The dark jungles of Amazonia. The mountains of Karpash. The isle of Statues. Crossing the Black River into the Pictish Wilderness. The frozen insanity a man must face in northernmost Hyperborea. All of these and far more has this one man faced. He has killed many hundreds of men throughout his travels, and he knows it will never end. Even in his younger days, he was as a man, respected by all men for his prowess in combat and his stature. Some have heralded him as a God, as a saviour, but he knows he is neither.
Barbarian.
Destroyer.
Conqueror.
Thief.
These and many more are the titles he has held, but one has eluded him that was foretold; the title of King.
King Conan.
Soothsayers, prophets, wise men, wizards and witches.
All have portended his rise to power, but none have said when. So he wanders from place to place, conquering and fighting, laughing in the faces of death and danger. He scours the land, waiting for the time when he has a throne of his own.
For now he is:
Conan . . . the Wanderer.
