but tells Olivia to stay hidden, just in case. What follows is Conan encountering another past foe:

“Sergius of Khrosha, by Crom!”

“Aye, by Ishtar!” boomed the giant, his small black eyes glittering with hate. “Did you think I had forgot? Ha! Sergius never forgets an enemy. Now I’ll hang you up by the heels and skin you alive. At him, lads!”

Conan stumbling across two former enemies in one story pushes narrative credulity, but heaping difficulty on our hero is more interesting than easy victories, so it’s a duel between these two, one Conan finishes with aplomb:

The swords flashed like white fire in the early sun, wheeling and circling. They seemed to recoil from each other’s contact, then leap together again instantly. Sergius was giving back; only his superlative skill had saved him thus far from the blinding speed of the Cimmerian’s onslaught. A louder clash of steel, a sliding rasp, a choking cry—from the pirate horde a fierce yell split the morning as Conan’s sword plunged through their captain’s massive body. The point quivered an instant from between Sergius’s shoulders, a hand’s breadth of white fire in the sunlight; then the Cimmerian wrenched back his steel and the pirate chief fell heavily, face down, and lay in a widening pool of blood, his broad hands twitching for an instant.

And yet, there are still more challenges to overcome. Even though Conan believes he should be captain after killing their leader, one of the pirates gets the drop on the Cimmerian and knocks him out as the crew takes him captive. Under the cover of darkness, Olivia has to overcome her fears to try and free Conan, and with the moon rise there are other dangers about to be unleashed…

The back half of this 12,000 word story is uneven in terms of pacing and payoff, but the wordcraft is genuinely impressive, elevating the overall quality for me.

If you haven’t read the original Conan prose stories, I recommend the Del Rey 3-book set, which has each story unedited and essays that add context around their publication.

Continuing my Conan reread for Cimmerian September, the seventh published Conan story is Rogues in the House, which arrived in the January 1934 issue of Weird Tales magazine.

This story sets up characters and motivations in the first chapter and Conan is just one of several moving pieces, which works quite well despite the fact that the opening reads like a recap of a story we missed instead of the current narrative.

In four terse paragraphs, we’re told about a Red Priest named Nabonidus who threatens an aristocrat named Murilo, and Murilo deciding that the only assassin he can trust to take out Nabonidus in this corrupt city is an outsider – an imprisoned barbarian named Conan who was arrested after killing a different priest who betrayed him. With the preamble taken care of, we go to the prison as Murilo negotiates with our Cimmerian:

To this cell came Murilo, masked and wrapped in a wide black cloak. The Cimmerian surveyed him with interest, thinking him the executioner sent to dispatch him. Murilo set him at rights and regarded him with no less interest. Even in the dim light of the dungeon, with his limbs loaded with chains, the primitive power of the man was evident. His mighty body and thick-muscled limbs combined the strength of a grizzly with the quickness of a panther. Under his tangled black mane his blue eyes blazed with unquenchable savagery.

“Would you like to live?” asked Murilo. The barbarian grunted, new interest glinting in his eyes.

There’s a great line where it’s once again made clear that Conan isn’t a “hero” in the classic sense, but always a protagonist – Always at the center of interesting events that drive the plot:

The Cimmerian showed no sign of surprise or perturbation. He had none of the fear or reverence for authority that civilization instills in men. King or beggar, it was all one to him.

After bribing a prison guard so Conan can escape, complications arise. It looks like Conan won’t be set free after all, so Murilo curses his luck, grabs his blade, and quietly breaks into Nabonidus’ estate so he can try to kill the Red Priest himself…But he doesn’t know there’s already another attack underway and he’s been thrust into the middle of it. The chapter ends as Murilo sees something terrifying, but the reader won’t know what that is until later.

I quite enjoy the unexpected sequence of events that roll out here. Every part of Murilo’s plan should work but doesn’t, and that chaos makes it feel more “real”. The wider world is constantly moving, changing the shape and flow of any plan these characters make. Coincidence that works in our characters’ favor can diminish the sense of challenge, whereas heaping more difficulty on them, even just bad luck, gives it more gravity.

With a bit of well-timed violence Conan springs himself out of his cell and has a choice to make:

It occurred to him that since he had escaped through his own actions, he owed nothing to Murilo; yet it had been the young nobleman who had removed his chains and had the food sent to him, without either of which his escape would have been impossible. Conan decided that he was indebted to Murilo and, since he was a man who discharged his obligations eventually, he determined to carry out his promise to the young aristocrat.

But first our barbarian needs to get a bit of vengeance against the woman who led to his arrest. As chapter two ends, he guts her new paramour and dumps the woman off a rooftop into refuse, then heads back to his original mission, not knowing that Murilo is already on site and in trouble.

