The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  Conan said: 'A Zingaran who turned up at the recruiting tent a few days past. He seemed a mousey little fellow-no warrior-but he has proved a fair swordsman, an excellent horseman, and an artist with a throwing knife; so Prospero signed him on with all the rest. He called himself-I think it was Quesado.'

  'Your reputation, like a lodestone, draws men from near and far,' said Publius.

  'So I had better win this war,' replied Conan. 'In the old days, if I lost a battle, I could slip away to lands that knew me not and start over again with nobody the wiser. That were not so easy now; too many men have heard of me.'

  ' 'Tis good news for the rest of us,' grinned Publius, 'that fame robs leaders of the chance to flee.'

  Conan said nothing. Parading through his memory marched the arduous years since he had plunged out of the wintry north, a ragged, starveling youth. He had warred and wandered the length and breadth of the Thurian continent. 'Thief, pirate, bandit, primitive chieftain - all these he had been; and common soldier, too, rising to general and falling again with the ebb of Fortune. From the savage wilderness of Pictland to the steppes of Hyrkania, from the snows of Nordheim to the steaming jungles of Kush, his name and lame were legend. Hence warriors flocked from distant lands in serve beneath his banner.

  Conan's banner now proudly rode the breeze atop the central pole of the general's tent. Its device, a golden lion rampant on a field of sable silk, was Conan's own design. Son of a Cimmerian blacksmith, Conan was not at all of noble blood; but he had gained his greatest recognition as commander of the Lion Regiment in the battle at Velitrium. Its ensign he had adopted as his own, knowing that soldiers need a flag to fight for. It was following this victory that King Numedides, holding the Cimmerian's fame a threat to his own supremacy, had sought to trap and destroy his popular general, in whom he sensed a potential rival. Conan's growing reputation for invincibility he envied; his magnetic leadership he feared.

  After eluding the snare Numedides had set for him, thus forfeiting his command, the Cimmerian looked back upon his days with the Lions with fond nostalgia. And now the banner under which he had won his mightiest victories flew above his head again, a symbol of his past glories and a rallying point for his cause.

  He would need even mightier victories in the months ahead, and the golden lion on a field of black was to him an suspicious omen. For Conan was not without his superstitions. Although he had brawled and swaggered over half the earth, exploring distant lands and the exotic lore of foreign peoples, and had gained wisdom in the ways of kings and priests, wizards and warriors, magnates and beggars, the primitive beliefs of his Cimmerian heritage still smouldered in the. depths of his soul.

  Meanwhile, the spy Quesado, having passed beyond the purlieu of the commander's tent, miraculously regained his full sobriety, No longer staggering, he walked briskly along the rutted road towards the North Gate of Messantia.

  The spy had prudently retained his waterfront room when he took up soldier's quarters in the tent city outside the walls. And in that room, pushed under the rough-hewn door, he found a letter. It was unsigned, but Quesado knew the hand of Vibius Latro.

  Having fed his pigeons, Quesado sat down to decipher the simple code that masked the meaning of the message. It seemed a jumble of domestic trivia; but, by marking every fourth word, Quesado learned that his master had sent him an accomplice. She was, the letter said, a woman of seductive beauty.

  Quesado allowed himself a thin, discreet smile. Then he penned bis usual report on a slender strip of papyrus and sent it winging north to far Tarantia.

  While the army drilled, sweated, and increased in size, Conan bade farewell to the Lady Belesa and her youthful protégée. He saw their carriage go rattling off along the coastal road to Zingara, with a squad of sturdy guards riding before and behind. Hidden in the baggage, an iron-bound box enclosed sufficient gold to keep Belesa and Tina in comfort for many years, and Conan hoped that he would see no more of them.

  Although the burly Cimmerian was sensible of Belesa's charms, he intended at this point to become entangled with no woman, least of all with a delicate gentlewoman, for whom there was no place in the wardrooms of war. Later, should the rebellion triumph, he might require a royal marriage to secure his throne. For thrones, however high their cost in common blood, must oft-times be defended by the mystic power engendered by the blood of kings.

