The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  Manzur leaned on his spear and stared gloomily over the host encamped around the walls of Sogaria. Already he had found out that a siege had a single, all-pervasive quality: boredom. He wore his sword, an old shirt of bronze scales from the city armoury, and a spired helmet won at dicing with a city guard. He had felt quite soldierly upon taking his assigned post atop the city wall. That had been two nights earlier. The excitement of the novelty had not outlasted the first night.

  He had tried to compose verses full of the clash of arms, the neighing of war-horses, the bray of trumpets and the thunder of drums. Unfortunately, what was happening around Sogaria had no such stirring aspect. During the day there was only the occasional whisper of an arrow as the Hyrkanians amused themselves by taking pot-shots at the guards atop the wall. At night he could hear the digging of the slave train as it sought to undermine the great walls of the city.

  A breeze from behind brought him the stench of a

  massive overcrowding of man and beast within the restricting walls of the city. The old poems had never mentioned that aspect of war, he thought. The siege could drag on for weeks, or even for months. The thought was unendurable. Manzur was certain that he was made for better things. He was also frantic with worry over the fate of Ishkala. But how might he escape Inevitable death from boredom and join his beloved?

  A sound from below drew his attention. He leaned over the parapet between the newly erected arrow shields of thick wicker. From the gloom below, came the creaking sound of one of the sallyports as it was opened. The thudding of muffled hooves came up to him; then the hoofbeats faded into the distance. Once again the sallyport creaked and he heard its bars slide back into place. He resumed his sentry post and turned to a companion.

  'Another messenger off to seek reinforcements,' he said. 'I wonder how many ever pierce the lines.'

  'Few, I would wager,' said the man, an old veteran called back into service for the emergency.

  'But if they capture our messengers,' Manzur said, 'why do they not display them before the walls and attack us for our efforts?'

  'This savage is too clever,' said the veteran, gnarled hands locked about his spearshaft. 'This way, we never know who has made it through and who has not. Also, if we grew discouraged, we might stop trying to send messengers. As it is, every one he captures he can torture to learn about the conditions within our walls.'

  Manzur nodded. A thought formed in his mind.

  'The messengers must be very brave. I would like to speak with such courageous men. Know you where they may be found?'

  'The Messenger Corps frequents the tavern called

  the Weary Horseman, near the cavalry barracks,' the older man replied.

  At midnight Manzur was relieved. Instead of going home, he went in search of the Weary Horseman. The streets were crowded with refugees lying on pallets. He stumbled in the gloom, for since the rationing of oil had been instituted, only one streetlamp in four was lighted at dusk.

  The inn was not difficult to find, for there were a half-score of horses tethered at its forecourt. This was a I rare sight within the walls of the city, but this tavern had leave to keep the beasts unpenned, for the messengers had to be ready to mount and ride on a moment's notice.

  Inside, Manzur found the mood subdued. The patrons ate and drank desultorily, and conversed in low voices. The depressing atmosphere of the besieged city had spelled an end to the carefree roistering of the city's taverns, He saw that on a long table amidst the men there rested a casque bearing the yellow plumes of the Messenger Corps. These men were never truly off duty, and all were dressed in the light armour of their highly mobile service.

  Soon Manzur saw what he was looking for. In a corner by himself sat a man who silently and gloomily stared into the lees swirling at the bottom of his wine cup. Manzur knew the situation well: a man with a flat purse, a man who had spent his last coin on wine and , whose companions seemed disinclined to advance him the price of more. Manzur crossed to the table.

  'Excuse me, sir,' said the youth.

  The man looked up at him with red-shot eyes. 'Yes? Who are you, another summoner from the palace with a suicide mission for the only soldiers doing this city any good?'

  Manzur paid no attention to the man's sneering belligerence. It merely meant that the fellow was already half-drunk, which would make his task that much easier.

  'Pray forgive my intruding upon your privacy,' Manzur said, 'but I have heard wonderful things about you men of the Messenger Corps. I would be most honoured if you would allow me to buy you a cup or two of wine. I would greatly enjoy hearing of your adventures. I am a poet, and I intend to compose an epic about this war when we have driven away the savages.'

