The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  'What is ahead?' Springald asked.

  'You see those islands?' Conan pointed to a line of what looked like greyish smudges far in the distance. 'Those are the Blood Isles. Any ship passing between the Blood Isles and the mainland runs a gauntlet of pirate craft. The natives have no occupation save preying upon passing ships.'

  'Can we not pass to seaward of the islands?' Springald asked.

  'The winds and water that way are very treacherous,' Wulfrede informed him. 'Just to clear the isles would mean sailing out of sight of the mainland. Then a slight change in the wind could blow us far out to sea, and there is a current that would carry us out further. Closer inshore to the islands there are dangerous rocks and shoals. Believe me, there is less peril in running between the islands and the mainland.'

  'Then we shall look to our weapons,' Ulfilo said stolidly.

  'That still leaves the problem of our follower,' Conan said. 'I say we wait until dark, then double back and board him before he knows he has come upon us.'

  'Board him on the high seas without warning?' Wulfrede laughed heartily. 'Why, that would be piracy!' Several sailors who had been idling about listening echoed their captain's laughter.

  'What care we for that?' Conan demanded. 'It is not as if he is likely to hale us into court! '

  'No,' Wulfrede said. 'This is my ship and I say we concentrate upon the corsairs ahead of us. Whoever that is in our wake can bide his time.' The shipmaster went forward to see the ship's readiness for battle while Conan fumed. Springald walked up and laid a hand upon the Cimmerian's shoulder.

  'This displeases you, my friend?'

  'I am displeased and puzzled both,' Conan admitted.

  'How so?'

  'First, I think it a mistake to engage an enemy in front while another possible enemy menaces you from behind. That is only sound tactics. Secondly, I never knew a Van who was not always eager for a fight. Why is the man so reluctant to contest with this follower?'

  'Perhaps he is right. Perhaps it is only a trade rival. He is a merchant skipper who has sailed these waters many times, after all. I think we should trust his judgement.'

  'We have little choice, short of mutiny,' Conan grumbled.

  'Come with me,' Springald said. 'My friends and I have some questions to ask of you, since it looks as if we may soon be in conflict with these seaborne raiders.' He followed the man to the poop deck where Ulfilo was thumbing the edges of his massive sword.

  'Should we be attacked,' Ulfilo began, 'what sort of fighting may we expect to see?'

  'These men do not raid far from their home islands,' Conan said.' 'Their craft are big canoes, paddled by a score of men each.'' 'How do they fight?' Ulfilo asked.

  'Most are spearmen, although some favour big knives or short swords. They have some bows, although these are not very formidable, and the pitching of the canoes makes their archery worse. They will paddle as swiftly as they can to board and engage us hand-to-hand. They are fierce and fearless in close combat. Their hide shields are long and narrow, and none wears armour. They rarely throw their spears, but use them for thrusting.' 'They do not sound very dangerous,' Ulfilo said. 'A man who has no fear for his own hide is always dangerous,' Conan reminded him. 'I've seen such warriors happily bury their teeth in the throat of a man who's just gutted them. And be careful how you swing that sword. If we should be boarded, it will get very crowded on deck. Sailors favour short weapons for that reason. And don't try to fight as you would on land, with your feet firmly planted. Balance is the most important thing in a ship fight, for the deck never stops moving beneath your feet. Keep your knees bent and never strike when the ship's movement throws you off balance. You can't hit with lull strength that way and it just further unbalances you. Defend yourself until you are firm on your feet again and then strike.'

  Ulfilo looked as if he resented being told how to fight, but Springald was attentive. Malia was composed as always. If anything, she seemed excited by the prospect of action.

  As the isles drew nearer the sailors grew tense and subdued, forgoing their customary raucous singing and coarse humour. Their eyes were always on the horizon, their fingers straying ever to their weapons, fondling a trusted hilt or thumbing an edge of steel to test its razor-keenness. They passed the first and second islands without incident. The third island was the closest to the mainland, and as they passed through the narrow strait separating the land masses the lookout cried out loudly from the masthead.

  'Canoes! Canoes! The black devils are upon us!'

  'Where away?' called Wulfrede, rushing to the rail.

