The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  The trio on the rear deck travelled in silence for some time. Temoten's curious gaze returned repeatedly to Heng Shih, sitting shirtless beside him, his yellow skin gleaming with perspiration.

  'Does your friend speak at all?' the ferryman finally asked Conan, who grinned and stretched like a cat in the sunshine. Heng Shih did not open his eyes.

  'He is a mute, though he speaks to Lady Zelandra with hand-language.'

  'What¦' Temoten paused, then screwed up his courage. 'What manner of man is he?'

  Conan thought that he saw Heng Shih's eyes glimmer beneath slitted lids. 'A Khitan from the distant east.'

  'I have never seen his like. Are all men of that country so big and fat?'

  Now Conan was certain that Heng Shih's eyes drew open a crack. 'Not at all,' said the Cimmerian dryly. 'He is truly exceptional in that regard.'

  Temoten said nothing for a time, clinging to the steering oar and looking off to the hazy outline of the far shore. Conan could sense further questions troubling the ferryman and was not surprised when a few moments later Temoten spoke again.

  'Why are you in such a hurry to cross the Styx, Conan? And why pay me so much to take you? Are you fugitives? Does the Lady Zelandra flee enemies, perhaps?' The words came quickly until Temoten bit them off.

  'Not that it is any of my concern,' he added, shamefaced.

  'Temoten,' said Conan seriously, 'Heng Shih is a Khitan and Khitans are cannibals. They eat the curious.'

  At this Heng Shih opened his eyes and squinted at the barbarian; then he turned to the ferryman. Looking up at him, the Khitan slowly and ominously licked his lips.

  'My apologies, friends,' stammered Temoten.

  The remainder of the crossing was made in silence. Conan napped, a bronzed arm thrown over his eyes, until he was prodded awake by Temoten, who needed help to furl the sail.

  The city of Bel-Phar was even smaller than Aswana. Its waterfront lay somnolently along a raised foundation of mammoth stone blocks. The Stygians were fond of cyclopean architecture; and it was a rare city of Stygia that did not show some evidence of this fondness. The stained and eroded stone docks of Bel-Phar thrust out into the eternally passing Styx. Papyrus boats of all sizes, and even a few luxurious wooden dhows, were moored in clusters about them. The centre of the waterfront appeared to be an open bazaar full of milling people and animals. Temoten wrenched the tiller about, steering his ferry left and to the east.

  'Fewer people around the eastern docks,' he said half to himself.

  'Conan, can you¦'

  But the big Cimmerian was already moving toward the prow of the boat, bending to catch up a long, wooden pole that lay along the starboard gunwale. Heng Shih lifted the pole on the boat's port side and Temoten nodded his disheveled grey head in approval.

  The sun had begun its slow fall to the west and shadows appeared in the white city before them. The rolling Styx had gradually dimmed from transparent blue to a murky violet. The docks hove closer as the ferryman steered his vessel to their eastern extremity.

  Conan and Heng Shih drove their poles against the oncoming dock, slowing their progress and letting the ferry slide smoothly into place beside a worn stair carved into a solid block of stone. Temoten scrambled forward, snatching a looped line and casting it neatly over a bronze stay set in the dock. The man was suddenly very animated.

  'All right, then. Let's move. I've fulfilled my part of the bargain.

  Let's see you off.' He dragged a bulky pack from beneath the canopy and heaved it over a bony shoulder. With his eager assistance, Conan and Heng Shih soon had all their provisions piled upon the dock.

  'We'll have to leave this here and go into the market for camels and water,' said Conan. 'Temoten, will you stay and watch over our belongings?'

  'Stay?' burst out the ferryman incredulously. 'I'm leaving as swiftly as I can push off.'

  'I'll stay,' volunteered Neesa. 'I feel somewhat poorly after the crossing anyway.'

  Lady Zelandra, Conan, and Heng Shih headed down the dock, leaving Neesa perched atop the heap of baggage. Temoten hesitated at the top of the stone stair.

  'Farewell, mistress,' he called hesitantly. 'Farewell, Conan and Heng Shih.' Zelandra turned without breaking stride and waved.

  'A good wind to you,' shouted Conan, raising a hand. Heng Shih did not even look back.

