A very Conan Christmas

Last year my friend Charles Rutledge had written a nice character piece where he shares a meal at Waffle house with Conan and Elric and tries to explain Christmas to them. (This is different from the Conan at Cracker Barrel piece on his blog.) It was a clever bit of fan fiction, playing off the conflicting philosophies of the three diners.

Less clever by far was my response, an attempt to capture the voice of Robert E Howard's fiction in a Christmas story. It arose from discussions on the structure of sword and sorcery and my recognition of it's similarity to a popular Christmas story. It represents the lowest form of pastiche/parody, but these days every series needs it's Christmas episode, just as every singer needs a Christmas single, so I'm reprinting it here as my attempt at a Robert E Howard Christmas special.

Or at least a Christopher E Appel Christmas blog.

The Frost Golem's Dance

a story fragment

...the last of the Picts fell beneath the Cimmerian’s blade, his blood staining the snow red. Conan had no time to enjoy his triumph. A muffled cry reminded him of the girl tied to the primitive altar behind him. He spun to face the tribal shaman.

The withered old woman was staggering past the girl on the carved stone. Conan's dagger was still deep in the witch's back. Her objective was the grotesque carving of snow and ice made in imitation of a hulking human form. The Picts had adorned the idol in their rough fashion, forming a crude face out of stones and ornaments. As the barbarian's volcanic blue eyes locked on the two coal-black stones set high on the thing's face, the hairs on his neck stirred as if from some deep racial memory. Despite his upbringing among the frozen wastes of the north, Conan's lungs burned from the unnatural cold.

The old shaman approached the idol carrying some form of headdress unknown to the Cimmerian. This was the barbarian's objective, the stolen talisman the strange sorcerer required him to recover. Conan gritted his teeth as he thought of the unholy bargain he had been forced to strike with the wizard.

With the last of her breath the old crone reached up and placed the object on to the ice sculpture's misshapen head. As her harsh cackle trailed into a death rasp, the witch fell at the feet of the man of snow. Dark blood pooled at the feet of her white god.

Conan's knuckles went white on the hilt of his broadsword. The girl on the altar screamed. The dark eyes of idol began to gleam with an eldritch intelligence. The barbarian was frozen in place by that malevolent gaze. Through the red haze in his mind, Conan realized that there must have been some magic in that old encircling crown, for when the shaman placed it on the creature’s head it began to dance around.

"Crom!" cried Conan. With a great effort he broke the spell which held him motionless. Stretching his mighty thews, he vaulted the stone altar and interposed himself between the snow demon and the helpless girl. In the same moment his sword described an arc over his head and buried itself to the hilt in the idol’s chest. Snow and ice showered Conan's face, but the creature seemed unaffected by the blow. Its great bulk lunged at the Cimmerian.

Carried forward by his charge, even the barbarian's battle-honed reflexes offered no escape from the white god's grasp. Great arms encircled Conan and burned coldly into his naked flesh. As the Cimmerian struggled to free himself from that icy trap, he heard the creature rasp out its challenge.

"Happy birthday!" the monster exclaimed.