The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  'I was just clearing some possible obstacles out of the way, Conan,' Wulfrede said. Behind him, the Cimmerian could see Springald stretched out upon the floor, senseless. Another obstacle eliminated.

  'I should have taken your words more to heart, redbeard,' Conan said.

  'Aye, blackhair. No man is to be trusted where great treasure is concerned! That is from the Poem of Good Advice. I have ever heeded its teachings.'

  'It was you who roused the sailors against me on the voyage and the journey inland!'

  'At last you acquire wisdom, albeit far too late.'

  'You are as foolish as the rest! How will you carry more than a packload of this wealth from here? Even if the priest would allow you to have it.' This caused Conan to wonder where Sethmes had gone. Then he saw the man atop the treasure heap, standing behind Malia, his hands upon her shoulders. There was a stirring in the waters they faced.

  'A packload would finance a well-equipped expedition to come back here and clean up the rest,' Wulfrede said. 'But that is not necessary. Even now, the priest's beast-men come hither. King Nabo would not allow them within his city, nor could they encamp near it, so Sethmes sent them into the hills nearby. They come to join him now, and it is they who will carry this treasure away.'

  'Then it will be his treasure, not yours,' Conan said. 'He will have his bumbana kill you.'

  'I think not. You see, he will need both ships to bear the treasure back, and who is to command the Sea Tiger if not I? She will have only a few skilled mariners to man her. He needs a fine seaman to con her back north. Whatever his plans for me—' He shrugged. 'Many things can happen at sea, my friend.' With that, the Van lunged. Their blades locked, he laughed in Conan's face. 'And I think you must be very tired from your recent exertions!'

  Indeed, Conan was bone-weary. The constant fighting had

  taken a toll even upon his iron strength. The Van was a huge, powerful man and he used his strength to force the Cimmerian back. Conan was able to do little save parry the redbeard's swift blows and give ground. His chest heaved and sweat drenched his body as he backed away. Then he was aware that he was standing in water. The Van had forced him back into the lake inlet. The water-glowed and bubbled around his knees and Conan felt a thrill of horror.

  'You blackhairs were ever a hard lot to kill,' Wulfrede cried, puffing already from the effort of keeping his sword in constant motion. It was the only way to keep his enemy's deadly blade occupied.

  'And you Vanir were ever a race of traitors!' Conan gasped. 'I should never have believed you my friend!' The Van's next blow almost split his skull. He blocked it in time to keep the damage to a scalp cut.

  'Alas, how true. Farewell, Cimmerian!' His blade knocked Conan's aside and went back for a body-cleaving blow. Then his eyes widened in surprised horror. Something thick and rubbery had wrapped itself around his waist.

  Now, horrified, Conan saw the tremendous bulk of the lake-thing. It towered behind the Van, filling the whole watery end of the subterranean cave. The stench that came from it defied comprehension. The tentacles raised the redbeard high and began to squeeze. Amid inhuman screams, Conan stumbled from the water. He began to run for the stair, then saw that Springald rolled upon the floor, groaning. Wulfrede had but knocked him on the head with his pommel. The Cimmerian stooped and began to drag him along.

  Springald's eyes opened and he looked about him, taking in the terrifying spectacle. 'Save Malia!' he gasped. 'She does not deserve this!'

  Conan looked up the glittering slope and saw that the priest still stood behind the throne where the woman sat, her eyes wide with fear, apparently paralysed. Aghla danced and capered in

  ecstasy as the monster hulked ever nearer, reaching with its multitude of arms.

  'Crom curse me for a fool!' Conan released Springald and began to climb up the treasure heap. The enigmatic crystals and wands and instruments shifted beneath him as he made his way upward. From time to time he risked a glance at the ever-nearing monster. It was now enclosed in a continuous net of red lightning.

  'Now!' cried Sethmes triumphantly. 'Now, I have completed the spell, fulfilling the prophecy! The power of the lake-creature and the power of ancient Python are joined!'

  A thin tentacle whipped out and snatched Aghla in mid-whirl. The ancient hag squealed in shrill terror as she was raised high. Then the tentacle snapped out, casting her spinning through the air to smash against a far wall.