  At the mention of wine, the man brightened somewhat. 'There may be few ears to listen to your verses when this is over, but have a seat anyway. Yes, we are the finest service in the army, all picked men, mounted on the finest steeds, and this,' he slapped the gold-washed message tube at his sash, 'is our passport to anywhere in the allied nations. If I encounter a duke when I am on duty and my horse is tired, I may demand that he exchange mounts with me and he can do no more than ask restitution of the prince.'

  The pitcher of strong wine arrived and Manzur poured generously into the messenger's cup, stingily into his own. 'Tell me more,' he urged.

  For the next two hours the man regaled Manzur with tales of his adventures. Toward the end he grew incoherent and took to repeating himself. At last he began to slump forward onto the table. Manzur grasped him and hauled him to his feet.

  'Time for you to return to barracks, my friend,' Manzur said. 'Let me help you.'

  No one bothered to look up as Manzur half-carried the drunken man from the tavern. Apparently his companion was not popular among the other messengers. Instead of guiding him to the barracks, Manzur stepped into the alley separating the inn from a back wall of the

  military stables. When he re-emerged, he was dressed in the uniform and armour of the Messenger Corps. He had retained only his own sword and dagger, for these weapons were not standardized within the corps, each man instead bearing such arms as he fancied.

  Hurriedly Manzur examined the mounts hitched before the tavern. He did not wish any of the messengers to see him leaving the establishment. Then he found the name of his erstwhile companion stamped upon a saddle skirt. He unhitched the horse and led it away by the bridle. As soon as he was a distance from the tavern, he mounted and picked a careful way through the refugee-clotted streets.

  At the north gate, the small contingent of guards looked up to see the yellow plumes nodding above the rider's head. 'Another message to go out tonight?' asked the senior guard. 'Where do you ride, messenger?'

  'You know better than to ask such questions,' Manzur said, bluffing.

  'Your pardon,' said the guard. 'You are right. We shall have the sallyport open in a moment. You had best ride like the wind if you would be well beyond the savages by daybreak. Will you dismount now?'

  'Dismount?' Manzur said, puzzled.

  'Yes, so that we may muffle your horse's hooves. The ground is hard-packed just beyond the walls and you may hear a horse for half a mile.'

  'Of course,' Manzur said. 'It had slipped my mind. Difficult to get used to, the idea of Sogaria being under siege.' He hoped that his airy tone was sufficient to deter suspicion, and he fretted silently while the guards tied clumsy shoes of thick-plaited straw over his mount's hooves.

  When they were finished, he remounted and waited as they opened the sallyport. The horse stamped impatiently, trying to shake off the unfamiliar, muffling shoes. Slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible, he rode through. Tensed for the impact of innumerable arrows, he let out a long sigh of relief when none greeted his exit.

  In the distance he could see the low-burning fires of the encamped Hyrkanian army. As he heard no patrols nearby, he sat his horse for a few minutes, getting his bearings. Then he began to ride to the northwest. As a boy, he had often visited a modest f
arm owned by a kinsman near the edge of the cultivated land surrounding the city. The farm was no doubt in ruins, but the land was bisected by the dry bed of an ancient stream and the gully might provide him with a path through the enemy lines unseen.

  An hour's easy trot brought him to the edge of the farmland. A brief excursion to the right should bring him to the dry wash and a path to freedom. With his attention on the ground just before his horse's hooves, he was caught by surprise when a voice to his left hailed him. 'Who are you? What horde?'

  Manzur could barely understand the words, spoken in the barbarous dialect of the steppes. He did not want to run until he knew where the gully was, and he preferred not to be pursued. Feverishly he tried to remember all that he had heard of the tribesmen. For one thing, they were notorious drunks. Manzur slumped over his saddle, humming an ancient sheepherder's song.

  'I said who are you!' barked the voice. Then Manzur heard the hooves of two horses approaching.

  'Another drunk,' said a different voice disgustedly. 'Fool, the Kagan will have the hide from your back for this.'

