The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  'Does she still wait, Latona?' Sularia asked.

  The grey-haired maid nodded briskly. 'For two turns of the glass now, mistress. No one would dare disobey your summons.'

  The blonde nodded self-satisfied agreement without lifting her head. 'Bring her in, Latona. Then busy yourself with my hair.'

  'Yes, mistress,' Latona cackled, and hurried out. When she returned she escorted the Lady Jelanna.

  The willowy noblewoman looked askance at Latona as the serving woman began to labour over her mistress' hair, while Sularia smiled like a cat at a dish of cream. Only when receiving an inferior would servants be retained so. Some of the arrogance had gone from Jelanna with her wait.

  Enough remained, however, for her to demand at last, 'Why have you summoned me here, Sularia?'

  Sularia raised a questioning eyebrow. After a moment Jelanna amended, 'Lady Sularia.' Her mouth was twisted as if at a foul taste.

  'You grew from a child in this Palace, did you not?' the blonde began in a pleasant tone.

  Jelanna's reply was curt. 'I did.'

  'Playing hide and seek through the corridors. Gamboling in the courtyards, splashing in the fountains.

  Your every wish met as soon as it was made.'

  'Did you ask me here to speak of childhood?' Jelanna asked.

  'I did not,' Sularia said sharply. 'I summoned. Know you Enaro Ostorian?'

  If the imperiously beautiful woman was surprised by the question, she did not show it. 'That repulsive little toad?' she sniffed. 'I know of merchants, but I do not know them.'

  Sularia's feline smile returned. 'He seeks a wife.'

  'Does he?'

  'A young wife, of the nobility.' Sularia saw the dart go home, and pressed to drive it deeper. 'He thinks to marry the title he has not been able to buy. And of course he wants sons. Many sons. Garian,' she added to the lie, 'has asked me to suggest a suitable bride.'

  Jelanna licked her full lips uncertainly. 'I wish, Lady Sularia,' she said, a tremor in her voice, 'to apologise if I have in any way offended you.'

  'Do you know the man Dario?' Sularia demanded. 'The keeper of Garian's kennels?'

  'No, my lady,' Jelanna faltered.

  'A foul man, I'm told, both in stenches and habits. The slave girls of the Palace hide from him, for his way with a woman is rough to the point of pain.' Sularia paused, watching the horror grow on the imperious woman's face. 'Think you, Jelanna, that one night with Dario is preferable to a lifetime with Ostorian?'

  'You are mad,' the slender woman managed. 'I'll listen to no more. I go to my estates in the country, and if you were queen you could still choose which of Zandru's-'

  'Four soldiers await without for you,' Sularia said, riding over the other woman's words. 'They will escort you to Dario, or to your wedding bed, and no place else.'

  The last shreds of haughtiness were washed from Jelanna's face by despair. 'Please,' she whispered. 'I will grovel, an you wish it. Before the entire court on my knees will I beg your forgive-'

  'Make your choice,' Sularia purred, 'else I will make it for you. Those soldiers can deliver you to Ostorian this day. With a note to let him know you think him a repulsive toad.' Her voice and face hardened. 'Choose!'

  Jelanna swayed as if she would fall. 'I... I will go to Dario,' she wept.

  For a moment Sularia savored the words she had waited for, counting hours. Then she spoke them. 'Go, bitch, to your kennel!' As Jelanna ran from the room, peals of Sularia's laughter rang against the walls.

  How wonderful was power.

  XXII

  When next the door of his cell opened, Conan at first thought that Albanus had decided to have him slain where he lay chained. Two men with drawn crossbows slipped through the open door and took positions covering him, one to either side of the cell.

  As the Cimmerian gathered himself to make what fight of it he could, the round-faced jailor appeared in the door and spoke.

  'The sun stands high, barbarian. 'Tis time to take you to the wolf pit. An you try to fight when Struto and I remove your chains, these two will put quarrels in your legs, and you'll be dragged to the pit. Well?'

  Conan made an effort to appear sullen and reluctant. 'Take the chains,' he growled, glowering at the crossbowmen.

