The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  Conan clenched his teeth to stifle his self-reproach. 'I have bee played the fool this time, Prospero, and led us into Procas's jaws. I should have waited until Dio had probed the forest I ere starting my lads across. It's well that Dio fell at the first I onslaught - had he not, I'd have made him wish he had! He and his men milled around like sheep for a snailish time ere pushing out to beat the undergrowth. But still, I was at I fault to let impatience sway me. Procas had watchers in the trees, to signal the attack. Now all is lost.'

  'Not so, Conan,' said Prospero. 'As you are wont to say, I naught is hopeless until the last man chews the dust or knuckles under; and in every war the gods throw boons and banes to either side. Let us fall back to the Plain of Pallos and our base camp. We may join Trocero along the way. We are now several hundred strong, and we shall count to thousands when we sweep up the other stragglers. A hundred gullies in these hills must shelter groups like ours.'

  Trocas far outnumbers us,' said Conan sombrely, 'and his well-found forces carry high spirits from their victories. What can a few thousand, downcast by defeat, achieve against them? Besides, he will have seized the passes through the Rabirians, or at least the main pass at Saxula.'

  'Doubtless,' said Prospero, 'but Procas's troops are scattered wide, searching for fugitives. Our hungry pride of lions could one by one devour his packs of bloodhounds, In sooth, we came upon one such on our way hither - a squad of light horse - and slew the lot. Come, General! You of all men are the indomitable one —the man who never quits. You've built a band of brigands into an army and shaken thrones ere now; you can do the same again. So be of good cheer!'

  Conan took a deep breath and squared his massive shoulders. 'You're right, by Crom! I'll mewl no longer like . starving beldame. We've lost one engagement, but our cause remains whilst there be two of us to stand back to back and fight for it. And we have this, at least.'

  He reached into the shadows and drew from a crevice in the rocks the Lion banner, the symbol of the rebellion. His standard bearer, though mortally wounded, had borne it to the hollow in the hills. After the man had succumbed, Conan had rolled up the banner and thrust it out of sight. Now he unfurled it in the pale light of dawn.

  'It's little enough to salvage from the rout of an army,' he rumbled, 'but thrones have been won with less.' And Conan smiled a grim, determined smile.

  V

  The Purple Lotus

  The smiling day revealed that fate had not entirely forsaken the army of the rebellion. For the night had been heavily overcast, and in the gloom the weary warriors of Amulius Procas had failed to root out many scattered pockets of survivors, like that which Conan had gathered around him. Thus, as the morning sun rolled back its blanket of clouds, bands of heart-sore rebels, who had either eluded the search parties or routed those they encountered, began to filter back across the Rabirian range.

  Night was nigh when Conan and his remnant approached , the pass of Saxula. Conan dispatched men ahead to scout, since he was convinced he would have to fight his way through. He snorted with surprise when the scouts reported back that there was no evidence of the Border Legion anywhere near the pass. There were signs-the ashes of camp-fires and other debris-that a force of Procas's men had camped in the pass, but they were nowhere to be seen.

  'Crom! What means this?' Conan mused, staring up at the great notch in the ridge. 'Unless Procas has sent his men on, deeper into Argos.'

  'I think not,' said Publius. 'That would mean open war with Milo. More likely, he ordered his men back across the Alimane before the court at Messantia could hear of his incursion. Then, if King Milo protests, Procas can aver that not one Aquilonian soldier remains on Argossean soil.'

  Let's hope you are right,' said Conan. 'Forward, men!'

  By the next midday, Conan's band had gathered up several full companies that had fled unscathed from the ambush at Mevano. But the rebels' greatest prise was Count Trocero himself, camped on a hilltop with two hundred horse and having built a rude palisade, the Count of Poitain was prepared to hold his little fort against Procas and all his iron legions. Trocero emotionally embraced Conan and Prospero.

  'Thank Mitra you live!' he cried. 'I heard that you had fallen to an arrow and that your division fled southward like wintering wildfowl.'

  'You hear many things about a battle, perhaps one tenth of them true,' said Conan. He told the tale of the ambush at Mevano and asked: 'How fared you at Tunais?'

