3 Blades Against Darkness - Conan Story Excerpt

 Here is an excerpt from a Conan the Barbarian story that is featured in my book, Three Blades Against Darkness. The book is available in a graphic version, a non-graphic version, Kindle, and as an audiobook. All of them are available on Amazon. The story is entitled:

Rendezvous With Death

THERE had been a longstanding feud between the neighboring countries of Brythunia and Nemedia. Neither nation could recall a time when there was no strong animosity between them. Wars, rivalries, skirmishes, and assassinations came and went, but nothing was ever resolved; only new grievances. Certainly, peace was not a desired goal.

It was hardly necessary to say which nation began this latest war, as each was always eager to fight the other.

Nemedia, not wishing to lose too many of its own people, hired a mercenary band from half a score of nations. They were good fighters if paid well enough.

The mercenary band, numbering almost four hundred men, was ordered to hold a pass where a Brythunian host of the same number was suspected of attacking. The main Nemedian force was sent to the south, in a push for the Brythunian capital.

Nygard, a warrior of the Aesir, had been with the mercenary band for almost a year. He stood straight and tall, well-muscled but limber. He had a ruggedly handsome face, with a straight nose, a wide mouth, and light grey eyes. His hair was blonde, and his trimmed beard held a hint of red. He had come to Nemedia with a reputation. Many had heard of him.  In his life, he had seen many battles, killed many foes, and seen many comrades die. Killing and fighting were the two things at which he excelled. 

When the mercenaries reached the pass they were to hold, they found the Brythunian host before them. There were more than expected. The leader of the mercenaries, a Kothian, cursed the Nemedian commanders. He did not know if their intelligence regarding the enemy's numbers was poor or if the Nemedians were purposely sacrificing the mercenaries. The Kothian consulted with Nygard, whom the Kothian knew was an experienced warrior. The two of them were contemplating issuing a retreat order when they received information that their escape route was blocked by another contingent of Brythunians of comparable size. The Kothian and his men were outnumbered four to one. They could not surrender. That would mean death. Death was inevitable. The only choice now was to surrender and be killed, or to fight and die. The Kothian knew the men under his command. There was only one choice. Better to die standing with a sword in your hand.

Seeing that the Brythunian forces were holding their position, presumably waiting for the outnumbered force to surrender, the Nemedian mercenaries attacked the enemy force closest to them. The armies collided with shouts and the clashing of swords and axes on shields. 

The Brythunian side did not expect this, and some fled at the sheer viciousness of the Nemedian mercenaries. The mercenaries could have defeated one of the Brythunian armies, and were indeed in the midst of slaughtering them, when the other contingent of Brythunians joined the fray and the tide turned. 

Nygard was killing more than his share, slaying with his broadsword and fending off attacks with his small, metal buckler strapped to the back of his left hand. He hacked and stabbed relentlessly as bodies fell at his feet, and he was forced to move on so as not to stumble over the corpses. More times than he could count, his metal helm had fended off blows. Nygard did not appear to tire of the carnage, but he did notice the enemy soldiers were closing in around him. He feared most of his comrades had fallen. The enemy soldiers who hemmed him in grew cautious after seeing their comrades fall mercilessly before the blonde warrior.

Nygard was aware of another warrior approaching him, cutting a deadly swath through the enemy. The man was younger than Nygard, with black hair under a horned helm. This man’s eyes were volcanic blue, and he roared as he slew.

“Come and die, you hellhounds!” the dark-haired warrior bellowed, as if to let Nygard know he wasn’t alone.

 Nygard recognized the man as a fellow mercenary, though he did not know the warrior’s name. Soon, the two stood back-to-back, hacking and stabbing at an incredible rate. Bodies piled up at their feet. At one point, a wounded Brythunian who lay on the ground grabbed Nygard by the ankle in an attempt to trip him. Nygard cut the man’s hand off at the wrist, but in its death grip, the hand still clung to Nygard’s ankle. With a quick kick, Nygard dislodged the hand, and it struck a shocked Brythunian in the face.

From the corner of his eye, Nygard saw a savage-looking Brythunian with his axe raised, ready to come down on Nygard’s head, but in a flash, the black-haired youth thrust the tip of his blade into the Brythunian’s heart, and the axe-wielder fell away.

