Zub Tales

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conan: Battle of the Black Stone launched this week, kicking off our pulp-infused epic mini-series. What did critics think of it? Let’s find out-

• 9 Panel Grid: “Jonas Scharf’s artwork is really, really bold and dynamic. There’s a lot of kinetic energy that comes with it when he’s working with the action set pieces…If you’re a Conan fan, you’re gonna love this. If you’re not a Conan fan, it might be time to dive in because this was a heck of a ride.”

• Comic Culture: “Really dramatic scenes, brutal environments, a really great book. Just full of action and adventure and I just can’t wait to see where this book goes from here. If you’re not reading Conan, you have to be reading this one.”

• Comical Opinions: 10/10 “Defines the word ‘epic’ at pretty much every level…If you love Conan, if you love Solomon Kane, if you love any and all of those characters in that pulp era of adventure storytelling, this is a top notch, first class, grade-A comic. You will love it!”

• Comics Beat: “Scharf illustrates each character with a heaviness that captures the tone Zub is going for. They look and feel grandiose, but also mortal. It’s especially noticeable in the eyes. A lot of emotion is afforded to them to really communicate a sense that fear is creeping in just under the surface, and that the heroes are trying their best to keep it from pouring out.”

• DC Patrol: “This book is glorious. I enjoyed every fiber of it…Wicked, wicked. Love it.”

• Doc Lail: “If you are looking for adventure, action, explosive storytelling, then I would prescribe this to fix those ills and I would get it in high doses.”

• Goodreads: 5/5 “There is a fury of pulp power conjured on each page of this newest issue, kickstarting one of the most meaningful and interesting expansions of Robert E. Howard’s mythology in decades. Do not fool yourself into thinking you can skip this.”

• Graphic Policy: “It builds a mystery across time and works for both new readers and long time fans. As the first event for the new launch of Robert E. Howard’s creations, it opens up a lot of possibilities of what’s to come.”

• League of Comic Geeks: “I’m thrilled to report that this works insanely well…Zub does a fantastic job at highlighting how the stone effects all of our heroes in different ways while still letting each of them feel distinct.”

• Lord Samper’s Library: “Not a lot gets to Conan but a mysterious sigil is doing just that and it swiftly proves to be an intriguing setup for whatever comes next…I enjoyed how all these events play out against the encroaching darkness in the background, makes it even more intriguing. Nice work from Scharf and Canola.”

• Major Spoilers: 5/5 “It is really well done. It is really well written as far as we have all these little tableaus, and each are experiencing these time dilations or time shifts brought on by Black Stone…I just can’t gush enough about it.”

• Mighty Thorngren: “I’m having so much fun with this stuff, more than I have been with comics in a decade or two. I’m just absolutely thrilled and always have a reason to go to the comic shop.”

• Pop Culture Philosophers: “Really cool stuff. The art by Jonas Scharf is absolutely fantastic, the story pacing is great. The way it bounces back and forth from the Hyborean Age to the 20th century and to other eras, it all freaking works and it works masterfully well.”

• Quest Wise: “The first issue is brutally beautiful in its writing and craftsmanship. The artwork is beautiful. The storyline is beautiful. The blending of different characters is beautiful…I highly recommend it.”

• Stygian Dogs: “A thrilling start to Jim Zub’s ambitious project to unite Robert E. Howard’s ‘Heroes of Man’ as they confront an ancient eldritch evil. Upon its conclusion it promises to just get better. Adding to this, it’s a must-read celebration and exploration of Howard’s creations.”

• Superhero Hype: 10/10 “Fans of the current Conan comic will find Battle of the Black Stone #1 to be a fine continuation of the monthly series. Newcomers will enjoy it as a welcome entry to the weird tales of Robert E. Howard. Most of all, it is a worthy tribute to the Bard of Cross Plains, which truly honors his remarkable legacy.”

