Sword of Sorcery #4

“This city has become unliveable. A man can’t even be cold and miserable in peace.” –Fafhrd

Sometimes we forget just how much influence the work of H. P. Lovecraft has had on fantasy literature.

Usually associated with the horror genre, his Cthulhu Mythos introduced readers to the notion that there are things out there that are beyond the ken of mere mortals, things with indescribable forms, things with grotesque anatomies that defy any kind of logic with which we are familiar.

Why does that creature have tentacles on its face? What purpose could those sorts of appendages possibly serve?

It has been suggested that the legendary kraken, the origins of which go all the way back to the thirteenth century, was an inspiration for Cthulhu, which is reasonable enough. Throughout history, humankind has devised explanations for both observable phenomena and for things that cannot otherwise be explained.

Why, for example, do ships disappear during ocean voyages? Sea monsters. Yeah, let’s go with that.

Lovecraft took that idea and applied it to things that humankind didn’t even realize needed explaining. In fact, in his work, too much knowledge can be a bad thing. Ancient civilizations (prior to the emergence of philosophy as a respectable discipline) were primarily interested in figuring out the underlying mechanics of why things happen, and they probably never entertained the idea that finding out the truth could rob a person of his or her sanity.

Many of the gods described in the various mythologies of the world are either anthropomorphic or, at the very least, have human body parts and generally possess humanoid forms. This is likely attributable to the fact that we tend to imagine things in relatable forms. The ancient Greeks are well known for having regarded the human body as the most perfect thing in the whole of creation, which is why their gods look just like regular (albeit beautiful) people. It’s just as likely, though, that they envisioned their deities that way because it was impossible for them to think of them in any other fashion.

In Lovecraft’s fiction, we find that ageless beings such as Cthulhu are frequently worshipped. In “The Call of Cthulhu,” the narrator discovers that the eponymous creature’s cults exist all over the globe. Why anyone would worship a monster is indeed a perplexing question, but it’s probably ultimately related to the acceptance of its overarching power and the hope that revering it might somehow mollify one’s fate. They are, in essence, motivated entirely by fear.

The Cthulhu Mythos is frequently referred to as “cosmic horror,” due to the fact that his godlike monsters originate from deep space, so we might be inclined to associate his work with science fiction, but it’s actually much closer to fantasy, as there is little in the way of actual science involved.

Lovecraft and Conan creator Robert E. Howard maintained a friendly correspondence, and, in various ways, many of the tropes introduced in the former’s work found their way into the latter’s. This “marriage” provides the foundation for sword & sorcery’s relationship with the trappings of Lovecraft’s fiction. Lovecraft, whose writing was virtually unknown outside the pages of Weird Tales and its ilk, passed away in 1937 (one year after Howard), but thanks to the efforts of August Derleth, et al., his work became a major force in speculative fiction.

Unlike the first three issues in the series, Sword of Sorcery #4 contains two stories. The above exposition relates to the first.

As “The Cloud of Hate” opens, Fafhrd and the Mouser are attempting to warm themselves by a small brazier in the streets of their native Lankhmar. The Mouser remarks that he hears swords being drawn, and they are soon set upon by two thieves who mistakenly believe that Fafhrd and his companion have any money. This “fool’s errand,” as Fafhrd calls it, ends with their attackers’ deaths.

Things take a strange turn when fog descends on one of the thieves and snatches his dagger with a tendril. Curiosity getting the better of them, they follow the dagger over the rooftops and out of the city, where it makes a beeline for a small merchant camp. It picks up a young woman and then casts her to the ground, killing her instantly. Incensed by this, the pair continues to follow as it makes its way into the surrounding woods.

They encounter a man who warns them that a fire-breathing dragon dwells in the forest. Finding his behavior unnerving, Fafhrd punches him in the face. Noticing the fog’s entering a nearby cave, the adventurers sneak inside.

There they find something that almost defies description.

An enormous “cloud of hate” fills the chamber, surrounded by worshippers, imploring it to spread violence, pain, and war and to destroy everything good in the world. As the pair observes the shocking scene, a guard attacks them, followed by the host of mad devotees. To make things worse, many of the cloud’s tendrils hold weapons. Fafhrd and the Mouser fight valiantly, but the odds are clearly overwhelming, and they begin to wonder if they will, for the first time, not emerge victorious.