  Still, Conan felt the pangs of lust no less than any active, virile man. Long had he been without a woman, and he showed his deprivation by curt words, sullen moods and stormy explosions of temper. At last Prospero, divining the muse of these black moods, ventured to suggest that Conan could do well to set his eyes upon the tavern wenches of Messantia.

  'With luck and discernment, General,' he said, 'you could find a bedmate to your fancy.'

  Prospero was unaware that his words buzzed like horse-Hies in the ears of a lank Zingaran mercenary, who huddled nearby with his back against a tent-stake, head bowed forward ii his knees, apparently asleep.

  Conan, equally unmindful, shrugged off his friend's suggestion. But as the days passed, desire battled with his self-control. And with every passing night, his need waxed more impelling.

  Day by day, the army grew. Archers from the Bossonian Marches, pikemen from Gunderland, light horse from Poitain, and men of high and low degree from all of Aquilonia streamed in. The drill field resounded to the shouts of commands, the tramp of infantry, the thunder of cavalry, the snap of bowstrings and the whistle of arrows. Conan, Prospero and Trocero laboured ceaselessly to forge their raw recruits into a well-trained army. But whether this force, cobbled together from far-flung lands and never battle-tested, could withstand the crack troops of the hard-riding, hard-fighting and victorious Amulius Procas, no man knew.

  Meanwhile, Publius organised a rebel spy service. His agents penetrated far into Aquilonia. Some merely sought for news. Some spread reports of the depravity of King Numedides - reports which the rumourmongers found needed no exaggeration. Some begged for monetary aid from nobles who, while sympathetic to the rebel cause, had not yet dared declare themselves in favour of rebellion.

  Each day, at noon, Conan reviewed his troops. Then, in rotation, he took his midday meal in the mess tent of each company; for a good leader knows many of his men by name and strengthens their loyalty by personal contact. A few days after Prospero's talk about the public women of Messantia, Conan dined with a company of light cavalry. He sat

  among the common soldiers and traded bawdy jests as he shared their meat, bread and bitter ale.

  At the sound of a sibilant voice, suddenly upraised, Conan turned his head. Nearby, a narrow-faced Zingaran, whom Conan remembered having seen before, was orating with grandiloquent gestures. Conan left a joke caught in an endless pause and listened closely; for the fellow was talking about women, and Conan felt a stirring in his blood.

  'There's a certain dancing girl,' cried the Zingaran, 'with hair as black as a raven's wing and eyes of emerald green. And there is a witchery in her soft red lips and in her limber body, and her breasts are like ripe pomegranates ' Here he cupped the ambient air with mobile hands.

  'Every night she dances for thrown coppers at the Inn of the Nine Swords and bares her swaying body to the eyes of men. But she is a rare one, this Alcina - a haughty, fastidious minx who denies to all men her embrace. She has not met the man who could arouse her passion — or so she claims.

  'Of course,' added Quesado, winking lewdly, 'there are doubtless lusty warriors in this very tent who could woo and win that haughty lass. Why, our gallant general himself -'

  At that instant Quesado caught Conan's eye upon him. He broke off, bent his head, and said: 'A thousand pardons, noble general! Your excellent beer so loosened my poor tongue that I forgot myself. Pray, ignore my indiscretion, I beg you, my good lord -'

  'I'll forget it.' growled Conan and turned back frowning to his food.

  But that very evening, he asked his servants for the way to an inn called the Nine Sw
ords. As he swung into the saddle and, with a single mounted groom for escort, pounded off towards the North Gate, Quesado, skulking in the shadows, smiled a small, complacent smile.

  III

  Emerald Eyes

  When dawn came laughing to the azure sky, a silver-throated trumpet heralded the arrival of an envoy from King Milo. Brave in embroidered tabard, the herald trotted into the rebel camp on a bay mare, brandishing aloft a sealed and be-ribboned scroll. The messenger sniffed disdainfully at the bustling drill ground, where a motley host was lining up for roll call. When he thundered his demand for escort to General Conan's tent, one of Trocero's men led the beast towards the centre of the camp.

  'This means trouble,' murmured Trocero to the priest Dexitheus as they gazed after the Argossean herald.

  The lean, bald Mitran priest fingered his beads. 'We should be used to trouble by now, my lord Count,' he replied. 'And much more trouble lies ahead, as well you know.'

