The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  Above the beleaguered party arced a translucent dome of azure light.

  The Lady Zelandra raised her palms to it, as though holding it aloft.

  Her breath came in short, harsh gasps. Outside the dome's circumference, the air blazed with rippling fire. The ominous cone of grey stone wavered in and out of visibility.

  'What in the name of the gods is happening?' cried Neesa. She swung her long legs over her saddle and dismounted, hastening to Conan's side.

  The barbarian brushed roughly at the smoking hem of her cloak, extinguishing the embers glowing there.

  'Some sort of sorcerous sentinel,' he rumbled, 'trying to burn us to death like insects under a glass. It's a good thing that Zelandra made quick use of her power, else we might all be piles of smoking bone by now.'

  'Is it a weapon of Ethram-Fal's?' asked the scribe.

  'No,' rasped the kneeling sorceress, 'it is very old. And very hungry.'

  Her hands trembled, and a hot wind blew over the huddled group. 'I can't hold it much longer. Our only hope is that it tires before I do.'

  'What is it?' Neesa's voice quavered. 'What does it want with us?'

  Zelandra did not answer. She had clenched her eyes shut and was now a study in stark concentration. Heng Shih knelt beside her, putting a reassuring hand on her slim shoulder.

  'I can't say what it is,' said Conan, 'but I can tell you that it means to slay us. Look.' Neesa's gaze followed the barbarian's outstretched arm and fell upon a gruesome sight. Some twenty feet ahead of the travelers was a cluster of blackened bone, lying half-sunken into the fused glass of the desert floor. The jagged ribs of a camel were plainly visible, but more disturbing still was a scattered collection of rounded mounds that appeared to be charred human skulls.

  'The cursed thing lures travelers by shamming the appearance of an oasis, and then cooks them to death when they come to drink.'

  'Why?' burst out Neesa, horror edging her voice with hysteria. 'Would it kill us without reason?'

  'It is hungry.' Zelandra spoke without opening her eyes. The face of the sorceress was tense and drawn, as though she suffered a ceaseless pain she could barely endure. 'It wants to burn us to death and feast upon our released souls. My resistance has made it curious. Look to its stone well, I think that it has come out to look us over.'

  Conan looked, and shuddered as though a spider had scurried down his spine. The space between Zelandra's protective dome and the grey stone well had cleared somewhat. Something hung above the well's dark prominence, floating suspended in the air. It was a shimmering tower of reflective light. It looked as though the desert's common mirage of distant, glistening water had been twisted into a living coil. The demon swayed like a stationary cyclone. Conan felt the distinct and unpleasant sensation of being watched.

  The air outside the dome blazed up anew. White fire pressed in upon Zelandra's magical barrier, drawing a low moan from the sorceress.

  'Ah, Ishtar, but it's strong! It is some guardian demon of old, freed of its well, yet bound to its guard post. I feel its mind. It knows only hunger and hatred. Ah!' The demon's body swelled suddenly, and the blue dome above the party dimmed and lowered. A flash of infernal heat fell upon the travelers, then dissipated as Zelandra marshaled her strength. 'Damn! It means to have us all. Heng Shih, get me some lotus.'

  The Khitan obediently unlaced the silver box from Zelandra's girdle.

  Tilting the lid open, he found the seashell within, and scooped up a bit of the deep-green powder. He held it to his.mistress's face and, when she opened her mouth, poured it under her tongue.

  'Derketo,' Zelandra cursed, shuddering. Then a terrible smile slowly spread over her features. Her teeth were smeared with green. Above them, the azure dome rose and darkened.

  'How's that, old devil?' Zelandra opened her eyes and gazed upon the swaying form of her demon nemesis. Her voice was softer, almost sensual. 'You've never met anyone like me before, have you?'

  The whirling coil suddenly stretched up to twice its height, shooting skyward in a flash of blue-white light. Zelandra screamed hoarsely as her protective barrier was struck with enough force to drive it down directly over their heads. Neesa cried out and dropped to her knees, involuntarily lifting her arms to shield her head. The azure dome flickered, admitting quick pulsations of fiery heat.

  'I can't hold it! I can't hold it!'

  'Can steel harm it?' Conan had drawn his scimitar, and crouched beside the kneeling sorceress. His eyes blazed with reckless desperation.