They realize that their only chance is to stab the cloud in its giant eye, which is too high up for either of them to reach. Fafhrd hands his dagger to his companion and, praying to his Northern gods, gives him a boost. The Mouser’s strike hits home, and the fog instantly disperses. Once again, they lament going away empty handed, but know that they can find solace in good wine and fair maidens.

The idea of a god (or whatever it is) composed of fog, with none of the things we associate with sentience other than a huge eyeball, is very Lovecraft-esque. No attempt whatsoever is made to give the thing humanoid features. While it appears insubstantial, Fafhrd’s blade does manage to sever some of its tendrils, although doing so doesn’t help the situation much. The sheer weirdness of it is an excellent example of how sword & sorcery has borrowed from Lovecraft’s ideas.

(The Illithids, or Mind Flayers, from Dungeons & Dragsons, while certainly more humanoid, also come to mind, but we’ll save that for a future article.)

The second story, “The Prophecy,” takes place during young Fafhrd’s fifteenth year.

Out for a walk on a snowy mountain trail with his beloved Aynsa, Fafhrd discounts the words of an old man who warns them that a “snow serpent” lurks nearby. He advises them to at least take heed of a prophecy: “Where fails a blade, however true—that work an ordinary song may do.” To Fafhrd’s ears, it’s pure “gibberish.”

As they continue on their way, the young barbarian pulls out a lute and begins singing her praises, unaware that the serpent is poised to strike. It seizes Aynsa, and Fafhrd unsheathes his sword.

Despite his best efforts, the blade cannot penetrate the monster’s scales, and when he attempts to stab it in the head, it bites his weapon in half and knocks him into the mountainside with its tail. The great beast spreads its wings and flies off toward its cave, leaving a dejected Fafhrd in its wake. Unable to rescue his beau, he decides to honor her with a song of mourning.

As the music emanates from his throat and instrument, loose icicles on the roof of the cave break loose. They plummet downward and embed themselves in the serpent’s head. The lovers reunite and pick things up where they left off.

Overall, Sword of Sorcery #4 is a decent issue, if a fairly unremarkable one. Howard Chaykin’s art is, once again, quite good, and the surprise addition of Walt Simonson in the second story is a nice treat (his work here prefigures his groundbreaking run on Thor in the early ‘80s). I don’t mind that two-story format, but it does make the stories feel a bit rushed (the second one, in particular, seems to end as soon as it gets going).

This is the sort of title that appeals greatly to hardcore sword & sorcery fans but leaves other readers cold, which is probably why it was canceled so soon. This being said, it’s a must-have in my book.

Sword of Sorcery #3

“I’m considered an expert at silencing braggarts who mock my compactness.” –The Gray Mouser 

Sword & sorcery and pirates have had a long association (“The Pool of the Black One,” one of Robert E. Howard’s original Conan stories, comes to mind). After all, the swashbuckling action, carousing, treasure-hunting, and roguish behavior endemic to corsair tales are also the trappings of sword & sorcery. Because of their similarities, the two genres mix extremely well, and, as we have seen again and again, the briny deep (with its own species of monsters, brigands, and inclement weather) can prove just as perilous as dry land, if not more so.   

It’s no surprise, then, that Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser would mix up with some pirates sooner or later. 

Passengers aboard Smantha, the towering barbarian and his diminutive companion are in the process of relieving the crew of their coin via the former’s feats of strength when a ship bearing the flag of Overlord Glipkerio approaches. Expecting good tidings, the crew is caught off guard when the sailors from the other vessel, under the command of one Captain Dugim, begin slaughtering them. His objective: to kidnap Princess Shada, whose presence had been unknown to Fafhrd and the Mouser until the attack. 

