The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  He reached the columned entry hall just as Hordo and Ariane came through the front doors, now standing open. 'About time you came back,' the Cimmerian said. 'What is it like out there?'

  Hordo shrugged. 'City Guards and what Golden Leopards are left are patrolling the streets against looters. Not that many are left. Seems they thought that earthquake was the judgement of the gods against them. Then, too, some claim to have seen a demon hovering over the Royal Palace at the height of the earthquake.' He gave an unconvincing laugh. 'Strange what people see, is it not?'

  'Strange indeed,' Conan replied in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. Even if he managed to convince Hordo of what had occurred at the wolf pit, the one-eyed man would only moan about being too old for such any longer. 'What about the Thestis?' he asked Ariane.

  She sighed wearily, not looking at him. 'The Thestis is done. Too many of us saw too much of what our fine talk leads to. Garian is releasing Graecus and the others from the mines, but I doubt we will be able to look any of the others in the face for a long time. I... I intend to leave Nemedia.'

  'Come with me to Ophir,' Conan said.

  'I go to Aquilonia with Hordo,' she replied.

  Conan stared. It was not that he objected to losing her to Hordo-well, a little, he admitted grudgingly, even to a friend-but after all, he had saved her life. What sort of gratitude was this?

  She shifted defiantly under his gaze, and put an arm around the one-eyed man. 'Hordo has a faithful heart, which is more than I can say for some other men. It may not be faithful to me, but it is still faithful.

  Besides, I told you long ago that I decide who shares my sleeping mat.' Her voice held an exculpatory note; a tightness at her mouth said that she heard it, and refused to admit that she had anything to excuse.

  Conan shook his head disgustedly. He remembered an ancient saying. Women and cats are never owned, they just visit for a time. At the moment he thought he would take the cat.

  Then her destination, and Hordo's, penetrated. 'Why Aquilonia?' Conan asked him.

  The one-eyed man passed him a folded sheet of parchment and said, 'I heard a rumour she went east.

  There's something in there for you, as well.'

  Conan opened the sheet and read.

  Hordo, my most faithful hound,

  When you receive this I will be gone from Nemedia with all my goods and servants. Do not follow. I will not again be so pleased to find you on my trail. Yet I wish you well. Tell the Cimmerian I am not finished with him.

  Karela

  Below the signature, in red ink, was the outline of a hawk.

  'But you follow anyway,' Conan said, handing back the sheet.

  'Of course,' Hordo replied. Carefully he tucked the letter into his pouch. 'But why this talk of going to Ophir now? Garian will make you a lord, next.'

  'I remembered that blind soothsayer in the Gored Ox,' the Cimmerian said.

  'That old fool? I told you to see one of my astrologers.'

  'But he was right,' Conan said quietly. 'A woman of sapphires and gold. Sularia. A woman of emeralds and ruby. Karela. They'd both have watched me die, for exactly the reasons he named. The rest was right, as well. And do you remember how he ended?'

  'How?' Hordo asked.

  'Save a throne, save a king, kill a king or die. Whatever comes, whatever is, mark well your time to fly.

  He also said to beware the gratitude of kings. I'm taking him to heart, if a little late.'

  The one-eyed man snorted, looking about him at the marble columns and alabaster walls. 'I see little enough to beware of in this gratitude.'

  'Kings are absolute rulers,' Conan told him, 'and feeling grateful makes them feel less absolute. On that I'll wager. And the best way to get rid of that feeling is to get rid of the man to whom he must be grateful.

  Do you see now?'

  'You sound like a philosopher,' Hordo grumbled.

  Conan threw back his head and laughed. 'All the gods forbid.'

  'Captain,' Machaon said, entering from the back, 'the company is mounted, every man with a sack of loot at his saddle. Though I never heard of a man ordering his own palace looted before.'

  Conan met Hordo's gaze levelly. 'Take whatever you want, old friend, but do not tarry overlong.' He held out his hand, and the other grasped it, a custom they had picked up in the east.

  'Fare you well, Conan of Cimmeria,' Hordo said gruffly. 'Take a pull at the Hellborn for me, an you get there before me.'

