The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  Deftly hooking a boot over the sill, he pulled himself toward safety.

  When one fist released the rope and reached for the window's edge, a strong hand thrust out to catch him and drag him in. Heng Shih tumbled into a darkened room, landing on his much-abused knees. Conan stood beside him, his silken mask discarded, a fierce white grin creasing his hard countenance. His scimitar shone naked in his fist. Heng Shih stood and drew his own sword. He and the Cimmerian were inside the Palace of Cetriss.

  XXXIV

  The armoured soldier thrust Neesa through the portal and into the huge stone room. She turned, snarling in hot-eyed defiance and straining at the chains that clasped her hands behind her back. Zelandra, similarly bound, stumbled against the scribe and staggered for balance. A lance of poignant pain thrust through Neesa, undercutting her rage with sorrow. Zelandra was moving like an aged and infirm crone.

  'Are you all right, milady?' she asked, trying to sound strong and unafraid. The soldiers pushed into the room behind the women, surrounding them.

  'You were told to stay silent. Obey or I'll slice out your tongue,'

  said the Stygian who had shoved her. He thumbed the edge of his shortsword with crude suggestion.

  The tallest of the soldiers spoke in a voice of calm authority. 'Easy, Daphrah. The master wants them in one piece.'

  'Erlik's fangs,' cursed the one called Daphrah. 'This one threw a dagger into Teh-Harpa's throat as neat as you please. I hope the master feeds them to the lotus.'

  Wrenching her gaze from the raw hatred in the eyes of Daphrah, Neesa looked around the room. It was massively vaulted and circular, lighted by a collection of strange globes set around the walls. These crystalline spheres appeared to hold only water and some sort of leafy plant, yet they shone with strong yellow light. The centre of the room was dominated by a statue the size of a small house. It was a carven sphinx of the sort occasionally seen in Stygia, but it was exceptionally large, fashioned of glossy black stone, and had no facial features. Between its paws lay a flat slab of similar black stone.

  Gazing at the altar and its faceless idol, Neesa felt her blood slow and grow cold. What manner of men worshipped such a god?

  The women were herded into the room's centre until they stood beneath the overhanging oval of the statue's blank visage. Neesa retreated before the advancing mercenaries, halting when she backed into the altar slab. She sat upon it defiantly, curling her lips in a sneer of disdain. Zelandra shuffled to her side, head bent. The lady's silver-threaded hair was bloodied at the crown by the blow of a sword hilt. A cruel leather gag had been fastened about her head to prevent her from casting any spells. Neesa doubted that Zelandra would have been able to work any sorcery even without the gag. Her mistress, seemed taxed by merely standing upright.

  Neesa clenched her eyes shut. She should have physically fought Zelandra to keep her from building the fire.

  The camp should have been moved immediately, just as Conan had said.

  They had been taken so swiftly. It seemed only a moment ago that she was arguing with Zelandra inside the tent. Her mistress had been so adamant about being safe and only needing some rest, all the while clinging with hands like gnarled talons to that damned silver box. Then there were voices outside the tent, and even Zelandra, for all her illness, could tell that they were not the voices of Conan and Heng Shih. The women burst out of the tent together, and there were Stygian soldiers coming over the rim of the hill. Neesa had taken the foremost with her nape-dagger and Zelandra had just enough time to bark out a single spell. She sent an incandescent bolt of fiery green light from the palm of her hand into the horrified face of the second Stygian.

  Then the soldiers were upon them. Zelandra had clawed at her silver box, trying to unwrap it, until the pommel of a sword dashed her turban from her head and sent her sprawling. Neesa drew another dagger, screaming out for Conan and Heng Shih, not quite able to believe that they weren't there. The warriors had encircled her, obviously unwilling to do harm unless it was necessary and wary of the knife she held ready to throw. The blade of a shortsword held to the throat of the stunned Zelandra was sufficient threat to get her to toss her dagger aside.