  'You mean Numedides?' asked the count with a wry smile. 'My good friend, for that kind of trouble we are ready. I speak of difficulties with the King of Argos. For all that he gave me leave to muster here, I feel that Milo grows uneasy with so many men, pledged to a foreign cause, encamped outside his capital. Meseems His Majesty begins to repent him of his offer of a comfortable venue for our camp.'

  'Aye,' added Publius, as the stout paymaster strolled up to join the other two. 'I doubt not that the stews and alleys of Messantia already crawl with spies from Tarantia. Numedides will put a subtle pressure on the King of Argos to persuade him to turn against us now.'

  'The king were a fool to do so,' mused Trocero, 'with our army close by and lusting for a fight.'

  Publius shrugged. 'The monarch of Messantia has hitherto been our friend.' he said. 'But kings are given to perfidy, and

  expediency rules the hearts of even the noblest of them. We must needs wait and see ... I wonder what ill news that haughty herald bore?'

  Publius and Trocero strolled off to attend their duties, leaving Dexitheus absently fingering his prayer beads. When lie had spoken of future troubles, he thought not only of the lining clash but also of another portent.

  The night before, his slumbers had been roiled by a disturbing dream. Lord Mitra often granted his loyal suppliants foreknowledge of events through dreams, and Dexitheus wondered if his dream had been a prophecy.

  In this dream, General Conan confronted the enemy on a battlefield, harking on his soldiers with brandished sword; but behind the giant Cimmerian lurked a shadowy form, slender and furtive. Naught could the sleeper discern of this stealthy presence save that in its hood-shadowed visage burned catlike eyes of emerald green, and that it ever stood at Conan's unprotected back.

  Although the risen sun had warmed the mild spring morning, Dexitheus shivered. He did not like such dreams; they cast pebbles into the deep well of his serenity. Besides, no recruit in the rebel camp had eyes of such a brilliant green, or he would have noticed the oddity.

  Along the dusty road back to Messantia cantered the herald, as messengers went forth to summon the leaders of the rebel host to council.

  In his tent, the giant Cimmerian barely checked his anger as his squires strapped him into his harness for his morning exercise with arms. When Prospero, Trocero, Dexitheus, Publius and the others were assembled, he spoke sharply, biting off his words.

  'Briefly, friends,' he rumbled, 'it is His Majesty's pleasure that we withdraw north to the grassy plains, at least nine leagues from Messantia. King Milo feels our nearness to his capital endangers both his city and our cause. Some of our troops, quoth he, have been enjoying themselves a bit too rowdily of late, shattering the king's peace and giving trouble in the civic guard.'

  'I feared as much,' sighed Dexitheus. 'Our warriors are much given to the pleasures of the goblet and the couch. Slill and all, it asks too much of human nature to expect -soldiers- especially a mixed crowd like ours-to behave with the meekness of hooded monks.'

  'True,' said Trocero. 'And luckily we are not unprepared to go. When shall we move, General?'

  Conan buckled his sword belt with a savage gesture. His blue eyes glared lion-like beneath his square-cut black mane.

  'He gives us ten days to be gone,' he grunted, 'but I am lain to move at once. Messantia has too many eyes and ears to please me, and too many of our soldiery have limber longues, which a stoup of wine sets wagging. I'll move, not nine leagues but ninety, from this nest of spies.

  'So let's be off, my lords. Cancel all leaves and drag our men out of the wineshops, by force if need be. This night I shall proceed with a picked troop to study the route and choose a new campsite. Trocero, you shall command until I rejoin the army.'

  They saluted and left. All the rest of that day, soldiers were rounded up, provisions readied, and gear piled into wagons. Before the next morning's sun had touched the gilded pinnacles of Messantia with its lances of light, tents were struck and companies formed for the line of march. While the ghosts of fog still floated on the lowlands, the army got under way - knight and yeoman, archer and pikeman, all well guarded by scouts and flankers before, behind, and on the sides.

