by Robert E. Howard (1894)
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Picture this: a hulking Cimmerian with a black mane and eyes like blue ice scales the jeweled spire of the Tower of the Elephant under a Stygian moon, his sword whispering promises of blood as eldritch whispers slither from the shadows above. That’s the raw pulse of The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian, Robert E. Howard’s unfiltered blaze of sword-and-sorcery fury, kicking off with stories that hit like a warhammer to the chest.
You feel it from the first page of “The Phoenix on the Sword,” where Conan, now king of Aquilonia, wakes in his own palace to Thoth-Amon’s sorcery uncoiling like a serpent in the dark. Assassins lunge from tapestries, blades clash in a frenzy of sweat and steel, and Howard’s prose erupts—short, jagged sentences that mimic the barbarian’s hacking fury. No flowery drivel here; it’s visceral, the air thick with the copper tang of blood and the musk of ancient evils. Then “Queen of the Black Coast” drags you onto Belit’s pirate ship, waves crashing as Conan and his she-devil lover carve through black corsairs, only to face a jungle god that devours souls. The wonder grips you—the lost city of Xuchotl gleaming with forbidden jewels—mingled with dread as mummies stir and sorcery twists reality.
What sets this apart? Howard invented this brutal playground. No simpering elves or noble quests; Conan’s world is a savage crush of crumbling empires, scheming priests, and beasts from forgotten eons. He wrote these in the 1930s for Weird Tales, pouring volcanic energy into every fight, every curse—pure, unbowdlerized, no L Sprague de Camp edits to sand down the edges. This volume gathers them in the order Howard hammered them out, from palace intrigue to rogue Thak’s bestial rage in “Rogues in the House.” Mark Schultz’s intro nails the context without slowing the charge.
If you devoured the Schwarzenegger Conan films for that thunderous “What is best in life?” roar, or craved the gritty betrayals of Game of Thrones but wanted less politics and more cleaving, this is your fix. Howard’s fire forged the genre—ripples in everything from Elric to the Witcher—but these stories burn brightest on their own.
Grab it tonight, and let Conan crash through your door like a storm from the north.
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