The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  'I-might I answer question with question, Arkhaurus? How came that noble lord here?'

  'Ah-you think you knew him afore, then?' Arkhaurus's eyes were so dark as to be night black, and they seemed to pierce like sharpened bits of onyx. Today he wore a longish white tunic over dun-hued leggings, and the silver chain supporting the carnelian seal on his chest. When Conan said nothing, the rangy man spoke on.

  'As you are bodyguard to the queen's cousin and something of a hero for having brought her safely home from that wicked Shadizar, I will tell you. The men at the western gate saw him first. They beheld a frightsome apparition: a man in fine clothing that was torn and stained, and him all bloodied and afoot. He identified himself. He was believed because of his manner and the medallion he wore. It is obviously no trifle, or new either. The sentries brought him to Acrallidus whilst we two were conferring. We soon saw to his bathing, and provided him with a robe. Over wine, he advised that he had been assaulted by robbers who had slain his two retainers and fled when they heard a dog barking. Thinking others were coming, the bandits fled with the mounts of the duke's son, Sergianus amid his retainers, and his sumpter animals as well.'

  'He was injured?'

  Arkhaurus shook his head. 'He bore no wounds aside from a smallish cut on his sword-hand.'

  'He fought, then. The blood on him came from his own sword, which must have wounded one of his attackers.'

  'I see that you do know combat, and do think as well. Good for you, my boy. Begging his indulgence and patience, we sent men to look. He was lordly austere about our wish to corroborate his story, but nice enough. He is in truth a pleasant fellow. Our men returned to report that they had found the corpses, and blood, and the marks of many stamping hooves. Tracks led west, to Koth.'

  'To Koth.'

  'Aye. The fleeing bandits.'

  Fleeing horses, anyhow, Conan mused, and nodded in silent invitation for the man of five-and-forty or so to continue.

  'One sword, bloodied, lay at the scene; otherwise the bandits had taken weapons and horses.'

  'Without killing Sergianus.'

  Arkhaurus pursed his lips, giving Conan an admonitory

  look. 'The lord Sergianus,' he said, with a bit of stress on the title, 'said that once his men were downed and he unhorsed, he lay as if dead. For surely one man afoot cannot fight three. They were coming towards him to be certain of his death when they heard the dog. One opined aloud that such a sound doubtless meant people, and they hadn't after all come bent on murder, but on booty. The three galloped off. '

  'Did the lord Sergianus say that one was wounded?'

  'Two, indeed, he said bore wounds. Once they had gone, the duke's son arose and made his way here, afoot. We accompanied him then to the queen. He told her his story in our presence; all was the same. Our good Queen lalamis kindly offered him clothing and lodgings as the son of a foreign noble, far from home and so foully robbed in our land. That was just under two months ago; he has remained.'

  'Paying court to Queen lalamis.'

  'He is very good for her; everyone sees that. Our queen has long been a most lonely and unhappy woman, Conan. At her next birthday she will be one-and-twenty. Yet she has endured the burden of the crown and her misfortunes these seven years, and borne but once, though they were twins-you know of this?'

  'Aye.'

  'And of the curse on the royal House of Arcturus?'

  'Aye.'

  'And that it was our poor lalamis who bore the witch in this century, and made the bravely logical, and yet terrible and soul-tearing decision - all alone - concerning that doom-bearing child of her own womb.'

  'I know it, aye. And that she was widowed within a couple of years.'

  'Aye. Well then, you can perceive that it is no happy queen I have advised since then - and, indeed, been as father to. She looks older than her years, Conan, and looked older still, before the arrival of the Nemedian lord. She had much trouble sleeping, and suffered horribly from nightmares in which she heard her dead babe crying out to her from the desert. The child was Salome, a witch, and she represented

  horror and evil. Nevertheless, my lady Queen had carried the babe within her, and it was her own child she ordered slain.'

  Conan nodded. Once he fathered a child, he could not imagine himself slaying it, no matter the reason or logic; not in infancy, at any rate.

  'Yes,' he said. 'I understand, and thank Arkhaurus the Royal Adviser for taking so much of his time to tell me of Khauran. And then the son of the Nemedian duke came.' Except that there is no duke over Tor in Nemedia.

