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!