The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  'They would consider my people to be simple savages,' Conan growled. 'But we would hew them down for being mad fools.'

  'We Vanir are a more civilised folk. We would sacrifice them to one of our lesser gods since they are worthless for anything else.'

  'Yet Ulfilo is a great fighting man,' Conan said. 'And

  Springald is an amusing fellow and loyal to his friends. No, the prospect of treasure has made them mad. They want to believe that they can just walk in, find it lying somewhere convenient, and leave with it. And, wanting to believe, they do not recognise the difficulties they face.'

  'Perhaps not,' said the Van, 'but harken to my words. If that treasure is here, I shall not leave without my part of it.' The blue eyes were frosty, and Conan knew that the shipmaster I was not to be dissuaded.

  He had known the Nordheimer people, the Æsir and the Vanir, from earliest youth. They were an uproarious, pleasure-loving people who revelled alike in bloodshed, feasting, fine raiment, and beautiful ships. Above all they loved gold, silver, jewels, and other precious things. Their greed at times approached madness.

  Conan, a son of the dour Cimmerian race, was not quite so single-minded in his pursuit of these things. He liked them well enough, setting him apart from his mountain-bred kin. When he lived in the civilised lands, it gave him pleasure to win gold in order to live prodigally for a while. But always he had to turn back to the hard warrior's life of savage blows and cruel conditions, and these suited him as well. Wealth had never been an end in itself to Conan.

  Now, amid the wonders and terrors of the black lands, the attractions of treasure seemed remote to him. Back in Asgalun, the prospect of high pay and a share in the treasure had been pleasant. Here it all seemed unreal. From the day they began their trek inland, he had shed the veneer of civilisation and reverted to his origins. The wonders and splendours through which they had come had long since purged him of greed. He wanted to see more of this wondrous land. Gold would merely encumber him. Still, he had accepted this mission, and he would see it to its conclusion, no matter how foolish it had become to him. Conan had never accepted pay without rendering value.

  They were unprepared for the sight that greeted them at the end of the march.

  'It is a city!' Malia gasped.

  Indeed, the wall that towered before them would not have disgraced one of the major cities of Aquilonia, Nemedia, or any of the other great habitations of the Hyborian nations. Beyond l he wall they could see lofty towers and the rooftops of huge buildings. Upon the great wall were carved strange, arcane figures in low relief.

  'Surely these village folk did not build such a place!' said Wulfrede.

  'Nay,' said Springald in an awed, hushed voice. 'I think we look upon the architecture of ancient Python, perhaps the only example yet in existence! Think of it! The nation and city were obliterated, the Hyborian invaders leaving not so much as a stone standing upon another. Yet here, in the far reaches of the black lands, a city of that empire still stands.'

  'I like it not,' Conan said. 'If they came here to hide the royal treasure, why did they build an entire city? Look at the size of those stones!'

  Now they were close enough to see what the Cimmerian meant. The masonry of the wall was indeed Cyclopean. The smallest stones were at least as large as the one that they had found fallen in the pass. Many of them were far larger.

  ' 'I judge the lintel stone above the gate to be fully twenty-five paces in length,' said Ulfilo. 'I'd not want to be the general assigned to reduce this place with rams and siege engines.'

  They were not permitted any leisure to examine the wall more closely, but were marched through the gate and into the city beyond.

  'Taking this place would not be such a task after all,' Conan noted. 'Look at the condition of the gate.'

  'What gate?' Malia asked. 'I see no gate.'

  'That is what I meant,' Conan answered. 'The timbers have long since rotted away and the metal work has been scavenged.'

  'Aye,' said Springald, pointing to a number of square holes in the uprights supporting the tremendous lintel. 'See, there are where the great hinges were attached. Wood and metal do not

  last the way stone does. The wood is long since rotted away, and these people, or their ancestors or some other people who passed this way, took the metal to make weapons.'

  'Let us hope that is all they took,' Wulfrede grumbled.

