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- Herausgeber: Titan Books
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Serie: Savage Tales Short Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
Capturing the electric short fiction energy that led Robert E. Howard to be one of the top fantasy writers of the century, with exclusive serialized eBook stories starring Conan, Solomon Kane, and more by many of today's top writers in fantasy and sword-and-sorcery. Awakening covered in blood, the sole survivor of a doomed raiding party, Conan sets out for the taverns, women, and ale of Trinnecerl. To reach the village, however, he must pass ruins scattered with the shattered helmets, broken blades, and bones of untold victims—as well as the hideous the creature that left them, the Lord of the Mount. Rapid-paced and bloody fantasy action written by Stephen Graham Jones, award-winning and New York Times bestselling author of The Only Good Indians.
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CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Leave us a Review
Copyright
Map
Conan: Lord of the Mount
About the Author
More Conan Short Fiction
More from Titan Books
LEAVE US A REVIEW
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CONAN: LORD OF THE MOUNTE-book edition ISBN: 9781803366333
Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UPwww.titanbooks.com
First edition: September 2023
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
© 2023 Conan Properties International LLC. CONAN, CONAN THE BARBARIAN, HYBORIA, and related logos, names and character likenesses thereof are trademarks or registered trademarks of Conan Properties International LLC. ROBERT E. HOWARD is a trademark or registered trademark of Robert E. Howard Properties LLC. All Rights Reserved. Heroic Signatures is a trademark of Cabinet Licensing LLC.
Stephen Graham Jones asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Typeset by ePub KNOWHOW Ltd.
LORDOF THEMOUNT
STEPHEN GRAHAM JONES
The beast’s tongue was wide and rough and loud against Conan’s face.
It licked from the base of his jaw to his temple, languorously slow, as if tasting all the way back to his childhood in Cimmeria, and then again even more invasively, each great pass of the tongue leaving a trail of rank saliva behind, and wetting Conan’s hair on that side of his head.
The third time the beast opened its cavernous mouth to Conan’s face, its breath the exhalation of a furnace, Conan’s right hand wrapped around the muscular tongue and his left brandished a short sword, his barbarian instincts operating without need of him having to call on them, the razor-sharp edge about to—
“Ho, ho, stop, no!” a man called out pleadingly. “By Mitra, if she’s bleeding, he’ll smell us for sure!”
Conan stopped his descending sword a mere moment from the tongue in his other hand, and finally looked past this cavernous mouth and into the face of this beast assaulting him in his sleep.
Its massive eyes stared dumbly back at Conan, and it shook its head and bellowed in pain.
A cow.
While Conan slept, a cow had blundered in to lick the sweat from his sleeping face.
Using the thick tongue to pull himself up, which also drove this cow to her knees, Conan stood, brandishing the sword in the direction of the one who would defend this cow, perhaps at the cost of his own life, if Conan’s groggy mood was any indicator.
“She means no harm, no harm!” the man said, falling to his knees and holding his open palms up before him. “Please, if you will—”
“Name yourself,” Conan told the man.
“Jen Ro, Jen Ro!” the man babbled. “I apologize for her, I… we thought you were dead, another victim of the Lord of the Mount.”
Still holding the sword on this Jen Ro, Conan took in his surroundings.
This wasn’t his camp. This wasn’t any camp. It was merely where he had collapsed. As far as he knew, he was the sole remaining blade from Shen-ga’s winter-long raiding party. The blood yet coating his thighs and forearms told that tale.
