The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  In a single broad front, the troop pounded through the marsh and meadow, riding down the masses of fleeing Picts. The Aquilonian pikemen and archers advanced behind the horse, spearing and stabbing, like avenging angels; and the Pictish army dissolved into a panicky mob. The face of the

  moon, reflected in the surface of the creek, was red with the blood of the dead and dying.

  At length, Conan drew his horsemen up and shouted orders to the trumpeter. On signal, the riders wheeled into column of squads and cantered towards the sheltered field whence they had come. Conan knew that at night in dense forest, horsemen would be useless.

  'Press on, Glyco!' he shouted. 'Give them no chance to rally!'

  Glyco waved acknowledgement as he and his men charged into the woods after the fleeing Picts. Conan spurred his borrowed mount to overtake the head of the column. Then the world dissolved in whirling blackness. He had pressed himself too far - beyond the limits of his fading vigour.

  Glyco and Flavius sat in Conan's bedroom in the barracks at Velitrium. Propped up in bed, Conan with ill grace accepted the' ministrations of the army's physician. Old Sura fussed about his patient, changing dressings on Conan's left arm, which bore from wrist to shoulder a rainbow pattern of red, blue, and purple discolourations,

  'The wonder is to me,' said Glyco, 'how you managed to support that axe with the wizard's head upon it, with such an arm as this.'

  Conan spat. 'I did what I had need to do.' Then, turning to the doctor, he asked: 'How long will you keep me here, swaddled like an infant, good Sura? I have things to do.'

  'A few days of care will see you restored to duty, General,' said the grey-haired doctor. 'If you overdo before then, you risk a relapse.'

  Conan growled a barbaric oath. 'What was the final talc of the battle?'

  Glyco replied: 'After you swooned and fell from your horse - Laodamas' horse, I should say - we harried the painted devils till the last of them vanished, like smoke, into the forest depths. While we lost not a few good men, we slaughtered many more.'

  'I must be getting old,' said Conan, 'to faint from a mere snakebite and a bit of action. Who was it called me 'general'?'

  Flavius spoke: 'Whilst you lay here unconscious, we sent a messenger to the king bearing a report of our successes in in: province of Schohira, and a memorial praying him to inform you as our new commanding officer. Our choice was unanimous - albeit we put no small pressure on Laodamas in make him sign it. He was much angered with you for usurping his horse and his authority and talked of challenging you to a duel.'

  Conan laughed enormously - a laugh that spread and resonated like the sound of trumpets blown at dawn. 'I'd have been sorry to carve up the young ninnyhammer. The lad means well, but he lacks sense.'

  A knock preceded the opening of the door, and a lean man in the tight leather garments of a royal messenger entered.

  'General Conan ?' he asked.

  'Aye. What is it?'

  'I have the honour to deliver this missive from His Majesty.' The messenger handed over a scroll with a deferential bow.

  Conan broke the seal, unrolled the scroll, and peered at the writing thereon.

  'Bring that candle nearer, Sura,' he said. 'This light is poor for reading.' His friends watched with eager interest as he sat in silence, moving his lips.

  'Well,' he drawled at last, 'the king confirms my appointment. What's more, he bids me to Tarantia for an official Investiture and a royal feast.'

  Conan grinned and stretched his great body beneath the bedclothes.

  'After a year of dodging Picts through trackless forests and unmasking traitorous commanders, the fleshpots of Tarantia sound tempting. Whatever Numedides' shortcomings, 'tis said his cooks are superb. And I could use some fine wine and a bouncing, high-bred damsel in place of the bellywash we get here and our slatternly camp-followers!'

  'My patient must rest now, sirs,' said the doctor.

  Glyco and Flavius rose. The old soldier said: 'Till later, then, Conan. But have a care. At court, they say, there's a scorpion under every silken cushion.'

  'I'll take care, fear not. But if neither Zogar Sag nor Saga-yetha, for all their uncanny powers, could slay me, I think the hero of Velitrium will be in little peril at the court of Aquilonia's king!'

