The Cimmerian returns! In a couple of weeks, Titan Books are due to publish new Conan the Barbarian fiction! City of the Dead by John C. Hocking is an omnibus, collecting Conan and the Emerald Lotus (first published in 1995) and its highly-anticipated sequel, Conan and the Living Plague. The cover is by the always-excellent Jeffrey Alan Love.

To celebrate the release, the publisher has provided CR with an excerpt to share with our readers! First, check out the book’s synopsis:

The long-awaited follow-up to Conan and the Emerald Lotus brings John C. Hocking back to the sagas of the Cimmerian.

In Conan and the Emerald Lotus, the seeds of a deadly, addictive plant grant sorcerers immense power, but turn its users into inhuman killers.

In the exclusive, long-awaited sequel Conan and the Living Plague, a Shemite wizard seeks to create a serum to use as a lethal weapon. Instead he unleashes a hideous monster on the city of Dulcine. Hired to loot the city of its treasures, Conan and his fellows in the mercenary troop find themselves trapped in the depths of the city’s keep. To escape, they must defeat the creature, its plague-wracked undead followers, then face Lovecraftian horrors beyond mortal comprehension.

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Four men were then selected to display their skill with swords. Beneath Prince Eoreck’s probing gaze they warmed up by practicing forms upon the cable-wrapped posts set in the earth before the tent, then sparred vigorously with wooden blades. Conan watched each passage with interest, noting clever moves as well as lapses in technique. Though the speed and skill of the four swordsmen were exemplary, he had little doubt that he could teach them all something about swordplay. Eoreck called a halt to the bout and the mercenaries dropped their wooden weapons and rejoined the troop. The prince spoke into Mamluke’s ear, and the commander’s face grew stern. He turned to his soldiers and raised his arms.

“The prince is pleased with us, but asks for one more demonstration. A demonstration of his own devising. A demonstration of strength.” With this, Mamluke walked purposefully into the ranks of his men, pushing soldiers aside until he stood before Conan. He looked the barbarian up and down.

“You. Shamtare tells me you’re the best he’s ever seen,” said the commander softly. “Don’t dishonor us.”

The Cimmerian strode to the front of the troop, and waited wordlessly beside the prince as Mamluke brought another soldier from the troop’s hindmost ranks.

Prince Eoreck ducked into the pavilion and was lost to view. The second soldier selected by Mamluke came to Conan’s side and eyed him arrogantly. The man was a big Brythunian, sandy of hair and wide of face. Though not quite as tall as the barbarian, his body was heavier. His thick-limbed and fleshy bulk made him seem an ox beside the tigerish Cimmerian. The uniform he wore was dingy and too small for his brawny body. He carried no sword, but rather a huge-headed war-hammer that dangled from a strap down his back.

“My name is Bosk,” said the Brythunian. “I hope the prince asks us to fight, for I hate barbarians.”

“You should hope he does not,” said Conan flatly, “as it would spare you the fate of being slain by one.”

Bosk opened and closed his mouth in search of a response, but no reply was forthcoming. He was spared any attempt at repartee by the reappearance of Prince Eoreck, who came out of the pavilion carrying a heavy burden. The prince half-stumbled under the weight of two wooden swords the size of small logs. Each was better than four feet long and as big around as a man’s thigh. The end of each was shaped into a rude hilt, but the rest was merely a rough length of heavy wood. He dropped them at the feet of the mercenaries, took an awkward step back, and drew a relieved breath. His gloved hands wiped flecks of bark from his shining breastplate as his scarlet cloak flapped in the blowing rain.

“True strength is all too uncommon these days. I need— Akkharia needs men of might to serve her. Pick up a sword, men.”

“Do we fight, then?” asked Bosk, as he seized a log-like sword.

“Nay,” said the prince. “You are not slaves in some Stygian arena, but free mercenaries of Shem. Let me see you wield these weapons against yonder posts. Standard practice forms will do.”

