The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  cuirass and flesh from shoulder to waist, shearing bones and entrails relentlessly.

  Sheer animal unwillingness to die kept the Gunderman standing for a moment; then he toppled like a falling tree. Conan, panting like a winded horse, ripped a scrap of cloth from one of the bodies and began carefully cleaning his sword. The others were all dead, the man he had unlegged having bled to death during his fight with the northerner. Conan walked back to the Gunderman, who was still breathing faintly.

  'Who hired you, Gunderman?' the Cimmerian asked when he once again had breath to speak.

  'Are we friends that I owe you such a favour?' the man gasped. 'I do not betray those who hire me.'

  'Well, what is your name, then?' Conan asked.

  'Is it not enough you have slain me, but you want power over my spirit as well?'

  'You know Cimmerians better than that!' Conan said angrily. 'We slay our foes in fair battle and leave the demons of Hell to any further vengeance. I want your name for the song I shall make when my wanderings are at an end. That was a good fight, and it will be remembered in the song my women shall sing around my funeral pyre.'

  'I am Hagen,' the man wheezed. 'Now ask me no more. What little breath I have left I wish to expend in cursing you.'

  Not wishing to deny the man this final pleasure, Conan examined his sword, and was gratified to see that it bore no slightest nick, and the edges were still shaving-keen. Re-sheathing the blade, he rounded up the five mounts, then bound up the knife wound on his shoulder. In searching the bodies he found on each of them three heavy, square coins of gold stamped with strange script. He had seen such coins before; they came from Vendhya. He chuckled to think that what had been intended as the price of his life would instead enrich his purse.

  The five horses he took with him to sell in Belverus. He left the rest with the bodies. Any man might sell five horses, but the personal effects of five men would arouse unwelcome official attention. Behind him he left the

  bloody mound. In a year's time the gnawed bones would be scattered abroad, cloth and leather would have rotted, and there would be nothing to mark the battle except some rusting bits of iron and a slightly greener patch of grass. Later, even those would be gone, leaving only the limitless plain, which had drunk the blood of uncounted thousands.

  Conan was feverish and reeling in his saddle as he arrived within sight of the walls of Belverus. Happily, he noted that there was no besieging army encamped outside its walls. Just now he had no time for such things.

  It was midday, and the gates of the city stood wide. A guard held up a restraining hand as Conan rode through the gate. The guard held a wooden tablet bearing a panel of wax, and a bronze stylus was tucked behind his ear.

  'What is your name and your business, stranger?' the guard demanded.

  'I am Conan of Cimmeria, and I need lodging for the night, and a horse market to sell my stock.' His face was flushed and his voice unsteady.

  'What ails you?' the guard asked suspiciously. 'You may not enter the city if you bear any contagion.'

  Wordlessly, Conan let his cloak fall, exposing the raw and angry cut which festered upon his shoulder. Fierce streaks of red and black radiated from the puckered, swollen wound, and it seeped an unhealthy fluid.

  'Mitra!' swore the guard. 'You need a leech, man, else you'll lose that arm, if not your life. Leave your beasts here the nonce, I'll give you a receipt for them, then get you to the house of Doctor Romallo. It is but two streets distant.'

  It galled Conan to have to seek the aid of a leech. In normal times he preferred to let his body heal itself. On the few occasions that he had sought such professional services, it had been to have a bad wound stitched. He harbored a suspicion that leeches did far more harm than good. This time, though, he knew he had no choice.

  An oversized bleeding knife over the entrance proclaimed the house of Romallo. Conan pounded on the door and an elderly, bearded man opened it. 'You desire treatment?' he asked.

  'I need something, by Crom!' Conan said, baring his wound once more.

  'Hmm. A most interesting injury. Come in, young man, and we'll see what's to be done.' The leech's house was full of strange objects. Stuffed beasts dangled on cords from the rafters, and vaguely obscene marine creatures were preserved in jars of spirits. Instruments of bronze and glass abounded, and the air smelled of herbs. Strange as the place was, Conan at least felt no sorcery here. The leech directed him to a bench near a window, and Conan sat, bearing his pain in stoic silence as the man poked and prodded.

