“I’m a mercenary. I sell my sword to the highest bidder. I never planted wheat and never will, so long as there are other harvests to be reaped with the sword.”

So says Conan in Robert E. Howard’s Beyond the Black River, his 14th published Conan story.

First published in the May and June, 1935 issues of Weird Tales, Beyond the Black River is interesting in that it’s told mostly from the point of view of Balthus, a Bossonian woodsman and settler in the jungles of Conajohara, which civilized Hyborians have been slowly colonizing. However, the forces of civilization have been encountering heavy pushback on their westeward expansion from the Picts, a race of forest-dwelling warriors and their strange, deadly wizard named Zogar Sag. Zogar has been luring prominent merchants into the forest, where they’re summarily beheaded. Conan has been hired to investigate, and encounters Balthus while on the search for the fifth such merchant. Intrigued by the Cimmerrian, Balthus becomes his companion in helping track down and kill Zogar Sag, as well as the foul swamp devil the wizard seems to have summoned to help do his bidding.

Of course, along the way, the expedition doesn’t go as planned, and Conan and Balthus encounter all manner of strange beasts, dark gods, and intense fighting in a trackless, wild jungle full of strange and savage beasts hitherto unknown to man.

It’s a fun, exciting, and creepy story that’s full of visceral action and a looming sense of dread. When Conan, Balthus and company travel down the titular river in search of Zogar Sag’s village, the tension is almost unbearable. And this story is gory: lots of decapitations, piles of human heads, blood and guts, and all that other good stuff you’d expect from men fighting with swords and axes and spears.

I continue to enjoy Howard’s writing. His descriptions are muscular and evocative without being overwrought, his dialogue tense and moody. And when he describes Conan and the beasts he fights, natural or otherwise, you can feel the power and energy in Howard’s words, can almost picture yourself in the thick of battle with Conan. And most importantly, the language really creates a sense of mounting unease at the unholy, supernatural threats awaiting in the jungles.

But what struck me most is Balthus’s, and by extension Howard’s, seeming longing for pre-Christian, barbarian days where men of force did what they wanted by force of arms because nobody could stop them . . . and they only would stop when they were forced to by somebody stronger.

The other emerged dubiously and stared at the stranger. He felt curiously helpless and futile as he gazed on the proportions of the forest man—the massive iron-clad breast, and the arm that bore the reddened sword, burned dark by the sun and ridged and corded with muscles. He moved with the dangerous ease of a panther; he was too fiercely supple to be a product of civilization, even of that fringe of civilization which composed the outer frontiers.

From the outset, Balthus, a sturdy specimen himself, feels inadequate next to the wild, savage Conan.

Conan himself has a disdain for civilization and its rulers:

“Soft-bellied fools sitting on velvet cushions with naked girls offering them iced wine on their knees—I know the breed. They can’t see any farther than their palace wall. Diplomacy—hell! They’d fight Picts with theories of territorial expansion. Valannus and men like him have to obey the orders of a set of damned fools. They’ll never grab any more Pictish land, any more than they’ll ever rebuild Venarium. The time may come when they’ll see the barbarians swarming over the walls of the Eastern cities!”

Conan is a man of action. All through Beyond the Black River, this is apparent. There are no moral quandries. There is only movement towards achieving his goal: in this case, killing Zogar Sag, fighting the swamp-devil, and saving the outpost of Fort Tuscelan from destruction at the hands of the united Pictish tribes.

Only at the end do we learn the moral of Beyond the Black River:

And the forester, staring into the moody, smoldering blue eyes, knew the barbaric oath would be kept. “They’ll not rebuild the fort?” “No; Conajohara is lost to Aquilonia. The frontier has been pushed back. Thunder River will be the new border.” The woodsman sighed and stared at his calloused hand, worn from contact with ax-haft and sword-hilt. Conan reached his long arm for the wine-jug. The forester stared at him, comparing him with the men about them, the men who had died along the lost river, comparing him with those other wild men over that river. Conan did not seem aware of his gaze. “Barbarism is the natural state of mankind,” the borderer said, still staring somberly at the Cimmerian. “Civilization is unnatural. It is a whim of circumstance. And barbarism must always ultimately triumph.”

Howard’s is a fundamentally negative view of mankind’s ability to rise above barbarism, at least in these Conan stories. I can’t say I necessarily agree with this, in that human history has proven that civilization can not only rise above barbarism, but can be every bit as bloody and ruthless and action-oriented. But this philosophy does make for a gripping story and an entertaining and enduring character.

Like many men living a buttoned-down, corporate type of life, I appreciate the urge to go full-on barbarian. I suspect I’m not the only one. No wonder the character of Conan still commands a hearty following.

Beyond the Black River is available to read at Project Gutenberg.

Check out my novel A Traitor to Dreams for more action-packed battles against unnatural foes.