  Bel-Phar's entire waterfront was paved with wide plates of stone.

  Though the buildings were almost identical to those of Aswana, the atmosphere of the city was much more subdued. The quiet warehouses at the base of the dock were soon replaced by open shops and then the central market itself. The market was busy, if not overly crowded; but its customers seemed warier and less outgoing than their counterparts across the Styx. A stable of camels was located shortly, and Lady Zelandra was immediately joined in friendly arguement with its wizened, one-eyed proprietor. Conan, who had been prepared to do the bartering, found himself standing to one side while the sorceress examined the proffered beasts and made derisive comments about each one in turn in fluent Stygian. The little proprietor rose to the occasion, rubbing his hands together with unconcealed delight and chattering pained protests of her harsh judgments. It seemed to Conan that this was set to go on for some time, so he cast his eyes about for a likely tavern.

  Out of the moving throng of the marketplace Neesa came running. There was such urgency in her movements that Conan froze. She stumbled to a halt before him, her bosom rising and falling as she panted.

  'Temoten,' she gasped. 'Stygian soldiers hailed him just as he was casting off. I walked right past them as they came down the dock. They didn't seem angry, but called out that they needed to see his ferryman's seal. Conan, their captain has a kind of bow

  'How many?' said the barbarian in a low voice. His blue eyes kindled with a dangerous light.

  'Five, I think. Six?' She lifted ivory hands helplessly. The Cimmerian pushed past her, stepping swiftly into the crowd. A voice rose behind him.

  'Conan, no!' It was Lady Zelandra. But he was already running heedlessly through the market toward the docks. People either dodged or were thrust from the path of the tall outlander, who leapt over a vegetable cart in his headlong haste. Protesting outcries rang out in his wake but slowed him not at all.

  At the foot of the dock six saddled camels waited restlessly. Out on the dock itself stood six Stygian soldiers of the border patrol, arrayed in grey silk and burnished mail. A pair were at the dock's far end, appraising Temoten's ferry. One of these rubbed a stubbled chin thoughtfully, as if gauging the craft's value. Two other soldiers were closer, bent over and arrogantly rummaging in the pile of provisions on the dock. The last two were closest, accosting Temoten. The taller of this pair wore the gilded gorget of an officer and was berating the ferryman scornfully. A small crossbow hung at the officer's belt. The other was a shirtless hulk of a man who brandished a heavy-bladed sword before Temoten's terrified eyes with sadistic relish.

  Temoten made feeble protests, his lean frame trembling visibly. The tall officer seized the front of the ferryman's scruffy tunic in a mailed fist and jerked him forcibly to his knees. Temoten struggled to rise, and the captain abruptly drove a knee into his unprotected midsection, doubling the ferryman up in agony.

  The officer stepped back and nodded perfunctorily to the shirtless soldier with the naked sword. The executioner flexed the thick muscles of his arms, raised the blade above his head and heard the sound of rapid footfalls behind him.

  A length of silver steel sprang from the centre of his bare breast. It caught the sun, throwing it back into his goggling eyes, then disappeared in a gout of bright blood. As the executioner sank down dying, Conan vaulted the body, whirling his stained broadsword, about his head.

  The officer scrabbled desperately for his belted scimitar as the Cimmerian bore down upon him with terrible swiftness. He drove a booted foot into the captain's belly with lithe savagery, knocking the man from his feet and sending him skidding over the stones to the do
ck's edge.

  The remaining soldiers scarcely had time to perceive the fate of their companions before the barbarian was among them like a wind hot from the mouth of hell. The first of the two men riffling through the heap of baggage managed to turn and get his sword half drawn before being cut down by a blow that split helmet and head. The other soldier among the packs got his blade free and lunged at Conan as the Cimmerian wheeled from his second kill. The Stygian's hasty, vicious thrust was hammered aside with such force that the sword was nearly torn from his grip.

  Conan's return stroke was a blur of speed, bursting his foe's mail at the shoulder, shearing through the collarbone and lodging in the spine.

  The barbarian yanked on the hilt, but found that his blade was stuck fast in the sagging body.

  Seeing his weapon entrapped in the corpse of their comrade, the last two soldiers advanced toward Conan from their position at the dock's end. As they moved to attack him from two sides, the Cimmerian acted.