  In spite of his words the two jailors kept clear of the crossbowmen's line of fire as they broke open his manacles with repeated blows of hammer on chisel. Did they think him a fool, he wondered. He might well be able to take both jailors and bowmen despite the way they were placed, yet he could hear measured steps approaching the cell, the sound of a middling body of men, Dying was not hard, but only a fool chose to die for naught.

  Rubbing his wrists, Conan rose smoothly to his feet and let himself be herded from the cell. In the hall waited a full score of the Golden Leopards.

  'Don't need so many,' Struto said abruptly.

  Conan blinked. He had thought the man without a tongue.

  Struto's fellow jailor seemed only slightly less surprised at hearing him speak. The round-faced man stared before saying, 'He near escaped from as many the night he was taken. You know I don't like prisoners escaping. I asked for twice as many. Move on, now. The King waits.'

  Half the soldiers went before him, and half behind, the jailors walking on either side. The crossbowmen brought up the rear, where they could get a shot at him did he run, in whatever direction. So they made their way up into the Palace and through corridors once more bare of nobles.

  Conan strode in their midst as if they were an honour guard and he on his way to his coronation. There was no glimmer of escape in his mind. At the wolf pit would most certainly be the impostor Garian and Albanus. Under the circumstances, a man could do worse than die killing those two.

  Their way led through the parts of the Palace familiar to the Cimmerian, and beyond. Polished marble and alabaster gave way to plain dressed granite, then to stone as rough as that of the dungeons. Lamps of gold and silver were replaced by torches in iron sconces.

  The wolf pit was an ancient penalty indeed, and had, in fact, not been imposed since the time of Bragorus, nine centuries earlier. Nor had any come to this portion of the Palace at all in several centuries, to judge by its appearance. The halls showed signs of hasty cleaning, here a torn cobweb hanging from the ceiling, there dust left heaped against the wall. Conan wondered why Albanus had gone to all this trouble after replacing Garian with the impostor. And then they entered the circular chamber of the pit.

  Though of the same rough stone, it was yet as marvelously wrought as any of the great alabaster rooms in the Palace. Like half of a sphere, its walls rose to a towering height unsupported by column or buttress.

  Below, a broad walk spotted with huge tripod lamps twice as tall as a man was crowded with the nobility of Nemedia, laughing gaily as men and women at a circus, pressing close about the waist-high stone wall that encircled the great pit.

  A path to that wall cleared at their entrance, and the soldiers escorted Conan to it. Not waiting to be told, the Cimmerian leaped to the top of the wall and stood surveying those who had assembled to watch him die. Beneath his icy blue gaze they slowly fell silent, as they sensed that here was a man contemptuous of their titles and lineages. They were peacocks; he was an eagle.

  Directly across the stone-floored pit from him stood the impostor King, Albanus to one side in robes of midnight blue, to the other Vegentius, his face still showing bruises beneath his red-crested helmet. Sularia was there as well, in scarlet silk and rubies, and Conan wondered why he had thought she would not attend.

  Below the imposter was the man-high gate through which the wolves would be let into the pit. Conan saw no eager muzzles pressed between the bars of the gate, heard no hungry whines and growls. A complicated system of iron chains served to draw the gate aside. Perhaps he need not die.

  Albanus touched the arm of the man wearing the Dragon Crown, and he began to speak. 'We have gathered you-'

  Conan's wild war cry rang from the rocky dome; sh
outs and screams ran through the nobles as, massive arms raised above his head, the Cimmerian hurled himself into the pit. Soldiers forced their way through the nobles to the wall; the crossbowmen took aim. About the straw-strewn pit Conan strode with all the cocky arrogance of youth that had never met defeat in equal combat, and in a few unequal. Albanus motioned, and the guards moved back.

  'Fools!' Conan taunted the assemblage. 'You who have not a man among you have come to see a man die. Well, must I be talked to death by that buffoon in the crown? Get on with it, unless your livers have shriveled and you have no stomach for killing.' Angry cries answered him.

  Albanus whispered to the impostor, who in turn said, 'As he is so eager to die, loose the wolves.'

  'Loose the wolves,' someone else shouted, relaying the command. 'Hurry!' The gate slid smoothly back.