  'Fare you well, Hordo of Zamora. And you the same, if you're first.'

  The Cimmerian did not look again at Ariane as he strode from the hall, She had made her choice.

  Behind the palace the Free-Company waited, the score that survived, mounted and armed. Conan swung into his saddle.

  A strange end, he thought, riding away from proffered riches in this fashion. And two women, either of whom he would have been pleased to have ride with him, but neither of whom wanted him. That was a strange thing for him in itself. Still, he reminded himself, there would be women aplenty in Ophir, and the rumours of trouble meant there would be blade-fee for his Free-Company.

  'We ride for Ophir,' he commanded, and galloped out of the gates at the head of his company. He did not look back.

  Conan the Triumphant

  Robert Jordan

  Prologue

  The great granite mound called Tor Al'Kiir crouched like a malevolent toad in the night, wearing a crown of toppled walls and ruined columns, memories of failed attempts by a score of Ophirean dynasties to build there. Men had long since forgotten the origin of the mountain's name, but they knew it for a place of ill luck and evil, and laughed at the former kings who had not had their sense. Yet their laughter was tinged with unease for there was that about the mountain that made it a place to avoid even in thought.

  The roiling black clouds of the storm that lashed Ianthe, that sprawling golden-domed and alabaster-spired city to the south, seemed to centre about the mountain, but no muffled murmur of the thunder that rattled roof-tiles in the capital, no flash of light from lightnings streaking the dark like dragons' tongues, penetrated to the depths of Tor Al'Kiir's heart.

  The Lady Synelle knew of the storm, though she could not hear it. It was proper for the night. Let the heavens split, she thought, and mountains be torn asunder in honour of his return to the world of men.

  Her tall form was barely covered by a black silk tabard, tightly belted with golden links, that left the outer curves of breasts and hips bare.

  None of those who knew her as a princess of Ophir would have recognised her now, dark eyes glittering, beautiful face seemingly carved from marble, spun-platinum hair twisted about her head in severe coils and bearing a coronet of golden chain. There were four horns on the brow of that coronet, symbol that she was High Priestess of the god she had chosen to serve. But the bracelets of plain black iron that encircled her wrists were a symbol as well, and one she hated, for the god Al'Kiir accepted only those into his service who admitted themselves to be his slaves. Ebon silk that hung to her ankles, the hem weighted by golden beads, stirred against her long, slender legs as, barefoot, she led a strange procession deeper into the mountain through rough hewn passages, lit by dark iron cressets suggesting the form of a horrible, four-horned head.

  A score of blackmailed warriors were strange enough, their faces covered by slitted helmets bearing four horns, two outthrust to the sides and two curling down before the helmet, making them seem more demons than men. The quillons of their broadswords were formed of four horns as well, and each wore on his chest, picked out in scarlet, the outline of the monstrous horned head only hinted by the fiery iron baskets suspended by chains from the roof of the tunnel.

  Stranger still was the woman they escorted, clothed in Ophirean bridal dress, diaphanous layers of pale cerulean silk made opaque by their number, caught at the waist with a cord of gold. Her long hair, black as a raven's wing, curling about her shoulders, was filled with the tiny white blossoms of the tarla
, symbol of purity, and her feet were bare as a sign of humility. She stumbled, and rough hands grasped her arms to hold her erect.

  'Synelle!' the black-haired woman called woozily. A hint of her natural haughtiness came through her drug-induced haze. 'Where are we, Synelle?

  How did I come here?'

  The cortege moved on. Synelle gave no outward sign that she had heard.

  Inwardly her only reaction was relief that the drug was wearing off. It had been necessary in order to remove the woman from her palace in Ianthe, and it had made her easier to prepare and bring this far, but her mind must be clear for the ceremony ahead.