Amazingly, the two men held their own against all odds. Their swords cut down the Brythunians like wheat at harvest. Bones crunched and broke. Limbs and heads were severed, and brains dashed out. The mercenaries’ blades pierced armor, flesh, and organs. Pain-filled cries and moans of the Brythunians filled the air, while the only sounds emitted from the black-maned and blonde-haired warriors were their own steady breathing.  

Some Brythunians fled the scene, not wishing to lose their lives at the hands of these two berserkers, who appeared possessed by killing and bloodlust.

All of Stephen Gaspar's books are available on Amazon!

New Covers!

 I took the advice of an artist and designer I met on FB and had new covers designed for my books, Three Blades Against Darkness and Four Blades of Ruin. These new covers are for the non-graphic hardcopy and Kindle editions that are available on Amazon. Click on the cover for the link.

Solomon Kane Story Excerpt

 I am very excited about my latest book, 4 Blades of Ruin, a series of short stories of Robert E. Howard's heroes, Conan the Barbarian, Bran Mak Morn, Solomon Kane, and King Kull. The book is available on Amazon in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition and on Kindle. Here is an excerpt from one of the Solomon Kane stories entitled:

Demon of Darkness

The area is also known for its wide, open moorlands, and just south of the moorlands is the town of Kirkland. It was evening when Solomon Kane walked into Kirkland.

He found an ale house on the edge of town. It was a humble domestic dwelling, and was operated by Travis March, the landlord and proprietor. The old wooden sign over the door depicted three crowns.

When Kane entered, all heads, including Travis March and nine patrons, turned and stared at the tall, dark stranger whose hat brushed the top of the doorframe. The patrons, all locals, some farmers and craftsmen, all regarded the rapier at his side, the dirk in its scabbard, and a brace of pistols tucked into his belt. The stranger was dressed in the style of a Puritan, black and unadorned. He wore tall riding boots and a black cloak. The man had a dark pallor and a serious, almost grim demeanor, and the sharp eyes that peered from under his broad-brimmed hat were cold and grey. Seeing the armed stranger, three of the patrons walked out the door, as they had no desire for any intrigue. Kane watched them walk out and closed the door behind them.

The room had a low ceiling with wooden beams, blackened by age and smoke that came from a stone fireplace. Rushes lined the bare floorboards, and benches lined the walls.

Kane regarded each of the patrons, then approached the low fire and warmed his hands from the night’s chill.

Travis March approached him warily.

“Wine?” asked Kane.

“No wine—ale. The best home-brewed ale for miles around.”

Kane nodded. In a minute, the man brought a blackjack of ale. Kane drank it down and looked in the cup.

“Landlord, did you plan on charging me full price for this cup of ale?” Kane asked.

“Why, yes, sir. Why do you ask?”

“There appears to be a good amount of pitch in this cup.”

March took the cup and looked in it, showing surprise and confusion at how that could have happened.

“Pardon me, sir. Let me refill this for you at no added expense.”

The patrons in the room sniggered, for they had seen March use that cup on unsuspecting customers before. They looked at the stranger and motioned at a seat on one of the benches. Kane sat. After some initial hesitancy, they accepted Kane into their group and began questioning him about all kinds of matters: what’s your name? Where are you from? Where are you going? It took the Puritan some time to get used to their distinctive accent and manner of speech; still, Kane found the northerners blunt and direct, yet friendly.

When Kane said he was headed across the moors, they grew a bit pensive. It was fine to travel across the moors, but under no circumstances was he to go through the middle of the moors and was to avoid Blaec Moor altogether.

“Why is that?” the Puritan asked.

“Because it’s haunted.”

“It’s evil.”

“No one goes there.”

“As you value your life and your reason, stay away from Blaec Moor!”

Then began a series of local folklore about Blaec Moor that Kane could not help but think was enhanced by too much drink. Stories of animals on the moor disappearing, and even residents of Kirkland who went missing and were never seen again. Some of the stories stretched back generations and were passed down father to son and mother to daughter. One story that patrons of the Three Crowns could attest to, which was recent, was the strange sounds drifting across the moor at night.

“When did this happen?” Kane asked.

“Only at night. Different people have told this same story many times. If you go deep enough into the moor at night, you will hear it.”