  'I can lance and clean this wound,' the leech announced at last, 'bind it with a stitch or two, and put a healing poultice on it, but I fear that these things might not prove to be sufficient.'

  'Why not?' Conan groused. 'Is that not your art?'

  'It is. However, this infection is not of natural origin. I can tell by the tone of your flesh how rugged is your constitution, and such a gash as this should not be causing you such agony.'

  'True,' Conan agreed, 'I've been wounded far worse without trouble.

  Have I been wounded with an envenomed weapon?'

  'No, in that case the characteristics of the inflammation would be quite different. I think you lie under the influence of some baleful spell, and I can only wonder that it has not killed you long since.'

  Chills ran through Conan's powerful frame, chills that were not part of his fever. Who had cursed him? And what was protecting him? Then he understood. In spite of his ills, he began to laugh.

  'Odd time for mirth,' the leech said, frowning.

  'I've just realised that I'm paying for my own greed. Do what you can, and leave the rest to me. I'll need a moneychanger when you are through.'

  Mystified, the leech set to his task. Despite his pain, Conan wore a grim smile. How subtle was his enemy! Not content merely to set five killers on his trail, the man had paid them with cursed money, knowing that should Conan survive the attack, he would surely take their gold and doom himself.

  What had protected him? From beneath his tunic he fished the talisman the ancient Khitan had given him. He was not sure, but the colour seemed subtly altered. In stony silence he sat enduring the doctor's painful ministrations. More and more he felt like the playing-piece of the game board of a god the old Khitan had spoken of.

  By the time he had exchanged the unclean gold for other money and sold the five horses, the day was almost over. Conan stabled his mount and, exhausted, collapsed into a bed at an inn. His wound was less virulent, but he was still in a weakened condition. He knew that he would have to wait for several days in Belverus until his full strength returned.

  The delay did not fret him. After all, he would still be able to reach Ben Morgh by the equinox. It was a mission he had undertaken, not a race.

  The waterfront tavern was filled with voices speaking boisterously in many languages. Most of one wall was open, revealing the serried masts crowding the great harbour of Messantia. Through the huge window blew a salt-scented offshore breeze, causing the torches to flicker.

  Messantia sprawled along the mouth of the Khorotas River, where it joined the Western Sea. It lay on the Zingaran side of the river, but it was as international as most seaports. The fact that Argos claimed this piece of land concerned the inhabitants not at all. Hemmed in by the bulk of the Rabirian Mountains to the north and the river to the south, the bulk of the city lay on a wide floodplain that constituted a minor nation in itself. At any given time, at least half the population was transient, consisting mainly of sailors from the multitude of nations and islands that drew a living from the sea.

  The occupants of the tavern were a cross-section of the maritime life of the area: besides the local Zingarans and Argossians, there were Shemites with hooked noses and curling beards; quiet Stygians, who wore black silk; sinister Barachans, whose belts were festooned with the daggers and short swords favoured for combat at sea. One table held a party of Kushites, feathers woven into their elaborate hairdos, their black skins glossy with the
scented palm oil which they prized. Two red-haired Vanir seamen had already passed out in a corner. The torchlight glittered on earrings, nose rings, and other ornaments favoured by seagoing men.

  On a small platform in the centre of the room a Zamoran girl was performing one of the lascivious dances of her nation to the music of a flute and a tabour. Her clothing consisted of a great many bangles and a

  single small veil. Many of the sailors clapped in time to the music and shouted their appreciation of her performance.

  'I had thought,' Gopal said, 'that we had reached the nadir of civilisation in Khorshemish. I see now that it was the epitome of culture compared to this place.' The young man and his uncle sat at a tiny table as near as they could get to the window.

  'You must enjoy this cosmopolitan atmosphere while you can, nephew,' said Jaganath with his usual complacent smile. 'Where we are going, there has never even been a word for civilisation. After all, there are booksellers in this town. There are some scholars of small repute and even a few second-rate sorcerers. Our destination is a howling wilderness of barbarians and savages as primitive as those Kushites over there.'