  'Off the starboard bow, coming from behind that big rock just off the south cape of the isle!'

  'How many?' Conan yelled.

  'I see three, but I think another comes even now!'

  Ulfilo came on deck, buckling on a steel breast-and-back. 'How long before they get here?' he demanded.

  Wulfrede shrugged. 'It depends upon how hardy their paddlers are, and how long a chase we can lead them. If we sail fast enough we will be past them before they close the distance and they will have to chase us to catch up.'

  'Can we not add speed by using our own oars?' Springald asked as he came up the steps from below. He now wore a steel cap with pendant neckguard of mail and a shirt of light, silvered steel mesh. His basket-hilted sword was bare in his hand and on his left forearm he carried a small steel buckler.

  'Nay,' said Wulfrede, 'on this type of ship the oars are only used for manoeuvring into and out of port. Otherwise, we only use them in a calm or an emergency, to keep away from rocks

  and so forth. Anyway, the last thing we want to do is tire out the men before the fighting even begins. There's a calculation to this sort of battle, you see. The longer they have to chase us, the wearier will be the men wielding the paddles, while our men will be rested and fresh when the fun begins.' 'Most perspicacious,' Springald commented. Malia came up on deck, pale but composed. 'What shall I do?' she asked, with no quaver in her voice.

  'Stay below,' Wulfrede said. 'You'll be safe from such weapons as the blacks have in your cabin. Their canoes cannot ram and they'll not try to set fire to the ship. After all, they want to take it intact.'

  'Springald and I will guard the passageway below,' Ulfilo said. He turned to Malia. 'If you see a corsair coming down the steps, you will know I am dead.'

  'I am prepared,' she said, tapping a small jewelled object that hung from her neck on a golden chain. Conan saw that it was a tiny dagger. Clearly, she did not intend to use it on a corsair.

  'As you will,' Wulfrede said. 'You realise that if you wear armour it will drag you under, should you go into the water?'

  'The only way I leave this spot is dead,' Ulfilo said, leaning on the long hilt of his sword.

  'Suit yourself,' said the shipmaster, eyeing the long blade dubiously. 'And be careful how you swing that blade.' 'We have been told,' Springald said. Conan, barefooted and dressed only in his short sailor's breeks, swarmed up the mast and stood atop the yard, looking first toward the island. There were now five canoes coming for them, closing fast. Then he peered behind them. The black-sailed vessel was still there, keeping its distance. Conan muttered a curse and slid down a backstay to the deck.

  'Our guests rush to meet us,' the Cimmerian said. 'Five canoes now. We must give them a proper reception.' He took up his weapon-belt from where it lay on the deck and girded it about his sinewy waist. He unhooked his sheathed sword from

  its hangars and stripped the sheath from the gleaming blade. He tossed the sheath down the stair to the lower deck.

  'I'll not need that until the party's over,' he told the Aquilonians. 'I advise you to do the same. A dangling sheath can trip a man on footing firmer than a ship's deck.' Springald followed his advice. Ulfilo ignored it.

  As the canoes drew ever nearer the sailors hefted their weapons nervously and their teeth showed in wolfish grins of anticipation. Each man now held a short sword or axe and bore a small, round shield of wicker covered with
hide. A few wore steel caps or light helmets made of rawhide. Sheaves of javelins and boxes of slingstones had been set at intervals along the rails. Bows and arrows were issued to men who were skilled archers.

  Conan took up a bow, strung it and tested its draw. It was a cheap weapon, such as were sold by the crateload to ships at emergency stores. The arrows were likewise inferior, their points of cast iron, heavily greased, their fletching tied on with twine. The sea air would quickly loosen even high-quality glue. Conan chose a score of the straightest and thrust them beneath his belt.

  'You are an archer as well as a swordsman?' Springald said.

  'Aye. This is no fine Hyrcanian weapon, but then I'll not be shooting at a man a hundred paces away from the back of a galloping horse. Nor will these shafts need to pierce armour. Against naked men at close range, it is adequate.'