  The Treasure of Tranicos

  Robert E. Howard & L. Sprague de Camp

  I

  The Painted Men

  One moment the glade lay empty; the next, a man stood poised warily at the edge of the bushes. There had been no sound to warn the grey squirrels of his coming; but the gay-hued birds that flitted about in the sunshine of the open space took fright at his sudden appearance and rose in a clamoring cloud. The man scowled and glanced quickly back the way he had come, as if fearing that their flight had betrayed his position to someone unseen. Then he stalked across the glade, placing his feet with care.

  For all his massive, muscular build, the man moved with the supple certitude of a leopard. He was naked except for a rag twisted about his loins, and his limbs were crisscrossed with scratches from briars and caked with dried mud. A brown-crusted bandage was knotted about his thickly-muscled left arm. Under his matted, black mane, his face was drawn and gaunt, and his eyes burned like those of a wounded wolf. He limped slightly as he followed the faint path that led across the open space.

  Halfway across the glade, he stopped short and whirled catlike, facing back the way he had come, as a long-drawn call quavered out across the forest. To another man it would have seemed merely the howl of a wolf. But this man knew it was no wolf. A Cimmerian, he understood the voices of the wilderness as a city-bred man recognizes the voices of his friends.

  Rage burned redly in his bloodshot eyes as he turned once more and hurried along the path. This path, as it left the glade, ran along the edge of a dense thicket that rose in a solid clump of greenery among the trees and bushes. A massive log, deeply embedded in the grassy earth, paralleled the fringe of the thicket, laying between it and the path. When the Cimmerian saw this log, he halted and looked back across the glade. To the average eye there were no signs to show that he had passed; but the evidence was visible to his wilderness-sharpened eyes and therefore to the equally keen eyes of those who pursued him. He snarled silently, like a hunted beast ready to turn at bay.

  He walked with deliberate carelessness down the trail, here and there crushing a grass-blade beneath his foot. Then, when he had reached the further end of the great log, he sprang upon it, turned, and ran lightly back along it. As the bark had long been worn away by the elements, he left no sign to show the keenest eyes that he had doubled on his trail. When he reached the densest part of the thicket, he faded into it like a shadow, with hardly the quiver of a leaf to mark his passing.

  The minutes dragged. The grey squirrels chattered again — then flattened their bodies against the branches and were suddenly mute. Again the glade was invaded. As silently as the first man had appeared, three other men materialized out of the eastern edge of the clearing: dark-skinned men of short stature, with thickly-muscled chests and arms. They wore beaded buckskin loincloths, and an eagle's feather was thrust into each black topknot. Their bodies were painted in intricate designs, and they were heavily armed with crude weapons of hammered copper.

  They had scanned the glade carefully before showing themselves in the open, for they moved out of the bushes with hesitation, in close single file, treading as softly as leopards and bending down to stare at the path. They were following the trail of the Cimmerian — no easy task even for these human bloodhounds. They moved slowly across the glade; then one of them stiffened, grunted, and pointed with his broad-bladed stabbing-spear at a crushed grass-blade where the path entered the forest again. All halted instantly, their beady black eyes questing the forest walls. But their quarry was well hidden. Seeing nothing to awaken suspicion, they presently moved on, more rapidly now. They followed the faint marks that implied their prey was growing careless through weakness or desperation.

>   They had just passed the spot where the thicket crowded closest to the ancient trail, when the Cimmerian bounded into the path behind them, gripping the weapons he had drawn from his loincloth: a long copper-bladed knife in his left hand and a hatchet of the same material in his right The attack was so quick and unexpected that the last Pict had no chance to save himself as the Cimmerian plunged his knife between the man's shoulders. The blade was in the Pict's heart before he knew he was in peril.

  The other two whirled with the steel-trap quickness of savages; but, even as the Cimmerian wrenched the knife out of his first victim's back, he struck a tremendous blow with the war-axe in his right hand. The second Pict was in the act of turning as the axe fell, splitting his skull to the teeth.

