The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  Conan favoured his own highly individualistic style. He fairly ran in, crouched low, shield before him and held almost horizontally. His sword was held low and well to the rear. His opponent could see little except the shield and Conan's eyes above its rim.

  Agilulf struck first, for Conan's helm, but the Cimmerian raised his shield slightly and at the same time swept his sword at his opponent's leading leg. The raven-crested warrior dipped his shield to catch the blade and both swords clattered against the shields. Agilulf leaned far over and tried to strike past Conan's shield at the briefly exposed shoulder, but Conan sidestepped and threw a powerful, looping blow at his enemy's flank. Agilulf interposed his shield in time and neither blow found its mark. Both men jumped back at the same time and the watching warriors shouted acclaim for the excellent exchange.

  The two circled warily, now having a bit of each other's measure. Sweat dipped from beneath the rim of Agilulfs helmet, but he was as windy as ever. 'Not so easy to defeat the champion of the Thungians, eh, Cimmerian?'

  Conan's grin was hard between his cheek plates. Then he struck. The watchers saw only a whirlwind of metal as the Cimmerian's first blow sheared through the tough shield as if it were parchment, breaking the arm beneath with a loud snap.

  The second blow divided the raven between the crags, cleaving downward through the helm, split-orbs skull and teeth and finally stopping at the top of the skull. Conan needed a powerful wrench to free his from the ghastly wreckage that had been Agilulf, champion of the Thungians.

  Conan shook the clotted blood and brains from fees blade and glared at the attackers. 'Who else would play at sword-strokes? I stand here, dogs, come tome!'

  The Thungians were shaken by the sudden demise of their hero, but they were brave. Besides, there were any of them. With a mass howl, they converged on man. In their preoccupation with him, as he had anticipated, many made the mistake of turning their backs on act erstwhile victims. The encircled men attacked them ram behind and before the more numerous foe could reorganize, the tide had turned and they were at a cad vantage.

  This turnabout did not mean an easy fight, though, especially for Conan. He was quickly surrounded by enemies, and only his armour and his amazing quickness nerved him. As each man attacked, Conan ducked and dodged, springing over blows or dipping beneath them, making return blows when he could. Working in his favour was his enemies' lack of coordination and the determination of each to be the sole killer of this alarm-g foreigner.

  Then the attacks on Conan abated as most of his opponents were engaged and slain by the defending farce. At length he found himself opposed by only one am: a yellow-bearded swordsman in an elkhide jerkin. A few blows sufficed to splinter his shield, and Conan finished him with a quick jab to the throat, the most merciful of battle-deaths.

  The clangour around him had ceased, and Conan looked to see many bodies lying about in the grotesquely stiff poses of death. There was more red on the ground than white, and survivors went from fallen man to fallen man, tending to their own wounded with bandages and to enemy wounded with daggers.

  Conan stuck his sword into the earth, dropped his shield, and untied the chin strap of his helm. As he pulled the helm off, his thick black hair tumbled almost to his shoulders. From the upturned helmet a mist of steam arose. Fighting in armour was always a warm

  business.

  The woman approached him, with the greybeard in tow. She stopped before him and looked him up and down for a few moments.

  'I am Queen Alcuina of the Cambres.' Her grey eyes were cool to the point of iciness. 'How came you here?'

  She was as haughty a woman as Conan had come across in a long time, but he sensed that now was no time to take an arrogant pose.

  'I was looking for employment for my sword, lady,' he said, bowing slightly. 'I heard the sounds of battle, and came to investigate. I met that man Agilulf a few days agone, and he spoke ill to me. I was minded to improve his manners.'

  'So you did. He is not nearly so talkative now.'

  'Why did these rogues fall upon you, lady?' Conan pulled his sword from the earth and began to clean it carefully.

  'Are you my peer that I must satisfy your curiosity? I will hire your sword, stranger. Your counsel I do not need. Find a mount and ride with my escort.' With that she walked away. The greybeard seemed on the verge of speech, then he thought better of it and followed the woman.