“And what does it sound like?”

They all looked at one another as if to form a consensus.

“Like no sound we ever heard before,” one man said.

Another man added, “It’s hard to describe.”

And another said, “I’ve heard it. It’s like some horde of ghosts crying out like lost souls, or demons bemoaning their fate. It’s an awful sound, sir… awful.”

“We thought of going out there, but none of us was eager to discover the source.”

“He means none of us were brave enough to go. I’ll have no part of it.”

Solomon Kane nodded as he wondered what could be behind these strange occurrences.

For what the proprietor said was a nominal fee, Kane was permitted to sleep on the floor of the Three Crowns that night. In the morning, he headed north for Blaec Moor.

Blaec Moor lived up to its name, as it was one of the bleakest places in all England. It was a distinctive landscape; vast, inhospitable, and wild. A constant shadow was on the moor, and a chilling wind swept across the uplands with little to break its stride.

Solomon Kane wrapped his long black cloak about him, for the wind carried a chill that had little to do with the temperature. He stopped to survey the terrain before him and to catch his breath, for he had been walking for hours, his long legs shod in cordovan leather boots, eating up the miles. His keen grey eyes peered out from under his wide-brimmed hat.

The wide uncultivated uplands held few trees, but mainly low-growing vegetation such as dull-purple heather, weedy grass, and peat. In the low-lying areas, there were bogs and rushes. He had not scared up a grouse or a skylark in a while, but adders seemed plentiful. Dark clouds hung low over the land, creating a gloomy, moody atmosphere. Looking at the Puritan, one would suspect he would fit in very well in this place, as he appeared dark and gloomy as well.

Kane walked on, looking like a grim, black shadow moving across the moor.  

It was getting to be evening by the time Kane came across a village: small stone-and-timber homes with thatched roofs clustered together for protection and fellowship. From a distance, he observed the village but saw few signs of activity. Even the farm animals barely moved about in their pens or in the yards. It was late summer, but here there was the gloomy aspect of fall. The constant wind from the north brought a chill, but still the Puritan thought it was more than that. Overall, he felt the portent of evil hanging over the village like the clouds; it was in the very air. Kane was attuned to it, like a sot who could detect the smell of drink. There was something so wrong here that he could not deny nor turn away from it, as if he were drawn toward iniquity as other men are drawn toward beauty and virtue. The Puritan had to know the source of this maliciousness, and if he could, he would destroy it. He approached the village warily.  

He chose a door at random and knocked upon it. 

All of Stephen Gaspar's books are available on Amazon!

Bran Mak Morn Story Excerpt

I am very excited about my latest book, 4 Blades of
Ruin, a series of short stories of Robert E. Howard's heroes, Conan the Barbarian, Bran Mak Morn, Solomon Kane, and King Kull. The book is available on Amazon in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition and on Kindle. Here is an excerpt from one of the Bran Mak Morn stories entitled:

Nil Desperandum

Bran Mak Morn, King of the Picts, peered out from under concealment among the trees. Even if Caius Dracus or any Roman had been looking directly at the Pict, they would not have seen him, camouflaged as he was. Bran watched the Romans march down the road toward the trap he had set. Hidden among the pine and fir trees that grew on the incline next to the trail, his men lay waiting. The Pictish king had thought of this plan weeks ago, when, after Bran and his men set fire to a Roman watchtower, the Romans retaliated and then marched on a Pictish village, burning it to the ground. Bran knew if he repeated an attack on the Romans, they would retaliate. If the Roman army was anything, it was predictable. The Pictish king would have his revenge.

Lying still undercover, Bran listened to the tramp of Roman feet and the rattle of their armor and weapons. He shook his head at their foolishness. They marched as if announcing their coming.  

Mak Morn watched the Romans getting closer. He had to trust that none of his men would give away their location. Living their lives close to nature, Picts respected their environment and natural settings. They were well known for blending into their surroundings, whether it be the woods, tall grass, or even the rock. Bran had seen how some of the smaller men could find hiding places in rock crevices where it did not appear possible.

The Romans were close now. Bran raised his arm. His men’s eyes were on him. Almost there. Now!

Bran lowered his arm, and a flight of spears were loosed at the Romans. Two spears barely missed Caius Dracus, who drew his gladius and yelled, “Ad Scutum Clina! To your shield, turn!”