  'The young Duke of Tor, aye. I have seen years fall from our queen as dead leaves from a strong tree, leaving it to bloom and thrive anew in spring. I have seen life return to her haunted eyes, Conan, and now she is cheerful, at times almost girlish again. My lord Sergianus, Conan, is the best thing to happen to Queen lalamis - and thus to Khauran - in many years. As you are, to her noble cousin, for you saved her life. My queen and Duke's son Sergianus are smitten each with the other, methinks, though they are not lovers.'

  'Not yet, anyhow.'

  That came from Shubal, who had joined them without Arkhaurus's noticing. Conan had noted the Shemite's approach, but had seen no reason to interrupt the queen's adviser. Now Arkhaurus turned those awl-sharp eyes on Shubal.

  'The prospect of a landless Nemedian, then,' Conan hastily said, 'as Khauran's lord does not disturb you.' He did not quite make it a question.

  'No,' Arkhaurus said.

  Shubal said, 'Better, for the matter of that, a landless adventurer than one who may be kin of the king of a country that has so long eyed this little nation.'

  'Shubal,' Arkhaurus said, 'refers of course to Koth. Surely we cannot call Dukeson Sergianus an 'adventurer', though.'

  'Oh no, no,' Shubal said, 'I meant that even if he were, that would be preferable to a Kothian. Koth would gladly trade off her western provinces for dominion over these rich farmlands of Khauran '

  'mmm,' Arkhaurus said non-committally. 'But Conan . . . you have not answered my original question: why stared

  you so at my lord Sergianus? Have you seen him afore-now?'

  'No, I - what I saw was . . .' And an idea was in Conan's head like a new flashing gem, or as if the plan had been writ on an arrow shot into his head. 'Arkhaurus ... do you read Turanian ?'

  The statesman looked puzzled, but nodded. 'Aye,' he said, and went on in the Turanian tongue, 'Aye, I speak it, read it, and can write it, Conan. Why?'

  'Because,' Conan said, 'it is the only language I write-and that not excellently. Shubal . . . you have letters?'

  Shubal did not look his most comfortable. 'I am, uh, fair in Shemite -'

  Which I cannot read,' Arkhaurus said.

  'Nor I,' Conan said.

  Well, actually,' Shubal went on, 'I write pretty well in Shemite, but only fair in Kothic.'

  Conan knew that Kothic was the tongue of Khauran, with a few modifications; the written language remained even closer to the original.

  'Then I want to conduct an experiment. Shubal . . . without saying his name, will you write a description of that man we spoke of yesterday, who had the medallion?'

  'Sergianus?'

  'No, the other-and without his name, Shubal.'

  'Oh. He's probably dead by now, Conan. It's been over four years. Nearly five.'

  'Indulge me.'

  Shubal would; they went into the whitewashed building. The aged scribe just beyond the portico was none too happy to turn two strips of freshly scraped vellum over to a pair of ruffian mercenaries. As they were Noble Khashtris's men and the request came from the Adviser to the Throne, he could hardly refuse. Soon Conan and Shubal, each with his back to the other, were painstakingly writing out descriptions. A mystified Arkhaurus waited with his patience on a short rein. His appearance was that of one just short of anger.

  Pausing now and then to scan their memories for details or perhaps words, Shemite and Cimmerian dipped their quills frequently and scratched
away. Each cursed more than once in a language different from that in which he wrote.

  Conan finished first, and Shubal but moments after. Arkhaurus looked his enquiry at the Cimmerian, who bade Shubal read what he had written.

  'Better I than Arkhaurus, with my spelling! 'He is very old,'' Shubal read, haltingly as a boy even over his own just-inscribed words. ' 'Most of his head is bald. His hair is white unto yellow ,and hangs down lank like a fringe. His skull has spots on it, sort of orangey-tan. So do his hands and he squints and I think he does not see well. His left eye droops. So does his mouth and it has deep lines around it. Teeth are yellowed and two are missing on the right.'

  'Above or below?' Conan interrupted.

  'Below. 'His moustache is white, and fuller on the left' — no, it's the right - 'than on the left. He is terribly thin. His hair is yellowish with age and there is none on his hands at all and the veins are very large on the backs of them. They quiver.' '

  The Shemite looked up. He shrugged, finished.

  Conan seemed to have paled. 'And that describes . . .'

