The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  On the Corinthian Road that leads west from Shadizar, three bowshots from the city walls, stands the fountain of Ninus. According to the story, Ninus was a rich merchant who suffered from a wasting disease. A god visited him in his dreams and promised him a cure if he would build a fountain on the road leading to Shadizar from the west, so that travelers could wash and quench their thirst before entering the city.

  Ninus built the fountain, but the tale does not tell whether he recovered from his sickness.

  Half an hour after his escape from Abuletes' tavern, Conan found Nestor, sitting on the curbing of Ninus' fountain.

  'How did you make out with your seven matchless gems?' asked Nestor.

  Conan told what had befallen his share of the loot 'Now,' he said,

  'since—thanks to your loose tongue—I must leave Shadizar, and since I have none of the treasure left, it would be only right for you to divide your remaining portion with me.'

  Nestor gave a barking, mirthless laugh. 'My share? Boy, here is half of what I have left.' From his girdle he brought out two pieces of gold and tossed one to Conan, who caught it. 'I owe it to you for pulling me away from that falling wall.'

  'What happened to you?'

  'When the watch cornered me in the dive, I managed to cast a table and bowl a few over. Then I picked up the bright stuff in my cloak, slung it over my back, and started for the door. One who tried to halt me I cut down; but another landed a slash on my cloak. The next thing I knew, the whole mass of gold and jewels spilled out on the floor, and everybody—watchmen, magistrate, and customers—joined in a mad scramble for them.' He held up the cloak, showing a two-foot rent in the fabric.

  'Thinking that the treasure would do me no good if my head were adorning a spike over the West Gate, I left while the leaving was good.

  When I got outside the city, I looked in my mantle, but all I found were those two coins, caught in a fold. You're welcome to one of them.'

  Conan stood scowling for a moment. Then his mouth twitched into a grin.

  A low laugh rumbled in his throat; his head went back as he burst into a thunderous guffaw. 'A fine pair of treasure-seekers we are! Crom, but the gods have had sport with us! What a joke!' Nestor smiled wryly. 'I am glad you see the amusing side of it. But after this I do not think Shadizar will be safe for either of us.'

  'Whither are you bound?' asked Conan.

  'I'll head east, to seek a mercenary post in Turan. They say King Yildiz is hiring fighters to whip his raggle-taggle horde into a real army. Why not come with me, lad? You're cut out for a soldier.'

  Conan shook his head. 'Not for me, marching back and forth on the drill ground all day while some fatheaded officer bawls: 'Forward, march!

  Present, pikes!' I hear there are good pickings in the West; I'll try that for a while.'

  'Well, may your barbarous gods go with you,' said Nestor. 'If you change your mind, ask for me in the barracks at Aghrapur. Farewell!'

  'Farewell,' replied Conan. Without further words, he stepped out on the Corinthian Road and soon was lost to view in the night.

  The God in the Bowl

  Robert E. Howard

  Arus the watchman grasped his crossbow with shaky hands, and he felt beads of clammy perspiration on his skin as he stared at the unlovely corpse sprawling on the polished floor before him. It is not pleasant to come upon Death in a lonely place at midnight.

  Arus stood in a vast corridor, lighted by huge candles in niches along the walls. These walls were hung with black velvet tapestries, and between the tapestries hung shields and crossed weapons of fantastic make. Here and there too, stood figures of curious gods – images carved of stone or rare wood, or cast of bronze, iron or silver – dimly reflected in the gleaming black mahogany floor.

  Arus shuddered; he had never become used to the place, although he had worked there as watchman for some months. It was a fantastic establishment, the great museum and antique house which men called Kallian Publico’s Temple, with its rarities from all over the world – and now, in the lonesomeness of midnight, Arus stood in the great silent hall and stared at the sprawling corpse that had been the rich and powerful owner of the Temple.

  It entered even the dull brain of the watchman that the man looked strangely different now, than when he rode along the Palian Way in his golden chariot, arrogant and dominant, with his dark eyes glinting with magnetic vitality. Men who had hated and feared Kallian Publico would scarcely have recognised him now as he lay like a disintegrated tun of fat, his rich robe half torn from him, and his purple tunic awry. His face was blackened, his eyes almost starting from his head, and his tongue lolled blackly from his gaping mouth. His fat hands were thrown out as in a gesture of curious futility. On the thick fingers gems glittered.

