The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  Ahead was a wide-arching entrance opening onto what appeared to be a very large chamber. Stealthily, they approached it. Lurid glares flickered across the ceiling of the tunnel, as if great fires were burning somewhere below the level of the entrance.

  'Will there be sentries out?' Chulainn whispered.

  'What they be guarding against?' Cha said. Nevertheless, the Cimmerians drew their dirks. They walked swiftly, in a half-crouch, wary as hunted animals. Despite the considerable amount of metal exposed about their persons, they made not the slightest clink or rattle. This skulking about beneath the surface of the ground repelled them, but they were prepared to endure anything, even death in the dark instead of in the pure mountain air beneath the sun. All that mattered was the rescue of their kin.

  There was a great deal of noise coming from the chamber beyond,

  rumblings and croakings and screams of pain. Their tunnel ended in a ledge above a great sunken cavern, one larger perhaps than the throne room of Crom. The men lowered themselves to their bellies and crawled forward, silent as snakes. At the edge they peered over carefully onto a scene from a wizard's nightmare.

  This time there was no obscuring smoke or fog to cover the hideous activities of the creatures below. The beings were of many types, all of them engaged in frantic if incomprehensible activity: herding human prisoners at the point of cruel-looking polearms, performing strange rites before ugly shrines, committing acts of seemingly pointless torture or violence, not only on their prisoners but upon each other.

  Many of the things were of the reptilian sort that Conan and Chulainn had encountered in the Field of the Dead, but there were other types as well. There were vaguely humanoid things with jointed bodies like insects, and crawling giant slugs trailing slime. Huge, hairy spiders clung to the walls. Crouching ape-things pounded mindlessly on peculiar drums and creatures with batwings flitted silently through the cavern, apparently blind. Those were the creatures to which they could assign some degree of recognition. Others were so bizarre, with shapes so unstable and alien, that the sane and stable mind automatically rejected them. They were plainly of no world acceptable to humans.

  The human prisoners, most of them children or young women, were herded and abused in a condition of abject degradation. Many behaved with mute apathy, some were clearly mad from horror, a few were belligerent and rebellious. The rebellious ones showed the marks of scourge and worse. The bulk of the prisoners seemed to be Cimmerian, although other peoples were represented: Æsir and Vanir and Hyperborean among them, along with races unknown to Conan, who had travelled more than most.

  In an obscure corner of the immense chamber, walled off in a pen of piled stones, sat a steely-eyed group of captive youngsters, most of them Cimmerians. At sight of them Chulainn started to rise, but Conan's hand on his shoulder kept the young warrior in place.

  'Bronwith?' whispered Conan.

  'It is she. In the corner, with the blue mantle.'

  Conan saw her immediately—a handsome, strong-looking girl of marriageable age, with black hair and large brown eyes. The blue mantle thrown over one shoulder was the only article of clothing she retained.

  The others were in no better state. What clothing they had was so whip-shredded as to be no more than bloody rags. The girl's face was fearless, but her eyes darted about continually, not in panic but in ceaseless search for an escape. For an instant her gaze rested on the ledge where the eyes of three men peered over the rock rim, then she resumed her frantic search.

  Conan touched the other two and they crawled back into the cave among the mushrooms. 'You made a good choice, lad,' Conan said. 'That girl is pure Cimmerian. She saw us and gave no sign. The others with her are not as panicked as the rest of the prisoners. I'll wager she's been keeping them in hand.'

  'Aye,' Chulainn said, pride fighting with fear in his voice. 'And we must free her. The others in the pen are younger than Bronwith, and it will not be easy to get them all out of here.'

  'You speak the truth,' Conan agreed. 'And she'll not leave them behind.

  From the look of them they're mostly Murrogh, probably her kin, taken in the same raid she was.'

  'How you know the clan of naked children?' muttered Cha. The Khitan was strangely subdued.

  'No other clan has so many brown-eyed bairns among them,' Conan said.

  Cha shrugged. 'All look alike to me.'

  'How can we get them free?' Chulainn persisted. 'There is no night here. Those things down there may never sleep, and there are far too many of them.'

