We’ve discussed the so-called “Filipino Invasion” of the American comic book industry during the 1970s in several previous posts.  As regular readers may recall, this development began with the arrival of artist Tony DeZuñiga at DC Comics around the middle of 1970, but really picked up steam in 1972 following a business trip to the Philippines taken by DeZuñiga, his editor Joe Orlando, and DC publisher Carmine Infantino.  That visit resulted in a deal by which DeZuñiga and his wife would act as a sort of broker between DC and his fellow Filipino illustrators, most of whom continued to live and work in the islands.  Within a number of months, DC’s mystery anthologies (along with related titles such as Weird War Tales and Weird Western Tales) were all but dominated by the art of such talents as DeZuñiga, Alfredo Alcala, Nestor Redondo, and a number of others.

Over the next couple of years, this “invasion” remained mostly a DC-centered phenomenon; the major exception to this rule was Ernie Chan, who began doing regular inking for Marvel Comics in 1972, most notably on Conan the Barbarian.  But the landscape began to shift somewhat mid-1974, when, over a period of several months, DeZuñiga decamped from DC to Marvel, Chan did the opposite, and Alcala began accepting assignments from Marvel as well as from their main competition.  A number of their fellow Filipinos followed the examples of DeZuñiga and Alcala, and soon the invasion had established itself at Marvel as strongly as it previously had at DC.  This was especially true of Marvel’s black-and-white comics magazine line, where the new arrivals seemed to quickly flourish in a way that paralleled their ascent to prominence in DC’s “weird” comics.

Perhaps there’s a better example of this phenomenon among Marvel’s 1975 B&W comics than Savage Sword of Conan #6, but I doubt it.  That’s because Filipino illustrators, after having made significant contributions to each of the last four issues of the magazine, essentially took over the whole show with SSoC #6, with two of their number providing the full art for both of the Conan stories presented therein.  One of those two, Alex Niño, also produced the issue’s painted cover (albeit in collaboration with another artist, Frank Magsino, who doesn’t appear to have done any other American comics work).

We’ll be taking a look at more of Niño’s art even before we get to the story he drew, which takes up the back half of the issue.  First, however, let’s turn to the inside front cover, which features a frontispiece by American artist Don Newton:

Along with a later spot illustration provided by Newton’s fellow American Mike Vosburg — and setting aside house ads and letters pages — this is the only non-Filipino art we’ll see in this issue.

We move on now to our first story — an original tale by Roy Thomas (who of course wrote as well as edited virtually every Conan comic-book script during this era), with art by Celso “Sonny” Trinidad.  Trinidad had first come to the American market in 1972, with years of professional experience in the Philippines already behind him; like many of his peers, his earliest U.S. assignment (a short story for Weird Western Tales #14) had come from DC Comics.  But, for whatever reason, he’d only managed to land a few more gigs at that company before evidently deciding to jump over to the competition, for whom his first two stories appeared in a couple of black-and-white magazines both published in September, 1974 (Dracula Lives #9 and Haunt of Horror #4).

Thomas and Trinidad start things off here with a symbolic full-page splash panel — a choice that’s probably been made due to the fact that, after this pinup-like shot, we won’t see the star of our story again until page 12 — not quite halfway through this yarn’s 25-page length, but pretty close.  As we’re about to see, the focus of the earliest scenes in “The Sleeper Beneath the Sands” isn’t on Conan at all; at least, not directly…

OK, at this point, you may be wondering if you’ve come in late.  Who the hell is Olgerd Vladislav, and when did Conan break his wrist?  And what’s all this about a man biting “a vulture’s neck clean thru?”  That sounds like something worth seeing.

And indeed it had been, two months earlier, in the pages of Savage Sword of Conan #5, where Thomas, John Buscema, and a collective of artists called “the Tribe” had offered readers an adaptation of one of pulp author Robert E. Howard’s best-known Conan stories, “A Witch Shall Be Born” — a story to which our present tale serves as a direct sequel.