  Much nonplussed, Conan finished seeing to his weapons and went to look for an undamaged spear. The men were now in the woods, trying to catch their scattered mounts. Apparently, these people did not have the art of mounted combat, and dismounted to fight. With so many dead, there were plenty of spare horses. Conan climbed aboard one and joined the escort. Perhaps, he bought, he would go look for King Totila after all.

  As they rode through the lengthening shadows of afternoon Conan made the acquaintance of the other members of the little guard. As an experienced soldier, Conan was careful to learn all their names.

  Like all the folk he had met hereabout, they spoke a variant of the tongue common to much of the North-led, not much different from that spoken in Asgard and Vanaheim and by the Gundermen of Aquilonia. They were fair for the most part, with blue eyes more common than brown, their hair ranging from yellow to brown. None had truly black hair like his own. All the men who were old enough had flowing beards, although some partially shaved their faces the better to show off especially fine scars. They did not seem to paint or tattooing. Scalps hung from the bridles of this horses.

  A yellow-haired man with a boar crest like Conan's rode beside him. 'That was a fine fight, Cimmerian. I far one am glad to have you among our number. I am __r.' The man held out a gurgling skin. 'Here, have some ale. It has gone stale, but it will have to do we return to our hall.'

  Conan took a long pull at the ale. It was flat, but of good quality. He tossed the skin back. 'Thanks, friend. Tell me, is your queen always so short with those who would take service with her?'

  Siggeir smiled ruefully. 'That is just her way. She was the only child of the old king and has always been haughty. She is a good queen, though, and she will not let her people become subject to some inferior king.' By inferior Conan knew that the man meant a chieftain of another tribe. 'But do not worry. Serve her well and fight as you did today, and she shall treat you well and reward you as you deserve. She is open-handed and generous.'

  'Well, that's something,' Conan grumbled. 'Why were you attacked by Odoac's men? If I'm going to Fight them, I might as well know why.'

  'They wanted to capture Alcuina,' said Siggeir. Like most northerners he used titles sparingly. 'Odoac wants her to wife. They say he has already murdered his last one to make way for her. Many think this is commendable optimism, but I call it presumption.'

  'Can a king have only one wife among you?' Conan asked.

  'That is the law. Concubines and such, he can have as many as he flatters himself he can tend to. Many kings have come to grief in this fashion.'

  'What of this King Totila of whom I have heard?' Conan pressed. 'Does he not court Alcuina as well?'

  'Yes, Totila and his pet wizard would have her, but she rightfully disdains the Torman swine.'

  Conan did not like the mention of a wizard. He had had little joy of that breed in his life and travels. Still, the man did not speak as if the wizard's wiles bothered him overmuch.

  'Who is the greybeard?' Conan asked, jerking his dun toward the old man who rode ahead next to Alcuina.

  'That is our wizard, Rerin. He is a wise old man, and he can protect us from the spells of Lilma, who brews spells for Totila.'

  'And has Odoac no wizard?' Conan asked, fearing Ac worst.

  'Not that I ever heard. Wizards are rare, and Totila richer than Odoac.'

  'Which wizard is the stronger?' Conan knew that it d always wise to know the relative strengths of friends and enemies.

  'I cannot say,' Siggeir said, pondering deeply. 'It seems to me that every time one of them tries a spell,
to other uses a counterspell, and thus they cancel each other. This suits me well.'

  'Aye,' Conan said with the sincerity of experience.

  'When these wizards and necromancers and suchlike meddle in the affairs of honest warriors, there is always cable that cannot be set aright with steel.' Conan had a great dislike of problems unsettleable by steel.

