The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

She held her chin high, but it trembled slightly. 'It is. If all is not to Sethmes's satisfaction, I am to become his property.'

  Wulfrede snorted. 'Such a pledge is neither lawful nor binding, for he had no right to pledge you thus. Why did you not laugh in the Stygian's face?'

  'I fear that it was not that sort of pledge,' said Springald in a subdued voice. 'It was a highly specialized Stygian contract, involving many gods and terrible curses. Marandos signed it

  with his own blood, and since he and his brother share the same blood, it was binding upon him as well.'

  'What about Malia?' Conan said. 'She shares no blood with them.'

  'There are, ah, ways of getting around that. Rest assured, she is equally bound.'

  'What of you?' Conan asked.

  'Well, it was my doing that brought them here, so I bear a certain responsibility. And, anyway'—he shrugged expressively—'the treasure is there, and I want a part of it.'

  'That last part I can understand,' Wulfrede said, 'albeit the rest vexes me sorely.'

  'And now, if you are satisfied,' Ulfilo said, 'we have a desert to cross, and must begin early.'

  'Satisfied?' Conan said. 'Far from it. But I have heard enough for now.' With that they rolled into their blankets and slept.

  The next morning, Conan awoke before the others. The night was still upon them, only a grey line in the far east promising the dawn. He rose, stretched, and enjoyed the early morning breeze. The last watchman nodded over the smoky ashes of the fire, a spear slanted over his shoulder. He looked around for Goma but did not see the man.

  Within minutes, the camp began to stir: Wulfrede was up, kicking at his men to roll out of their blankets and face the day's march. When he came to greet Conan the east was a red glow with a pale blue rim.

  'A good day for a trek,' said the Van. 'It is cool.'

  'Only until the sun is high,' Conan said. He looked back the way they had come, up the slope of the mountain. 'We may have to ... Crom! What is that?' His eye had caught something at the mountain crest.

  'Eh? What do you see?' He followed the direction of Conan's gaze. Then he saw it too. 'Ymir!'

  It was a glitter of metal. The sun, still invisible to them,

  already cast its rays upon the top of the mountain, and from there it was reflected back.

  'Men coming through the pass,' Conan said. 'Armed men on our trail.'

  'Natives, do you think?'

  'Nay. You've seen their spears. They never polish them, just grease them against the wet and let them get foul. They never gleam like that. This is our friend of the black ship, following us still.'

  'The Stygian?'

  'Who else? He has dogged our heels since we left Khemi, never far behind.'

  The Van chuckled and scratched in his beard. 'A wise speculator keeps close track of his investment, but this is extreme.'

  'He's doing more than keep track,' Conan said as more glitters announced the arrival of more armed men through the pass. 'He intends to let us take all the risks and gain the treasure, then take it from us by force.'

  'He may be in for a surprise if he thinks that,' said Wulfrede. 'My crew may not be the prettiest that ever sailed, or the most obedient, but they are hard fighters.'

  'Aye, I own they are that, but they grow fewer all the time.'

  'Surely he must be suffering loss himself. He has come through the same country. Ah, Conan, perhaps we had best not tell the men of this just yet.'

  'Aye, that would be wise,' the Cimmerian agreed.

  'The Aquilonians either.'

  'Why not them?' Conan asked.

  'You know Ulfilo by now. He is a warrior as fine as any, I'll warrant, but he has a high noble's overgrown sense of honour. If he thinks that Stygian priest has betrayed him, as surely the scum has, he'll want to charge up the mountain and fight him. We are not ready for that. We must be prepared, and in a good position, before we fight them.'

  'Aye, that would be the wisest thing,' Conan agreed.

  Wulfrede boxed him on a shoulder. 'Then let us be about getting these men across the desert.'

  Conan watched Wulfrede's broad back as he walked back toward the fire. He was willing to abide by the man's advice for the nonce. The Van was canny and a fine leader of men, but Conan still did not trust him. He glanced up at the pass again. There was no further glitter of steel. Apparently the entire party had passed through, but he had been unable to judge its numbers. He suspected that he would find out all too soon.

  They filled their skins, took a last, long drink, and set off.