  Procas smashed us as badly as he shattered you, I believe that he himself commanded. He laid his ambush on the south bank of the river and assailed us from both sides as we prepared to cross. I had not thought that he would dare so brazenly to violate Argossean territory.'

  'Amulius Procas is nobody's fool,' said Conan, 'nor does I' scruple to snatch at a long chance when he must. But how mine you hither? Through Saxula Pass?'

  'Nay. When we approached it, a strong force of Procas's men were there encamped. Luckily, one of my horsemen, a muggier by trade, knew a narrow, little-used opening through which he led us. It was a dizzy climb, but we got through with the loss of but two beasts. Now, say you that Saxula Puss is open?'

  'It was last night, at least.' said Conan. He looked around, 'let's go on, post-haste, back to our base camp on the Plain of Pallos. My men together with yours make above a thousand lighters.'

  'A thousand scarce an army makes,' grumbled Publius. ' 'Tis but a remnant of the ten thousand who marched northward with us.'

  'It's a beginning,' said Conan, whose gloom of the night lief ore had vanished with the light of day. 'I can recall when our whole enterprise numbered only five stout hearts.'

  As the remnant of the rebels marched, more bands that had escaped the slaughter joined the host, and individual survivors and small groups came straggling in. Conan kept back with apprehension, expecting at any moment to see Procas's whole Border Legion pour down the Rabirian Hills in hot pursuit. But Publius thought differently. 'look you, General,' he said. 'King Milo has not yet; betrayed us or turned against us, or surely he would have come pounding at our rear whilst Procas engaged us in the van. Methinks not even the mad King of Aquilonia dare risk a full and open war with the sovereign state of Argos; the Argosseans are a hardy lot. Amulius Procas knows his politics; he would not have so long survived in Numedides's service had he rashly affronted neighbouring kingdoms. Once WI regain our base camp and shore up our barricades, we should! be safe for the moment. The reserve supplies and the camp followers await us.'

  Conan scowled. 'Until Numedides bribes or bullies Milo into turning his hand against us.'

  In a sense, Conan was right. For even at that hour, the agents I of Aquilonia were closeted with King Milo and his council- men. Chief among these agents was Quesado the Zingaran, who had reached Messantia with his party by a long, hard ride from Tarantia, swinging wide of the embattled armies.

  Quesado, now resplendent in black velvet with boots of fine red Kordavan leather, had changed; and the change was not to his employer's advantage. Hearing of the spy's exploits in the service of Vibius Latro, a delighted King Numedides ' had insisted on promoting Quesado to the diplomatic corps. This proved a mistake.

  The Zingaran had been an excellent spy, long trained to affect an unassuming, inconspicuous air. Now suddenly raised in pay and prestige, he let his façade of humility crumble, and the pompous pride and hauteur of a would-be Zingaran I gentleman began to show through the gaps. Looking down I his beak of a nose, he endeavoured by thinly veiled threats to persuade King Milo and his councillors that it were wiser to court the favour of the King of Aquilonia than to support his raggle-taggle foes.

  'My lord King and gentlemen,' said Quesado in a sharp voice, 'surely you know that, if you choose to be no friend of my master, you must be counted amongst his enemies. And the longer you permit your realm to shelter his rebellious foes, the more you will be tainted with the crime of treason against my sovereign lord, the mighty King of Aquilonia.'

  King Milo's broad face flushed with anger,
and he sat up limply. A heavy-set man of middle years, whose luxuriant grey beard overspread his chest, Milo gave the impression of solid taciturnity, more like some honest peasant than the mien of a rich and sophisticated realm. Slow to make up his mind, he could be exceedingly stubborn once he had reached a decision. Glaring at Quesado, he snapped:

  'Argos is a free and sovereign state, sirrah! We have never been and, Mitra willing, never shall be subject to the King nl Aquilonia. Treason means a misdeed of a subject against an overlord. Do you claim that fat Numedides is overlord of Argos?'

  Quesado began to perspire; his bony forehead gleamed damply in the soft light that streamed in ribbons of azure and scarlet through the stained-glass windows of the council chamber.