This puts us at something of a disadvantage in our discussion today, seeing as how your humble blogger opted not to post about SSoC #5 when it was eligible for such back in February.  That wasn’t because I didn’t like the book, you understand; it’s just that there were other comics turning fifty that month that I liked more.  To get into specifics just a bit: coming in at 55 pages, Marvel’s version of “Witch” is really, really long — and the best thing about it, in my opinion — not to mention the main reason for its source material’s high reputation — is a single scene (yes, the very one depicted on the cover shown at right) that takes up only nine of those pages.

But, in a sense, Crom and Mitra may be said to have smiled upon us — because it’s that very scene (along with a later, briefer follow-up) to which “The Sleeper Beneath the Sands” calls back.  Most of the rest of “A Witch Shall Be Born” is really incidental to Thomas and Trinidad’s sequel, and what you do need to know about it can be easily summarized.  And so I’m going to take the liberty of sharing several pages of Marvel’s “Witch” with you, in the interest of your being able to more fully appreciate “Sleeper”.  (And, OK, because that vulture’s-neck-biting moment really shouldn’t be missed.)  In doing so, we won’t even be straying too far from our theme of highlighting Filipino artists, since the group of inkers we mentioned before — the Tribe — consisted of none other than Tony DeZuñiga and several of the artists who worked with him in his studio (per the Grand Comics Database, assisting DeZuñiga on this particular occasion were Steve Gan, Rudy Mesina, and Freddie Fernandez).

At the beginning of “A Witch Shall Be Born”, Conan is enjoying a pretty good regular gig as the captain of the guard of Queen Tamaris of Khauran.  Unfortunately, things go south for both our hero and his royal employer when the latter’s evil twin sister, a sorceress named Salome, suddenly shows up to imprison her sister and take her place.  Not taken in by the ruse, Conan resists violently, but is taken captive and crucified outside the city walls by Salome’s ally, a mercenary commander named Constantius…

After some more taunting, Constantius and his men withdraw, leaving Conan to die alone.  Naturally, the Cimmerian adventurer strives mightily against the iron spikes holding him to the cross, but to no avail.  It looks like all that’ll keep him dying slowly in agony from exposure are the tender mercies of the steadily circling, and ever less wary, vultures…

Next, Olgerd Vladislav’s subordinate, Djebal, proceeds to wrench the spikes free from Conan’s hands…

In the months to follow, the realm of Khauran suffers ever more greatly under the tyranny of the false Tamaris, Salome, and her consort, Constantius; meanwhile, Conan rises in the ranks of Olgerd’s Zuagirs, ultimately becoming the outlaw leader’s right-hand man.  One night, the two men sit together discussing their recent success in raiding, and the concurrent growth in their band’s numbers, all of which Olgerd credits entirely to his own wit.  “We have 11,000 men now,” he gloats.  “In another year we may have three times that number!”

Olgerd tries to dismiss Conan’s plan to attack the walled city of Khauran as folly, saying that their desert raiders wouldn’t stand a chance against Constantius’ archers and trained swordsmen.  Conan retorts that he could do it if he had “3000 desperate Hyborian horsemen fighting in a single wedge” — and, as it happens, he does have them.  He announces to Olgerd that there are presently three thousand Khaurian warriors camped at a nearby oasis, awaiting Conan’s orders.  They’ve fled the depredations of “Taramis” and her consort, and have sworn to follow Conan, who has in turn promised to help them take back their city.

“All this — without my knowledge?” blusters Olgerd.

“It was I they wished to follow — not you,” Conan replies.  “You lied when you said I had nothing to do with bringing in the new recruits. I had everything to do with it.”

And that’s really all you need to know about “A Witch Shall Be Born” to understand why Olgerd Vladislav is in such a bad way in the opening pages of “The Sleeper Beneath the Sands”… though, in the interest of narrative closure, please allow me to assure you that Conan is indeed ultimately successful in deposing Salome and returning Tamaris to her rightful throne.  Naturally, the story ends with Constantius crucified in the desert in the same way Conan had been before, with Conan and his Zuagirs (with whom he’s opted to remain, rather than return to the queen’s service) blithely riding away, leaving the mercenary leader alone with the circling vultures.

