The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  'What is it?' Conan asked, mystified. 'Some kind of shagreen?'

  'It is the backskin of the giant ray fish, from the isles east of Khitai. It is said to make the finest swordgrips in the world. I will fashion you a handle of plain hardwood, then glue this rayskin over it. It's a long hilt, big enough even for both your hands, with a little crowding, but I think there will be enough left over to make a matching grip for your dirk.'

  'Then I'll have this stuff,' Conan said, not even asking the price, which he knew would be steep. He was willing to pay well for fine weaponry, or take exceptional risks to steal the best. 'Can you make sheaths as well?'

  'My apprentices will see to that. What kind do you wish?'

  'Plain leather for the dirk. For the sword, thin wood, the strongest you have, with oil-treated leather glued over it. Bronze chape and throat. I want the wood lined inside with close-sheared lamb fleece, and the bronze throat cut away lest the edge touch metal in drawing or sheathing.'

  The craftsman nodded. 'You are a man who understands weapons, sir.

  It is always a pleasure to deal with such. Return in two days and all will be

  ready.'

  Conan continued on his way, this time to look at horses and saddles.

  Knowing that he faced a long journey, he ignored the splendid chargers and coursers the horse-traders tried to sell him, though at another time he might have spent days testing them all. He settled on a strong bay gelding, sound of wind and limb. Since he wanted to travel light, and make the last part of his journey on foot, he did not bother with a pack animal.

  His last purchase was a voluminous cloak that would serve as garment and blanket, and in which he could keep his few belongings rolled up and tied across his saddle during the journey. He decided against purchasing armour and helm, both because he must travel light and because his fellow Cimmerian countrymen considered armour to be effeminate.

  That evening he sat in the same tavern, this time in a far better mood.

  He had made his decisions, and he was not one to brood over mistakes or lost opportunities. Already he was looking forward to the northlands again. It had been too long since he had seen his kinsmen and breathed the free air of the mountains. Perhaps he would pay a visit to his old friends the Æsir, and go a-raiding with them for a while.

  'Amulets, master?' Conan looked up to see the ancient Khitan holding forth a mass of indescribable pendants dangling from leather thongs.

  'Protect you from, harm, from Evil Eye, from drowning, from snakebite.'

  The old man grinned encouragingly.

  'More gloomy predictions for me, old crow?' Conan said with a grudging smile. He would not let the elderly doom-monger shake his mood of elation. 'Here.' He flipped the shaman a heavy silver coin from Koth.

  The old one caught the coin in his free hand and bit it. Cackling, he secreted the coin in his rags and held out a thong from which dangled an oddly carved bit of green stone.

  'Take this,' the old one urged. 'Good protection.'

  'Against what?' Conan said dubiously. 'Drowning, snakebite? I believe in my own strength.'

  'Sometime strength no good. Then need first-rate amulet and charm.

  This one save life when strength all gone.'

  Reluctantly, Conan took the thing and hung it from his neck, more to silence the old man than for any other reason. It would make a gift for some pretty girl along the way, at any rate.

  The old man kept grinning and cackling. 'Keep inside of shirt. Magic no good if too many people see.' He started to walk away, then turned back and waggled an admonitory finger. 'Remember, only playing pieces on board of gods.'

  'If we're moved about by other powers,' Conan demanded, 'what use are amulets?'

  The old man cackled gleefully. 'Sometimes even gods have need of amulets!'

  Two days later Conan stood before the sword dresser's shop. In his hands he held the splendid sword. Its blade now shone bright, an odd pale blue colour such as he had never seen in sword steel. The bronze guard and pommel had been polished to a warm lustre, and were perfectly set off by the pearly-white ray skin grip. Best of all, though, was the marvelous balance and design which seemed to make the sword swing itself with little effort from the wielder.

  In his enthusiasm Conan set the blade flashing through the air in a series of intricate manoeuvres he had learned from a Turanian swordmaster. His impromptu display drew frightened squawks and curses from passersby who wandered too near. At last, satisfied, he sheathed the brand in its new scabbard. Balancing the sword on the other side of the belt was the refurbished dirk with its now-matching hilt.

