The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  Abruptly, his wishes were granted as Conan seemed to overextend himself. A hard horizontal slash glanced from Gulbanda's guard and swung wide, leaving the barbarian's torso open to a thrust. As the bodyguard lunged forward to transfix the Cimmerian on his point, Conan's sword reversed itself with impossible speed. The barbarian's blade struck the hilt and the fist that gripped it, tearing the sword and two fingers from Gulbanda's hand on a flying ribbon of blood. The warrior fell back against the wall with a howl of animal agony, clutching his mangled hand and tangling himself in the drapery. With feline suppleness Conan spun about to face his second foe.

  The man in the green cowl stood weaponless beside his chair. His right hand made a sudden throwing motion and something tinkled against the mail over Conan's chest. The barbarian recoiled.

  He looked down and saw that there was moisture shining on his breast and broken slivers of glass glittering upon the floor. A wave of dizziness swept through his frame and a sharp, sweet odor filled his nostrils. Conan took a staggering step forward, raising a sword grown almost too heavy to hold. His foe had become an emerald blur.

  'Damn you,' he whispered through lips gone numb. The earth tilted violently beneath his feet, and he never felt himself hit the floor.

  III

  Shamtare sat in the corner of a bar he didn't know and drank wine without tasting it. He stared into his chipped ceramic mug, taking no notice of those around him. The mercenary had walked into the first tavern he had found, sat down, and commenced drinking in earnest. Since then his fear had faded, replaced by a searing shame.

  Shamtare the Shemite had been a mercenary for almost twenty-five years and feared no combatant who would confront him with muscle and steel.

  He had seen violence aplenty in more battles than he could remember.

  But ever since he had watched half his troop.swallowed screaming by a black cloud conjured up by a Zuagir shaman, Shamtare had no love of sorcery. It was unnatural, unmanly, and it turned his bones to water.

  The mercenary took another deep pull at his wine, feeling a little less than manly himself.

  'Ho, white brother.' A dark figure sat at his table, pulling up a chair and leaning forward confidentially. Shamtare blinked, setting his cup down. The newcomer was a slim Kushite in the brightly decorated armour of the mercenary company of Atlach the Mace. A thick cluster of fat braids was bound behind his head. Crimson-dyed ostrich feathers were woven into the shoulders of his white cloak.

  'Have you looked about yourself, friend?' The black's voice was deep and vaguely amused. 'This tavern is frequented by those riding for Atlach the Mace. Do you see anyone from Mamluke's outfit except yourself?'

  Shamtare took in his surroundings for the first time. His stomach clenched.

  'Indeed,' continued his new companion, 'do you see anyone of your colour at all?' He waited for the Shemite to shake his head in response. 'Now, all's the same to me. We fight for the same king, and against the same enemies, yet there are those who see all freelance troops as rivals. In fact, some of the men here are of such a mind. Thus far only your graying hair has kept you from being accosted by these characters. Be wise, white brother, and take your thirst elsewhere.'

  Shamtare stood, touched his brow in a salute, and headed for the door.

  The night breeze was cool along the dim street. He walked to the corner and found himself looking for a tall barbarian among the passersby. He could stand no more. Setting his teeth, Shamtare walked back to the tavern in which he had met Conan the Cimmerian. He thrust thoughts of the green-clad man from his mind as he strode in the door.

  The tavern was quieter now, as the dinner hour was past and the greater revels of the evening were yet to commence. The roast pig was gone from its table, and many of the torches had been allowed to burn low. The gamblers in the corner were still busy, but now they wagered in softer, more earnest tones. Shamtare saw no sign of the barbarian. He hailed the barkeep.

  'Good evening. Might I have a word with you?'

  'If you don't dally about it. I've a tavern to run.' The barkeep mopped at his balding pate with a greasy rag. A tattered yellow beard could not obscure his sagging jowls and sour expression.

  'There was a tall, black-haired barbarian in here earlier. Did you see him leave?'

  'I saw no barbarian. It's bad business to carry tales about customers.'