And speaking of vultures, that gives us an excellent segue back into our present tale, where, you’ll remember, we left Olgerd about to become dinner for several members of that species… while Roy Thomas’ observant, but not-quite-omniscient narrator speculated about what thoughts might be going through Olgerd’s fevered mind in these last moments before his seemingly inevitable death…

At this point, we’ll note how Sonny Trinidad’s rendering style is similar enough to that of Tony DeZuñiga‘s Tribe that this story, at least in visual terms, comes off not just as a natural sequel to “A Witch Shall Be Born”, but virtually a continuation of it.  That said, Trinidad’s approach to layout and pacing is distinct enough from John Buscema’s that only the most casual reader could mistake one artist for the other.

For the next three days and nights, a delirious Olgerd Vladislav is carried across the desert in the care of his rescuers…

Before acceding to Ahmed Mullah’s request that he rest, “Yffan” asks if there’s been any recent news of Conan’s Zuagirs, and is told that, according to reliable rumor, Conan will soon be making a secret rendezvous with Djebal — who used to work for Olgerd, you’ll remember, and now serves as lieutenant to his old boss’ usurper.  Not only that, but the spot where the two raiders plan to meet is none other than the very temple for which Ahmed, Dhira, and company are bound.  Djebal has been in the city of Vezek of late, you see, spying on the “fat caravans” there, and he and Conan have chosen the temple for their meet-up purely because of its nasty reputation, which generally keeps most people away.  Ahmad’s not bothered by the prospect of Conan’s presence while his people are attempting to propitiate their deity, since “it’s said he [Conan] mocks no god, especially those he’s never heard of.”  And won’t Conan be surprised to find his trusted comrade Yffan already waiting there for him when he arrives?  Indeed he will, Olgerd Vladislav agrees.

The following day, the trek across the desert continues, until at long last the half-fallen ruins of the temple are sighted.  As an unbeliever, Olgerd is barred from helping with the preparations for the coming religious ceremony; even so, his new companions readily explain that in two days time, they’ll be reciting “certain words of power” that were last spoken on this spot fifty years prior; when the fearsome “Sleeper” hears them, he’ll return to his quiescent, dreaming state, and all will be well for another half-century.  It’s doubtful that Olgerd gives credence to any of this; still, he has his plans for revenge to keep him occupied…

Though stunned, Djebal draws his own blade in time to counter Olgerd’s next blow.  Then, when Olgerd calls him a traitor, Djebal denies the charge, claiming that he merely served the man who’d lawfully made himself chief of the Zuagirs.  Enraged, Olgerd slashes through Djebal’s defenses, wounding him…

Dhira’s fellow believers have little choice to do what she says, and stand down… and then to follow the commands of Olgerd, who bids them drag the corpses out of sight, somewhere that the vultures won’t bother them.  “Conan must see nothing amiss when he comes riding across the dunes — to his death!”

Roy Thomas is clearly referring here to the Biblical story of Samson — but although that tale wouldn’t be told until nine to ten thousand years after the imaginary Hyborian Age in which Conan is supposed to have lived, it’s not at all hard to imagine similar legends being told in a much, much earlier era than that of the ancient Israelites.

Olgerd now returns his attention to Conan, whom he anticipates carving into itty-bitty pieces over an extended period of time.  Coldly reckoning that his chances of surviving the day are just about nil, our hero quickly decides his most optimal choice is to goad his enemy into giving him a quick death — and so, he spits in Olgerd’s face.  But before the latter man can act on his rage, he — along with everyone else present — is distracted by the sound of approaching hoofbeats….

Perhaps this should go without saying, but the gratuitous sexism of the moment captured above has aged rather poorly.

In a comprehensive survey of the “Filipino Invasion” artists produced for Comic Book Artist (Vol. 2) #4 (Sep., 2004), David A. Roach described Sonny Trinidad as having “a frenetic, almost hysterical style”; while he didn’t necessarily have the above full-page splash in mind when he made that statement, he certainly could have.

