Zub Tales

The second part of our epic pulp adventure, Battle of the Black Stone, arrived in stores this week.
What did critics think? Let’s see…

• Comical Opinions: 10/10 “In a year over stuffed with soulless crossover events that make a lot of noise but do very little to get readers excited, Conan: Battle of the Black Stone #2 gets everything right for a pulp action adventure of the highest order…no comic available right now does it better.”

• Cool Thunder: 9/10 “We get to see all the characters pulled together to discern the mystery of the haunting and deadly Black Stone…issue 2 will leave you on the edge of your seat blending action, suspense, and mystery leaving you desirous for more!”

• DC Patrol: “This book is absolutely fantastic – great images. Jonas Scharf really, really doing a fantastic job and the colors by Canola are great!”

• Dragon’s Cache: 9.6/10 “Jonas Scharf packs the pages of Conan: Battle of the Black Stone #2 with panels to show our heroes interact with these supernatural forces…Jão Canola contrasts the yellow and green energy with orange and red, while brown and gray also ground scenes in the stately club.”

• Goodreads: 5/5 “This hews very closely to Howardian concepts and characters, the ideas behind the world and story, the Hyborian Age, and builds upon it by imagining pre and post yarns branching from well-known stories…Lots of payoff here. Do not miss it!”

• League of Comic Geeks: 5/5 “Wow… just wow. I don’t want to reveal any spoilers but my jaw dropped not once but twice.”

• Mighty Thorngren: “This issue was a breath of fresh air and so fun, just non-stop awesome action and I’m just having a blast with it…These have just been on fire delivering lately.”

• Pop Culture Philosophers: “They pull it all together in issue #2 and it works, and it’s great…Really cool stuff!”

• Stygian Dogs: “With stakes brought into sharp focus and the sense of weird turned up to 11, Jim Zub, Jonas Scharf, and Jão Canola have succeeded in giving us a morbidly exciting second part to this ambitious 4-issue mini-series.”

• Sword & Sorcery Book Club: “This was a phenomenal addition to the story. I really, really loved it…I thought it was really fun. I really enjoyed the artwork and coloring.”

• Thinking Critical: “I love this mini-series, I love what Jim Zub is doing with Conan as a whole, and I love that Titan is giving this character the room and attention it deserves from people who love the character. The results are showing for themselves. A fantastic mini-series.”

• Void City Reviews: “I’m into it. There’s a long build up to get here, but I’m enjoying the execution.”

Continuing my Conan reread for Cimmerian September, the seventeenth published Conan story is Red Nails, which serialized across three issues of Weird Tales magazine, from July to October 1936. This story was the last one written by Robert E. Howard before his untimely death, and it was published posthumously.

Red Nails is one of the longer Conan tales at over 31,000 words, but it does quite a bit with the space its given, using ingredients from other Conan tales but bringing enough inventiveness to make it stand on its own, particularly when it comes to the intensity of its action scenes.

The story opens with Valeria, a swashbuckler who has struck out on her own after trouble broke out in the freebooter camp she was staying at. Valeria has elements of Agnes de Chastillon and Red Sonya of Rogatino mixed together in the Hyborian Age. Her strength, skill and beauty make her a worthy partner for our Cimmerian, especially at this experienced point in his career.

She was tall, full-bosomed and large-limbed, with compact shoulders. Her whole figure reflected an unusual strength, without detracting from the femininity of her appearance. She was all woman, in spite of her bearing and her garments. The latter were incongruous, in view of her present environs. Instead of a skirt she wore short, wide-legged silk breeches, which ceased a hand’s breadth short of her knees, and were upheld by a wide silken sash worn as a girdle. Flaring-topped boots of soft leather came almost to her knees, and a low-necked, wide-collared, wide-sleeved silk shirt completed her costume. On one shapely hip she wore a straight double-edged sword, and on the other a long dirk. Her unruly golden hair, cut square at her shoulders, was confined by a band of crimson satin.

Conan catches up to Valeria and the two of them are nearly slain by a hungry dinosaur-like creature they call a “dragon”:

Through the thicket was thrust a head of nightmare and lunacy. Grinning jaws bared rows of dripping yellow tusks; above the yawning mouth wrinkled a saurian-like snout. Huge eyes, like those of a python a thousand times magnified, stared unwinkingly at the petrified humans clinging to the rock above it. Blood smeared the scaly, flabby lips and dripped from the huge mouth.

