The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  'Tell me, my friends: If a man wished to speak with Lisip, how would he go about it?' The others studied him with close evaluation.

  'For one thing, he would attract attention,' said Falx the lucky. 'You have done little else since arriving here in Sicas. I expect that the old boss would be willing to grant you an audience.'

  Could you arrange that?' the Cimmerian asked while Spider rattled dice in the cup.

  'I think so. Hold the game for a while.' Falx rose and limped slowly from the table. Obediently, the others let the dice rest, although they seemed little inclined to engage their new companion in conversation. That suited Conan well. He had not come to this place to consort with the likes of these. He sat back and drank in ale, a thumb hooked into his studded belt.

  The rest of the clientèle of the Wyvern paid him no heed after their first surprise at his appearance in their den. He saw no red either identifying Ingas's followers. None of those present had been among Maxio's men on the night of the raid on the royals. There were a few armoured men who might have been employed to Ermak, but he did not recognise any faces.

  After a few minutes, Falx the Lucky came dragging his stiff leg back across the floor, which was sticky with spilled blood and wine.

  'Lisip is upstairs,' he said to Conan. 'He will see you now.' Conan rose, and many eyes watched as he crossed the floor mid ascended a stair, following Falx's slow pace. There was danger here, but he was confident in his ability to carve an escape Lisip's men, who were even less competent than Ingas's, nothing like Ermak's.

  His guide came to a door strapped with iron. Set into it was a small viewing-window; even that was covered with an iron grate. The window opened and a suspicious eye studied them both. The two stood well back so that the watcher could see that no one was with them. The door opened and they went through.

  'In with you,' said the watchman, a burly lout with long, tangled hair and a vest made of woven leather straps, liberally studded with bronze nailheads. He wore an iron-shod club thonged' to his belt, over which a hairy belly sagged. He shut and barred' the door behind them.

  'What do you want of me?' said a voice from the dim rear of the room. The speaker sat behind a broad table. He was a huge man, both powerfully muscled and rotund. His massive, bald head was set squarely atop his sloping shoulders, obviating any visible neck. Old scars streaked the bare face and scalp, and immense hands that lay atop the table were gnarled and much' weathered. Except for the net of wrinkles that intersected the scars on his face, his age was difficult to judge. He looked like an ancient tortoise, and his black eyes were as expressionless as a reptile's. His lipless mouth was set in a straight, horizontal line.

  'A few words privily,' Conan said.

  'You may go,' Lisip said to Falx. 'Umruk stays,' he continued, indicating the watchman. 'He cannot hear.' Falx bowed his way out and Conan took a chair facing the old tortoise, making sure that Umruk could not see his lips move as he spoke.

  'You injured my man out at the mines,' Lisip said without preamble. 'What were you doing there?'

  'Xanthus hired me to sort some things out for him,' Conan ' said. ' 'I went to have a look for myself. Your man spoke insolently to me. I could have killed him. He has nothing to complain about.'

  'What sort of business?' Lisip inquired.

  'That is between Xanthus and me.'

  'There has been much talk of you since you arrived here,' Lisip said. 'You slew three of Ingas's men in the Square. Some time ago, another two were sent to follow you from the Skull, they were not seen again. Was that your doing?'

  Conan shrugged. 'What are Ingas's men to you?'

  'Nothing at all. But I want to know where you stand as far as I am concerned. There is too much trouble in this town as it is, without some Cimmerian wild man running about making more. I need to have things here operating to my satisfaction. All the rogues of the town worked for me, and I saw to it that the respectable citizens were never bothered, save by the occasional burglary. And the burglars only stole; they never harmed anyone. Now all is changed.'

  'The change happened long before I got here,' Conan pointed out. 'It may be that things can return to normal.'

  'How?' Lisip asked. The reptilian eyes narrowed slightly.

  'Ermak and Maxio are at war. One must kill the other soon. With either of them gone, things should cool down. If Maxio dies, Bombas will cease being overly distracted and begin to concentrate on the business that has been so profitable to everyone. If it is Ermak who perishes, his men will drift out of town or hire out in other gangs. They are nothing without him. Either way, you would be able to handle the survivor.'