Despite the prince’s facile words, Conan realized their task was not to be an easy one. Each weapon was heavy and unwieldy to lift, but to grasp it by one end and wave it about like a sword would tax the strength and control of the most powerful of men. The Cimmerian set his teeth, clenched iron fingers around the uneven hilt, and hoisted the “sword” into a defensive posture. He approached the practice post, the muscles of his arms knotting beneath his bronze skin. The weapon jutted into the air before him. It did not even tremble. Conan heard Bosk’s labored breathing and knew that the Brythunian was not faring so well. The Cimmerian put the other man out of his mind, concentrating entirely upon the task at hand with the total absorption of a seasoned warrior.

The barbarian’s motions would have been recognized on any field where men practiced at weapons. An overhand cut slammed down upon the top of the post. The ponderous weapon slid to the right as swiftly as if it were a slender blade and cut back in to rebound from the post’s side. Then Conan hoisted the sword above his head, spun around, and brought his weapon back in a roundhouse blow against the post’s opposite side. The moves were simple, and as old as blade combat, but the strength and control needed to execute them with this precision, while wielding a weapon of such size and weight, was breathtaking. Excited mutters rose from the ranks of mercenaries. Conan did not hear them. His body moved in perfect accord with his mind.

Beside the barbarian, Bosk sweated and grunted with strain. His initial overhand blow had bounced from the top of the post and slid down along its side. It had taken all his strength to keep his sword from dropping to the ground. He recovered, hoisted the weapon, and struck the right side of the post smartly. Lifting the wooden sword easily above his head, he turned and swung it in a circular arc against the post’s left side. The impact produced a loud crack and a cry of pain as the weapon sprang from Bosk’s fingers. It spun away, sliding on the sodden grass.

“Mitra’s eyes!” cursed the Brythunian, and started after his lost sword. Mamluke caught his shoulder and stopped him in mid-stride.

“You did a creditable job. Now be still and watch a master.”

Bosk turned to watch the barbarian with eyes that soon grew round with disbelief. Conan moved smoothly from one practice form to the next, his square jaw set grimly. Veins stood out from his neck and his thick arms rippled with muscles swollen almost to bursting. His repeated and constantly varied blows upon the post filled the air with a metronomic series of impacts that rang loudly in the quiet field.

“By Ishtar, I’ve never seen such a thing,” said Mamluke.

He grinned and shouted to the laboring Cimmerian: “Ho, barbarian! Hew with some strength there! Your foe still stands!”

Conan responded by speeding up his assault. Now the breath rasped from his lungs and the wetness that soaked his hair and body was as much sweat as rain. His knuckles were white as bone upon the hilt. The huge weapon trembled in the air, but never slowed or faltered in its relentless attack.

“Come!” yelled Mamluke, grinning like a lunatic. “Finish your foe!”

A hoarse bellow broke from the barbarian’s lips and he spun in a full circle, bringing the weapon around at head level in a tremendous circular slash. The sword struck with a crack that stung the ears, burst the ropes that wrapped the post, and drove the post itself from the ground in a spray of dark earth. The post bounced on the grass beside the raw pit from which it had been torn.

Conan turned to face Mamluke, who gaped at the barbarian in wordless amazement. The Cimmerian drew the massive wooden weapon up in a formal salute, then dropped it to the ground.

There was a moment’s silence, immediately shattered by a chorus of ragged cheers from the mercenaries. Mamluke seized the barbarian’s fist in a warrior’s handshake and the cheers swelled louder.

“May Set eat me if I don’t believe that Shamtare was right,” said Mamluke into Conan’s ear. “Stay with my troop and there is a bonus in gold and advancement in rank for you. You have my word.” The commander stepped away from the barbarian. He waved Conan and Bosk back to their places. As the crowd quieted and the two men resumed their positions, the Brythunian flung a resentful glance at Conan’s broad back.

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John C. Hocking’s Conan: City of the Dead is due to be published by Titan Books in North America and in the UK, on June 18th. Titan are also due to publish another Conan the Barbarian book this year, with James Lovegrove’s Conan: Cult of the Obsidian Moon — due out on November 19th.

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