The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  normal. As he went up the last flight of stairs, he saw someone climbing ahead of him.

  'Out of my way,' he growled, reaching up for a shoulder. The other spun to face him.

  'Crom's bones!' Conan cried, leaping back two steps and snatching out his sword. A greenish, shambling monstrosity stood on the steps above him, staring at him from eyeless pits in a misshapen face, its gaping mouth lined with slimy, needle-like teeth. It was the demon of Rietta's curse, given substance by Andolla's unwitting use of the power of the scorpion goddess, who now dwelled in the crypt below the colossal statue of Mother Doorgah.

  The thing hissed and lunged at him. Instinctively, Conan thrust upward, leaning his shoulder into the action. The monster made a squealing sound as the blade sank deep. Swift as lightning, the Cimmerian withdrew the blade and thrust again, and yet again, sinking steel into the foul body repeatedly, trying to find a vital spot. The blood that poured from the wounds was partly green, partly red. Even as its talons scrabbled for his throat, Conan understood that this was yet another acolyte transformed by sorcery. The priest could not make something out of nothing, but his will had shaped an acolyte into the form of the insubstantial demon with which he had terrorized Rietta, and now the mindless thing climbed toward her room to follow its master's will.

  Realizing that the creature must have some remnant of a brain left, Conan left off stabbing and instead brought the edge of his sword downward onto the scaly skull, cleaving it almost to the humped shoulders. Another blow cleft it further, and a third nearly hewed away the cranial remains. The thing moved about blindly for a while, then slowly collapsed, continuing to twitch for some time with unnatural life. Conan flattened himself against a wall and breathed hard, watching it die. The brief effort had left him drenched in sweat.

  When he was sure that the demon was fully dead, he bounded over the monstrous corpse and dashed the rest of the way up the stairs. He hated to think what might have happened had he been

  just a few minutes slower. At the very least, Rietta would have been driven truly mad by the sight of the creature he had convinced her was but the vaporous construction of petty magic, drugs, and her imagination.

  He first went to his own quarters, and with a sheet carefully cleaned the blood and ichor from his sword and garments. He saw nothing there that he needed to take with him and so he crossed to Rietta's room. He found her sitting on the side of her bed, her fingers clasped in her lap. She looked up with an affrighted face; then relief spread across her features when she saw who it was.

  'Conan! Oh, how glad I am to see you! Since nightfall, the sounds from below have been hideous, and when an acolyte came to look in on me, she did not seem . . . exactly human.'

  'Strange and unnatural things are afoot,' Conan confirmed, 'and we must be away from here. Are you ready?'

  'More than ready!' She stood, dressed only in her shift. 'I certainly have nothing to gather up. Let us go!'

  'You'll not freeze between here and your father's house, girl. Come with me.' He took her hand and led her across the hallway into his own quarters. He had no intention of leading her down the stair past the demon's corpse and then through the temple. He climbed out his window and hung from its sill.

  'Now,' he ordered, 'come on out and cling to my back.'

  'What if I fall?' she asked, her eyes huge.

  'You probably won't die, falling from this height. It's better than staying here. Hurry up!' Taking a deep breath, the girl scrambled out and climbed down to wrap her arms around his neck and her legs about his waist, managing not to dislodge his grip in doing so.

  Slowly, his toes finding minute purchase and his fingertips gripping tightly, he descended the wall. Within a few minutes they stood on the flags of the courtyard.

  'You can let go now,' the Cimmerian said. She did so reluctantly. 'Come. Stay close to me.' They went out through the back gate, then down the alley between the theatre and the temple. When they were halfway across the Square, well away from the temple, she began to breathe a little easier.

  'What is happening back there?' she asked. 'You said that they were frauds, but there is real sorcery in that place.'

  'Something unexpected strengthened Andolla's paltry spells, and now he is no longer in control. It was not what I had planned, but those two are about to receive what they deserve.'

  'What you had planned? You mean that you have had something to do with all this?'