  'I needed twice the usual time to put an edge on it,' the craftsman said, 'so hard is the steel. But you can shave with either edge now. And the blue colour—that I have seen only in a few very ancient blades. It is a style of steel making long lost. Look closely and you will see a slightly paler colour along the edges. They were made of a different quality of steel welded in with the softer metal, and tempered separately.' The man sighed. 'Such secrets the ancients knew. The finest Turanian blades are trash compared to this. I hope it serves you well, my friend.'

  Conan paid the high price gladly; he would have paid more. Gold was nothing, and it always seemed to trickle through his fingers like water.

  Steel a man could trust. With the reassuring weight at his waist, making

  him feel lighter instead of heavier, he strode to the inn where Hathor-Ka stayed.

  This time the keeper of the inn was obsequious. Conan was not splendid in his plain clothing and boots, but he was every inch a warrior, and such men always command respect.

  He climbed the stairs and rapped on the door. It was opened by Moulay, who ushered him inside. Conan saw Hathor-Ka seated at her table with a large chart spread out before her.

  'I leave at dawn tomorrow,' Conan announced without preamble. 'Give me the flask and I'll be on my way.'

  'You are too hasty,' Hathor-Ka chided him.

  'Would you prefer a slow messenger?' Conan asked.

  'Come here,' she ordered. 'Show me the route you plan to use.'

  Conan walked around the table to study the chart. He had seen maps before, but at the best of times he had difficulty relating these drawings on parchment to real land. 'I can't read these scratchings,' he said.

  Hathor-Ka named the principal nations for him, and the most prominent rivers. Thus orientated, the map began to make sense. He could see that the central, civilised nations were clearly delineated, with many cities marked, while the barbaric nations of north and south were vaguely and sketchily indicated. With a blunt finger Conan traced the route he planned to take.

  'I'll go straight north through Ophir, then up through Nemedia. I may stop in Belverus if nobody's besieging the place, then up to the Border Kingdom. They'll hang me there if they catch me; but it's only a narrow bit of land I have to cross. Then I'll be in Cimmeria.'

  'Why not go up through Aquilonia?' Hathor-Ka asked. 'There are far more cities and settlements. You could travel north to Gunderland and the Bossonian Marches, and it would be civilised country most of the way.'

  Conan shook his head. 'The eastern route is open plain most of the way.

  It's fairly well-watered, but with no big rivers to cross. It's the best way to

  travel by horse. In Aquilonia the land's all cut up by rivers, and they all flow south, so boat travel would be slower than riding. All those settlements mean travelling by road, and the traffic and towns slow you down. Also, it would mean entering Cimmeria in Murrogh territory, and the Murrogh clan have been waging a blood feud with my own for five generations, ever since one of my ancestors stole all their horses.'

  'Excellent,' Hathor-Ka said. 'I have no interest in your route, but I wished to be sure that you are a man who knows how to think ahead and plan.' She turned to Moulay and nodded.

  Once again he opened the chest and drew forth the flask. Hathor-Ka held it for a moment, then handed it to the Cimmerian.

  'Upon y
our oath,' the woman said, 'let nothing happen to this vessel or its contents before the last step of your mission is carried out.'

  'You don't have to remind me,' Conan grumbled. 'I will get it done.'

  Without further pleasantries the Cimmerian left.

  Moulay watched Conan leave. 'My lady, I have no wish to see the cold north, but I think the two of us should have undertaken this task.'

  She crossed to the narrow window and looked down into the street. The Cimmerian was walking away with his lengthy hillman's stride. 'No, Moulay, you are wrong. Even if the two of us could endure the journey, we would never arrive by the autumnal equinox. I would have to employ my mightiest sorceries to speed our way, and would arrive too exhausted to face the struggle that might ensue. This man is perfect. He is strong and simple, and he will honour his word.'

  Moulay snorted through his beaked nose. 'What does a savage know of honour?'

