The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  Had he been dealing with any other nation, he would have done exactly that. Here it would be futile. Such archers as these would riddle him with arrows before he reached the edge of the camp. And probably without damaging the horse, he thought as he turned and walked to the ramp.

  Conan had been in slave pens before, and he knew what he would find when he reached the bottom. As he stepped off the ramp, few faces even turned his way. They were so defeated, so fatalistic or apathetic, that they neither knew nor cared what went on around them. Most of them sat motionless or lay staring at the ground vacantly. Conan was filled with contempt. Had this slave pen, like many others he had seen, been filled with helpless women and children, he might have been moved to pity. But these slaves were healthy, able-bodied men. Hardy specimens who were not rebellious, or even angry, were beneath his notice.

  There would be others, though. There always were wherever slaves or prisoners were herded in large numbers. Somewhere, in some corner, would be congregated those who still had a spark of spirit and were not more dead than alive. He scanned the huge pit until he saw the place where a number of men were standing, some of them pacing, many waving their arms in animated discussion or arguement. Men who would argue yet retained some life in them.

  There were perhaps a hundred men gathered in the shade of one of the walls. Heads swivelled to scan the newcomer as he approached, and Conan discerned the features of a dozen or more races. Some he recognised, most he did not.

  'I am Conan, a Cimmerian by birth and a warrior by trade. Who among you knows why these dogs want so many prisoners?'

  A huge, burly man came forward. His expression was truculent and contemptuous. Conan was familiar with this situation as well. Men in such degraded conditions became pack animals, like dogs. And as with dogs, a newcomer had to learn immediately who was top dog.

  'What gives you the right to ask, foreigner?' the brute challenged. He wore rags of brown homespun, and Conan read him for an Iranistani serf who had run to the hills and turned bandit.

  The Cimmerian placed his fists on his hips, leaned back and laughed for the first time in days. 'Foreigner? I don't see a dozen men here of any one nation. Who here is not a foreigner?'

  Like any other petty bully whose dominance is based on instilling awe and fear in those weaker than himself, the Iranistani could not bear to be laughed at. With an inarticulate howl, he reached for the Cimmerian with huge furry hands.

  Conan stepped straight in between the reaching hands.

  His left fist sank to the wrist in the other's capacious belly as his right looped over and down, smashing into the brute's jaw and dropping him like a steer under the slaughterer's hammer.

  He stepped over the motionless body and spoke as if nothing had happened. 'Now, some of you good fellows tell me why these half-horse Hyrkanians want so many slaves all of a sudden.'

  'We are not sure,' said a Vendhyan, whose ears still bled where rings of gold and silver had been torn from their piercings. 'There is talk that the dogs want to besiege a city and we are to do the digging and carry the ladders.'

  'Aye, that would make sense,' Conan said. 'Else why would they want only able-bodied men?''

  Surely these nomads could have little use for huge slave gangs unless it were for purposes of war. Conan had been present at a number of sieges and he knew that there was much digging and carrying to be done, tasks that the lordly horse-archers would never deign to perform. There was also a great deal of dying. He had known only a few of the most-civilised armies to have regular sappers, those who worked beneath enemy defences and were protected by armour, shields and mantlets. Most often the work was performed by huge drafts of slaves or peasants, who were slain in droves as they toiled to undermine walls, push siege towers or carry scaling-ladders.

  'There is little future in such work,' Conan said. 'Not one in a hundred of us would survive, and once they had no more use for us, the Hyrkanians would kill such as were left, to be spared having to feed them.' Nods and growls of assent told him that he was not the first to have such thoughts.

  'You have the truth of it,' said a man who wore a Kozak scalplock. 'The Hyrkanians have little use for slaves, and none for prisoners. Such slaves as they want, they take as children so that they can raise them properly. Comely women they will sometimes take for concubines. Grown men, especially if they are warriors, are simply slain. They do not want to rule over conquered peoples, but over great pastures.'