Conan notes that the monstrous Sleeper has wings, although it doesn’t (and probably can’t) take flight.  Though, of course, it hardly needs wings to bring down what remains of the ruined temple, as its flailing tentacles handle that job just fine.

One could respond to Conan’s rhetorical question in that last panel with, “Well, dude, he did save your life by getting you off that cross, even if he was kind of a dick about it.”  And one would be technically correct.  Still, that line has always landed for me as I’m sure Roy Thomas meant it to — as a succinct (and mordantly funny) reminder that while our protagonist is far from being an amoral brute, he feels no obligation to always take the high road in dealing with his enemies.

I can remember being genuinely surprised by Dhira’s fate when I first read this story fifty years ago, even now, it’s hard to think of another Conan adventure in which he’s ultimately unable to rescue “the girl” (who, in this instance, may easily be counted the true hero of the tale).  This factor, along with the darkly humorous bit concerning Conan’s decision not to show mercy to Olgerd, has helped this story remain distinct in my memory among the many, many Conan comic-book stories I’ve read; and contributes to making it a worthy sequel to “A Witch Shall Be Born”, even if it can’t boast a specific moment anywhere near as indelible as its predecessor’s scenes of Conan on the cross.*

Coming in between SSoC #6’s two comics stories are a couple of prose nonfiction features, each of which includes spot illustrations.  The first article, Robert L. Yaple’s “Gods of the Hyborian Age, Part One: The Homes of the Gods”, is graced by the following lovely piece by Alex Niño:

Dated 1971, Niño’s illustration may have been suggested by a particular Conan story — though your humble blogger has no idea which one.  That’s not the case with the second illo included with the article (see right), from which Mike Vosburg has clearly taken partial inspiration from Robert E. Howard’s “Rogues in the House” (which, as you may recall, was adapted by Roy Thomas and Barry Windsor-Smith in Conan the Barbarian #11 [Nov., 1971]).  I say “partial”, because while both Howard’s original text and Marvel’s comics adaptation of “Rogues” both prominently feature an ape in a cape, neither includes a scantily glad young woman chained to a pillar; that said, I doubt Marvel got many letters of complaint in regards to Vosburg’s liberties.

The second and final text piece is the latest installment of Lin Carter’s history of sword-and-sorcery fiction, this one called “Can Any Good Thing Come Out of Cimmeria?”.  It contains only one illustration — but that one is another beauty by Niño:

We come now to the second and last story of the issue, Roy Thomas and Alex Niño’s 30-page adaptation of “People of the Dark” — a story written by Robert E, Howard that was first published in 1932, and, in its original form, wasn’t actually about Conan… or,at least, not about “our” Conan.  We’ll explain that cryptic remark a little further on, but in the meantime, be advised that you can check out the entire text of Howard’s tale online for free, here.

As we previously provided an overview of Alex Nino’s early career in our House of Secrets #109 post of about a year ago, we’ll skip those particular details here, picking up with his advent at Marvel Comics in early 1975.  The artist’s first work for the House of Ideas had actually appeared just a couple of months before the release of Savage Sword of Conan #6, in the form of two stories for a couple of Marvel’s other black-and-white magazines: “Man-Gods from Beyond the Stars”, a 37-page riff on Erich von Däniken written by Roy Thomas and Doug Moench, which ran in Marvel Preview #1; and a 17-page adaptation of Harlan Ellison’s classic short story “‘Repent, Harlequin!’ Said the Ticktockman” (scripted by Thomas), which graced Unknown Worlds of Science Fiction #3.

Unlike Sonny Trinidad (or, for that matter, Tony DeZuñiga, whose break with DC Comics seems to have been less than amicable), Niño would continue to contribute to DC’s color anthology titles for the next several years, even as he picked up more and more work from Marvel; in this, he followed the example of Alfredo Alcala, who like Niño would manage to maintain good working relationships with both major American publishers.