  'Aye,' said Lisip. 'But I do not think much of Maxio's chances. If it is Ermak who lives ...'

  'Very true,' Conan said. 'In this city, only I am a match for Ermak in an open fight.'

  'Are you saying that you will go to work for me?' Lisip demanded.

  Conan leaned back in his seat. 'I am saying that I am not your runny. Just now, I do not work for you or for any of the gang rulers. I have other matters to attend to. Later, who can tell? But say that should it come down to just you and Ermak, my sword may be for hire.'

  'And in the meantime, you will stay out of this business?' The man's tortoise face grew as hard as stone.

  'If I can. Much depends on how well I can stay clear of the s here. My plans will keep me in Sicas for some days more. I may need a hiding place, a bolt-hole where I can stay out; of sight for a while.'

  'Is that all? I can supply you with that. There are cellars here in the Wyvern—'

  Conan shook his head. 'Your former associate, Julus, now works for the Reeve. I'll wager he knows every hiding place in this city. No, I need something more secure, I have heard that! you have a stronghold somewhere near the city, a place where the brats and women belonging to the miners are held to keep their menfolk sweet and docile.'

  'Aye, you'd be safe there. But you must keep this to yourself, No telling what sort of foolishness those rock-eaters might try if they knew where the sluts and cubs were.'

  'Your secret is safe with me,' Conan said. 'After all, it's my neck, too.'

  'South of here, about a half-day's ride, there is an ancient fort on the east bank of the river. It was a border fort once, back before the Ophirians were pushed beyond the Tybor River. Been abandoned for centuries, but still sound. That's where they're kept under close guard.'

  'If I need to go there, how will I let the guards know I have your permission to hide out in the fort? I won't have time to send word ahead.'

  Lisip opened a drawer and drew out a flat medallion of lead its surface stamped with a figure of a Wyvern. 'This is my seal. Show this to the man at the main gate and he will admit you.'

  'Just the gate guard?' Conan asked. 'No sentries posted at the approaches?'

  'My men?' Lisip said. 'Are you serious?' That was just what Conan wanted to hear. He took the seal and placed it in his pouch.

  'Very well. I'll not move against you or your men as long as they do not molest me. When the situation has changed, we will speak further.' He rose to go, then turned back to Lisip. 'Oh, I have heard that there is to be a peace conference.''

  Where did you hear that?' The words came out between lips MI ii scarcely seemed to move.

  Bombas told me. He does not trust his own men to provide him with adequate protection. He wants me to come along as his bodyguard.'

  Aye, there is to be such a conference, if I can persuade enough to attend. Will you be there?'

  'It is a paying job,' the Cimmerian said. 'But it is just for this one night. It does not mean that I have thrown in with them.'

  'Very well. You'll have no trouble from me. The swine has thought to vex him, anyway. Nobody here is insane enough to attack the King's Reeve, no matter how much we would like to.'

  'Did Maxio truly slay Bombas's brother? I heard that it happened here in the Wyvern.'

  The massive shoulders moved slightly in a shrug. 'It was Maxio's dagger. What care I which ha
nd wielded it? Burdo was as worthless a swine as his brother, Bombas. He thought that we have an arrangement with the Reeve, he was entitled to report himself without payment and that he was safe from harm here in the Pit. He was wrong on both counts, most especially on that last one.'

  'I shall keep that in mind,' Conan said. 'No man is truly safe here.'

  'No man.' Lisip affirmed.

  The Cimmerian took his leave and left the gang leader's sanctum. The common room seemed to hold the same crowd as before. The street outside was as black as always during the nights. He walked slowly toward the upper town, hand on hilt, stopping frequently to listen for following footsteps. He heard and saw nothing, but that did not cause him to relax his vigilance. This place was a dangerous town to begin with. Now his situation was more perilous than ever.

  He made his way to the inn and called for ale at the bar. With his arrival the barkeep handed him a folded sheet of paper. 'It came for you this afternoon,' he said. 'Brought by the jailer.' The paper smelled faintly of lavender.

