When I was a fighting-man, the kettle-drums they beat, The people scattered gold-dust before my horses feet; But now I am a great king, the people hound my track With poison in my wine-cup, and daggers at my back. – The Road of Kings.
Nay, alone I am a weak creature, having no strength or might in me; yet in times past hath God made me a great vessel of wrath and a sword of deliverance. And I trust, shall do so again.
I am a landless man... I come out of the sunset and into the sunrise I go, wherever the Lord doth guide my feet.
Over shadowy spires and gleaming towers lay the ghostly darkness and silence that runs before dawn.
Well, I like a good hater. But that can wait.
Conan, grim, blood-stained, naked but for a loin-cloth, shackles on his mighty limbs, his blue eyes blazing beneath the tangled black mane which fell over his low broad forehead.
Conan mentally termed the creatures black men, for lack of a better term; instinctively he knew that these tall ebony beings were not men, as he understood the term. No.
Men spoke of tribal war, of a gathering of vultures in the southeast, and a terrible leader who led his swiftly increasing hordes to victory.
Suddenly the black torturer laid down the pipes and rose, towering over the writhing white figure.
Kothian culture and religion had suffered from a subtle admix ture of Shemite and Stygian strains.
I saw that – that black thing squatting like an ape among the branches, leering down at me.
It was made from the black lotus, whose blossoms wave in the lost jungles of Khitai, where only the yellow-skulled priests of Yun dwell. Those blossoms strike dead any who smell of them.
You black dog!” A red mist of fury swept across Conan’s eyes. “Were I free I’d give you a broken back!
Barbarism is the natural state of mankind,” the borderer said, still staring somberly at the Cimmerian. “Civilization is unnatural. It is a whim of circumstance. And barbarism must always ultimately triumph.
They take little interest in waking life, choosing to lie most of the time in death-like sleep.” “Then.
A pantherish twist and shift of his body avoided the blundering rush of two yellow swordsmen, and the blade of one missing its objective, was sheathed in the breast of the other. A.
It was a convulsion of obscenity, a spasm of lasciviousness – an exudation of secret hungers framed by compulsion: desire without pleasure, pain mated awfully to lust. It was like watching a soul stripped naked, and all its dark and unmentionable secrets laid bare.
So Conan, glaring from under his tousled mane, saw the white naked figure of Natala writhing in the lustful grasp of a black nightmare shape that could have only been bred in the lost pits of hell. The.
He was like a tiger among baboons as he leaped, side-stepped and spun, offering an ever-moving target, while his ax wove a shining wheel of death about him. For.
That’s the way with civilized men. When they can’t explain something by their half-baked science, they refuse to believe it.