  Indeed, they could now see that most of the city was ruinous. Temples stood roofless and abandoned, as did other huge buildings that might have been theatres or law courts or covered markets. Smaller buildings were inhabited, incongruously roofed with thatch.

  The city seemed to have a sizeable population, with an unusually large proportion of warriors, all of these wearing white or black feathers. Workers in wood and metal plied their crafts beneath shades of thatch or woven fibre, and women pounded grain in large mortars with club-like pestles of hard wood. Goats, cattle, and poultry made the air noisy and fragrant. The larger animals grazed in what might once have been public parks, or the gardens and orchards of the wealthy. The scene was fairly typical of native villages in this part of the world, save for its bizarre setting amid the ruins of a great and uncanny city.

  They passed a market where beasts were slaughtered and cut up on the spot and where hunters hawked the flesh of wild game. At one end of the market huge fish, half the size of a man, were strung like beads from cords passed through their gills.

  'At least I see no man-meat for sale,' said a sailor. 'That's a comfort.'

  'But where do they catch such fish?' queried another. 'Surely not in the streams we have passed here.' The fish were not merely large, but seemed somehow misshapen. Their bulbous heads bore flat faces that seemed repellently humanoid, and their forward pair of ventral fins bore five bony ribs, making them resemble webbed hands.

  'I do not know about the rest of you,' Malia said queasily, 'but should we be offered fish to eat here, I think I will pass.'

  They had picked up a large following of town idlers, and some who had dropped their labour to see this new wonder. They passed between two pedestals that had once borne colossal statues, now toppled, and entered a broad square framed by scant, ruinous buildings. Its paving stones were a lurid red colour, and at the far end of it stood a cylindrical tower fully a hundred feet high, its preserved condition explained by the massiveness of its masonry, which was again of the Cyclopean. A continuous belt of relief sculpture ascended the tower in a spiral, interrupted only by occasional, narrow windows.

  'How many fled Python with the treasure?' Conan asked.

  'But a few shiploads,' said Springald, stunned by the fragmentary splendours all around them.

  'Then what did they use for a labour force?' the Cimmerian demanded. 'It can take all the men of a province to build a Stygian royal tomb, and they can be a lifetime building it.'

  'I. . . know not, but there must be an explanation,' Springald stammered. 'Perhaps they found this valley abundantly peopled, and forced the inhabitants into slavery.'

  'Enough,' Ulfilo said. 'We have more important things to concern us.'

  Their escort halted before a stone platform that extended from the base of the tower. At intervals around the border of the platform were man-high posts, and atop each post was a grinning skull. Some of these were bleached white, others with some dried flesh still adhering, still others nearly fresh.

  'This has a grim look,' said Ulfilo.

  'See you any faces that look familiar?' Wulfrede asked. Malia shuddered at the question.

  'None of the more recent ones are white,' Springald said. 'As for the rest, all skulls look much alike.'

  There was motion visible within the doorway at the base of the tower, and all the people in the plaza, including their escort, fell to their faces. Each raised a right hand, palm toward the doorway, and shouted a rhythmic chant.

  The man who strode from the doorway was fully seven feet tall. His body was roped with heavy muscle, readily visible
since he wore little save ornaments and a brief leopard skin. He

  would have been handsome as well as imposing, but the decorative scarring customary with these people had been carried to an extreme in his case. Every square inch of his skin bore the scars, so that he appeared to be covered with a skintight garment of shiny black nodules.

  Just behind and to one side of the giant was a tiny, wizened creature of indeterminate gender. This grotesque being opened its pink toothless mouth and screamed something. Instantly, warriors of the escort leapt to their feet, grasped the travellers by the arms, and forced them to their knees.

  'I kneel to no savage!' Ulfilo shouted.

  'Ordinarily, neither do I,' said Wulfrede, dryly. 'In this case, however, it may be advisable.'

  'Aye, bear with shame for now,' Conan growled. 'Later is the time for revenge.'