  Gripping his hilt with both hands, the barbarian hoisted the dead man bodily over his head and hurled him off of his sword with a convulsive heave of his mighty shoulders. The torn corpse flopped on the stone at the soldiers' feet.

  'Come join him in hell,' snarled Conan in Stygian, his eyes aflame with unfettered bloodlust.

  The soldiers were of two minds about this. The stout soldier on the left leapt over the bloody body of his fellow and engaged Conan, while his more gangly companion hesitated a moment before dodging around the combatants and sprinting away down the dock. If the fighter was dismayed by his erstwhile comrade's desertion, he didn't show it. He carried the fight to the barbarian, sending a whistling series of expertly aimed blows at the Cimmerian's head and torso. The strident clangor of steel on steel rang out over the calm river. Their blades flickered and clashed in a dire but elegant dance of death. The Stygian rallied, driving Conan back among the scattered packs with a flurry of skilful cuts and slashes. The heel of the barbarian's boot trod upon the corner of a saddlebag, and he staggered, seeming to lose his balance. His arms shot out to steady himself, and his foe lunged in.

  The stumble was a ruse. Conan abruptly dropped to one knee and brought his blade forward point-first. The Stygian's killing thrust drove him directly onto Conan's sword. The man was transfixed, his own blade passing harmlessly beside the barbarian's head.

  For a suspended instant the tableau held; then the impaled soldier dropped his sword to clatter loudly on the stone, and Conan sensed movement behind him. Wrenching his weapon free of the, falling body, Conan spun about to see the Stygian captain advancing upon him with a small crossbow held cocked in shaking hands.

  'Are you a demon?' choked the ashen-faced officer. 'A bolt from my crossbow will send you back, to hell!'

  As his fingers tightened on the crossbow's trigger, Conan dove headlong to the side, rolling over packs and saddlebags and sliding into a crouch.

  But the captain had not fired. He pointed the crossbow steadily at the Cimmerian's breast. The barbarian's fingers sank into the cool leather of a waterskin. He gripped it, his mind in a split-second debate as to whether he should shield himself with the waterskin or hurl it at his foe.

  'You're damned fast,' said the officer, 'but now

  The Stygian's head shot from his shoulders on a jet of liquid scarlet.

  It sailed through the summer air like a child's thrown ball, falling into the Styx with a hollow splash. The headless body stood in place for a moment, then collapsed bonelessly. Heng Shih stood behind the corpse. Bending ponderously, he wiped his flare-bladed scimitar upon the captain's silken breeches.

  Conan shoved himself to his feet and pointed down the length of the dock with his dripping sword.

  'That one escapes,' he said grimly.

  The gangly soldier who had fled from Conan was now mounted upon one of the camels at the base of the dock. He turned a white face to the men standing among the sprawled bodies of his fallen companions.

  'You are already dead!' he shouted in a shrill voice. 'I will lead the king's men to you no matter where you hide! I'll see you dead!' His voice broke as Conan suddenly advanced down the dock. Wheeling his camel around, the soldier drove the beast forward and away. The ungainly creature broke into a gallop, passing both Lady Zelandra and Neesa upon the waterfront's stone boulevard.

  As the camel and its rider hurtled toward the bazaar, Neesa turned smoothly, watching them go by. With supple grace she pulled the knife from her nape sheath and drew her arm back as though cocking it.

  Conan's lips grew tight as the rider moved swiftly away from the woman.

  Precious seconds fled, and Neesa stood motionless. Then her body uncoiled, sending the knife flying after the Stygian. It struck square between the man's shoulder blades.

  The soldier slouched lifeless over the neck of his mount. The camel slowed to a trot, then a walk, and then stopped altogether. The man's limp body fell to the pavement, where his mount sniffed at it indifferently.

  Temoten was crouched cowering on the carven stone stair. His mouth opened and closed several times before words issued forth.

  'Ishtar, Ashtoreth, Mitra, and Set! I have never seen such things in all my life!' He stared at Conan as though the barbarian had sprouted antlers. 'Where did you learn to fight like that? Who is this woman who can hurl a dagger so? Who in nine hells are you people?'

  Conan cleaned his blade and sheathed it.

