The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  'Good luck at the Skull,' said the mercenary.

  'And good luck to you with those women,' Conan said.

  You'll need it more than I.'

  He wandered down the dark streets into the lower town. He recalled that in his explorations, he had passed a sign shaped like a human skull, curiously wrought from strips of blackened iron, it was but a few streets' distance from the Wyvern, and as Conan approached it, he saw that lights burned in the eye sockets of the strange sign, providing the only illumination to be had on the street. Sacks of copper had been added to the flames, for they burned ominously green.

  Unlike the Wyvern, which was below street level, the Skull stood higher than the street, and Conan ascended a short flight of steps to its porch, beneath the skull sign. The door was closed against the chill of the night, and he grasped the massive bronze , to pull it open.

  Within, it was a far smaller establishment than the other, with only a scattering of tables. Besides a few women, all of ii inhabitants were men dressed in red leather. At his entrance, stared at him as if seeing an apparition. There were about a do; of them, and as soon as they were over their astonishment, they began to rise from their tables, snatching at their long swords.

  'Hold!' barked a stern voice from the rear of the room.

  Conan ignored them all as he crossed from the door to the bar. He displayed a slight unsteadiness as he moved, as though he were well into drink. He leaned on the bar and snapped his fingers at the woman behind it.

  'Wine!' the Cimmerian called. It was delivered and he drank. His ears told him that no one drew near. With his tankard half emptied, he turned and leaned back with his elbows on the bar. Every eye in the room glared at him. At the rear, a man sat alone at a table. He was older than the others, with a clean-shaven face and a dissipated mien, but he bore the unmistakable stamp of the Poitainian nobility. He dressed in red leathers, like his men, but his were elaborately tailored, and richly embroidered with silver and gold wire. The left breast was embroidered with the crest of a high family of Poitain, but the emblem was slashed with the jagged, horizontal bar that signified the bearer had been disinherited. The man seemed to wear the symbol as a sort of defiance.

  'You are a bold one to beard us in our very den,' said the man whom Conan knew could only be Ingas.

  'A brave hunter beards lions,' Conan sneered. 'It is not necessary to beard jackals.' There was another stirring among the thugs, and another calming gesture from their leader.

  'Who are you, Cimmerian?' Ingas demanded. 'Who has hired you to defy me? Who has paid you to slay my men?'

  'I work for none of your rivals,' Conan said. 'As for those three fools, it was they who set upon me. They behaved insolently from the time I arrived in this town. Finally they challenged me in public as I sat at dinner. That I do not tolerate.'

  'Aye,' Ingas said. 'They acted on their own, not upon my orders, wherefore I have let the matter rest and have not sent my men for your head. I might have let it stand at that, but now you have come to my own territory to cast your defiance in my teeth, mill that do not tolerate!'

  'Am I to tremble at the threats of a Poitainian outcast?' Conan demanded, deliberately slurring his words. All the while, he kept Ins eyes upon the two men standing closest to Ingas. Both of them wore somewhat older than the rest of the gang. One was a tall man whose nose had been cut almost in half at some time in the past. The other was a squat, barrel-shaped lump of muscle, with huge hands.

  Ingas sat back, smiling. 'No, you are not going to provoke me inst yet. Even a drunken Cimmerian would not come here like this without a reason. Someone has hired you to do this, foreigner. Which one? Ermak? Lisip? That fat scoundrel Bombas? Do their men await without?' Nervously, his men eyed the door, fingering their hilts.

  Conan snorted. 'You are a coward, just as I thought.' He rained his tankard and slammed it down on the bar. 'I'll pay you and your effeminate redbirds no more heed. Farewell, I came here expecting a good fight, but you have disappointed me.'

  Weaving slightly, he left the Skull. Once outside, he lost his drunken walk and began to head for the high street. From behind, lie heard the door of the Skull open and shut again. Now he resumed his slight stagger, which he continued affecting as he made his way back toward the new town. He was careful not to overdo it, as Ingas's men would grow suspicious were it an obvious ploy. He kept to the middle of the street.