  Behind the giant followed a colourful entourage. Some were women of exceptional beauty who bore fans, flowers, or pots of smoking incense. Dwarfs and others with grotesque deformities capered, and a band of stalwart musicians beat upon drums, blew horns, and shrilled upon pipes. A man whose face was painted as a death mask carried a sword slanted across his shoulder. Its blade was broad and swelling, squared off at the tip. No great guesswork was required to understand that this was an executioner.

  The giant said something and a man of medium height came forward. He wore a long robe striped red and blue, and a good many ornaments upon his arms and neck. To their great surprise, he addressed them in excellent Kushite.

  'Who are you, and why have you come to the land of King Nabo? Strangers from beyond are forbidden to tread upon the sacred land of the valley.'

  'And yet you are a stranger here by the look and sound of you,' said Conan. 'I'll warrant your sire and dam were a Stygian and a Kushite.'

  The man was astonished. 'I am indeed. I came here a slave, captured beyond the mountains and sold here by traders. I have been in service to King Nabo and am now a counsellor. I ask again what is your business here?'

  'We seek my brother,' said Ulfilo. 'His name is Marandos, and he led men hither some time back. We have reason to believe that he survived the accursed pass, and entered this kingdom.'

  'And what sought he here?'

  This was a delicate question, for they knew not what they l;iced. In the midst of a powerful and warlike people, they had agreed, it would be inadvisable to admit that they were on a looting expedition. Against such a contingency, a cover story had already been prepared.

  'My brother is a merchant, and he fared hither seeking new territories in which to trade his goods: metals and cloth and their wares from the north. Have you seen aught of him?'

  The man translated this. To their astonishment, the tiny, grotesque creature loosed a shrill laugh. Then it chattered something while pointing a scrawny, taloned finger at the newcomers.

  'Aghla says you lie!' furnished the translator. 'She says that you are treacherous thieves, come to plunder our land.' At least that settled the question of the creature's gender.

  'Wherefore says she this?' demanded Ulfilo, wounded in his dignity.

  'She says you come here seeking treasure, the ancient wealth of our gods.'

  'But what of Marandos?' Springald said.

  At that moment, someone in the crowd of onlookers sneezed. King Nabo glanced idly in the direction from which the sound had come and Aghla pointed toward the offender, screaming something. Instantly, guards plunged into the crowd and dragged forth a trembling wretch. He was a man dressed in a kilt and wearing no ornaments. From the wood shavings adhering to his skin and clothing, he was an artisan of some sort.

  The king waved casually to the skull-faced man. That worthy strode importantly to where the guards held the culprit down on his knees, with both arms behind his back. The force seemed

  unnecessary, for the man did not struggle, but behaved as if resigned to his fate. The executioner gripped the long handle of his glaive in both hands and commenced a whirling dance around the condemned man, accompanied by the drums of the musicians behind the king. He twirled his blade with ornate flourishes, from time to time springing in close enough to brush its edge against the skin on the back of his victim's neck.

  Each time he felt the cold iron, the man winced and twisted his face in an agony of dread. His face turned greyish and spittle dripped from his slack mouth. He looked more than half dead already.

  'Why will they not kill the poor fool cleanly?' Conan growled.

  'I think this king has a taste for the antic,' Springald said.

  With a demented howl, the executioner sprang into the air, whirled around twice, and came down an arm's length from the prisoner. The broad blade made a circular flash and the victim's head went spinning toward the dais, still wearing its expression of dread. The guards released the spasming corpse and it collapsed twitching to the ground, spouting blood from the stump of its neck.

  With a gobbling cry, Aghla sprang forward and seized the head. She held it high, dancing in the same manner as the executioner, unmindful of the blood that fell spattering the filthy rags she wore. She whirled her way to the dais and deposited the head upon a vacant post amid the laughter and applause of the crowd.

  'I do not know what this signifies,' said Springald, 'save that it is inadvisable to sneeze in the presence of the king.'

  'I hope the rules of etiquette at this court are not numerous,' Malia said.

  King Nabo said something to the translator. 'My king wishes to know who led you here.'

  'We followed the writings of an ancient traveller,' Springald explained. He held up one of his books. The translator took it and displayed it to the king, showing him how the pages turned. The king looked at a few pages, then spoke.

