Sword of Sorcery #1

In the early Seventies, the sword & sorcery craze was in full swing.

Marvel had launched Conan the Barbarian at the beginning of the decade, and its popularity opened the doors for other, similar concepts to find their way into American comic books. DC had actually introduced a “sword & sorcery” character called Nightmaster in Showcase #82 in 1969, but, as the lead singer of a rock band who accidentally discovers a doorway into another world in a bookstore (fair enough, I suppose) and wears a form-fitting blue suit and red cape, he seemed more like a weird version of Superman than a swashbuckling fantasy hero. His adventures, despite featuring some of the earliest work of Bernie Wrightson, only lasted three issues.

In 1972, DC decided to bring Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, Fritz Leiber’s seminal sword & sorcery pair, to comics. Far less well known than Robert E. Howard’s Conan, Leiber’s heroes were nonetheless created in the late 1930s, although the stories chronicling their adventures (Swords and Deviltry, Swords against Wizardry, et al.) would not see print until much later.

Denny O’Neil, Samuel Delaney, and Dick Giordano tried them out in the pages of Wonder Woman (?) #s 201 and 202. All I can say about that is that it was the Seventies. (This sort of thing would be seen again ten years later when Marvel incomprehensibly made Rocket Raccoon a guest star in Incredible Hulk #271.) In any event, their appearances must’ve proven popular enough to warrant their own series, so the following year Sword of Sorcery hit the stands.

Featuring adaptations of Leiber’s stories, as well as original ones, and illustrated by Howard Chaykin, Jim Starlin, Walt Simonson, Al Milgrom, and the Crusty Bunkers (Neal Adams and the gang from Continuity Associates), Sword of Sorcery had all the signs of a hit, yet it only lasted five issues. It was well received by critics, but sales were weak, though it’s not exactly clear why.

The series gets off to a strong start with an adaptation of Leiber’s “The Price of Pain Ease” (peculiar title, that). As the story opens, we find Fafhrd, the seven-foot-tall, red-maned barbarian, and the Gray Mouser, his much-smaller but just as formidable companion, enjoying ale and the company of scantily-clad lasses in a tavern. As they carouse, they are being eyed by a coterie of shady-looking characters. One of them makes the mistake of insulting Fafhrd, and a brawl ensues. When the owner of the establishment shows up with the local authorities, they escape and meet up in the marketplace.

Knowing both the Thieves’ Guild, from which the pair purloined some treasure, and the law will be looking for them, they decide to take up temporary residence in the palace of Duke Danius, who is staying elsewhere. Just as they are settling in to their new, lavish digs, Danius shows up and orders his men to kill them. The rogues manage to make it back to the courtyard, but the wall is too high to scale, and the Duke’s archers are unlikely to miss.

Fafhrd is in the process of drawing his sword, prepared to go down fighting, when two unicorns suddenly materialize. Realizing it is not the time to ask questions, the barbarian and his diminutive partner leap onto the steeds. Climbing into the sky, the mystical mounts deliver the pair to a cave, wherein two sorcerers, standing behind a burning brazier, await them.

And this is where things start to get weird.   

The first of the sorcerers, clad in a crimson robe, is Sheelba of the Eyeless Face, whose features are hidden in shadow beneath a hood. The other, covered by a green robe, is Ningauble of the Seven Eyes. His (?) features are similarly hidden, but snakelike eyestalks in consonance with his title emerge from the darkness. They both desire the same object: the mask that Death keeps above his throne. To obtain it, the heroes must journey to his castle, deep in Shadowland. Sheelba tells the Mouser that he must get it for him or else face terrible consequences. Ningauble promises Fafhrd great riches. The problem, of course, is that they can’t both have it, but they decide to sort that matter out later. Complicating matters further, Danius, who is already unhappy with them, is also headed to the castle.

Danius, we find out, has obtained an enchanted axe. He kills the witch who created it for him and sets out for the Shadowland with a singular, insane purpose: “to slay Death himself.”