Arrows rained down from the trees and onto the Romans, but most were deflected by the large, curved rectangular shields. The shields were made of multiple layers of wood glued together, and covered with leather and canvas, with a metal boss fixed in the center.

“Testudo!” Dracus shouted, instructing his men to create a tortoise formation of interlocking shields in front and overhead, creating an almost impenetrable shell.

The Picts exhausted their arrows and rushed at the Romans with swords and axes, screaming their war cries.

Bran focused on only one man. The centurion was his. Bran ran down the slope, picking up speed, aiming directly for Dracus. Bran leaped at the Roman and knocked him from his horse as Dracus called out orders to his men. In the impact, Dracus lost his short sword, and the force of Bran’s attack sent them across the road and down the slope, locked together in a strong grip. They tumbled down the incline, rolling faster and faster as nothing impeded their descent, neither man releasing his opponent. They were still gripped together when they landed in the swift-flowing river, which carried them along and away from the battle. Now Dracus’s armor put him at a disadvantage, weighing him down, but not much more than Bran’s mail shirt helped keep him underwater. Somewhere before landing in the river, both warriors lost their weapons, and the two fought hand-to-hand, trying to drown the other. The Pict managed to get behind the Roman and wrapped his legs around the centurion’s torso, while his right forearm clamped around the man’s throat. Dracus felt his vision grow dim until the current threw them against a boulder in the river with resounding force. Bran struck the rock with his head, and he lost his grip on the centurion. But even this did not shake them apart. They sought each other's throats in hopes of drowning their foe. At one point, Bran found himself being forced under the water for a long time. Struggling against his opponent, he fought his way to the surface and gasped for air. The pair went over two short waterfalls, but still they refused to break their hold on their opponent. After a long, mortal struggle, they released one another, choking and sputtering. The current slowed and thoroughly exhausted, they each dragged themselves onto the riverbank, half-drowned and breathing heavy. They lay upon the grassy sward about thirty feet apart, coughing up water and trying to regain their breath. Finally, they each turned and glared at one another. Slowly, they stood weaponless. Each read the hate in the other’s eyes. Neither thought of their men left on the road nor of how they were faring. They were too far away to care. Their only enemy was before them; that is all they knew or cared about.

This was Bran Mak Morn, Dracus surmised. He had heard stories of the Pictish king and had been given a physical description. The man stood somewhat taller, and his skin was a bit lighter than most of his people. His wet mop of dark hair hung in his eyes. He was not as tall as Dracus, but compact, with a powerfully built body, and the eyes that glared at Dracus were piercing with a visage set like the hard, flinty stones of this country.

     The Pict faced his adversary in a crouching attack posture, every muscle tense, and his lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral gesture.

Almost casually, Dracus began taking off his armor. He removed his scarf, his curiass, his belt and straps, and all his undergarments. His helmet was lost in the river. 

Bran Mak Morn looked at the Roman curiously, nodded, then stripped off all his clothes. The two warriors faced one another naked. They were both well-muscled, but the Roman was a bit taller and had a longer reach. Dracus had been a wrestling champion in Rome and was technically proficient. Bran had naturally grown up wrestling, as did every boy of their clan, and was quite adept. The Picts' form of wrestling was not as structured as Greco-Roman wrestling. Bran’s advantage was his fierceness, a wild animal-like fierceness. There were no rules and disciplines, there were no fouls, but this was a combat between two warriors, and Bran would try to refrain from biting and eye-gouging if he could. 

“I would wager you are Bran Mak Morn, King of the Picts,” Dracus said.

Bran did not confirm or deny, but said, “And you are the centurion Caius Dracus of the Twelfth Legion.”

Dracus gave a brief bow, complimenting the Pict.

“I’d like to know the source of your intelligence gathering,” the Roman said.

“A Roman would not understand it. It is carried on the wind,” Bran said. “The trees speak to us.”

Dracus smiled at this. He knew he was about to engage with a savage, undisciplined, and unsophisticated barbarian. Still, he had heard rumors of Black Bran, the hereditary king of the Picts, and as king, he held some honor. Though, how much honor could a barbarian have? Dracus crouched and approached his opponent warily, his hands in motion, his fingers splayed.   

