"The mountains are too small for you, Cimmerian," a voice rasped.
Conan turned to see an old crone emerging from the shadows of a lightning-scarred oak. Her skin was like parched parchment, and her eyes held the milky glaze of the blind. "The mountains are too small for you, Cimmerian,"
Conan did not answer. He slung his shield over his back and began the long descent. He passed through the haunted forests of Hyperborea, where the trees whispered in forgotten tongues, and into the teeming markets of Shadizar the Wicked. "The mountains are too small for you, Cimmerian,"