The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  Beyond that, they’ve no interest in our comfort.' He stretched, then put his hands behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. 'I doubt the lack of bedding is the worst thing in store for us here.'

  His sleep was long and dreamless. He awoke to find Achilea examining her skin by the light of the strange torch. Lightly, she ran her fingertips over her arms and thighs, then over the rich contours of her torso.

  'Is everything present and accounted for?' he asked.

  She started slightly. 'I thought you still asleep. Yes, all is here and better than I had hoped. That oil they used on us must have healing properties. My sunburn no longer pains me and most of the dead skin has peeled away. Even my lips are no longer cracked.'

  'That is good,' he said, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. 'You don’t want to be weak in any way when we break out How are your eyes?'

  'I see as well as ever, though I could use more light.'

  'Aye, you look well,' he said, meaning it heartily. His unimpeded view took in every perfect inch of her, 'If only these chains were longer.'

  She looked at him haughtily. 'Just as well they are not, for then I would have to break your stiff Cimmerian neck.'

  'Getting your pride back, I see,' he said sourly. Still, it seemed to him that there had been a teasing note in her voice.

  A slave brought in a single large bowl of steaming liquid and a jug of water and set the vessels between them, then left. Conan took the jug and drank while Achilea raised the bowl to her mouth, then

  made a face.

  'More of the mushroom stuff,' she said, passing the bowl to Conan and accepting the jug in return.

  'Have these people no proper meat?'

  Conan took a mouthful of the bland gruel, thick with rubbery chunks of fungus. 'It will keep us alive,' he said. 'And even people well provided with flesh never waste it on prisoners. Stale, moldy bread and hard cheese is your portion in prison. At least this is hot.'

  They finished their savorless meal and for a while, Achilea conversed with her followers. They seemed to need the sound of her voice.

  'Do none of these other prisoners speak?' Conan asked.

  'They’ll not answer us,' Jeyba said.

  'They would have nothing to say, anyway,' Kye-Dee added, 'They are worthless people; slaves to people who are themselves but insects who live like termites in a rotten log.'

  'Still, they might be able to tell us something about our situation,' Conan said. But so far, he had not heard the slaves speak a single word, even among themselves. He determined to look into the question.

  Not long after they had eaten, guards came to conduct them once more to the bathing facility. When their next meal was brought, Conan seized the slave woman by the shoulders while Achilea looked on curiously.

  'Speak to me, woman,' Conan ordered. She said nothing, only stared at him with pale, frightened eyes. He took her lower jaw between thumb and forefinger and pried her mouth open. Then he released her.

  'She is tongueless,' he reported. 'Perhaps all the slaves have been so treated.'

  Achilea snorted with disgust. 'civilised people call us barbarians because we are like beasts of prey. But it is a natural and a clean way to live. This is ugly and twisted.'

  'I’ll give you no arguement on that point,' Conan said.

  A few hours later, a team of guards arrived. Their hands were bound, and they were taken from their cell. In a room near the bath, they found Achilea’s women and dwarf with Kye-Dee. Slaves dressed Conan in his wolfskin breechclout and studded belt, and Achilea in her fox pelt and leggings. Their desert robes were nowhere to be seen, but the Cimmerian noted with amusement that the returned garments had been scrupulously cleaned.

  Payna went to her queen and said in a low voice, 'Did the man seek to molest you?'

  Achilea smiled. 'He would have, but his chain was too short.'

  'Hah!' Conan said. 'She stretched hers a good foot trying to get to me!'

  'Silence!' barked a woman of the guard. Jeyba butted her unarmored belly with his head, and the breath went out of her with a whoosh. She fell on her backside, her spear clattering to the stone floor.

  'Show respect to our queen, wench!' the dwarf shouted. Instantly, a half-score of spear-points were leveled at his throat.

  'Easy, Jeyba,' Conan said approvingly. 'There is no sense in getting killed too soon.' Spears at their backs, they left the dungeon.