  Power, Synelle thought. A woman could have no real power in Ophir, yet power was what she craved. Power was what she would have. Men thought that she was content to order the estates she had inherited, that she would eventually marry and give stewardship of those landsownership in all but name-to her husband. In their fools' blindness they did not stop to think that royal blood coursed in her veins. Did ancient laws not forbid a woman taking the crown, she would stand next in succession to the childless King now on the throne in Ianthe. Valdric sat his throne, consumed with chiwing his retinue of sorcerers and physicians to find a cure for the wasting sickness that killed him by inches, too busy to name an heir or to see that, for this failure to do so, the noble lords of Ophir struggled and fought to gain the seat his death would vacate.

  A dark, contented smile touched Synelle's full red lips. Let those proud men strut in their armour and tear at one another like starving wolfhounds in a pit. They would wake from their dreams of glory to find that the Countess of Asmark had become Queen Synelle of Ophir, and she would teach them to heel like whipped curs.

  Abruptly the passage widened into a great, domed cavern, the very memory of which had passed from the minds of men. Burning tapers on unadorned walls hacked from the living stone lit the smooth stone floor, which bore only two tall, slender wooden posts topped with the omnipresent four-horned head. Ornament had been far from the minds of those who had burrowed into a nameless mountain in a now forgotten age.

  They had meant it as prison for the adamantine figure, coloured like old blood, that stood dominating the grotto, as it would have dominated the greatest place ever conceived. A statue it seemed, yet was not.

  The massive body was as that of a man, though half again as tall as any human male, save for the six claw-tipped fingers on each broad hand. In its malevolent, horned head were three lidless eyes, smouldering blackly with a glow that ate light, and its mouth was a broad, lipless gash filled with rows of needle-sharp teeth. The figure's thick arms were encircled by bracers and armlets bearing its own horned likeness.

  About its waist was a wide belt and loinguard of intricately worked gold, a coiled black whip glistening metallically on one side, a monstrous dagger with horned quillons depending on the other.

  Synelle felt the breath catch in her throat as it had the first time she had seen her god, as it did each time she saw him. 'Prepare the bride of Al'Kiir,' she commanded.

  A choking scream broke from the bridal-clothed woman's throat as she was hurried forward by the guards who held her. Quickly, with cords that dug cruelly into her soft flesh, they bound her between the twin posts on widely straddled knees, arms stretched above her head. Her blue eyes bulged, unable to tear themselves away from the great form that overtowered her; her mouth hung silently open as she knelt, as if terror had driven even the thought of screaming from her.

  Synelle spoke. 'Taramenon.'

  The bound woman started at the name. 'Him, also?' she cried. 'What is happening, Synelle? Tell me! Please!' Synelle gave no answer. One of the armoured men came forward at the summons, carrying a small, brass-bound chest, and knelt stiffly before the woman who was at once a princess of Ophir and a priestess of dark Al'Kiir.

  Muttering incantations of protection, Synelle opened the chest and drew out her implements and potions, one by one.

  As a child had Synelle first heard of Al'Kiir, a god forgotten by all but a handful, from an old nurse-maid who had been dismissed when it was learned what sort of evil tales she told. Little had the crone told her before she went, but even then the child had been enraptured by the power said to be given to the priestesses of Al'Kiir, to those women who would pledge their bodies and their souls to the god of lust and pain and death, who would perform the heinous rites he demanded. Even then power had been her dream.

  Synelle turned from the chest with a small, crystal-stoppered vial, and approached the bound woman. Deftly she withdrew the clear stopper and, with its damp end, traced the sign of the horns on the other woman's forehead.

  'Something to help you attain the proper mood for a bride, Telima.' Her voice was soft and mocking.

  'I don't understand, Synelle,' Telima said. A breathy quality had come into her voice; she tossed her head with a gasp, and her hair was a midnight cloud about her face. 'What is happening-' she whimpered.

  Synelle returned the vial to its resting place in the chest. Using powdered blood and bone, she traced the sign of the horns once more, this time in broad strokes on the floor, with the woman at the posts at the horns' meeting. A jade flask contained virgin's blood; with a brush of virgin's hair she anointed Al'Kiir's broad mouth and mighty thighs.

  Now there was naught left save to begin.

