Conan's first Pit fight

Conan's first Pit fight is the brutal rite of passage in which the young Cimmerian, still a slave chained to the Wheel of Pain, is thrown into a fighting pit in the Vanir town of Skaun and forced to kill a gigantic, drug-crazed Kushite champion named Junga. The duel transforms Conan from a captive laborer into a killer, forging his warrior identity and demonstrating that the years of grinding toil at the Wheel have hardened his body into a weapon of iron. It is his first kill in the Pit, the moment his legend as a fighter begins, and the foundation of his later prowess as a man-slayer.

The Setting and the Stakes

The fight takes place in Skaun, a town of the Vanir, where Conan and others of Toghrul's troupe have been taken in chains. They are herded into a high-roofed, barn-like structure where fires smoulder in beds of charcoal to lessen the biting chill of early autumn. The Pit itself is ten paces long, five wide, and as deep as the height of a man, its edges hung with crudely-figured shields and standards of hide painted in cranberry red, cerulean blue, and raw earth tones. Above the enclosure, a ring of Vanir chieftains sits on crude benches, guzzling ale from cups of horn and thrusting the horn points into the soft earth at their feet when they tire of handling them. Torches set in brackets encircle the upper reaches of the Pit, their fitful light gleaming on the red manes and ruddy faces of the men and glinting on their bracelets and pectorals of gold and silver, embellished with uncut gemstones. Smoke hangs heavy in the air, commingling with the reek of ill-tanned hides and baggy woollens stiff with dirt and rancid sweat. The chieftains laugh, hoot, drink heavily, and bawl obscene jests, but they eye the fighters shrewdly before placing bets, displaying bars of gold, precious jewels, and fine weapons as earnest of their wagers.

Half a dozen fighters stand against the far wall of the Pit, powerful men naked save for dirty clouts, their deep chests, broad backs, and muscled limbs smeared with grease to afford scant hold to their opponents. Conan recognizes none of them, but having heard muttered talk among Toghrul's people of a rival Pit master, an Asa from Asgard named Ivar, he infers that the strange fighters might be of Ivar's troupe. A second glance upward at the swilling, shouting Vanir shows Toghrul standing to one side, talking with a fellow whose tawny beard is streaked with grey. They gesture and point to the line of slaves in the Pit, and presently Uldin and two other men clamber down a ladder and hustle out all save the fighter chosen for Conan's adversary. Those dismissed ascend the ladder and disappear, leaving the barbarian alone with the remaining man, a gigantic Negro.

The Opponent: Junga the Kushite

Conan stares at his opponent; he has never before seen skin of ebon hue. A thousand leagues or more to the south, in the land of Kush, his father had told him, such men were said to live. The Negro's bullet head is shaven smooth, and deep in the shining mask of his heavy-featured face, his eyes burn with feral fires. His jaws move rhythmically as he chews on a handful of leaves, and as the potent narcotic enters his bloodstream and ascends to his brain, the look in his eyes becomes inhuman, the eyes of a beast of prey. Pretending to be feckless and bewildered, the young barbarian studies his opponent. The black is a magnificent specimen of savage manhood, his oiled body gleaming in the firelight like a statue carved from obsidian. Terrific strength sleeps in those massive shoulders and arms, while beneath the skin of torso and legs, muscles like writhing pythons tense and relax.

When the drug has taken full charge of the Negro's brain, he springs upon Conan like a charging tiger. In an instant his huge hands close about the novice's throat and clamp tight, sinking into the flesh and stifling the warning growl that rises from Conan's chest. The Cimmerian's hands lock on the wrists of the black, and the two struggle together in a dance of death, swaying back and forth in an embrace as intimate as that of lovers. The Vanir chieftains howl with excitement. Conan fights desperately for breath, tensing the corded muscles of his throat. His lungs are afire; a red haze thickens before his eyes. The Negro leans close, his thick lips spread in a lurid grimace that exposes yellow teeth filed to fang-like points. His hot breath, sickly-sweet with the effluvium of the drug, fans Conan's brow. The black's face comes closer still, and now the combatants sway cheek to cheek, as the Kushite strives to reach Conan's jugular vein with his fangs.