  A hand grabbed Manzur's left arm and roughly jerked him erect. 'This is no—' But before the tribesman

  could finish, Manzur was drawing his sword and cutting upward. The blade caught the man below the chin, cleaving up through the teeth and into the brain. Only with a powerful wrenching could he free the sword from his enemy's skull. In the dimness he barely saw the other Hyrkanian thrust at him with a lance. Manzur leaned back and let the point pass before him. With his left hand he seized the shaft and jerked the Hyrkanian forward. His right hand swept the tip of his sword across the man's throat in a move as precise as his years of training could make it. The Hyrkanian toppled from the saddle with little noise.

  Manzur found the gully a few paces away and rode into it. He had to restrain himself from shouting in triumph. He had slain two enemies with two blows of his sword! What a poem he would be able to write when he had the leisure! He felt that if he were not the greatest warrior in the world, he had at least made a good beginning and would probably hold that title before the war was over. He rode on through the night in a state of high exaltation.

  By sunrise the city was far behind and Manzur risked riding out of the gully. A quick scan of his surroundings told him that no one was near him and that he must be far past enemy lines. He began to quarter the land before him. Sooner or later even the greenest amateur should be able to find the trail of a thousand mounted men.

  By midday he had found the tracks of the Red Eagles. Somewhere in their midst would be his beloved, Ishkala. He began to ride on their trail. This was far more exciting than sitting atop a wall in a besieged city. The fact that he would almost certainly be hanged upon his return did not bother him. Something would happen

  to prevent it, no doubt. In any case, he intended to return as a hero.

  Somewhat more unsettling was the state of his provisions, or rather, his lack of them. He had a large skin of water and a small bag of dried fruit and parched grain. The water would last him for several days, but no more than two if he had to share it with his horse. He would have to find a stream or water hole, no easy task in this arid steppe. He refused to worry. The gods always provided for a hero.

  He deliberately avoided the thought that in most poems the hero came to a bad end, eventually.

  X

  Conan rode into the Kagan's compound in the late afternoon, when the sun was past its zenith and the shadows of the skull-and-horses'-tail standards grew long upon the ground. His day had been busy. The Kagan had given him orders to assess the state of the siege and its prospects for success, and to investigate untoward incidents. As a man with no clan affiliation, Conan was a natural to investigate disputes between tribesmen, leaving the Kagan to adjudicate.

  To aid in his assessment, he had obtained permission to take a well-educated prisoner with him to interpret. He also made use of the man to improve his own skill with the dialect spoken in Sogaria. To a man with Conan's wandering urge, a facility with many tongues was a matter of survival.

  Conan dismounted and tossed his reins to a serving man, then entered the tent. He found the Kagan surrounded by his higher officers. He seemed not to notice the Cimmerian's entrance, but by now Conan knew that the Kagan missed absolutely nothing that happened around him. Before the Kagan was a model of the city fashioned by an artisan prisoner, complete with walls and the buildings within the walls.

  'Conan,' said Bartatua when he had finished another conversation, 'what are the prospects of constructing siege towers?'

  'None,' Conan replied. 'There is no timber to speak of in all of Sogarian territory. The only trees are in the orchards, for the growing of fruits, olives and nuts. They are small, and much of the wood is unsuitable in any case. Fruitwood is too soft. Olive wood is strong but so oily that one fire arrow would transform a siege tower into a funeral pyre. Besides, the destruction of the orchards would devastate the city.'

  'What care we for the woes of city people, foreigner?' asked a haughty chieftain whose face was a snarl of tattooed serpents.

  Conan stared him in the eyes. 'It will devastate the Kagan'& city, not the Sogarians'.' The chieftain looked away, grumbling.

  'The timber is also little good for mine shorings,' Conan continued. 'And we can't even use cut stone for the purpose, since all the outlying structures are of mud brick. The only cut stone is in the city itself. The lack of good timber also rules out a battering ram.'

  'I had not known that timber was so important to a siege!' the Kagan said angrily. 'What do you propose, Cimmerian?''