  Conan stroked his bristly chin. He had not been able to shave in many days. 'This man Bartatua must be different. He wants to take a city, and it must be a great city if he needs so many slaves for the siege works. If he wanted only tribute, he would ride around the walls with his army and make his demands. But these are serious preparations. I suspect that he plans to move soon, within half a moon.'

  'Why do you say that?' asked the Vendhyan.

  'I observed the land as I was brought here. They are running short of pasture. This is a great horde assembled, and there are at least five horses for every warrior. I will wager that the wealthy ones have twenty or more. The grass will not last and it has been a dry summer. They must march soon or the beasts will begin to deteriorate.'

  'You did not lie about being a warrior,' said the Kozak He straightened from where he had been squatting, drawing designs in the dirt. 'I am Rustuf, of the Dniri Kozaki.' He held forth a gnarled, filthy hand and Conan took it. The man grinned, exposing a gap an inch wide between his front teeth. He retained a wide, nail-studded leather belt and the rags of a pair of baggy trousers, but his feet were bare.

  'I have ridden with the Zaparoska,' Conan said, 'and have been a hetman among them.'

  'The Zaparoska are worthless dogs,' Rustuf said,

  'but any Kozak is a hundred times better than the lesser breeds of men.'

  The Kozaki were not a true people, but a polyglot collection of horseback bands comprised of runaway serfs, outlaws, former pirates and other dregs of the surrounding nations, united only by their courage, love of adventure, and fierce independence. The different bands were called after the rivers, rapids and river islands where they made their camps. They were by turns bandits, raiders and irregular cavalry for the civilised armies.

  'Tell me,' Conan said, 'have any of you planned an escape?''

  Rustuf laughed sourly. 'Where would you have us escape to? Truly, they do not even need this pit to confine us. We could force our way up the ramp, but then we would simply be out on the steppe, where they would ride us down for their sport. Even if we could seize some of their horses and bows, look at this lot!' He waved a massive arm disdainfully at the huge mass of apathetic slaves. 'They've no spirit. If they had the guts of real men, I would still chance it. Among five thousand fleeing horsemen, a few of us might hope to make our escape. But most of these cannot ride and are too fearful to run.'

  'It is as I thought,' Conan said. 'And yet there must be some way out of here. Perhaps alone, and at night.'

  At that moment a drum thundered and the slaves rose lazily to their feet. Men appeared at the rim of the pit, dragging great skin bags that they proceeded to dump over the edge. The slaves swarmed toward the piles of food, showing their first signs of spirit as they fought and argued over the bounty.

  Conan and Rustuf strode to the nearest pile and shoved

  aside a knot of scrambling men. Conan picked up a flat, round loaf. It was not much, but it might keep him alive. It was made of coarse, dark meal, gritty and bristling with chaff, slave fare of the roughest sort. He bit into it and choked down a mouthful.

  'Is there water here?' he asked.

  'When the sun is lower, they will march us out in small groups, under guard, to the stream,' Rustuf told him. 'There we may flop on our bellies and lap up water with our tongues, like curs.'

  'Then we had better hope that Bartatua moves out soon,' Conan said, 'for before long we will weaken and die on such fare.'

  The Kozak led him to a relatively uncrowded spot, and the two men sat on t
he ground and ate, a laborious process since they had nothing with which to wash down the dry bread.

  'There may be a way,' said Rustuf in a low voice.

  'Speak on,' Conan urged.

  'Bartatua likes to have sport at his banquets. He sets slaves and captive warriors to fighting one another as entertainment for his guests.'

  Conan saw the possibilities. 'Wrestling? Fist strokes? Or with weapons?'

  'All manner of combat,' replied the Kozak 'He likes to see how other peoples fight. He thinks it is good for his officers to see these things as well.'

  'Is it to the death?'

  'They fight until one is finished. Bartatua does not care greatly whether the defeated man dies or not.' Rustuf picked a small pebble out of his bread and tossed it away. 'I have for some time considered getting myself chosen for these fights. It may be that should a man fight mightily enough, Bartatua might enrol him in his army. Better a soldier than a slave, and I would

  not be ashamed to follow such a man. A conqueror is a conqueror, even if he is a dog of a Hyrkanian.' 'Why have you hesitated to take this path?' Conan

  asked.