At this point, if you’re unfamiliar with both Howard’s original “People” and Marvel’s adaptation, you’re probably wondering — how the heck is this ever going to become a Conan story?  But just hang on a few more pages, and we’ll get there, I promise.

While Niño’s talent for crafting innovative page layouts is evident throughout this story, the page above is an especially striking example, featuring a particularly bold use of white space.

(If you haven’t already clicked on the image above to embiggen it, please do so, OK?  Trust me, you really want to take in Niño’s magnificent double-page spread at as large a scale as possible.)

In Robert E. Howard’s original short story, the past life recalled by the modern narrator O’Brien is that of “Conan of the reavers” — a self-described “black-haired Gael”, who has joined his fellow Irishmen in a raid on a British coastal village in the days before the Romans came to that part of the world.  Given that Howard is known to have written this story in 1931, and that he wouldn’t come up with his first story of Conan of Cimmeria until some time in the next year — not to mention that the author’s version of “Cimmeria” itself seems to have been largely inspired by ancient Britain and Ireland — it’s hard not to see the earlier story’s Conan as a precursor (if not an outright prototype) of his more famous namesake.  (The Conan of “People of the Dark” even swears by the god Crom.)

There’s little room for doubt (either in Howard’s original text or in Thomas’ script) that young Conan is intent on sexual violence here.  I’ve gone on the record in a previous post as stating that I don’t believe that the mature Conan of Cimmeria, either as created by Howard or in Marvel’s version, is the sort of man who’d commit rape; but at age 15, in the aftermath of his first sack?  I can accept it as part of his characterization in this context (though it’s just as morally repellent as if he were all grown up, obviously).

Conan/O’Brien recalls how he might have drawn his sword and cut down Tamera’s lover, Gaeric, but instead chose to pick up a piece of wood and merely club him to the ground, where he lay stunned…

Having returned now to the present — Conan’s present, anyway — O’Brien’s narration describes how the young barbarian entered the completely dark corridor, where he quickly encountered some creature that made a hissing noise, right before it slashed at his thigh with a blade.  Conan struck back with his own sword, and whatever had attacked him fell dead at his feet…

The two desperate warriors fight side-by-side against a seemingly endless horde until, to their own surprise, their enemies turn and flee into a side-tunnel.  “We’ve frightened them off!” declares Gaeric, and Tamera hopefully exclaims, “Then — we’re safe!  Safe!”

Setting aside the specific historical and geographical references, Thomas and Niño’s adaptation of “People” follows Howard’s prose story quite closely for the most part.  In depicting the two young lovers’ final fate, however, our adapters have diverged significantly from their source material; in the original tale, Tamera and Vertorix (as the British warrior is called) join hands and leap together to their deaths once they realize they can’t escape their pursuers, while Conan merely watches, unable to help.  Whoever made the call in adapting the scene for the comics version (most probably Thomas, though it’s hard to be completely certain on that point) may have felt that Conan played too passive a role in Howard’s original.  And so, he takes direct action here; though, by doing so, he may be indirectly responsible for Tamera’s subsequent fall… which of course increases his sense of responsibility for what follows after (which may also have been the adapters’ intent).

Niño makes an interesting stylistic choice with this first page back in the “modern day” of Jim O’Brien, choosing to render in a more impressionistic manner which includes a heavy use of gray wash tones; at least for this reader, this has the effect of making the protagonist’s return to the waking world seem itself more dreamlike and unreal than his “experience” of being Conan.

It is, however, an approach which the artist leaves behind as we come to the story’s final, climactic pages…

While our comics storytellers’ decision to alter the manner of Tamera and her lover’s deaths was certainly significant, the change they’ve made to Howard’s original ending is much more so.  Here are the final two paragraphs of the prose “People of the Dark”:

Now the reptilian thing writhed toward the humans trapped on the ledge. Brent had thrust Eleanor behind him and stood, face ashy, to guard her as best he could. And I gave thanks silently that I, John O’Brien, could pay the debt I, Conan the reaver, owed these lovers since long ago.