The head, bigger than that of a crocodile, was further extended on a long scaled neck on which stood up rows of serrated spikes, and after it, crushing down the briars and saplings, waddled the body of a titan, a gigantic, barrel-bellied torso on absurdly short legs. The whitish belly almost raked the ground, while the serrated back-bone rose higher than Conan could have reached on tiptoe. A long spiked tail, like that of a gargantuan scorpion, trailed out behind.

The artwork from Weird Tales looks great, but unfortunately doesn’t match the action from the prose, where they’re perched on a huge rock just out of reach, trying to figure out how to kill it:

The first chapter doesn’t contribute much to the core plot, but does a great job of building up entertaining interplay between the two warriors and shows Conan’s inventiveness against an impossibly-strong foe.

Conan and Valeria flee toward a city they find in the remote forest – strange, opulent, and seemingly abandoned. The exploration of this city and its secrets feel like Howard finally delivering on the potential of a similar plot point from Xuthal of the Dusk. The environment is much more evocative and the slowly rising tension in the emptiness works really well:

She wondered how many centuries had passed since the light of outer day had filtered into that great hall through the open door. Sunlight was finding its way somehow into the hall, and they quickly saw the source. High up in the vaulted ceiling skylights were set in slot-like openings—translucent sheets of some crystalline substance. In the splotches of shadow between them, the green jewels winked like the eyes of angry cats. Beneath their feet the dully lurid floor smoldered with changing hues and colors of flame. It was like treading the floors of hell with evil stars blinking overhead.

Valeria takes a rest while Conan continues exploring (never split the adventuring party!). Our swashbuckler gets ambushed and responds with skillful violence:

With one tigerish movement she was over the balustrade and dropping to the floor behind the awful shape. It wheeled at the thud of her soft boots on the floor, but even as it turned, her keen blade lashed down, and a fierce exultation swept her as she felt the edge cleave solid flesh and mortal bone.

The apparition cried out gurglingly and went down, severed through shoulder, breast-bone and spine, and as it fell the burning skull rolled clear, revealing a lank mop of black hair and a dark face twisted in the convulsions of death.

Beyond overall energy in the text, the combat in Red Nails is some of Howard’s best, most visceral and incredibly bloody, with a feeling of weight and consequence for every blow struck or wound received.

What Conan and Valeria discover is that this city, called Xuchotl, is a massive enclosed structure split into two sections. Each half is ruled by leaders, named Tecuhltli and Xotalanc, determined to finish the blood feud between their clans that has lasted for decades.

The story’s title comes from a post in one of throne rooms where a red nail is embedded every time one of their lifelong enemies are slain:

“While I talked with the woman, four Xotalancas came upon us! One I slew—there is the stab in my thigh to prove how desperate was the fight. Two the woman killed. But we were hard pressed when this man came into the fray and split the skull of the fourth! Aye! Five crimson nails there are to be driven into the pillar of vengeance!”

He pointed at a black column of ebony which stood behind the dais. Hundreds of red dots scarred its polished surface—the bright scarlet heads of heavy copper nails driven into the black wood.

This kind of stalemate conflict where the tide finally shifts upon the arrival of strangers is a genre classic, and it works well here, though there are a dizzying number of names that start with T’s and X’s thrown into the mix that can lead to confusion. I know which side each character is on, but a Dramatis Personae listing might be required to keep close track of specific characters.

That said, things become a lot clearer once the big battle arrives and the cast gets thinned out something fierce. This is REH’s barbaric bombast at its most brutal:

In sheer strength no three Tlazitlans were a match for Conan, and in spite of his weight he was quicker on his feet than any of them. He moved through the whirling, eddying mass with the surety and destructiveness of a gray wolf amidst a pack of alley curs, and he strode over a wake of crumpled figures.

Valeria fought beside him, her lips smiling and her eyes blazing. She was stronger than the average man, and far quicker and more ferocious. Her sword was like a living thing in her hand. Where Conan beat down opposition by the sheer weight and power of his blows, breaking spears, splitting skulls and cleaving bosoms to the breast-bone, Valeria brought into action a finesse of sword-play that dazzled and bewildered her antagonists before it slew them. Again and again a warrior, heaving high his heavy blade, found her point in his jugular before he could strike. Conan, towering above the field, strode through the welter smiting right and left, but Valeria moved like an illusive phantom, constantly shifting, and thrusting and slashing as she shifted. Swords missed her again and again as the wielders flailed the empty air and died with her point in their hearts or throats, and her mocking laughter in their ears.