  Sight was failing when they rode into the compound to Akuina's hall. The compound sat atop an oddly Solar mound, which stood higher than the surround-f fields. A wall of gigantic stones encircled the top of the hill, and upon the stones was set a palisade of sharpened logs. The massive gate was raised for them to enter and immediately dropped once all were inside. Within was a wide yard dotted with small buildings: s, stables, sheds of various sorts. There was livestock in evidence. In the centre was the queen's a long, low building with a steep-pitched roof with turf. Goats grazed on the roof, and smoke drifted from its gable ends. A southern king would have smiled to hear such a structure called a royal palace, but to the northerners it was all a palace should be; it was a place where warriors sat and feasted with their lord. They could have no respect for a king they saw but rarely if at all.

  The smell of freshly-cut wood filled the place, and Conan could see that these people had not been living in this place for long. He followed Siggeir to a stable built against the stone wall and there left his borrowed mount for the boys to groom and care for. As they left the stable he examined the wall. Even in the dim light he could see that it was ancient, built of huge stones, and heavily grown with lichens.

  'Who built this?' he asked.

  Siggeir looked uncomfortable and made a sign with one hand. 'Giants' work from ancient times. I like it not. Come, let us go eat and find some decent ale.'

  As they walked back to the hall Conan saw the bodies being taken from the horses. There was some muffled sobbing, but northern women did not mourn their dead with the extravagant, screeching lamentations favoured in the South. It was well, he reflected, that if was still early enough in the winter for gravedigging. Soon the ground would freeze solid, and corpses would have to be kept in a shed until spring.

  Inside, the hall was far more ornate than its exterior suggested. New though the hall was, artisans had already carved much of the visible wood with fanciful designs; patterns of interlace, deeds of heroes, strange beasts were everywhere abundant, most of them stained with crude but bright vegetable dyes. Horns of stag and elk and other creatures adorned the beams overhead, and hangings covered the walls, brightening the interior

  while they kept drafts at bay. The floor was paved with fiat stones and strewn with rushes. In its centre massive logs blazed and crackled upon a huge hearth. Near the fanes meats turned on spits.

  Conan's mouth watered from the smell of roasting meats as his eyes watered from the smoke. Long benches had been set up, and tables were laid across trestles as he warriors divested themselves of armour and weapons. Siggeir showed Conan where he would sleep on the raw next to the wall. Above his sleeping-place were pegs whereon he could hang helm and swordbelt, shield, and corselet, always to be kept ready against attack. He ta his spear in a rack near his sleeping-place. With his lodgings settled, Conan took his place at the bench. Every man sat opposite his sleeping-place so there was any arguing over seating. Also, should they be Iced in the midst of their feasting, each man had his weapons close at hand. These people gave much thought at the possibilities of hostile action.

  No sooner than he was seated, a girl brought Conan a massive, pitch-coated wooden tankard of ale. This he had in one long pull and slammed down upon the table, to be refilled almost instantly. Platters of smoked joints were laid down, and for some time there was speech as the famished trenchermen made up for time spent on marching rations, hen appetites were somewhat sated, the men fell to of their prowess in that day's battle. Each his own feats and praised what he had wit-of his companions' fighting. Every man was in praising Conan's contribution to the battle, none went so far as to suggest that they might : been annihilated except for Conan's timely arrival. In turn Conan arose and praised his hosts, now his comrades-in-arms. He explained some fine points concerning his defeat of the late Agilulf, which his listeners followed closely with the interest of professionals hearing the words of a master. Never overburdened with modesty, Conan did not underappraise his effectiveness in the subsequent fighting. He ended with compliments for his new employer and companions, proclaiming his eagerness to fight their enemies. There was loud applause and much thunking of tankards when he resumed his seat.

  Finally Alcuina rose and, after the northern custom, lavishly praised her men and distributed gifts among them. Her words of praise for Conan were, he thought, rather sparing when one considered his signal contributions to her defence. He could not fault her generosity in material things, however. His own gift was a massive arm-ring studded with coral and garnets. Its weight in gold alone would have been considered a year's wages for a skilled swordsman in southern lands. Conan slipped the ring above the thick muscle of his right arm and thanked Alcuina courteously. She seemed to take no

  notice.

