The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  'Taras seems to have vanished, Albanus.'

  'Then find him!' the cruel-eyed lord snapped irritably. 'And remember, within the Palace walls let this barbarian be watched but inviolate. When he ventures out, slay him!'

  XIV

  Steel rang in the small courtyard as Conan blocked the descending blade and smoothly moved back to a guard position. Sweat oiled his massive chest, but his breathing was controlled, his eye firm, his blade steady.

  Garian circled to his left about the big Cimmerian. He also was stripped to the waist, and but slightly smaller, though his muscles were covered by the fat of recent inactivity. Sweat rolled down his sloping shoulders, and his blade wavered, if but a hair's breadth.

  'You are good, barbar,' the king panted.

  Conan said nothing, moving only enough to keep his face to the other man. Fighting, even in practice, was not the time to talk.

  'But you say little,' the king continued, and as he spoke his sword darted for the Cimmerian's middle.

  Conan barely moved. His mighty wrists pivoted, his blade arced down to clash against the king's, carrying it safely to one side. Instead of forcing taking the other's blade further out of line, as was the favoured tactic, Conan dropped suddenly, squatting on his right leg with his left extended to the side. His steel slid off the other blade, swung forward and stopped as it touched Garian's stomach. Before the startled king could react, Conan flowed back to his feet and to guard.

  A disgusted expression on his face, Garian stepped back. 'Tis enough for today,' he said grimly, and strode away.

  Conan picked up his tunic and began to wipe the sweat from his chest.

  When Garian had disappeared through the arched courtyard gate, Hordo stepped out from the shadows beneath a balcony, shaking his shaggy head. 'Tis well he knew not that I was here, Cimmerian, else we both might find ourselves in the dungeons beneath these stones. But then, kings dislike being bested, even when there are no others to see.'

  'Did I accept defeat in practice, then soon defeat would find me when it was not practice.'

  'But still, man, could you not hold back a little? He is a king, after all. No need for us to be dismissed before we get as much of his gold as we can.'

  'I know no other way to fight, Hordo, save to win. How fare the men?'

  'Well,' Hordo replied, seating himself on a coping stone. ''Tis an easy life, drinking and wenching away their gold.'

  Conan pulled his tunic over his head and scabbarded his sword. 'Have you seen any sign that Ariane and the others are ready to call their people into the streets?'

  'Not a whisper,' the one-eyed man sighed. 'Conan, I do not say betray them-Kerin's shade would haunt me, an I did-but could we not at least say to Garian that we have heard talk of uprising? He'd give us much gold for such a warning, and there'd be no rising were he on his guard. I like not to think of Kerin and Ariane dying in the gutters, but so they will an they rise. I... I could not ride against them, Cimmerian.'

  'Nor I, Hordo. But rise they will, if Garian is on his guard or no, or I misread the fire in Ariane. To stop them we must find who uses them. That man who met with Taras could tell me much.'

  'I've given orders, as you said, to watch for a hawk-face man with white at his temples, but 'twill be a gift of the gods an we find him so.'

  Conan shook his head disgustedly. 'I know. But we can do only what we can. Come. Let us to my chamber. I've good wine there.'

  Palaces far more opulent stood in Turan and Vendhya, but this one was no mean place. Many were the courtyards and gardens, some small, holding perhaps a marble fountain in the form of some fanciful beast, others large, in which rose alabaster towers with gilded corbeled arches and golden cupolas. Great obelisks rose to the sky, their sides covered with hieroglyphs and telling the legends of Nemedian kings for a thousand years and more.

  While walking down a cool arcade beside a garden where peacocks cried and golden-feathered pheasants strutted, Conan suddenly stopped. Ahead, a woman swathed in grey veils had come out of a door and, seemingly not noticing them, was walking the other way. The Cimmerian was certain it was the woman he had twice seen in her litter. Now, he decided, was a good time to discover why she had looked at him with such hatred. But as he started forward, Hordo grabbed his arm, pulling him aside behind a column.

  'I want to speak to that woman,' Conan said. He spoke softly, for voices carried in those arcades. 'She does not like me, of that I'm sure. And I have seen her before, without those veils. But where?'