  Then she had been struck down by the mailed fist of the one called Daphrah. The mercenaries had milled about for a short time, looking for her companions, whom they shortly determined had fled. Satisfied that they had captured the sorceress that Ethram-Fal desired, and fearful of the coming storm, the soldiers escorted their captives back along the canyon. En route, the sandstorm fell upon them, railing and screaming in the narrow passage. Neesa had faced it numbly. Her thoughts seemed somehow paralyzed by the fact that Conan and Heng Shih had failed to come to her aid.

  Even the marvelous facade of the Palace of Cetriss, wreathed in swirling, windblown dust, had made little impression upon her. The labyrinthine corridors within led them through empty rooms as silent as sepulchers, through a great hall full of neatly arranged cots, and finally to this fearful temple.

  Now they waited for the one who ruled here.

  Zelandra gave a low moan, grasping at her belt. Dangling leather thongs showed where the silver casket had been cut away. The tall, hawk-faced captain held the box in one hand. He observed Zelandra's distress dispassionately, glancing from her mindlessly grasping hands to the box in his grasp. Rage and helplessness warred in Neesa's breast until it felt as though her heart would be torn asunder.

  Footfalls came from the far door. The clustered crowd of mercenaries parted, allowing a small, grey-robed figure to approach. The man was shorter than Neesa and hunched slightly, his head concealed beneath the hood of his robe. His sandaled feet slapped smartly on the smooth stone floor. Drawing to a stop before the women, he considered them for a moment, then crossed his arms over his narrow chest.

  'Ah, Zelandra,' came a soft voice from within the hood. It held pity and amusement in equal measures. 'Your powers of endurance are nothing less than remarkable. I was a fool to underestimate you. But you were the greater fool to underestimate my Emerald Lotus.'

  Zelandra did not respond, but stared sightlessly forward, one arm crooked about her ribs and the other clutching uselessly at the place on her belt where the box of Emerald Lotus had once hung.

  'Ath,' called the wizard imperiously. 'Loose the lady's companion from her bonds and affix her to the altar.'

  The tall soldier advanced as commanded, passing Zelandra's silver box to a comrade, and producing a key from within his polished breastplate.

  Terror seized Neesa by the throat, sending a shuddering palsy down through her belly. She crouched and showed her teeth, clenching her fists to fight. The captain drew to a stop, his stern face betraying no emotion.

  'Now, now,' said the robed man gently. 'Don't be a fool. You may still survive unscathed. All depends upon your mistress. It will be much the worse for you if you struggle. Think of what might befall you here if you displease me. Imagine.'

  Neesa went limp, half swooning as Ath unfastened her bonds. The captain put a hand beneath each of her arms and hoisted her easily up onto the altar. She went unresisting, clenching her eyes closed as he used lengths of rawhide to tie wrists and ankles to the black metal rings set in each of the altar's four corners.

  'Very good,' said the robed man, then louder: 'Now, men, leave me. Be vigilant. These two may have friends. Hep-Kahl, give her box to me.

  Ath, you may stay.'

  Subdued grumbles of disappointment came to Neesa's ears. All of her senses seemed heightened to an unendurable pitch. The altar felt much colder against her spine than it should have. She lifted her head and saw the soldiers filtering out the doors. The last stragglers looked behind themselves wistfully.

  'Ath, remove the lady's gag. Do not worry, I fear that she is beyond any wizardry at this point.'

  Neesa kept her head raised to watch even as the muscles of her neck began to ache dully. The gag fell away from Zelandra's mouth, though she seemed to take no notice. Her eyes were dull, staring at nothing.r />
  The tall warrior stepped back uneasily, one hand on the hilt of his heavy, northern broadsword.

  The sorcerer lifted his hands and lowered the hood. His countenance wrung an involuntary gasp from Neesa. The bulging brow and shrunken jaw marked Ethram-Fal as a man who would never be called handsome, but the ravages of the Emerald Lotus had transformed him into something that could scarcely be called human. Tufts of mouse-brown hair stood out from his mottled scalp. His complexion had faded from the dusky tone of a healthy Stygian to a grayish pallor better suited to a corpse. The wasted flesh of his face bore an infinitude of tiny wrinkles, giving him the appearance of an animated mummy. The whites of his eyes shone pale green.

  'Now, lady, we have so much to discuss.'

