Zub Tales

Continuing my Conan reread for Cimmerian September, the fourth published Conan story is Black Colossus, which arrived in the June 1933 issue of Weird Tales magazine.

The opening chapter of this story is just over 2000 words and it’s all set up, focused on a master thief named Shevatas as he uncovers incredible treasure and inadvertently unleashes an ancient power back into the world. As with previous Conan stories, Howard speaks of past events with a certainty that feels like cohesive history instead of just random world building:

In that ivory dome lay the bones of Thugra Khotan, the dark sorcerer who had reigned in Kuthchemes three thousand years ago, when the kingdoms of Stygia stretched far northward of the great river, over the meadows of Shem, and into the uplands. Then the great drift of the Hyborians swept southward from the cradle-land of their race near the northern pole. It was a titanic drift, extending over centuries and ages. But in the reign of Thugra Khotan, the last magician of Kuthchemes, gray-eyed, tawny-haired barbarians in wolfskins and scale-mail had ridden from the north into the rich uplands to carve out the kingdom of Koth with their iron swords. They had stormed over Kuthchemes like a tidal wave, washing the marble towers in blood, and the northern Stygian kingdom had gone down in fire and ruin.

The second chapter showcases Yasmela, sister of the king of a region called Khoraja. The king is being held prisoner in a neighboring kingdom, so she’s in charge. Unfortunately, she’s also being haunted by Thugra’s spirit, in a form that gives the story its title. This is Howard-ian prose that might turn off some modern readers with its ornate style, but I enjoy the intensity of it:

Above her, in the darkest corner of the marble chamber, lurked a vast shapeless shadow. It was no living thing of form or flesh and blood. It was a clot of darkness, a blur in the sight, a monstrous night-born incubus that might have been deemed a figment of a sleep-drugged brain, but for the points of blazing yellow fire that glimmered like two eyes from the blackness.

Yasmela prays to Mitra, a widely worshipped god of justice and mercy, for guidance against this dark power and is told:

“In one manner may you save your kingdom, and saving it, save all the world from the fangs of the serpent which has crawled up out of the darkness of the ages. Go forth upon the streets alone, and place your kingdom in the hands of the first man you meet there.”

Which is painfully on the nose, but it does motivate her to finally meet our Cimmerian hero. 4500 words in and Conan finally makes his presence known:

He stood facing her, his hand on the long hilt that jutted forward from beneath the scarlet cloak which flowed carelessly from his mailed shoulders. The torchlight glinted dully on the polished blue steel of his greaves and basinet. A more baleful fire glittered bluely in his eyes. At first glance she saw he was no Kothian; when he spoke she knew he was no Hyborian. He was clad like a captain of the mercenaries, and in that desperate command there were men of many lands, barbarians as well as civilized foreigners. There was a wolfishness about this warrior that marked the barbarian. The eyes of no civilized man, however wild or criminal, ever blazed with such a fire. Wine scented his breath, but he neither staggered nor stammered.

Conan is part of a mercenary company at this point in his adventuring career and his colleagues see him as troublesome and uncivilized despite his effectiveness. Yasmela does as Mitra told her, putting all her chips on Conan, making him Commander of Khoraja’s armies in order to defeat this horrific supernatural foe. When she reveals this plan to her current commanding officers, there’s a surprising bit of comedy:

“Tomorrow we march southward,” she answered. “And there is the man who shall lead you!”

Jerking aside the velvet curtains she dramatically indicated the Cimmerian. It was perhaps not an entirely happy moment for the disclosure. Conan was sprawled in his chair, his feet propped on the ebony table, busily engaged in gnawing a beef-bone which he gripped firmly in both hands. He glanced casually at the astounded nobles, grinned faintly at Amalric, and went on munching with undisguised relish.

In the comic adaptation of this story by Roy Thomas and John Buscema from Savage Sword of Conan #2, this particular moment hits bang-on:

Their protestations about Conan build up his reputation and swagger in amusing ways:

“Mitra protect us!” exploded Amalric. “That’s Conan the northron, the most turbulent of all my rogues! I’d have hanged him long ago, were he not the best swordsman that ever donned hauberk—”

“Your highness is pleased to jest!” cried Thespides, his aristocratic features darkening. “This man is a savage—a fellow of no culture or breeding! It is an insult to ask gentlemen to serve under him! I—”

But she’ll have none of it and so Conan becomes Commander and our pieces are in place for grand conflict – Conan and the mixed fighting forces of the Khoraja army versus Thugra Khotan (now calling himself Natohk, “The Veiled One”) empowered with dark magic and bolstered by fanatical Stygian troops. The tension building is a bit uneven but, when it finally kicks in, there is effective description of the action:

In that instant the whole foremost line of the knights was seen enveloped in that flame, horses and steel-clad riders withering in the glare like insects in an open blaze. The next instant the rear ranks were piling up on their charred bodies. Unable to check their headlong velocity, rank after rank crashed into the ruins. With appalling suddenness the charge had turned into a shambles where armored figures died amid screaming, mangled horses.

Writing about armies clashing can be difficult and Howard does a pretty solid job of keeping Conan at the center of the action while making it clear that the battle is being fought on several fronts:

It seemed to Conan that his sweat-blinded eyes looked down into a rising ocean of steel that seethed and eddied, filling the valley from ridge to ridge. The fight was at a bloody deadlock. The hillmen held the ridges, and the mercenaries, gripping their dipping pikes, bracing their feet in the bloody earth, held the Pass. Superior position and armor for a space balanced the advantage of overwhelming numbers. But it could not endure. Wave after wave of glaring faces and flashing spears surged up the slope, the asshuri filling the gaps in the Stygian ranks.

At over 14,000 words it runs a bit long for one of the Conan short stories, and isn’t quite as tight or memorable as Phoenix on the Sword or Tower of the Elephant, but it holds its own and continued to build momentum with readers in Weird Tales, solidifying Conan as a regular feature in the magazine. It also snagged Howard his first cover illustration, even though the artwork doesn’t depict Conan himself:

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.