The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  And so the lady Khashtris, queen's cousin of Khauran, employed as bodyguard the son of a barbarian smith, and with a gesture he pledged her a depth of loyalty she'd not have accepted, had she known the sign. As it was, smiling, .he turned in her seat and drew the curtain. She was lifted 'ii the shoulders of all four bearers. Before rode the Shemite, Shubal; behind the litter paced five sumpter-beasts, lour laden, and behind all rode the giant in the arm-baring blued steel and the peaked Turanian helmet with its steel curtains that left bare only the forefront of his head and throat. The cavalcade paced through Shadizar and was soon passed through the south gate, on to the Road of Kings.

  A bit later that afternoon, others followed.

  III

  Swords in the Dark

  Once they were on that broad caravan track called Road of Kings, Conan and Shubal rode just behind the litter. An off-duty bearer rode Conan's second horse and held the lead-rein of the first pack animal; the others docilely followed.

  Shubal was of the asshuri, a Shemite warrior clan, Conan learned while the two men conversed. Soon they would swing west off the broad road, and into Khauran.

  'Why 'of the Unhappy Queens'?' Conan asked.

  'The curse. Long and long ago a queen of Khauran mated with a demon. I believe the result is assurance of royal fecundity and Khauran's continued independence, or some-such; I am not sure. The blessing carried with it a curse: once in each century a queen gives birth to a demon-child, ' a witch. She is easily recognised by the crescent mark on her bosom.'

  'Every time, eh? What a belief!'

  'Don't scoff, Conan. It's true. Each one is named Salome, after the first witch-and each is slain. Seven years ago, Queen lalamis bore twin girls. One had the mark. She was given the dread name, and exposed to die on the desert. Princess Taramis, the witch's twin, does not know. She will be told during her Rite of Womanhood, in five or so years when she reaches age thirteen. Khauran's Queen lalamis the Sad is a lonely and unhappy woman, widowed soon after she caused her own daughter to be slain. It is the dual curse of the queens of Khauran, for they seldom keep consorts.'

  'Someone should console lalamis that she has saved her daughter; the princess is at least spared any possibility of bearing a demon! And who do the queens of Khauran wed, then?'

  Shubal said, 'Strong and brave men!'

  Then they rode on, with Conan reflecting dolorously on ill- unhappy woman whose aid he so needed. They met a lint: caravan, and towards sundown a squad of uniformed Inisemen, Zamoran soldiers, passed them. Later still, Conan swore when a couple of youngsters galloped past, exciting Khashtris's beasts and raising a cloud of yellowish dust. They departed the road then, to make camp.

  One horse bore tents; they set them up so that Conan mid Shubal shared one and the four bearers another, while Khashtris had the tall green one to herself. They were on their way again shortly after sunrise.

  Eventually the small cavalcade was pacing into the rich inlands of little Khauran. Khashtris avowed that the very in was sweeter now, and had her curtains open. She even merged now and again to walk for a space. Conan kept careful track of which bearer's turn it was to ride, and he mid Shubal were not unhappy at having nothing else to do but watch the flash of their lady's fine legs.

  On one of his employer's emergences from her litter, Conan dismounted to walk beside her.

  'It is fine fertile country you are blessed with, Lady.'

  'Aye, Conan - and just hear the birds! See how the Pirmfolk smile and wave when we pass. All are happy in Khauran . . .' And she stopped suddenly, frowning.

  'Except the queen herself,' Conan said.

  'Aye.'

  'Shubal has told me of the Curse of Khauran's Queens. Would that I could break it, Lady, for you.'

  'Think you so much of me, Conan?'

  'You are certainly neither insensitive nor heartless, Lady Khashtris! I admit I'd defend you against odds, though, because of your promise to present me to the queen, with my petition.'

  'Will you tell me of it now?'

  'Aye, in brief. In Arenjun, I fell afoul of a certain mage, Hisarr Zul,' Conan said, seeing no reason to mention that he had been engaged in trying to rob the mage at the time, and had fallen into a trap. 'He stole from me my very soul. I-'

  'Your soul?' Khashtris was incredulous.