• Sword & Sorcery Book Club: “I’m very, very excited. This was a great issue, this was a nice cliffhanger…It’s phenomenal. A great starting event for this new iteration of Conan.”

• Thinking Critical: “There are some amazing images from Jonas Scharf…This is a solid opening chapter to a big event crossover.”

Continuing my Conan reread for Cimmerian September, the fifth published Conan story is Xuthal of the Dusk, which arrived in the September 1933 issue of Weird Tales magazine under the renamed title The Slithering Shadow.

With Conan now quite well established in Weird Tales, Howard wastes no time introducing our hero or establishing his iconic appearance. It’s assumed that the reader knows who he is by this point, and when he and a woman named Natala are lost in the scorching desert and almost out of water, the stakes are readily apparent.

The desert shimmered in the heat waves. Conan the Cimmerian stared out over the aching desolation and involuntarily drew the back of his powerful hand over his blackened lips. He stood like a bronze image in the sand, apparently impervious to the murderous sun, though his only garment was a silk loin-cloth, girdled by a wide gold-buckled belt from which hung a saber and a broad-bladed poniard. On his clean-cut limbs were evidences of scarcely healed wounds.

Seeing a location in the distance and not having any other options, Conan hefts Natala into his arms and carries her to find out what’s on the horizon. When they arrive, it’s an imposing and oddly vacant-seeming spot:

Above them the walls towered some thirty feet in height, composed of a smooth greenish substance that shone almost like glass. Conan scanned the parapets, expecting to be challenged, but saw no one. Impatiently he shouted, and banged on the gate with his saber hilt, but only the hollow echoes mocked him.

Inside the city, which they find out is named Xuthal, they discover bodies and assume that they’re dead, but in actual truth they’re sleeping, addicted to the juice of the black lotus, as explained by Thalis, an alluring Stygian who has been imprisoned there:

“You have heard of the black lotus? In certain pits of the city it grows. Through the ages they have cultivated it, until, instead of death, its juice induces dreams, gorgeous and fantastic. In these dreams they spend most of their time. Their lives are vague, erratic, and without plan. They dream, they wake, drink, love, eat and dream again. They seldom finish anything they begin, but leave it half completed and sink back again into the slumber of the black lotus.”

The first chapter is over 7000 words, has a pile of exposition, and is oddly paced. Information on the strange city, its slumbering inhabitants, and the eldritch creature called Thog that lurks in shadows and feeds on victims is presented in a surprisingly sluggish way that makes it difficult for me to get excited about what might come next. When the chapter ends with Thalis suddenly kidnapping Natala, leaving Conan to figure out how to find them, it’s an odd jolt but at least something interesting is happening:

Thalis and Natala had vanished. The tapestry was settling back in place, as if it had been lifted away from the wall. As he gaped bewilderedly, from behind that tapestried wall rang a muffled scream in the voice of the Brythunian girl.

Chapter two is only 1800 words and it follows Thalis as she berates and then tortures Natala, with the Stygian insisting that once Natala is eaten by Thog, Conan will be hers. Robert E. Howard had learned that Farnsworth Wright, the editor of Weird Tales, more readily approved stories with lovely ladies in bondage and/or struck with whips, so this chapter feels like exactly what it is – an indulgent fetish detour to ensure it got published, but the brevity and awkwardness of it all makes it a narrative speed bump instead of anything compelling.

With a hiss of vindictive gratification, Thalis drew back her arm, and Natala shrieked as the cords curled across her loins. The tortured girl writhed, twisted and tore agonizedly at the thongs which imprisoned her wrists. She had forgotten the lurking menace her cries might summon, and so apparently had Thalis.