Having murdered everyone onboard (save Fafhrd and the Mouser, who were knocked out during the battle by a falling yardarm), Dugim instructs his men to sink Smantha. His head reeling as the vessel disappears beneath the waves, Fafhrd grabs his unconscious companion and leaps into the sea. Miles from anywhere and lacking food or potable water, the adventurers drift on the open sea, clinging for dear life to Smantha’s debris. Days later, they are picked up by a slave ship, on which they are forced to perform menial tasks. When the vessel arrives in Lankhmar, their home port, Fafhrd returns the slavemaster’s hospitality by tying him up and forcing a length of rope down his gullet. 

They decide to pay Overlord Glipkerio a visit to find out why he had the sailors killed and the princess abducted. After a brief fracas with the overlord’s guards, the companions find that Glipkerio had nothing to do with the attack and that Dugim had acted on his own, having rebelled against his boss. He seeks ransom for the princess from her father, but King Strumbol is a notorious cheapskate who values his riches more than his daughter. Glipkerio offers to hire them to rescue her, and they agree.

The overlord takes them to see his wizard, Kohn, who gives them an airship and a deck of mysterious playing cards, which, he promises, will prove useful if they find themselves besieged by overwhelming odds. As a guide, he provides Lissa, a mute woman cursed with avian attributes. (He has been trying to cure her for decades.) She leads them over open water (much to their chagrin) to an island lousy with buccaneers, who fire burning pitch at the airship and manage to knock it out of the sky. Escaping unscathed, Fafhrd and the Mouser find the pirates inebriated (and, therefore, easily dispatched) and make their way to a tent. There they find Dugim seated on a throne with the princess in his lap. 

Fafhrd and the Mouser set upon Dugim’s men, but they fall into a trap. They wind up tied to poles where they are simply going to be murdered by Crassus, a big man with an axe. (No frills here.) Lissa vanishes into the sky, and the pair believes she has abandoned them. In truth, she flies into a cloud to collect the rainwater required to “activate” the magical playing cards and, having done so, dumps the liquid onto the deck.  

Immediately, the fearsome figures pictured on the cards spring to life and attack the pirates.  

With Dugim’s men occupied, the Mouser confronts the pirate captain and drives his sword through the man’s torso. Shada, incensed by this, bashes the cloaked hero in the head with a drinking vessel, proclaiming that she and Dugim had just married and that they had interrupted the after-party. She raises a sword to slay him, but Lissa, intervening, is the unfortunate recipient of the killing blow. Shada flees into the jungle as the Mouser, grief-stricken, collapses beside Lissa’s body. 

This otherwise lighthearted story ends with the Mouser carrying her away for burial. Despite their all-too-brief association, he had apparently developed feelings for her (or, at the very least, appreciated how she had helped them and admired her courage in the face of hardship). Fafhrd plops down on a precipice and tells his friend to take as long as he needs.

Although we aren’t told a lot about Lissa, other than the fact that she was transformed by her jealous necromancer husband, her plight is striking, to an even greater degree when we discover late in the story that Shada is not the damsel in distress we took her for. The real victim here is Lissa, and she acts valiantly even though she is profoundly unhappy. She puts her own troubles aside to help Fafhrd and the Mouser and ultimately sacrifices herself to save the Mouser. Her death proves to be the only escape from her condition, and to some degree she probably welcomes it. In this way, she becomes a tragic heroine and is deserving of our admiration.  

 

Another worthy issue in the Sword of Sorcery series, “Betrayal,” by Denny O’Neil and Howard Chaykin, is bursting with beautifully rendered high-seas adventure, captivating swordplay, and breathtaking vistas. It’s unclear whether or not this story was adapted from one of Fritz Leiber’s; in fact, strangely enough, I couldn’t find any credits in the book and had to rely on a secondary source. Three issues in, Chaykin had developed a strong grasp on the characters, and his remarkable figure-work imbued Fafhrd, the Mouser, and the various bit players with grandeur.

Sword of Sorcery #2

If there really is such a thing as “honor among thieves,” it certainly doesn’t exist in Lankhmar, the home city of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, at least if the events in Sword of Sorcery #2 are any indication. 

Continuing the adventures of Fritz Leiber’s sword & sorcery duo, the second issue of this dynamic series finds our heroes at odds with the Thieves’ Guild, as well as a ghostly triumvirate threatening vengeance if a certain purloined item is not returned to them. Denny O’Neil and Howard Chaykin again take the reins as the crimson-haired barbarian and his cloaked companion become ensnared in a morass of skulduggery. 