  'Strange things happen sometimes,' he told her. 'I needed to return you to your father, and I needed somewhere to hide out for a while, and the temple seemed a good place in which to do it. Then I needed to secrete something I had been hired to find, and I knew of a good place in the temple to that end. And all of that has led to this.' He turned and looked back toward the temple. It presented a deceptively tranquil aspect. He shook his head.

  'Let's go talk to your father,' he said.

  An hour later, Conan left the house of Rista Daan. A fat purse, pleasantly stuffed with four hundred and ninety marks, was tucked beneath his belt. The merchant's thanks had not been effusive, but they had been heartfelt.

  Darkness still spread its mantle over the city, and the Cimmerian pondered his next move. He could not return to the temple. Bombas's men might come seeking him at the inn. Then he remembered one place in the town where he had an open invitation to call at any hour. He headed for the Street of the Woodworkers.

  The brawling seemed to have died down, and he heard no more sounds of combat as he walked cautiously through the streets. Twice he had to step over bodies, but he was unmolested. Within a short time he stood across the narrow street from the sign of the Sunburst. Above the sign, the shutters were open and light poured out. The woman's fondness for nocturnal illumination was as extravagant as ever.

  From a long habit of caution, Conan waited, dividing his attention between the apartment above and the street below. He did not expect Maxio to be there. Surely the man had more sense than

  to go where his enemies would be looking for him. Still, the Cimmerian knew better than to take anything for granted.

  He had been watching for a few minutes when he realised that he was hearing something that was out of place. It was a common enough sound, but it was coming from the wrong direction. It was the piteous wailing of a cat, and it emanated from the windows above.

  Conan strode across the street and up the stairs. The door to Delia's apartment was slightly ajar, and light streamed from it. His sword was in his hand when he entered. Inside, he stood and scanned the room, which was as cluttered as he remembered it. Cats were everywhere, prowling restlessly, and the many candles had burned to mere stumps. The sound of wailing came from another room, and Conan approached it slowly.

  Within, a single white cat crouched keening upon a wardrobe, staring down at something on the floor. The Cimmerian stepped over to see what it might be, already knowing what it was.

  Delia lay with sightless eyes staring up at the cat. Just below her left breast protruded the hilt of a dagger.

  XVIII

  The Black-Haired Woman

  The Temple of Bes was deserted in the morning hours. The whole of the Pit was quiet, bracing itself for the day's inevitable bloodshed. When Conan entered the temple, the two Shemite guards came from behind an improvised barricade, spiked clubs in their hands.

  'Summon the priest,' he told them. One stepped past him and peered out into the street to make certain he was unaccompanied. Satisfied that the Cimmerian planned no raid, he went in search of the priest, who arrived a few minutes later.

  'Ah, my Cimmerian friend of a few days ago. Welcome, sir. I must apologise for these warlike preparations, but I no longer feel safe. It is as if everyone here has gone mad and all the violent men of the city rend one another like wild dogs!'

  'I don't blame you,' Conan said. 'It will all be over in a day or two, I think.'

  The priest raised both hands, palms outward, toward the image of Bes. 'For this I pray to my god daily. Now, my friend,
how may I help you?'

  'First, have you seen my companion of a few days ago, the small man?'

  'Ah, he of the singular clothing and the lilac scent. Yes, he has been here with some frequency, most recently yesterday evening. I fear that I have not been able to give him just recompense for his ... offerings, as it were.'

  'Why is that?' Conan asked.

  'If you will come with me, I will show you.' The priest led him down the steps to the crypt and pushed the door open, then gestured for the Cimmerian to enter. He did so, then surveyed the scene.

  'Mitra!' he said with wonder. 'The thieves of this town have been busy indeed!'

  'I prefer to think of them as worshippers,' said the priest. The crypt was stacked almost to the ceiling with loot. Chests of jewels and plate, fine lamps, inlaid tables, art objects of every description, spices and incense, all were crammed into every available corner.

  'With the troubles proliferating in the town,' the priest said, 'many men wish to liquidate their holdings and transform their variously acquired valuables into ready cash, easily transportable should their leave-taking be precipitate. As a result, the temple is rich in valuables but cash poor, and for that reason, I have not been able to pay your friend proper value for what he has brought hither.'

