Gods of the North by Robert E. Howard
THE CONAN SAGA
First published in Fantasy Fan magazine, March 1934
Also published as "The Frost-Giant's Daughter"
ACROSS the red drifts and mail-clad forms, two figures
glared at each other. In that utter desolation only they moved. The frosty
sky was over them, the white illimitable plain around them, the dead men at
their feet. Slowly through the corpses they came, as ghosts might come to a
tryst through the shambles of a dead world. In the brooding silence they
stood face to face.
Both were tall men, built like tigers. Their shields were gone, their
corselets battered and dinted. Blood dried on their mail; their swords were
stained red. Their horned helmets showed the marks of fierce strokes. One was
beardless and black-maned. The locks and beard of the other were red as the
blood on the sunlit snow.
"Man," said he, "tell me your name, so that my brothers in Vanaheim may
know who was the last of Wulfhere's band to fall before the sword of
"Not in Vanaheim," growled the black-haired warrior, "but in Valhalla will
you tell your brothers that you met Conan of Cimmeria."
Heimdul roared and leaped, and his sword flashed in deathly arc. Conan
staggered and his vision was filled with red sparks as the singing blade
crashed on his helmet, shivering into bits of blue fire. But as he reeled he
thrust with all the power of his broad shoulders behind the humming blade.
The sharp point tore through brass scales and bones and heart, and the
red-haired warrior died at Conan's feet.
The Cimmerian stood upright, trailing his sword, a sudden sick weariness
assailing him. The glare of the sun on the snow cut his eyes like a knife and
the sky seemed shrunken and strangely apart. He turned away from the trampled
expanse where yellow-bearded warriors lay locked with red-haired slayers in
the embrace of death. A few steps he took, and the glare of the snow fields
was suddenly dimmed. A rushing wave of blindness engulfed him and he sank
down into the snow, supporting himself on one mailed arm, seeking to shake
the blindness out of his eyes as a lion might shake his mane.
A silvery laugh cut through his dizziness, and his sight cleared slowly.
He looked up; there was a strangeness about all the landscape that he could
not place or define—an unfamiliar tinge to earth and sky. But he did
not think long of this. Before him, swaying like a sapling in the wind, stood
a woman. Her body was like ivory to his dazed gaze, and save for a light veil
of gossamer, she was naked as the day. Her slender bare feet were whiter than
the snow they spurned. She laughed down at the bewildered warrior. Her
laughter was sweeter than the rippling of silvery fountains, and poisonous
with cruel mockery.
"Who are you?" asked the Cimmerian. "Whence come you?"
"What matter?" Her voice was more musical than a silver-stringed harp, but
it was edged with cruelty.
"Call up your men," said he, grasping his sword. "Yet though my strength
fail me, they shall not take me alive. I see that you are of the Vanir."
"Have I said so?"
His gaze went again to her unruly locks, which at first glance he had
thought to be red. Now he saw that they were neither red nor yellow but a
glorious compound of both colors. He gazed spell-bound. Her hair was like
elfin- gold; the sun struck it so dazzlingly that he could scarcely bear to
look upon it. Her eyes were likewise neither wholly blue nor wholly grey, but
of shifting colors and dancing lights and clouds of colors he could not
define. Her full red lips smiled, and from her slender feet to the blinding
crown of her billowy hair, her ivory body was as perfect as the dream of a
god. Conan's pulse hammered in his temples.
"I can not tell," said he, "whether you are of Vanaheim and mine enemy, or
of Asgard and my friend. Far have I wandered, but a woman like you I have
never seen. Your locks blind me with their brightness. Never have I seen such
hair, not even among the fairest daughters of the Aesir. By Ymir—"
"Who are you to swear by Ymir?" she mocked. "What know you of the gods of
ice and snow, you who have come up from the south to adventure among an alien
"By the dark gods of my own race!" he cried in anger. "Though I am not of
the golden-haired Aesir, none has been more forward in sword-play! This day I
have seen four score men fall, and I alone have survived the field where
Wulfhere's reavers met the wolves of Bragi. Tell me, woman, have you seen the
flash of mail out across the snow-plains, or seen armed men moving upon the
"I have seen the hoar-frost glittering in the sun," she answered. "I have
heard the wind whispering across the everlasting snows."