Thog arrives, attacks Thalis from the shadows and eats her, and Natala is left to gape upon the creature’s terrifying form, which is written with bombast:

The darkness was taking form. Something huge and bulky grew up out of the void. She saw a great misshapen head emerging into the light. At least she took it for a head, though it was not the member of any sane or normal creature. She saw a great toad-like face, the features of which were as dim and unstable as those of a specter seen in a mirror of nightmare. Great pools of light that might have been eyes blinked at her, and she shook at the cosmic lust reflected there. She could tell nothing about the creature’s body. Its outline seemed to waver and alter subtly even as she looked at it; yet its substance was apparently solid enough.

Chapter three takes us back to Conan and Howard unleashes the Cimmerian on guards in Xuthal with a wild amount of violence as he cuts men down like cordwood in his hunt for Natala. My favorite part of this whirling dervish of death is probably here:

A snarl of bloodthirsty gratification hummed in his bull-throat as he leaped, and the first attacker, his short sword overreached by the whistling saber, went down with his brains gushing from his split skull. Wheeling like a cat, Conan caught a descending wrist on his edge, and the hand gripping the short sword flew into the air scattering a shower of red drops. But Conan had not paused or hesitated. A pantherish twist and shift of his body avoided the blundering rush of two swordsmen, and the blade of one, missing its objective, was sheathed in the breast of the other.

The chapter ends with Conan reuniting with Natala and battling Thog. Our Cimmerian hero gets his ass kicked, but delivers even more damage to the freakish monstrosity:

Hilt-deep the saber sank, somewhere below the grisly face, and a convulsive shudder heaved the vast bulk that half enveloped the Cimmerian. With a volcanic burst of contraction and expansion, it tumbled backward, rolling now with frantic haste down the corridor. Conan went with it, bruised, battered, invincible, hanging on like a bulldog to the hilt of his saber which he could not withdraw, tearing and ripping at the shuddering bulk with the poniard in his left hand, goring it to ribbons.

The final chapter is focused on Natala treating Conan’s extensive injuries, finding a magic elixir that helps him recover, and then the two making an awkward escape back out into the desert. As with the first chapter, it rambles and loses much of the momentum and excitement that pulsed through chapter three.

At a hair under 13,000 words this is a long-ish Conan tale compared to others, but the extra word count doesn’t do it any favors. As you can probably tell, I’m not a big fan of this one. There’s all the right ingredients for a classic sword & sorcery tale in here and moments with interesting description and bits of atmosphere that work, but most of it feels unfocused and uninspired.

That said, the comic adaptation in Savage Sword of Conan #20 is stunningly illustrated by John Buscema and Alfredo Alcala, with the artwork enhancing every moment, propelling it past most of the prose’s shortcomings for me:

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

Continuing my Conan reread for Cimmerian September, the 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.

Continuing my Conan reread for Cimmerian September, the third published Conan story is The Tower of the Elephant, which arrived in the March 1933 issue of Weird Tales magazine.

This is definitely one of my favorite Conan stories, and probably one of my favorite sword & sorcery stories in general, so I’ve read it many times and know the events almost beat for beat. That said, another reading is always welcome and I find new things to enjoy each time that I do.

Unlike the previous two published stories, in this one Conan is young, brash, and ill at ease with the civilized world. This was readers first glimpse at Conan in this formative period as a thief and both his attitude and the caper that unfolds hits the mark in establishing a character and world that will become iconic.

Our introduction to the Cimmerian makes it clear that he is the same man as before, but also emphasizes how different he is from the locals in Zingara:

He saw a tall, strongly made youth standing beside him. This person was as much out of place in that den as a gray wolf among mangy rats of the gutters. His cheap tunic could not conceal the hard, rangy lines of his powerful frame, the broad heavy shoulders, the massive chest, lean waist and heavy arms. His skin was brown from outland suns, his eyes blue and smoldering; a shock of tousled black hair crowned his broad forehead. From his girdle hung a sword in a worn leather scabbard.

