It’s the end of Frozen Faith, our fourth story arc. As young Conan struggles with where he’s meant to be and what he believes, what did the critics think? Read on and find out…

• 9 Panel Grid: “Doug Braithwaite’s artwork is just stunning. It is so good, especially for this part of the storyline…I love the way this opens up the doors to the mysteries and magic of the Hyborian Age.”

• Comic Culture: “This has been a spectacular read and the art has been really killer as well.”

• Comical Opinions: 9.5/10 “Brimming with fantastic art from Doug Braithwaite and deeply inspired ideas from Jim Zub, this series has yet to miss the mark.”

• Comics Unbagged: “Whatever kind of story you want to tell you can tell it with Conan in it. You can even, if you’re as brave as Jim Zub, tell a story about a man having a crisis of faith…If you’re a fan of Conan and haven’t been checking out this series, I highly recommend it.”

• Cool Thunder: 10/10 “Conan the Barbarian continues to stand out as one of the premier titles on the comic book shelves today. Zub’s compelling storytelling combined with breathtaking artistry makes this series an absolute must-read.”

• Doc Lail: “This is some of the best Conan stuff I’ve ever read…If you know who Conan is, you’re going to love this book.”

• Eternal Crusader: 9/10 “I found it fascinating to see how Zub skillfully wove various elements together in this adaptation while preserving the essence of Howard’s original story. More than just a mere retelling, it offers a deeper narrative that touches upon aspects of human existence and its significance, such as youthful rebellion against one’s parents and the search for meaning in life…It is undoubtably great and stands without fear of comparison to its predecessors.

• Father and Son Comics: “A really good read, fantastic art, and a book I look forward to each and every month…I can’t recommend it enough.”

• Good Reads: 5/5 “With this issue we have a poignant, reverent look into the Conan’s origin, his perception of powers beyond the natural world, and an emotionally stirring resolution to this chapter of his life, while bravely looking forward to the next.”

• League of Comic Geeks: 5/5 “We see young conan struggle and question the existence of god and by Crom this whole issue was beautifully structured. Doug did a great job this entire arc and I’m excited for this title’s future.”

• Mighty Thorngren: “What a way to finish the story. Just a beautiful message and a gorgeous illustration…a wonderful end I cannot wait to reread.”

• Pop Culture Philosophers: “It really explores Conan’s thoughts on religion, on theology, on God, on faith, and it works! It’s so grounded, it’s so real and so unlike what we would typically associate with Conan but at the same time exactly what we would associate with Conan.”

• SciFi Pulse: 9.6/10 “Doug Braithwaite continues to do some great work on this book…A nicely done story that looks at what kind of things can make the strongest of us question our faith as well as our own minds. “

• Stygian Dogs: “In the end, Conan’s belief is fortified and we’re shown the importance of making one’s own way in life and what it means to believe in a god that cares not and does not intervene in the affairs of man. The bookends of this arc are a wonderful meditation on the nature of belief, with a final message to drink deep and live life to its fullest, without fear. It’s fantastic.”

• Super Hero Hype: 5/5 “Those who would dismiss Conan as dumb muscle would do well to give Conan the Barbarian #16 a try…It is sure to please fans of the character and may even make fans of some skeptics.”

• Sword & Sorcery Book Club: “This is an arc that will speak to the younger men who are picking up the series…It’s awesome. I really loved it. I thought it was a great, great issue.”

• Thinking Critical: “This issue does a great job establishing what Conan believes in and his struggle with faith growing up…one of the best issues of Conan and a strong recommend.”

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.

Continuing my Conan reread for Cimmerian September, the fourteenth published Conan story is Beyond the Black River, which originally serialized in the May and June issues of Weird Tales magazine in 1935.

Our story opens by introducing a new character who will be sharing the spotlight with our Cimmerian.

He was a young man of medium height, with an open countenance and a mop of tousled tawny hair unconfined by cap or helmet. His garb was common enough for that country—a coarse tunic, belted at the waist, short leather breeches beneath, and soft buckskin boots that came short of the knee. A knife-hilt jutted from one boot-top. The broad leather belt supported a short, heavy sword and a buckskin pouch. There was no perturbation in the wide eyes that scanned the green walls which fringed the trail. Though not tall, he was well built, and the arms that the short wide sleeves of the tunic left bare were thick with corded muscle.

His name is Balthus and he’s a settler in Conajohara, a new Aquilonian province established by annexing land from the Picts. Unexpectedly, he’s established with the same kind of heroic countenance we normally only get for Conan himself, which creates a different dynamic from many of the other canon stories.

Don’t get me wrong, Conan is still our title character and isn’t upstaged:

The other emerged dubiously and stared at the stranger. He felt curiously helpless and futile as he gazed on the proportions of the forest man—the massive iron-clad breast, and the arm that bore the reddened sword, burned dark by the sun and ridged and corded with muscles. He moved with the dangerous ease of a panther; he was too fiercely supple to be a product of civilization, even of that fringe of civilization which composed the outer frontiers.

The words “savage”, “barbarian”, and “civilization” work overtime in this story. Black River drills to the core of Robert E. Howard’s theme of Civilization vs Savagery, as we see the differences and similarities between the Aquilonian settlers, the Pict warriors, and Conan, currently working for the Aquilonians but also most comfortable in the natural world.

Conan is a scout at Fort Tuscelan, right on the border of Conajohara and the Pictish wilderness. The fort is border defense and has been bearing the brunt of Pict attacks for many weeks. Even as Conan works for Aquilonian coin, he senses how foolish and futile this struggle is:

“Some day they’ll try to sweep the settlers out of Conajohara. And they may succeed—probably will succeed. This colonization business is mad, anyway. There’s plenty of good land east of the Bossonian marches. If the Aquilonians would cut up some of the big estates of their barons, and plant wheat where now only deer are hunted, they wouldn’t have to cross the border and take the land of the Picts away from them.”