  XI

  The procession entered a new part of the labyrinthine city. They discovered that not everything lay immediately adjacent to the main corridor, for there were many intersections and. branchings. One flight of stairs took them to an area where; the river smell was very strong. Here they passed through vast natural caverns where grotesquely overgrown mushrooms grew in obscene profusion. Some were like broad toadstools, some like branching coral; others hung from the ceiling in thin sheets, clusters, or twisted shapes tike the horns of rams.

  At one point, there were none of the vapor torches. These were not necessary because the fungi of that area glowed: with their own cold light: purple and red and a sickly green, The ghastly illumination made the humans look like walking corpses.

  'Have you been keeping track of where we are, Conan?™. Achilea asked when they were past the mushroom caverns.

  'Aye,' he answered, 'but I’d as lief discover a shortcut. I 'Silence, there!' said a guard.

  'Sit on your spear, dog,' Conan said disgustedly. 'Your queen, or whatever she is, wants us alive for something, so make no idle threats.' Jeyba laughed to hear these words.

  'She never said you were to be unhurt,' said the woman Jeyba had butted. She jabbed the little man sharply in the buttock, eliciting a yelp. Now it was the guards’ turn to laugh.

  'At least they have a sense of humour,' Kye-Dee said.

  As they walked down a side corridor, they approached an entrance from whence drifted a sound that seemed utterly out of place in these surroundings: the sound of sawing. As they passed the portal, Conan slowed and peered in. With long, two-man saws, a team of slaves was engaged in reducing dark, heavy logs to squared timbers and planks. The air was redolent of the pleasant smell of sap and sawdust.

  'Mushrooms they can grow without sunlight,' Achilea commented as they passed on. 'But trees?

  How do they― A guard jabbed her on the spine, drawing blood.

  'Enough!' Conan snarled. With bewildering speed, he kicked the man’s feet from beneath him, the movement made not at ail less effective by the chain connecting the Cimmerian’s leg-irons. A short kick to the man’s belly effectively paralyzed him before Conan’s heavy foot trod upon his neck. As cartilage began to give way, Conan stopped. The chief of the guards had drawn his sword and now held it beneath the dwarf’s chin.

  'Kill him and this one dies,' the man said. 'The queen is interested only in the big woman and you, black-haired one. One more incident from either of you, and the little man dies. After him, that one.' He jerked his head toward Kye-Dee. 'After him, the three smaller women, one after another. Do you understand me?'

  'Aye,' Conan said, removing his foot The man gasped and gargled as he rolled to his side and curled himself into a ball, 'Just recall that I am a patient man, but even my patience has its limits.'

  They said no more, but the way Achilea smiled at him put Conan in a better mood for the rest of their trek. This ended in a vast natural cavern that was almost circular in shape. Its floor had been hewn into multiple rows of seats surrounding a low, oval pit. The seats were richly covered with silken cushions. Overhead, the greatest chandelier they had yet seen provided light from hundreds of vapor jets.

  The place was deserted.

  They were marched to a rectangular cage overlooking the pit. It had a single bench and was enclosed by bars of iron. With leveled spears at their back, they entered and the chief guard locked the swinging gate behind them.

  'What is this, my queen?' Payna asked.

  'Have you never seen a fighting pit?' Conan said.

  'I have
,' said Achilea, 'in some towns and villages and fair-sites. But those were rough enclosures of earth and timber. What sort of people would build a pit that is so large and permanent?'

  'People who are fond of blood,' he answered her. 'People who would rather watch others fight than do it themselves.'

  It seemed that they had a wait in store for them. 'Wood, leather, cloth,' Conan mused. 'These things have to come from the surface, and I’ll wager they were not brought across the desert. Those were fresh logs the slaves were cutting, full of sap.'

  'You’ve nothing to wager with,' Achilea answered, 'but agree with you anyway.'

  'Leather may be made from human skin,' Kye-Dee said. 'In my tribe, we made our war drums from the skins of our enemies.'

  'Silk is made by spiders,' said Jeyba, 'and spiders live in dark, sunless places. Perhaps they weave cloth from spider silk.'

  'That still leaves those logs,' Conan said remorselessly.

  'These people are powerful magicians,' Kye-Dee said. 'Perhaps they produce logs with their magickal arts.'

  Conan could not agree. So far, he had seen virtually nothing of the sorcerous about these strange people. On the contrary, they seemed to be as prosaic as ants. It was only the place they chose to live in that was truly bizarre.