  'Where is Goma?' asked Ulfilo as they began. 'Has that black rogue deserted us?'

  'We will find him up ahead,' Conan said. 'He is a strange one, but for his own reasons he wants to go where we go. He'll not be far away.'

  'This does not look so bad,' Malia said, studying the barren ground ahead and to the sides of them. 'It is hard land, but it is not miserable, like the jungle, and the going is far easier than going up and down that wretched mountain.' She looked fresher and more cheerful than at any time since the long march began.

  'The hardships of the desert are of a different sort,' Conan said. 'Here it is the heat and the dryness that kill. No man can carry enough water, for you always sweat out more. You just hope it will keep you alive until the next water hole.'

  'I wonder whether these water bags are a futility,' said Springald, who had a sizeable skin slung across his back, changing his usual scurry step into a slow trudge. 'For it seems to me that because of the extra weight, you sweat that much more. Why not just die of thirst in relative comfort?'

  'There is Goma,' said Conan, pointing ahead.

  Malia squinted eastward, but the sun glared into her eyes. 'I see no one.'

  'He's there,' Conan assured her.

  Minutes later they could all see him. Goma stood leaning on his axe, his ankles crossed, wrapped closely from knees to shoulders in his russet robe.

  'What have you found?' Conan asked as they caught up with the guide.

  'No one has passed this way for a long time. And there are no signs of a recent rain. That means the first water hole will almost certainly be dry. It is not spring-fed.'

  'Predators?' Ulfilo asked.

  'Not here. As we near the water sources, we must be careful.'

  Springald looked about. 'There is no cover here. How could they get close?'

  Goma's grin was white in his dark face. 'There is more cover here than you would think. Watch every rock you pass carefully. It could conceal a lion.'

  The sun rose higher, and the day grew hotter. By noon the men were gasping. In this open land they did not need to travel single file and they began to spread out, each man taking the ground that seemed easiest to him. Ulfilo called a halt and they rested, but there was no shade and the men suffered beneath the blazing sun. Stern warnings were issued to ration the water, but there was no way to keep the men from surreptitiously pulling at the waterskins as they marched.

  At sunset they reached the first water hole. As Goma had predicted, it was nearly dry, only a muddy puddle in its centre, the marks of lizards and snakes all around its periphery. They built a fire of dry brush and settled down for an exhausted sleep.

  'And this is only the first day,' said Malia. She had lost her earlier good spirits when the terrible fact of the desert heat sank in.

  'Why did your Captain Belphormis cross this desert?' Conan asked. 'He was merely scouting trade routes. Surely he would have turned back when he saw that he confronted such a dry land.'

  'Climates change over the centuries,' Springald said, 'although no man knows why. In Belphormis's day, this was a semiarid grassland, much like that on the other side of the

  mountain. For some reason the rain stopped falling here, and now it is a desert.'

  Conan nodded. 'I have seen ruined cities in other deserts, and in swampy jungles as well. At some time, they must have been surrounded by fertile fields.'

  'Just so. In legend, such places always fall unde
r the curse of some god or other. In truth, it is usually something less exciting. The land loses its fertility, or there is too much rain, or too little. Men must eat, and if the land will not support them, they must go elsewhere. All civilisation depends upon cropland and grazing land. Where those do not exist, only nomads can eke out an existence.'

  'Are there ruined cities in this desert, Goma?' Malia asked.

  'I have seen places where once there were many huts,' Goma said. 'Huts far larger than those of the coast, and made of stone. Of who built them and lived in them, there are not even legends.'

  'You see?' Springald said. 'This land was once fertile. And perhaps before that it was a desert as it is now, over and over in a cycle.'

  'The sea stays where it is and what it is,' Wulfrede said. 'A man can trust the sea.'

  'Not necessarily,' Springald said. 'For the sea now rolls over storied Atlantis, and the convulsion in which that land sank changed the coastline. Why, the city of Amapur in Turan was once a port, and has the remains of huge stone wharfs, yet it lies more than a hundred leagues from the nearest—'

  'Peace, Springald. Go to sleep before you talk us all to death.' Ulfilo's voice was stern but not without affection. Amid the others' laughter, Springald grumbled to silence.