All of Stephen Gaspar's books are available on Amazon!

Another Conan Story Excerpt

  I am very excited about my latest book, 4 Blades of
Ruin, a series of short stories of Robert E. Howard's heroes, Conan the Barbarian, Bran Mak Morn, Solomon Kane, and King Kull. The book is available on Amazon in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition and on Kindle. Here is an excerpt from another one of the Conan stories entitled:

The Well

“READY with those grappling irons!” Conan of Cimmeria yelled from the deck of the Tricos. “You men, prepare to board her!” He stood upon the poop, the highest deck, where everyone could see him.  He cut a manly figure, his long black hair tied with a crimson kerchief, red silk breeches, a white silk shirt open at the neck and chest, a colorful broad sash, and tall leather boots. The sea pitched and rolled gently.

As the two ship scraped their sides against each other, some of the pirate crew threw their grappling hooks, snagging the rigging and rail of the ship alongside them. The rest of the crew, swords and knives in their teeth, prepared to board the vessel, a merchant ship.

Holding a rope tied to a yard overhead, Conan sheathed his sword and swung across, landing on the deck of the other ship, Baltar. He drew his cutlass and began battling the opposing crew. By now, some of his men had joined him; swords flashed, men yelled out, and blood stained the decks. Crewmen from both ships fell or were pushed overboard.

“Surrender, you men, if you want to live!” Conan called out as he ran a 

man through.

Seeing the way the battle was going, the Baltar crew surrendered.

“Where is your captain?” Conan demanded of the men who stood weaponless before him.

The crew members exchanged wary looks until one of them said, “Cap’n be in his quarters.”

“Get those men out of the water before they drown or the sharks start feeding on them,” the Cimmerian ordered, his blue eyes ablaze.

Conan thought it strange that the ship’s captain would not be on deck to defend it; then again, Conan’s captain, a Zingaran named Oscuro, was not seen fighting but remained on his own ship.

The Cimmerian tried the door of the captain’s quarters. Finding it locked, he kicked it in. Standing within was the Argossean captain, sword in hand, a desperate, determined look on his face. Behind him, sitting on the bunk, sat a young woman with light brown hair and eyes. She wore a look of concern, but was in no way hysterical, considering the situation. Perhaps she was too naïve to understand her position.

“Put down your sword, Captain, I claim this ship!” Conan said calmly, but with authority.

“Aye, the Baltar may be yours, you barbarian pirate, but I mean to protect this woman!” The merchant captain said with as much mastery.

Conan sought to understand the captain's motivation for risking his life to safeguard this woman. What was she to him?

“Guarantee our lives and promise to put us ashore the first chance you get,” the captain said.

“You are in no position to bargain, Captain,” Conan said.

“Would you bargain for a portion of the treasure?”

Conan was doubtful about the proposal. A man would say anything in this position, but as the Cimmerian was not willing to blindly accept this story of treasure, he was also not about to dismiss it. 

“Where is this treasure?”

“First, you must give me your word of honor that this girl will come to no harm,” the captain said.

“You are willing to trust the word of a barbarian pirate?”

“At a time like this, I do not have much of a choice. I am willing to die to protect her. Are you?” The Argossean brandished his sword.

“You should not test me, Captain. You don’t know me.”

“But you are a man; I can see that. Will you swear to protect her with your life?”  

“What have we here?” These words were spoken with menace and pleasure.

Conan knew that voice. It was Oscuro, his captain.

Captain Oscuro stood in the doorway. His dark complexion looked greasy, his dark eyes reflected danger, and his black mustache hung down the sides of his mouth, giving him a perpetual grimace even when he smiled and showed his crooked teeth. 

“Conan, kill this man and have the woman taken to my cabin,” Oscuro said menacingly.

Fearing for his life and the fate of the young woman, the Argossean captain lunged at Conan with his sword. Purely by instinct, Conan parried the captain's blade and sank his cutlass into the man, who fell dead on the cabin floor.

Oscuro grinned wolfishly, as if he had done the slaying. “Take her to my cabin,” he said.

Conan looked at the dead captain, then at the girl who was now cowering on the bunk. She may have thought the Argossean captain would save her, but with her protector dead, she feared for her fate with these strangers. Conan wondered why that captain had thought so much of her that he died to protect her. It had been the barbarian’s experience that no woman was worth dying for.