This new artwork produced for the upcoming Conan board game expansion built around Red Nails visualizes this chaotic scene really well:

There isn’t as much strange magic in this story as some of the other Conan tales, but a few key moments hit the mark:

She glanced to the sinister skull, smoldering and glowing on the floor near the dead man. It was like a skull seen in a dream, undeniably human, yet with disturbing distortions and malformations of contour and outline. In life the wearer of that skull must have presented an alien and monstrous aspect. Life? It seemed to possess some sort of life of its own. Its jaws yawned at her and snapped together. Its radiance grew brighter, more vivid, yet the impression of nightmare grew too; it was a dream; all life was a dream-

The cry died in the guard’s throat as the thin, weird piping penetrated the metal door and smote on his ears. Xatmec leaned frozen against the door, as if paralyzed in that position. His face was that of a wooden image, his expression one of horrified listening. The other guard, farther removed from the source of the sound, yet sensed the horror of what was taking place, the grisly threat that lay in that demoniac fifing. He felt the weird strains plucking like unseen fingers at the tissues of his brain, filling him with alien emotions and impulses of madness.

Red Nails encompasses a lot of Robert E. Howard’s iconic Conan elements and themes – exploration of a lost city, ancient horrors lurking in the shadows, civilization VS savagery, and our protagonist thrust into the midst of it all, changing history on the keen edge of his blade. Its legacy as the final Conan story written by his creator gives it extra power, but its pretty damn powerful all on its own.

Roy Thomas and Barry Windsor-Smith‘s comic adaptation of Red Nails is a high watermark for Barry’s work on the Cimmerian and Marvel’s Conan comics as a whole. It was first published in Savage Tales #2 + 3, has been reprinted multiple times since, and is well worth seeking out.

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 sixteenth published Conan story is The Hour of the Dragon, which serialized across five issues of Weird Tales magazine, from December 1935 to April 1936 and was later published as a complete book under the renamed title Conan the Conqueror.

At over 70,000 words told over 22 chapters, The Hour of the Dragon is the only “full-length” Conan tale written by Robert E. Howard, produced for a British publisher that unfortunately folded before it could be printed in that format. In turn, Howard sold it to Weird Tales, where all the previous Conan stories had been published.

I read Conan the Conqueror many years ago and, honestly, my memories of it were pretty murky. I knew it used plot points very similar to The Scarlet Citadel, because Howard was told that British readers would not have read the other Conan short stories, and so in my head I had it slotted as a ‘longer but derivative’ work.

I could not have been more mistaken. Rereading The Hour of the Dragon, I was able to really appreciate the ambition of its narrative, the scale of its sprawling worldbuilding, and the rich quality of its prose. Even when it stumbles a bit on occasion, the overall momentum keeps driving everything forward in a thoroughly entertaining way.

But, with such a long tale and deadlines aplenty on my plate, I won’t be able to go through the story blow-by-blow. Here’s a broad overview with some thoughts on specific elements:

A cabal of four men use a gem called the Heart of Ahriman to bring a sorcerer named Xaltotun back to life to assist them in taking the thrones of Nemedia and Aquilonia. The opening chapter showcases this dark ceremony and the eerie return of Xaltotun:

It was as if a globe of living fire flickered and burned on the dead, withered bosom. And breath sucked in, hissing, through the clenched teeth of the watchers. For as they watched, an awful transmutation became apparent. The withered shape in the sarcophagus was expanding, was growing, lengthening. The bandages burst and fell into brown dust. The shriveled limbs swelled, straightened. Their dusky hue began to fade.

Howard is ripping in this story. The way he builds atmosphere is punchy and textured, with unexpected but appropriate descriptions that really activate the reader’s imagination. Check out how he describes the army preparing for battle, with a mixture of sight and sound:

He cast a swift glance over the camp, which was beginning to swarm with activity, mail clinking and men moving about dimly in the uncertain light, among the long lines of tents. Stars still glimmered palely in the western sky, but long pink streamers stretched along the eastern horizon, and against them the dragon banner of Nemedia flung out its billowing silken folds.