  Now they could hear the chanting of the savages as they drew nearer. It was a deep, booming sound that stirred the blood; a barbaric invitation to battle and slaughter. It proclaimed an elemental joy in the shedding of blood. It proclaimed that these warriors would not be satisfied with prisoners to sell as slaves or hold for ransom. They would slay all who came within their grasp.

  The paddlers worked their paddles standing, while within the canoes stood men shaking their spears in time with the chant. The islanders were tall men, lighter of skin than the mainland blacks. Their naked bodies glistened with oil and were made gaudy by paint. They wore tall headdresses of colourful feathers that nodded in time to their chants. Their spears bore arm-long points of crudely forged iron, but they were nonetheless deadly for their roughly hammered surfaces. Their edges gleamed bright and sharp. Their short, thick hafts were of tough ebony.

  With a sudden, fevered burst of paddling, the canoes surged ahead. The rhythmic chant gave way to high-pitched war cries as the blacks knew that their prey would not escape them. Arrows began to arch from the canoes, but the palmwood bows and reed arrows were not formidable, and the shafts were easily stopped by the seamen's light shields. Arrows began to fly from the ship to more telling effect, and men toppled screaming from the canoes, their bodies pierced.

  Conan drew, loosed, and saw another body splash into the warm sea. He drew and loosed quickly, not bothering with careful aim, just using the packed mass of bodies as his target. The range was too short to waste good marksmanship and it was imperative to cut down the enemy's numerical superiority. Each big canoe carried perhaps forty warriors, and should all board at once, they could overwhelm the ship's company by sheer numbers. Javelins and stones now flew between the vessels as the last few paces between them dwindled.

  Then came a crunching of wood as the bow of a canoe smashed into the starboard gunwale of the Sea Tiger. In an instant, tall black spearmen swarmed over the rail, to be met by the swords and axes of the sailors. Men screamed and cut and stabbed, bled and fell. The already uncertain footing of the deck became even more treacherous as blood and entrails turned it to a ghastly shambles.

  From the poop deck, Conan shot his last arrows, then snatched up his sword and vaulted over the rail to the deck below. Another canoe slammed into the port side, and the Cimmerian sprang to the shattered rail to repel boarders. The first to try was a man who wore a short mantle of leopard skin about his shoulders and a face-frame of scarlet feathers. He raised his spear on high, but before he could strike, Conan's sword halved him at the waist. He fell back into the canoe in two pieces, both of them spilling intestines. As others sought to board the ship, Conan's sword flashed, taking

  IF a hand here, a head there. By himself, he prevented the warriors of that canoe from gaining a foothold.

  But nearby the other canoes grappled and spilled their fighting men onto the ship. They were many, but the sailors were fierce and knew that they fought for their very lives. The sound of sword and axe shearing into naked flesh made a sickening drum-roll in time to the chants of the warriors who still stood in their canoes, awaiting an opportunity to slay or be slain.

  Men were not the only predators of the sea that day. Triangular fins cut the water as hungry sharks sped toward the struggling craft. The sudden abundance of blood drew every predatory fish for miles and they converged as do vultures and ravens wherever men fight upon land.

  Two enterprising sailors dashed to the ship's hold and struggled back up carrying between them a massive boulder, a part of the ship's ballast. As comrades cleared a space for them at the rail, they cast it overboard, into the centre of one of the canoes. The heavy stone crashed through the thin wood of the bottom and the canoe began to fill with water. The warriors aboard the sinking craft screamed, not for fear of being eaten by sharks but in rage at the thought of dying without a chance to slay an enemy. The sailors set up a cheer and several went below to fetch more stones.

  Conan backed away from the rail to take a breather and survey the fight. Several sailors took his place at the rail as he backed away. He saw Wulfrede, who was merrily singing a Vanir war song as he hewed men down with an axe. One on one, the sailors were a match for the fierce but poorly armed corsairs. It was the numbers of the enemy that made them dangerous.