  Conan and his troop of Poitanian light horse had trotted off to northward, while darkness veiled the land. The barbarian general did not entirely trust King Milo's friendship. Many considerations mould the acts of kings; and Numedides's agents might have already persuaded the Argos-sean monarch to ally himself with the ruler of Aquilonia, rather than espouse the unpredictable fortunes of the rebels.

  Surely Argos knew that, if the insurrection failed, Aquilonia's vengeance would be swift and devastating. And, if a king is bent upon destruction, an army is best attacked while on the march, with the men strung out and encumbered by their gear.

  So the Lions moved north. Company by company, the unseasoned army tramped the dusty road, splashed across the fords of shallow rivers, and snaked through the low Didy-mian Hills. No one ambushed, attacked or harassed the marching men. Perhaps Conan's suspicions of King Milo were unjustified; perhaps the army was too strong for the Argos-seans to try conclusions with them. Or perhaps the king awaited a more felicitous moment to hurl his strength against . the rebels. Whether he were friend or secret foe, Conan rejoiced in his precautions.

  When his forces had covered the first day's march without interference, Conan, cantering back from his chosen campsite, relaxed a little. They were now beyond the reach of the spies that infested the winding alleys of Messantia. His scouts and outriders travelled far and wide; if unfriendly eyes watched the army in the countryside, Conan looked to bis scouts to sniff their owners out. None was discovered.

  The giant Cimmerian trusted few men and those never lightly. His long years of war and outlawry had reinforced his feline wariness. Still, he knew these men who followed him, and his cause was theirs. Thus it never occurred to him that spies might be already in his camp and ill-wishers at his very back.

  Two days later, the rebels forded the River Astar in Hypsonia and entered the Plain of Pallos. To the north loomed the Rabirian Mountains, a serrated line of purple peaks marching like giants into the sunset. The army made its camp at the edge of the plain, on a low, rounded hillock that would offer some protection when fortified around the top by ditch and palisade. Here, so long as supplies came regularly from nearby farms, the warriors could perfect their skills before crossing the Alimane into Poitain, the northernmost province of Aquilonia.

  During the long day after their arrival, the grumbling soldiers laboured with pick, shovel and mattock to surround the camp with a protective rampart. Meanwhile a troop of light horse cantered back along the road by which they had come, to escort the plodding supply wagons.

  But during the second watch of that night, a slender figure glided from the darkness of Conan's tent into a pool of moonlight. It was robed and muffled in a long, full caftan of amber wool, which blended into the raw earth beneath its feet. This figure came upon another, shrouded in the shadow of a nearby tent.

&nbs
p; The two exchanged a muttered word of recognition. Then slim, be-ringed fingers pressed a scrap of parchment into the other's labour-grimed hands.

  'On this map I have marked the passes that the rebels will lake into Aquilonia,' said the girl in the silken, sibilant whisper of a purring cat. 'Also the disposition of the regiments.'

  'I'll send the word,' murmured the other. 'Our master will see that it gets to Procas. You have done well, Lady Alcina.'

  'There is much more to do, Quesado,' said the girl. 'We must not be seen together.'

  The Zingaran nodded and vanished into the darkest shadows. The dancer threw back her hood and looked up at the argent moon. Although she had just come from the lusty arms of Conan the Cimmerian, her moonlit features were icily unmoved. Like a mask carved from yellow ivory was that pallid oval face; and in the cool depths of her emerald eyes lurked traces of amusement, malice and disdain.

  That night, as the rebel army slept upon the Plain of Pallos in the embrace of the Rabirian Mountains, one recruit deserted. His absence was not discovered until roll call the next morning; and when it was, Trocero deemed it a matter of small moment. The man, a Zingaran named Quesado, was reputedly a lazy malingerer whose loss would be of little consequence.

  Despite his feckless manner, Quesado was in truth anything hut lazy. The most diligent of spies, he masked with seeming indolence his busy watching, listening, and compiling of terse but accurate reports. And that night, while the encampment slumbered, he stole a horse from the paddock, eluded the sentinels, and galloped northward hour after weary hour.

  Ten days later, splashed with mud, covered with dust, and staggering with exhaustion, Quesado reached the great gates of Tarantia. The sight of the sigil he wore above his heart gained him swift access to Vibius Latro, Numedides's chancellor.