Zub Tales

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.