  Further conversation was cut off when people began to file into the huge cavern through numerous entrances. They descended the aisles that divided the seats into wedge-shaped sections and seated themselves upon the cushions. Conan noted that they were strictly regulated, for the people in each separate wedge wore a single, distinctive garb that was different from that distinguishing those in the neighbouring wedges. Here, he saw men in papery shoulder capes and shaven heads; there, a group of women who wore serpent masks. Yet another wedge was occupied by men and women, but all these wore masks covering the left side of the face only, and they carried long, crystal-tipped wands. Whether these insignia identified them by rank, status or occupation, he could not guess.

  All stood when Omia entered, closely followed by Abbadas, who still wore the weapons and armour he’d borne when Conan’s party was captured. Behind Abbadas was a small, hairless man who wore a simple, floor-length cape of silk. His features were oddly familiar.

  'Who is that man behind Abbadas?' Achilea asked. 'He looks like one of them, yet it seems to me that I know him.'

  'You do,' said Conan with grim satisfaction. 'Darken his skin with a bit of paint, give him a false beard and swathe him in desert robes, and you have our old friend, Amram.'

  'Amram!' she said. 'He is one of them?'

  Conan shook his head. 'I think not. His Kothian accent was too convincing, and so was much of his story. He has been down here a long time, though; long enough to take on their look.'

  Indeed, the man they knew as Amram was almost as pale as the underground inhabitants. But his eyes were brown, and the faint stubble that showed on his shaven pate was dark as well. The Cimmerian guessed that the man had shorn his scalp in order to blend with the populace, for those who had hair in this place were as white-tressed as albinos. Amram was a man who survived in a hard world with the chameleon’s talent for blending with its surroundings.

  'Who next?' Achilea mused. 'The twins, perhaps?'

  But it seemed that the mysterious pair were not to make an appearance. There was a small platform next to the cave and just above the arena. Here Omia and Abbadas took their seats on heavily cushioned chairs. Amram stood behind them and a small crowd of slaves attended them. As they arranged themselves, a file of slaves standing above the tiers of seats began to play music on instruments of wood, string and metal. It was a harsh music, with much metallic clashing and shrill trilling. A group of young, comely slave women entered the pit and went through an intricate dance that featured much athletic leaping, contortion and other gymnastic feats.

  'Perhaps this will not be so bad,' Kye-Dee said, smiling nervously.

  'I’ll believe that when all this is over,' Conan answered. He looked at Omia. ‘Why are we here?'

  The mad light came into her eyes. 'I told you that you ask no questions.'

  He jerked his head toward the arena below. 'From the look of this place, I’ve cursed little to lose by asking questions.'

  Abbadas smirked and Omia looked furious, but Amram bent low and spoke in her ear. 'My queen and my mistress, this great rogue is insolent, but is not his capacity for defiance among the very reasons you wanted him here?'

  She subsided into her cushions. 'Yes, so it was. I do hope he will not disappoint us.'

  'Shall we begin with him?' Abbadas asked.

  'No. He and the tawny woman are the best of the lot.' She looked over her captives with lazy maliciousness. 'These two―' she indicated Kye-Dee and Jeyba '―look like inferior stock to me. Let

  them go first'

  'What?' Conan shouted. 'This band stands together!'

  'You defy me again!' Omia’s voice went up shockingly and her pale eyes burned. 'You are no band! You are all my slaves, to do with as I please, individually or together! Guards, separate him from the others and secure him.'

  Pole-arms were thrust through the bars, crowding the Cimmerian back into a comer, where his neck ring was fastened to a corner bar. When the weapons were withdrawn, he could move no more than a pace in any direction. He cursed with frustrated rage, but to no avail.

  The gate swung open. 'You two come out,' the guard chief said, pointing to the dwarf and the Hyrkanian.

  'Jeyba!' Achilea said, grasping the little man’s shoulder, !__'

  'Would you be chained up as well, my beautiful slave-queen?' Omia said imperiously.