  Conan turned to Cha. 'Earn your keep, wizard. If you are such a great enchanter, use your skill and make us a way to rescue our folk. We will take care of the sword work ourselves.'

  For the first time the Khitan seemed agitated, even angry.

  'You want me give myself away so you can free a few of your kin?' He swept out a skinny arm and pointed toward the hellish chamber. 'You see that place? You think that is evil? That is one place, under this mountain.

  I fail here, then whole world be like that!'

  'One problem at a time, wizard,' Conan said imperturbably. 'First, we get our people out of here and to a place of safety. Then, we see about your task. And I must finish my mission. I'll not be forsworn.'

  'Barbarians!' Cha grumbled. 'Get hold of one idea, no room for anything more.'

  Chulainn looked puzzled. 'We value our kin and our word. What else is there?'

  Cha hissed in disgust. 'So be it. I give you a chance, but you must be quick.'

  'All we need is a chance,' Conan said. 'And we are always quick.'

  'I no use sorcerer's weapons. Must save those for later. I make illusion.

  Distract demons down there. You have only moments to get your people free, up to this cave. Then you must run faster than the demons. I not able to help you then.'

  'Do it,' Conan said. 'Just tell us when you are ready.'

  Bronwith sat on the hard stone with her arms around her knees, waiting. She did not dare inform the others of what she had seen, for fear that some of the younger might give way to hope and accidentally reveal to their captors that something had changed. She drew the scant cloak closer about her shoulders, although the cavern was warm.

  She had seen the eyes of three men looking over the stone lip. Two heads bore tousled black hair, the third was mostly shiny scalp. Was one of them Chulainn? If so, who was the other Cimmerian? And who might the third man be? Of course, it might be her own kinsmen. That seemed to be more likely. Chulainn might come for her alone, braving any terror to rescue her and honour his given word, but what clansman of his would risk his neck for the sake of a Murrogh woman?

  Time enough to answer these questions later. Now she would hold

  herself in readiness to take whatever opportunity came to win freedom for herself and her young kinsmen. She was the eldest, and she felt responsible for them.

  Bronwith was a tall young woman, sturdy and little wasted from her long captivity, despite the scant fare they had been given. The others were surprisingly healthy as well. Cimmerian children were accustomed to deprivation. They were not used to captivity, however, and did not make model prisoners. All of them were heavily striped with the marks of the barbed whips carried by the reptilian guards. Bronwith bore more stripes than many of the others. She had tried as well as she could to protect her younger kin, and she had paid for it.

  As she waited she sang one of the sad songs of her race. Above the blue mantle her face was broad-boned, handsome, and intelligent. Best of all, her face was sane. Sanity had not been easy to hold on to in the last weeks.

  Or had it been months? It was difficult to keep track of days here in the caverns. They were taken to the surface sometimes to work in the pit for some incomprehensible purpose, but there was no way of knowing whether the nights when they worked were successive or widely separated.

  Her strong example had helped the others to stay sane as well, and keep them from despair.

  That had not been easy ei
ther. They had been taken from their steadings by demons from hell. Some had seen older kinsmen slain and eaten by the monsters. Knowing the dietary preferences of their captors, they had refused to eat the few scraps of meat given to them in captivity.

  Worst of all was not knowing. Why had they been brought here? What was in store for them? Until now Bronwith had thought that slavery was the worst fate that could befall her. Mere death was common and nothing to fear greatly. Like all Cimmerians old enough to make decisions, she had long since resolved to die before allowing herself to be carried off to some foreign land to be enslaved by an alien people. Awful as this was, at least captivity near home held the prospect of escape. She wondered when they would come.

  Bronwith was almost dozing when she was jerked awake by a sudden lessening of the noise in the cavern. The stilling of the pandemonium was as shocking as the noise itself had once been. Those of the creatures that had necks were craning them to stare upward, where something untoward was happening.