When Fafhrd and the Mouser make it to Death’s throne, they find it empty, with the mask right there for the taking. Faced with the aforementioned dilemma, they try to think of a compromise, but one isn’t apparent, so they draw their weapons to settle the long-pondered question of who the superior swordsman is. They swing their blades at each other for a few minutes until they decide that they enjoy each other’s company far too much, and that a better solution must be available to them.

Before they can discuss it, however, an axe flies across the room, and they turn around to find Danius standing before them. Fafhrd attempts to engage him, but the axe’s magic renders him unconscious. The Mouser throws his dagger at the Duke, but the other uses his weapon’s power to send it right back at him (fortunately, not blade first). As Danius prepares to finish his foes, the scent of the grave permeates the chamber, and he realizes that Death has returned.

Danius swings his axe at Death, but it has no effect whatsoever. Realizing that he has been lied to, he begs for mercy, but you can’t expect death to be the forgiving sort, can you?

Having woken up, and with Death distracted, Fafhrd and the Mouser make their way out of the castle, having broken the mask in twain, hoping that Ningauble and Sheelba will each take half.

Engaging and entertaining on every page, Sword of Sorcery #1 is a true Bronze-Age gem. The cover, masterfully illustrated by Michael Kaluta, is a real eye catcher, even though it depicts a scene that doesn’t actually appear in the comic. The interior artwork is detailed and exciting, and the storytelling is superb. The images flow easily, carrying the story along at a near-perfect pace.

I have never read Leiber’s original stories, but if this adaptation is any indication, I definitely should. Whereas Conan’s adventures are typically completely serious, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser’s (this one, at least) manage to be more lighthearted without compromising the fantasy elements that the stories rely on. Knowing how and where to insert humor in a sword & sorcery tale requires finesse, and we definitely see that here.  

I have already ordered the second issue, so you can expect to see it reviewed here soon.

Conan: Red Nails

Ever find yourself in a strange place where no one can be trusted? If your name happens to be Conan of Cimmeria, it’s the sort of thing that happens all the time.

The last Conan story written by Robert E. Howard before his untimely death, the novella-length adventure “Red Nails” was serialized in the pages of Weird Tales in 1936. Considered one of the finest stories in Conan’s canon, it features the formidable she-pirate Valeria, who in many ways resembles Red Sonja, a character who would enjoy success in the pages of Conan’s various comics and magazines, as well as in her own, during the Bronze Age (see my earlier article “Red Sonja: The Marvel Years” for details).

The comic adaptation of Howard’s story, written by Roy Thomas and illustrated by Barry Smith, originally appeared in the black-and-white magazine Savage Tales #s 2 and 3 and was later compiled into the comic-sized Conan the Barbarian Special Edition #1 (1982) in full color. It was reprinted again in Conan Saga #9.

The story opens with Valeria (who at this point is a character unknown to us) riding her horse into a dense forest. Dismounting, she scales a rocky outcropping to see what lies beyond. She finds the bleached skeleton of a man at the summit, which puzzles her. Looking out over the thick canopy of leaves, she beholds a walled city in the surrounding desert. She wonders how such a place can sustain life, as there appear to be no crops or livestock around.

She descends the outcropping and finds Conan waiting for her. She is a bit perturbed by the notion that he has been following her, but he explains that he was compelled by her beauty and the skill with which she dispatched a rakish Stygian officer in the city of Sukhmet days before (along with the fact that he killed the officer’s brother, who the barbarian knew had been pursuing her, seeking revenge). In typical fashion, he attempts to put the moves on her, but his advances are quelled first by the point of her blade and then by the sounds of screaming horses.

Investigating, they find their mounts have been devoured by a dragon (which looks more like a dinosaur, really). As they climb the rocks to escape the same fate, Valeria realizes that the skeleton she found earlier must have belonged to a man who had starved to death while trapped by the monster they now faced, or possibly one of its kin. Fashioning a spear from a tree limb and his sword’s blade and tipping it with the poisonous juice of the Apples of Derketa, Queen of the Dead, which bloom nearby, Conan stabs the dragon in the mouth, which distracts it long enough for them to flee.