  'Be silent, Temoten, else I shall wish I had let the headsman finish his job.'

  'Yes, yes,' sputtered the ferryman. 'I thank you.'

  A small crowd was gathering at the base of the dock. From their midst came Lady Zelandra, her noble face dark with fury. Heng Shih ran a hand over his bald pate and became interested in the setting sun.

  'You great idiots! Now we shall have to fight the entire Stygian army!'

  'I doubt it,' said Conan easily. 'I'm surprised that there were this many soldiers in town. And I couldn't let them behead Temoten and steal our gear, could I?' Zelandra's anger did not abate.

  'And how shall we deal with these people?' She waved a hand toward the burgeoning crowd. 'Shall we kill them, too?'

  'We need not deal with them at all. The soldiers have kindly left us their camels. We shall be gone before the good people of Bel-Phar decide if they wish to fight us or not. Come, let us load our packs onto our new mounts. Temoten, you should get the hell out of here.'

  The ferryman hurriedly cast off his line and leapt from the dock without another word. Using one of the poles, he pushed his ferry into the river and then poled out beyond the shallows. As the four looked on, his sail unfurled and caught the wind with a resounding snap.

  Neesa led back the camel whose rider she had slain, and the party busied itself loading their gear onto the uncooperative beasts. The crowd grew larger, some men even venturing down the dock to examine the bodies, but no one hindered the imminent departure of the travelers.

  The soldiers did not seem to have been popular men. When Conan and his comrades rode out of Bel-Phar, the crowd parted to let them pass. The Cimmerian saw curious faces and fearful faces, but none who threatened to bar his passage.

  As they rode free of the town's stone foundation out onto the arid soil of Stygia, Conan turned in his saddle and looked back across the Styx.

  The sail of Temoten's ferry was a small, sable silhouette moving against the purple breast of the evening sky. For a long moment, Conan watched it surging away, then turned back to the road that lay ahead.

  XIX

  Ethram-Fal and his captain, Ath, rode down from highlands of stone into a measureless desert of sand and gravel. They led eight riderless camels through an oppressive haze of heat. The unrelenting sun blasted the landscape with a merciless glare, hammering the crumbling soil so that waves of dizzying heat were reflected up from the ground to meet those falling from the sky.

  The jagged saw-teeth of the Dragon's Spine lay against the horizon behind them. From the rugged, rocky crests of the highland ridges, t
he land descended gradually in an irregular series of broken foothills and canyon-cracked plateaus until it opened out into level desert.

  The pair rode in silence. Ath wore full armour beneath a flowing white cloak but seemed to take little notice of the heat. Ethram-Fal wore a baggy, hooded caftan that was far too large for his stunted body. Every few moments, with mechanical regularity, he brought a goatskin full of watered wine and Emerald Lotus powder to his lips and drank.

  As the white sun hove past its apogee in the colorless dome of the sky, the crusted gravel beneath their camels' hooves slowly gave way to rolling dunes of ochre sand. The flowing dunes reached to the shimmering horizon, seeming to stretch to the rim of the world. Only an occasional outcrop of ruddy stone, carved cruelly by erosion, broke the monotony of the vast sea of sand.

  It was well into the afternoon when the sorcerer and his soldier crested a massive dune and looked down its long slope at a sight to give a traveler joy. An oasis lay upon the naked desert like a bright broach of emerald and turquoise pinned to the breast of a withered mummy. A cluster of vegetation, impossibly vivid against the sand, surrounded a pool struck radiant by the sun.

  'There,' said Ath needlessly, lifting a long arm to point. Ethram-Fal merely nodded and urged his camel on.

  Only hardy scrub clung to the outer boundaries of the oasis, but close to the pool the growth was lush and plentiful. A tall date palm stood beside the water. At the base of its trunk lay the tattered remnants of a simple lean-to, left behind by some traveler.

  The two men rode to the pool's edge and dismounted, falling to their bellies to drink the warm, clear water. Ath finished his drink, splashed his face and went to work. A set of four large ceramic water jugs was strapped across the back of each camel. Ath began filling them one at a time, wading out into the pool to submerge the jug and then climbing out to refasten it to a camel's saddle. Ethram-Fal sat cross-legged in the shade of a date palm and watched.