The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  The priest turned and rejoined his group, who marched away. Lar, who had watched the exchange big-eyed, said: 'Oh, Master Corin, you all but defied the priests of Zath! They can call upon divine powers to blast you, if you use them with insolence!'

  'What's the name of the one who questioned me just now?' growled Conan.

  'That is the holy father Mirzes.'

  'I thought I knew the voice,' mused Conan. 'He's the new Vicar, I hear. Come on, lad; put some thews into working the bellows! Your fire is barely hot enough to boil water!'

  XI

  The Stench of Carrion

  In several days Conan did not see Rudabeh, save when she danced during a service to Zath. He entered the temple early, so as to stand in the front row, whence he had the best view of the spider-idol. Since this was a fair day and sunlight came through the clerestory windows above, Conan could barely make out the four Eyes across the front of the creature, even at a distance of twenty cubits.

  The barbarian's keen vision caught sight of a thin ring round each Eye, lighter in colour than the black stone of the statue. This, Conan reasoned, must be a ring of metal or cement let into the stone to hold the gem in place. To remove the Eyes he would have to dislodge these retainings, and do so very gently, so as not to crack the jewels. Conan had a good working knowledge of gems from his days as a thief, and he knew the fragility of opals.

  Meanwhile his passion for Rudabeh, instead of subsiding, tormented him more and more. When Amytis told him that she expected her daughter home for supper, he impatiently awaited her in the garden, brooding.

  On one hand, a fierce desire, like a tornado whirling along its serpentine path of destruction, surged up within him, to give up his rootless, adventurous life, to wed Rudabeh according to the laws of Zamora, and to become, as best he might, a solid citizen who cherished his growing family joined the municipal watch, worshipped at the temple, and paid his tithes.

  Yet, on the other hand, Conan's wild, free, undisciplined spirit recoiled from this tableau as from a venomous serpent. But his other choice was to forget the girl and flee instantly with the Eyes of Zath if he could obtain them, without them if he could not. If Feridun loosed his promised devastation upon the land, he might have to flee anyway, with or without Rudabeh.

  When she appeared, he held out his arms. She shook her head, saying: 'Do not torment me, Corin. I do truly love you, but you know under what conditions I would give myself to you.'

  'But, my girl -' began Conan. She held up a hand saying 'I have news of moment. You've heard of the disappearance of the princess Jamilah?'

  'Aye; some such gossip has smitten my ears.'

  'The High Priest is furious, as you might expect. Some of the priests suspect you of complicity.'

  'Who, me?' said Conan, with an air of injured innocence 'What have I to do with a Turanian noblewoman?'

  'They know you were thick with that diplomat at Bartakes's Inn, who vanished the same night as Jamilah. You would have been seized already, but that Feridua insists he have solid evidence against you ere he acts. I must say the old man tries to live up to his principles.

  'Furthermore,' continued Rudabeh, 'if gossip be true, the High Priest has advanced the date of his revolution. He held Jamilah as a hostage for the good conduct of the king of Turan. Now he must needs move quickly ere the Turanians learn of the princess's escape. So he has warned all the temple folk to hold themselves ready seven days hence! When the alarm gong sounds, we must all go to our quarter and bolt ourselves in.'

  Conan grunted as he digested this information. He must, he thought, get rid of that tell-tale coil of rope before some looping priest stumbled upon it.

  Amytis called, and they went in for supper. Afterwards, Conan escorted Rudabeh back to the temple and took his way to Khesron. He would have to plan his raid on the temple quickly, and he thought he could map his campaign best sitting alone with a stoup of wine before him.

  'Hail, Corin!' At the inn, Catigern's booming voice jogged Conan's elbow. 'How about a game?' The Brythunian muled a pair of dice in his fist.

  'I thank you, but not tonight,' said Conan. 'I need to be alone.'

  Catigern shrugged and went off to seek other companionship. Conan resumed his brooding. Several jacks of wine later, another voice, with a slight lisp and a guttural accent, invaded his musings. It was Psamitek the Stygian.

  'Master Corin,' said the slim, swarthy scholar. 'Someone wishes to see you beyond the inn.'

  'Well,' growled Conan ungraciously, 'tell that someone to come in. He can see me better here in the light.'