As they expected, the dragon chases them, and all they can do is try to outrun it. As it closes on them, Conan turns and engages it, but his sword does little to deter it. Enraged, the creature sends Conan sprawling and, unable to slow its charge, impales its head on a tree. Valeria expresses doubts that the thing is actually dead, but the barbarian convinces her that it is so, and they make their way out of the forest.

They reach the city after a night’s rest in the sands and believe it to be deserted. When Conan forces the rusted gate open, the pair is amazed to find buildings constructed of jade within. Perhaps even stranger, the city is completely enclosed; there are no roads, only massive hallways, and the sky is shut out by a roof that completely covers the place. Conan wishes to look around, but Valeria prefers to rest while he goes on alone. She dozes off briefly but is awakened by a noise. Looking out over a balustrade to the floor below, she finds a man engaged in battle with a demonic, skeletal creature.

Her warrior instincts provoked, she leaps down and engages the thing, subduing and beheading it. The man, Techotl, thanks her and explains that the creature was sent by the Xotalanc, an opposing tribe. He offers to take her back to the stronghold of his people, the Tecuhltli. Recognizing the dark sorcery at work, Valeria agrees to accompany him, though she wishes she knew where Conan has gotten off to.

As it happens, Conan’s wanderings lead him straight to Valeria and Techotl in the midst of a skirmish with Xotalancas. The Cimmerian uses his sword to great effect, and in short order the warriors are defeated. Fearing that others may be lurking about, Techotl leads the reunited adventurers down a dark passage, where they encounter “The Crawler,” a mysterious monster controlled by their enemies. Conan injures it, and they bolt the door on the far side to prevent its following them.

Once inside the Tecuhltli settlement, Techotl explains to the leaders of his tribe, Prince Olmec and Princess Tascela, that Conan and Valeria are on their side and helped to dispatch several of their foes. Olmec welcomes them and commences to tell the bloody history of the rivalry between the two tribes and of how Tolkemec, a slave who betrayed the city to a rogue Stygian tribe and, after the city had fallen to the invaders, incited a war between the two original fraternal leaders, vanished into the catacombs. (A real piece of work, that.) His ghost is rumored to haunt the hallways of the city, which is called Xuchtol.

Olmec understands that his tribe is dying but wishes to kill as many of the Xotalancas as possible before that happens. He offers Conan and Valeria as much treasure as they can carry if they will fight for him, to which they agree. They are taken to their respective sleeping chambers, but their rest is soon interrupted by the sounds of battle. Rushing to the throne room, they find that the Xotalancas have somehow managed to penetrate the Tecuhltli stronghold and, with the advantage of surprise on their side, are slaughtering the tribe.

With Conan and Valeria’s help, the Tecuhltli manage to defeat the marauders, but their numbers have been severely reduced. Olmec believes that the invasion force represented the last of the Xotalancas but asks Conan and two of the remaining warriors to visit their settlement to make sure that there are none left alive. Valeria, injured in the skirmish, elects to stay behind, a decision that turns out to be a mistake.

When Conan and the Tecuhltlis reach the settlement, Xotalanc magic drives the warriors insane, and the Cimmerian discovers that Olmec had instructed them to kill him so he could take Valeria as his lover. His Tecuhltli “escorts” dead, Conan returns to the stronghold to find that Tascela has thwarted Olmec’s plans to seduce the she-pirate, wishing instead to use her in a ritual to prolong her life, and has strapped her to an altar. Tascela, despite her youthful appearance, is actually a sorceress who has lived for untold ages (she remarks that she doesn’t even remember her childhood) by sacrificing beautiful young women. She is, in fact, the selfsame element that turned Tecuhltli and Xotalanc, the leaders of the original tribe, against each other.

Conan attempts to rescue Valeria but activates a trap in the floor that holds him fast. Tascela is about to drive her knife into Valeria’s chest to consummate the ritual when the curtains in the throne room part, revealing the spectral figure of what was once Tolkemec, the slave who, some fifty years prior, betrayed his city and sowed the seeds of dissension. He has returned from the catacombs with a powerful magical rod, which he commences to use against everyone in sight.