  'The very thought fills me with dismay,' Gopal said. He took a sip of the wine which he had watered heavily. A platter of spicy meats wrapped in vine leaves lay before them, but the tedious, inactive journey by barge down the river had left him with little appetite.

  'If you would be a mage,' said Jaganath, 'you must tread some very strange paths indeed. No man who quails at hardship or danger can succeed in the quest for knowledge and power.' He picked up a tidbit and popped it into his mouth. 'At least their cooking is tolerable here. A port like this affords access to spices of variety and high quality.' Like most Vendhyans of high caste, Jaganath and Gopal ate meat but rarely, and then only in small quantities, highly spiced.

  A newcomer entered the tavern and scanned the room for a moment.

  Spotting the two Vendhyans, he crossed to their table. His boots and short tarry breeks identified him as a seaman, and his arrogant stride bespoke authority. His features were scarred and badly pockmarked, but they bore an aristocratic cast. Jaganath quickly typed him as the scion of decayed Zingaran nobility.

  'You are the two who seek passage northward?' asked the newcomer.

  'We are,' said Jaganath. 'Please join us.'

  The man sat and poured himself a cup of wine from the pitcher on the table. He ignored the pitcher of water that stood beside it. After draining the cup he refilled it and picked up a handful of the stuffed vine leaves. He

  stuffed three into his mouth and said around the mouthful: 'I am Kasavo, from the Barachan Isles, captain of the Songbird. I heard on the wharf today that two Vendhyans sought passage north, and that they were to be contacted here at the Sailor's Delight.'

  'We must travel in haste to Vanaheim,' Jaganath said. 'Do you go so far north?'

  Kasavo laughed. 'To Vanaheim? Nobody sails that far from here. In any case, it is late in the year to be travelling north. I can take you to Kordava, the last civilised port before the Pictish Wilderness. From there, if luck is with you, you may find a Vanir merchant who has stayed until the very end of the season, braving the storms for the sake of picking up late-season goods at bargain prices. I warn you, though, that a northern passage at this time of year can be very dangerous. Best to winter in Kordava. It is a very wicked port. Most diverting.' He grinned and toyed nervously with a large, fiery, teardrop-shaped ruby that dangled from his earlobe on a short chain.

  'I do not fear storms,' Jaganath said. 'When do you sail?'

  'With the morning tide, about an hour after sunrise to take advantage of the inland winds. Have your belongings aboard by sunrise. I have a cabin you can use. There is the matter of payment for your passage.'

  Jaganath waved a pudgy hand in dismissal. 'We can settle that during the voyage. I have abundant funds.'

  The man's eyes sparkled for a moment with greed, which he tried to cover with a feigned curiosity. 'Why do you wish to go to a place like Vanaheim? From the look of you, you've little love for cold climes.'

  'We are scholars,' Jaganath told him. 'I am writing a book about far lands for the king of Vendhya.'

  'Vanaheim should satisfy you, then,' Kasavo assured him. 'It is about as far as you can go. You are with the court of Vendhya, then?'

  'Yes. While not a true ambassador, I have a certain semi-official standing and I bear gifts from my liege to the great men of that land. He wishes to establish cordial relations with all nations, however remote.'

  Once again, at the mention of gifts, Kasavo's eyes glittered. As always

  when dealing with outsiders, Gopal remained silent and kept his ears open, ready to back his uncle's story.

  'Then I shall expect you at sunrise tomorrow. I must return to my ship now, and I'll have my men prepare your quarters. The Songbird lies alongside the Lesser Wharf. Her hull is painted red, with green eyes at the prow, just above the waterline.' He drained his cup and left, not weaving despite the considerable amount of wine he had drunk in so short a time.

  'Unless I am much mistaken, uncle,' Gopal said when the man was gone, 'this fellow is no more than a common pirate. Did you see the way his face changed at every mention of gain to be had?'