  The scholar smiled a crooked little smile. 'It is a lady,' he murmured. 'It would not be proper for her to enter a vulgar harrel house like this.'

  'Lady?' grunted Conan. 'What the devil...' He rose, wondering if Jamilah, for some unaccountable reason, had returned to Khesron; but no, that would be insane. He allowed Psamitek out.

  In the courtyard of Bartakes's Inn, illuminated by the bitumen lamp over the front door and the light of the gibbous moon, stood Rudabeh. Conan gasped as he viewed her; for, instead of the modest street garb she normally wore outside the temple, she was clad in her dancing costume of a few strings of beads and nothing else.

  'Conan, darling!' she said in a low, thrilling voice. 'You were right and I was wrong. Come, and I will show you that I am as much a woman as you are a man. I know a place where the grass is thick and soft.'

  She turned and walked deliberately out of the courtyard while Conan followed like a man in a daze. In the back of his mind, reason tried to warn him that all was not as it seemed; but the warning was swept aside by his rising tide of passion. His blood roared in his ears.

  Rudabeh led Conan past a few hovels and out of the village. Her well-rounded form swayed seductively as she walked. Away from the houses of Khesron, the stony ground sloped up, and Conan became impatient to reach the promised meadow.

  The ground levelled again, and Rudabeh turned to face Conan. She held out welcoming arms - and in that instant she disappeared. In her place stood Chagor the Turanian, Parvez's vanished retainer, whom Conan had bathed in the horse trough. Chagor held a thick, double-curved Hyrkanian compound bow, with an arrow drawn to the head.

  'Ha!' cried the Turanian. 'Now you see!' And he released his shaft with the same sharp, flat twang that Conan had heard when he lost his horse. At that range it was impossible to miss.

  But as Chagor let fly his shaft, something flew from behind Conan and struck the Turanian with a thump in the chest. As a result, the arrow whistled past Conan's ear.

  Before Chagor could whip another shaft from his quiver, Conan swept out his scimitar and charged with the roar of an angry lion. The Turanian dropped his bow and likewise drew, just in time to meet Conan's rush.

  Steel clanged and scraped in the moonlight. Behind him, Conan heard sounds of struggle but had no leisure to investigate. The Turanian was a strong swordsman, and Conan found his hands full. Slash backhand - parry - a forehand cut - parry - feint - parry... The dancing blades clashed, ground, and twirled to the accompaniment of the stamp of booted feet, heavy breathing, and muttered curses.

  The curses were Chagor's, for Conan fought in grim silence. Chagor gasped. 'I show you, dog... Your head go to priest of Erlik... Then me rich, you dead...'

  Once Chagor was a fraction slow in bringing his blade to a proper parry. Conan's heavier sword sliced into his forearm. Roaring a yell of dismay, Chagor dropped his scimitar. With a catlike leap, Conan sprang forward and, with the power born of frenzy, swung his sword in a wide horizontal slash. The blade sheared through the Turanian's thick neck; his head flew off, to land like a thrown melon in a nearby lump of shrubbery. The body, spouting a fountain of blood, black in the moonlight, tumbled to earth like a felled aurochs.

  At the continuing sounds of struggle behind him, Conan whirled and perceived a tangle of limbs, which resolved itself into Captain Catigern struggling on the ground with Psamitek the Stygian.

  Conan seized one of the Sty
gian's arms with his free hand and twisted. Between him and Catigern, they subdued the scholar, who sat up with his arms gripped behind him and Catigern's dagger pricking his throat.

  'How came you to help me so timely?' asked Conan.

  'I saw you follow this dog out,' explained Catigern, 'after you said you wished to be alone; so I became suspicious. I never trusted this Stygian dung; and the next thing I saw was you following Chagor up the hill, bleating endearments, while Psamitek followed you, mumbling some spell. Since this did not sound like you, Corin, I followed Psamitek. When the Turanian drew an arrow on you, I cast a stone to spoil his aim and went for the Stygian. Have a care with this devil: he's stronger than he looks. He bit me.'

  'All right, Psamitek,' said Conan. 'Explain this business. There's a small chance that, if we like your explanation, we'll let you live.'