He shook his head with a sigh.
"Niord should have come up with us before the battle joined. I fear he and
his fighting-men have been ambushed. Wulfhere and his warriors lie dead.
"I had thought there was no village within many leagues of this spot, for
the war carried us far, but you can not have come a great distance over these
snows, naked as you are. Lead me to your tribe, if you are of Asgard, for I
am faint with blows and the weariness of strife."
"My village is further than you can walk, Conan of Cimmeria," she laughed.
Spreading her arms wide, she swayed before him, her golden head lolling
sensuously, her scintillant eyes half shadowed beneath their long silken
lashes. "Am I not beautiful, oh man?"
"Like Dawn running naked on the snows," he muttered, his eyes burning like
those of a wolf.
"Then why do you not rise and follow me? Who is the strong warrior who
falls down before me?" she chanted in maddening mockery. "Lie down and die in
the snow with the other fools, Conan of the black hair. You can not follow
where I would lead."
With an oath the Cimmerian heaved himself up on his feet, his blue eyes
blazing, his dark scarred face contorted. Rage shook his soul, but desire for
the taunting figure before him hammered at his temples and drove his wild
blood fiercely through his veins. Passion fierce as physical agony flooded
his whole being, so that earth and sky swam red to his dizzy gaze. In the
madness that swept upon him, weariness and faintness were swept away.
He spoke no word as he drove at her, fingers spread to grip her soft
flesh. With a shriek of laughter she leaped back and ran, laughing at him
over her white shoulder. With a low growl Conan followed. He had forgotten
the fight, forgotten the mailed warriors who lay in their blood, forgotten
Niord and the reavers who had failed to reach the fight. He had thought only
for the slender white shape which seemed to float rather than run before
Out across the white blinding plain the chase led. The trampled red field
fell out of sight behind him, but still Conan kept on with the silent
tenacity of his race. His mailed feet broke through the frozen crust; he sank
deep in the drifts and forged through them by sheer strength. But the girl
danced across the snow light as a feather floating across a pool; her naked
feet barely left their imprint on the hoar-frost that overlaid the crust. In
spite of the fire in his veins, the cold bit through warrior's mail and fur-
lined tunic; but the girl in her gossamer veil ran as lightly: as gaily as if
she danced through the palm and rose gardens of Poitain.
On and on she led, and Conan followed. Black curses drooled through the
Cimmerian's parched lips. The great veins in his temples swelled and throbbed
and his teeth gnashed.
"You can not escape me!" he roared. "Lead me into a trap and I'll pile the
heads of your kinsmen at your feet! Hide from me and I'll tear apart the
mountains to find you! I'll follow you to hell!"
Her maddening laughter floated back to him, and foam flew from the
barbarian's lips. Further and further into the wastes she led him. The land
changed; the wide plains gave way to low hills, marching upward in broken
ranges. Far to the north he caught a glimpse of towering mountains, blue with
the distance, or white with the eternal snows. Above these mountains shone
the flaring rays of the borealis. They spread fan-wise into the sky, frosty
blades of cold flaming light, changing in color, growing and brightening.
Above him the skies glowed and crackled with strange lights and gleams.
The snow shone weirdly, now frosty blue, now icy crimson, now cold silver.
Through a shimmering icy realm of enchantment Conan plunged doggedly onward,
in a crystalline maze where the only reality was the white body dancing
across the glittering snow beyond his reach—ever beyond his reach.
He did not wonder at the strangeness of it all, not even when two gigantic
figures rose up to bar his way. The scales of their mail were white with
hoar-frost; their helmets and their axes were covered with ice. Snow
sprinkled their locks; in their beards were spikes of icicles; their eyes
were cold as the lights that streamed above them.