  'I, too, have seen her,' Hordo replied in a hoarse whisper, 'though not without the veils. She is called Lady Tiana, and 'tis said her face is scarred by some disease. She will not allow it to be seen.'

  'I'll not ask to see her face,' Conan said impatiently.

  'Listen to me,' the one-eyed man pleaded. 'Once I followed Eranius when he left us to get his orders.

  Always, I knew, he went to the Street of Regrets, each time to a different tavern. This time he left the city entire, and in a grove beyond the wall met this Lady Tiana.'

  'Then she is part of the smuggling,' Conan said. 'That may provide a lever, if she proves difficult about answering my questions.'

  'You do not understand, Cimmerian. I was not close enough to hear what was said, yet did I see Eranius all but grovel before her. He would not do so unless she were high, very high, in the ring. Bother her, and you may find ton score smugglers in this city, hard men all, seeking your head.'

  'Mayhap they do already.' Assuredly someone did; why not a woman who seemed to hate him, for whatever reason? He shrugged off Hordo's hand. 'She will be gone if I do not go now.'

  But Conan paused, for as the Lady Tiana reached the end of the arcade, the blonde who had accompanied Garian appeared before her. Sularia, he had learned her name was, and she was indeed Garian's mistress. The veiled woman moved to go past, but Sularia, in golden breastplates and a golden silk skirt no wider than a man's hand front or rear, sidestepped in front of her.

  'All honour to you, Lady Tiana,' Sularia said, a malicious smile playing over her sensual lips. 'But why are you covered so on such a bright day? I know you would be lovely, could we but persuade you into bangles and silks.'

  The veiled woman's hand flashed out, cracking across Sularia's face on a backhand blow that sent the blonde crumpling to the ground. Conan was stunned at the blow; it had taken no common woman's strength.

  Sularia stumbled to her feet, rage twisting her face into a mask. 'How dare you strike me?' she spat. 'I-'

  'To your kennel, bitch!' a third woman snapped, appearing beside the other two. Tall and willowy, she was as beautiful as Sularia, but with silken black hair and imperious dark eyes in a haughty face. Her blue velvet robe, sewn with tiny pearls, made the blonde look a tavern girl.

  'Speak not so to me, Lady Jelanna,' Sularia answered angrily. 'I am no servant, and soon....' She stopped suddenly.

  Jelanna's mouth curled in a sneer. 'You are a slut, and soon enough Garian will decide so for himself.

  Now, get you gone before I summon a slave to whip you hence.'

  Sularia trembled from head to foot, her face venomous. With an inarticulate cry of rage, she sped away from the two women, past where Conan and Hordo stood behind the column.

  Conan watched her go; when he turned back, Jelanna and Tiana were gone. Scowling, he leaned against the stone.

  'In this place I could search a tenday and not find her,' he growled. 'I should have spoken straight off, instead of letting you draw me away like a frightened boy.'

  'Mitra, Conan, let us ride from this city.' Hordo's single eye fixed the Cimmerian with entreaty. 'Forget Lady Tiana. Forget Garian, and his gold. There's gold in Ophir, and when we take blade-fee there, at least we'll know who wants to kill us.'

  Conan shook his head. 'Never have I run away from my enemies, Hordo. 'Tis a bad habit to form. Go you on to the taverns. I go to my chamber to think on how to find this Tiana. I'll find you later, and match you two drinks to one.'

  As
the Cimmerian started away, Hordo called after him. 'Always before you knew who your enemies were!'

  But Conan walked on. A wise man did not leave an unknown enemy behind him, but rather sought that enemy out. Better to die than flee, for once flight began how could it end? The enemy would come at last, and victory or death would be decided then at a time and place of the foe's choosing. While there was yet life and will, the enemy must be sought.

  Reaching his chamber, Conan put his hand to the door; it shifted at his touch. The latch had been drawn.

  Warily he drew his blade and stepped aside. With swordpoint he thrust the door open. It swung back to crash against the wall, but there was no other sound, no hint of movement within.

  Snarling, the big Cimmerian threw himself through the open door in a long dive, tucking his shoulder under as he hit the floor to roll to his feet, sword at the ready.

