Atlas of the Serpent Men
A Tale of Conan of Cimmeria
Chris L Adams
Written by Chris L. Adams
Based on characters created by Robert E. Howard (see trademark information below)
Art by Okan Bülbül
All Rights Reserved
Legal disclaimer: permission to make this story available for FREE has been obtained from Cabinet Entertainment LLC. Do not pay for this story. If you hear of charges being leveraged for this story, please contact me at TheDoubleShadow .
From Cabinet Entertainment LLC's site: CONAN, CONAN THE BARBARIAN, HYBORIA and related logos, characters, names and distinctive likenesses thereof are trademarks or registered trademarks of Conan Properties International LLC. All rights reserved.
Preface
I might have mentioned somewhere that I became a fan of pulp authors at an early age. But my love of adventure stories dates even before that. I recall discovering Arthur Conan Doyle's hero Sherlock and later his The Lost World. I devoured Forester's Sink the Bismarck and Horatio Hornblower, and before that, Two Years Before the Mast, and others. I can tell you that growing up in rural West Virginia, and not seeing the ocean before I was nineteen, I loved those daring sea-stories.
But, dear reader, never did I thrill so much until I drew steel and traveled alongside a certain dusty Cimmerian. If I'd quaffed ale-for-ale, clutched barmaid for barmaid, and swung sword, axe and war-hammer in mirror of the tales I read after I discovered Robert E. Howard—by Crom, I'd say I've lived!
Although I've oft commented (when discussing Howard) that there is much more to the man than Conan and, as have fellow collectors, lamented the fact that one couldn't buy a Howard paperback without reading By the Creator of Conan on the cover—as if that single creation summarized his worth in that simple phrase—it would be a disservice to the man to not admit . . . wow, what a character.
Conan is Howard's obvious magnum opus, and possibly the most powerful character he created—maybe the most powerful character ever created—and those original tales are my favorite pieces written by him.
May God rest his soul.
Chris.
PS—I forgot this crucial piece. My friend, I hope you enjoy this little romp through the Hyborian Age I've crafted as an homage to a top-shelf writer by the name of Robert E. Howard, and his undying creation—Conan of Cimmeria.
Somewhere on the outskirts of Greshahla, a town lying in northern Brythunia along the Hyperborean border…
Taking an overgrown path to the top of a windswept bluff, a man reined-in his horse in a clump of trees where he might remain hidden. The wind, ripping through the brittle brush lining the path, was biting, the force of it instantly tearing away the exhaled vapors issuing from the steady breathing of him and his steed. Yet, for all its cold the horseman did not outwardly seem to suffer from it.
The man was massive, seeming almost out of scale with the world around him. His expansive shoulders were nearly as wide as were two normal men standing side-by-side. His entire frame seemed to have been fashioned by the gods to careen into war, so powerful his body appeared even at rest—as it was as he sat his mount. His steed, an immense draft horse that would have been considered large even for its breed, snorted, catching the salty scent of blood on the air; the man tensed.
From his vantage point he scouted the frozen road below. He narrowed his eyes against the wintry gusts to better focus on a bend in the dirt track. He had expected to rendezvous with a rider along this stretch of road this morning. Instead, a ragtag band of ruffians was rifling the slaughtered body of him whom he was to meet.
Keen, blue eyes, overhung by a brooding, square-cut black mane shot with tendrils of gray, took in the scene of carnage at a glance. He loosened his sword in its scabbard, one calloused thumb unconsciously caressing the well-worn grip. He recognized the bandits and cursed, not bothering to stifle the oath. He could care less if they heard him or not. In moments they would be beyond caring about anything at all.
The man was Conan, King of Aquilonia. Here on clandestine business, these men had known him for weeks as Korma, a Cimmerian thief; Conan knew from of old that the less lies one told, the less one had to remember.
"Yrdihz, you filthy dog! This will cost you, by Crom. Heeyah!"
His shout was accompanied by the sudden planting of his heels in the ribs of the black. With a startled snort the horse launched itself over the edge of the bluff and thundered down the precipitous slope to careen into the dozen or more men below.
The rider on its back barked a ragged laugh at the surprised looks on their faces. The man's previously relaxed posture exploded into action. Rising in his stirrups his sword cleared the well-worn scabbard with a smooth, upward sweep terminating in an arcing slash that beheaded the first brigand he passed.