  'Such was not my intention, Your Majesty,' he hastily apologized. More humbly, he pleaded: 'But with all respect, ire, I must point out that my master can hardly overlook resistance given by a neighbouring brother monarch to rebels against his divinely established Ruby Throne.'

  'We have given them no help,' said Milo, glowering. Your spies will have apprised you that their remnants are encamped upon the Plain of Pallos and, lacking supplies from Messantia, they are desperately scouring the countryside for food. Their famed Bossonian archers employ their skill in pursuing ducks and deer. You say your General Procas's victory was decisive? What, then, has mighty Aquilonia to fear from a gaggle of fugitives, reduced by starvation to mere banditry? We are told they have but a tithe of their original strength and that desertions further reduce their numbers day by day.'

  'True, my lord King,' said Quesado, who had recovered! his poise. 'But, by the same token, what has cultured Argos to gain by sheltering such a band? Unable to assail their rightful ruler, they must needs maintain themselves by depredations against your own loyal subjects.'

  Scowling, Milo lapsed into silence, for he had no convincing answer to Quesado's arguement. He could hardly say that he had given his word to an old friend, Count Trocero, to let the rebels use his land as a base for operations against a neighbouring king. Moreover, he resented the Aquilonian envoy's efforts to rush him into a decision. He liked to make up his own mind in his own time, without hectoring.

  Lumbering to his feet, the king curtly adjourned the session: 'We will consider the requests of our brother monarch, Ambassador Quesado. Our gentlemen shall inform you of our decision at our pleasure. You have our leave to withdraw.'

  Lips curled in a false smile, Quesado bowed his way out, but venom ate at his heart. Fortune had favoured the rebellious Cimmerian this time, he thought, but the next throw of the dice might have a different outcome. For though he knew it not, Conan nursed a viper in his bosom.

  The Army of the Lion was in no wise so enfeebled or reduced to famine as Milo and Quesado believed. Now numbering over fifteen hundred, it daily rebuilt its strength and gathered supplies. The lean horses grazed on the long grass of the plain; the women camp followers, who had been left at the base camp when the army marched northward, nursed the wounded. Much of the baggage train had been salvaged, and ragged survivors continued to limp and straggle in, to swell the thin but resolute ranks of the rebellion. The forests whispered to the footfalls of hunters and rang to the axes of woodcutters, while in the camp, fletchers whittled spear and arrow shafts, and the anvils of blacksmiths clanged with the beat of hammers on point and blade.

  Most encouraging was the tale that the rear guard, a thousand strong under the Aquilonian Baron Groder, had escaped the débâcle at Tunais and was wandering in the mountains to the east. To investigate, Conan sent Prospero with a troop of light horse to search for their lost comrades and guide them to the base. Dexitheus prayed to Mitra that the rumour might prove true, for the addition of Groder's force would nearly double their strength. Kingdoms had fallen ere this to fewer than three thousand determined survivors.

  A full moon glared down upon the Plain of Pallos like the yellow eye of an angry god. A chill, uneasy wind rustled through the tall meadow grasses and plucked with ghostly fingers at the cloaks of sentries, who stood watch about the camp.

  In his candle-lit tent, Conan sat late over a flagon of ale, listening to his officers. Some, still downcast by their recent defeat, were reluctant to contemplate further conflicts at this nine. Others, avid for revenge, urged an early assault, even with their present diminished might.

  'Look you, General,' said Count Trocero. 'Amulius Procas will never expect an attack so soon upon the heels of our disaster, so we shall take him by surprise. Once across the Alimane, we shall be joined by our Poitanian friends, who only await our coming to raise the province.'

  Conan's savage soul incited him to heed his friend's advice. To strike across the border now, at the very ebb of their fortunes, would wrest victory from defeat with a vengeance. He urgently needed a vigorous sally to mend the men's morale. Already some were drifting away, deserting what they viewed as a hopeless cause. Unless he could shore up the dykes of loyalty with hopes of triumph, the leakage of the disaffected would soon become a flood, leaching his army away to nothing.