  The barkeep turned as if to walk away from Shamtare, but the mercenary's hand fell upon his shoulder and arrested his progress.

  'A moment more,' said Shamtare quietly. 'What is that room in the back for?'

  'Private parties for paying customers. Take your hand off me.'

  'Who paid for its use tonight?'

  'Take your hand off me, mercenary, or I'll tell my sons to call the city guard.' Shamtare's hand dropped away from the barkeep's shoulder and fell upon the hilt of his sword.

  'I don't know the man's name,' continued the barkeep hastily. 'I just know that he has had his way in this part of the city for almost three moons. He is said to be a wizard, and his gold is good. These are reasons enough for me to rent him the room and leave him in peace.'

  Shamtare turned from the barkeep and made his way to the rear of the tavern. His sword whispered from its sheath as he hit the door to the back room. He almost tripped over a fallen chair that lay just within.

  Three brightly lit candelabra were set upon the room's central table.

  Their warm glow revealed an empty chamber.

  Dark blood shone wetly on the carpet, and more spattered the woven curtains. The point of Shamtare's sword lowered to the floor. He made his way quickly across the room, to where the drapes hung awry behind the high-backed chair. A door was concealed there, obscured by the curtains. It swung open at his touch, revealing a black alley, choked with stinking refuse. Shamtare thrust his head into the dark passage, looked about, and swore foully.

  'Lose your barbarian friend?' The barkeep had followed him into the chamber. His voice was not unsympathetic. 'It wouldn't be the first time that someone had audience with the Green Man and wasn't seen again. I won't even let the serving girls come back here anymore. It is said that the Green Man wishes to become King Sumuabi's new mage and will let nothing stand between himself and his goal. I'm sorry about your friend. A wise man doesn't trifle with sorcery.'

  'I know that,' said Shamtare.

  'Come, there is nothing to be done now. Perhaps the Green Man hasn't slain him. I'll buy you a mug of wine.'

  'Damn.' Shamtare sheathed his sword.

  'That's better,' said the barkeep. 'Was the barbarian an old friend of yours?'

  'No, a new friend who'll never get to be an old one.'

  'Forget him, then. His turn today, our turn tomorrow. Come on.'

  The stout mercenary followed the barkeep from the back room to the bar.

  He took a seat and accepted the man's offer of a mug of wine. Shamtare recognised the vintage as one of the best out of Ghaza, yet it seemed, at that moment, strangely bitter.

  IV

  The first thing that Conan became aware of was a sultry breeze smelling of moist earth. He blinked and a vortex of nausea roiled in his guts.

  He was seated in a heavily built steel chair. Metal bands held his ankles, calves, wrists, and belly tightly in place. Slouched forward, his head hanging, Conan focused his bleary eyes and saw that the chair was bolted to the chamber's glossy marble floor. He had vague memories, little more than disjointed impressions, of being dragged along a noisome alleyway before being tossed bodily into a wagon full of damp straw.

  A gust of warm air stirred his hair, and he raised his head with ponderous effort in order to look about. Before him, bronze-bound double doors of glass opened out into the night, revealing a shadowed garden that sloped down and away. Beyond, through a screen of trees, the lights of Akkharia lay spread out like spilled gems on an ebony table. There was no moon, but the stars told him that it was almost midnight.

  'Awake, dog?' There were footfalls behind him. It was Gu
lbanda, his right hand bound in a white bandage. He walked a leisurely circle around the helpless Cimmerian, who silently set all of his strength to testing his bonds. The bodyguard saw the powerful muscles of Conan's arms and legs leap out into ridged relief and laughed humorlessly. His dark eyes flashed in the dim room.

  'You cannot break free. Your efforts would be better spent begging me to make your death swift and easy.' Gulbanda drew to a halt in front of the.barbarian and pulled a dagger from its sheath with great deliberation. Conan relaxed, staring straight ahead in stoic silence.

  The bared blade made a silvery flourish before the Cimmerian's expressionless face.

  'Speak.' The dagger came forward until its point indented the skin beneath Conan's right eye. 'You have nothing to say?'