  Conan shoved the priest aside and hauled the woman from the throne.

  'No!' screamed Sethmes. 'The White Queen must be joined with the being from beyond the stars! It is prophesied!'

  'Find another,' Conan growled. 'I am taking this one.'

  Sethmes stooped and raised a crystal-tipped wand. Fire began to coruscate along its length as he pointed it toward the Cimmerian's chest.

  'The treasure is mine!' shrieked Marandos, diving upon the priest. Lightning seemed to spread all over the madman as the two wrestled atop the heap of gold.

  With Malia slung across his shoulder, the Cimmerian trudged down the glittering pile. He was anxious to be away, but he dared not stumble. When he reached the base, he found Springald weaving on his feet. With a brawny arm thrust beneath the schoolman's, Conan began to drag them all toward the stairway.

  As they reached the stair portal, they were joined by Khefi. The slave had come running from some obscure corner of the cavern and he carried something in one hand. For unknown reasons, he was grinning and laughing.

  'Help me!' Conan ordered. Khefi grabbed Springald and began to tug him up the stairs.

  The hellish noise behind him caused Conan to turn for a last look. The monster was out of the water now, and its tentacles reached out to embrace the treasure hoard. Two human figures still struggled atop it, oblivious of the thing that loomed over them. Then the vast bulk came down crushing them and covering the entire golden hill. The red lightning that covered it winked out, and it began to glow from within. Then, in a manner not to be described in any human language, it began to change.

  Conan whirled and charged up the steps. His fatigue was great, and carrying the woman over his shoulder did not help, but the thing behind them gave him redoubled strength and energy. By the time they were near the top of the stair, he legs felt as if they were made of molten metal. Still he toiled on. Then he heard a rumbling from behind them, a sound of rushing waters that drew ever closer.

  'Climb, damn you!' he shouted. Khefi and Springald were staggering, almost at the end of their powers.

  Abruptly, water surged around the Cimmerian's ankles. He could just see the light of the doorway above. Then the water rose to his knees, coming up the stairwell faster than he could ascend it. The water was at his waist as he reached the upper landing, and he was swimming when he made it into the tower chamber in a rush of bubbling, glowing water.

  The gasping Cimmerian was washed out through the tower's doorway and into the courtyard beyond, where the unconfined water spread out and deposited him and his burden to the pavement. He lay there, catching his breath, stars of exhaustion dancing before his eyes. Nearby he heard someone laughing. With what energy he had left, the Cimmerian sat up. Nearby, Springald lay sprawled, vomiting water onto the pavement. Standing by Springald was Khefi. It was he who laughed, admiring something that he gripped in one hand.

  'What in the name of all devils are you laughing about?' Conan demanded. 'And what is that you bore away from the chamber? Did you get away with some of the treasure?'

  'Much better than that,' said Khefi. 'King Goma will reward me richly when I bring him this!' He held out a small, round object. It was the hideous head of Aghla. It wore the expression of inhuman terror it had acquired when the hag's god had seized her.

  'At least someone was keeping his wits about him down

  there,' Conan said.

  They had no more than a few minutes to recuperate when the barbarian's keen ears detected sounds from downslope.

  'The bumbana!' he groaned. 'I had forgotten
them!' With Khefi, he staggered to the parapet of the fortress wall. Far below them, the lake roiled and glowed eerily. Springald managed to stagger up beside them. Malia lay where she was, unconscious. Up the slope, still near the lake, came the shambling forms of the bumbana.

  'We must be away from here!' Springald cried.

  'Where will we run?' Conan said. 'We would be visible for miles on these slopes, and we cannot go fast if we carry Malia.'

  'Perhaps we can barricade ourselves in the tower—'

  'Look!' Khefi shouted, pointing.

  The centre of the lake began to bulge upward, as it had when the monster came to feed, but this time there was a difference. This was beneath the sun of late afternoon, and the water did not glow sullen, bloody red, but rather it shone almost white. The dull-witted bumbana turned to see what was happening behind them.