  Conan glanced around, then at the plump cushion behind his saddle. 'Aye, just so. I think I've not smiled since, nor

  known a perfect night's sleep. My . . . soul is encased in a mirror. Thus the mage forced me into a mission for him. In the course of that I succeeded in laying a ghoulish ghost a sand-lich on the desert between Arenjun and Zamboula! From that thing I learned the means of causing Hisarr Zul's death. When I returned he sought to slay me, but I turned his own poison-dust back on him. He is dead. My soul, my very essence, remains trapped in the mirror. He could have removed it, but I had to slay him or die myself. If the mirror is broken, I am soulless, yet alive. I have seen such creatures: such served the wizard, and I had rather be dead and eaten by vultures! Yet if the mirror is broken by a crowned ruler . . . my soul is returned to me. So said the sand-lich, who has been Hisarr's brother, and murdered by him.'

  'Oh, Conan! Ishtar and Ashtoreth - how horrible! Khashtris paused to turn to him, her elaborate coiffure spiring high as his forehead. Would that I wore a crown, that I might make you whole, my poor unfortunate! My cousin will end your torment, though, on our arrival. There is no doubt or question, Conan. It will be done.'

  And now you know, my most attractive lady of twoscore years, why I would defend you against Old Set himself, Conan mused, and returned to his horse that he might be in better position were he needed as mercenary bodyguard, rather than companion.

  He was not so needed, that day.

  That night, Conan awoke to sounds that should not have existed. He knew what he had heard. Though Shubal lay a few feet away, breathing heavily in sleep, Conan elected to make no sound. He rose silently. Without taking time to don padded shirt or mail-vest, he buckled his weapons-belt over his breechclout with a silence few would have believed. Just as silent, he crept from the tent. Even thumping Shubal with his foot might bring the man awake with a cry or a groan, and someone outside was most interested in stealth. Conan adopted the same measure.

  No more than ten good paces separated Khashtris's tent from his and Shubal's. Beyond it and angled a bit so as to form a triangle, the bearers' tent loomed against the night. He was just able to distinguish men there-and another less than five paces from him, his back to Conan. This one cut over still another, and a slender blade dripped on the alien form. Conan knew he had heard a muffled yelp of mm or dying. The moonlight brought a glitter to upturned, blood red eyes, and Conan recognised one of the Ophirean conjurers he had employed.

  The Cimmerian crept forward like a stalking panther. Seconds later there were two corpses on the ground. The man Conan had just slain was one of the bearers hired by Khashtris; he had murdered the Ophirean. Crouching, a snarl twisting his face, the Cimmerian peered about. The other three had not heard this killing. They were moving, very stealthily, upon Khashtris's tent.

  Conan made instant decision, faded around his own tent, aid came in behind Khashtris's, so that it was between him and the skulkers. Four, eh? Someone had followed them, then —someone in league with the two litter bearers the lady had employed. Now Conan squatted behind Lady Khashtris's tent. Moments later the fabric was neatly slit.

  The queen's cousin awoke with a huge hand covering her lower face from cheek to cheek, from nose to chin. Her struggle was stilled by a brief whisper: 'It's Conan. Be still.'

  With her heart pounding and her mouth covered and his brawny arm a heavy pressure on her breast, the high-coiffed lady waited in the darkness, and wondered whether she was being protected or menaced. The darkness and silence had become horror, so that her heartbeat sounded like the tympani of a marching army. She felt the swift beat of his heart too, beneath the massive chest bare against her bare

 
; back.

  The flap of her tent was drawn aside from without, to admit a pallid pool of moonlight. A stooping man entered as if walking on eggs. Another. Another, bearing a sword. Conan thrust his noble employer roughly from him as he rose. In the silence and the darkness of the tent his snarled words were as a ferocious growl to freeze the limbs of any skulking murderers.

  'What seek you, murdering dogs? Death?'

  And he pounced one step to strike such a blow as he'd

  never have risked against sighted foes. He could see dimly, and they had just entered the tent and surely could not; he risked. His sword clove meat and a man groaned horribly. Instantly Conan was twisting his blade free of its victim's flesh and muscle. He pounced aside then, and there came the sound of a falling body.

  'Who-who struck? Baranthes?'

  'Struck, slimy dog. You've come to do murder-do it!' The voice was as much animal growl as human, and the skin of Khashtris horripilated no less than that of the two men.