As Balthus and Conan talk about the situation, we learn about the Battle of Venarium, a pivotal moment in young Conan’s life:

“But some day a man will rise and unite thirty or forty clans, just as was done among the Cimmerians, when the Gundermen tried to push the border northward, years ago. They tried to colonize the southern marches of Cimmeria: destroyed a few small clans, built a fort-town, Venarium—you’ve heard the tale.”

“So I have indeed,” replied Balthus, wincing. The memory of that red disaster was a black blot in the chronicles of a proud and warlike people. “My uncle was at Venarium when the Cimmerians swarmed over the walls. He was one of the few who escaped that slaughter. I’ve heard him tell the tale, many a time. The barbarians swept out of the hills in a ravening horde, without warning, and stormed Venarium with such fury none could stand before them. Men, women, and children were butchered. Venarium was reduced to a mass of charred ruins, as it is to this day. The Aquilonians were driven back across the marches, and have never since tried to colonize the Cimmerian country. But you speak of Venarium familiarly. Perhaps you were there?”

“I was,” grunted the other. “I was one of the horde that swarmed over the walls.”

The Battle of Venarium has become important to several Conan pastiche stories, including my own, acting as a bit of an ‘origin point’ for the character, showing him in his first battle. We showed Venarium in Conan the Barbarian #0, our Free Comic Book Day issue:

Conan and Balthus find a corpse and realize that the man has been slain by a swamp demon summoned by Zogar Sag, a Pict Shaman with terrifying powers. When that demon uses its illusionary powers to sound like a woman in danger, Balthus is ambushed and Conan narrowly saves him:

Looking over his shoulder, Balthus felt his hair stand up stiffly. Something was moving through the deep bushes that fringed the trail—something that neither walked nor flew, but seemed to glide like a serpent. But it was not a serpent. Its outlines were indistinct, but it was taller than a man, and not very bulky. It gave off a glimmer of weird light, like a faint blue flame. Indeed, the eery fire was the only tangible thing about it. It might have been an embodied flame moving with reason and purpose through the blackening woods.

Conan snarled a savage curse and hurled his ax with ferocious will. But the thing glided on without altering its course. Indeed it was only a few instants’ fleeting glimpse they had of it—a tall, shadowy thing of misty flame floating through the thickets. Then it was gone, and the forest crouched in breathless stillness.

Conan and Balthus finally return to Fort Tuscelan to make their report and the commander asks Conan to lead a strike force to sneak into enemy territory and slay the shaman. Balthus insists on being part of the unit and Conan agrees. As this hand-picked group of warriors silently make their way down river we assume they’re going to kick ass, but the narrative takes a solid swerve:

The man did not reply. Wondering if he had fallen asleep, Balthus reached out and grasped his shoulder. To his amazement, the man crumpled under his touch and slumped down in the canoe. Twisting his body half about, Balthus groped for him, his heart shooting into his throat. His fumbling fingers slid over the man’s throat—only the youth’s convulsive clenching of his jaws choked back the cry that rose to his lips. His finger encountered a gaping, oozing wound—his companion’s throat had been cut from ear to ear.

In that instant of horror and panic Balthus started up—and then a muscular arm out of the darkness locked fiercely about his throat, strangling his yell. The canoe rocked wildly. Balthus’ knife was in his hand, though he did not remember jerking it out of his boot, and he stabbed fiercely and blindly. He felt the blade sink deep, and a fiendish yell rang in his ear, a yell that was horribly answered. The darkness seemed to come to life about him. A bestial clamor rose on all sides, and other arms grappled him. Borne under a mass of hurtling bodies the canoe rolled sidewise, but before he went under with it, something cracked against Balthus’ head and the night was briefly illuminated by a blinding burst of fire before it gave way to a blackness where not even stars shone.

The Picts completely ambush our heroes and Balthus is knocked out. When he wakes up, he’s tied up in the Pict camp and all of the warriors on the mission are dead except for Conan, who managed to dive to safety, and one other prisoner, who is about to have a really bad day with a sabretooth tiger summoned by Zogar Sag:

Full on the woodsman’s breast it struck, and the stake splintered and snapped at the base, crashing to the earth under the impact. Then the saber-tooth was gliding toward the gate, half dragging, half carrying a hideous crimson hulk that only faintly resembled a man. Balthus glared almost paralyzed, his brain refusing to credit what his eyes had seen.

In that leap the great beast had not only broken off the stake, it had ripped the mangled body of its victim from the post to which it was bound. The huge talons in that instant of contact had disemboweled and partially dismembered the man, and the giant fangs had torn away the whole top of his head, shearing through the skull as easily as through flesh.

Conan comes to Balthus’ rescue, but now they have to make their getaway, stay hidden as they cross through enemy territory thick with warriors, warn the fort that a major attack is coming, and try to evacuate the nearest Aquilonian settlement before it’s too late.

I won’t spoil how it all plays out, just know that it’s Howard channeling some of his most powerful prose, thick with dark atmosphere and action while waxing philosophical about the nature of duty and sacrifice, man and beast:

“Barbarism is the natural state of mankind,” the borderer said, still staring somberly at the Cimmerian. “Civilization is unnatural. It is a whim of circumstance. And barbarism must always ultimately triumph.”

Beyond the Black River was adapted in Savage Sword of Conan #26 and 27, with art by John Buscema and Tony Dezuniga.

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 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.