Conan put his back against the wall and lifted his ax. He stood like an image of the unconquerable primordial - legs braced far apart, head thrust forward, one hand clutching the wall for support, the other gripping the ax on high, with the great corded muscles standing out in iron ridges, and his features frozen in a death snarl of fury - his eyes blazing terribly through the mist of blood which veiled them. The men faltered - wild, criminal and dissolute though they were, yet they came of a breed men called civilized, with a civilized background; here was the barbarian - the natural killer. They shrank back - the dying tiger could still deal death.
King Conan sensed their uncertainty and grinned mirthlessly and ferociously.
"Who dies first?" he mumbled through smashed and bloody lips...