  Conan opened it and read. In a delicate, Zamoran hand was written: 'It was, indeed, the very least you could do. When will you buy me out of here?' Laughing, The Cimmerian tossed the note into the fire.

  He finished his ale, then went to the courtyard, where he found a torch and set it alight. As he ascended the stair, he noted some- thing amiss. Stooping low, he held the torch a few inches above the steps to discern whether he had seen aright. Drops of blood newly stained them. Slowly, he resumed his climb. The spattering of blood continued along the gallery; then there was a small puddle of it outside the door of his chamber.

  Silently, the Cimmerian drew his sword. With a jerk, he snatched the door open and thrust the torch within, keeping hit wrist well outside lest a sudden descending sword unhand him, I Inside, all was quiet. Huddled on his bed he saw Brita, ashen-, faced and wide-eyed. For a moment he thought her dead, and the blood hers. Then, with relief, he saw the form stretched on the floor.

  'Is anyone in there besides the dead man?' he asked, sword, still at the ready. She looked up, as if noticing for the first time that he was there, and shook her head. He sheathed the weapon and entered the chamber closing the door behind him.

  'Are you hurt?' he asked. Again she shook her head. 'Then what is wrong with you? It's just a dead man. They do not cause! near as much trouble as the live ones.' He rolled the corpse onto its back. The man had a long, bony face, its length emphasized by a sandy, pointed beard. His heavy cloak and long boots were. of the sort worn by caravanners.

  'How came he to be here?' Conan asked.

  'Just a while ago,' she began, stammering, then gathering strength and firmness, 'there came a knock at the door. I opened,' thinking it to be you. This man stood in the doorway, his face like that of a man dead already, the front of his clothes soaked with blood. Oh, Conan, he was ghastly. He staggered inside, clutching a bundle to him. He said only: 'For the Cimmerian,' then collapsed there as you see him. I tried to turn him over, but In- was too heavy, and his life had already fled. I have been here ever since, terrified. I did not know what to do, thinking that his murderer might be just outside.'

  Conan stooped and examined the man. Someone had nearly eviscerated him with a dagger. The weapon was not present.

  'Must have been a bull of a man to climb those stairs cut like that,' he pronounced. 'Where is this bundle you spoke of?'

  'There.' She pointed to a corner where something lay wrapped in bloodstained cloth. 'It rolled there when he fell. I have been afraid to move.'

  Conan straightened. 'We don't want him found here. I will carry him to an alley near the Square and leave him there. He'll be found tomorrow, and maybe his comrades will want to give him burial. You clean up here. Get a bucket of water from the kitchen. Can you do that?' Wordlessly, she nodded.

  ''There is blood outside the door, also, and on the stairs. If you miss some, at least it will not look so much like someone died here. If anyone asks tomorrow, say that I staggered in drunkenly in the morning, bleeding from a head wound.'

  'You think of everything,' she said.

  'I will be back presently.' He lifted the corpse and draped it over a shoulder, ignoring the blood that smeared him in the process.

  No one was stirring in the inn when he carried his inert load down the stairs, and the street without was too dark for any within to see him as he bore the body toward the centre of the town. He left it in an alleyway, then went to one of the public fountains and washed off as much of the sticky blood as he could manage. It disappeared readily from the oiled-leather covering of his brigantine. As for his clothes, he could always buy new.

  He returned to the inn and found Brita industriously scrubbing at the floor like any housewife. It seemed that performing this chore had restored her usual serenity.

  'I have already cleaned the gallery and the steps. I do not think I missed much.'

  'No one in this town makes a great fuss about spilled blood,' Conan said. 'But until I know what this is all about, I do not want that particular corpse associated with me.'

  Now he crossed to the corner of the room and picked up the cloth-wrapped package. It was astoundingly heavy for its size. He turned it over and over, examining the wrappings. Broad, bloody hand prints stained the cord bindings, as well as the cloth beneath them, so he knew that the wrappings had not been tampered with,

  'But how could he know to bring it to me?' Conan mused aloud.

