In this stress all the veneer of civilization had faded it was a barbarian who faced his conquerors.

Conan's dark scarred face was darker yet with passion his black armor was hacked to tatters and splashed with blood his great sword red to the cross- piece. Before the savage blue eyes blazing murderously from beneath the crested, dented helmet, the boldest shrank. Now he grinned bleakly as the kings reined back a safe distance from the grim iron-clad figure looming among the dead. They shrank back-the dying tiger could still deal death. The men faltered-wild, criminal and dissolute though they were, yet they came of a breed men called civilized, with a civilized background here was the barbarian-the natural killer. He stood like an image of the unconquerable primordial-legs braced far apart, head thrust forward, one hand clutching the wall for support, the other gripping the ax on high, with the great corded muscles standing out in iron ridges, and his features frozen in a death snarl of fury-his eyes blazing terribly through the mist of blood which veiled them.

To illustrate, from The Phoenix on the Sword:Ĭonan put his back against the wall and lifted his ax. I've read Conan stories for the first time a long while ago, and one of the things that struck me was the focus in writing on showcasing how great and ultimately succesful barbarism is and how meek the civilised people are.

Conan by Robert E. Howard