  Conan was certain that the killers would not attack him in the lower city. Ingas was now convinced that he was working for a rival. The men he had sent to follow the Cimmerian would be miller orders to find out where he was going before they were to kill him.

  When he reached the Square, he stopped by a fountain and splashed water in his face, as if trying to clear the wine fumes limn his head. As he did so, he scanned the plaza. All was now deserted, the ladies gone from their portico. From a sconce along the front of the portico he took a low-guttering torch and carried it across the pave. He did not go to the temple. Instead, he went to the theatre.

  At the top of the steps he passed between the massive pillars. Ignoring the large main-entrance doors, he went to a small, shuttered window to one side, where admissions to the performance would be sold. With a powerful wrench of his hands, he snapped the shutter's latch and opened it. Thrusting the torch ahead of him, he passed inside.

  From an entrance hall he passed into the main floor of the theatre, where ranks of benches faced the stage. Above was a balcony where the more fashionable members of the audience could sit in comfort, aloof from the common rabble. The sides of the auditorium were lined with the sumptuous private boxes of the wealthy.

  Walking slowly so that his followers would have no difficulty, Conan ascended the steps to the stage. At its rear was a stack of ladders for the use of the stagehands. He appropriated one and carried it up the many steps to the catwalk above. Gazing down over the rail, he could just make out two stealthy forms crossing the stage, following the light of his torch. When he could hear their feet upon the steps, he crossed the catwalk, then went up the final stairs to the cupola. He moved out onto the roof and carried the ladder to the parapet. He did not need the ladder to cross to the temple roof, but he used it anyway, leaving it in place in case the men following him lacked his head for heights. He walked to the centre of the temple roof and halted just before his own window. Then he stood there, waiting.

  He did not need to wait long. The two stalkers emerged from the cupola and scanned their surroundings. Conan heard them conferring in low whispers. The moonlight leached away all colour, but he could see that one was tall and lean, the other squat and barrel-shaped. This was what he had expected. By now, Ingas knew better than to send his inexperienced young thugs.

  One of them saw the ladder and pointed to it. Almost tiptoeing, they went to the parapet and surveyed the roof beyond. Conan withdrew into the deep shadows against the wall beside his window. After a brief consultation, the men crossed the ladder, stepping gingerly, clearly nervous about the drop below. They then turned and squinted over the temple roof.

  Conan stepped from the shadows. 'Are you looking for me?'

  Two long Khorajan sabres slithered from their scabbards. 'What sort of chase have you been leading us, barbarian?' said die squat one. 'First the theatre, now the temple. Surely the fraud .Hid his woman have not hired you to trouble our master?'

  By way of answer, Conan drew his own sword. 'No, but I have other uses for you.'

  'You do not seem so drunk as you were but a little time past,' said the saturnine man, his voice heavy with the accent of Poitain's mountain province.

  'Why have you followed me?' Conan asked.

  'Our master decided that you had troubled him more than enough, even to insulting him to his face. He wishes you dead, foreigner, but he wants to know which of his enemies hired you.'

  'That is a matter he will just have to wonder about,' Conan said, 'since the two of you will not be reporting back to him.'

  'Enough of this,' said the
taller, coming toward Conan in the Hat-footed glide of an experienced swordsman.

  Abruptly, Conan shouted: 'Villains! What is your business here?' The two killers were disconcerted for a moment. The shorter man rushed in, swinging his sword horizontally. The Cimmerian blocked neatly with his own blade, then fended off an oblique cut from the taller man. He swung two blows in return, making them wide and forceful but a little slow, so that the attackers would be able to block them. He wanted to ensure plenty l loud sword-clashing.

  When he was sure that everyone was awake within, the Cimmerian began to fight seriously. These two were not as inexpert .is the three he had fought in the Square, and it would be folly to play with them further. In the dark, on the uncertain surface of

  the roof, the two were having a difficult time of it in just keeping out of each other's way, but that would not last much longer.