  'You heard Chagor,' said Psamitek. 'He overheard Ambassador Parvez address you as 'Conan', and I knew about Tughril's offer for Conan's head. So we put our heads together and arranged that he should desert Parvez's escort, and we should divide the reward betwixt us. Even your limited minds could grasp this simple scheme...'

  Psamitek's hypnotic voice so absorbed the attention of Conan and Catigern that they relaxed their grip upon him. Instantly the Stygian, lithe as an eel, squirmed out of their grasp and sprang to his feet. Conan leaped up, swinging his scimitar in a blow that would have cut the slender Stygian in two.

  But the blade only swished through empty air. Psamitek had vanished like a blown-out candle flame.

  'Come back here!' roared Conan, rushing this way and that with his blade bared and crashing through thorny bushes. The only reply was a peal of cynical, mocking laughter.

  'You have your tricks, Conan,' said the lisping voice, 'but I have mine also, as you shall yet see. Farewell, barbarian lout!'

  Conan dashed toward the voice, his sword cleaving the air; but he found nothing. Catigern said: 'Save your breath, Corin. The fellow is evidently an expert caster of illusions, and he has made himself invisible. What's this about your being Conan, with a price on your head?'

  'You should know better than to ask a fellow-mercenary about his past,' growled Conan.

  'True; forget what I said. We had better drag the Turanian's remains back to the village. The priests will want another report.'

  'Why not leave him for the hyenas?'

  'His ghost would haunt us.'

  'Oh, very well,' said Conan, grasping one ankle of the corpse and dragging it. 'You can carry the head, though I'd rather send it as a gift to Tughril. And thanks for saving my life.'

  As the Festival of All Gods approached, the temple of Zath Iminmed with activity. Rudabeh's time was taken up with duties, so Conan had no more personal meetings. Bartakes's Inn filled up with the retinues of priestly parties from far parts of Zamora, and latecomers were obliged to rent space in the cramped houses of the villagers or pitch tents in the surrounding fields.

  The festival began three days after the slaying of Chagor. Delegations from opulent sanctuaries and lowly shrines of various Zamorian gods paraded up the broad steps of the temple with pomp and ceremony. Catigern's Brythunians, sporting polished mail flashing in the sun, stood facing one another in two lines at opposite ends of the temple steps. As the pontiff, in glittering robe and jewel-decked headdress, marched slowly up the stairs, the soldiers raised their pikes and halberds in salute, then grounded their weapons with a thunderous crash. The priesthoods of the different deities were riven by venomous rivalries, Conan knew, and uselessly intrigued to damage one another. But for today each legate beamed upon his fellow clerics and bowed benignly to the assembled priests of Zath.

  During the procession of the priests, Conan stood in an inconspicuous corner of the square that fronted on the temple. But after the entrance of the last delegation, when the folk of Yezud and the spellbound pilgrims streamed in to honour the assembled gods of the Zamorian pantheon, Conan mingled with the motley crowd. In the vestibule he thought of slipping away for another attempt to explore the corridors; but this was impossible with a Brythunian firmly planted in front of the entrance to each hallway. So Conan resigned himself to standing through one more endless suite of rituals.

  He took a place at the rear of the naos and stood through three hours of ceremony, in which the high priests of the other gods took turns invoking their deities and begging them for favours. Conan ignored their pronouncements but admired the glitter of their bejewelled regalia. If he could only strip a few of these pontiffs of their robes and mitres, he thought, the jewels in them would ease his life for years, even though their value would be but a fraction of that of the Eyes of Zath.

  Two days later, shafts of rain, hurled from a leaden sky, flogged the worn cobblestones of Yezud as the Festival of All Gods ended. The visiting priests, wrapped in voluminous hooded cloaks against the rain, bid ceremonious farewells to Feridun and his new Vicar on the steps of the temple before turning away to take their places in carriages and horse litters or to mount horses, mules, and camels.

  That night, while rain still fell, a giant figure in a dark cloak slipped through the streets of Yezud on noiseless moccasins. At the southernmost wing on the east side of the temple of Zath, Conan fumbled for the silver arrow he had received from Parvez. Touching the lock with the point, he murmured: 'Kapinin achilir genishi!'