  The dwarf patted his queen’s hand. 'Best I go. Avenge me if you may, but above all, get away from this place alive,' His voice was pitched low, so that only his companions in the cage could hear him. He quirked his eyebrows toward the Cimmerian. 'Stick to this one, if possible,' he bade Achilea. 'If anyone can get you away from here, it is he.' With these words, the dwarf exited the cage.

  Kye-Dee was not to be outdone in stem acceptance of fate. 'Hah!' he cried, laughing in derision. 'I will show these despicable worms that a Hyrkanian warrior of the Turtle Clan is better than other men! I want only arms. Then bring on your warriors, your beasts and your demons!'

  'Oh, you shall have arms,' Abbadas said. 'You would provide precious little entertainment otherwise.'

  Omia clapped her hands twice and the music ceased. The dancers ended their performance in mid-note and filed out of the pit through the same portal they had entered: a grated nth on the side opposite Omia’s platform. When the last was through, the metal grate was lowered behind them.

  A short flight of steps next to the cage took Kye-Dee and Jeyba to arena level, where a bolted door allowed access. The bolts were withdrawn and the two men were pushed through. A guard went out with them and removed their bonds. Then the guard left the pit and the door was rebelled.

  A slave woman entered the arena bearing weapons. These she handed to the two men: for Jeyba, his metal-studded bludgeon and a short-handled axe; for Kye-Dee, his saber with its keen, curved, arm-length blade. The Hyrkanian flourished the blade spiritedly, drawing glittering arcs and patterns in the air.

  'This is a fine weapon and I am good with it.' he announced, 'but where is my bow?'

  'Do you think that we would allow you a weapon you could kill us with?' said Omia with a laugh.

  'No,' Kye-Dee admitted, 'but it was worth a try.'

  The dwarf said nothing, standing as steady as a tree-stump on his short, bowed legs, his club gripped in his right hand and his axe in his left. He was a coiled knot of steel-spring muscles, ready for anything.

  'Begin!' Abbadas said.

  The grated door that had admitted the dancers opened. Conan studied the four warriors who entered. They were slaves, as evinced by their short-cropped hair, but they were somewhat larger and far better built than any he had seen so far. He concluded thai they were special slaves or condemned citizens, trained to fight for the amuse
ment of their betters. They wore oddments of armour on their arms and legs, no two of them armoured in quite the same fashion, and gorgets of black steel protecting their throats. None wore helmet or body armour. Each carried a small shield of steel a foot in diameter in his left hand. The right hand of each gripped a short, straight, double-edged sword.

  'Four against two!' Achilea spat. 'This is not sporting!'

  ' ‘Sporting’?' said Abbadas languidly. 'I am unfamiliar with the word.'

  'That I doubt not,' Conan said. 'At least let them fight one against one, in sequence.'

  'Wherefore?' Omia asked. 'These two are to be killed and we wish to be amused. Your wishes and theirs are of no account.' She turned to the crowd of citizens and stood. They rose likewise.

  'People of holy Janagar!' she cried. 'In an age long past, our gods preserved us from the evil of the sun and taught us how true humans should live!' By the way she chanted her words, Conan guessed that she recited an ancient formula. 'Once again we offer thanks for our salvation according to the custom of our ancestors: with blood. This time―' and here her voice departed from its hieratic, ritual phrasing '―we offer not only blood of our own, but that of dwellers beneath the sun. Cursed be the sun!'

  'Cursed be the sun!' shouted the crowd of spectators in loud unison.

  'A few days ago, I might have joined them in that curse,' Achilea said. 'Now I would be burned all over again just for a glimpse of it.'

  Omia resumed her seat and so did the audience. 'Begin!' Omia cried.

  Achilea and her women gripped the bars of the cage, pressing their faces against the cold iron, their eyes fixed upon the scene of the unfolding drama. Conan, chained to the comer bar, still had a clear view.

  His face was as immobile as stone, but his heart seethed with hatred and rage.

  The four fighting staves spread into a curving line and sought to take the two men from front and flank-The dwarf and the Hyrkanian stood shoulder to shoulder, but their eyes grew wary as the line spread.

  'Back to back?' Kye-Dee suggested.

  'That were best,' the dwarf rumbled. 'Just leave me room.'