The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  Like many another such youth, Manzur was too proud to work and too poor to have connections at court. Such slight income as he had came from giving lessons in swordsmanship at the studio of Master Nakhshef. It called for little effort, merely the teaching of fundamentals to first-year students, but anything having to do with arms was honourable.

  At least he could take pride in his swordsmanship. He had begged his way into the school as a young boy and had endured much scorn from the old master in his first years. Gradually the scorn became acceptance, then approval. Finally the old man took Manzur on as an assistant, and even hinted that someday the youth might replace him as master.

  Manzur drew his blade and went through a complicated drill that would have been demanding of a sober man, but his performance was flawless. His sword was a variant of the Turanian talwar: single-edged, razor-sharp, with the slightest of curves. Light and slender, in the hands of a skilled man it was exceedingly deadly. Master Nakhshef had insisted that he attain proficiency in all weapons, but the light sword was his favourite.

  His steps had led him to the rear wall of the prince's palace, and he sheathed his blade in a single, flowing motion. There was an ancient vine growing up the wall, thick and gnarled. He looked along the lane he had come by and saw that it was deserted. The garden facing the wall was likewise deserted. No sentries showed themselves atop the wall. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he began to climb.

  It was a sign of the decadence of the times, he thought as he ascended, that a veritable scaling-ladder had been allowed to grow up a wall of the palace. Likewise, that the sentries rarely walked their rounds. I The fact that these derelictions allowed him to visit his love did nothing to dim his indignation.

  Once atop the wall, he dropped lightly into the small courtyard beyond. All was quiet. He skirted the central pool and entered a veranda where, during the days, certain ladies of the court took shelter from the fierce sun. Stepping cautiously to an intricate tracery of marble, he whispered urgently, 'Ishkala!'

  With his heart in his mouth, he waited. Each time he did this, he knew that instead of his lady, a guard might be waiting.

  'Manzur?' A slight form in voluminous garments came through the doorway next to the marble lattice. He swept her into his embrace.

  'My lady, my love, how I have longed for you since—' . -

  She drew back from him sharply. 'Manzur! You have been out carousing with your friends again! You smell as if you had slept in a wine cask.'

  'I must drink to forget, love, lest thoughts of you so dominate my soul that when called upon by honour to draw my sword, I—'

  'Cease this prattle,' she hissed. 'Something terrible has happened!'

  For a moment, he almost sobered. 'You have not been betrothed?'

  'Almost as bad. That fearsome Turanian wizard visited the court this evening. As usual, I hid behind the throne to hear what was being said. There is to be war!'

  'War!' Visions of glory danced in his head.

  'The wizard, Khondemir, says that he can prevent this war.'

  'What a pity,' said Manzur, disappointed.

  'He plans to take an expedition far into the desert steppe and there wreak some horrible magic to destroy the nomads.'

  'These wizards have taken all the honour out of warfare,' he protested indignantly.

  'Worse than that. He claims that he needs me for his spell!'

  'You? Perhaps you had better explain from the beginning.'

  She told him all she had heard from her hiding place. 'This night,' she went on, 'the mayor of the palace came to say that I must prepare for a long journey. We are to be escorted by the Red Eagles. The wizard says I shall not be harmed, but I am not so trusting as my father. I know that the Turanian plots evil against the city!'

  'I'll not allow this,' Manzur vowed. 'I shall demand an audience with the prince.'

  'You would not get past the gatekeeper, my love,' she said. 'I must obey my father, even when he acts foolishly.'

  'I cannot let you do this,' he said. 'Ever since I felt your heart calling out to mine, forcing me to climb yonder wall and find you—' He went on in this vein for some time.

  In truth, he had been passing this way some weeks earlier with a pack of friends after a drunken party, and they dared him to climb the wall of the prince's palace. He accepted the challenge, ascended to the battlement, turned to take a bow, and then lost his balance and fell into the courtyard, straight onto a fragrant bush. When the world stopped swimming about him, he found himself staring up into a vision of loveliness such as he had never dreamed possible. By now he had forgotten the more-embarrassing details of the event and believed the story he had made up for her.

  'You must go,' she said. 'The eunuch guards will be making their rounds. You must forget about me. If I return from this journey, well and good. If not, then find another love.' Sobs distorted her last words.

  'I shall do something, my love,' he said. 'I know not what, but I shall find some way to be with you.'

  They broke apart at the sound of tramping feet and clanking metal. The guard was coming. With a final dash, Manzur ran to the wall and eschewed the tree he slowly climbed, using the more-prosaic gardener's ladder. Lying in the park near the palace, he wandered despondently. How could he contrive a way to be by his lover's side in her hour of need? He considered going to the house of Khondemir and challenging the mage to a 'did. He discarded the thought. Doubtless the man would make use of some dishonourable, wizardly advantage. He watched the beautiful crescent of the moon between two spice trees and considered composing a poem to Ishkala, comparing her beauty to that of the moon. It seemed to be an original idea.

  He awoke in the morning with a shattering head and the distinct feeling that he was at the bottom of a great sea. He sat up and saw some men trimming hedges in the garden, paying him no heed. He sought to remember the events of the night before. First, someone had attempted to insult his poetry. Then— Ishkala! Her words came flooding back to him. There had to be something he could do. Shakily he rose on unsteady feet and walked from the garden.