  Yet the mighty Cimmerian had, during his years of campaigning, grown wise in the ways of war. Experience cautioned him to rein in his eagerness, rather than commit his remaining strength-at least until Prospero returned with word of

  Baron Grader and his force. Once Conan knew he could count upon this powerful reinforcement, he could then determine whether the moment for assault was at hand.

  Dismissing his commanders, Conan sought the warm arms and soft breasts of Alcina. The golden dancing girl had entranced him with her wily ways of assuaging his passions; but this night she laughingly eluded his embrace, to proffer I a goblet of wine.

  ' 'Tis time, my lord, that you enjoyed a gentleman's drink, instead of swilling bitter beer like any peasant,' she said. 'I brought a flask of fine wine from Messantia for your especial I pleasure.'

  'Crom and Mitra, girl, I've drunk enough this night! I thirst now for the wine of your lips, not for the pressings of the grape.'

  'It is but a gentle stimulant, lord, to augment your desires - and my enjoyment of them,' she wheedled. Standing in the I candlelight in a length of sheer saffron silk, which did little I to hide the lush lines of her body, she smiled seductively and I thrust the goblet towards him, saying: 'It contains spices from my homeland to rouse your senses. Will you not drink I it, my lord, to please me?'

  Looking eagerly upon the moon-pale oval of her face, I Conan said: 'I need no rousing when I smell the perfume I of your hair. But give it to me; I'll drink to this night's delights.'

  He drank the wine in three great gulps, ignoring the faintly acrid taste of the spices, and slammed the goblet I down. Then he reached for the delectable girl, whose wide- I set eyes were fixed upon him.

  But, when he sought to seize her in his arms, the tent I reeled crazily about him, and a searing pain bloomed in his vitals. He snatched at the tent pole, missed, and fell heavily. Alcina leaned over his supine body. In his blurring vision, I her features melted into a mist, through which her green eyes burned like incandescent emeralds.

  'Crom's blood, wench ' Conan gasped. 'You've poisoned me!'

  He struggled to rise, but it seemed to the Cimmerian that his body had turned to lead. Although the veins in his temples throbbed, his face purpled with effort, and his thews stood along his limbs like ship's cables, he could not regain his feet. He fell back, gulping air. Then his vision dimmed until he seemed to drift from the lamp-lit interior of the tent into a trance-like waking dream. He could neither speak nor stir.

  'Conan!' the girl murmured, bending over him, but he made no reply. In a silken whisper, she said: 'So much for you, barbarian pig! And soon your wretched remnant of an army will follow you back to the hells whence you and they once crawled!'

  Calmly seating herself, she drew forth the amulet she bore between her breasts. A glance at the time candle on a taboret showed that half an hour must yet elapse before she could commune with her master. In sphinx-like silence she sat, unm
oving, until the time approached. Then she focused her mind upon the obsidian fragment.

  In far-off Tarantia, Thulandra Thuu, gazing into his magical mirror, gave a dry chuckle as he observed the quiescent form of the giant Cimmerian. Rising, he replaced the mirror in its cabinet, roused his servant, and sent him with a message to the king.

  Hsiao found Numedides, unclothed, enjoying a massage with four handsome naked girls. Keeping his modest eyes fixed upon the marble floor, Hsiao bowed low and said:

  'My master respectfully informs Your Majesty that the bandit rebel Conan is slain in Argos by my master's otherworldly powers.'

  With a grunt, Numedides sat up, pushing the girls away. 'Eh? Dead, you say?'

  'Aye, my lord King.'

  'Excellent news, excellent news.' With a loud guffaw, Numedides slapped his bare thigh. 'When I become a-but enough of that. What else?'

  'My master asks your permission to send a message to General Amulius Procas, informing him of this event and authorising him to cross into Argos, to scatter the rebel remnants ere they can choose another leader.'

  Numedides waved the Khitan away. 'Begone, yellow dog, and tell your master to do as he thinks best. Now let us continue, girls.'

  Thus, later that night, a courier set out along the far-flung road to General Procas's headquarters on the Argossean frontier. The message, which bore the seal of King Numedides, would in less than a fortnight loose the fury of the Border Legion upon the leaderless men who followed the Lion banner.