  Above them some new creature was materializing. As it took on form, it appeared to be roughly human, although gigantic. Its face was majestic and serene, and its body and legs were finely proportioned. It seemed to have dozens of arms, all of them in motion as it trod the measures of some intricate dance to unheard music. The whole apparition was bright blue.

  A jabber of excitement broke out as the demons expressed their disconcertion in a cacophony of croaks, hisses, and screeches. Bronwith did not connect this with the men she had seen, but she was ready to make use of it to help effect their escape. 'Be ready,' she said to the others in a low voice, 'this may be our chance.' Quietly, the others shifted, stretching cramped limbs surreptitiously lest they hinder a quick dash for freedom.

  Bronwith heard a low, warbling whistle and turned to see two men crouched to one side of the stone pen. One was Chulainn, and her heart leaped like a mountain stag in spite of her stony discipline. The other she did not know, save that he was a kinsman of Chulainn's from the look of his craggy Canach features. Chulainn beckoned and she signaled the others. Silently, all rose and moved in a limber crouch to the two men, who helped them over the wall. The sentries near the pen continued to stare stupidly at the dancing figure overhead. Luckily, it seemed that none of their adversaries were overburdened with brains.

  Skirting the side of the immense chamber, the two men led the escapees to a narrow ledge that made a tortuous way up the wall to the cave mouth where Bronwith had first seen them. Even the youngest of the children were as surefooted as mountain goats and trod the treacherous ledge with ease. When the last was on the ledge, the two men followed.

  Miraculously, it seemed as if they had not yet been noticed. Overhead, the hypnotic dance continued.

  They gained the cave entrance without being seen. 'Chulainn,'

  Bronwith said, but the older man interrupted.

  'No time,' he growled. 'Run! You'll find a lighted torch up ahead, and a stack of unlit ones. Take them and stay to this cave. You'll find yourself in Crom's cave. Get out and head downhill, through the Field of the Dead. If you run fast enough, you'll find friends before these demons catch you.'

  'This is my cousin, Conan,' Chulainn said.

  'Conan,' Bronwith said. She had heard the name before.

  A tousle-headed boy of perhaps twelve spoke up. 'Why should Murrogh trust a dog of the Canach?'

  Conan grinned, spun the boy around, and kicked his backside in the direction of escape. 'The Bloody Spear has been sent about, boy. We can fight at some more peaceful time.'

  'Forgive him,' Bronwith said, 'he is my brother and headstrong like all the men of my clan. What will you two be doing?'

  'We'll stay a little behind to cover your retreat,' Conan told her. 'That dancing Vendhyan idol is just a conjurer's trick, and the demons will catch on soon, so go.'

  Bronwith gave Chulainn a quick, fierce kiss and then ran. The others went with her, except for the boy who had wanted to defy Conan. 'Should a Murrogh flee and let the Canach protect him? I'll stay with the warriors.' The boy thrust out his thin chest and picked up a jagged rock.

  Conan spoke solemnly, all mockery gone. 'We are the rear guard, Murrogh warrior. Who knows what lies ahead of them in these tunnels?

  Do not leave them without an advance guard.'

  The boy thought a moment. 'Aye, you have the right of it. Good fortune, men of Canach.' Clutching his rock, the boy ran toward the flickering light of the torch.

  Conan grinned again. 'You're marrying into good stock, kinsman.

  Those two would do credit to any clan.'

  Chulainn smiled, a man at peace. 'I've come for her, as I swore. Now I can die and face Crom without shame.' There was a change in the noise from the cavern behind them. 'That's liable to happen soon, now. The foreigner's trick has been found out.'

  'Come,' Conan said.

  They trotted toward the escaping prisoners, careful in the dimness. It was not long before they heard the sounds of pursuit. There was a single reassurance to be had from this: their pursuers had not seen the escape

  and had no way of knowing which of the multitude of caves they had taken from the great chamber. They must split up and search all of them. Conan and Chulainn would not have to face the whole force of the demons.

  They were not able to make the best time in the dimness and the unfamiliar environs of the caverns, and the sounds of pursuit grew closer behind them. Without breaking stride the Cimmerians drew their swords.