  'It has a certain drawback,' the Kozak replied, 'that causes even a warrior like me to question the wisdom of such a course.'

  'And what might that be?'

  'I have spoken with some of the slaves who have been called up to serve at these banquets. Bartatua usually has a banquet whenever some allied chief joins him here. Often when a man triumphs skilfully in such a fight at one of these entertainments, the onlookers enjoy it so much that they wish to see him fight again.'

  'And so they pit him against another opponent immediately,' Conan said.

  'That is true. Sometimes there will be five or six bouts in succession. Eventually even the greatest fighter tires and is defeated by a man perhaps no more skilful than he, but less weary.'

  'It is also,' Conan said, 'a good way to eliminate the most-likely troublemakers among his prisoners and

  slaves.'

  Rustuf grinned, nodding. 'That, too, has occurred to me. And yet, a small number of men have impressed him enough to earn a place in his army.'

  'The chances may be slender,' Conan observed. 'But anything is better than being a slave. How do we get chosen for these fights?'

  The Kozak laughed. 'I could tell that you are a man of spirit and quick decision. Wait until they take us for water this evening. At that time we will make ourselves

  known.'

  'What if they pit us against one another?' Conan asked.

  'Then,' said Rustuf, clapping him on the shoulder, 'we will find out which of us is the greater fighter.'

  Conan lay on his belly, easing his parching thirst for the first time that day. The water had already flowed through the camp, but it did little good to worry about that for it was the only water for many leagues. When he had drunk his fill, he rejoined the crowd of slaves waiting to be led back to the pit. He stood next to Rustuf, but the two men ignored one another.

  'Back to your kennel, dogs!' shouted a slave master with a snap of his whip. 'Move smartly now. Your brethren of the lash want to drink as well.'

  The slaves began to shuffle back toward the pit. Conan and Rustuf stood on the edge of the group. As a slave master passed, Rustuf stumbled; knocking Conan directly into the man, who snarled and struck at Conan with his lash. 'Keep your distance from your betters, dog!'

  'No man lays a lash on me!' shouted the Cimmerian. Before the startled Hyrkanian could defend himself, Conan leaped in and grabbed him by the throat. Snatching the whip from the man's grasp, he reversed it and struck a tremendous blow with its weighted butt. He was careful, though, to strike at the lower edge of the man's helmet. His captors would not take a killing lightly. The slave master dropped unconscious, and several more guards came rushing up, drawing swords.

  As the first came in slashing, Rustuf stuck out a booted foot and the man fell sprawling. The Kozak twisted the blade from his hand and gave him a rap with its pommel. As another charged in, his blade descending to split Conan's skull, the Cimmerian grabbed him by the wrist and belt, lifted him and slammed him to the ground. Appropriating the weapon from the stunned

  man, he was now armed and ready to take on the rest of the guards.

  Two came slashing in from his left and he leaped joyously to meet them. Although they were matchless archers, he found that the Hyrkanians were indifferent swordsmen, especially when on foot. He parried their clumsy strokes without difficulty and dropped one of them with a blow of the flat of the blade to the side of his head. The other cursed and cut, but Conan batted his sword aside and kicked him in the belly. As the man doubled forward, Conan smote him on the back of the neck with the base of his fist.

  He turned to see Rustuf lustily engaging another two Hyrkanians and rushed to join him. Conan took charge of one, and the ring of steel on steel continued for a few moments longer before a band of horsemen surrounded them.

  'Hold!' shouted the head slave master The combatants stepped back and lowered their arms. Conan saw that a dozen arrows were trained on them, the bows at full draw.

  'Drop your weapons!' the slave master ordered. Sullenly, they complied. The slave master came closer. 'So, you two are fond of fighting? Then we must find something better for you than mere slave work.' He turned to the bowmen. 'Take them to the Great Enclosure.'