  Zelandra might have been deaf. She stood like a sleepwalker, unaware of the grim tableau that surrounded her.

  'Ah, I know what you need,' said Ethram-Fal happily. 'Look here, milady.' With a flourish, he thrust the silver box aloft. Zelandra's eyes focused suddenly, locking onto the gleaming casket.

  'Come, a few grains should make you more communicative.' He opened the box and held it so that she could see the contents. Zelandra took a hesitant, dragging step forward. Her arms hung lax at her sides.

  'Yes, that's very good. You want to feel better, don't you?'

  Zelandra took three pained steps toward the Stygian and stretched out her hands blindly.

  'So little left,' mused Ethram-Fal. 'Even so, you shall get only a taste.' He used two fingers to scoop a bit of the deep green powder out of the box, and then extended his hand to the Lady Zelandra.

  'There will be more if we can reach an agreement. All that you like, in fact.'

  The sorcerer caught his breath as Zelandra took two more steps toward him, grasped his wrist with both hands, and began to lick the Emerald Lotus from his proffered fingers.

  Ethram-Fal threw back his head and laughed like a fiend out of hell.

  XXXV

  The chamber was square, hewn directly from the canyon wall, and without any furnishings. It was obvious that it had not been occupied, or perhaps even visited, for a very long time. A small, hardened drift of sand stretched across the floor, the accumulation of ages. On the far wall a single portal opened on darkness. The storm raged unabated outside, scouring the window frame with whips of sand.

  The two warriors leaned against the wall to either side of the window, resting a moment and taking stock of their situation. The only sound was that of the wind. Conan fumbled beneath his cloak, pulling into view a small, leather backpack that Heng Shih hadn't seen. The Cimmerian opened it and produced a wineskin.

  'Here. It is not the finest vintage, and watered besides, but I'll wager that you won't cast it aside now,' said the barbarian. Wearing a faintly sheepish expression, Heng Shin took the wineskin. The first swallow seemed to slice through the layer of dust coating his throat.

  The second filled his mouth with rich flavour. The wine may have been second-rate and watered, but he could not remember ever appreciating a drink so thoroughly. After they both drank their fill, the skin was returned to the backpack and the men advanced as one to the doorway.

  Outside the room was an empty, lightless corridor leading away to both left and right. Conan's eyes adjusted to the darkness at once, and he perceived that vacant doorways flanked the one from which they emerged.

  A moment's exploration revealed that both of these rooms had windows opening out onto the pillared facade, and were identical to the one that had admitted them to the palace. To either side, beyond the rooms, the corridor turned inward and tunneled deeper into the rock.

  Conan chose the hallway to the right. Once they rounded the corner, the sound of the storm dwindled to a distant whispering and the air grew thick and stale. The stagnant smell of ancient dust filled their nostrils.

  The corridor continued in gloom, uninterrupted for a space, then split in a three-way intersection. Ahead, and to the left, the hall went on as before, with no sign of light or another doorway. To their right a spiral stairway coiled downward. A vague yellow glow, faint as a vapor, shone along the stairwell's curving wall.

  Conan thrust down with the sickle blade of his scimitar. The Khitan nodded, and the two stole down the stair. Conan led the way, keeping his back to the wall and his sword extended before him. The stairs opened out onto the second floor, where the two men hesitated. The Cimmerian crouched, leaning into the hallway, but all was darkness and silence. The phantom glow of light came from farther below. He withdrew and they continued.

  The stairwell ended by opening out upon a broad hall that led away to the left and right. A single light, set in a niche carved into the wall, filled the long chamber with a soft illumination. It was not a torch. The light looked like nothing that Conan had ever seen before.

  It appeared to be a hollow ball of glass containing water and a sprig of some leafy plant. The whole gave off a steady, not unpleasant, glow.

  The barbarian noted its oddity, then gave it no further thought. Death stalked these corridors and would claim the unwary.

  To Conan's right, the hall extended fifteen paces before ending in another open doorway. To his left, the corridor reached a similar length to a similar portal, but this one was covered by a hanging blanket of coarse brown cloth. Faint sounds, echoing and indistinguishable, came from beyond the fabric barrier, which twitched gently, as if touched by a gentle breeze.