  Abruptly, with a hissing, thunderous roar, the surface of the lake burst open and something erupted from it. So blindingly bright was the light that it was as if the sun had risen from beneath the lake. Within the great glow was something transcendently strange and bright. It roared upward until it disappeared into the clouds overhead, illuminating them from within, briefly. Then it was gone.

  The waters of the lake burst from their banks and tumbled up the slopes, knocking the bumbana from their feet and tumbling them like bits of straw. Then the waters lost their impetus and flowed back down the slopes into the bed of the lake. There was no trace left of the apemen.

  'It has gone back whence it came,' said Springald. 'Or continued on the journey interrupted so long ago. Who knows? Perhaps its stay here was a trifling delay to such a creature. And who knows how. much of human history it influenced? Did the I Hybori destroy Python because it needed this power? Did the royal house of Python dwell obscurely in Stygia for a hundred genera-lions so that Sethmes could devise the spells to unlock that power for its use? Surely, Sethmes thought to bend the thing to his own will, while he was acting according to its will all the time.'

  'Springald,' Conan said, rubbing a hand across his weary brow, 'ere now, out of friendship, I have avoided saying this. But you talk too much.'

  Together, they carried Malia to a deserted hut and Conan ordered Springald to rest and watch over her. Then he turned to Khefi.

  'You have had an easy time of it today. I want you to go to King Goma. Tell him I am ready to claim my reward. Tell him to send men to carry my friends.'

  'I am half dead with weariness,' Khefi said, 'but I shall do as you say. Perhaps I will return a free man, as part of my reward.'

  When Khefi was gone Conan found another deserted hut and crawled inside. Laying his weapons within easy reach, he stretched out upon his back and instantly slept like a dead man.

  'Is this truly what you want?' Goma asked the Cimmerian. 'Just to provide your friends with a strong escort to the coast? The valley is clean now, with the thing gone.' He swept an arm to indicate the lake. Its waters now sparkled, clean as a mountain tarn. 'Abide here. I will give you many wives and herds of fat cattle.'

  'I thank you, but it would be too dull for my taste. We have slain all the interesting people.'

  Goma threw back his head and laughed. 'My wanderings are at

  an end, but I think you have a long road to tread ere your heart finds peace. I am not without gold. Let me fill a purse for you.'

  Conan shook his head. 'It would just slow me down. I would travel light. When I get near civilisation once more, I shall find gold. When there is gold to be had, I never have much trouble filling my purse.'

  'Farewell, then. You are the strangest of the many strangers I have met.'

  The Cimmerian went to make his farewells to his companions. Malia was healthy, but she wore a haunted look, and she had not spoken since the ordeal of the cavern.

  'I wish you would come with us, my friend,' said Springald.

  'You have no need of me. I said I would lead you to Marandos, and so I did. Nothing calls me to the coast. Goma will give you a strong party of warriors and bearers, so you need fear nothing. The men Wulfrede left with the Sea Tiger should be able to work the ship back up the coast.'

  Springald took his hand. 'It is the library for me, then. Set take my bones if I ever try to make a voyage of my own again!' And so they parted.

  Two days of leisurely walking brought the Cimmerian through a narrow defile in the mountains to the east of Goma's valley. The slopes below him were carpeted with a dense growth of forest. The forest stretched away to the horizon, an awesome vista of the vast life-force of the Black Lands. Among the trees he could see moving many strange, huge animals. The savage land called to Conan, as strange places always called to him.

  For now, treasure was nothing. civilisation was less than nothing. Near-naked, with only his weapons, his wits, his great strength, and his unending lust for adventure, he had all he could ever want. In himself he embodied the savage spirit of the wilderness.

  He paused for a few moments at the edge of the great darkness beneath the trees. Then, silent as a spirit of the forest, he disappeared within.

  Conan the Rogue

  John Maddox Roberts

  I

  The Small Man

  The cup of hardened leather slammed down upon a table stained with spilled wine and scarred with the nicks and gouges of a hundred bar-room brawls. The hand that gripped the cup was equally scarred, the thick wrist banded with a broad bracelet of coral-studded bronze, as much a defence as an ornament. The hand snatched up the cup to reveal four dice, each showing a different face: the serpent, the dog, the skull, and the dagger.