  Conan did not wait for the first wolf to emerge. Before the astonished eyes of the court the Cimmerian ran into the tunnel, roaring his battle cry. Behind, in the pit, yelling nobles dropped over the wall to seize and slay the escaping barbarian who had denied their manhood.

  In the dark of the tunnel Conan found himself suddenly in the midst of the snarling wolfpack. Razor teeth ripped at him. He matched them snarl for snarl, his fists hammers that broke bones and knocked beasts the size of a man sprawling. Seizing a growling throat in his hands he dashed the wolf's brains out against the low stone roof.

  In the hellish cauldron of that tunnel, the wolves knew the kindred ferocity of the young giant who faced them. As Conan fought his way deeper into their pack, they began to slip past toward the pit, seeking easier meat. The noble lords' angry yells turned to screams as bloody wolves raced among them to slay.

  Ahead of him Conan saw a light.

  'Accursed wolves,' a voice snarled from that direction. 'You're to kill some fool barbar, not each-'

  The man who spoke faltered as he saw Conan coming toward him. He stood with the iron-barred gate at his end of the tunnel half open, a spear in his hand. Instead of stepping back and slamming the gate shut, he thrust at the Cimmerian.

  Conan grasped the spear with both hands and easily wrenched it from the other's grasp. Before the man could do more than gape the butt of his own spear smashed into his chest, hurling him back through the gate, Conan following close behind. The wolf-keeper scrambled to his feet, a curved blade the length of his forearm protruding from his fist, and lunged.

  The spear reversed smoothly in the Cimmerian's big hands. He had not so much to thrust as to let the man run onto the point, spitting himself so that the whole blade of the spear stood out from his back. A cry of both pain and horrified disbelief wrenched from the wolf-keeper's throat.

  'Your wolves will not kill this barbar,' Conan growled, then realised that his words had been spoken to a dead man.

  Letting spear and transfixed man fall, he closed the gate, thrust the heavy iron bar that fastened it into its brackets and shoved the latch pins home. It would take time to get that open from the other side, time for him to escape. Though, from the screams and snarls that yet echoed in the tunnel, it might be some while before the soldiers dealt with wolves and panicked nobles and reached that gate.

  Little there was in that chamber to be of use to him. Crude rush torches guttered in rusty iron sconces on the walls, illuminating six large, ironbarred cages mounted on wheels. No weapons were in evidence excepting only the long, curved dagger, which Conan retrieved, and the spear. He left that lodged in the wolf-keeper's body; its length would make it a cumbersome weapon in the narrow confines of the old stone corridors. There was not even cloth to bind his gashes unless he tore from his own breechclout or from the filthy, and now blood-soaked, tunic on the corpse.

  The wolf-keeper had, however, brought a clay jug of wine and a large spiced sausage on which to sup while his charges did their bloody work. On these Conan fell eagerly, ripping the sausage apart with his teeth and washing it down with long gulps of sour wine. He had had no food or drink since before his imprisonment. No doubt his jailors had deemed it a waste to feed one who was to die soon. Tossing the empty jug aside and popping the last bit of sausage into his mouth, the Cimmerian took one of the rush torches and set about finding his way out of the Palace.

  It did not take him long to discover that those ancient corridors were a labyrinth, never straight, crossing and recrossing themselves and each other. He had no wonder in him that the secret passages beneath the Palace had been lost; it would be all men could do to keep track of these.

  Suddenly, in crossing another pitch-dark hall, he realised that his footprints had mingled with others.

  Other fresh prints. He bent to examine them, and straightened with a curse. Both sets were his own. He had doubled back on himself, and could continue to do so until he starved.

  Face grimly determined, he followed his own prints until he came to a forking of the passage. The trail in the dust went left. He went right. A short time later he found himself again staring at his own backtrail, but this time he did not pause to curse. Hurrying on to the next turning, he again took the opposite way to that he had taken before. And the next time. And the next.

  Now the passages seemed to slope downward, but Conan pressed on regardless, even when he found himself burning a way through. halls choked with cobwebs that crisped drily at the touch of the flame.

  Turning back held no more assurance of escape than going forward, only a greater chance of encountering the Golden Leopards.