  'Son of Set- it's that Conanl'

  This time Conan said nothing; squatting, he extended his sword and swung. The arm was two feet long, to the wrist; the sword it wielded added nearly three feet more of reach. When the rushing edge struck, no groan arose; a man howled hideously in the dark as his calf was chopped more than half through. Even while he toppled, the silent Conan moved again, this time with unerring instinct towards Khashtris. Leaning towards the tent's flap, he chopped down towards the floor as if seeking to split a fallen log. His blade did not reach the ground, but was arrested by a semi-yielding bulk. The ugly bubbling sound from a human throat told him he had found either lung or neck of the man he had already crippled: a treacherous litter-bearer from Zamora by way of Stygia;

  Conan did not care which; he twisted free his steel and lunged rightward.

  The whish he heard to his left was the third man's sword; did the fellow know he was now without companions?

  'Best flee, slime,' Conan told him, growling low. 'You are all alone. I've slain three this night, and both Shubal and Khashtris live!'

  Rather than accept sensible advice, the man struck wildly. Conan was already amove. With a loud chopping sound, the would-be murderer drove his sword into the tent's single pole with such force than he groaned at impact. The pole crumpled.

  As the tent came down over them and Khashtris squeaked in terror, Conan pounced. He did not stab another unseen foe in the dark; he found an arm, which he broke, and then

  a neck. He broke it, too.

  The Cimmerian stood alone, with the sagging tent draped over him so that he formed a human pole in a darkness that was absolute. The third stalker of Khashtris lay at his feet. Again the lady of Khauran made a squeaky, whimpering sound.

  'There were three,' Conan said, and forced his way towards her voice, and squatted. The tent fell over them. Grasped by a shivering Khashtris, Conan held her close, and remained. Hardly old, the woman was nevertheless more than twice his age. But no woman, Conan learned, was old, in darkness.

  Just at dawn a horrified Shubal hauled the tent away, and stared. Conan showed him an animal's ugly grin.

  'Good morning, Shubal. You do sleep soundly.' The Cimmerian waved casually with a hand whose little ringer wore a band of silver set with a moonstone. 'Drop the tent again, will you? Just for a few moments.'

  Unable to speak though his mouth was open, Shubal did. Conan reared up to form a human tentpole, while the Lady Khashtris hastily clothed herself.

  IV

  Soul of the Cimmerian

  Conan, Shubal and Lady Khashtris occupied a camp in which they were the only humans alive-though they now possessed two additional horses, bridled and saddled. All four bearers lay dead, the Ophireans murdered and the two hired by Khashtris slain by Conan. One lay under the woman's collapsed tent; the other two men there were unknown to Conan.

  They were known to Khashtris and Shubal. The corpses were of her other two bodyguards, he who had been 'ill' and he had fled the thieves' attack in Shadizar.

  'These two plotted it,' Conan mused aloud. 'Both of you and your bearers were to die. Perhaps these dogs made agreement with those thieves of Shadizar, or hired them. You travel with too much wealth and not enough protection, Khashtris.' He had called her by name without giving it a thought; Shubal noted, but made no comment. The noblewoman did not so much as compress her lips. 'That failed, and so they put two likely bearers in your way. You hired them-'

  'Foolishly!' Khashtris said, in bitter self-accusation.

  'Aye, foolishly Conan said, as though she were not his noble and wealthy employer. 'The two traitors followed us. Those tik-nuts the Stygian half-breed gave Shubal were a drug, or drugged. I didn't like the things, but he didn't know I'd spat them out, for I had no desire to insult him. I spat about ten times more to rid my mouth of their foul brown taste! Both Shubal and I were to sleep through your murder and robbery. Who can be sure why they first slew the Ophirean bearers?'

  'Ishtar damn me for a fool!' Shubal blurted. 'Beat me with your sword, Conan!'

  'Better we both beat our employer for hiring only two trustworthy men-and four treacherous midden-heap rats I

  Better still, let us beat no one or our breasts either, but be on our way. Men have died afore, and I have killed afore. I reckon I will again. I may even make a mistake or two, some day. My noble lady: this time we leave that silly chair-on-poles. You will ride like a human and not a priest of Set, or you will walk while Shubal and I ride. Crom's name, we now have eight horses! Shall I tie you to one, or help you to mount?'

  She gazed at him, large-eyed and blinking. 'I - I've never - my legs -'

  'The legs of Noble Khashtris are better than those of any girl of fifteen or of twenty! Come, be human; be a wench, for once! You might enjoy it.'

  Khashtris stared at him, and chewed her lip, and then suddenly she was smiling.