Conan turned his cutlass on Oscuro, whose wicked smile diminished only slightly.

“I said, take her to my cabin,” Oscuro reiterated.

“This ship is mine,” Conan announced. “We agreed upon it. I spilled blood to get it.”

“By all means, take the ship; the girl is mine.”

“She goes with the ship,” Conan said, with defiance.

“We also agreed to split the plunder evenly.”

“How do we split one woman?”

“What do you think is happening right now, barbarian?” Oscuro said. “Plunder from this vessel is being put aboard my ship.”

“And what do you think will happen if I drag your corpse out on deck. Who do you think the crew will follow: me, or a dead man?”

All of Stephen Gaspar's books are available on Amazon!

Conan Story Excerpt

 I am very excited about my latest book, 4 Blades of Ruin, a series of short stories of Robert E. Howard's heroes, Conan the Barbarian, Bran Mak Morn, Solomon Kane, and King Kull. The book is available on Amazon in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition and on Kindle. Here is an excerpt from another
one of the Conan stories entitled:

The Ice Castle

CONAN of Cimmeria was struck by a bitter cold blast of wind in his face. His eyes were almost frozen shut. Perhaps that was for the better, for his vision had grown blurry, and it felt like there was grit in his eyes. His head ached as if his brain were freezing. The wind cut like a knife’s edge, and it seemed that no matter which way he turned, it was always in his face. It was a peculiar wind that whispered an alluring song just beneath its currents. The snow was getting deeper, but he trudged relentlessly onward, for what was he to do? Lie down and freeze to death in the snow? He had never felt such cold, even in his native Cimmeria, by Crom. Best not to swear by Crom, for Crom would not help him. Then Conan’s frigid mind began to think that he was dead, slain in battle, and he was trudging to Crom’s mountain. It would be just like Crom, that gloomy, moody god, to make a fallen warrior struggle through the ice and snow even after death.

     The few furs he wore did little to keep him warm. The snow was beginning to feel like ice pellets, and he felt frigid cold through his body, those parts that weren’t turning numb, that is. He tried breathing through his nose, for his teeth ached and his very lungs felt frozen. He could not remember when he had last eaten, and he considered cutting off a piece of his leather belt and chewing on it. Still, he tramped onward, like an automaton, trying not to feel or think. He did not think of how he got here, where he was, or where he was going. He automatically put one foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. He did not know how long he had been in the grip of this winter’s blast, nor how long he could go on without some respite. He thought it best not to eat the snow, for his insides were cold enough. He needed some nourishment, for he could not continue much longer relying only on his indomitable will. Surely this was a frozen wasteland with not a tree or an outcropping of rock for shelter. The sun overhead did not seem to move, and its light on the snow cast a blinding glare that stung his eyes.     

He rubbed his sore eyes and tried to wipe off the frost so he could see. His vision grew hazy, his mind swirled, and this young barbarian, who prided himself on his strength and endurance, collapsed in the snow and lay still.

Something caused him to wake. Some primitive survival instinct woke him. Get up! Move on! You are not going to die today!

He stirred. His vision was still blurry. Was it the same day? It looked the same. The wind and snow persisted, but it was not as intense. Perhaps he had slept for only minutes, or was it hours? He did not know. He rose to his feet, looked ahead, and was stunned by what he saw. Was he dreaming? Was that real, or only a figment of his frozen imagination? It must be a dream, he thought, for what he saw in the distance was an anomalous vision that could not possibly be real. But there it was, a castle, and not an ordinary castle, for this one looked like it was made of ice. Instead of stone, it was made of huge blocks of ice. Conan shook his head to clear his mind. He looked again, and there it was.

With hope restored, the young man summoned up an untapped source of will and walked toward the castle. The ice crystals in the snow crunched under his feet with each step. He half expected the castle to disappear like some mirage in the desert, but it was still there; he stood before it. The translucent walls, peaks, and towers were all made of ice and parts of them reflected the sunlight. Wide steps carved of ice led up to an arched doorway.