  Sularia sat up on his bed, crossing her long legs sensuously beneath her and clapping her hands with delight. 'Horseman, bowman, swordsman, and now tumbler. What other tricks have you, barbarian?'

  Keeping a tight rein on his anger, Conan closed the door. He was no man to enjoy making a fool of himself before a woman, most especially not a beautiful woman. When he turned back to her his eyes were blue glacier ice.

  'Why are you here, woman?'

  'How magnificent you are,' she breathed, 'with the sweat of combat still on you. You defeated him, didn't you? Garian could not stand against one such as you.'

  Hastily he searched the room, flipping aside each tapestry on the wall, putting his head out of the window to make sure no assassin clung to the copings. Even did he look under the bed, before her amused smile made him throw the coverlet back down with an oath.

  'What do you look for, Conan? I have no husband to jump out accusing.'

  'You have a king,' he growled. One look at her, golden breastplates barely containing her swelling orbs, narrow strips of golden silk tangled about her thighs, proved she could carry no weapon greater than a pin.

  'A king who can talk of nothing but tariffs and grain and things even more boring.' A sultry smile caressed her lips, and she let herself fall backward on the bed, breathing deep. 'But you, barbarian, are not boring. I sense power in you, though afar as yet. Will you become a king, I wonder?'

  Conan frowned. That sequence of words seemed to touch some deep buried memory. Power. That he would be a king. He thrust it all from his mind. A fancy for children, no more.

  He laid his sword across the bed above Sularia's head. It would be close to hand there, let come who would. The blonde twisted to gaze at the bare blade, wetting her lips as if its closeness excited her.

  Conan clutched the golden links that joined her breastplates in his fist and tore them from her. Her eyes darted back to him, the icy sapphire of his commanding the smouldering blue of hers.

  'You have played a game with me, woman,' he said softly. 'Now 'tis my turn to play.'

  Neither of them saw the door move ajar, nor the woman in grey veils who stood there a time, watching them with eyes of emerald fire.

  XV

  As Conan walked through the Palace the next afternoon, Hordo ran to join him.

  ''Tis well to see you, Cimmerian. I had some niggling fears when I did not meet you in the taverns last night.'

  'I found something else to do,' Conan smiled.

  Hurrying slaves thronged the corridors, keeping near the walls to leave the centre free for strolling lords and ladies, of which there were some few in richly embroidered velvets and satins, hung about with gold chains and emeralds and rubies on necks and wrists and waists. Nobles gave the warrior pair curious looks, men haughtily disdainful, women thoughtful.

  Hordo eyed them all suspiciously, then dropped his voice and leaned closer to Conan as they walked.

  'Mayhap you took time last night to reconsider what occurred yesterday. Even now Garian's torturers may be heating their irons. Let us to horse and away while we can.'

  'Cease this foolish prattle,' Conan laughed. 'Not two glasses ago I exercised at swords with Garian, and he said no ill word to me. In fact, he laughed often, except when his head was thumped.'

  The one-eyed man's stride faltered. 'Cimmerian, you didn't .... Mitra! You do not crack the pate of a king!'

  'I cracked no pate, Hordo. Garian's foot slipped on leaves blown by the breeze, and he struck his face with his own hilt in falling. A bruise, no more.'

  'What men like you and me account a bruise,' Hordo said, raising a finger like one of the philosophers at the Thestis, 'Kings account a mortal insult to dignity.'

  'I fear you are right,' Conan sighed. 'You do grow old.'

  'I am too,' Hordo began, and snapped his mouth shut with a glare as he realised what the big Cimmerian had said.

  Conan suppressed the laughter that wanted to escape at the look on the bearded man's face. Hordo might call himself old, but he was very ready to thump anyone else who named him so. Then the Cimmerians mirth faded.

  They had come on a courtyard in which a score of the Golden Leopards stood in a large circle about Vegentius, all including the Commander stripped to the waist. A small knot of nobles stood discreetly within an arcade on the far side, watching. Apart from them, but also among those columns so she should not seem to watch, was Sularia.

  Vegentius turned within the circle, arms flexing over his head. 'Who will be next?' he called to the men around him. 'I've not worked up a sweat as yet.' His bare chest was deep, his shoulders broad and covered with thick muscle. 'Am I to get no exercise? You, Oaxis.'