  Gulbanda moved the blade to the barbarian's forearm and lay the cold steel on bronzed skin. 'Why don't you beg your heathen gods for rescue?

  They might answer if you cried out to them loudly enough.'

  The razor-sharp edge drew slowly across flesh and a thin scarlet stream broke free in its wake. Conan bared his teeth in a feral snarl, fixing his eyes upon Gulbanda with such elemental hatred that his tormentor withdrew the knife and took an involuntary step backward.

  'Gulbanda, you are mistreating our guest.' The dagger made a hasty return to its sheath as the warrior retreated to a dark corner of the room.

  'I did him no harm,' he said in a voice thick with frustration.

  'I should hope not,' said the man in the green cowl. 'He has important work to do tonight.' The robed man stood over Conan, inspecting the shallow but painful gash inflicted by his servant. The hood lay in heavy folds about his shoulders, baring his head. He was a black man with sharp, aristocratic features. A high-domed forehead and a strong jaw might have made him handsome, but there was a weathered, weary aspect to his face that belied his obvious youth. The eyes were as rheumy and reddened as those of an old man. The skin of his face appeared to hang on his skull, slack and dull as a mask. Conan noticed a greenish smear beneath his captor's lower lip. Under the barbarian's gaze, he turned away as if ashamed, wiping his mouth on a velvet sleeve.

  'You must learn to show restraint, Gulbanda. This man is a valuable tool. If you treat your tools well, they will serve you well.' The black man turned back to Conan, pulled a lace handkerchief from his robe, and daubed it gently in the blood on the Cimmerian's forearm.

  Folding the cloth with care, he replaced it in his pocket. He gazed down at Conan, his eyes dark wells of fathomless emotion.

  'I am Shakar the Keshanian. Do you know me?'

  'No, but you must be another who seeks to become King Sumuabi's toy mage. What did you do to me?'

  'You have some wit for a barbarian. I broke a glass ball upon your breast. The ball was filled with a weak distillate of the Black Lotus.

  The fumes produce unconsciousness but do no lasting harm. You will feel dizzy and ill for a time, though. I hope that this will not inconvenience you on your mission tonight.'

  Conan spat at Shakar's feet. 'Get your lapdog to run your errands.' He jerked his head toward Gulbanda. 'I'll not serve you.'

  Shakar nodded absently, pressing gloved hands together and turning away from his prisoner. He strode to a low chest of drawers set against one of the marble walls.

  'The priests of Keshia had little liking for me,' he said thoughtfully.

  'They made my life difficult. So before I left that city I stole much knowledge from them. Much knowledge and several precious items to make my life outside Keshan easier. The glass balls are one thing I acquired. These are another.' Shakar arose from the chest and held his hands out to Conan.

  Suspended from each fist was an amulet the size and shape of a hen's egg. They were the colour of tarnished brass and inscribed in black with a single serpentine rune. Instead of a chain, each amulet dangled from a flexible loop of thin golden wire. With a quick motion, Shakar flipped one wire noose over the top of Conan's head and released it.

  The strange pendant fell heavily upon the Cimmerian's breast. The black warlock leaned forward, pulling the barbarian's long hair out from beneath the encircling wire until the metal rested against his flesh.

  'There,' he murmured. 'There.' He stroked the amulet lovingly. Then his eyes narrowed, his lips tightened against his teeth, and he bent over to stare Conan full in the face.

  'Hie Vakallar-Ftagn,' he whispered in a voice like the stirring of dead leaves. Conan went rigid. The wire necklace contracted around his neck until the cold weight of the amulet nestled unpleasantly into the hollow of his throat. A thrill of horror coursed along the barbarian's spine. Shakar stood up straight and grinned in satisfaction. He held the other amulet away from his velvet-clad body.

  'Now you shall do as I require, barbarian. You must do it because your life will be forfeit if you do not. This night you will go to the estate of Lady Zelandra, slay her, and steal for me her silver casket.

  And you shall have it back here by sunrise, thief, or I will speak to your amulet thus.'