  The next day was worse. The heat was greater, the desert was rockier, and the water was already very low in the flattened skins. The boots, shoes, and sandals the men had worn at the beginning of the trek had been deteriorating from the start, and now the hard desert floor was quickly reducing them to shreds.

  Only Conan and Goma, neither of whom now wore footgear, showed no distress at this development.

  'Their feet will toughen,' Conan said.

  'But will mine?' Springald mused. He walked as if upon hot coals, and the sensation was not far from that. His footgear was of far higher quality than that of the mariners, but his soles were growing thin and he felt the heat of the ground through them as through mere parchment.

  'Try walking a little while without boots each day,' Conan advised. 'A little longer each time.'

  'Excellent idea,' said Springald. 'That way, when we reach the edge of the desert, and I no longer need to worry about the hot stones, I shall have feet as tough as yours.'

  Conan grinned. 'And you'll have survived the desert and will have nothing to complain about.'

  Ulfilo trudged on, stoically pretending that he felt nothing. Conan knew that the man would die rather than betray the first hint of suffering. Malia was as proud, but could not help wincing when a new pain struck her. Unlike her brother-in-law, she had not been raised in a hard military school. The Cimmerian smiled grimly as he watched them. He always admired fortitude, even when he had little liking for those who displayed it.

  The sailors were another matter. They grumbled and complained but Conan took little note of that. At this stage there was very little they could do save follow their leaders and trudge on. As for the other followers, he had plans for them as well, but now was not the time . . .

  'Water ahead!' called Goma. He had forged ahead of them that morning and now stood atop a low ridge a hundred paces before them. The sailors broke into a shuffling trot, baying like hounds.

  'Belay that!' cried Wulfrede. 'You'll kill yourselves running in this heat and be there no sooner. Walk and we'll all reach water alive.' The men slowed reluctantly, but their mood changed upon the instant. They smiled and even chuckled, even

  though their dry, swollen tongues prevented them from talking much.

  As the sun lowered behind them, stretching their shadows, they reached the water hole. It was surrounded by a maze of animal tracks but all wildlife had fled at the approach of these strange creatures. When the water was in sight the sailors were impossible to restrain. They broke into a ragged run and flopped to their bellies, facedown in the water.

  'Stop that, you dogs!' Wulfrede roared. 'Fill your water-skins and let it settle before you drink!'

  'It's no use,' Conan told him. 'Leave them be, and hope they suffer no more than bellyaches.'

  'Aye,' said the shipmaster, shaking his head. 'But as soon as they've drunk their fill they'll be complaining of hunger. We've reached the last of our food.'

  'We must stay here a day or two,' said Conan.

  'Wherefore?' demanded Ulfilo. 'We must press on.'

  'The men are worn, they must repair their footwear as best they can,' said Conan. 'Also, we shall have to hunt if we're to have food for the rest of the journey.'

  Ulfilo brooded. 'Very well,' he said at last.

  That night, as the moon rose, Conan sought out Goma. 'Let's go hunting tonight,' he proposed.

  'For desert gazelle?' Goma asked. 'They are not easy to hunt at night, when the big cats are after them. Early morning is better.'

  Conan smiled. 'Not gazelle. Men.'

  'What men?' asked Goma, frowning.

  'The men who have been trailing us since the trek began. Since long before that, for they were trailing us when we were still upon the sea. You have been concentrating upon the road ahead of us, my friend. I have been watching that behind.' He described what he and Wulfrede had seen on the morning they left the mountain behind.

  'And what will we do when we find them?' Goma asked.

  'I will know when we see them. At the very least, I want to

  count their numbers and learn how they are armed. We must expect attack from them sooner or later.'

  Goma twirled his axe idly. 'Very well. It will break up a march that grows tedious.'

  When all the others slept, replete with cool water, Conan and Goma slipped away. They glided over the path of the day's march like birds, no longer held to the speed of plodding sailors. Twice they passed little groups of gazelle, and the sensitive beasts never noticed. Keen-eyed cats saw the two and watched warily, but they were not about to attack any such unfamiliar things.