 

The monster reared up and Brent, with cold courage, sprang to meet it with his naked hands. Taking quick aim, I fired once. The shot echoed like the crack of doom between the towering cliffs, and the Horror, with a hideously human scream, staggered wildly, swayed and pitched headlong, knotting and writhing like a wounded python, to tumble from the sloping ledge and fall plummetlike to the rocks far below.

In other words, it’s a happy ending, more or less (no, the “hero” doesn’t get the girl, but at least he doesn’t, y’know, die).

Your humble blogger had never read this story in its original form prior to beginning the research for this post (or doesn’t remember having ever done so, at any rate) — and I have to confess, I’m not sure yet what I think about how Marvel’s adaptation has changed the thing.  At present, I think I like the comics version’s finale better, despite it being more downbeat (or maybe because it’s more downbeat).  Perhaps that’s just because I’ve lived with the comics version in my mind for half a century, and am so more comfortable with it; maybe I’ll come to prefer Howard’s more optimistic ending, eventually.  I suppose only time will tell.

But, regardless of all that, I have little doubt that this will remain one of my all-time favorite Conan comics stories.  In addition to being one of the most unusually structured tales ever told of the Cimmerian adventurer, the idiosyncratic, extravagant artwork of Alex Niño makes it one of the most visually unique, as well.  With all due respect to Sonny Trinidad (and Roy Thomas), it’s Niño’s achievement that ultimately makes Savage Sword of Conan #6 one for the ages.

 

*As things turned out, “The Sleeper Beneath the Sands” wouldn’t be the last sequel to “A Witch Shall Be Born” to appear in the pages of Savage Sword of Conan — or even the last time the magazine’s readers would encounter Olgerd Vladislav.

Two decades before Thomas and Trinidad gave us “Sleeper”, prose writer L. Sprague de Camp had refashioned a never-published historical adventure story by Robert E. Howard into a Conan vehicle, “The Flame Knife”; among the many changes made by De Camp to Howard’s original text were the conversion of one of its main characters to Conan’s old enemy, Olgerd.  Originally published in the 1955 Gnome Press hardcover volume Tales of Conan, the story reached a wider audience through the release in 1968 of Conan the Wanderer, part of Lancer Books’ paperback series featuring the “complete” adventures of the barbarian hero.

Roy Thomas would definitely have been aware of “The Flame Knife”, and Olgerd’s role in it.  But, given that Marvel didn’t have the rights to adapt De Camp’s contributions to the corpus of Conan stories as of 1975, there was little reason for Thomas not to go ahead with his own version of what had happened to the deposed leader of the Zuagirs following “A Witch Shall Be Born”.  A couple of years later, when the rights issues had at last been worked out, Marvel began presenting adaptations of the post-Howard Conan stories in Savage Sword… and soon enough, a version of “The Flame Knife” appeared in issues #31 (Jul., 1978) and #32 ( Aug., 1978) of the magazine.

In adapting “The Flame Knife”, Thomas took De Camp’s Olgerd pretty much as he found him; although he dropped in a couple of references to the events of “The Sleeper Beneath the Sands”, no explanation for how he’d escaped his apparent doom in SSoC #6 was offered prior to Olgerd’s ultimately receiving his final, true death-blow (a sword-thrust to the throat delivered by Conan).  Of course, Roy Thomas being Roy Thomas, fans could expect that loose end would eventually be tied up sometime, somewhere — and indeed it was, in a Conan-less “Tale of the Hyborian Age” that ran over two years later in Savage Sword of Conan #58 (Nov., 1980).  There, Thomas and co-writer Fred Blosser revealed that the Sleeper had conveniently dropped the still-living Olgerd in a previously-unseen underground cavern, from which the villain had emerged after everybody else, including Conan, had departed the temple ruins.  Unlikely?  Maybe… though I figure it makes at least as much sense as the rather more famous escape from a desert-dwelling monster accomplished by one Boba Fett.