  'What did you say, Conan?' Brita asked, wringing pinkish water into the bucket.

  'Nothing. I must decide what to do with this.'

  'What is it?' She stood and came closer, but he would not let her take the thing from him. The less she knew, the better.

  'You need not concern yourself. But you have seen that it ii something men kill for. I must conceal it until I know where it should go.'

  'Where will you hide it?'

  'That is another thing you need not concern yourself about,' he said. Noting her downcast expression, he added, 'I do this only for your own good. This is an evil thing; the less you have to do with it, the safer you will be.'

  'Oh, very well,' she said, pouting.

  'I must be away. Soon it will be light. I will come back before long. Have you everything you need?'

  'Yes. My wants are few. I wish that you were more in my company, though. Have I displeased you?'

  'No, but who can keep up with you, the way you disappear for days on your mad quest? I have many things to do, and many enemies to avoid, and I cannot be lumbered with a woman.'

  'Lumbered!' she said hotly. 'Is that what I am now, a mere impediment? Something that might get in the way of that sword arm of yours? Well, I can care for myself!'

  'I've no time for this. Farewell until the next time, Brita.' He left, muttering imprecations against women and their too-easily hurt feelings.

  In the high street, Conan paused. This was one mission that had to be kept absolutely secret. He found a street grate and lifted it. Returning to the inn's courtyard, he took a torch from a bundle by the stable door and returned to the street. He waited by the grate until he was certain that he was unobserved. Then he dropped into the Great Drain. Reaching overhead, he slid the grate back into place. At least the recent rains had washed the drainage system clean.

  The air was dank, but it was not foul. He walked a few paces from the grate, then set the heavy package upon the damp stones. Sitting upon the bundle, he took flint and steel from his belt pouch and from his tinderbox he drew a bit of charred cloth.

  Striking a light thus, working entirely by touch, was a tedious Business, but he had patience. After several minutes of striking, a spark took hold in the tinder, and its glow began to spread as the Cimmerian blew gently upon it. He pressed it into the oil-soaked tow that wrapped the end of the torch, blowing all the while. Soon he had a flame sufficient to illuminate his way through the Great Drain.

  He emerged from the sewer into the theatre and ascended to the roof, whence he crossed to t
he roof of the temple, taking great care, for the thing he carried was weighty. He did not go to his chamber; rather, he descended the rear wall of the temple, his burden lashed to his back by his sword belt.

  He entered the deserted kitchen and from it took the stair that led to the cellar. The cellar of the temple was cavernous, containing storage bins full of wood for the sacrificial and warming fires, unused furniture, offerings accumulated over the years, and much oilier debris. Here were also the furnaces, used for warming the water for ritual baths and for heating the entire temple by a system of pipes. A fire was kept burning at all times in one of the furnaces, and Conan first made sure that no acolyte was in attendance before he crossed the floor. He swung the furnace door wide, and by the light of the fire within, he unwrapped his parcel and tossed the bloodied bindings into the flames. Then he held up and admired the object of so much greed, intrigue, and bloodshed.

  Despite the lurid red of the flames, the thing was blacker than the blackest night. It seemed to gleam brilliantly, yet at the same time it seemed to suck up all light and cast none back. Its body was that of a scorpion, so realistically portrayed that he would not have been surprised had it begun to crawl upon its six legs and snatch at him with its pincers. The tip of its stinger glistened as if with a special liquid blackness.

  Its head was that of a woman, her beauty as serene as the insectile body was grotesque. Her eyes were open, black within black. They showed neither pupil nor iris, yet they gazed keenly, and he did not like to think what they might be seeing. Whatever its true origin, whether the image of Selkhet carved by the sculptor Ekba, as Casperus had said, or the nameless Atlantean idol carved from a diamond that fell from the heavens, as in Piris's tale, or something else entirely, he could not deny that the object had great magical force. Conan was sensitive to such things, and he hated them. The image's very weight was unnatural. It could not have weighed more had it been made of pure gold.