Chapter three starts with Conan sneaking into the priest’s manor house through pits connected to the sewers and discovering Murilo there. The frightened aristocrat believes Nabonidus has become a terrifying beast:

“Conan,” he whispered, “it was no man that stood before me! In body and posture it was not unlike a man, but from the scarlet hood of the priest grinned a face of madness and nightmare! It was covered with black hair, from which small pig- like eyes glared redly; its nose was flat, with great flaring nostrils; its loose lips writhed back, disclosing huge yellow fangs, like the teeth of a dog. The hands that hung from the scarlet sleeves were misshapen and likewise covered with black hair. All this I saw in one glance, and then I was overcome with horror; my senses left me and I swooned.”

“What then?” muttered the Cimmerian uneasily.

“I recovered consciousness only a short time ago; the monster must have thrown me into these pits. Conan, I have suspected that Nabonidus was not wholly human! He is a demon—a were-thing! By day he moves among humanity in the guise of men, and by night he takes on his true aspect.”

And if it was as simple as that, the story could still have worked, with Conan fighting a bestial were-priest, but that’s not how events play out. Once again, there are wheels within wheels. The pair explore the pits in the dark and eventually come across another figure regaining consciousness – It’s Nabonidus! The Red Priest and the aristocrat argue about which of them is more morally bankrupt than the other, with Murilo unleashing a well articulated blast:

“You exploit a whole kingdom for your personal greed; and, under the guise of disinterested statesmanship, you swindle the king, beggar the rich, oppress the poor, and sacrifice the whole future of the nation for your ruthless ambition. You are no more than a fat hog with his snout in the trough. You are a greater thief than I am. This Cimmerian is the most honest man of the three of us, because he steals and murders openly.”

“Well, then, we are all rogues together,” agreed Nabonidus equably.

Hence the story’s title.

As the trio sneak around the house, Nabonidus finally identifies their attacker:

“That is Thak,” answered the priest, caressing his temple. “Some would call him an ape, but he is almost as different from a real ape as he is different from a real man. His people dwell far to the east, in the mountains that fringe the eastern frontiers of Zamora. There are not many of them; but, if they are not exterminated, I believe they will become human beings in perhaps a hundred thousand years. They are in the formative stage; they are neither apes, as their remote ancestors were, nor men, as their remote descendants may be.”

In quite a few of his stories, Robert E. Howard explores concepts around evolution and devolution and they’re part of the larger theme of ‘Civilization VS Savagery’ at the heart of many of Conan’s tales. Humanity is drawn to violence and other base instincts, and in this case Thak is a personification of that:

“He was at once bodyguard and servant. But I forgot that being partly a man, he could not be submerged into a mere shadow of myself, like a true animal. Apparently his semi-brain retained impressions of hate, resentment, and some sort of bestial ambition of its own.”

The rest of the story is a tense interplay with the barbarian, the priest, and the aristocrat forced to work together to neutralize Thak and escape, using strange traps Nabonidus has installed in the manor, but those aren’t enough and Conan ends up battling the beast, a sequence which gets some punchy prose:

In a whirlwind of blows and scarlet tatters they rolled along the corridor, revolving so swiftly that Murilo dared not use the chair he had caught up, lest he strike the Cimmerian. And he saw that in spite of the handicap of Conan’s first hold, and the voluminous robe that lashed and wrapped about the ape-man’s limbs and body, Thak’s giant strength was swiftly prevailing.

Mark Schultz’s illustration of Conan fighting Thak (shown above) is wonderful, and you can tell he was clearly influenced by Frank Frazetta, who immortalized the same moment in one of his classic Conan book cover illustrations:

The story ends in a swirl of blood and betrayal and, even though the prose is just over 9700 words, it feels a lot larger thanks to the way circumstances keep shifting and new complications are introduced. Rogues in the House isn’t as emotional or elegant as the finest Conan stories, but it is iconic and a heck of a lot of fun.

If you haven’t read the original Conan prose stories, I recommend the Del Rey 3-book set, which has each story unedited and essays that add context around their publication.

Continuing my Conan reread for Cimmerian September, the sixth published Conan story is The Pool of the Black One, which arrived in the October 1933 issue of Weird Tales magazine.

As with Xuthal of the Dusk, Howard wastes no time bringing Conan into our story. A concubine named Sancha, lounging on the deck of a pirate ship called The Wastrel, sees the Cimmerian climb up on board and she’s immediately struck by his muscled form:

The intruder was a stranger to her. Water ran in rivulets from his great shoulders and down his heavy arms. His single garment—a pair of bright crimson silk breeks—was soaking wet, as was his broad gold-buckled girdle and the sheathed sword it supported. As he stood at the rail, the rising sun etched him like a great bronze statue. He ran his fingers through his streaming black mane, and his blue eyes lit as they rested on the girl.