  'Why didn’t they take his rings?' muttered the watchman uneasily, then he started and glared, the short hairs prickling at the nape of his neck. Through the dark silken hangings that masked one of the many doorways opening into the hallway, came a figure.

  Arus saw a tall powerfully built youth, naked but for a loin-cloth, and sandals strapped high about his ankles. His skin was burned brown as by the suns of the wastelands, and Arus glanced nervously at his broad shoulders, massive chest and heavy arms. A single look at the moody, broad-browed features told the watchman that the man was no Nemedian. From under a mop of unruly black hair smoldered a pair of dangerous blue eyes. A long sword hung in a leather scabbard at his girdle.

  Arus felt his skin crawl, and he fingered his crossbow tensely, of half a mind to drive a bolt through the stranger’s body without parley, yet fearful of what might happen if he failed to inflict death at the first shot.

  The stranger looked at the body on the floor more in curiosity than surprize.

  'Why did you kill him?' asked Arus nervously.

  The other shook his tousled head.

  'I didn’t kill him,' he answered, speaking Nemedian with a barbaric accent. 'Who is he?'

  'Kallian Publico,' replied Arus, edging back.

  A flicker of interest showed in the moody blue eyes.

  'The owner of the house?'

  'Aye.' Arus had edged his way to the wall, and now he took hold of a thick velvet rope which swung there, and jerked it violently. From the street outside sounded the strident clang of the bell that hung before all shops and establishments to summon the watch.

  The stranger started.

  'Why did you do that?' he asked. 'It will fetch the watchman.'

  'I am the watchman, knave,' answered Arus, bracing his rocking courage. 'Stand where you are; don’t move or I’ll loose a bolt through you.'

  His finger was on the trigger of his arbalest, the wicked square head of the quarrel leveled full on the other’s broad breast. The stranger scowled and his dark face was lowering. He showed no fear, but seemed to be hesitating in his mind as to whether he should obey the command or chance a sudden break of some kind. Arus licked his lips and his blood turned cold as he plainly saw indecision struggle with a murderous intent in the foreigner’s cloudy eyes.

  Then he heard a door crash open, and a medley of voices, and he drew a deep breath of amazed thankfulness. The stranger tensed and glared worriedly, like a startled hunting beast, as half a dozen men entered the hall. All but one wore the scarlet tunic of the Numalian police, were girt with stabbing swords and carried bills – long shafted weapons, half pike, half axe.

  'What devil’s work is this?' exclaimed the foremost man, whose cold grey eyes and lean keen features, no less than his civilian garments, set him apart from his burly companions.

  'By Mitra, Demetrio!' exclaimed Arus thankfully. 'Fortune is assuredly with me tonight. I had no hope that the watch would answer the summons so swiftly – or that you would be with them!'

  'I was making the rounds with Dionus,' answered Demetrio. 'We were just passing the Temple when the watch-bell clanged. But who is this? Mitra! The master of the Temple himself!'

  'No other,' replied Arus, 'and foully murdered
. It is my duty to walk about the building steadily all night, because, as you know, there is an immense amount of wealth stored here. Kallian Publico had rich patrons – scholars, princes and wealthy collectors of rarities. Well, only a few minutes ago I tried the door which opens on the portico, and found it to be only bolted. The door is provided with a bolt, which works both from within or without, and a great lock which can be worked only from without. Only Kallian Publico had a key to that, the key which you see now hanging at his girdle.

  'Naturally my suspicions were roused, for Kallian Publico always locks the door with the great lock when he closes the Temple; and I had not seen him return since he left earlier in the evening for his villa in the eastern suburbs of the city. I have a key that works the bolt; I entered and found the body lying as you see. I have not touched it.'

  'So,' Demetrio’s keen eyes swept the sombre stranger. 'And who is this?'

  'The murderer, without doubt!' cried Arus. 'He came from that door yonder. He is a northern barbarian of some sort – a Hyperborean or a Bossonian, perhaps.'

  'Who are you?' asked Demetrio.

  'I am Conan,' answered the barbarian. 'I am a Cimmerian.'