  A man stepped forward, dropping into a crouch. As tall as Vegentius, he was not so heavily muscled, though no stripling. Vegentius laughed, crouching and circling. Oaxis circled with him, but not laughing.

  Abruptly they rushed together, grappling, feet shuffling for position and leverage. Conan could see that the slighter man had knowledge, and agility. Even as the Cimmerian thought, Oaxis slipped an arm free, his fist streaking for Vegentius' corded stomach. Perhaps he remembered who it was he struck, for at the last instant the blow slowed, the impact bringing not even a grunt from the grinning Vegentius.

  The bigger man was under no such restraints. His free hand axed into the side of Oaxis' neck with a sound like stone striking wood. Oaxis staggered and sagged, but Vegentius held him up yet a moment.

  Twice his fist rose and fell, clubbing the back of the other's neck. The first time Oaxis jerked, the second he hung limp. Vegentius released him to crumple in a heap on the flagstones.

  'Who comes next?' the huge Commander of the Golden Leopards roared. 'Is there none among you to give me a struggle?'

  Two of the bare-chested soldiers ran out to drag their companion away. None of them seemed anxious to feel Vegentius' power. The big man continued turning, smiling his taunting smile, until he found himself facing Conan. There he stopped, his smile becoming grim.

  'You, barbar. Will you try a fall, or has that northern cold frozen all the guts out of you?'

  Conan's face tightened. He became aware of Sularia's gaze on him. The arrogance of a prideful man under the eyes of a beautiful woman spurred him. Unfastening his swordbelt, he handed it to Hordo. A murmur rose among the nobles; wagers began to be made.

  'You've more courage than sense,' the one-eyed man grumbled. 'What gain you, an you defeat him, except a powerful enemy?'

  'He is my enemy already,' Conan replied, and added with a laugh, 'One of them, at least.'

  The Cimmerian pulled his tunic over his head and, dropping it to the ground, approached the circle of men. The nobles measured the breadth of his shoulders, and the odds changed. Vegentius, sure that the barbarian's laughter had held some slur against him, waited with a snarl on his face. The soldiers moved back, widening the circle as Conan entered.

  Abruptly Vegentius charged, arms outstretched to crush and destroy. Conan's massive fist slammed into the side of his head, jarring him to a halt. Crouching slightly, the Cimmerian dug his other fist under the big soldier's ribs,
driving breath from him. Before Vegentius could recover Conan seized him by throat and belt, heaving him into the air, swinging the bulk of the man over his head to send him crashing to his back.

  Awe grew in the eyes of the watching soldiers. Never had they seen Vegentius taken from his feet before. Among the nobles the odds changed again.

  Conan waited, breathing easily, well balanced on his feet, while Vegentius staggered up, shock writ clear on his face. Then rage washed shock away.

  'Barbar bastard!' the big soldier howled. 'I spit on your mother's unmarked grave!' And he swung a blow that would have felled any normal man.

  But Conan's face was painted now with rage, too. Eyes like icy, windswept death, too full of fury to allow thought of defence, he took the blow, and it rocked him to his heels. Yet in that same instant his fist splintered teeth in Vegentius' mouth. For long moments the two huge men stood toe to toe, giving and absorbing blows which would have been enough to destroy an ordinary man.

  Then Conan took a step forward. And Vegentius took a step back. Desperation came on the soldier's face; on Conan's eyes was the cold glint of destruction. Back the Cimmerian forced the other. Back, fists pounding relentlessly, toward the arcade where an ever-growing crowd of nobles watched, dignity forgotten as they yelled excitedly. Then, with a mighty blow, he sent the brawny man staggering.

  Struggling to remain on his feet, Vegentius stumbled back, nobles parting before him until he stopped at last against the wall in the shadows of the arcade. Straining, he pushed himself erect, tottered forward and fell at the edge of the arcade. One leg moved as if some part of his brain still fought to rise, and then he was still.

  Cheering soldiers surrounded Conan, unheeding of their fallen Commander. Smiling nobles, men and women alike, rushed forward, trying to touch him diffidently, as they might reach to stroke a tiger.