  'Strong blows might dissipate it momentarily, but it can't be slain by physical weapons. Don't be a fool! Ah!' Zelandra grimaced with effort as the demon hammered at her shield with all of its eldritch might.

  Conan lunged to his camel's side, and pulled a waterskin from its place beside the saddle. He tore it open, then upended the skin over his head. The Cimmerian poured water over his burnoose, trying to soak himself completely.

  'Have you gone mad?' cried Neesa, grasping at the barbarian's arm.

  Conan shook her off.

  'It's our only chance. If I can distract it, flee.' Without another word the Cimmerian leapt through Zelandra's barrier into the inferno beyond. Breaking out of the azure dome, Conan felt a flash of sharp chill, as if he had splashed through an icy waterfall, then the demon's heat hit him like a toppling wall. Conan sprinted across the brittle sands with steam bursting from his sodden burnoose. It was like running across a lava flow. White light drove tears from the barbarian's eyes, but he could see the undulating coil of the demon's body ahead. He steered toward it, bounding over the blackened remains of a luckless caravan, and sliding to a stop before the grey cone of rock. It was a well of sorts. The tip of the cone was missing, revealing a shaft dropping away into darkness. A circular plate of grey stone, the size of a wagon's wheel, lay against the side of the well. The demon towered twenty feet above Conan, rising in sparkling, unbroken coils from the well's open mouth. It swung from side to side, then drew itself down, as if to examine the diminutive form of the man who dared approach it.

  Conan heard the moisture sizzling from his burnoose, and smelled hair burning. The hilt of his sword seared his palm. He lashed out at the demon with a savage cry. It was like cleaving cobwebs. His blade passed through its insubstantial form, but pulled a trail of glittering shadow-substance after it. The temperature dropped abruptly, though Conan scarcely noticed. With another war cry, he slashed his scimitar across the top of the well again, and yet again. The demon fell in upon itself, telescoping, until it stood only half a man taller than the barbarian. It bent over him, as if in benediction, and Oman's burnoose burst into flames.

  The Cimmerian dropped and rolled on the hard ground, trying to smother the fire. Scorching pain bloomed along his shoulders and arms, then ceased abruptly. The flames died. Rolling onto his back, Conan saw the azure dome suspended above him. He jumped to his feet, heard the cries of his comrades, and realised that Zelandra was protecting him at their expense. The barbarian's sword' whipped across the mouth of the well again and again, shredding the demon-thing's substance, drawing its attention back to himself. It dropped lower in the well. Sorcerous heat pressed upon the azure barrier, but could not penetrate. The twisted coil of rippling light shuddered, then dropped from view into the well.

  The air was suddenly much cooler, and the sun less bright. The normal, fierce heat of the desert seemed pleasantly temperate after the demon's onslaught. Conan leaned against the faceted stone wall and fought for breath, peering into the well's blackness. A surge of heat billowed up from within and dried his eyeballs.

  'Seal it!' Zelandra's voice carried across the blasted sand. 'It will gather its strength and come back more powerful than before!'

  Conan staggered back from the well. His eyes were drawn to the heavy plate of grey stone that leaned against the well's side. He bent and gripped it The barbarian's arms stretched to their limit, his hands fastening onto the plate's rim and clamping tight. The great disk of stone had been carved, worke
d, and fashioned to cap the well. Weird runes, half obliterated by time, rose beneath his straining fingers.

  Conan heaved up, muscles cracking in his mighty frame. The breath exploded from between his teeth. Balancing the massive plate against his heaving breast, the Cimmerian took a single, unsteady step, and the demon thrust itself from the well again.

  The shimmering body of the creature shed a hellish heat and rose, resembling a cyclone of broken mirrors. With a convulsive heave, Conan dropped the lid. It fell across the well's mouth with a hollow boom, like distant thunder. The demon's body was lopped off cleanly. Its upper, half dissipated like smoke on the wind, its lustre fading rapidly to shadow. The stone lid rattled once, as if thrust up from within; then it was still.

  Conan slumped against the well, drawing breaths that seemed as sweet as the wine of Kyros. His comrades joined him, stumbling across the fused sand.