Conan trudged up the steps, his strength waning. If he could only get inside and away from the wind and snow. The ice door was tall and wide, and he pushed it open. The door opened into a narrow hall where two statues carved of ice stood on either side, as if on guard duty. Conan regarded the statues for a moment and walked down the hall to another door guarded by two more ice statues. The Cimmerian pushed open the door to a large chamber with a tall arched ceiling. The walls, floor and ceiling gave off a glare that stung his eyes. He brought up a hand to block the glare. He lowered his hand, and at the far end of the room was an ice throne. Again, he thought his eyes were playing him tricks, for upon that throne sat a young, beautiful woman whose garment, face and hair appeared as white as snow and shone like sparkling diamonds. Her head was lowered, looking at her lap. At first, Conan thought it was another statue, but surprisingly, this statue moved. She raised her head slowly and looked at him. Her face was lovely and innocent, and she regarded him with detached curiosity. It was just then that he collapsed on the floor.

All of Stephen Gaspar's books are available on Amazon!

4 Blades of Ruin - Review

 Gary Romeo reviewed my latest book, 4 Blades of Ruin. Here it is.

4(Four) Blades of Ruin is available in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition, and on Kindle. Find them on Amazon! 

This is the second collection of stories using Robert E. Howard’s characters by Stephen Gaspar. I enjoyed his first collection, 3 Blades Against Darkness, and I enjoyed this one as well.

A large number of Robert E. Howard fans like to erect barriers preventing their enjoyment of things. They hate pastiche, they hate AI art, they hate unauthorized books… they hate a lot of things. I’m not going to spend anytime addressing those hates. This is a book review for people who prefer to enjoy things.

Stephen Gaspar writes clear unadorned prose. That is his strength. He strives to tell a good story. Unfortunately he tries to get a little fancy and inserts epigraphs at the beginning of every chapter. Ignore them.

Stone of Doom. This story starts by having Conan racing ahead of a pack of angry pursuers. Arrows are fired and Conan is hit. He rides harder into the sandstorm and escapes. Conan passes out and is rescued by Augur, a man on a quest to eradicate evil. The dialogue between Conan and Augur is quite good. Most authors are afraid to have Conan talk too much. Conan agrees to join Augur in his search for fragments of “The Black Stone” thinking there might be profit in the adventure. After a decent action scene, in which Conan kills three men, he learns there isn’t going to be any profit and abandons Augur. Conan later learns that Augur has been killed and the fragment of rock they found has been stolen. The story becomes more of a typical Conan tale at this point. Conan decides to find out who was responsible for Augur’s death and encounters bad men and a bad woman. This story beats 90% of the Heroic Legends e-books for pure entertainment.

Nil Desperandum. This a Bran vs. Rome tale. The story starts with a good description of Bran’s latest nemesis, Caius Dracus, and segues into a battle between Romans and Picts. Bran and Dracus end up in a wrestling contest that lasts a while and separates them from their men, They end up getting captured by another band of Picts hostile to Bran. The author has Dracus and Bran talking to each other (and their captor.) I remembered that Bran spoke Latin. It isn’t mentioned if Dracus speaks Pict. When Bran has to ask Dracus what “Nil Desperandum” means and Dracus responds “Never despair,” I was taken out of the story wondering who was speaking Latin and who was speaking Pict? The story continues on with Norseman attacking the hostile Picts and taking Dracus and Bran as prisoners. Dracus and Bran apparently understand Norse. They escape on a small boat and see the Loch Ness monster. Bran and Dracus part on possibly grudgingly friendly terms. But then Dracus is immediately captured by the remnants of the hostile Picts. What will Bran do regarding his Roman foe? This was a good story despite the language confusion.

Demon of Darkness. This story takes a few too many paragraphs to get started. There is a short history lesson regarding the town of Kirkland in the center part of Northern England and mood setting regarding Solomon Kane and Travis March, a cheating barkeep. All this to introduce another haunted moor story. Kane goes to investigate Blaec Moor and meets a father and his daughter who tell him about the scary place that they live in. Kane asks to spend the night. They sneak out after Kane goes to bed and Kane follows them to a field of stones. All the villagers are there and chanting hooky spooky words. An evil but handsome fellow named Dinger-Kek materializes. Dinger tells the crowd to keep repeating this ritual every night and eventually Dinger will reach full power. Kane travels back to the house and confronts the returning couple. Dinger-Kek is a dark god, blah, blah, blah. Kane decides to confront Dinger and knows God’s righteousness will prevail. They fight until the sun rises. Dinger is defeated. Ho-hum.