Several bystanders are slain by the rod’s fiery rays before Tolkemec turns his attention on Conan. The Cimmerian manages to throw a dagger, which lodges itself in the ghoul’s chest, and the wand clatters to the floor. Taking advantage of the situation, Tascela retrieves the weapon, but before she can use it, Valeria runs her through. The evil of Xuchtol vanquished, Conan and Valeria literally ride off into the sunset together.

The most appealing thing about this story, to me, is the idea of an encapsulated city. With the sky completely blocked from view, it’s impossible to tell day from night, which can be immensely disorienting. It brings to mind the ubiquitous dungeons found in fantasy roleplaying games, especially when you consider the implausibility of such things. Who built the city, and why? What were the original denizens like? How did they amass such riches? Did the absence of the sun’s heat and light impact the people in remarkable ways?

Perhaps the most peculiar aspect is the title. What does “red nails” refer to? Before reading the story I assumed it had something to do with fingernail polish, but it actually refers to the Tecuhltli practice of driving red nails into the black pillar in their stronghold to represent the Xotalanc they have slain in battle, just as warriors have been known to carve notches in the handles of their weapons. As far as the comic adaptation is concerned, it doesn’t seem to come into play in any significant way, making it a strange choice for a title. The nails can be interpreted as a primitive form of statistics, really, but when the tribes are long gone, it’s likely that explorers will ponder their meaning and reach the wrong conclusions.

If there is anything wrong with this story, it is that Valeria, despite her prowess in battle, is ultimately reduced to a damsel in distress. This sort of thing is pervasive in sword & sorcery, and its inclusion here weakens the story to some degree. Conan is frequently paired with a beautiful woman in his tales, though they typically serve little more purpose than arm candy. We can tell from early on that Valeria is not Conan’s equal, but I think she deserved better than this.

The illustration is fantastic, although I must admit that I don’t always like the way Smith draws women’s faces. Sometimes they look fine, but other times the eyes are kind of weird. This is frequently the case with his men, as well. By this point, Smith had shaken off Kirby’s influence and had become his own artist, developing a style that remains distinctive to this day. (Smith, along with all of Marvel’s Silver-Age artists, had been instructed by Stan Lee to ape Kirby’s art as closely as possible.) He would soon move on to other things, leaving Conan in the capable hands of John Buscema.

Conan the Barbarian #92

“How can you kill a thing that is already dead?” 

Both mythology and modern fiction have myriad lessons to impart, but one of the most prominent is that it’s always a bad idea for the living to mess around with the dead.  

Tales from all over the globe, dating back to humankind’s earliest civilizations (The Epic of Gilgamesh, anyone?), chronicle horrifying encounters between hapless (or just stupid) humans, who think it’s acceptable to disturb a tomb, and the resurrected or reanimated dead, who are none too happy about it. It’s likely that these sorts of stories were devised to deter grave robbers, since people were frequently interred with the riches they had enjoyed in life, but outside of that there’s just a natural inclination for the “quick” to fear the deceased (or, at the very least, be bemused by them).  

There are two main reasons for this. One, they serve as a grim reminder of our own mortality. (That could be our mummified corpse inside the display case.) And two, our minds find it difficult to process the idea that a once-living body is no longer occupied by the life force (whatever that may be). I personally find the Western funerary ritual to be a bizarre thing indeed. Do we really need to see a dead body? Does that somehow provide proof that the person in question has actually, to quote Shakespeare, shuffled off this mortal coil? How many of you can honestly say that he or she has not attended a visitation and not expected the corpse to opens its eyes and sit up in the casket? After all, if the human life force has moved out, might not something else fill the vacancy?

In any event, if, as these stories teach us, the dead are the sworn enemies of the living, what is the source of this animosity? Are the dead merely jealous of the living, or is it something more complicated than that? 

Zombie fiction is more popular than ever these days, and it’s true that many people find the concept of a mindless, flesh-eating corpse, impelled by some inscrutable force, to be more terrifying that anything else in the realm of horror. Vampires will subdue you and drink your blood, but there’s an intrinsic, albeit twisted, romantic element to that, Twilight notwithstanding. 