  'Sabaninus, lord Baron of Korveka, in Koth.'

  'Look here, Conan, what is the purpose of this . . . boy's exercise?'

  'Arkhaurus, there is sorcery here. A man said on yesterday that Tor is a barony in Nemedia, not a duchy. Does Sergianus elevate his rank, or does he not know? And Shubal recognises his medallion -my lord Sergianus's; he saw it or its twin five years agone on the baron of Kothic Korveka.'

  Arkhaurus heaved a sigh and gestured with both hands, palms up. 'What matter these niggling points?'

  'This,' Conan said. 'Sergianus spoke just as the queen started to break the mirror of sorcery for me. At the instant my soul returned, I was looking at him. And ... he changed. I saw another man there where he stood, in the same clothes and medallion. I have never been so far south-west even as Khauran City afore, and never seen Korveka's lord. But here is what I saw standing beside your queen on yesterday, Queen's Adviser.'

  And Conan read aloud from his own vellum:

  ''A tall, lean, very old man with a bald crown dotted with age-spots and yellowish-white hair hanging down like a curtain all around his head. His moustache, also aged white and now yellowing, has a gap on the right side; and his left eye, his moustache and his mouth all droop. Lines mark his face like gulleys, especially around the mouth, which is missing two lower teeth on the right. His hands quiver and great standing veins on their backs look like worms under the skin, which is hairless and shining. They are also marked with the same brownish-orange spots that dot his skull above the hairline. Finally, he has a small brown wart in the fold of his cheek beside his left nostril.' '

  'So has Baron Sabaninus ' Shubal practically shouted. 'That . . . what you wrote sounds just like him!' He scratched his chest. 'But how-'

  'Sorcery,' Conan said.

  'Impossible,' the Queen's Adviser said. 'Coincidence. That might describe many men of great age. What could the meaning be of such a situation? What can it matter?'

  'It could matter to Khauran! Suppose that it means just this,' Conan said: 'that somehow a Kothic noble has been given the appearance of youth, and sent here-most likely by the king you say covets Khauran-to charm and wed your lonely queen.'

  'To deliver Khauran to Koth!' Shubal burst out.

  'Sorcery,' Conan said. 'And I, a victim of sorcery until yesterday, was enabled to see through this spell at the instant of my deliverance from my own.'

  The three men were staring at each other when Khashtris came rustling out among the particoloured columns, ready to return home.

  As dusk shadowed the palace with rose and a deepening mauve within its chambers, lalamis sat very close to Sergianus. He was discoursing on a proposal of Acrallidus. The young lord stared straight ahead; her eyes held their gaze as if fastened on his face, on his lips. Her lids dreamily shaded those dark eyes, but did not conceal their luminosity, their sparkle of love. Some slaves gazed so, at their masters. Her knee moved ever so slightly to rest against his, and

  he glanced at her. He spoke as if in accusation; certainly not as if to a queen:

  'lalamis! Are you hearing my words?'

  'Yes,' she said softly. 'If you believe it is a bad idea, I will tell Acrallidus, and that will be an end to that.'

  'You sound as if you're in a dream, a trance.'

  'I am.'

  'Can't you pay more attention to the concerns of your own realm?'

  'Not while I am alone with you.'

  'Can't you stop staring at me that way, woman?'

  'No, Sergianus,' she said softly. 'Should I ?'

  He gave her thigh a careless pat, a fleeting touch. 'I must go-'

  'Why?' she asked softly. She swayed closer and her lips remained parted.

  He touched, only touched, her soft lips with his. His hands, clamping on her upper arms, held her back, as if at bay. 'Because I must Sergianus said, and rose and left the Queen of Khauran.

  She stared dreamily after him, and she sighed.

  The moment he was out of the room, Sergianus's face relaxed into a triumphant smile. have her! he thought; and with this pose of coolness, I'll soon hear her begging! And he grinned, and went to his own palace chamber.

  There awaited Arkhaurus, Adviser to the Queen Khauran.

  VII

  Rosela ... and Assassins

  On the following evening Khashtris went to the palace to play at cards with the queen and others; she would remain overnight or be escorted home by royal guards. Conan and Shubal were at their ease for the night. They walked down to the tavern of Hilides.