The Steward of Time. This story starts with Ka-nu telling King Kull about “The Black Stone.” It is a bad stone, causing madness in people, a gateway to hell, pure evil. The gods cast lightening and broke the stone but it can be reassembled. (All this ties back to the first story “Stone of Doom.”) Then others tell Kull more scary stories. Kull is intrigued and wants to visit a scary place. The next day, Kull, his soldiers, and Brule the Spear Slayer travel to a known mysterious location, an empty field giving off weird emanations. Kull starts hallucinating, passes out, and wakes up in a curved color changing environment and meets “the steward of time.” What follows are lots of paragraphs about the nature of time. Kull eventually snaps out of it and everybody wants to leave this uncomfortable place. Kull sees it is late now and asks, “my, where does the time go?” Not as clever as I would have liked but it brought a smile.

The Ice Castle. This story starts with Conan in the freezing cold. He spots a castle made of blocks of ice and escapes the blistering winds. He meets the beautiful woman who lives in the Ice Castle. She tells her story of being cursed by an evil wizard. Conan stays with her for a while and believes he has fallen in love. She recites poetry to him and it all seems chastely happy. Months pass and Conan is ready to leave. Trouble. The story ends rather predictably.

Dark Covenant. A Christian church was founded long ago in a remote part of Africa. Time has passed and the church has been reestablished by a near madman named Biruk. A beautiful woman named Zeria decides to use Biruk and his church and its now corrupted teachings to her benefit. Enter Solomon Kane. Zeria has followers now and a local tribe has resisted her warriors. Kane is perplexed by the Christian imagery being used to scare the local tribe. Kane investigates and is captured. Biruk and Kane have some dialogue about King Solomon and Bible verses. Zeria meets Kane and we get “The Moon of Skulls” vibes with Zeria coming on to Kane the same way Nakari did in that story. The story gets a little convoluted but remains interesting. Kane receives a vial of the Apostle Matthew’s blood from a spirit of the Church’s founder. The Lord’s help is needed to triumph over Zeria. I think Mr. Gaspar has captured a slight Howardian feel in this story.

The Dark Man’s Revenge. Gonar is worried about Bran Mak Morn’s future. Bran is preparing for a big battle with the Romans. Bran is worried and wishes he had had a normal life. A man named Nothus (Latin for bastard) shows up. He is the offspring of Bran and Atla (from “Worms of the Earth”). Gonar tells Bran he is working on a statue to encase Bran’s spirit when he passes (see “The Dark Man”). Bran makes a deal with the leader of a rival Pict tribe saying he will abdicate his throne if he joins the fight against Rome. And if there wasn’t enough happening already, Brule the Spear Slayer time travels to visit. The big battle starts and the rival Pict tribe deserts leaving Bran’s army outnumbered. Bran dies in the battle. Gonar does his magic and “The Dark Man” statue is created. The story doesn’t end here. The author adds an ending that mixes Howard’s Picts with the real life Onuist. The timeline really doesn’t work historically. Onuist was king of Pictland (Scotland) from 732 to 761 but I suppose the Onuist in this story could be a forefather of the later Onuist.

The Well. Conan is working for Captain Oscuro and has taken over Captain Bosmer’s ship, the Baltar. Bosmer is only concerned about a woman named Narissa. He offers Conan a bargain for treasure in return for the woman’s safety. Before Conan can make a deal, Captain Oscuro appears, Bosmer attacks and is killed by Conan. Oscuro tells Conan to take the woman to his ship. Conan advises Oscuro that the Baltar now belongs to him per their agreement and that he is keeping the girl. Oscuro, now Conan’s enemy, leaves for his own vessel. Narissa shows Conan a pink diamond and tells of a treasure. What follows is a halfway decent adventure with giant sea creatures, humorous pirate banter, rock monsters, and the bride of Quetzalcoatl.

4(Four) Blades of Ruin is available in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition, and on Kindle. Find them on Amazon!

4(Four) Blades of Ruin is available in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition, and on Kindle. Find them on Amazon!

All of Stephen Gaspar's books are available on Amazon.