  The Cimmerian sprang onto the poop deck and there found Ulfilo and Springald guarding the passageway to the cabins below. He saw now why Ulfilo had ignored his advice concerning his sheath. The man's feet did not move as he fought. He had chosen his place to fight and he did not budge. As he swung his great blade evading and ducking the deadly spears, his knees and body flexed fluidly, but his feet stayed exactly where he had

  planted them when he took up his position. His blows were powerful and well timed. It was an impressive sight. Nearby was Springald, and as Conan had surmised upon first seeing the man, he wielded his short, basket-hilted sword with skill. Conan had met scholar-warriors before and knew that learning in no way weakened a man, unless he so chose. The bookman fought, not grimly like Ulfilo, nor furiously like Conan, but artfully and with a smile upon his round, intelligent face. Conan grinned at the sight. These two needed no help from him.

  With one of the canoes eliminated the sailors were not so hard-pressed. Even as he noted the fact, Conan saw a crewman thrust back from the rail by a spear that pierced his body and emerged bloodily from his back. The warrior on the other end of the spear sprang onto the rail screaming his victory cry as he withdrew his spear. He raised the weapon high and was about to spear another man when Conan's sword traced a glittering blur to shear the black warrior's head in two. The blade crunched deep into the breastbone, so that the Cimmerian had to brace a foot against the corpse in order to drag his blade free.

  As the dead black fell, Conan leapt into the canoe and swung his sword with both hands, the bloody steel working in savage, horizontal half-circles, shearing flesh, bone, and entrails at every stroke, sending crimson droplets to patter into the sea like rain. Behind him, sailors hooted with glee and piled into the canoe. They fought their way from one end of the canoe to the other. The blacks fought to the last man, preferring death by steel to the teeth of the maddened sharks that by now were churning the sea to pink froth.

  Conan and the others returned to the Sea Tiger in time to see the remaining canoes beating a retreat and no longer as crowded as they were when they attacked. The sailors sent up a savage cheer, waving their weapons overhead in triumph. For a few minutes Wulfrede went among his men, congratulating them heartily, then he returned to the task of continuing the voyage.

  'Back to work!' he cried in high good humour 'Cast the dead overboard. Some of you men fetch buckets and wash the blood from the deck before it dries. The wounded, come to

  the poop deck for bandaging. Stow the weapons in the chests. Mind you clean and oil them first.'

  The men carried out his orders jauntily, seemingly unsettled over the shipmates they had lost. Within minutes the deck was sparkling and the ship was back on course. The ship's cook built up his fire and heated a pot of pitch to treat the worst cuts, while the sailmaker stood by with needle, thread, and palm for the
wounds where stitching seemed more appropriate.

  Conan climbed the mast once more and peered along their wake. The black vessel was still there, keeping its distance. Apparently, it had shortened sail while the Sea Tiger was engaged with the corsairs, for he now saw its main yard ascend and the great sail fill with wind. He cursed softly, unable to comprehend what the pursuer wanted. If he wished to attack, now was the time to do it, while Sea Tiger licked its wounds, wearied with battle. But he seemed content to keep his distance. Conan descended the mast and went to the poop, where he found the Aquilonians, who had fought without the slightest sign of distress, looking pale at the casual way the sailors disposed of their dead.

  'They just throw their comrades to the sharks?' Ulfilo said, indignant. 'Have they no gods, no rites for the departed? Do they not fear the spirits of the dead will pursue them?'

  'Back in whatever homeland they once had,' Conan said, 'I've no doubt they had customs and rites for burial and appeasing the spirits of the dead. They have no nation but the sea, now. For sailors, the sea is a proper grave. If you ask them, most will tell you that the sharks are servants of the sea-gods, and it is thus that they accept the offering of the sailors' lives, and the dead now go to rest in the bed of the sea. Seamen have many beliefs, some of them passing strange, but fear of the dead is not among them. Upon the sea death is a commonplace, and staying alive is a remarkable accomplishment.'

  'Fascinating,' Springald said. 'And you, Conan? What are your beliefs in this matter?'

  'Cimmeria is a landlocked country and my people have no beliefs or traditions concerning the sea. Our only god is Crom

  of the Mountain. Crom does little for us, alive or dead, save give us life and a fighting heart and with these we strive to battle and stay alive as long as possible. Whether we die on sea or land matters not.'

  'A bleak philosophy,' Springald, 'for a notable gloomy people.'