"Brothers!" cried the girl, dancing between them. "Look who follows! I
have brought you a man to slay! Take his heart that we may lay it smoking on
our father' board!"
The giants answered with roars like the grinding of ice-bergs on a frozen
shore and heaved up their shining axes as the maddened Cimmerian hurled
himself upon them. A frosty blade flashed before his eyes, blinding him with
its brightness, and he gave back a terrible stroke that sheared through his
foe's thigh. With a groan the victim fell, and at the instant Conan was
dashed into the snow, his left shoulder numb from the blow of the survivor,
from which the Cimmerian's mail had barely saved his life. Conan saw the
remaining giant looming high above him like a colossus carved of ice, etched
against the cold glowing sky. The axe fell, to sink through the snow and deep
into the frozen earth as Conan hurled himself aside and leaped to his feet.
The giant roared and wrenched his axe free, but even as he did, Conan's sword
sang down. The giant's knees bent and he sank slowly into the snow, which
turned crimson with the blood that gushed from his half-severed neck.
Conan wheeled, to see the girl standing a short distance away, staring at
him in wide-eyed horror, all the mockery gone from her face. He cried out
fiercely and the blood-drops flew from his sword as his hand shook in the
intensity of his passion.
"Call the rest of your brothers!" he cried. "I'll give their hearts to the
wolves! You can not escape me—"
With a cry of fright she turned and ran fleetly. She did not laugh now,
nor mock him over her white shoulder. She ran as for her life, and though he
strained every nerve and thew, until his temples were like to burst and the
snow swam red to his gaze, she drew away from him, dwindling in the
witch-fire of the skies, until she was a figure no bigger than a child, then
a dancing white flame on the snow, then a dim blur in the distance. But
grinding his teeth until the blood started from his gums, he reeled on, and
he saw the blur grow to a dancing white flame, and the flame to a figure big
as a child; and then she was running less than a hundred paces ahead of him,
and slowly the space narrowed, foot by foot.
She was running with effort now, her golden locks blowing free; he heard
the quick panting of her breath, and saw a flash of fear in the look she cast
over her white shoulder. The grim endurance of the barbarian had served him
well. The speed ebbed from her flashing white legs; she reeled in her gait.
In his untamed soul leaped up the fires of hell she had fanned so well. With
an inhuman roar he closed in on her, just as she wheeled with a haunting cry
and flung out her arms to fend him off.
His sword fell into the snow as he crushed her to him. Her lithe body bent
backward as she fought with desperate frenzy in his iron arms. Her golden
hair blew about his face, blinding him with its sheen; the feel of her
slender body twisting in his mailed arms drove him to blinder madness. His
strong fingers sank deep into her smooth flesh; and that flesh was cold as
ice. It was as if he embraced not a woman of human flesh and blood, but a
woman of flaming ice. She writhed her golden head aside, striving to avoid
the fierce kisses that bruised her red lips.
"You are cold as the snows," he mumbled dazedly. "I will warm you with the
fire in my own blood—"
With a scream and a desperate wrench she slipped from his arms, leaving
her single gossamer garment in his grasp. She sprang back and faced him, her
golden locks in wild disarray, her white bosom heaving, her beautiful eyes
blazing with terror. For an instant he stood frozen, awed by her terrible
beauty as she posed naked against the snows.
And in that instant she flung her arms toward the lights that glowed in
the skies above her and cried out in a voice that rang in Conan's ears for
ever after: "Ymir! Oh, my father, save me!"
Conan was leaping forward, arms spread to seize her, when with a crack
like the breaking of an ice mountain, the whole skies leaped into icy fire.