  A faint, rusty squeal, as if someone within were turning a key in the long-disused lock, made itself heard above the patter of rain. Conan pushed the door, but it failed to open.

  Angrily, Conan threw his great weight against the door, striking it with his massive shoulder. Still it did not yield. Then he paused to think.

  Perhaps the priests, not trusting in an ordinary lock alone, also warded the door with an inside bolt, like that outside the portal on the other side of the temple, into which the sheep had been driven. Pointing the silver arrow at various heights, Conan repeated kapinin achilir genishi several times. At last he was rewarded by the muffled clank of a bolt's being thrown back. At his next push, the door opened.

  The hall inside was dark, save for a rectangle of dim light thirty cubits away, where this passage joined the main circumferential corridor. Conan paused to listen; the temple was as silent as a Stygian tomb. The temple people from High Priest to slaves must be sleeping a sleep of exhaustion over the last three days' activities.

  Conan stole down the hall, alert for a sign of the Brythunian guards. Cautiously he peeked around corners at the end, but no guards did he see in the main corridor in either direction. As he had hoped, the guards were taking advantage of their employers' fatigue to cluster somewhere, perhaps in the vestibule, for gaming and talk, rather than end the night in lonely patrolling of the silent hallways.

  The corridor into which Conan emerged was lit by a single bitumen lamp in a wall bracket. He turned right and, continuing his strides, walked to a door on the left. If his estimates of distance had been correct, this should be one of lie side entrances to the naos.

  Again he applied the Clavis of Gazrik to the door and whispered the incantation; again the lock unlocked itself, with no sound except a well-oiled click. When he opened the door, though, he recoiled. Instead of the naos, he found himself surveying a small bedchamber occupied by two narrow bunks, on which lay a pair of acolytes, one snoring.

  Conan softly closed the door and stole away.

  The next door proved to be the one he sought. He slipped into the naos and hurried across the floor of the sanctum, dimly illuminated by the flickering orange light of the eternal flame. He stopped at the black stone statue of Zath.

  Again he was struck by the lifelike aspect of the carving. The work was a perfect replica of a giant arachnid, save that he sculptor, unable to reproduce in stone the hairs along the legs, had indicated them by cross-hatching.

  Conan stripped off his cloak and dropped it. Beneath it he wore his blacksmith's apron, with pockets and loops holding the tools of his trade. He pulled out his blacksmith's hammer and, ho
lding his breath for instant flight, gingerly slapped the nearest leg. The sound was reassuringly like that

  of honest stone; the statue showed no sign of animation.

  Conan moved closer to reach the front of the creature's body. The four forward Eyes gleamed in the wavering light of the eternal flame, so that a six-rayed crimson star seemed to dance in the blue-green mistiness of each Eye.

  Conan saw that he would need a stronger light than that of the burning bitumen to operate on the Eyes. Reaching under his apron, he brought out a stick of wood, a cubit in length, one end of which was wrapped in an oil-soaked rag. Moving to the luminous bowl that sheltered the eternal fire, he held the unguent-coated cloth on the end of his torch above the lambent flame until the oil caught fire and blazed up.

  Conan returned to the statue and wedged his torch into the angle between two of Zath's eight legs, so that it cast a wavering yellow light upon the Eyes on that side. He leaned forward to examine the Eyes, running his fingers over their smooth, spherical surfaces and feeling the retaining rings that held them in place. The Eyes were girasols as large as a small boy's fist. The retaining rings were of lead. This, thought Conan, should make his task easy.

  From a pocket of his apron he brought out a handful of drills and stylets. Among these he chose a flat drill with a narrow chisel point. Setting the point into the crack between one of the retaining rings and the surrounding stone, he gave a gentle tap with his hammer, then another. He rejoiced to see that the tool had sunk visibly into the lead; a few more taps and he should be able to pry the ring out.

  Sounds from without snatched Conan's attention away from the statue. Voices murmured, feet tramped, doors opened and shut. Amid the sounds, Conan thought he detected the clank of the Brythunians' arms. Now what in the nine hells was arousing the temple at this hour?

  Then a key clicked in the side door facing that through which he had come. Before he could retreat, the door swung open.