But zombies?  

Nothing romantic there, man. They’ll just devour you (or your brains, depending on your interpretation) and then move on to their next victim. They’re, quite simply, creepy as hell. 

There’s also the fact that they’re virtually unstoppable. 

Conan the Barbarian #92 addresses this very issue. Adapted from the 1967 short story by L. Sprague de Camp and Lin Carter, “The Thing in the Crypt” is a straightforward tale of a young Conan who inadvertently arouses the ire of a centuries-dead king. 

Having escaped from Hyperborean captors, Conan finds himself pursued for two days by a pack of ravenous wolves across the frozen wastes of the north. Armed with only the chain that once bound his wrists, the Cimmerian dispatches one of the number, but the others are undeterred. He finally manages to take refuge in a cleft in the rocks, which leads into a cave. Fumbling through the gloom, he finds rotten furniture and an ancient chariot.  

Using his survival instincts and scraps of the materials he has discovered, he manages to get a fire going. Sensing an evil presence, Conan turns around to behold a huge mummified corpse reposing on a throne of stone. He’s initially unsettled, but when he notices the sword splayed across its lap, his fears take a back seat to his need for a weapon. He removes the blade and, finding it very suitable, bellows the war cry of his people.

Which awakens the corpse. 

Utterly nonplussed, Conan backs away as the thing rises from its chair and shambles toward him. Swinging wildly with his purloined sword, he finds that his blows do nothing to stop the monster’s approach. A fierce struggle ensues, and even though he takes off one of the thing’s arms and cripples one of its legs, it keeps coming.  

Conan has all but resigned himself to his fate when a lucky kick propels the thing into the fire, filling the chamber with the stench of ancient flesh. It is finished. The Cimmerian opts not to sleep in the crypt and, finding that the wolves have abandoned him, continues on his way.   

It’s a simple tale, but I think its simplicity is what makes it work so well. Unlike many of Conan’s adventures, which involve intrigue and/or various warlords vying for control of some territory or other, the uncomplicated framework of “The Thing in the Crypt” allows the reader to be easily drawn into the story. Even though the illustrations provide a visual element that was absent in the original prose story, I could still feel myself groping my way through the dark tomb, the floor littered with shards of broken pottery, the air heavy with dust and iniquity. 

Similarly, the straightforwardness of the story allowed de Camp and Carter to build a fully realized world around a very basic setting, something that Roy Thomas obviously recognized the value of and explored. Not being bogged down by details permits the story to spread its wings, even if they are the wings of some monstrous primeval bird.  

When Conan takes the sword from the corpse’s lap, he ponders whether it might have been used by some hero from a bygone era, say Atlantis’ own Kull the Conqueror, to slay his foes. What, indeed, is the provenance of the weapon, and while we’re at it, who was the “thing” in life? He appears to have been an unusually tall man, perhaps a giant, which is interesting because it brings to mind the giants of Norse myth, which are fixtures in the Hyborian world. Where, exactly, does this ancient king fit in? 

Perhaps the most important question, though, is why Conan’s war cry awakened him. What mechanism did his ululation activate within its desiccated mind? Food for thought. 

John Buscema was taking a break when this issue came about, so his brother Sal stepped in to handle the pencils. Sal is a unique artist in the pages of Marvel because his illustrations are solidly executed yet unremarkable (this is not criticism, merely observation), which makes them a perfect foundation from which a good inker can work. In this case, Conan regular Ernie Chan’s embellishments are very effective, making the issue unforgettable.

 

I think it’s safe to say that “The Thing in the Crypt” is a classic in the Conan canon. The original issue isn’t that expensive, but it’s also reprinted, along with two other tales of Conan’s youth, in Conan Saga #75.

Conan the Barbarian #37

Neal Adams is a curious figure in the world of comics. He made a splash at both Marvel and DC during the Bronze Age and then disappeared. He didn’t exactly drop off the face of the earth; he just found other artistic endeavors to be more lucrative. It’s perfectly reasonable that a man of his remarkable talents would “outgrow” the medium, although he maintains that when you take into account the similarities between drawing comics and composing storyboards, which he has often done in his advertising work, he never really left. 