  When the first challenge came, it was not from behind but from in front.

  From one of the small side tunnels a pair of insectoid creatures sprang out to confront them. The beings were at least seven feet tall, angular, and shiny. In their multiple pairs of limbs each bore odd-looking weapons, with which they attacked.

  Conan ducked a saw-toothed sword aimed to split his skull and hacked at the attacking creature's thorax, chipping away a chunk of horny chitin.

  The thing hissed and made a grab for him with its free claw. The pincer closed agonizingly around Conan's left arm. Its strength was terrible, and he knew he must slay it quickly. Desperately, he wedged the tip of his blade against the spot where he had chipped away the natural armour and thrust with all his might. Abruptly, the thorax gave way and the blue brand crunched through. With a hideous screech the insect man released him and sought to pull away. With both hands on his hilt Conan wrenched the sword free, releasing a yellow acid-smelling fluid. The creature fell to the floor and its shell rattled on the stone as it writhed in its death convulsions.

  Swinging his fine blade in a great circle to clear it of the foul fluid, Conan turned to see that Chulainn had his enemy backed against a wall of the cave, vainly seeking to defend itself with a bizarre polearm. Chulainn bore in like an avenging fury, first shearing away an arm at its elbow joint, then hewing through a knee, and finally hacking off the misshapen head as the creature toppled. Conan watched with interest as the head sailed for many yards toward the great cavern. It made a faint thunk when it landed, far out of sight.

  'Those were no easier than the lizards,' Chulainn commented.

  'They know these caves as well,' Conan said. 'Pray we meet no more of them.'

  They reached the long stair and began their climb. They could hear pursuit close behind, and with it the loud hissing of the tough

  lizard-things. They put on a little more speed. The high steps were awkward but they were mountain bred and were only slightly winded as they reached the top.

  Crom's cave was filled with sunlight as they entered it, and the sound of ascending demons ceased behind them, with much frustrated hissing. The Cimmerians paused to catch their breath.

  'Will the sunlight stay them?' Chulainn asked.

  'For a while,' Conan said. 'But they were in daylight sometimes when they raided the steadings. We'd best be away from here before they gather another of their clouds and come after us.'

  They walked toward the entrance and Chulainn pointed to the still-burning remnants of th
e torches dropped by the prisoners as they fled. 'Bronwith and the others made it safely this far. They must be halfway down the mountain by now.'

  They stepped through the entrance. 'Let's catch up with them. I'll not feel—' Then he saw what was waiting for them. 'Crom's bones!' he swore as he jerked out his sword once more.

  'Two more for our net,' Starkad said. 'But I'll wager we'll not take these two alive.'

  XIII

  Wolves of Vanaheim

  Conan took in the scene even as he drew his sword. The mouth of the cave was faced by a great half-circle of armed Vanir. There looked to be nearly a hundred of them. To one side stood a man in rich armour, probably a chief. Near him were two odd-looking foreigners. One Van lay dead, with his head crushed by a jagged, bloody rock. Stretched by him was Bronwith's brother, blood matting his tousled black locks. Bronwith and the others were herded between the Vanir and the cave. All this Conan's mind registered before his sword cleared his sheath.

  'Vanir on Ben Morgh!' Chulainn shouted, his look growing crazed. To Cimmerians, the presence of Vanir on their sacred mountain was as

  intolerable as that of demons.

  'Do as I do,' Conan muttered.

  He had been in this type of situation before. The Vanir were stretched into a wide semi-circle before the cave. At no point was the line of men more than two deep. It would be useless to take on all the Vanir, but it was just possible to carve a hole in their line and escape. The line was thinnest near the chieftain, but Conan selected a spot near the recaptured prisoners.

  'Kill these two dogs,' Starkad ordered.

  The men began to close in, grinning. They had not yet advanced more than one step when, howling a wild Cimmerian war cry, Conan charged. A Van stepped from the line, axe raised high and shield held before his body.

  Conan came in low and chopped at the lower edge of the shield. The blue blade was not even slowed, but bit into the man's side, showering those standing nearby with bloody iron scales.