Conan is struck down by Xaltotun’s magic and thought slain during the battle, but the ancient necromancer instead takes him prisoner because he wants to use the Cimmerian to further his own machinations. Yes, it’s similar to The Scarlet Citadel on a surface level, but the motivations are richer as Howard builds a web of mistrust and disloyalty amongst Xaltotun and the four who brought him back to life.

Our hero’s escape manifests thanks to a slave named Zenobia. She’s intensely scared because she knows she’s defying her master, but also incredibly brave as she risks her life to give Conan a chance in the dungeon he’s imprisoned in. She doesn’t get much word count, but the narrative effect of her actions is huge:

‘I am only a girl of the king’s seraglio,’ she said, with a certain proud humility. ‘He has never glanced at me, and probably never will. I am less than one of the dogs that gnaw the bones in his banquet hall.

‘But I am no painted toy; I am of flesh and blood. I breathe, hate, fear, rejoice and love. And I have loved you, King Conan, ever since I saw you riding at the head of your knights along the streets of Belverus when you visited King Nimed, years ago. My heart tugged at its strings to leap from my bosom and fall in the dust of the street under your horse’s hoofs.’

Color flooded her countenance as she spoke, but her dark eyes did not waver. Conan did not at once reply; wild and passionate and untamed he was, yet any but the most brutish of men must be touched with a certain awe or wonder at the baring of a woman’s naked soul.

Conan fights an ape-creature in the depths of the dungeon and finds his way out of the castle, but has to leave Zenobia behind.

Even when Conan is riding overland there’s a deft balance between keeping up momentum from the escape and lavishing the reader with textured prose to help ‘sell’ the landscape in a way that really grabbed me:

The dawn wind stirred the tall stiff grass, and there was nothing but the long rolling swells of brown earth, covered with dry grass, and in the distance the gaunt walls of a stronghold on a low hill. Too many Aquilonian raiders had crossed the mountains in not too distant days for the countryside to be thickly settled as it was farther to the east.

Dawn ran like a prairie fire across the grasslands, and high overhead sounded a weird crying as a straggling wedge of wild geese winged swiftly southward. In a grassy swale Conan halted and unsaddled his mount. Its sides were heaving, its coat plastered with sweat. He had pushed it unmercifully through the hours before dawn.

A confident balance of intense action and poetic atmosphere is Howard at his best, whether he’s describing the mundane or the magical:

“Not lightly is the veil rent; yet I will rend it a little, and show you your capital city.”

Conan did not see what she cast upon the fire, but the wolf whimpered in his dreams, and a green smoke gathered and billowed up into the hut. And as he watched, the walls and ceiling of the hut seemed to widen, to grow remote and vanish, merging with infinite immensities; the smoke rolled about him, blotting out everything. And in it forms moved and faded, and stood out in startling clarity.

The middle of this grand adventure feels quite episodic, with Conan traveling to multiple locations, using his physical strength, keen mind, and deep social connections to track down the missing gem that will allow him to defeat the necromancer and retake his throne. At each stop we’re given a sense of who Conan was in his prime and the impact he had on others before he took the crown of Aquilonia. There’s a wistful sense nostalgia to it:

The awakening of old memories, the resurge of the wild, mad, glorious days of old before his feet were set on the imperial path when he was a wandering mercenary, roistering, brawling, guzzling, adventuring, with no thought for the morrow, and no desire save sparkling ale, red lips, and a keen sword to swing on all the battlefields of the world.

Unconsciously he reverted to the old ways; a new swagger became evident in his bearing, in the way he sat his horse; half-forgotten oaths rose naturally to his lips, and as he rode he hummed old songs that he had roared in chorus with his reckless companions in many a tavern and on many a dusty road or bloody field.

All of it could have come across as overly plot-convenient, but because Howard stacks the deck against Conan over and over, and our hero loses almost as many fights as he wins, each victory along the way feels visceral and palatably earned.

The characters Conan interacts with along his journey don’t feel like NPCs waiting to spit out relevant information or provide the next bread crumb on the trail, most have a distinct sense of agency and personal stakes that drive their actions, helping or hindering the king in exile.