Best known for illustrating Batman, X-Men, Green Lantern/Green Arrow, and Avengers, Adams was capable of producing staggering work in any genre, and his reputation allowed him to draw anything he wanted for any publisher. 

It’s a good thing for the sword & sorcery enthusiasts among us that he also chose to lend his capable hand to illustrating Conan, the poster boy of swashbuckling adventure, before he left for greener pastures. He drew or painted several covers but contributed to a mere handful of the Cimmerian’s stories. It is perhaps this dearth of work, though, that makes those stories so special.  

He provided inks for Conan the Barbarian #s 44, 45, and 116; pencils for a story in Savage Sword of Conan #14; and inks (over Gil Kane) for one in Savage Tales #4. 

He did, however, provide full art for one glorious issue. 

I was completely unaware of its existence until I picked up a copy of Conan Saga #8, which also reprints Conan #24, “The Song of Red Sonja.” After reading the Red Sonja story, the one I had been primarily interested in, I flipped through the magazine and discovered the cover of Conan #37 in all its black-and-white glory. 

I felt like I had hit the jackpot, as the saying goes. 

“The Curse of the Golden Skull,” adapted by Roy Thomas from a story by Conan creator Robert E. Howard and also featuring Juma, a character envisioned by Howard proteges L. Sprague de Camp and Lin Carter, is an exciting and dynamic tale that spans the ages.  

When a curious traveler happens upon a temple, thrust up by the eons, he awakens a centuries-dead evil: the Lemurian wizard Rotath, who, as he lay dying, cursed his enemies, his king, and his own bones. 

A few months later, Conan, serving as a member of the Turanian army, finds himself part of a detachment charged with protecting the king’s granddaughter, Princess Yolinda. When the unit is ambushed by savage hill-men, only Conan, Juma (a Kushite), and the princess survive. Taken prisoner, they are marched across the frozen wastes to an ancient city with a silver tower. 

Once inside the citadel, the princess is apprehended by a fierce ape-man, which lays her at the base of the stairs leading to the throne of the now-golden-skinned Rotath, alive again after untold years of reposing dead in a shrine dedicated to gods other than his own. When Conan threatens the ape-man, the wizard silences the barbarian and explains that he plans to usurp the throne of Turan by marrying the princess. 

The Cimmerian is beset by the ape-man, which he easily dispatches, and a group of Rotath’s best warriors. The onslaught only ceases when the wizard threatens to cut the princess’ throat. Juma recognizes the move as a ruse and spears the “princess,” which turns out to be the dead ape-man, made to appear as Conan’s charge by the barbarian’s ensorcelled eyes. 

Infuriated, Rotath throws poison darts at Conan and Juma, rendering them unconscious. They awaken in the mines, where they are forced to dig gold. Days later, Juma observes that the guards have become complacent, so he and Conan steal deeper into the mine and discover that half of the riches is being wheeled away in a cart. Deciding to investigate, they discover a large cavern containing a dragon. Just when they think the beast has them dead to rights, a monstrous slug emerges from an underground stream and devours it.  

Unsated, the slug pursues the barbarians as they flee from the cavern and straight down a passage leading to the base of the tower, where Rotath is in the process of marrying Yolinda. Conan realizes that the slug’s preferred food is gold and uses a sack of it to prevent the wizard’s escape. Having swallowed Rotath, the creature returns to its lair, and Conan, Juma, and Yolinda return to the Turanian capital. 

I haven’t read Howard’s original story, but I have to say that there’s quite a bit about this tale that doesn’t quite add up. For example, when Rotath “curses” his own bones, why do they turn to gold? Is it some sort of twist on the Midas touch? The traveler at the beginning is drawn to the skeleton because he sees it as treasure, and Rotath steals his skin, which is, as these sorts of things go, reasonable enough.  

But what’s the deal with the giant slug? It just seems to come out of nowhere and doesn’t seem to relate to anything else. Perhaps there’s more to the story, and Thomas just couldn’t squeeze it all into a nineteen-page comic. 