  Over the evening's first mug of ale, Conan was still stubbornly insisting that they'd been followed when the girl appeared in the tavern's doorway. She looked about fifteen. A childish mass of walnut-hued curls capped her head above a tiny-chinned heartshaped face with eyes like matched spheres of jasper. The flippy little yellow tunic that hardly covered her elfin body was torn so that one small shoulder was exposed. Conan saw that the wide-eyed girl was panting as if she had been running. Her gaze swiftly roved the interior of its patrons and abruptly she ran to Conan. Before he could so much as exclaim, she was on his knee with her arms around him.

  'Please pretend I'm your girl and if a man follows me, look mean at him!'

  Conan was more than willing to wrap an arm around her. It half covered her back all the way across, with room for his hand to hold her waist; indeed, his fingers lay on her narrow little belly.

  A man did step into the doorway. He too panted as though he had been running; chasing. His eyes sought within the tavern; Conan glowered. The man clenched his teeth while he stared at the huge arm shielding the girl's back — and at the icy blue eyes that were like dagger blades, levelled at him over her shoulder. Grinding his teeth, the young fellow departed into the night.

  Her name was Rosela and she was lovely, and a short time later Shubal departed for he had become as the third horse to a double-hitch; the Cimmerian obviously had in

  Rosela all the company he needed. Last night Conan had been very alone. Tonight he felt no sympathy for Shubal. He did not even watch the Shemite's back as he left the tavern.

  Seconds afterward, a cry arose outside. It had not faded before there followed the clangour of sharp blades. The' diminutive Rosela slid off his knee as Conan rose with a curse.

  His sword was in his hand before he reached the doorway.

  A man lay dead or dying on the dim-lit street just outside; two others, masked, assaulted a fourth. He was Shubal, and he called Conan's name. That prompted one of his attackers to glance around.

  The man turned in time to catch Conan's heavy side-armed stroke across the throat rather than the side of his neck. His severed jugular erupted and he staggered back five or six paces, looking astonished, before he fell.

  Conan's and Shubal's swords struck the masked and cloaked second attacker at the same time, neck and belly.

  Three men were down in their blood, and Conan had not so much as parried a
stroke. He saw that blood came thickly from a nasty sword-bite in Shubal's left forearm. Thrusting the second wight through the middle, Shubal left his sword sheathed there, standing, while he clamped his hand above the cut on his other arm.

  'Had to defend myself with something,' he said apologetically. 'It was get this arm hacked or lose half my face.'

  'Just don't faint. Sit down.' Conan looked around to see a wide-eyed Rosela in the doorway. Other faces peered from behind her, all male. Tush back through those goggle-eyed geese behind you,' Conan said in a feral snarl, 'and get a cup of wine out here. Out of her way, you behind her. Back!'

  He turned back to find that Shubal was not sitting, but asquat beside the first fallen man. 'It's poor sour old Nebinio,' the Shemite said. 'They killed him just as I came out.'

  The Nemedian, Conan thought, and looked up at a dancing light and the sound of men tramping and clanking. Four came, matching of arms and armour.

  There! What goes on here? You two are both foreigners, aren't you?'

  Seeing that they were men of the Khauran City Watch, Conan said, 'Why, yes,' and, feeling mean: 'Don't you like foreigners, then?' He squinted at the young man under the high-held lantern. A strutter, Conan thought. So damned self-important in his uniform he's like a game-cock.

  'Not when I see what appear to be three corpses! Consider yourself under arrest.'

  'Consider yourself in trouble if you make any other such noises, raft-prefect. I am Shubal and this is Conan, and we are bodyguards to the Noble Lady Khashtris who even foreigners know is cousin to our Queen lalamis. Close your mouth and open your eyes and you will see that two of these men are masked. Is that a clue, &-prefect, as to whom you might want to be detaining?'

  Conan held his smile. He'd not seen Shubal handle himself so, before. He was impressed and pleased. The four men of the watch were standing silent; three stared at the sub-prefect, who appeared to be encountering considerable difficulty in getting his mouth closed.

  At last he said, 'Shubal, you said?'

  'I did. And Conan. I didn't quite hear your name.'

  The man availed himself then of the opportunity to squat beside the man in the cloak; that way the name he muttered was not clear. Conan's glance met Shubal's. Shubal still clutched his wounded arm, the bloodflow from which had slackened. The two smiled.