The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  'Fool!' Albanus thundered. 'You fired the kiln! Have I not commanded you to do nothing here without my leave?'

  'The figure is ready,' Stephano protested. 'It must be put in the kiln today, or it will crack rather than harden. Last night I-'

  'Did you not hear my command that you were never to handle fire within this room? Think you I light these lamps with my own hands for the joy of doing a slave's work?'

  'If the oils in that clay are so flammable,' the sculptor muttered sullenly, 'how can it stand being placed-'

  'Be silent.' The words were a soft hiss. Albanus' obsidian gaze clove Stephano's tongue to the roof of his mouth and rooted him to the spot its if it were a spike driven through him.

  Disdainfully Albanus turned his back. Deftly he set out three small vials, a strip of parchment and a quill pen. Opening the first vial-it held a small quantity of Garian's blood, with the admixture of tinctures to keep it liquid-he dipped the pen and neatly wrote the King's name across the parchment. A sprinkling of powder from the second vial, and instantly the blood blackened and dried. The last container held Albanus' own blood, drawn only that morning. With that he wrote his own name in larger script, overlaying that of Garian. Again the powder dried the blood.

  Next, murmuring incantations, Albanus folded the parchment strip in a precise pattern. Then he returned to the platform and placed the parchment into the open mouth of the clay figure.

  Stephano, leaning now against the wall, giggled inanely. 'I wondered why you wanted the mouth like that.' At a look from Albanus he swallowed heavily and bit his tongue.

  Producing chalks smuggled from Stygia, land of sorcerers far to the south, Albanus scribed an incomplete pentagram around the feet of the figure, star within pentagon within circle. Foul black candles went on the points where each broken shape touched the other two. Then, quickly, each candle was lit, the pentagram completed. He stepped back, arms spread wide, uttering the words of conjuring.

  'Elonai me'rotb sancti, Urd'vass teoheem.... '

  The words of power rolled from his tongue, and the air seemed to thicken in silver shimmers. The flames of the unholy candles flared, sparking a seed of fear in the dark lord's mind. The flames. It could not happen again as last time. It could not. He banished the fear by main force. There could be no fear now, only power.

  '... arallain Sa'm'di com'iel mort'rass.... '

  The flames grew, but as they grew the room dimmed, as if they took light rather than gave it. Higher they flared, driven by the force of the dark lord's chant, overtowering the clay figure. Slowly, as though bent by some impossible and unfelt wind, the silent flames bent inward until the points of fire met above. From that meeting a bolt, as of lightning, struck down to the head of the statue, bathing it in glow unending, surrounding it in a haloed fire of the purest white that sucked all heat from the air.

  Frost misting his breath, Albanus forced his voice to a roar. 'By the Unholy Powers of Three, l conjure thee! By blood and sweat and seed vilified and attainted, I conjure thee! Arise, walk and obey, for I, Albanus, conjure thee!'

  As the last syllable left his mouth the flames were gone, leaving no trace of the candles behind. The figure stood, but now it was dried and cracked.

  Albanus rubbed his hands together, and put them beneath his arms for warmth. If only it had all gone correctly this time. He glanced at Stephano, shivering against a wall that glinted from the myriad ice droplets that had coalesced from the air. Terror made the sculptor's eyes bulge. There was no point in delaying further. The hawk-faced man drew a deep breath.

  'I command you, Garian, awake!' A piece of clay dropped from one arm to shatter on the stone.

  Albanus frowned. 'Garian, I command you awake!'

  The entire figure trembled; then crumbling, powdering clay was spilling to the platform. And what the figure had moulded, stood there, breathing and alive. A perfect duplicate of Garian, without blemish or fault. The simulacrum brushed dust from its shoulder, then stopped, eyeing Albanus quizzically.

  'Who are you?' it said.

  'I am Albanus,' the dark lord replied. 'Know you who you are?'

  'Of course. I am Garian, King of Nemedia.'

  Albanus' smile was purest evil. 'To your knees, Garian,' he said softly. Unperturbed, the replica sank to its knees. Despite himself Albanus laughed, and the commands poured out for the sheer joy of seeing the image of the King obey. 'Face to the floor! Grovel! Now up! Run in place! Faster! Faster!' The duplicate King ran. And ran.