A cocky cutpurse talks up his capabilities and mentions the ‘Elephant Tower’ and our hero wants to know why no one has broken in and taken its rumored treasure. When the robber insults Conan, we’re given a sly sentence that deftly plays with Robert E. Howard’s ‘civilization vs savagery’ theme:

Civilized men are more discourteous than savages because they know they can be impolite without having their skulls split, as a general thing.

I’ve seen that quote laid over many a Conan meme over the years.

The god “Crom” has been muttered and yelled by Conan multiple times in his previous pair of tales, but here in The Tower of the Elephant we get more information on how the Cimmerian faith functions:

His gods were simple and understandable; Crom was their chief, and he lived on a great mountain, whence he sent forth dooms and death. It was useless to call on Crom, because he was a gloomy, savage god, and he hated weaklings. But he gave a man courage at birth, and the will and might to kill his enemies, which, in the Cimmerian’s mind, was all any god should be expected to do.

The description of the tower itself does a wonderful job at setting the scene, making it both alluring and imposing:

It was round, a slim perfect cylinder, a hundred and fifty feet in height, and its rim glittered in the starlight with the great jewels which crusted it. The tower stood among the waving exotic trees of a garden raised high above the general level of the city. A high wall enclosed this garden, and outside the wall was a lower level, likewise enclosed by a wall. No lights shone forth; there seemed to be no windows in the tower—at least not above the level of the inner wall. Only the gems high above sparkled frostily in the starlight.

In The Phoenix on the Sword there’s a conversation where King Conan discusses geography and in The Scarlet Citadel there’s a whole section around geopolitical power and regions near Aquilonia that are effective in making the Hyborian Age feel like it stretches out far past the page. In a similar way, this story includes references to distant lands and items that characters have acquired on other adventures:

‘They died without a sound!’ muttered the Cimmerian. ‘Taurus, what was that powder?’

‘It was made from the black lotus, whose blossoms wave in the lost jungles of Khitai…Those blossoms strike dead any who smell of them.’

On the heist are a series of encounters that, in modern nerdy context, feel 100% like a Dungeons & Dragons adventure – patrolling guards, a random encounter with wild beasts, a trap-laden treasure room and a giant poisonous spider. You can tell Gary Gygax was deeply influenced by Howard’s writing, and for good reason.

The eponymously-named ‘Elephant’ is an alien being called Yag-kosha, another example of cosmic creatures thrust into Conan’s world. I think there might be more eldritch horrors than nubile women in canon Conan stories, shifting the stereotype generated by countless covers filled with lovely ladies. The point being that Conan doesn’t even know what an elephant looks like:

He had never seen an elephant, but he vaguely understood that it was a monstrous animal, with a tail in front as well as behind. This a wandering Shemite had told him, swearing that he had seen such beasts by the thousands in the country of the Hyrkanians; but all men knew what liars were the men of Shem. At any rate, there were no elephants in Zamora.

And so the depictions of Yag-kosha as an actual elephant-headed man is a mistake that endlessly perpetuates thanks to illustrations, including the one that accompanied the original printing of this story. Yag-kosha may have some kind of trunk, tusks, and elephant-esque features, but he should also be quite alien in appearance:

Conan stared aghast; the image had the body of a man, naked, and green in color; but the head was one of nightmare and madness. Too large for the human body, it had no attributes of humanity. Conan stared at the wide flaring ears, the curling proboscis, on either side of which stood white tusks tipped with round golden balls.

From scene to scene, there’s a wonderful sense of rising adventure that leads to a surprisingly touching sacrifice and then an inevitable spark of vengeance carried forth by our hero. In just over 9700 words Howard drives the plot with action aplenty while still finding room for pathos and wonderment. It’s an absolute classic of the genre, and deservedly so.

The Tower of the Elephant has been adapted multiple times in comics over the years, but in my opinion the best one is in Savage Sword of Conan #24 from 1977. John Buscema’s line work is enhanced by Alfredo Alcala’s stunning inks and it hits every beat with aplomb.