“Revenge of the Skull of Jewels,” adapted from Leiber’s story “Thieves’ House,” opens in the expansive and malodorous tomb of Votishal. We are thrown right into the middle of the action as Fafhrd attempts to keep some sort of humanoid-lizard guardian at bay while the Mouser picks at a difficult lock and an impatient, corpulent man named Fissif stands nearby.  

As the Mouser gets the lock open and Fafhrd defeats the monster, it becomes clear that Fissif is the mastermind behind the raid, having hired the pair for their reputation. Opening a coffer, he retrieves a skull with ruby eyes and diamond teeth and a pair of skeletal hands with pearl fingernails. He has promised to share the riches, but he outwits Fafhrd and the Mouser by giving them drugged wine: a simple ploy, but an effective one. 

When they awaken, they head to the Thieves’ House to find Fissif and make him pay for cheating them. Inside, they find the leader of the thieves and a red-headed wench admiring the jeweled skull and hands. Without warning, the woman takes the treasures and disappears through a door that cannot be opened from their side. When they attempt to question the leader, they discover that he has been strangled. Hearing footsteps, they duck behind a tapestry. 

Fissif enters with a man named Sleyvas and two other members of the guild. The fat thief tells Sleyvas that the leader was murdered by the skeletal hands and that the skull flew away. Of course, Sleyvas rejects this absurd tale, insisting that Fissif convinced Fafhrd and his companion to steal the treasures for him. While this heated exchange is going on, one of the thieves spots Fafhrd’s shoes beneath the drapery, and a swordfight ensues.  

Fissif bashes the barbarian on the head with a vase, but thanks to the Mouser’s quick thinking they escape. They duck down a dark passage, and Fafhrd manages to hit his head again on a low-hanging beam. The Mouser exits through a window before realizing that he has left his friend behind. By this point, the barbarian’s brains are effectively scrambled, and as he staggers down the hallway he stumbles into a hidden chamber. 

There, he encounters three ghosts who know of the theft of the skull and hands and demand that they be returned to them within a day, or else they will drain the very life from his body. While weighing his options, Fafhrd is ambushed and captured by the thieves. They have also discovered the Mouser’s whereabouts and send him a message, stating that if he does not return the skull and hands to them they will take it out on the barbarian. 

Disguising himself as a fortune-telling hag, the Mouser gains admittance to the apartment of the woman, known as Ivlis, who stole the treasures, having figured out its location based on its proximity to the Thieves’ House. He ties her up, reclaims the skeletal treasures, and returns to the den of thievery. Pretending to be the spirit of the dead man whose skull and hands were made into valuables, the Mouser succeeds in freeing Fafhrd. The thieves attack the interlopers just as Ivlis appears, having been freed by her housekeeper.  

Realizing they are outnumbered, Fafhrd resolves to take as many of them with him as he can. Just then, the skull’s eyes begin to glow, and its jaw begins to move. This terrifies Fissif, but Sleyvas becomes enraged, insisting that the fat man is again acting foolishly. He strikes the skull with his blade, causing the ghosts to materialize. He suffers the brunt of their vengeance, and they squeeze the life out of him. The other thieves flee in horror, leaving Fafhrd, the Mouser, and Ivlis alone. 

The Mouser rues the fact that they failed to profit in any way from this venture. Fafhrd suggests that they drown their sorrows, as they usually do, with wine. 

The art is in this issue, as in its predecessor, is a cut above what was found in most comics of the time. Sword of Sorcery was Chaykin’s first major assignment, having been recommended to DC’s editors by Neal Adams, and considering the strength of the illustration it really is hard to understand why it was canceled so quickly. It’s entirely possible that it just got swallowed up in the racks by the numerous other comics that were coming out around the same time. (Recall that the Seventies was a period of major expansion for Marvel, DC, and others.) Despite this initial hiccup, Chaykin would go on to do groundbreaking work in the following years (American Flagg!, Black Kiss, features in Star*Reach and Heavy Metal).

 

Definitely deserves a slot in every sword & sorcery fan’s longbox.

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.