The girl's ivory body was suddenly enveloped in a cold blue flame so blinding
that the Cimmerian threw up his hands to shield his eyes from the intolerable
blaze. A fleeting instant, skies and snowy hills were bathed in crackling
white flames, blue darts of icy light, and frozen crimson fires. Then Conan
staggered and cried out. The girl was gone. The glowing snow lay empty and
bare; high above his head the witch-lights flashed and played in a frosty sky
gone mad, and among the distant blue mountains there sounded a rolling
thunder as of a gigantic war-chariot rushing behind steeds whose frantic
hoofs struck lightning from the snows and echoes from the skies.
Then suddenly the borealis, the snow-clad hills and the blazing heavens
reeled drunkenly to Conan's sight; thousands of fire-balls burst with showers
of sparks, and the sky itself became a titanic wheel which rained stars as it
spun. Under his feet the snowy hills heaved up like a wave, and the Cimmerian
crumpled into the snows to lie motionless.
In a cold dark universe, whose sun was extinguished eons ago, Conan felt
the movement of life, alien and unguessed. An earthquake had him in its grip
and was shaking him to and fro, at the same time chafing his hands and feet
until he yelled in pain and fury and groped for his sword.
"He's coming to, Horsa," said a voice. "Haste—we must rub the frost
out of his limbs, if he's ever to wield sword again."
"He won't open his left hand," growled another. "He's clutching
Conan opened his eyes and stared into the bearded faces that bent over
him. He was surrounded by tall golden-haired warriors in mail and furs.
"Conan! You live!"
"By Crom, Niord," gasped the Cimmerian. 'Am I alive, or are we all dead
and in Valhalla?"
"We live," grunted the Aesir, busy over Conan's half-frozen feet. "We had
to fight our way through an ambush, or we had come up with you before the
battle was joined. The corpses were scarce cold when we came upon the field.
We did not find you among the dead, so we followed your spoor. In Ymir's
name, Conan, why did you wander off into the wastes of the north? We have
followed your tracks in the snow for hours. Had a blizzard come up and hidden
them, we had never found you, by Ymir!"
"Swear not so often by Ymir," uneasily muttered a warrior, glancing at the
distant mountains. "This is his land and the god bides among yonder
mountains, the legends say."
"I saw a woman," Conan answered hazily. "We met Bragi's men in the plains.
I know not how long we fought. I alone lived. I was dizzy and faint. The land
lay like a dream before me. Only now do all things seem natural and familiar.
The woman came and taunted me. She was beautiful as a frozen flame from hell.
A strange madness fell upon me when I looked at her, so I forgot all else in
the world. I followed her. Did you not find her tracks? Or the giants in icy
mail I slew?"
Niord shook his head.
"We found only your tracks in the snow, Conan."
"Then it may be I am mad," said Conan dazedly. "Yet you yourself are no
more real to me than was the golden-locked witch who fled naked across the
snows before me. Yet from under my very hands she vanished in icy flame."
"He is delirious," whispered a warrior.
"Not so!" cried an older man, whose eyes were wild and weird. "It was
Atali, the daughter of Ymir, the frost-giant! To fields of the dead she
comes, and shows herself to the dying! Myself when a boy I saw her, when I
lay half- slain on the bloody field of Wolraven. I saw her walk among the
dead in the snows, her naked body gleaming like ivory and her golden hair
unbearably bright in the moonlight. I lay and howled like a dying dog because
I could not crawl after her. She lures men from stricken fields into the
wastelands to be slain by her brothers, the ice-giants, who lay men's red
hearts smoking on Ymir's board. The Cimmerian has seen Atali, the
"Bah!" grunted Horsa. "Old Gorm's mind was touched in his youth by a sword
cut on the head. Conan was delirious from the fury of battle—look how
his helmet is dinted. Any of those blows might have addled his brain. It was
an hallucination he followed into the wastes. He is from the south; what does
he know of Atali?"
"You speak truth, perhaps," muttered Conan. "It was all strange and
He broke off, glaring at the object that still dangled from his clenched
left fist; the others gaped silently at the veil he held up—a wisp of
gossamer that was never spun by human distaff.