  The remaining Pict, a chief by the scarlet tip of his eagle feather, came savagely in to the attack. He was stabbing at the Cimmerian's breast even as the killer wrenched his axe from the dead man's head. The Cimmerian had the advantage of a greater intelligence, and a weapon in each hand. The hatchet, checked in its downward sweep, struck the spear aside, and the knife in the Cimmerian's left hand ripped upward into the painted belly.

  An awful howl burst from the Pict's lips as he crumpled, disemboweled. The cry of baffled, bestial fury was answered by a wild chorus of yells from some distance east of the glade. The Cimmerian started convulsively and wheeled, crouching like a wild thing at bay, lips asnarl and shaking the sweat from his face. Blood trickled down his forearm from under the bandage.

  With a gasping, incoherent imprecation, he turned and fled westward. He did not pick his way now but ran with all the speed of his long legs, calling on the deep and all but inexhaustible reservoirs of endurance that are Nature's compensation for a barbaric existence. Behind him for a space the woods were silent. Then a demoniac howling burst out, and he knew his pursuers had found the bodies of his victims. He had no breath for cursing the drops of blood that kept falling to the ground from his freshly-opened wound, leaving a trail a child could follow. He had thought that perhaps these three Picts were all that still pursued him of the war-party that had followed him for over a hundred miles. But he might have known that these human wolves would never quit a blood trail.

  The woods were silent again; that meant they were racing after him, marking his path by the betraying blood-drops he could not check. A wind out of the west, laden with a salty dampness that he recognised, blew against his face. Dully, he was amazed. If he was that close to the sea, the chase must have been even longer than he had realised.

  But now it was nearly over, even his wolfish vitality was ebbing under the terrible strain. He gasped for breath, and there was a sharp pain in his side. His legs trembled with weariness, and the lame one ached like the cut of a knife in the tendons every time he set the foot to earth. He had followed the instincts of the wilderness that had bred him, straining every nerve and sinew, exhausting every subtlety and artifice to survive. Now, in his extremity, he was obeying another instinct — to find a place to turn at bay and sell his life at a bloody price.

  He did not leave the trail for the tangled depths on either hand. It was futile, he knew, to hope to evade his pursuers now. He ran on down the trail while the blood pounded louder and louder in his ears and each breath he drew was a racking, dry-lipped gulp. Behind him a mad baying broke out, token that they were close on his heels and expected swiftly to overhaul their prey. Now they would come as fleet as starving wolves, howling at every leap.

  Abruptly he burst from the denseness of the trees and saw, ahead of him, the face of a cliff that rose almost straight from the ground without any intermediate slope. Glances to right and left showed that he faced a solitary dome or crag of rock that rose like a tower from the depths of the forest. As a boy, the Cimmerian had scaled the steep hills of his native land; but, while he might have attempted the near side of this crag had he been in prime condition, he knew that he would have little chance with it in his present wounded and weakened state. By the time he had struggled up twenty or thirty feet, the Picts would burst from the woods and fill him with arrows.

  Perhaps, however, the crag's other faces would prove less inhospitable. The trail curved around the crag to the right. Following it, he found that at the west side of the crag it wound up rocky ledges between jagged boulders to a broad ledge near the summit.

  That ledge would be as good a place to die as any. As the world swam before him in a dizzy red mist, he limped up the trail, going on hands and knees in the steeper places, holding his knife between his teeth.

  He had not yet reached the jutting ledge when some forty painted savages raced around from the far side of the crag, howling like wolves. At the sight of their prey, their screams rose to a devilish crescendo, and they ran to the foot of the crag, loosing arrows as they came. The shafts showered about the man who climbed doggedly upward, and one stuck in the calf of his leg. Without pausing in his climb, he tore it out and threw it aside, heedless of the less accurate missiles that cracked against the rocks about him. Grimly he hauled himself over the rim of the ledge and turned about, drawing his hatchet and shifting his knife to his hand. He lay glaring down at his pursuers over the rim, only his shock of hair and blazing eyes visible. His chest heaved as he drank in the air in great, shuddering gasps, and he clenched his teeth against a tendency toward nausea.