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 second published Conan story is The Scarlet Citadel, which arrived in the January 1933 issue of Weird Tales magazine.

As with The Phoenix on the Sword, Robert E. Howard uses additional fictional text at the opening of each chapter to make the story feel even more far-reaching and impactful, like we’re glimpsing events from a grand history instead of just a singular tale. In this case, the story opens with a ballad about the epic conflict to come.

They trapped the Lion on Shamu’s plain;
They weighted his limbs with an iron chain;
They cried aloud in the trumpet-blast,
They cried, ‘The Lion is caged at last.’
Woe to the cities of river and plain
If ever the Lion stalks again!
—Old Ballad

King Conan is introduced in the midst of a losing battle this time, but the way he defies his attackers makes him a towering presence despite his imminent defeat.

Before the savage blue eyes blazing murderously from beneath the crested, dented helmet, the boldest shrank. Conan’s dark scarred face was darker yet with passion; his black armor was hacked to tatters and splashed with blood; his great sword red to the crosspiece. In this stress all the veneer of civilization had faded; it was a barbarian who faced his conquerors.

It’s important to note that in the best Conan stories, the Cimmerian is tough as nails and a legendary fighter, but is still human and can be taken down. Pop culture has built up the icon of the “unstoppable barbarian”, but the source material says otherwise.

There’s some impressive lyrical writing in this story and it really feels like Howard has a head of steam on this one.

For example, during a key scene Conan utters one of my favorite threats-

“Free my hands and I’ll varnish this floor with your brains!”

And the description of the giant snake Satha’s arrival is particularly inspired-

An icy hand stroked his spine. It was the unmistakable sound of pliant scales slithering softly over stone. Cold sweat beaded his skin, as beyond the ring of dim light he saw a vague and colossal form, awful even in its indistinctness. It reared upright, swaying slightly, and yellow eyes burned icily on him from the shadows. Slowly a huge, hideous, wedge-shaped head took form before his dilated eyes, and from the darkness oozed, in flowing scaly coils, the ultimate horror of reptilian development.

It was a snake that dwarfed all Conan’s previous ideas of snakes. Eighty feet it stretched from its pointed tail to its triangular head, which was bigger than that of a horse. In the dim light its scales glistened coldly, white as hoar-frost. Surely this reptile was one born and grown in darkness, yet its eyes were full of evil and sure sight.

It’s also a moment made all the more famous by legendary illustrator Frank Frazetta in his Conan the Usurper cover painting.

When Conan gets revenge on one of his captors, the description of violence paints its own picture.

With a terrible curse Conan struck as a cobra strikes; the great blade hissed between the bars and Shukeli’s laughter broke in a death-scream. The fat eunuch bent at the middle, as if bowing to his killer, and crumpled like tallow, his pudgy hands clutching vainly at his spilling entrails.

In 15,600 words spread over five chapters, we move from betrayal on the battlefield, to a tense show trial, imprisonment in a horrific dungeon, unlikely escape thanks to strange supernatural forces, a sprawling account of the chaos that grips the kingdom in Conan’s absence, and then the king’s blood-soaked return and routing evil, with an amusing finish as vengeance is served in an unexpected way.

Like almost all of the original Conan prose stories, The Scarlet Citadel clips along at an impressive rate, with only chapter 4 feeling a bit unfocused as it breathlessly blitzes through a timeline of anarchy across Aquilonia.

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.

Yesterday, to kick off Cimmerian September, I reread The Phoenix on the Sword, the first Conan story published in Weird Tales magazine. The prose crackles and action is visceral. It’s easy to see why it made a strong impression on readers in 1932.

All but one of the canon Conan stories are short fiction, and can be read in one or two sittings. The Phoenix on the Sword is just over 9000 words. Punchy, pulpy and potent. There are 21 Conan stories, 5 fragments of unfinished work, a poem, and an essay. Definitely readable in September.