  Coming to a fork, the Cimmerian turned automatically right-he had taken the left at the last and stopped.

  Far ahead of him was a dim glow, but it was no opening to the outside. Bobbing slightly, it was coming closer.

  Hurriedly he turned back, ducked into the other side of the fork. On silent feet he ran twenty paces and hurled the torch ahead of him as far to it would go. The flames flared, fanned by the wind of the torch's flight, then winked out, leaving him in blackness.

  Conan crouched, facing the direction of the fork, curved dagger at the ready. If those who approached went on, he would be without light but alive. If not....

  Diffuse light reached the fork, brightening slowly, resolving into two torch-bearing figures, swords in their free hands. The Cimmerian almost laughed. Hordo and Karela, but the Karela he had known long ago.

  Gone were the veils and grey robes of a Nemedian noblewomen, replaced by golden breastplates and a narrow girdle of gold and emeralds, worn low on her rounded hips, from which hung strips of pale green silk. A Turanian cape of emerald green encircled her shoulders.

  'Hordo,' Conan called, 'had I known you were coming I wouldn't have drunk all the wine.' Nonchalantly he strolled to meet them.

  The two whirled, swords coming up, torches raised. From the other fork men in jazeraint hauberks crowded. Machaon, Narus, more familiar faces from his Free-Company, pushed into the light.

  Hordo took in Conan's gashes, but did not speak of them. ''Tis not like you,' he said gruffly, 'to drink all the wine. Mayhap we could find some more, if we look.'

  Karela threw the one-eyed man a murderous look and shoved her torch into Machaon's hand. With gentle fingers she touched Conan's wounds, wincing at purpled flesh and dried blood.

  'I knew you would change your mind,' Conan said, reaching for her.

  Her hand cracked across his face, and she stepped back smoothly with blade half raised. 'I should throw you back to the wolves,' she hissed.

  From somewhere in the darkness beyond the armoured men, a voice called unintelligibly. Another answered, both fading as the speakers moved further away.

  'They hunt me,' Conan said quietly. 'An you know a way out of here, I suggest we take it. Else we must fight a few hundred Golden Leopards.'

  Muttering, Karela snatched back her torch and forced her way through the men of the Free-Company to disappear back up the other fork.

  'She's the only one knows the way,' Hordo said quickly. He hurried after her, and Conan followed.

  Machaon and the rest fell in
behind, their booted feet grating in the dust of centuries.

  'How did you get into the Palace?' Conan demanded of the one-eyed man as they half-trotted after the auburn-haired beauty. 'And what made Karela decide to let you know who she was?'

  'Mayhap I'd best begin at the beginning,' Hordo puffed. 'First thing that happened was, after you were arrested, a hundred Golden Leopards came for us, and-'

  'I know about that,' Conan said. 'You got away. What then?'

  'You heard about that, did you? I'm too old for this running, Cimmerian.' Despite his heavy breathing, though, the bearded man kept pace easily. 'I took the company to the Thestis. Hellgate is near the safest part of Belverus these days. Everybody who lives there is up in the High Streets waving a sword and shouting revolution. And maybe breaking into some rich man's house now and again.'

  'What else did you expect?' Conan laughed grimly. 'They're poor, and have riches within their reach. But about Karela.'

  Hordo shook his shaggy head. 'She walked into the Thestis this very morn. No, she strode in, looking as if she was ready for her hounds to follow her against a caravan of gold. From what you said, you knew she was here already, eh?'

  'Not until I was in the dungeon,' Conan replied. 'I will explain later.'

  Suddenly Karela stopped, stretching on tiptoe to reach a rusty iron sconce. She seemed to be trying to twist it.

  'Looks like where we came in,' Hordo muttered softly. 'Looks like twenty places we passed, too.'

  Emerald eyes flashed at him scornfully, and he subsided.

  Just as Conan was about to step forward to her aid, the sconce turned with a sharp click. A shot distance away on the same wall was another sconce, which Karela treated the same way. It swiveled, clicked, and there was a heavier thunk from deep within the wall. With a grate of machinery long unused, a section of stone wall as high as a man and twice as wide receded jerkily to reveal a descending flight of crude brick stairs.