  Only a few more arrows whistled up at him; the horde knew its prey was cornered. The warriors came on howling, war-axes in hand and leaping agilely over the rocks at the foot of the hill. The first to reach the steep part of the crag was a brawny brave, whose eagle feather was stained scarlet as a token of chieftainship. He halted briefly, one foot on the sloping trail, arrow notched and drawn halfway back, head thrown back and lips parted for an exultant yell. But the shaft was never loosed. He froze into motionlessness as the blood lust in his black eyes gave way to a look of startled recognition. With a whoop he gave back, throwing his arms wide to check the rush of his howling braves. Although the man on the ledge above them understood the Pictish tongue, he was too far away to catch the significance of the staccato phrases snapped at the warriors by the crimson-feathered chief.

  They all ceased their yelping and stood mutely staring up — not, it seemed to the man on the ledge, at him, but at the hill itself. Then, without further hesitation, they unstrung their bows and thrust them into buckskin cases at their girdles, turned their backs, and trotted back along the trail by which they had come, to disappear around the curve of the cliff without a backward look.

  The Cimmerian glared in amazement. He knew the Pictish nature too well not to recognise the finality expressed in this departure. He knew they would not come back; they were heading for their villages, a hundred miles to the east.

  But he could not understand it. What was there about his refuge that would cause a Pictish war-party to abandon a chase it had followed so long with all the passion of hungry wolves? He knew there were sacred places, spots set aside as sanctuaries by the various clans, and that a fugitive, taking refuge in one of these sanctuaries, was safe from the clan that raised it. But the different tribes seldom respected the sanctuaries of other tribes, and the men who pursued him certainly had no sacred spots of their own in this region. They were men of the Eagle, whose villages lay far to the east, adjoining the country of the Wolf Picts.

  It was the Wolves who had captured the Cimmerian when he had plunged into the wilderness in his flight from Aquilonia, and it was they who had given him to the Eagles in return for a captured Wolf chief. The Eagle men had a red score against the giant Cimmerian, and now it was redder still, for his escape had cost the life of a noted war chief. That was why they had followed him so relentlessly, over broad rivers and rugged hills and through long leagues of gloomy forest, the hunting grounds of hostile tribes. And now the survivors of that long chase had turned back when their enemy was run to earth and trapped. He shook his head, unable to understand it.

  He rose gingerly, dizzy from the long grind and scarcely able to rea
lise that it was over. His limbs were stiff; his wounds ached. He spat dryly and cursed, rubbing his burning, bloodshot eyes with the back of his thick wrist. He blinked and took stock of his surroundings. Below him the green wilderness billowed away and away in a solid mass, and above its western rim rose a steel-blue haze that, he knew, hung over the ocean. The wind stirred his black mane, and the salt tang of the atmosphere revived him. He expanded his enormous chest and drank it in.

  Then he turned stiffly and painfully about, growling at the twinge in his bleeding calf, and investigated the ledge on which he stood. Behind it rose a sheer, rocky cliff to the crest of the crag, some thirty feet above him. A narrow, ladderlike stair of handholds had been niched into the rock, and a few feet from the foot of this ascent a cleft, wide and tall enough for a man to enter, opened in the wall.

  He limped to the cleft, peered in, and grunted. The sun, hanging high above the western forest, threw a shaft of light down the cleft, revealing a tunnel-like cavern beyond with an arch at its end. In that arch, illuminated by the beam, was set a heavy, iron-bound, oaken door!

  This was amazing. This country was a howling wilderness. The Cimmerian knew that for a thousand miles, this western coast ran bare and uninhabited except by the villages of the ferocious sea-land tribes, who were even less civilised than their forest-dwelling brothers.

  The nearest outposts of civilisation were the frontier settlements along Thunder River, hundreds of miles to the east. The Cimmerian knew that he was the only white man ever to cross the wilderness that lay between the river and the coast. Yet that door was no work of Picts.