  As the torches were being taken down, Alcuina announced that the rites for the dead were to be held upon the next eve, as the sun set. All then prepared for sleep. Alcuina disappeared behind the arras that screened off the end of the hall, and her wizard went to seek out the little building where he performed his sorcerous duties. Everyone else slept in the straw, wrapped in their cloaks.

  Conan did not feel ready for sleep yet. Taking a fresh tankard of hot, spiced ale, he went outside, not knowing the source of his unease. The yard was quiet, with all the folk abed and the fowl roosting in their sheds.

  Only a dog roamed about, doubtless hoping for a late handout from the feast.

  The Cimmerian caught sight of a glow coming from the wall above the gate. He crossed the yard and found a stair made of split logs ascending to the top of the stone wall, thence to the wooden platform that ran around the palisade built atop the wall. Over the gate he found a single sentry standing next to a glowing brazier. In the fire's glow he recognised the man as one of his companions from the fighting earlier in the day.

  'Greeting, Hagbard,' Conan called. 'This is a cold night for such duty.'

  Hagbard drew his cloak more closely about him. 'Colder than it should be, Conan.'

  Indeed, the temperature had dropped considerably since Conan had entered the hall. He handed the tankard to Hagbard, and the man drank the warm ale gratefully. 'The frost giants march south early this year,' the Cimmerian said.

  Hagbard handed back the tankard. 'Thanks, friend. Yes. this is the sign of a bad winter. If the cold creases much more, we'll not be able to bury our dead tomorrow.'

  'Do you never burn them?'

  'Never. A warrior is buried with his weapons, a raftsman with his instruments, a wife with her distaff and spindle. That is the custom. Even the children are with their toys, and the thralls with their field If we cannot bury them tomorrow, we shall have

  build a lich-house without the walls to hold them the ground thaws.'

  Conan surveyed the bleak and rather uncanny ground surrounding the enclosure. Here they were in a broad, pea field, almost a small plain, in strange contrast to the little stone hut where the wizard lived. With a muttered malediction on all dabblers in magic, Conan went into the hall and rousted the snoring Oswin.

  Picking his way among the sleeping forms, Conan found his way to the still-glowing hearth, where he was cheered to find a half-full pitcher of ale still warming by the coals. He poured some into his tankard and drank deep. He wondered whether he had made the right choice in joining Alcuina's band. An air of doom overhung these stark stone ruins. However, he had accepted her gold and her food and her roof, so he would accept whatever might befall. It was not his custom to worry about the future. He found his sleeping-place, rolled himself into his cloak on the straw, and soon was as deep in sleep as any there.

  III

  The
Bail of Coffla

  King Totila sat brooding on his high seat. He took no joy in the jewelled cup before him, nor in the singing of the harper who sat upon the hearth. His elbow was propped on a great carven arm of the chair, and his chin rested on a knotty fist on which every finger blazed with the gleam of gold and jewels. He was the wealthiest of the northern kings, but Totila of the Tormanna brooded upon that which he could not have. Queen Alcuina of the Cambres.

  He wanted her fair body in his bed almost as much as be wanted her lands annexed to his. With his eastern flank thus secured, he would be able to swallow up Odoac and his Thungians to the south. Thus would Totila become the greatest king of the North. With such a beginning, he would forge a northern empire such as men had not seen since the last great migration of the northern peoples, many generations before.

  In dreams such as this did Totila pass his days, but he was not one to confine himself to dreams. He had the wooded hills that characterized most of this district. In the bright light of the full moon, Conan could see that the plain was dotted with several of the steep-sided mounds, of which the one upon which he stood was the highest. Several of those had similar stone walls atop them. Out in the flat-ground, many standing stones were arranged in straight lines or circles. Some stood in configurations like doorways, with a great stone laid horizontally across two standing ones.

  'How long have you folk lived here?' Conan asked. He touched one of the palisade logs, and his hand came away sticky with sap.

  'Only since midsummer. We had been living in the old place for ten years, and the fields were worn out. The game was getting scarce as well, and the fish were few in the streams. It was decided that we should move.'