  Thus rode the three into the walled city of Khauran, capital of Khauran, and along its broad main thoroughfare. All bestrode good mounts, and Khashtris sat tall with much display of fine bare leg. People stared; the noble lady held high her chin and her brows, and looked straight before her.

  Between marble-walled structures the trio rode, leading five other horses. One was laden with the weapons of dead men. Conan was no stripper of corpses, but neither was he one to leave good weapons lying about to rust or fall into the hands of farm children.

  They rode to a house of greenish marble and black pillars near the palace, and here was the Lady Khashtris made welcome by her household. A restive Conan suffered himself to be bathed while his armour and tunic were dusted. Nothing here was large enough to fit the Cimmerian, who clad himself again in the same tunic, over which he drew his padded jack and new shirt of mesh-mail. His lady employer still was not ready. He occupied the time of waiting in the downing of a huge cup of wine and the hurling of japery at Shubal, who wore a silver-bordered tunic of snowy white and a brocaded short-cloak for which Conan saw no purpose.

  Once Khashtris had bathed and been coiffed anew and clothed she appeared-and at once pointed out how filthy

  Conan's voluminous white cloak was. Rather than wear a cape such as Shubal's - who was smirking - Conan doffed the travel-soiled garment and refused to don the one she proffered.

  Lady Khashtris and her bodyguards went to the palace, where a messenger had already carried word of her coming. Many eyes watched the strapping near-giant with the hot blue eyes and the mop of square-trimmed black hair as he accompanied his gemmed employer and fellow bodyguard to the lofty structure housing Khauran's royalty. Despite the popularity of beards in Khauran, Conan had scraped his face smooth. The new mail-vest had been polished, and shone. Though its owner had slain four since purchasing it, the armour had yet to turn a blade or be blood-splashed. Through the lofty marble halls of the palace they paced, accompanied by the clack-clack of Khashtris's shoes. Her yellow skirts rustled. Past doors arabesqued in gold they walked; past bronze-cuirassed guards who seemed to see nothing; past servants whose
eyes rounded while they stared at the trio; by all these they passed in silence. They came to two tall doors plated with silver. On them some watery-eyed fellow had doubtless spent a year of his life inditing various scenes from the past of the Ashkaurian dynasty.

  Khashtris was expected. She hardly gave the annunciator time to call out her name before she swept within. Conan followed her into a large chamber of pennon-hung walls of pink marble veined with red and grey, tiled floor strewn with carpets brought from the east, and an impressive number of burning lamps in ornate cressets of brass enhanced with gold and onyx.

  Here were no guardsmen. Here were gathered six adults and a child of six or so years, who was gowned like a miniature queen. Her Conan saw but briefly, as she departed the audience chamber in the company of her nurse. He gave her but a glance: the child-sister of a dead witch, her hair black as that of her Cousin Khashtris's, though not piled and teased up into the Khaurani cone.

  Cousin or no, Khashtris genuflected to the woman seated on the dais carpeted in scarlet. Just behind their employer, Conan and Shubal bowed. The woman on the throne of Khauran bore signal resemblance to her cousin. Her black hair was coiffed identically to Khashtris's, if more ornately dressed; so was the hair ' every noblewoman of this land. The queen's crown sur-minded her high-spiring hair and its gems, yellow and smoky topaz, twinkled as if winking at Conan. Only her face and palms and fingers were unclothed; the youngish woman was draped in a pile of brocaded velvet and shining Mitin of rich hues. As to her form Conan could be sure only that she was of a broad-hipped plumpness.

  High of forehead, the queen of Khauran affected tiny lines of eyebrows that were hardly the preference of the barbaric hillmen of cold Cimmeria. He liked her wine-coloured lips well enough, and her fine nose with its thin wings, even as he saw that her face was that of no happy woman.

  Her attire was magnificent. Broidery of cloth-of-gold billowed inward from her shoulders in arabesque loops to the high collar of her bodice of mauve velvet, and up on to the high, stiffened collar. Bare round arms flashed from sleeves slashed from shoulder to wrist; each was cleverly caught just above the elbow by a few stitches and encircling bands of beaten gold. Thence each sleeve flowed down into a tight cuff that descended in points on to the backs of her hands. Ending in loops, the points were secured to the bases of her middle fingers, so that she seemed to be wearing matching rings of red-violet.