Conan, Barbarian Dwarf: Part 12 – The Tombs of the Dead
The Five Flagons roared with laughter, tankards clashing, boots stomping. At the center of it all, Conan locked arms with a sailor twice his size, veins bulging, faces red with ale. The crowd bellowed for the “First Warrior,” and when the sailor’s wrist finally cracked against the table, the room erupted like thunder. Conan only grinned, downed the loser’s drink, and stood.
Too much ale, though — even for him. He staggered outside, hunting for a place to piss. That was when he saw it: a narrow, iron-bound door half-hidden in shadow. Shrugging, he picked his spot beside it, relieving himself with a satisfied sigh. The hinges groaned. The door opened.
A tomb.
The stink of dust and age rolled out. Conan froze, the haze of drink burning away in an instant. He was no stranger to ale or danger, and this new body had a way of sobering him at the first whiff of battle. He stepped inside.
The sarcophagus waited. When he wrenched the lid aside, darkness spilled forth, coiling and snarling. A lich rose, its laughter colder than grave soil:
Steel met sorcery. Conan swung, spells screamed back. Then came the swords — a swarm of gleaming blades, each immune to his strikes. Poison gnawed at his veins, and a crushing spell staggered him to the ground:
He rose, teeth bared, but even he knew when to retreat. The blades pursued, unrelenting. Worse still, another spell could have stunned him or ended him in an instant. Conan ran outside and ended up in the local temple.
Guardian Vottnar stood by, watching Conan and the swords with the calm of stone. He would not join the fight — but when Conan tossed him gold mid-battle, the priest muttered a blessing, light surging through Conan’s battered frame and healing him:
Refreshed, the barbarian whirled back into the tomb. With no blades to shield it, the lich fell like rotten timber, his skull cracked wide by the mace that devoured the dead:
Inside the sarcophagus lay bones and a map — another tomb. Conan spat. “
One corpse leads to another.” He shoved the loot into his sack and left. But first, he would sleep off the night’s drink.
The next site was no different — another sarcophagus, another lich. But this one summoned something worse: an angel twisted in darkness, a Valkyrie dragged down from Valhalla and shackled in shadow. A Fallen Planetar.
It struck like a thunderstorm, but Conan struck harder. He feinted, then crashed into it with a
Power Attack so fierce the creature reeled, stunned. One moment of weakness was all he needed — his new flail shattered its black wings:
The lich that had summoned it fared no better.
More bones. More maps. More whispers of power.
At the final tomb, the voice came. Deep, commanding, promising.
The sarcophagus split open with a sigh like the world exhaling dust. A shimmer rose, pale and gold-flecked, a figure without flesh — a ghost wrapped in ancient sorcery.
Kangaxx. The name whispered through the chamber like a curse.
The spirit hovered, its crown of bone half-formed, its voice rolling like thunder through water.
“
Mortal… long have I waited. You have broken the first seal. But I am not whole. My bones, scattered, lie in the hands of others. Bring them to me, and I shall rise again.”
Conan narrowed his eyes, hand resting on his mace.
“
Why should I carry scraps for a ghost?”
The spirit’s hollow gaze burned brighter.
“
Because I command the roads between worlds. You seek your home — Hyboria. Release me, and I will show you the way. Your throne. Your queen. All restored.”
Conan’s mouth twisted into a wolfish grin.
“
I don’t trust you, shade. But if you lie…” He hefted the mace. “
…then you’ll wish you’d stayed in the grave.”
The ghost’s laugh was a dry rattle. “
Bring them, mortal. Bring them, and all will be revealed.”
Conan spat, but he dropped the bones into the waiting sarcophagus with a thud like earth on a coffin.
The chamber darkened. The air thickened, pressing in on his chest. Bone knit to bone, gold etchings flared like firebrands, and with a scream that shook dust from the stone, Kangaxx rose. Fleshless, robed in shadows, his crown gleaming.