One point that’s brought up several times is the concept that Conan has no heir and, therefore, there was no one to rally behind once he fell in battle. Conan has to contend with assumptions he has around his personal freedom versus the responsibility he carries as leader of a country. It’s a maturation of the character as he struggles to retain his barbaric spirit even as he learns to compromise some of his earlier idealistic driving principles.

Why pursue a crown that was lost for ever? Why should he not seek forgetfulness, lose himself in the red tides of war and rapine that had engulfed him so often before? Could he not, indeed, carve out another kingdom for himself? The world was entering an age of iron, an age of war and imperialistic ambition; some strong man might well rise above the ruins of nations as a supreme conqueror. Why should it not be himself?

So his familiar devil whispered in his ear, and the phantoms of his lawless and bloody past crowded upon him. But he did not turn aside; he rode onward, following a quest that grew dimmer and dimmer as he advanced, until sometimes it seemed that he pursued a dream that never was.

Since each new location is populated with different threats and evocative locales, I think the middle is my favorite part of the story, which is odd for me since most stories live and die on their introduction or conclusion. Don’t get me wrong, the beginning and end are good too, but the central series of challenges have the most variety and, for me, feel like a Dungeons & Dragons campaign carving its way through a living, breathing world.

Speaking of D&D, Gary Gygax clearly took direct inspiration from several sections, including a treasure chest with a puzzle sequence of buttons to open it, set with a poison trap:

Along the rim of the lid seven skulls were carved among intertwining branches of strange trees. An inlaid dragon writhed its way across the top of the lid amid ornate arabesques. Valbroso pressed the skulls in fumbling haste, and as he jammed his thumb down on the carved head of the dragon he swore sharply and snatched his hand away, shaking it in irritation.

‘A sharp point on the carvings,’ he snarled. ‘I’ve pricked my thumb.’

And labyrinthian corridors and chambers that read just like DM box text from an old adventure module:

The corridor split in two branches, and he had no way of knowing which the masked priests had taken. At a venture he chose the left. The floor slanted slightly downward and was worn smooth as by many feet. Here and there a dim cresset cast a faint nightmarish twilight. Conan wondered uneasily for what purpose these colossal piles had been reared, in what forgotten age. This was an ancient, ancient land. No man knew how many ages the black temples of Stygia had looked against the stars.

Narrow black arches opened occasionally to right and left, but he kept to the main corridor, although a conviction that he had taken the wrong branch was growing in him.

Pirates, priests, executioners, mystic assassins, ghouls, and a vampire for good measure-

She reared up on the couch like a serpent poised to strike, all the golden fires of hell blazing in her wide eyes. Her lips drew back, revealing white pointed teeth.

‘Fool!’ she shrieked. ‘Do you think to escape me? You will live and die in darkness!

The Hour of the Dragon is absolutely jam-packed with sinister foes and memorable set pieces. It’s the longest canon Conan story, but also feels like it’s bursting at the seams with enough material to fill a trilogy of fantasy books written in the more drawn out way many modern readers have grown accustomed to.

The ending is inevitable and doesn’t quite hit the highs of Howard’s best, but it consistently entertains and delivers on its potential. There are spots where I would have enjoyed delving even deeper, but it’s far better to leave readers wanting more than wearing out one’s welcome.

This epic tale has been reprinted and adapted several times. The Marvel Comics version was split between classic artists Gil Kane and John Buscema over two different publications, which creates a bit of a visual disconnect, but works overall.

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 fifteenth published Conan story is The Man-Eaters of Zamboula, which arrived in the November 1935 issue of Weird Tales magazine under the renamed title Shadows In Zamboula.

Zamboula was originally a Stygian trading outpost but Turan took it over a generation ago and it has since been settled by a mixed populace who are not fond of outsiders:

The babel of a myriad tongues smote on the Cimmerian’s ears as the restless pattern of the Zamboula streets weaved about him—cleft now and then by a squad of clattering horsemen, the tall, supple warriors of Turan, with dark hawk-faces, clinking metal and curved swords. The throng scampered from under their horses’ hoofs, for they were the lords of Zamboula. But tall, somber Stygians, standing back in the shadows, glowered darkly, remembering their ancient glories. The hybrid population cared little whether the king who controlled their destinies dwelt in dark Khemi or gleaming Aghrapur. Jungir Khan ruled Zamboula, and men whispered that Nafertari, the satrap’s mistress, ruled Jungir Khan; but the people went their way, flaunting their myriad colors in the streets, bargaining, disputing, gambling, swilling, loving, as the people of Zamboula have done for all the centuries its towers and minarets have lifted over the sands of the Kharamun.