  Held at arm's length, Shakar's remaining pendant swung slowly on its necklace of wire. The man in green stared at it and spoke.

  'Hie Vakallar-Nectos.' His voice died and there was an expectant silence. Then the dangling amulet flared with white incandescence and a sharp sizzling sound filled the room. A wave of heat hit Conan's face like the rush of, air from an opened forge. The blaze of light stabbed fiercely at his eyes. For a moment the amulet hung from its wire as a fusing gobbet of nigh-intolerable brilliance; then it fell in a molten stream to spatter brightly on the polished floor. Acrid smoke arose in whorls as the liquid metal gnawed into the marble. It burned out after a long moment, leaving the floor deeply pitted and scarred. A shrill laugh broke from Shakar's lips.

  'O Damballah! An ugly way to die, is it not? If you are not back by sunrise, I speak the words. If you attempt to remove the amulet, it will blaze up of its own accord. If you displease me in any way, I shall speak the words. Do you understand?' Mad triumph trembled in the warlock's voice. In the corner, Gulbanda moved uneasily. 'Let him loose,' Shakar ordered.

  'Master?' Gulbanda hesitated and Shakar spun on him in sudden fury, cloak swirling.

  'Now, fool!' The warrior hastened to Conan's side and bent to his task.

  In a moment the barbarian was free of the steel chair, if not of all bonds. He stretched hugely, bending to chafe his legs where the metal cuffs had cut into his flesh.

  'Do you know the Street of the Seven Roses?' asked the black sorcerer.

  Conan nodded curtly. 'It is where they store the shipments of wine in from Kyros.'

  'That is the warehouse district. Zelandra's mansion is in the residential district at the opposite end of the street. Across the city from the warehouses. It is a respectable area and often patrolled by the city guard.'

  'It has a very high wall,' said Gulbanda coldly. 'A smooth one.' Conan met the bodyguard's eyes with a gaze as bleak and stark as the blade of a stiletto.

  'I want my sword,' he said.

  Shakar nodded. 'Of course. Fetch it, Gulbanda.' For a moment the warrior seemed to pause, then he strode quickly from the room. The black mage looked upon Conan and lifted his gloved hands imploringly.

  'Do you need to see the map again?'

  'No. Do you give me your word that if I bring you the casket, you will remove this thing?' The barbarian touched the amulet about his neck as though it were a sleeping serpent coiled there.

  'I swear it. And if it happens that you do not slay the woman, I shall still free you if you bring me the silver box. I must have it. Do you understand?'

  The Cimmerian showed his teeth in a mirthless grin. 'I understand that well enough.'

  'Another thing, barbarian, do you know of a Shemite named Eldred the Trader?' Shakar watched Conan intently for a reaction and was visibly disappointed by his reply.

  'No. The name means nothing. Another of your rivals seeking position as the king's court wizard?'

  'No. It need not conce
rn you.' At that moment Gulbanda returned, bearing Conan's sword and scabbard.

  He tossed them roughly to the Cimmerian, who snatched them from the air and affixed them to his belt while moving toward the garden window.

  'Remember the amulet. Do not fail me,' called Shakar, but Conan had already stepped into the night and disappeared.

  V

  The great wagon lumbered along the Street of the Seven Roses beneath the overarching darkness of a moonless night. Massively spoked wheels ground on the cobblestones as the driver reined his team around a bend.

  Two huge wooden casks sat ponderously in the wagon's bed, their weight causing the wagon to sag alarmingly. The driver called encouragement to his straining horses and, thus distracted, did not notice the shadow that detached itself from the murk of an alley to furtively sprint across the cobbles and leap up onto the back of the rearmost cask, clinging to it like a cat. The man held himself to the curved surface of the massive barrel with powerful arms as the wagon continued its laborious progress. In the next block a high wall arose on the left side of the street. Seeing it, the man drew himself lithely atop the cask and crouched with his legs drawn up tightly beneath him. He swiftly removed a light leather helmet tucked into his belt at the small of his back and clapped it onto his head.