  'Exactly. And these Barachan Isles of which he speaks form a notorious nest of cutthroats, so I am told. That is why I stressed that we travel with valuable goods. Several masters have already told us that they will not sail north at this time of year, but a pirate will take on passengers of wealth, to rob or to hold for ransom.'

  'Surely, uncle, they will seek to murder us and give our bodies to the sea gods?'

  Jaganath smiled broadly and picked up another snack. 'Are you not happy, Gopal, that our voyage north shall not be as dull as our barge journey hither?'

  Despite her lyrical name, the Songbird had the predatory lines of a shark. Low, lean, and sleek, she was built for speed, with a shallow draft and sides that rose no more than two cubits from the waterline. She had no capacious hold for transporting bulk cargoes, and the men working or idling on her deck were far more numerous than would ever be needed to sail her. They wore few clothes and many weapons. The single mast bore a long, slanting yard which would support an enormous lateen sail. With that sail spread in a following wind she would speedily overtake any vessel built for utility, say, a fat, lumbering merchantman. Along her sides were tholes for a dozen long oars, handy for working into position around a crippled victim or rowing up shallow creeks and rivers to raid or unload contraband.

  Jaganath was most pleased with what he saw. They would be able to make good time in this vessel. He took a deep breath and enjoyed the multitudinous smells of the waterfront. From the hold of one ship rose the aroma of sweet spices, from another the reek of the slaver. Over all were the odors of tarred cordage and the sea. The timbers beneath his feet creaked as the wharf shifted to the receding tide.

  Jaganath turned to the porters who stood behind them. 'Take our belongings aboard that ship,' he said, pointing to the Songbird. The men looked at the ship, looked back at him in amazement, shrugged, and shouldered the few chests and bales. Precariously, they made their way down the steeply pitched gangplank to the deck.

  Kasavo emerged from a tent set on the fantail and grinned up at them.

  'Come aboard, my friends. Your cabin is ready and the tide is running.'

  His tone was faintly mocking and his men looked up from their work or their idling and grinned as well. Gopal negotiated the gangplank with effortless grace and Jaganath descended with magisterial dignity and an astonishing sense of balance for so fat a man.

  'Haul in the gangplank and cast off!' Kasavo bellowed. 'We sail!' The porters scrambled back up the plank and cast the mooring lines loose from their bollards. The ship began to drift away from the pier and men clambered aloft to begin loosing the great sail.

  Satisfied that preparations were well started, Kasavo turned to his passengers. 'Come, let me show you your cabin. I moved out tw
o of my mates to make room for you. No matter, they can bed down on the deck with the rest. The weather should be fair for this voyage.'

  'You are most kind,' said Jaganath. Their 'cabin' turned out to be little more than a lean-to set up near the stern, with a thatched roof and canvas sides. The interior was barely adequate to accommodate both men and their belongings.

  'It will be a bit cramped,' Kasavo said with mock apology. 'If you wish, we can store some of your belongings in the hold, where they will be out of your way.'

  'We shall keep them here,' Jaganath said. 'From what I can see, you have little enough cargo space as it is.'

  'Yes, this is not a bulk carrier. As you have noticed, the Songbird is built to transport small luxury cargoes. Spices, for instance. Speed is of the essence when transporting spices. From the time they are picked and

  dried they begin to deteriorate. A fast ship like this can get them to the market early in the season and turn a good profit.'

  'Say you so?' said Jaganath, feigning both credulity and interest. As if a westerner could teach a learned Vendhyan anything about the spice trade. 'Is condition more important than bulk?'

  'Very much so,' said Kasavo, enjoying the sport of taking in an ignorant foreigner. 'The spice merchants of the North will pay far more for a chest of spices still fresh than for one spoiled by weeks at sea.'

  'Yet I smell no spices aboard,' Jaganath said in seeming puzzlement.

  'The spice season is over,' Kasavo assured him smoothly. 'Now we sail to Kordava in ballast, there to take on a cargo of fine glassware for shipment south. That is another low-volume, high-profit cargo. The black nobles of the southern coasts pay handsomely for it in ivory and fine skins and feathers.'