  'Get away from the well,' snapped Zelandra. 'I'll seal its bonds with magic.' The sorceress muttered a brief incantation, then slapped her palms down on the well's cap. The plate of stone glowed a dusky, auroral blue, and a faint keening sound pained Conan's ears. Zelandra turned from the well with a triumphant grin.

  'Congratulations, my friends. We have defeated a guardian demon that has haunted this desert since Acheron warred with Old Stygia.' The lady's face was pinched with strain, yet lit by an unnatural energy.

  She clutched her silver box of Emerald Lotus, gesturing with it. 'Our barbarian friend was right again. We must learn to cease underestimating him. That was a creature of Pteion, set to guard its borders more than thirty centuries ago. I could feel its age as I grappled with it. It has a mind of sorts, and intelligence. If only I could stay and study it. What wonders the demon must have known in its youth.'

  Conan doffed his blackened burnoose, baring flesh scorched scarlet.

  Wordlessly, he began rummaging through the pack camel's provisions, looking for new clothing. The barbarian shot a glance at Heng Shih, and smiled. The Khitan had lost his turban when he fell from his camel, and now his pate was reddened and dotted with angry blisters. His golden kimono was worn, dirty, and bore spots of black char. He noticed the Cimmerian's attention and grimaced, touching his blistered scalp ruefully.

  'Can it get but of the well now?' asked Neesa.

  'No, child,' said Zelandra grandly. 'My power has sealed the demon away until I see fit to set it free. Originally, all one had to do was open the well to release it, but I have fused the stone with sorcery. Go ahead, Conan, just try to lift the lid now. Even you shan't be able to do it. Ga on. Try it.'

  'I believe you, milady,' said Conan dryly, continuing his search through the provisions.

  'But it got out of the well before,' murmured Neesa dubiously.

  'Some fool must have lifted the lid,' said Zelandra. 'Probably many years ago, though there is no sure way to tell. Pteor knows why anyone would do such a thing.'

  'Probably looking for treasure. The poor devils must have thought they had found a Stygian tomb.' The Cimmerian finally found another burnoose in a saddlebag, and pulled it over his stinging shoulders. It was too small, but it would have to do.

  'They found their deaths. As we might have if not for my lotus.'

  Zelandra examined her silver box with pride.

  'And Conan's courage,' said Neesa.

  'Yes. Yes, of course,' said the sorceress absently. She opened the silver box and stared within. Zelandra's eyes grew vague and distant.

  She licked her lips slowly. Her right hand seemed to rise of its own accord, stroking gently around the box's silver-chased rim.

  Neesa snatched the box from her mistress's hands, snapping it shut. The scribe backed away from the sorceress, holding the box behind her body.

  Her posture revealed fear and determination in equal measures.

  'That's mine!' Zelandra snarled, her hands clenching into fists. 'Give it back to me, or I'll¦' Her gaze abruptly focused upon the slender form of her scribe. Their eyes met, and Zelandra's face fell.

  Bewildered, she looked down at her hands and deliberately unclenched her fists.

  'Forgive me, Neesa. You are a fine servant and a better friend. Forgive me.' The voice of the sorceress was husky and halting.

  'It is nothing, milady,' said Neesa softly. 'Here.' The scribe handed her mistress the silver box, and Zelandra fastened it securely at her girdle, knotting it into place.

  'Come then,' the sorceress spoke up. 'Let us mount and be off. I shall busy myself, as we travel, making a salve to soothe our burns. Lead on, Conan.'

  The barbarian rejoined his mount and swung into the saddle. His dark face was grim. As the little caravan began its slow crawl across the burning sands, he trained all his senses upon a single object. The Cimmerian had poured much of the party's water supply over his body to protect himself from the supernatural heat of the guardian demon. There was little left. Conan sniffed the air and scanned the landscape, searching for any evidence of a water source. If he did not find the oasis depicted upon Zelandra's ancient map, he had no doubt that the party would perish for lack of water.

  XXV

  Except for a. single chair and several empty buckets, the little room was devoid of furnishings. These few things sat in a rough circle around the room's central feature. In the middle of the smooth stone floor was a deep depression now filled with hot water. In this impromptu tub lounged the naked form of Ethram-Fal. The steaming water was dark and thick as syrup with powdered Emerald Lotus. The sorcerer wallowed on his back in the sunken pool, his slight, wizened body half floating as he breathed the perfumed air through flaring nostrils and stared upward with dilated eyes. He leaned his shaven head back upon the sharp rim of the tub and idly created visions to amuse himself.