The Turning Point: The Wheel's Strength

Suddenly, Conan releases his grip on the Negro's wrists, plants his palms against the other's chest, and shoves, as once, unaided, he had pushed against the spokes of the Wheel of Pain. His massive thews stand out in bold relief beneath the bronzen hide of his huge arms, for long years of toil at the Wheel have hardened them, as iron is hardened under the hammer of the smith. Amazement flickers across the black's visage when, despite the enormous power of his own solid arms, he is slowly thrust away, until his fingers slip off the corded muscles of his opponent's neck. In that instant, Conan seizes the black's wrists again and, bending double, pulls the man over his back. The giant Negro flies over Conan's shoulders to thud heavily against the packed earth.

The Kushite regains his feet almost at once, but during that brief respite, Conan has sucked precious air into his starved lungs. Now the two circle warily, knees bent, legs spread, and clutching arms wide. Blood trickles down the Cimmerian's chest from punctures in his throat made by the black's sharpened nails. Sweat runs down his forehead and seeps, stinging, into his eyes. He shakes his head, causing his matted mane to lift as he tries to shake the sweat away. Blood lust flames in the black man's eyes. Grinning his fanged smile, he springs catlike at Conan, but the young Cimmerian is ready. He twists lightly aside and, as his opponent flies past, brings one balled fist down on the nape of the other's neck. Half stunned, the black falls to his knees, while the throng yells hoarsely. Some shout in amazement; others in anger, as they see their wagers fade away. Still others roar encouragement, for never have they seen such a fight between an untried youth and a proven champion.

Conan ignores the crowd. For him the world has narrowed to one Pit and one antagonist. As the lust to kill wells up within him, he hammers the dazed Negro again and again, smashing his nose into a smear of red and closing an eye with a swelling bruise. Then the black springs back and, bending nearly double, hurls himself at his adversary. His bullet head slams into Conan's belly, driving the youth back against the boards that line the wall of the Pit. The Negro's partisans go wild with cries of "Junga! Junga!"

The Kill and Its Aftermath

As Junga closes with the Cimmerian, Conan seizes one ebon arm. Ignoring the pain in his belly, he wrenches that arm behind its owner's back and pulls up with all his might. The black screams like a speared stallion as sinews tear from their moorings and the bone is twisted from its socket. He slumps to his knees, his dislocated arm hanging uselessly. Then Conan gets his hands under the black's armpits and slams his head into the wall of the Pit. The onlookers fall silent with tension, and in the silence they hear a sound like the snapping of a stick. Conan has broken the Negro's neck. Swaying with exhaustion, Conan lets the twitching body slide to the ground. He staggers away, bracing himself against the Pit wall, and gasps for air.

The crowd goes mad. Chieftains rip off golden armlets and broaches and hurl them into the Pit, at Conan's feet. But the weary Cimmerian ignores the glittering bounty. Just being alive is treasure enough for a Pit fighter. Toghrul lowers himself into the Pit and slaps Conan's bruised and aching shoulders. The Hyrkanian grins and gabbled incoherent praise while stooping to gather up the golden offerings.

Significance and Legacy

The fight is the first demonstration of a principle that will define Conan's entire life: that suffering, endured and overcome, becomes strength. The years at the Wheel of Pain, which might have broken a lesser spirit, have instead forged his body into a weapon, and the Pit becomes the arena where that forging is proven. The duel also establishes the pattern of Conan's later career as a man-slayer by profession, a thief from necessity. It is the first of many kills, but it is the one that matters most, because it is the first time he chooses to kill, and the first time he learns that his own body, hardened by toil, is the most reliable weapon he will ever possess. The fight also foreshadows his later confrontations with the servants of Set, who worship Death itself, and his ultimate victory over Thulsa Doom, when he learns that what matters is not the steel within the blade, but the steel within the man.