  Yet Synelle hesitated. This part of the rite she hated, as she hated the iron bracelets. There were none to witness save her guards, who would die for her, and Telima, who would soon, in one way or another, be of no import to this world, but she herself would know. Still it must be done. It must.

  Reluctantly she knelt facing the great figure, paused to take a deep breath, then fell on her face, arms outspread.

  'O, mighty Al'Kiir,' she intoned, 'lord of blood and death, thy slave abases herself before thee. Her body is thine. Her soul is thine.

  Accept her submission and use her as thou wilt.'

  Trembling, her hands moved forward to grasp the massive ankles; slowly she pulled herself across the floor until she could kiss each clawed foot.

  'O, mighty Al'Kiir,' she breathed, 'lord of pain and lust, thy slave brings thee a bride in offering. Her body is thine. Her soul is thine.

  Accept her submission and use her as thou wilt.'

  In ages past, before the first hut was built on the site of Acheron, now eons gone in dust, Al'Kiir had been worshipped in the land that would become Ophir. The proudest and most beautiful of women the god demanded as offerings, and they were brought to him in steady streams.

  Rites were performed that stained the souls of those who performed them and haunted the minds of those who witnessed them.

  At last a band of mages vowed to free the world of the monstrous god, and had the blessings of Mitra and Azura and gods long forgotten placed on their foreheads. Alone of that company had the sorcerer Avanrakash survived, yet with a staff of power had he sealed Al'Kiir away from the world of men. That which stood in the cavern beneath Tor Al'Kiir was no statue of the god, but his very body, entombed for long ages.

  Two of the guards had removed their helmets and produced flutes. High, haunting music filled the cavern. Two more stationed themselves behind the woman kneeling between the posts. The rest unfastened their scabbarded broadswords from their belts and began to pound the stone floor in rhythm to the flutes.

  With boneless sinuosity Synelle rose and began to dance, her feet striking the floor in time with the pounding of the scabbards. In a precise pattern she moved, cat-like, each step coming in an ancient order, and as she danced she chanted in a tongue lost to time. She spun, and weighted black silk stood straight out from her body, baring her from waist to ankles. Sensuously she dipped and swayed from the looming shape of the god to the kneeling woman.

  Sweat beaded Telima's countenance, and her eyes were glazed. She seemed to have lost awareness of her surroundings and she writhed uncontrollably in her bonds. Lust bloomed on her face, and horror at the realization of it.

  Like p
ale birds Synelle's hands fluttered to Telima, brushed damp dark hair from her face, trailed across her shoulders, ripped away one single layer of her bridal garb.

  Telima screamed as the men behind her struck with broad leather straps, again and again, criss-crossing from shoulders to buttocks, yet her jerking motions came as much from the potion as from the lashing. Pain had been added to lust, as required by the god.

  Still Synelle danced and chanted. Another layer of diaphanous silk was torn from Telima, and as her shrieks mounted the chant wove into them, so that the cries of pain became part of the incantation.

  The figure of Al'Kiir began to vibrate.

  Where neither time, nor place, nor space existed, there was a stirring, a half awakening from long slumber. Tendrils of pleasurable feeling caressed, feeble threads of worship that called. But to where? Once appetites had been fed to satiation. Women had been offered in multitudes. Their essences had been kept alive for countless centuries, kept clothed in flesh forever young to be toys for the boundless lusts of a god. Memories, half dreams, flickered. In the midst of eternal nothingness was suddenly a vast floor. A thousand women born ten thousand years before danced nude. But they were merely shells, without interest. Even a god could not keep frail human essence alive forever.

  Petulance, and dancers and floor alike were gone. From whence did these feelings come, so frequently of late after seemingly endless ages of absence, bringing with them irritating remembrance of what was lost?

  There was no direction...shield was firmed and blessed peace descended.

  Slumber returned.

  Synelle slumped to the stone floor, panting from her exertions. There was no sound in the cavern except for the sobs of the midnight-haired beauty kneeling in welted nudity.

  Painfully the priestess struggled to her feet. Failure again. So many failures. She staggered as she made her way to the chest, but her hand was steady as she removed a dagger that was a normal sized version of the blade at the god's belt.