Momentarily stunned, the remaining bandits' eyes went wide. As soon as they saw who attacked them they knew they must fight, but it was with bowels as weak as suckling babes that many of them launched their efforts. They had come to know this enraged savage, having had dealings with the man in recent weeks that had benefited both parties, although the aloof barbarian typically operated alone, as a wolf without a pack.
They'd learned he was to come here this morn, the thought of all the gold and secrets a royal courier might possibly carry overcoming their good sense. Yrdihz, the leader of the band, assured them they could waylay the Kingsman and disappear before the barbarian arrived. Later, he claimed, they would listen to his tales of misfortune at the pub while they secretly smiled in their cups. Unfortunately for them it hadn't panned out as Yrdihz promised.
"It's Korma!" one cried.
"We were supposed to be gone before he got here!" ripped another. Sharp fear and desperation tainted his quivering voice.
One of the bandits was wrestling the saddlebags from the slain Kingsman's horse. He looked nervously over his shoulder as he ran for his own steed, staggering beneath the weight of gold coin filling the bags, but unwilling to drop his load. As well flee from the gods! The Cimmerian ran him down with his horse, the great hooves of the black stomping the man into red ruin, leaving glittering gold dancing across the frozen track in the wake of its passage.
"Erlik eat your bowels, Cimmerian!" Yrdihz, their captain, scowled. "You'd of done no less and you know it!"
"You're right," ripped the Cimmerian. "But I wouldn't've been caught with my breeches around my ankles unless a tasty morsel of flesh was involved, you scurvy-ridden, flea-bitten mongrel!"
Four of the bandits rode straight at Conan with lowered lances while Yrdihz drew his bow and awaited an opening; another four-horseman waited with him. If he expected to see Conan fall beneath the charge of his men the stoic expression on his face revealed no hint of disappointment when this did not happen.
Typically, a mirthless smile might play at Conan's lips while he battled, he finding visceral fulfillment in the spilling of blood and the cracking of bone; but not this morning. His eyes were slits of anger and his lips were pressed into a tight line across his angled features. His brow was furrowed and his body had become as tense as a sword bent nearly to its snapping point. The sweeping, lightning fast strokes of his blade caused his steel to sing as it slung droplets of blood that flew chaotically amidst the falling snow that was fast becoming a blinding white-out from the furious gusts of a growing storm.
Conan, however, was far too crafty to lose himself to anger and focus solely on the lowered spears of these bandits, while ignoring Yrdihz. The man was a Hyrkanian, an expert archer, and it would be a deadly mistake to ignore the reach of his bow. Conan prudently maneuvered his horse to keep the enemy between himself and their leader but heard arrows whistle by his ear or thunk into his buckler more than once.
His wooden buckler he used to fend off the spear thrusts of the nearer horsemen and swat any that came within reach. Shortly, it was riddled with arrows and fresh notches. In the bustle of conflict a bandit rode in close and received the steel-rimmed edge of Conan's shield across his nose and teeth. It mattered little. Moments later the man's head rolled from his shoulders and his ruined features were of no further concern to him—nor was he of any further concern to the barbarian.
He lopped off the tip of a spear, shortening its reach by a good cubit. Grasping the severed end of the spear shaft he side-stepped his black until, knee-to-knee with the spearman, he shoved three feet of steel through the man's tunic, grunting in satisfaction as he felt ribs popping in-half along the edge of the blade. The man's lungs sucked along the entire length of his sword as he withdrew it, the body tumbling to the ground beneath the stomping hooves of the electrified mounts.
Two more of Yrdihz's men fell to Conan's savagery, the remaining horsemen now becoming more wary, as might a pack of wild dogs attempting to drag down an old and seasoned wolf. Although they knew him from the local pubs and had heard talk of his prowess in the red districts of Kör, a remote city lying close to the Hyperborean border, this was the first time they'd seen him in action. Only last night they'd eaten and drained wine skins together at The Scarlet Lass, laughing drunkenly when one would grab a serving wench and drag her into his lap for a kiss.
The dead and dying men lying in the road were mute testimony to the capacity of a sword arm who's like they'd never seen. Seated upon a powerful roan, Yrdihz cursed. "I believe this is what you were wanting?" The Hyrkanian mockingly held aloft a leather cylinder, a device to carry official documents. This he slung cross-wise over his back, calling out instructions to two of his men while those who remained he ordered to rush the barbarian.