  Tears rolled down Albanus' cheeks, but his laughter faded as his eye lit on Stephano. Slowly the sculptor pushed himself erect from his crouch. Uncertainty and fear chased each other across his face.

  'Be still, Garian,' Albanus commanded, not loosing Stephano's gaze from his own. The simulacrum ceased running and stood quietly, breathing easily.

  Stephano swallowed hard. 'My... my work is done. I'll go now.' He turned toward the door, flinching to a halt at the whipcrack of Albanus' voice.

  'Your gold, Stephano. Surely you're not forgotten that.' From beneath his tunic Albanus produced a short, thick cylinder, tightly wrapped in leather. He hefted it on his palm. 'Fifty gold marks.'

  Cupidity warred with fear on Stephano's countenance. He licked his lips hesitantly. 'The sum mentioned was a thousand.'

  'I am unclothed,' the simulacrum said suddenly.

  'Of course,' Albanus said, seeming to answer them both.

  From the floor he picked up a length of filthy rag that Stephano had used while sculpting, and with it carefully scrubbed away part of the pentagram. Many things, he knew, could happen to one attempting to enter a closed pentagram charged with magicks, and each was more horrible that the last. Stepping up onto the platform, he handed the rag to the simulacrum, which wrapped the cloth about its waist.

  'This is but a first payment, Stephano,' Albanus went on. 'The rest will come to you later.' He thrust the leatherwrapped cylinder into the simulacrum's hand. 'Give this to Stephano.' Leaning closer, he added whispered words.

  Stephano shifted uneasily as the image of the King stepped down from the platform.

  'So many times,' Albanus murmured, 'have I been forced to endure the babble that spills from your mouth.'

  The sculptor's eyes narrowed, darting from Albanus to the approaching figure, and he broke for the door.

  With inhuman speed the simulacrum hurled itself forward. Before Stephano had gone a single step it was on him, a hand with the strength of stone seizing his throat. A scream tore from him as obdurate fingers dug into the muscles on either side of his jaw, forcing his mouth open. Futilely Stephano clawed at the hand that held him; his fingers might as well have scraped at hardened leather. With that single hand, as if the sculptor were but a child, the replica forced him to his knees. Too late Stephano saw the cylinder descending toward his mouth, and understood Albanus' words. Desperately he clutched the approaching wrist, but he could as easily have slowed a catapult's arm. Remorseless, the construct forced the gold deeper, and yet deeper, into the sculptor's mouth.

  Choking rasps came from Stephano's throat as the simulacrum of Garian dropped him. Eyes staring from his head, face empurpling, the sculptor clawed helplessly at his throat. His back arched in his struggles till naught but head and drumming heels touched the floor.

  Albanus watched the death throes dispassionately, and when the last twitching foot had stilled, he said softly, 'Nine hundred fifty more will go with you to your unmarked grave. What I promise, I give.' His shoulders shook with silent mirth. When the spasm had passed, he turned briskly to the likeness of Garian, still standing impassively over the body. 'As for you, there is much to learn and little time.

  Tonight....'

  XVII

  Ariane sat despondently, staring at nothing. Around her the common room of the Thestis murmured with intrigue. No musicians played, and men and women whispered as they huddled together over their tables.

  Reaching a decision, Ariane got to her feet and made her way through the table
s to Graecus.

  'I must talk to you, Graecus,' she said quietly. That deathly silence had contaminated her also.

  'Later,' the stocky sculptor muttered without looking at her. To the others at his table he went on in a low, insistent voice. 'I tell you, it matters not if Taras is dead. I know where the weapons are stored. In half a day I-'

  Ariane felt some of her old fire rekindle. 'Graecus!' In that room of whispers the sharp word sounded like a shout. Everyone at the table stared at her. 'Has it not occurred to you,' she continued, 'that perhaps we are being betrayed?'

  'Conan,' Graecus began, but she cut him off.

  'Not Conan.'

  'He killed Taras,' a plump, pale-skinned brunette said. 'You saw that yourself. And he's taken Garian's coin openly, now.'

  'Yes, Gallia,' Ariane said patiently. 'But if Conan had betrayed us, would not the Golden Leopards arrest us?' Silent stares answered her. 'He has not betrayed us. Mayhap he spoke the truth about Taras.