The lich spread his arms, drunk on his own rebirth. “
Free. Whole. Eternal!” His crown gleamed, eyes burning with ancient hunger. He sneered down at Conan. “
And you, mortal… a fool, to have trusted me.”
With a gesture, the air split, and from it descended a towering figure in broken armor — another Valkyrie, her wings blackened, her halo a crown of ash. Chained to his will. Her blade hummed with divine ruin as she flew toward Conan.
The dwarf only spat ale from his beard and braced his stance. The clash shook the chamber — steel shrieking, wings beating like thunder. But Conan’s rage was older than gods. With a savage cry he unleashed his
Power Attack, the blow striking so true it staggered the fallen goddess. She reeled, stunned, and in that instant Conan finished her, flail crashing through helm and skull alike:
Conan did not wait. He charged like a storm breaking against Kangaxx, mace blazing with stolen fire. Spells lashed out — but Conan crashed through, roaring. One swing, then another, until crown and skull shattered beneath his blows:
The lich’s body crumpled, robes folding inward like ash into a hearth.
But the silence did not last. The sarcophagus shook, cracked, and from its depths rose something worse — smaller, darker, a thing of pure malice. A skull, crowned and burning, hovering in the stale air. Its sockets burned with endless hunger.
A voice thundered not from lungs, but from eternity itself.
Kangaxx
At last. Power coursed through him, the sweet taste of freedom after centuries of chains. This fool had not only freed him — he had delivered him into his
true form. Kangaxx’s laughter split the crypt, high and cruel.
“
This idiot with his mace… he thinks himself a slayer of the dead? He will be the first sacrifice. His soul shall be the kindling for my empire reborn.”
Kangaxx drifted higher, skeletal jaw parting in a hiss. With a flick of will he unleashed his arts — chains of binding, waves of frost, fire that had ended kings. Each spell was a contemptuous gesture, the casual swat of a god toward an insect.
Yet… the barbarian did not fall. The chains shattered against him. The flames scorched, but he pressed through. Rage burned in his eyes, not fear. Kangaxx’s delight curdled into slight irritation.
“
Then let steel answer steel,” he hissed, summoning his army. Swords of pure force shimmered into being, indestructible, eternal. They leapt for the dwarf like wolves unleashed.
Conan
They came. Blades that no weapon could break, screaming through the air. Conan snarled — instinct tugging him a step back, the same instinct that had saved him from death before. Then fury claimed him.
“
Steel or spell — it all falls!” he roared. His weapon whirled, his body twisting in a
Greater Deathblow. One after another, even the spectral swords shattered, breaking against the raw force of his swing. One lingered, hounding him like a phantom. Conan growled, downed his potion of invisibility, and slipped into shadow until its hunger guttered out:
When he reappeared, his eyes burned hotter than ever. He charged.
Kangaxx
Impossible.
The spells — useless. The swords — gone.
How? No mortal could withstand such might. Yet the dwarf came on, eyes like burning coals, mace dripping with the fire of gods. Kangaxx spat incantations, words of ruin, but they slipped, faltered, as if the very air bent to the barbarian’s roar.
Blow after blow fell. Each strike was a mountain crashing down, each impact cracking bone that had outlasted empires:
“
No…” Kangaxx whispered as pain — true pain, after centuries of untouchable rule — coursed through him. “
I am eternal… I am—”
The mace fell. Gold and bone exploded. The scream that followed was not of death, but of disbelief, echoing into the void.
Conan
Dust drifted. The chamber lay silent. Conan stood over the ruin, chest heaving, sweat and blood mingling on his skin. He spat again.
“
Eternal?” He raised the mace, its glow fading in the still air. “
You drop like anything else. By Crom, they should learn by now—underestimate me, and you’ll learn the truth the hard way.”
All that I did was add the background and the Tempus symbol to existing portraits of dwarves. Obviously the first one is a cleric and the second one a berserker. By a process of elimination, the third is the fighter/thief. The last one might need to be changed as it doesn't shout out - Fighter/thief. If I can't get a better portrait, it might become a duo rather than a trio.