  'Did you kill this man?'

  The Cimmerian shook his head.

  'Answer me!' snapped the questioner.

  An angry glint rose in the moody blue eyes.

  'I am no dog,' he replied resentfully.

  'Oh, an insolent fellow!' sneered Demetrio’s companion, a big man wearing the insignia of prefect of police. 'An independent cur! One of these citizens with rights, eh? I’ll soon knock it out of him! Here, you! Come clean! Why did you murder –'

  'Just a moment, Dionus,' ordered Demetrio curtly. 'Fellow, I am chief of the Inquisitorial Council of the city of Numalia. You had best tell me why you are here, and if you are not the murderer, prove it.'

  The Cimmerian hesitated. He was not afraid, but slightly bewildered, as a barbarian always is when confronted by the evidence of civilised networks and systems, the workings of which are so baffling and mysterious to him.

  'While he’s thinking it over,' rapped Demetrio, turning to Arus, 'tell me – did you see Kallian Publico leave the Temple this evening?'

  'No, he’s usually gone when I arrive to begin my sentry-go. But the great door was bolted and locked.'

  'Could he have entered the building again without your having seen him?'

  'Why, it’s possible, but hardly probable. The Temple is large, and I walk clear around it in a few minutes. If he had returned from his villa, he would of course have come in his chariot, for it is a long way – and who ever heard of Kallian Publico travelling otherwise? Even if I had been on the other side of the Temple, I’d have heard the wheels of the chariot on the cobblestones. And I’ve heard no such thing, nor seen any chariots, except those which always pass along the streets just at dusk.'

  'And the door was locked earlier in the night?'

  'I’ll swear to it. I try all doors several times during the night. The door was locked on the outside until perhaps half an hour ago – that was the last time I tried it, until I found it unlocked.'

  'You heard no cries or struggles?'

  'No. But that’s not strange. The walls of the Temple are so thick, they’re practically sound-proof – an effect increased by the heavy hangings.'

  'Why go to all this trouble of questions and speculations?' complained the burly prefect. 'It’s much easier to beat a confession out of a suspect. Here’s our man, no doubt about it. Let’s take him to the Court of Justice – I’ll get a statement if I have to smash his bones to a pulp.'

  Demetrio looked at the barbarian.

  'You understand what he said?' asked the Inquisitor. 'What have you to say?'

  'That any man who touches me will quickly be greeting his ancestors in hell,' the Cimmerian ground between his powerful teeth, his eyes glinting quick flames of dangerous anger.

  'Why did you come here, if not to kill this man?' pursued Demetrio.

  'I came to steal,' sullenly answered the other.

  'To steal what?' rapped the Inquisitor.

  'Food,' the reply came after an instant’s hesitation.

  'That’s a lie!' snapped Demetrio. 'You knew there was no food here. Don’t lie to me. Tell me the truth or –'

  The Cimmerian laid his hand on his sword hilt, and the gesture was as fraught with menace as the lifting of a tiger’s lip to bare his fangs.

  'Save your bullying for the fools who fear you,' he growled, blue fires smouldering in his eyes. 'I’m no city-bred Nemedian to cringe before your hired dogs. I’ve killed better men than you for less than this.'

  Dionus, who had opened his mouth to bellow in wrath, closed it suddenly. The watchmen shifted their bills uncertainly and glanced at Demetrio for orders. They were struck speechless at hearing the all-powerful police thus bearded and expected a command to seize the barbarian. But Demetrio did not give it. He knew, if the others were too stupid to know, the steel-trap muscles and blinding quickness of men raised beyond civilisation’s frontiers where life was a continual battle for existence, and he had no desire to loose the barbaric frenzy of the Cimmerian if it could be avoided. Besides, there was a doubt in his mind.

  'I have not accused you of killing Kallian,' he snapped. 'But you must admit the appearances are against you. How did you enter the Temple?'

  'I hid in the shadows of the warehouse which stands behind this building,' Conan answered grudgingly. 'When this dog' – jerking a thumb at Arus – 'passed by and rounded the corner, I ran quickly to the wall and scaled it –'

  'A lie!' broke in Arus. 'No man could climb that straight wall!'