  Perhaps there are no armed men waiting for us to lead the people into the streets. Perhaps we'll find we are no more than a stalking horse for some other's plan.'

  'By Erlik's Throne,' Graecus grumbled, 'you speak rubbish, Ariane.'

  'Perhaps I do,' she sighed wearily, 'but at least discuss it with me. Resolve my doubts, if you can. Do you truly have none at all?'

  'Take your doubts back to your corner,' Graecus told her. 'While you sit doubting, we will pull Garian from his throne.'

  Gallia sniffed loudly. 'What can you expect from one who spends so much time with that one-eyed ruffian?'

  'Thank you, Gallia,' Ariane said. She smiled for the first time since entering the room where Conan stood above Taras' body, and left the table to get her cloak. Graecus and the others stared at her as if she were mad.

  Hordo was the answer to her problem, she realised. Not as one to talk to, of course. An she mentioned her doubts to him, he would gruffly tell her that Conan betrayed no one. Then he would pinch her bottom and try to inveigle his way into her bed. He had done all of those things already. But he had visited her earlier that afternoon, and had told her that Stephano lived, and was at the palace of Lord Albanus. The sculptor had had a good mind and a facile tongue before his jealousy of Conan soured him. Either he would dispel her doubts, convincing her of the big Cimmerian's guilt, or, convinced himself he would return with her to the Thestis to help her convince the rest. She wrapped her cloak about her and hurried into the street.

  When she reached the Street of Regrets she began to rue her decision to leave the Thestis. That street, always alive with flash and tawdry glitter, lay bare to the wind that rolled pitiful remnants across the paving stones. A juggler's particolored cap. A silken scarf, soiled and torn. In the distance a dog howled, the sound echoing down other empty streets. Shivering, though not from the wind, Ariane quickened her pace.

  By the time she reached Albanus' palace, she was running, though nothing pursued her but emptiness.

  Panting, she fell against the gate, her small fist pounding on the iron-bound planks. 'Let me in!'

  A suspicious eye regarded her through a small opening in the gate, swiveling both ways to see if she was accompanied.

  'Mitra's mercy, let me in!'

  The bars rattled aside, and the guard opened a crack barely wide enough for her to slip through.

  Before she had taken a full step inside an arm seized her about the waist, swinging her into the air with crude laughter. She gasped as a hand squeezed her buttock roughly, and she looked down into a narrow face. The nose had the tip gone.

  'A fine bit,' he laughed. 'Enough to keep us all warm, even in this wind.' His half-score companions added their jocularity to his.

  The mirth drained from his face as he felt the point of her short dagger prick him under the ear. 'I am the Lady Ariane Pandarian,' she hissed coldly. Mitra, how long had it been since she had used that name?

  'An Lord Albanus leaves anything of you, I've no doubt my father will tend to the rest.'

  His hands left her as though scalded; her feet thumped to the ground. 'Your pardon, my lady,' he stammered. The rest stared with mouths open. 'All honour to you. I did not mean....'

  'I will find my own way,' she announced haughtily, and swept away while he was still attempting to fit together an apology.

  Arrogance, she decided as she made her way up the flagstone walk, was her only hope, arriving at a lord's palace without servants or guards. When one of the great carven doors was opened by a grey-bearded man with chamberlain's seal on his tunic, her large hazel eyes were adamantine.

  'I am the Lady Ariane Pandarian,' she announced. 'Show me to the sculptor, Stephano Melliarus.'

  His jaw dropped, and he peered vaguely past her down the walls as if seeking her retinue. 'Forgive me...

  my lady... but I... know no man named Stephano.'

  Brusquely she pushed by him into the columned entry-hall. 'Show me to Lord Albanus,' she commanded. Inside she quivered. Suppose Conan had been mistaken. What if Stephano were not there?

  Yet the thought of returning to those barren streets spurred her on.

  The chamberlain's mouth worked, beard waggling, then he said faintly, 'Follow me, please,' adding, 'my lady,' as an afterthought.

  The room in which he left her, while going 'to inform Lord Albanus' of her presence, was spacious. The tapestries were brightly coloured; flickering golden lamps cast a cheery glow after the gloom of the streets.