  'More than you would think. honour is a barbaric virtue, of which civilisation retains only the empty forms. Besides, the greatest advantage of using this man is that he is a Cimmerian, and he will be in his own country.' She turned for a last glimpse of Conan's broad back disappearing around a corner. 'No, I could not have chosen better.'

  The next morning Conan rode out through the North Gate of Khorshemish. The rising sun was just staining the east wall of the city red,

  and here on the north side all was still in shadow, retaining the faint chill of night. Conan's horse was through the opening valves as soon as they were wide enough to pass its sturdy barrel. The guards atop the wall were yawning, yearning for their relief to arrive so they could collapse into their empty bunks at the barracks.

  Early as the hour was, however, they were not alone atop the wall over the North Gate. Beside the green-flecked bronze poles which supported the gate's drum stood a skinny, ragged figure rattling his strings of bone and shell. As Conan rode away from the city of the plain, the ancient Khitan mountebank waved to his unseeing back.

  III

  Five Riders

  Conan had been on his journey for seven days. For six of those days he had known that he was being followed. It was very difficult to trail a man unseen on open plain, and even more difficult when the man in question was experienced, suspicious, and Cimmerian. From long habit, every few hours Conan would ride to the nearest rise of ground and scan all around, paying special attention to his back trail.

  On his second day he had descried the five riders wfio followed. They were well behind, and could not close the gap quickly. At the same time, he knew that he would eventually have to turn and give battle. There was no way that a lone man could keep ahead of five indefinitely except on the most favorable ground. Clever pursuers would divide the chase, with some riding fast to make the quarry stay ahead, others catching up at a more leisurely pace, then taking the fast chase in their turn, gradually wearing out the mount of the pursued while keeping their own horses relatively fresh.

  On the other hand, Conan knew that his horse was a good one. He also was not lacking in personal confidence, and had no doubt that his own stamina was greater than that of his pursuers. The fighting ground would be his choice. High ground was always best, but there was precious little of that hereabout.

  On the eve of the seventh day he found a mound several paces high and settled on that as a good place to conquer or die. He picketed his horse by

  a small stream a quarter mile away from the mound, where the grass was good. First he watered the beast, then curried its glossy hide. He made sure that the picket cords were such that the horse would take no more than a few hours to gnaw them through. Should he and all his enemies be slain today, he did not wish the beast to be left to a lingering death on the empty plain.

  When all was ready he ate a handful of dried fruit and jerked meat, and walked to the mound. From its crest he could see that the five horsemen were still an hour away. He sat down to await them.

  He did not want to signal his presence from afar, lest they pause and approach him slowly, catching their breath and regaining their full strength. At five-to-one odds even Conan knew that he needed every advantage he could wrest from the situation. As the men neared, he drew his sword and admired its beauty. Since the fight could not be avoided, it cheered him to have a chance to try out his new blade, and such a fight as was coming would surely test it to the full.

  When the five were no more than a hundred paces away, he stood, brandished the sword above his head, and shouted: 'I am Conan of Cimmeria! If you would slay me, here I am! Come and try me, lowland swine!'

  The horsemen reined in and stared up the mound in wonderment. Of all things, this was the last they had expected. Such challenges rightly belonged to the age of heroes, and everyone knew that that age was long gone. After a hurried conference as to who should go first, they very sensibly decided to charge all at once.

  Conan grinned when he saw five horses spring forth as one. This was just what he had hoped for. Only in a well-disciplined army could five men fight as a well-drilled team, and these men showed no sign of such training. They were clearly of different nations, each armed and armoured in his own fashion.

  As the ragged line approached him, Conan darted to his left to engage the last man on that side, putting the rider between himself and the others. While to his opponents he seemed bent on suicide by dismounting thus to fight, in reality he had gained an advantage. Without a horse to manage he could concentrate on killing, and this suited his headlong style of combat.

  The lefthand rider was a man of Shem, with curly beard and billowing trousers. He wore no armour and rode without stirrups, a slender lance held low at his right side and a small buckler on his left forearm. With a gobbling war cry he lowered his point, intent upon skewering the Cimmerian.