  'The beggar!' crowed a voice, naming the lowest score in dicing. 'You lose, Cimmerian!'

  'Set!' cursed the unfortunate gambler. He addressed the ivory cubes. 'All the gods curse you and the beast from whose teeth you were carved!'

  The winner, a sharp-faced man whose red hair was cropped close to his scalp, scooped up his winnings: a pile of silver coins, amid which the torchlight winked from a few thin golden coins of Nemedia. More luridly gleamed the many golden chains depending from his neck and the jewels that flashed upon his fingers, the trophies of a long winning streak.

  'That cleans me out,' the loser said, staring glumly into the interior of the dice cup. Its ridged surface ensured that the dice would tumble correctly. He saw no signs that it had been tampered with. And he knew that the dice were honest. They were as honest as dice could be, at any rate. The man who sat across from him was hard, but he knew better than to cheat Conan the Cimmerian, who had somehow lately been deserted by fortune.

  The Cimmerian set the cup on the table and leaned back against the carved wooden pillar behind him. He brooded upon the many vicissitudes of fortune. He and his companions had hired on for a minor campaign when a border satrap rebelled against the king of Nemedia. They had been in the storming party when the border lord's citadel had been taken, and came through the fight with few losses and rich loot.

  With purses bulging, they had come here, to Belverus, and settled down at The Sword and Sceptre to drink, carouse and gamble for their takings. One by one, as they lost their loot, the others had left to seek employment for their swords. It had come down to Conan and the red-haired man, whose name was Ingolf. Now Ingolf was the final winner.

  'You've still your sword,' Ingolf pointed out. 'Do you want to wager it on another roll of the dice?'

  Conan touched the weapon that leaned in its leather sheath against the pillar. It was a long, straight-bladed brand, with hilt and pommel of plain steel, its handgrip of unornamented bone. It was severely plain, the way Conan liked all his weapons.

  'Nay, for with this I will win yet more gold.'

  Ingolf shrugged. 'As you will. Let me stand you to a final mug of ale before you go forth to seek your fortune.' It was a traditional gambler's courtesy, and Conan nodded assent.

  The serving wench who brought the ale had shown Conan much favour in the past few days, but now that he was clean of cash, she had not so much as a smile for
him. Ingolf she treated as if he were her long-lost lover, suddenly returned from the wars.

  Like the dice cup, the ale mug was made of leather, and it smelled faintly of the pitch with which its interior was water-

  proofed. Leaning against the pillar, the Cimmerian hooked a thumb into his broad, nail-studded belt as he raised the jack and drank. His sleeveless vest revealed strongly muscled arms and a neck corded like a great ship's anchor cable. His baggy knee-breeches and fur-topped boots showed long service and now, along with the sword, were his only possessions. Days before, he had gambled away horse and saddle, bow and arrows, lance, shield, even his dagger. It was nothing. He enjoyed the profligate life, and he would always find a means of livelihood with his warrior skills. As long as he had those, everything else was replaceable.

  He set down the half-empty cup and studied his surroundings, as if seeking inspiration by which to restore his fortunes. The prospect was not promising. The hour was late and the cookfires had burned to embers. The few remaining patrons of The Sword and Sceptre drank or gambled with little fervour Most of the paid-off veterans of the recent campaign had been picked clean days before. At one table sat a lone man whose trousers, jacket and head scarf were made of silk and dyed a strange shade of violet. He seemed to be watching Conan intently, but the Cimmerian ignored him. He wanted nothing to do with any man who would wear clothes of such a colour

  It was a typical soldiers' den, decorated with obsolete weapons and painted wooden busts of famous Nemedian generals from past centuries. Many of these busts showed signs of having served as targets for dagger-throwing contests. The serving women were at least as attractive as the wooden generals. Conan finished his ale and rose. He hooked the sword's hanger to the rings on his belt.

  'Farewell, Ingolf. Perhaps we'll meet again and I will be as lucky in gaming as in war, for a change.'

  The red-haired man nodded. 'Wars are many and good warriors few. We'll meet again.' The two gripped wrists. Left unspoken was the likelihood that, next time, they might be on opposite sides. That meant nothing to professionals.