  'There are three courses we might take,' Conan suggested. 'One is a masonry ramp. Nearby are quarries from whence the city gets its stone. There is an abundance of rough stone, and we can set the slaves to hauling it. Under cover of hide and wicker shields, we could build a ramp to the top of the wall. The whole army could then assault that single spot. It is certain

  victory but slow and laborious, and large numbers of the slaves will die.'

  Bartatua flicked a hand deprecatingly. 'No matter. We have plenty of slaves. What else?'

  'We can make ladders. There is sufficient wood for that. Without the support of siege towers, though, the casualties among the soldiers would be terrible. It is the riskiest way to storm a fortification, especially when the walls are so high. The third way is to sit here and do nothing. Soon starvation and pestilence will force the city-dwellers to capitulate. By then, though, there may be pestilence among ourselves as well.'

  'You have not mentioned the fourth possibility,' said the Kagan. 'We might suborn traitors within the city to open the gates for us.'

  Conan could guess the source of that suggestion. 'That is not my realm, Kagan. If you have agents within the city who can do this, well and good. By now, though, the Sogarians have sheathed the great gates with brick or stone and left only small sallyports. We cannot enter the city in sufficient numbers that way.'

  Bartatua wasted no time in discussion. 'It is the ramp, then.' He turned to a small man who stood nearby. Conan recognised him: a Khitan who had been on a caravan bound for Sogaria. He had presented himself as an expert engineer and had offered his services on the siege works, for suitable compensation. 'Can you build it?' the Kagan asked.

  'Lead me to the quarries and give me the slaves,' the man said, 'and you shall have the ramp.'

  'It is done, then,' said Bartatua. 'See that you fail me not.' He turned back to the Cimmerian. 'Now, Conan, what of the two men found dead this morning?'

  'They were killed by a messenger who left the city

  last night,' Conan reported. 'Near their bodies were the marks of straw-muffled hooves, and whoever slew them was an expert with the sword. It was as neat a bit of bladework as I could have done myself. His tracks led to a dry wash and thence northwest. There was no sense in pursuing since the man had such a wide lead.'

  'Very well,' Bartatua said. 'He will have no city to return to anyway, so our men will be aveng
ed. Have you anything else to report?'

  'Just one curious matter,' Conan said. 'My fifty-commander, the Kozak Rustuf, took out a patrol yesterday to the northwest. He found the trail of at least a thousand horsemen. From the spoor, he estimates that they must have passed that way a day or two before we arrived around Sogaria. For some reason, they are headed into an empty waste called the Steppe of Famine.'

  Conan was astonished at the shouts of surprise from Bartatua and some of the assembled officers. He noted that all of those who were agitated belonged to Bartatua's own people, the Ashkuz.

  'The Steppe of Famine!' barked one. 'That is—'

  'We will discuss this later!' snapped Bartatua with a ferocious glare. Now what, thought Conan, does this mean? 'All of you leave me now,' said Bartatua, 'except for the Cimmerian. You have your orders.'

  The others filed out of the tent, many of them glowering at Conan. He glowered back. He was resigned to being unpopular with these clannish men. He had lived with worse.

  'Pour us some wine, Conan,' said the Kagan. Conan poured two cups from a golden ewer and handed one to his chief. The Kagan took a long draught and said, 'You tell me that your Cimmeria is a country of mountains and rock, Conan?'

  'It is that, Kagan,' Conan said, wondering where this might be leading.

  'I suppose that a Cimmerian lad must learn to climb at an early age, not so?'

  'Very true. I climbed many a rocky spire to rob bird nests of eggs or warm down. And I descended many a cliff to find a broken-legged ewe or to ambush a wolfs lair.'

  'Excellent,' said Bartatua. 'Tonight I want you to climb the walls of Sogaria and bring me news of what goes on inside.'

  He might have known. It was like the Kagan to shower a man with favours and then send him on a suicide mission. A clansman might have resentful kinsmen, but a wandering adventurer such as himself had none to protest on his behalf. He did not hesitate. ' 'Of course, Kagan. Had you a particular destination for this reconnaissance?'