  'My king does not believe that marks on leaves can lead men across great and unknown lands. He wants to know who guided him here.'

  'But you do not understand,' Springald insisted. 'To one who knows the art, it is possible to learn even the secrets of faraway lands from writing.'

  'I understand this,' said the translator. 'I have seen many hooks, and can read Stygian. I will try to explain to King Nabo.' For a few minutes, the translator and the king conversed, but the monarch frowned and shook his head. Aghla listened closely, and interjected in a screeching, whining voice.

  'My king says that you must have had a guide to bring you through the dangers of the desert and the mountain, and Aghla says that your writing is a magic that has no power in this land.'

  'We do not come here to work magic,' Ulfilo said impatiently, 'but to search for my brother. Will you not tell us what you know of him?'

  'It is not wise to press King Nabo,' said the translator, nodding minutely toward the new-severed head.

  'Then tell the king that our intentions are entirely benevolent,' Springald said, 'and that we crave his protection and hospitality in this his land, while we search for our lost kinsman.'

  The translator relayed these words to the king. Nabo nodded, his lips curving into a smile. Aghla broke into raucous laughter, a sound that was, if anything, even more repulsive than her enraged screeching.

  'I do not like the sound of that,' Malia said uncomfortably.

  'What is that creature?' Wulfrede mused. 'Counsellor? Witch? Jester?'

  Conan snorted. 'She could be his mother for aught we know.''

  'I can believe that such a mother could produce such a son,' said Malia, 'for they're a pair of monsters.' They fell silent is the translator turned from the two.

  'My master bids you welcome. You shall stay here in his royal house, and this evening he will hold a great feast in your honour.'

  'We had best accept without reservation,' Springald said. 'Aye,' Conan affirmed, speaking Aquilonian, 'Our lives hang by a thread at this moment, and if we'd get away from here, with or without the treasure, we must know more about this place and its folk.'

  'Agreed,' said Ulfilo. Then, to the translator: 'Convey our heartiest thanks to your royal master, and inform him that we
are most grateful for his largesse after our long journey with its many hardships.'

  The king seemed to be satisfied with this answer. He spoke to the translator and to the mob of servants behind him, then he turned and walked back into the tower.

  'Come with me,' the translator said. 'You shall abide within the house of the king during your stay.''

  'I'd have preferred anywhere else,' Ulfilo muttered, 'but there is no help for it. Come on. Conan, Wulfrede, take good note of all the exits.'

  The Van chuckled. 'I always do, for is it not said in the Poem of Good Advice: 'Enter no house without finding all the doors and windows, for you may need to leave hastily, and not by the way you entered'?'

  'That sounds like the sort of poem a Van would compose,' said Malia, chuckling despite their situation.

  'We are a practical folk. That poem is full of such good precepts.'

  They followed the translator into the huge stone pile. Its interior was even more vast than the exterior hinted. The design of the place was exceedingly strange, for the walls, ceilings, and floors met at odd angles. Most of the floors were partial, so that one could look up and see several levels, and there were stone stairways and catwalks that seemed to go nowhere. In addition to the ancient stonework, the natives had added partitions and filings of wood, bamboo, and thatch. The whole inside buzzed and echoed with activity.

  'What madmen built such a place?' Conan asked.

  'I—I cannot say,' Springald stammered. 'The quality of the lonework is very similar to early Stygian, but the design—it is like nothing I have ever seen before, save in some terribly ancient drawings, long thought to have been the work of a demented artist.'

  The king and his entourage disappeared into some obscure part of the maze as the translator led Conan and his companions up a ramp, and thence up a series of stairways, to a lofty suite l rooms lighted by tall, narrow windows. Its walls and ceiling ad the same disturbing angles, but it was clean and the floor was strewn with fresh rushes.

  'Look!' Malia cried, pointing out one of the windows. They crowded to the window and gazed out, to their amazement, upon a broad lake. Its waters were exceedingly dark and seemed unnaturally still.