  But the pleasant surroundings did naught to stem her growing apprehension. What if she was seeking one who was not there, making a fool of herself before this lord who was a stranger to her? Bit by bit, her facade of arrogance melted. When Lord Albanus entered, the last vestiges of it were swept away by his stern gaze.

  'You seek a man called Stephano,' the hard-faced man said without preamble. 'Why do you think he is here?'

  She found herself wanting to wring her hands and instead clutched them tightly in her cloak, but she could not stop the torrent of words and worries. 'I must talk to him. No one else will talk with me, and Taras is dead, and Conan says we are being betrayed, and....' She managed a deep, shuddering breath. 'Forgive me, Lord Albanus. If Stephano is not here, I will go.'

  Albanus' dark eyes had widened as she spoke. Now, he fumbled in a pouch at his belt, saying, 'Wait.

  Have you ever seen the like of this?'

  His fingers brought out a gemstone of almost fiery white; he muttered words she could not hear as he thrust it at her.

  Despite herself, her eyes were drawn to the gem as iron to lodestone. Suddenly a pale beam sprang from the stone, bathing her face. Her breath came out in a grunt, as if she had been struck. Panic filled her. She must run. But all she could do was tremble, dancing helpless in that one spot as whiteness blotted out all her vision. Run, she screamed in the depths of her mind. Why, came the question. Panic dissolved. Will dissolved. The beam winked out, and she stood, breathing calmly, looking into the pale stone, now more fiery seeming than before.

  ''Tis done,' she heard Albanus murmur, 'but how well?' In a louder voice he said, 'Remove your garments, girl.'

  Some tiny corner of her being brought a flush to her cheek, but to the rest it seemed a reasonable command. Swiftly she dropped her cloak, undid the brooches that held her robes. They fell in a welter about her feet, and she stood, hands curled delicately on her rounded thighs, one knee slightly bent, waiting.

  Albanus eyed her curved nudity and smiled mirthlessly. 'If you obey that command so readily, you'll tell the truth an you die for it. Taras, girl. Is he in truth dead? How did he die?'

  'Conan slew him,' she replied calmly.

  'Erlik take that accursed barbar!' the dark lord snarled. 'No wonder Vegentius could not find Taras.

  And how am I to send orders....' His scowl lessened; he peered at her thoughtfully. 'You are one of those foolish children who prate of rebellion at the Sign of Thestis, aren't you?'

  Her answer was hesitant. 'I am.' His words seemed in some way
wrong, yet the irritation was dimly felt and distant.

  Albanus' fingers gripped her chin, lifting her head, and though they dug painfully into her cheeks she knew no urge to resist. Her large eyes met his obsidian gaze openly.

  'When I wish the streets to fill with howling mobs,' he said softly, 'you will carry my words to the Thestis, saying exactly what I command and no more.'

  'I will,' she said. Like the bite of a gnat, something called her to struggle, then faded.

  He nodded. 'Good. This Conan, now. What did he say to you of betrayal?'

  'That Taras hired no armed men to aid us. That another used us for his own purposes.'

  'Did he name this other?' Albanus asked sharply.

  She shook her head, feeling tired of talking, wanting to sleep.

  'No matter,' Albanus muttered. 'I underestimated the barbar. He becomes more dangerous with every turn of the glass. Varius! A messenger to go to Commander Vegentius! Quickly, if you value your hide!

  Stand up straight, girl.'

  Ariane straightened obediently, and watched Albanus scribble a message on parchment. She wished only to sleep, but knew she could not until her master permitted. She accepted his will completely now; even the tiny pinpricks of resistance fled.

  XVIII

  As the deep tone of a bronze gong sounded the first turn of the glass past full sundown, Conan uncoiled smoothly from his bed in the darkness of his room. Already he was prepared for his night's venture, in bare feet and tunic with a dagger at his belt. Sword and armour would hamper where he went.

  On silent feet he moved to the window, climbed onto the stone lip, and twisted with catlike grace to find places for his fingers above. It was not a natural thing for men to look up, even when searching.

  Therefore the best way to go unobserved was to travel high. Scudding purple clouds crossed a gibbous moon, casting shadows that walked and danced. Conan became one with the shadows.