The Conan Chronicles (4-6) by Robert Jordan

The Big Peat

Darth Buddha
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By the power of pastiche - no wait, wrong scantily clad muscle man. That's the problem with pastiches sometimes; they can end up as a pastiche of a whole range of things, rather than the original subject matter. Jordan's Conan often reminds me a bit more of James Bond than actual Conan. Not that there is a huge difference mind; just this Conan seems a little more concerned with hedonism compared to survival sat next to Howard's Conan, who frequently interacted less than people. Or so my memory says.

But who cares. This is Red Blooded Entertainment TM and two of the three stories in this book satisfy greatly. Swords are clashed, skulls are cleaved, round-breasted ladies set to crying out, and great evil averted by Conan's steel like sinews and iron honour. The action is frequent and the prose more purple than Nero's wardrobe. Huzzah. Conan the Triumphant is a fun romp through the hills enlivened by watching our hero try to balance the company of having two lovelies seeking to bonk his brains out in close proximity. Conan the Magnificent is a good mix of intrigue and mad devil worshipping cults.

And there's Conan the Destroyer, the novelisation of a movie where people just wanted to be paid by an author that just wanted to be paid. I could be wrong there but it sure didn't feel so. Apparently the first two appear in a compendium with a different story - that's what I'd buy instead of this with my time again. And I would buy this again. These stories don't quite measure up to Howard's originals, but their human slant and up to date prose makes them worthwhile in their own right. If you like this sort of thing, that is.
 

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