  Conan manoeuvred the shorter man between himself and the taller, then lowered his guard, inviting a high cut. The man seized the opening, making a swipe at the exposed neck. The Cimmerian ducked and felt the other's sword tick slightly on the top of his steel cap. As he ducked, he straightened his sword arm, running the man through his barrel chest. Drawing his blade free, Conan simultaneously placed a foot against the man's body and shoved him backward, sending him stumbling into the taller man. That one fell back a step, his arms flying wide in an attempt to retain his balance.

  The Cimmerian vaulted across the squat man's body, bringing his sword down in a terrible slash against the exposed shoulder. The man was wearing a lightweight shirt of mail beneath his red-leather doublet, but it availed him little against Conan's sword, which crunched through flesh, bone, and mail indifferently.

  Even as the man fell, Conan rushed to the parapet and grabbed up the ladder that spanned the alley between the temple and the theatre. He carried it across the temple roof and placed it just in front of his window, slanting against the wall below the window above.

  'What's happening out there?' called a voice. A light flickered in his own room, and he could make out a number of forms crowding through the door. The voice belonged to Oppia.

  'Come look,' Conan said. 'They came for her, just as I told you they would.'

  With the aid of an acolyte, Oppia climbed out through the window. Several acolytes followed her, bearing lamps and torches. She stooped low and examined the two bodies, then straightened and faced Conan.

  'Ingas! He shall pay for this! How did this come about?'

  'I went to the Pit, as I said earlier I would. There I spoke with some contacts I have made here in the city. I learned from them that the kidnapping attempt would probably come tonight, so I rushed back and waited for them. I knew it would be far easier for them to reach her room by the rooftops than by coming up through the temple. They would have to come right here to my window, so I awaited within. As soon as they set up their ladder, I challenged them.'

  She studied the bodies. 'How did they expect to get through the bars?'

  Mentally, Conan cursed himself. He should have thought of this and brought a crowbar or other tools to scatter around. Thinking fast, he pointed at the corpse of the squat man.

  'That one was said to be the strongest man in Sicas. Look at I he size of those hands. He must have planned to wrench the bronze bars from their settings bare-handed.'

  'No doubt,' she said. Then she turned to the wide-eyed acolytes and pointed at the burly young men who had been guarding the doors. 'Take this carrion down to the river. See that you dispose of it before daylight.' They began to drag the corpses toward the window. 'No, you idiots! I don't want my floors bloodied. Just toss them to the alley below and collect them there.' Obediently, the men dragged the corpses to the parapet, lifted them over it and dropped them. A second later came a sickening duo of thuds.

  'What is happening?' asked a male voice. Andolla climbed through the window.

  'Ingas has reneged on his bargain with us, my husband,' Oppia reported. 'He sent two of his men to steal back Amata and return her to her father. This Cimmerian warrior, whose services I have engaged, has already earned his keep. He slew the kidnappers before they could reach her window.''

  The priest glanced at Conan. 'Oh, good. Ingas, eh? I shall prepare a mighty spell for him. He shall regret this.'

  'As you will, my husband,' she murmured.

  Conan studied the man. It was the first opportunity he had had lo examine Andolla at close range. He was a tall man of middle years and dignified bearing, even standing upon the uncertain noting of the temple roof. Like his well-modulated voice, his

  bearing carried the unmistakable stamp of theatricality, as if he were not a priest, but rather, an actor playing .the role of a priest.

  'Has this petty altercation drawn any notice?' he asked.

  'The Square is as quiet as usual for this time of night,' Conan reported. 'If the guards at the Reeve's headquarters noticed anything, they've been careful not to show any interest.'

  'Well, then,' Andolla said, 'I must return to my thaumaturgical labours. See to this, my dear.'

  'I already have, husband,' Oppia said through delicately gritted teeth. She turned to a pair of whey-faced girls who stood by. 'Fetch mops and buckets and clean this up,' she ordered, pointing to the broad pool of blood that glinted black in the moonlight. In addition, two broad smears of blood made a trail, marking where the bodies had been dragged to the parapet. 'When that is done, go to the alley and wash down the bricks. I want no trace of this night's happenings visible when the sun rises in the morning.' The girls clapped their hands and bowed in ritual obeisance. They followed Andolla through the window, and soon Conan and Oppia were alone upon the temple roof.