  Suspended in the air above his prone form, a silver flower bloomed, its shining petals gleaming like polished steel. It rotated a moment and then burst into a compact ball of scarlet fire. The flame blazed brightly, then flew outward into a thousand separate pinpoints that immediately contracted, spinning into a miniature galaxy. The revolving disk of brilliant motes coalesced, gradually outlining the tiny, perfect form of a woman. Once complete, the fiery homunculus began to whirl in a wild dance, slowly shedding its flames until it was a diminutive but perfect image of the Lady Zelandra. Naked, the little figure writhed in erotic abandon before Ethram-Fal's greedy eyes.

  The sorcerer settled himself more deeply in the hot, lotus-laden water, feeling its power seeping into his bones. Above him, the homunculus caressed itself and thrust tiny hands out to Ethram-Fal in shameless supplication. Then, as he looked on, the figure began to tear at itself, rending its flesh with its own hands until it burst abruptly into a misty cloud of crimson droplets.

  Ethram-Fal laughed, his mirth sounding metallic and inhuman in the closed stone room. The sorcerer rolled over, letting the image wink out, and turned his mind to more serious things.

  He slouched low, letting the thickened water creep up to his lower lip, allowing a bit to slip into his mouth and savoring the bitter bite of it.

  His continuing study of Cetriss's legendary discovery had taught him much about it, but had left him curious on a number of key points. Most notably, he had no idea how it had been conceived. It had no place in nature. The Emerald Lotus was a unique hybrid of plant and predatory fungi. Ethram-Fal believed that he now understood each distinctive stage in its odd life cycle. Thinking to feed it again before it went dormant, he had his soldiers drive a horse over the balcony railing and into the pit. It had taken six men with spears to do the job, and one of them had received a kick that stove in his ribs. The horse had fallen beside the lotus, which had remained motionless until sensing the blood from the beast's wounds. The lotus could be approached at any time, and its blossoms harvested, provided that it did not smell blood.

  Exactly how it sensed blood he had yet to determine, but a few moments after the horse, wounded by prodding spearpoints, had landed at its side, the lotus had become violently animate, leaping
on the beast and feeding upon it. After nearly draining the animal, it bloomed once again, the newer, brighter flowers almost obscuring the ones left unharvested from the pony that he and Ath had given it. Disturbingly, the lotus had seemed less than satisfied with its second horse, and continued to move about the chamber after flowering. Ethram-Fal wondered if it was possible to give the Emerald Lotus too much sustenance. Its appetite seemed limitless, and the blood it consumed added to its size and strength no matter how much it had already absorbed. The sorcerer had stared down into the cylindrical chamber and realised it would be as foolhardy to overfeed the lotus as it would be to starve it. The Emerald Lotus had to be kept alive and thriving, yet if overfed it might prove difficult to manage. The sorcerer had watched it continue to move after its feeding for almost an hour. The lotus prowled around the walls in a restless circle, dragging the body of the horse with it.

  It never gave up its victims. They became a part of it, woven into its grisly fabric. The lotus was bigger now, a tangled mass of hardened branches, razor thorns, and lush, emerald blossoms. The nightmare plant now stood at nearly the height of a man, and fairly blanketed the floor of its chamber. Ethram-Fal knew that, in time, the blooms would dry out and fall away, leaving the bristling bulk of the lotus in a dormant state as it waited patiently for nourishment. Left even longer without blood, it would use the bones of its prey to go to seed, driving black spores into the marrow and letting its outer body fall slowly to dust.

  It was fascinating, but frustrating as well. Though he now believed that he knew the lotus and how to control it, he had not developed even a tentative theory as to how Cetriss had created it. Even a sorcerer as skilled and knowledgeable in the ways of growing things as himself could not begin to imagine how such an unnatural conglomeration of plant, animal, and fungus could have been formed. To have created such a thing and have it live for mere moments in the laboratory would have been a triumph; that it was nearly immortal and yielded a powerful drug was practically beyond belief.