In any event, the real value in this issue is obviously the artwork, which is just amazing. I can imagine that this wasn’t an easy story to illustrate, but every panel, every image is perfect. This is a must-have for any fan of sword & sorcery or just of Adams in general.

Eerie Presents El Cid

“[W]allowing, boiling, seething from the ocean’s bowels came

the diarrhetic expulsion of nightmarish deformities.” 

Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar, better known as El Cid, is to Spain what King Arthur is to England. The primary difference between the two men is that we know for a fact that Vivar existed, while Arthur’s historicity is less clear cut.  

The tales of Arthur, Lancelot, Gawain, and the other Knights of the Round Table are ubiquitous, the subject of books, movies, and television series too numerous to mention. But this is certainly not the case with El Cid, who has enjoyed little exposure outside of a couple of films and operas. The reasons for this are unclear, but it could be related to Vivar’s somewhat less-mythic persona (he did own a magic sword, but it’s a sure thing that “Tizona” will never evoke a reaction equal to “Excalibur”), coupled with the fact that our collective love affair with early Britain frequently eclipses the historical grandeur of the rest of Europe.  

We also tend to equate fantasy with England, probably due to the inescapable influence of Tolkien’s Middle-Earth, although, admittedly, the genre owes much of its development to American writers. 

It comes as little surprise that Arthur has appeared in several comics, as well, the best known of which is certainly Hal Foster’s Prince Valiant. In 1975, writer Budd Lewis and artist Gonzalo Mayo decided that El Cid deserved his own representation in comics and introduced their version in the pages of Eerie #65. His adventures took up the entirety of issue #66, and he was featured again in #s 70 and 71. 

Luckily for us, Dark Horse Books, who has been rereleasing Warren Publishing’s interests for the past few years, has saved us the trouble and expense of tracking these issues down by compiling all of the Spanish hero’s stories into one very nice, affordable hardcover (a mere $16 at your local comic shop).  

Prior to reading about this book in Previews, I had never heard of the series, although I was familiar with the work of Mayo, known as perhaps the greatest of the Vampirella artists. I could tell right away, based on the description, that it was something I was going to have to pick up. 

There are two striking things about this book.  

The first is the artwork, which is absolutely stunning. Mayo packs more into a single panel than many artists do an entire page. His work is amazingly detailed, yet it looks almost effortless. The images flow together naturally and never appear forced or crowded. He uses a variety of techniques to create depth and contrast. He is among the last of the great classical illustrators, most of which hail from Spain, The Philippines, and South America (Mayo is from Peru), whose like the world of comics will probably never see again. 

The second is the writing, which has to been seen to be believed. I get the distinct impression that Lewis, who was Eerie’s most prolific writer, read a lot of Lovecraft. Those of you familiar with the latter’s work know that he walked a thin line between evocative, haunting language and purple prose. There are fans on both sides of the argument, but we are not concerned with that just now. I bring it up because many of Lewis’ captions are like Lovecraft at his best/worst taken to an even more extreme level. 

I selected the pulled quote at the start of the article as an excellent example of this. Here’s another of my favorites, taken from a fierce battle scene: “I slew until death grease and gut slime made slippery the grips of my sword.” 

“Death Grease” would make a good band name. Or perhaps just a death-metal reworking of the Grease soundtrack. 

In any event, I don’t mean in any way to denigrate the writing. It’s quirky and sometimes over the top, but it draws readers into El Cid’s world and helps them to achieve a deeper understanding of the character. 

Eerie Presents El Cid features seven delightful stories. 

 

 

“El Cid and the Troll” explores the well-known fable of the “monster under the bridge.” It delves into the whole question of myth vs. reality and leaves the reader wondering about the truth of the situation. 