  'Did you ever see a Cimmerian scale a sheer cliff?' asked Demetrio impatiently. 'I am conducting this investigation. Go on, Conan.'

  'The corner is decorated with carvings,' said the Cimmerian. 'It was easy to climb. I gained the roof before this dog came around the building again. I went across the roof until I came upon a trap-door which was fastened with an iron bolt that went through it and was locked on the inside. I was forced to hew the bolt in twain with my sword –'

  Arus, remembering the thickness of that bolt, gulped involuntarily and moved further back from the barbarian, who scowled abstractedly at him, and continued.

  'I feared the noise might wake somebody, but it was a chance I had to take. I passed through the trap-door and came into an upper chamber. I didn’t pause there, but came straightway to the stair –'

  'How did you know where the stair was?' snapped the Inquisitor. 'I know that only Kallian’s servants, and his rich patrons were ever allowed in those upper rooms.'

  A dogged stubbornness shadowed Conan’s eyes and he remained silent.

  'What did you do after you reached the stair?' demanded Demetrio.

  'I came straight down it,' muttered the Cimmerian. 'It let into the chamber behind yonder curtained door. As I came down the stairs I heard the noise of a door being opened. When I looked through the hangings I saw this dog standing over the dead man.'

  'Why did you come from your hiding place?'

  'It was dark when I saw the watchman outside the Temple. When I saw him here I thought he was a thief too. It was not until he jerked the watch-bell rope and lifted his bow that I knew he was the watchman.'

  'But even so,' persisted the Inquisitor, 'why did you reveal yourself?'

  'I thought perhaps he had come to steal what –' the Cimmerian checked himself suddenly as if he had said too much.

  '– What you had come after, yourself!' finished Demetrio. 'You have told me more than you intended! You came here with a definite purpose. You did not, by your own admission, tarry in the upper rooms, where the richest goods are generally stored. You knew the plan of the building – you were sent here by some one who knows the Temple well, to steal some special thing!'

  'And to kill Kallian Publico!' exclaimed Dionus. 'By Mitra, we’ve hit it! Grab him, men! We’ll have a confession before morning!'

  With a heath
en curse Conan leaped back, whipping out his sword with a viciousness that made the keen blade hum.

  'Back, if you value your dog-lives!' he snarled, his blue eyes blazing. 'Because you dare to torture shop-keepers and strip and beat harlots to make them talk, don’t think you can lay your fat paws on a hillman! I’ll take some of you to hell with me! Fumble with your bow, watchman – I’ll burst your guts with my heel before this night’s work is over!'

  'Wait!' interposed Demetrio. 'Call your dogs off, Dionus. I’m not convinced that he is the murderer. You fool,' he added in a whisper, 'wait until we can summon more men, or trick him into laying down his sword.' Demetrio did not wish to forego the advantage of his civilised mind by allowing matters to change to a physical basis, where the wild beast ferocity of the barbarian might even balance the odds against him.

  'Very well,' grunted Dionus grudgingly. 'Fall back, men, but keep an eye on him.'

  'Give me your sword,' said Demetrio.

  'Take it if you can,' snarled Conan. Demetrio shrugged his shoulders.

  'Very well. But don’t try to escape. Four men with crossbows watch the house on the outside. We always throw a cordon about a house before we enter it.'

  The barbarian lowered his blade, though he only slightly relaxed the tense watchfulness of his attitude. Demetrio turned again to the corpse.

  'Strangled,' he muttered. 'Why strangle him when a sword-stroke is so much quicker and surer? These Cimmerians are a bloody race, born with a sword in their hand, as it were; I never heard of them killing a man in this manner.'

  'Perhaps to divert suspicion,' muttered Dionus.

  'Possibly.' He felt the body with experienced hands. 'Dead possibly half an hour,' he muttered. 'If Conan tells the truth about when he entered the Temple he would hardly have had time to commit the murder before Arus entered. But he may be lying – he might have broken in earlier.'

  'I climbed the wall after Arus made the last round,' Conan growled.

  'So you say.' Demetrio brooded for a space over the dead man’s throat, which had been literally crushed to a pulp of purplish flesh. The head sagged awry on splintered vertebrae. Demetrio shook his head in doubt.