  Conan ran down the mound and reached his range just as the horse changed gait to negotiate the rise in ground. The sudden change in motion threw the rider slightly off balance for a moment, and that was all the time Conan needed. As the point wavered he slapped it aside with his blade and leaped upward, holding his sword at full extension and turning his whole body into a spear. The Shemite tried to bring his buckler across, but with so much weight and momentum behind the sword, the act was futile. The point caught the man beneath the jaw and he all but flew backward over his cantle, spraying blood in a crimson arc.

  Immediately, Conan ran back to the crest of the mound. The others circled in confusion, trying to decide just what had happened. First to see Conan was a Turanian in spired helm, and that one set spurs to his mount, waving a heavy, curved talwar as he sought to ride the Cimmerian down. Conan darted to the man's shield side at the last possible instant and swung his sword as he did so, hewing the Turanian's left leg off. The man toppled screaming from his saddle.

  Before Conan could regain his balance after the mighty blow, two more horses were upon him, and he was knocked sprawling to the ground. As he tried to scramble up, a Zamoran leaped onto Conan's shoulders and sought to wrestle him to the ground while stabbing at him with a long, curved dagger. Conan dropped his sword to deal with the man, and managed to seize the Zamoran with both hands just as he felt the dagger burn like a hot iron across his shoulder.

  From the corner of his eye Conan saw a sword swinging at his back, and with a speed and strength unknown among civilised men, he swung the Zamoran around, using him as a shield to intercept the whistling blade. The Zamoran screamed thinly as the sword cleft his spine, and Conan heaved the body into the face of the Argossian swordsman, whose visage still bore a look of confusion. Both bodies thudded to the ground as Conan darted to the Argossian, seized him by his wide helmet, and twisted until a faint snap informed him that further effort was unnecessary.

  Quickly, he looked for the fifth.

  The man was perhaps twenty paces away, sitting his horse with grim patience. The rider wore a cuirass of hardened leather straps, studded with iron, and on both forearms bracers of stiff leather. The sword at his waist was straight, its
handle long enough for both hands. Beneath his nasaled black helmet spilled locks of tawny hair, and his eyes were as blue as Conan's own. Except for his clean-shaven face, the man might have been Æsir, but Conan knew that he was from farther south.

  'You've had a good morning's sport, Cimmerian dog,' the man said as he dismounted. 'But the men of Gunderland are harder to kill than these eastern weaklings.'

  Conan found his sword and picked it up, first making sure that its grip was not slippery with dew or blood. 'Gundermen die as easily as other men. I slew many at Venarium, and I was only fifteen then.'

  'Venarium!' spat the Gunderman. 'I've sworn to kill a dozen Cimmerians for every kinsman I lost in that slaughter. Their blood calls out for appeasement. I will send them another blackhaired servant this day!'

  The two northerners met atop the mound. They fought without art or subtlety, swinging their broad blades two-handed. Blue sword and grey met and rang, shedding sparks with each terrific impact. Boasting and challenge were over now, and the only sounds they made were snarls of rage and grunts of effort wrenched from their bodies with each massive chop. It was swing and block without pause, but the fight was not slow nor ponderous despite the size of the men and the weight of their weapons.

  The swords licked out to cut or block too swiftly for any but the most experienced eye to see.

  Conan broke into a profuse sweat and breathed like a blacksmith's bellows. It had been years since he had tested himself against a fellow northerner, and the hard-living men of Aquilonia's Gunderland frontier grew up every bit as swift and powerful as any Nordheimer or Cimmerian.

  But Conan was mighty even for a Cimmerian. Preparing a terrible overhand slash, the Gunderman swung the blade a fingersbreadth too far back, giving Conan an instant in which to step aside. As his blade met no resistance, the Gunderman leaned forward, fighting to regain his balance, but it was too late for that. The Cimmerian's sword came across horizontally, biting into the man's side through the hard leather. Yanking his blade free, Conan raised it and sent it in a great half-circle, splitting