“The Seven Trials” (featuring an awesome frontispiece by Bernie Wrightson) is a tale fraught with peril, taking place mostly at sea, that reminded me of the voyages of Jason and Odysseus in Greek mythology. The story opens with El Cid’s slaying an evil wizard, who promises with his dying words that the other will endure seven trials. After sleeping for, appropriately enough, seven days, El Cid awakes on his warship, surrounded by his soldiers, many of whom have taken ill. He suspects that this might be attributable to the curse. With the captain dead and no rudder or helm, the ship is at the mercy of the turbulent waters. In the ensuing days, the ship is beset by Sirens (one of whom becomes an ally and El Cid’s lover), a sea serpent, and knights on winged steeds. When the few that remain after these attacks finally reach land, they face evil dwarves, the wizard himself (now undead) on a flying ship, and the personification of Death itself, cast as a beautiful woman. The story is in every respect absolutely breathtaking. 

In “El Cid and the Vision,” Spain has been attacked by Moors. On his way to see the king, El Cid encounters an enemy knight whose fighting prowess is unearthly. Our hero fights hard, but the knight defeats him. When the dust clears, however, the knight has vanished, leading El Cid to wonder whether he ever existed. When he reaches the castle, he explains the situation to the king, but a courtier named Don Urraca taunts him. The fight that ensues ends with Don impaled on El Cid’s blade. The king, displeased, threatens to put the warrior to death, but El Cid, truly penitent, offers to fight the Moors’ greatest champion so that God can determine his guilt or innocence. The knight he winds up facing turns out to be the one he fought in the “vision,” giving our hero the advantage. 

Ed Cid encounters two demons, Ahriman and Az, in “The Lady and the Lie.” Also known as “Lie” and “Lust,” respectively, they twice attempt to trick him into committing an evil deed, but our hero prevails. Realizing they cannot inveigle him, the demons move on to another victim, a young girl. They transform themselves into the girl’s fiancée and a whore. Finding them lying together, the girl becomes infuriated and kills them both. The demons reveal their true selves and inform her that her soul now belongs to them. El Cid, overhearing this and the girl’s weeping, engages them, but they both change into likenesses of the girl, making it impossible for him to tell which two are his foes. They offer to give her soul back if he will follow them to Hell and fight there. He agrees and, after battling a host of infernal creatures, winds up beating them at their own game. 

 

 

“The Emir of Aragon” sees El Cid’s king, Alphonso, engaged in battle with the Moorish warlord of the eponymous city. Defeated, the emir surrenders the beautiful servant girl Arias, whom El Cid takes as a lover. He is quite taken with her, and it appears to be mutual, but El Cid experiences disturbing visions one night during his evening prayers, revealing his paramour as a vile murderess. He tells Alphonso of these visions, and the king asks that he not tell anyone else of them, but Arias overhears the conversation. When he returns to his chambers, she embraces him, effectively allaying his fears, but then knocks him out. Her lover subdued, she hurriedly writes a note to the king, signing it with her lover’s name, urging him to come to El Cid’s room to discuss a plot on the king’s life that the other  has uncovered.  The king opts to send one of his courtiers instead, and Arias murders him, making El Cid an unlikely suspect. 

As “Crooked Mouth” opens, El Cid is returning to his father’s house, following a victory, with several Moorish prisoners. An old man of the village is outraged when El Cid insists that the Nobles be treated well rather than killed. His well-publicized chagrin eventually reaches the ears of Count Garcia Ordonez, better known as “Crooked Mouth,” who holds a grudge against El Cid. The Count spreads rumors of treason, and when the king catches wind, he orders El Cid brought to him. Crooked Mouth summons a demon to stop El Cid from reaching the castle but falls prey to his own dark designs. 

Aledo, master thief, goes in search of his ultimate triumph in “Demon’s Treasure,” but finds only terror and death. El Cid is sent to retrieve the thief, who, despite his ignominious profession, is Alphonso’s cousin and trusted ally. Our hero enters a realm of shadow and madness, battling hideous phantoms and his own capacity for lasciviousness in the arms of an alluring female sent to detain him. He finally reaches the fortress of the wizard who owns the treasure and after slaying the dragon guardian, encounters the wizard himself, who unsuccessfully attempts to poison the hero.

 

This collection gets my highest possible recommendation. It deserves a spot in every sword & sorcery fan’s library.