  'This was splendidly done, Cimmerian,' she said. 'Think you he will try again?'

  'It is very likely,' he told her. 'Or perhaps Rista Daan will approach one of the other leaders. If Ingas betrayed you for gold, why not the others? Next time there may be more than two to contend with.'

  'Curse them all!' she said. 'I long to be away from this place. It was a fertile field before, but now it is like some savage beast that has gone mad and has begun to devour itself. All these mobs of predatory men, banding together to prey upon the carcass of this town, no longer content to share the meat of the kill. Now they will turn and rend each other.' She looked up at the towering barbarian. 'But you are different. Though you are a man of blood and violence, you are not a mindless pack animal. You are like a lion among hyenas.'

  'I am like them, Priestess. But I am a better fighting man than they.'

  'I think it is more than that. Continue to give me loyal service and you may be destined for better things, just as the holy Andolla .Hid I are so destined.' There came a commotion from behind. The female acolytes were manoeuvring their mops and buckets out through the window.

  'I must supervise this,' she told the Cimmerian. 'Our devoted followers have perfect faith, but they cannot even do something as simple as cleaning up blood or disposing of bodies without someone to watch over them.' She paused. 'You were right, Conan. Tomorrow I shall have another room prepared for you, a room directly across the hall from Amata's.'

  He nodded, satisfied. 'Very good, Priestess. I think I shall be able to accomplish more that way.' He looked up at the girl's barred window, wondering whether she had taken any notice of the night's doings.

  XII

  The Demon and the Curse

  The day was blustery, with the fitful wind blowing sheets of rain across the Square. Conan left the temple swathed in his great cloak, its hood drawn over his head against the weather. Thus attired, he was distinguished by nothing except his size and tiger-like gait, and in this town there were no few men of his size, men who moved dangerously.

  He knew that things were about to erupt in Sicas and that he could accomplish nothing if he remained aloof in the temple. He had a need to know what was going on in the town. To that end, he turned his steps toward the Pit. There were yet several places in the lower city where his presen
ce was unlikely to precipitate immediate violence.

  Just beyond the line where the old city wall had once stood was a small tavern called the Bear and Harp, and he had heard that it was frequented by the storytellers and minstrels, both those of the city and those just passing through. These were men and women whose livelihoods depended upon their knowing all about what was going on, and he could think of no better place to inform himself.

  As he entered the tavern, he heard a woman's voice proclaiming . new poem, verses by the mad Tarantian poet, Caprio. It was well known throughout Aquilonia that Caprio only feigned madness, so that he could get away with his outrageously scurrilous verses defaming various highly placed personages of the kingdom. There was an ancient tradition that mad poets were under the special protection of the gods; therefore, there was little the authorities could do about the man, who in their eyes had earned death many times over.

  In the entranceway the Cimmerian divested himself of his cloak, shook the worst of the rain from it, and hung it on a peg by a half score of similar garments. As he went into the common room, the patrons turned from the singer to study the newcomer. All were armed, as was only prudent in times like these, but they were not, for the most part, the professional fighters and criminals such as thronged the town. He saw two or three whose armour or general look of furtiveness identified them as part of the rougher clement, but they had probably come for the entertainment.

  He went to the bar and ordered mulled ale. The barkeep took a pitcher from the hearth, where a crackling fire of well-seasoned hardwood logs gave forth a cheering warmth. As the Cimmerian drank from the tarred leather tankard, the woman singer's place was taken by a storyteller, who began to tell of events in the far provinces of the land. From all indications, Aquilonia was breaking up as the feudal lords, disgusted with King Numedides, reverted to their old ways and set up as independent suzerains, neglecting to send their annual tribute to Tarantia. Some defied the king openly; others were being more subtle, testing the power of the throne without risking an open breach. Only the frontier provinces of Bossonia and Gunderland remained firmly loyal. 'Those two provinces, although not populous, contained some of I he best fighting men of the kingdom.