Zaporavo, the narcissistic ship captain, is amazed that this strange barbarian has swam this far and assumes he can just board the ship and join his crew, but Conan manages to socially disarm him with unflagging confidence:

“I found it necessary to leave the rendezvous at Tortage before moonrise last night,” answered Conan. “I departed in a leaky boat, and rowed and bailed all night. Just at dawn I saw your topsails, and left the miserable tub to sink, while I made better speed in the water.”

“There are sharks in these waters,” growled Zaporavo, and was vaguely irritated by the answering shrug of the mighty shoulders.

There’s an unusual bit of narrative lamp shading here, directly telling the reader that by accepting Conan aboard his ship the captain is now doomed, but for me it creates intrigue instead of diffusing it:

He hesitated, and doing so, lost his ship, his command, his girl, and his life. But of course he could not see into the future, and to him Conan was only another wastrel, cast up, as he put it, by the sea. He did not like the man; yet the fellow had given him no provocation.

We now know the broad brushstrokes of where this will lead, but not when or how, and that’s more than enough to keep momentum rolling.

The Cimmerian is ready to be hazed by the sailors and, casually breaking the first fool who steps forth to challenge him, earns a spot amongst the sailors. What follows is an enjoyable montage that keenly contrasts Conan’s natural charisma with Zaporavo’s unlikeable ignorance. It really sells Conan as a leader, worthy of the crew’s respect and admiration:

He did the work of three men, and was always first to spring to any heavy or dangerous task. His mates began to rely upon him. He did not quarrel with them, and they were careful not to quarrel with him. He gambled with them, putting up his girdle and sheath for a stake, won their money and weapons, and gave them back with a laugh.

Sancha begins lusting after Conan and Zaporavo is distracted, obsessed as he is with maps that could lead to ancient treasure. When the ship comes to land in a strange island bay, the crew feast on foreign fruit from tropical trees and the paranoid captain sets off into the jungle alone, unwilling to share any potential spoils to be found, setting up the next chapter.

Conan is always a protagonist, but not necessarily a “hero” in the traditional sense. What follows in chapter two might be unexpected for some readers, with Conan confronting Zaporavo and an exciting one-on-one duel that leaves the captain dead:

Zaporavo was the veteran of a thousand fights by sea and by land. There was no man in the world more deeply and thoroughly versed than he in the lore of swordcraft. But he had never been pitted against a blade wielded by thews bred in the wild lands beyond the borders of civilization. Against his fighting-craft was matched blinding speed and strength impossible to a civilized man. Conan’s manner of fighting was unorthodox, but instinctive and natural as that of a timber wolf. The intricacies of the sword were as useless against his primitive fury as a human boxer’s skill against the onslaughts of a panther.

The moment Conan came aboard he intended to take over, and the captain’s distracted obsession left him wide open to the Cimmerian’s plan – He wins the hearts and minds of the crew, then sees his opportunity when the captain heads off on his own. Conan doesn’t stab Zaporavo in the back, he confronts the man face-to-face, but he’s also taking everything, including the man’s life. It’s simultaneously manipulative and honorable, conniving and courageous. For better or for worse, the Hyborian Age rewards those with the strength to seize what they want and the willpower to hold onto it.

The second half of the story is where all the supernatural business begins and, for me, it’s actually less interesting than the writing that preceded it. A conclave of onyx-skinned humanoid creatures collect people who venture onto their island, kidnapping them when they eat the island’s strange fruit and fall unconscious. There are creepy descriptions of their rituals, and blood-pumping action sequences as Conan saves Sancha and as many sailors as he can from their clutches. It’s appropriately punchy and pulpy throughout, but also doesn’t have a great deal of surprises.

I do like when Conan is backed into a corner and needs to start kicking ass though:

Conan yelled stridently and struck them like a razor-edged thunderbolt. They fell like ripe grains beneath his blade, and the Zingarans, shouting with muddled fury, ran groggily across the court and fell on their gigantic foes with bloodthirsty zeal. They were still dazed; emerging hazily from drugged slumber, they had felt Sancha frantically shaking them and shoving swords into their fists, and had vaguely heard her urging them to some sort of action. They had not understood all she said, but the sight of strangers, and blood streaming, was enough for them.

At just over 11,000 words, The Pool of the Black One hits right in the middle of the Conan canon, delivering sword & sorcery swagger and maintaining Conan’s reputation as a staple of Weird Tales. I was pleasantly surprised at how much I enjoyed the opening half of the story this time.

The comic adaptation in Savage Sword of Conan #22 with art by John Buscema and Sonny Trinidad maintains the marathon of excellence the black & white magazine delivered in the late 1970’s. The draftsmanship and storytelling are both top notch throughout.

If you haven’t read the original Conan prose stories, I recommend the Del Rey 3-book set, which has each story unedited and essays that add context around their publication.