Conan has been warned that the inn of Aram Baksh is dangerous, but he pre-paid for a room there, so he settles in for a tense night while keeping his sword close at hand:

The light began to flicker, and he investigated, swearing when he found the palm oil in the lamp was almost exhausted. He started to shout for Aram, then shrugged his shoulders and blew out the light. In the soft darkness he stretched himself fully clad on the couch, his sinewy hand by instinct searching for and closing on the hilt of his broadsword. Glancing idly at the stars framed in the barred windows, with the murmur of the breeze through the palms in his ears, he sank into slumber with a vague consciousness of the muttering drum

In the darkness, the supposedly locked door to Conan’s room is opened from the outside, but the Cimmerian is ready and attacks:

Noiselessly Conan coiled his long legs under him; his naked sword was in his right hand, and when he struck it was as suddenly and murderously as a tiger lunging out of the dark. Not even a demon could have avoided that catapulting charge. His sword met and clove through flesh and bone, and something went heavily to the floor with a strangling cry. Conan crouched in the dark above it, sword dripping in his hand. Devil or beast or man, the thing was dead there on the floor. He sensed death as any wild thing senses it.

Conan discovers his attacker was a savage cannibal. Zamboula’s strange secret is that many of the city’s slaves belong to a tribe who eat human flesh and the townspeople let them feed on travelers so they don’t kill locals. Our hero hears a woman being attacked on the streets, saves her from more cannibals, and then she insists he help her slay an evil priest named Totrasmek who has cursed her lover.

Honestly, the “man-eater” elements are incredibly awkward reading in the here and now, and the descriptions of the woman, a dancer named Zabibi, drips with the same fetishistic approach that made Xuthal of the Dusk stumble. Howard leaned into elements he knew Weird Tales editor Farnsworth Wright would respond to and put on the cover:

He forgot all about Aram Baksh as he scrutinized her by the light of the stars. She was white, a very definite brunette, obviously one of Zamboula’s many mixed breeds. She was tall, with a slender, supple form, as he was in a good position to observe. Admiration burned in his fierce eyes as he looked down on her splendid bosom and her lithe limbs, which still quivered from fright and exertion.

Conan and Zabibi sneak into Totrasmek’s temple, she gets kidnapped, and then Conan faces off against a massive man named Baal-pteor, who wields illusionary magic…

Conan dodged instinctively, but, miraculously, the globe stopped short in midair, a few feet from his face. It did not fall to the floor. It hung suspended, as if by invisible filaments, some five feet above the floor. And as he glared in amazement, it began to rotate with growing speed. And as it revolved it grew, expanded, became nebulous. It filled the chamber. It enveloped him. It blotted out furniture, walls, the smiling countenance of Baal-pteor. He was lost in the midst of a blinding bluish blur of whirling speed. Terrific winds screamed past Conan, tugging, tearing at him, striving to wrench him from his feet, to drag him into the vortex that spun madly before him.

…And specializes in choking his victims to death:

And like the stroke of twin cobras, the great hands closed on Conan’s throat. The Cimmerian made no attempt to dodge or fend them away, but his own hands darted to the Kosalan’s bull-neck. Baal-pteor’s black eyes widened as he felt the thick cords of muscles that protected the barbarian’s throat. With a snarl he exerted his inhuman strength, and knots and lumps and ropes of thews rose along his massive arms. And then a choking gasp burst from him as Conan’s fingers locked on his throat. For an instant they stood there like statues, their faces masks of effort, veins beginning to stand out purply on their temples.

Whose neck survives and what happens next? I won’t spoil how it all wraps up, but suffice to say it’s exciting and pulpy as all get-out. Conan does a few things early on that seem out of character for him, but by the end they’re justified in a relatively satisfying way.

The Hyborian Age is a time of inherent brutality and there are merciless killers of every creed and color, but the “cannibal killer” material has aged particularly poor. If you can look past that as an artifact of its age, the rest of the story clips along relatively well.

Shadows was adapted in Savage Sword of Conan #14 with dynamic pencils by the one and only Neal Adams.

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.