  'Considering what it cost him to get the goods,' Conan said, 'he should have little cause for complaint. Left he any message for me?'

  'None, I fear,' the priest admitted.

  'Well, then. Here is something I require of you. I wish free access to your river gate—' he pointed at the portal in question, to which only a narrow path through the loot allowed access '—at any hour of day or night. I want your guards to admit me and let me through instantly, without question, and to be silent about it afterward.' From the pouch at his belt he drew a smaller bag

  of cloth and handed it to the priest. 'Here are a hundred silver marks.'

  'I thank you, my friend. Bes thanks you. Bes is the most merciful of gods, and does not like to see men endure the sufferings of the rack, the scourge, and the noose. And these, I think, would be your inevitable fate in this town before very long. I can see that you have endured some rough treatment already.'

  'Nothing I cannot pay back in kind,' said Conan, whose bruises were still livid.

  He left the temple and thought about how to reach the other end of the town. There was always the sewer system, but he had tired of skulking about. If any man thirsted for his blood, let him come openly. The Cimmerian walked up the middle of the street in full daylight.

  The town through which he passed was a place at war. The respectable citizens stayed behind their locked gates, barred doors, and closed shutters. The gangs roamed in steel-bristling packs. Whenever such a pack approached the big Cimmerian, his snarl drove them to the wall, letting him pass in peace. He was in no mood for trifling this morning. Delia's murder had wiped out the pleasure he had felt at returning Rietta safely to her father. Any man who wished to shed a little of Conan's blood had better be willing to lose quite a bit of his own in return. Men could read this in his bearing and therefore gave him wide berth.

  He reached the inn without incident. The common room was nearly deserted. The servers sat at a table talking among themselves for want of .customers.

  'Has the woman I was with been in?' he asked the innkeeper.

  'Not for two days,' the man said. 'In this town, that probably means she is dead.' His look was reproachful. 'You should have taken better care of her, an innocent, gently bred girl like that.'

  'I wonder,' Conan muttered. 'Have there been any messages for me?' Wordlessly, the man reached beneath the counter and brought forth a folded piece of paper, sealed with wax and reeking of lilacs. Conan broke the seal and read.

  'Meet me at dusk in the upper room of the Wyvern, ' the delicate script bade him. ' have the rest of your pay. '

  Conan wondered whether this was a trap. The Wyvern was Lisip's territory. But how could the gang lord know that he had led the raid on the old fort? No one had escaped, and surely the miners would not have betrayed him. Most likely, Pins had merely arranged a local contact. As Conan had chosen the temple for a place to hide out, Piris had found quarters in the Wyvern's labyrinth of rooms.

  Satisfied, he went to a table and ordered breakfast. He was impatient for the evening. It was time to collect his pay and be away from this place, before the royal authorities arrived. They would hold everyone who fell into their net, and many men would spend years in the dungeons, or at breaking rock in the royal quarries, or at rowing royal barges, while the investigations proceeded at a glacial pace. This was a fate Conan was most eager to avoid.

  He was deeply troubled by Delia's murder. Who had done it? Maxio was the most likely candidate. In a fit of jealousy or pique, he might easily have slain her. In spite of her many glaring flaws, Conan had liked the big raucous beauty. He much preferred an honest trollop to any sort of hypocrite, and Delia had not had a hypocritical bone in her voluptuous body. Who else might it be? Ermak, possibly. He might have questioned her about Maxio's whereabouts and then killed her, but there had been no signs of torture or struggle. Truthfully, he had no idea of how many enemies the woman might have had. She relished playing with dangerous men, and those who shared that taste seldom enjoyed long life. The Cimmerian determined that whoever it might be, that one would pay for the deed.