  They were herded toward the centre of the camp. There a large area had been enclosed by a huge curtain that kept out the cutting, dust-laden winds of the plains. The curtain was fifteen feet high and covered with barbaric decorations. Towering above it were the equally barbaric standards of the Hyrkanian chieftains: poles topped with horns, horses' tails and the skulls of beasts.

  The slave master arrived on his mount and led them

  within the windbreak. There were perhaps twenty large tents inside, each with a standard before its entrance. Beside the largest of the tents stood the highest pole. From the spreading yak horns topping it there dangled nine white horses' tails. This, Conan thought, must be the tent of Bartatua.

  Well away from the tents, near the windbreak, was a small area enclosed by a folding lattice-fence. Within were a number of thick stakes buried deep in the ground. From a ring at the top of each stake hung a six-foot chain ending in an iron neck ring. Conan counted twenty-five men already chained to these stakes, and there were several neck rings still awaiting an occupant.

  'It is good that you have so fine an urge to fight,' the slave master said. 'Our chief holds a great banquet this night, and he also enjoys close combat. Get in there.'

  The two did as they were told, having little choice. The bowmen still followed, and their strings were still taut. Only when Conan and Rustuf were firmly locked in the neck rings did the guards relax their weapons and leave.

  'We have been successful thus far,' Rustuf said. 'Although a chain and a neck ring are no more comfortable than the slave pit.'

  Conan stood and gripped the chain. He tugged on it, but the stake would not budge. He stood directly over the stake and tried with all his might to pull it up. It did not move. He knew then that not only was the stake buried many feet deep, but that its base was fastened to a crosspiece. Even his strength would not be sufficient to uproot it,

  'The company seems to be no better here, either,' said Rustuf.

  Conan studied their neighbours. They were a hard-

  bitten lot, scarred and burly, with the look common to soldiers, bandits and pirates: an air of truculence that expressed belief in their own strength and very little else.

  Nearest him was a huge man whose features were eastern but who belonged to no people that Conan knew. 'Who are you?' Conan asked in the tongue of the nomads.

  'I am the one who will kill you at this evening's fights, dog.'

  The man was grim but he did not bluster. He meant every word, and Conan did not seek to draw him out further. Instead, sat down and leaned against the stake, conserving his strength against the evening's work.

&nb
sp; IV

  Khondemir gazed into his scrying glass and saw there visions that only a wizard could interpret. Vague, inhuman faces appeared and spoke to him, although no sound was heard. At last he waved a hand over the glass in a gesture of dismissal. The glass cleared and he replaced it in its chest.

  From a tower nearby came the call of the watch-keeper, giving the citizenry notice that the gates would dose in one hour. The wizard had an important appointment upon that hour, and he began to prepare himself. He donned his finest robe and his best collar of gold and jewels. He combed out his forked beard and wrapped his tall skullcap in a turban of jewelled silk. He was a man of considerable height, lean and well formed. His features were those of the Turanian aristocracy, and he could move with confidence in any civilised court.

  The servant appeared at his ring. 'Have my sedan chair waiting at the garden gate in one half hour,' he commanded. The servant bowed and left to do his bidding. Khondemir would take with him none of his sorcerous paraphernalia. The fathers of the city knew well his powers, and he had no need to impress them. As his chair was carried through the bustling streets, the mage admired the surrounding beauty. Sogaria was indeed a splendid city. Its public buildings were towers of white marble, and the homes of the wealthy were only slightly less magnificent. Few were truly poor in the city, which was founded on the rich caravan trade rather than upon the estates of the nobles.

  From the balconies and the flat rooftops a profusion of hanging plants swayed in the wind, for like all dwellers in arid regions, the Sogarians loved gardens. Flowers grew in profusion everywhere, and rich hangings were aired in the sunlight daily, adding to the brilliant colours of the city. The streets were paved with cut stone, and fountains played at most of the street corners. The palace of the prince, Amyr Jelair, stood upon a low hill surrounded by gardens raucous with the cries of exotic birds brought from far lands. The brilliance of their plumage outshone even the spectacular, ever-blooming flowers. Khondemir took deep pleasure in the splendour of the place, and in the knowledge that one day soon he would possess many such palaces.