  Conan came out of the stairwell and padded stealthily toward the covered doorway. His boots made no sound on the stone floor. Heng Shih began to follow about four paces behind, but was struck into immobility when the Cimmerian suddenly thrust an open palm toward him.

  A voice spoke in Stygian, startlingly loud in the pervasive silence.

  For a terrible instant Conan and Heng Shih both stood stock-still; then the hanging over the doorway rippled and was thrust aside. Two men in bright mail pushed into view. Lights bobbed, and flared behind them.

  Conan had a split second of indecision. It was shattered by the rising voices of an unknown number of men, coming up behind the two that now stood, goggling, in the doorway. The Cimmerian lunged across the hallway, snatched the light-globe from its niche, spun and ran straight at Heng Shih. The Khitan took an involuntary step backward.

  'Run, damn it!' The barbarian shoved his comrade back into the stairwell as cries of alarm rang out behind them.

  The sound of boots on stone filled the stairwell with rebounding echoes. Conan took the steps three at a time, easily driving past the labouring Khitan. At the second level he slid to a halt, bent, and rolled the light-globe down the darkened hallway to the north.

  Yellow-white light blazed up eerily, splashing the walls with unnatural radiance as the sorcerous torch rolled swiftly away, scarcely bouncing on the smooth stone floor. Conan didn't stop to watch, but ran past the darkened second level and continued up to the third, bursting into the dim hallway at the three-way intersection with the shouts of his pursuers loud in his ears. Heng Shih followed the Cimmerian as he turned right, sprinting into the inner reaches of the palace's third floor.

  They ran through another intersection and passed an open doorway on the right, but Conan did not even slow his pace. Then there was a curtained opening on the left and the barbarian was shoving the fabric aside, charging into the darkness beyond. Heng Shih was at his heels, sliding to a stop in complete blackness as Conan let the blanket fall across the doorway. They pressed their backs to the wall on either side of the door, ready to cut down any who might follow them. Heng Shih strove to muffle his gasps for breath and slow the rapid hammering of his heart.

  Voices and footsteps came to them from an uncertain distance, fading and blurring together. Heng Shih wiped sweat from his pate with the dirty sleeve of his golden kimono. Across from him, Conan stood with his scimitar at the ready, as charged with potential energy as a leopard poised to spring.

  The sounds of pursuit dwindled and disappeared. Conan grinned savagely, invisible in the gloom, and
lowered his blade. His steel clinked softly against something on the wall. Turning, the barbarian reached out. His hand encountered something smooth and spherical sitting in a niche in the wall. When his fingers closed upon and lifted it, a dull pulse of light came from the thing. It was a light-globe like the one he had seized in the hall below. When he picked the thing up, the water within it rolled about and the light came more steadily. Conan gave the glass ball a good shake, and the room was revealed in the resulting yellow glow.

  The first thing he saw was Heng Shih, pressed against the wall across from him, sword in hand and an incredulous frown wrinkling his smooth features. The Khitan extended a hand as if to knock the light-globe from Conan's grasp.

  'Easy.' The Cimmerian stepped away from the door. 'They're chasing the light I rolled into the second floor. With any luck, they'll think we dropped it and are hiding down there. Probably wouldn't believe a man of your size could run fast enough to get this far anyway.'

  Heng Shih lowered his scimitar, but kept his frown, apparently seeing little humour in the situation.

  The globe in Conan's fist showed the room to be an eldritch combination of sorcerous laboratory and unnatural greenhouse. The barbarian wrinkled his nose in puzzlement. The chamber smelled more like a humid jungle glade than a stone room in a desert ruin.

  A single small chair stood in the centre of one wall, overlooking the many tables that all but filled the chamber.

  The tables were of varying sizes, each holding a bewildering array of odd paraphernalia, ranging from racks of liquid-filled vials to a set of flat, metal trays that apparently held only moist earth. One of the central tables held a box fashioned of transparent glass panels bound with bronze. Within the box was a round bush, thickly covered with fat, reddish leaves.