  Once, they stopped for a while as something crossed the path ahead of them. It was just a dark shape in the pale moonlight, but it was ten paces long, crawling low to the ground with jagged spikes ranged along its spine. When it was safely past, they continued.

  By the time the moon was at its height, they saw the light of fires on the desert to the west. Now they slowed and approached more cautiously.

  'Sentries,' Conan whispered.

  'I see them,' Goma answered. He held up his axe. 'Kill them?'

  'See if we can get by them first. I must get closer. They might make noise if we kill them now.''

  Silently the two crept forward. Wisely, Sethmes had stationed his sentries in pairs, to keep one another alert. Unwisely, the pairs were too far apart. The stalkers slipped between two of the pairs without notice. Conan caught the gleam of armour from the men. Sethmes had brought soldiers, or bravos willing to bear armour in the terrible heat. They drew closer to the firelight.

  It was a large party, at least a hundred figures sat around the fires. There was a low babble of voices, and of sounds that were not voices at all. Goma stretched a long arm toward one of the fires. ' 'Bumbana! But they wear clothes and bear arms of steel!'' Even in a whisper, his astonishment was plain.

  'These are a different lot from those on the mountain,' Conan said. 'I saw their like up north, in Stygia.'

  Crouched low, sometimes dropping and crawling on their bellies, the two circled the encampment. The tropic sun had turned Conan almost as brown as Goma, so that he was all but invisible in the shadows. He had blackened his spear with soot before setting out, and Goma had done the same with his axe.

  Conan was looking for Sethmes. He did not think it likely that the archpriest would entrust this mission to a subordinate. Wulfrede had said that no man could be trusted where great treasure was concerned, and it was as true for Stygians as for Vanir, Aquilonians, and sea-rovers. If Sethmes truly expected to lay hands upon the treasure with this expedition, then he would lead it himself. He was using the expeditions of Marandos and Ulfilo as cat's paws. Conan was unsure why the man had made such elaborate prepara
tions, but he suspected that the dangers were so numerous that Sethmes wanted his predecessors to spring all the traps and take all the losses, leaving the priest to walk in and collect the reward others had earned with their blood and suffering.

  He found him at the central fire. The priest was unmistakable, with his great height and his sombre mien. With him sat two evil-faced men who wore light armour of the finest quality. He recognised the harness as the uniform of the Great Ptah regiment, an elite guards corps. These must be officers cashiered for some villainy unacceptable even to the priest-kings of Stygia, for they wore no rank insignia.

  'Master,' said one of the officers, a man with a pointed chin-beard and a pockmarked face, 'is it truly necessary to keep to this snail's pace? We could march at twice this speed.'

  'Aye,' said the other, whose identical beard was dyed red. 'At this rate, we will be in this accursed land far longer than necessary.'

  'You will be patient and follow my instructions to the letter. You and the rest of the soldiers have spent many years in Stygian service, and are accustomed to desert campaigning. Those ahead of us are not. They are seafaring scum, Aquilonian nobles, and

  northern savages. We must stay behind them, out of sight. And it is imperative that they reach the Horns before we do.'

  'And why is that, master?' asked the first.

  'It is of no ... what is it?' At a nearby fire, one of the bumbana stood and stared out into the darkness, straining his tiny eyes in the direction where Conan and Goma lay. His head was canted slightly back on his bull neck, as if he were sniffing an unfamiliar scent on the breeze. Conan bit back a curse. The faint nighttime wind was blowing directly from him to the camp. He had taken every precaution to avoid being seen or heard, but it had not occurred to him that the priest would be accompanied by keen-nosed creatures. The apeman grunted some crude, half-formed syllables.

  'He smells men!' said Sethmes. 'That way!'

  'How far?' asked one of the officers.

  'He says not far,' rejoined the priest.

  'Desert nomads?' hazarded the red-bearded man.

  'Possibly,' said Sethmes. 'I doubt those we follow have the craft to sneak near us, evading desert-trained guards. Khopshef, take some men out there and search for them.' The redbeard jumped to do his bidding. 'Geb, you take others and double the guard.' The priest gabbled out some incomprehensible words and the apemen sprang from their fires. Spreading out, they began to fan cautiously into the darkness, snuffling the air as they went.