  He spent a few hours in the stable, caring for his horse and going over every inch of his harness. The damp winter weather was deadly for fine leather, and he scoured away every trace of mould and carefully oiled every bit of his riding gear, paying special attention to girths and other straps. Nothing was more embarrassing than, with pursuit but a few paces behind, to leap into

  the saddle only to have it all tumble ignominiously to the ground because a neglected surcingle had parted.

  When he was satisfied with his horse trappings, he gave equal attention to the animal's hooves, examining each in turn, testing the condition of the hoof and that of the shoe, then every nail of the shoe. Dissatisfied with one shoe, he had the smith across the street replace all four shoes, under the watchful eye of the rider. With that done, he gave similar attention to his weaponry, cleaning and oiling it scrupulously, going over each edge with a fine whetstone, testing hilt and grip for any slightest hint of movement. Age and climate could cause a grip made of bone or wood to shrink, robbing the blade of support at the crucial juncture of blade and hilt, thus weakening the whole weapon.

  By the time all was to his satisfaction, it was late afternoon. He had dinner in the common room, then went out into the street. His steps led him south, past the Square and into the Pit, where he was to meet Piris. At one point he was forced to make a detour around a block where the narrow street was crowded with fighting men.

  The Wyvern was not heavily populated as the Cimmerian entered. Of the men who sat drinking at the tables, many were bandaged; other men lay groaning on the floor. He went to the bar and called for ale. The barkeep brought him a jack of tarred leather, slopping foam as he set it on the ancient, nicked counter.

  'Is Piris here yet?' Conan asked.

  'I saw him go upstairs an hour ago,' the man said.

  Conan decided that there was no rush, that Piris could wait until he finished his ale.

  'He must be a popular man this evening,' the barkeep said.

  'How so?'

  'Well, just before you arrived, a woman came asking for him and I told her where he was. She went up after him.'

  Conan all but choked on a mouthful of ale. 'What woman?' he demanded, slamming the jack upon the bar. 'Which room?'

  'A black-haired wench with a dangerous look in her eye. What other kind would come into the Wyvern unescorted? As to what

  room, it is on the third level, with a cockatrice painted on the door. It's—' But now he was addressing the Cimmerian's back. 'Aren't you going to finish your—' Already, the big barbarian was leaping up the stairs. The barkeep shrugged and finished the ale himself.
r />   The Cimmerian fairly flew up the steps, jostling aside trollops and their customers in the process. At the third level, he looked around frantically. He saw a door with a dragon, one with a serpent, one with a lion. At the far end of the hallway, he saw a yellow door with a red cockatrice painted on it. He moved toward the door swiftly but silently, his weapons held close against him lest they make a betraying clatter. By the time he reached the portal, he was balancing on the toes of his boots. There he stopped and listened. He heard the sound of squabbling voices but could make out nothing of what they were saying. Taking a deep breath, he thrust the door open.

  Inside, two figures stood facing each other across the length of a table. Each held a dagger extended toward the other. The black-haired woman stood with her back to him. Piris faced him. The little man looked up at his entry, and relief flowed across the effeminate features.

  'This is she!' he said in his odd, breathy voice. 'This is Altaira, the treacherous wench who betrayed me into the dungeon of Belverus! Slay her!'' He held forth his envenomed weapon as if he had little trust in the Cimmerian's ability to protect him from this virago.

  'Turn, woman,' Conan said.

  'Not while this vile little catamite holds his poisoned steel!' she hissed.

  Conan's own sword slid from its sheath. 'I'll not let him stab you in the back, and if I wanted you dead, you would be dead already. Turn.'

  Slowly, the woman turned to face him. The face was heart-shaped beneath its mass of black locks, the mouth a crimson slash, the eyes boldly outlined in cosmetic. The skin was as white

  as the purest snow. She seemed a stranger, yet there was something familiar about her features. Then he knew.

  'Brita!' Never had he seen such a transformation. Except for the shape of the facial bones, there was no similarity to the shy, well-bred girl he had aided. Even the colour of the eyes was different.

  'This is your Tarantian girl?' Piris asked with a squealing giggle. 'You have been gulled, my barbarian friend! But do not be too ashamed; she has taken in men far more experienced than you.'