The sense of a huge world brimming with adventure and an existing march of history is deftly built right from the start with a quote from “The Nemedian Chronicles”, a fictional historical text that lends the story you’re about to read an air of importance.

“Know, oh prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars—Nemedia, Ophir, Brythunia, Hyperborea, Zamora with its dark-haired women and towers of spider-haunted mystery, Zingara with its chivalry, Koth that bordered on the pastoral lands of Shem, Stygia with its shadow-guarded tombs, Hyrkania whose riders wore steel and silk and gold. But the proudest kingdom of the world was Aquilonia, reigning supreme in the dreaming west. Hither came Conan, the Cimmerian, black-haired, sullen- eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth under his sandalled feet.” —The Nemedian Chronicles

Then, the reader is thrust into the middle of tension – a plan to kill King Conan built on political machinations, bitter grievances, and jealousy.

Over shadowy spires and gleaming towers lay the ghostly darkness and silence that runs before dawn. Into a dim alley, one of a veritable labyrinth of mysterious winding ways, four masked figures came hurriedly from a door which a dusky hand furtively opened. They spoke not but went swiftly into the gloom, cloaks wrapped closely about them; as silently as the ghosts of murdered men they disappeared in the darkness.

That’s right – in the first Conan story he is already King of Aquilonia! The canon Conan tales jump around the timeline, showcasing different periods of his life, building thematically rather than chronologically (Which is why I move around in the new comic series as well).

Playing against every stereotype of the lunkhead barbarian that clings to Conan’s pop culture legacy, he is introduced at a writing table, discussing the wider world — geography, history, politics, poetry, some of the experiences that led to his kingship and a wistful desire to charge into action like he did in his youth.

Behind an ivory, gold- inlaid writing-table sat a man whose broad shoulders and sun-browned skin seemed out of place among those luxuriant surroundings. He seemed more a part of the sun and winds and high places of the outlands. His slightest movement spoke of steel-spring muscles knit to a keen brain with the co-ordination of a born fighting-man. There was nothing deliberate or measured about his actions. Either he was perfectly at rest—still as a bronze statue—or else he was in motion, not with the jerky quickness of over-tense nerves, but with a cat-like speed that blurred the sight which tried to follow him.

That said, The Phoenix on the Sword doesn’t drag and there’s plenty of action once the conspirators kick off their assassination attempt. Approximately 2000 of those 9000 words are an extended action sequence that is bombastically bloody and brutal.

As he sprang from the wall his ax dropped an outlaw with a severed shoulder, and the terrible back-hand return crushed the skull of another. Swords whined venomously about him, but death passed him by breathless margins. The Cimmerian moved in, a blur of blinding speed. He was like a tiger among baboons as he leaped, side-stepped and spun, offering an ever-moving target, while his ax wove a shining wheel of death about him.

There’s also a distinct thrust of cosmic horror, a quality baked into Conan’s adventures right from the start. Creatures exist outside the physical world. Magic is mysterious, terrifying, and never under complete control.

The slavering jaws closed on the arm Conan flung up to guard his throat, but the monster made no effort to secure a death-grip. Over his mangled arm it glared fiendishly into the king’s eyes, in which there began to be mirrored a likeness of the horror which stared from the dead eyes of Ascalante. Conan felt his soul shrivel and begin to be drawn out of his body, to drown in the yellow wells of cosmic horror which glimmered spectrally in the formless chaos that was growing about him and engulfing all life and sanity. Those eyes grew and became gigantic, and in them the Cimmerian glimpsed the reality of all the abysmal and blasphemous horrors that lurk in the outer darkness of formless voids and nighted gulfs. He opened his bloody lips to shriek his hate and loathing, but only a dry rattle burst from his throat.

I’m reading for pleasure, but since I write Conan professionally it’s also research, so I keep a pad of paper close by to jot down specific words or turns of a phrase that strike a chord so I can effectively craft narration that carries similar qualities without copying word-for-word.

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.