  As he descended into the city proper, he became aware of a great deal of untoward activity. People were running hither and yon, officials were proclaiming importantly, armed soldiers were marching up and down. The city was preparing for war. At any other time Manzur would have thrown himself into the thick of things. It was what he had been dreaming of for years. Now, though, he could only think of Ishkala and the terrible fate that might befall her.

  A half-squadron of colourful cavalry cantered past, and a wonderful idea came to him. Without bothering to return home to refresh his appearance, he hurried to the southern gate of the city. Here, just without the walls was a vast area of pens, barracks and stables where the soldiery of the city was kept in garrison.

  A few questions addressed to several hurrying soldiers brought him to a wide parade field where several squadrons were going through their drill with the precision of seasoned professionals. Because they wore nodding red plumes in their helmets, he knew that these were the famed Red Eagles, the prince's elite cavalry force. He saw an officer observing the drill and he ran to the roan's side.

  'I am Manzur Alyasha, sir, and I wish to join the Red Eagles.'

  The officer's mouth bent into a tolerant smile within his beard. 'Now that the city faces war, many young men will want to join. Is there some reason I should take you into the finest cavalry unit of Sogaria? By the state of your clothing, I can tell that no court nobleman is going to procure you a commission.'

  'I have no court influence,' Manzur admitted, 'but! I am excellent with a sword.' He whipped his weapon forth and executed a dazzling practice form.

  'Very pretty,' said the officer. 'I can see that you have studied the blade long and well. But in the army we do not use those little weapons. Can you wield a man's sword?' He drew his own blade and handed it to Manzur. It was long and broad, with more curvature, than that of Manzur's sword. It had the reach a cavalryman needed, and
the weight to split armour.

  Manzur thanked the gods that old Nakhshef had made him practice with weapons of war. He went through a heavy-sabre form, its motions simpler and more forceful than those used for the light sword.

  'That is nice,' said the officer, 'but can you ride?'

  'I can,' Manzur asserted confidently. He was an adequate horseman, although he lacked the special skills of the cavalryman.

  'Then go to yonder compound, where all the nags are being gathered. A new troop is forming, and if you out there soon enough, you might have a mount.'

  'No,' Manzur insisted, 'it must be the Red Eagles.'

  'Young man,' said the officer, 'you cannot simply ask to be admitted to the Red Eagles. Many apply for a lowly trooper's place and are turned back, though they be seasoned warriors. Only the most proven are admitted. Go join some other regiment. After you have a few years of experience within your armour, apply to me again.'

  Manzur turned away, his hopes dashed. Somehow he had to find a way to follow Ishkala into the Steppe of Famine.

  V

  As the sun lowered, a meal was brought to the men who sat chained to the posts. A slave deposited a platter and a flask between Conan and Rustuf, and the two fell upon them with gusto. There was bread of good quality, and cheese, but best of all, there was plenty of smoking meat.

  'At least the food here is better than that of the pit,' said Rustuf. He seized a joint and tore at it with his teeth.

  With more moderation, Conan did likewise. It was the first decent meal he had eaten in many days. 'Like men about to be crucified,' he said, 'we are well fed. Go easy, though. No man fights his best on an overfull stomach.' He took the flask and drank. It was a decent wine, diluted with water.

  'Aye,' said Rustuf through a mouthful of lamb. 'Our companions are not so delicate.' The others in the enclosure were seizing their food like feeding jackals, quarrelling over the prise bits and throwing blows when they could reach one another. Conan snorted disgust at such lack of self-control.

  As they were finishing their dinner, a visitor arrived in the compound. It was a woman, cloaked and scarved so that only her face showed. She was accompanied by the head slave master, and she began looking over the prisoners like a buyer at a cattle market. As she approached, each man stood for her inspection.

  Conan ignored her as she reached him. 'You!' said the slave master. 'Stand for my lady.'

  Conan brushed some crumbs from the corners of his mouth.

  'Is he deaf?' asked the woman. 'Or does he not understand the language?'

  'This one understands,' said the slave master. 'He is arrogant, though. Bested a parcel of my guards this afternoon. The warrior who brought him in said that he is prouder in bonds than most men walking free.' He rapped on Oman's shoulder with his coiled whip. 'Stand, hero. You shall have plenty of opportunity to show off your courage this night.'

  Slowly Conan unwound to his full height. The woman looked him over, missing nothing: the long legs, the deep chest, the thick neck, the arms heavily cabled with muscle. She walked around him, cataloguing his scars, admiring his size and symmetry. She felt an arm, kneading the tough muscle. She punched his midsection with a small, gloved fist. Her hand bounced back as if it had hit a tree trunk. Last of all, she studied his face.

  'Cleaned up and properly shaved,' she said to the slave master, 'it might be presentable.' Then, to Conan: 'How do you fight, foreigner?'

  'I am a swordsman, but I can use all hand weapons: axe, lance, mace, dagger. I am a warrior.'

  'Perhaps you are, as your nation defines such things. Can you fight bare-handed?'

  'I have yet to meet my better,' he answered. He studied her frankly. He could see little of her except for her face, but that was as lovely as he had ever seen. Her graceful, confident stride told him that her body was as well made.

  'You are amusing, slave,' she said. 'You shall be yet more amusing tonight.'' She turned to the slave master. 'Give him means with which to wash and shave. My lord will see him fight first tonight.' With that, she went on to examine the rest of the slaves.

  Rustuf grinned at Conan. 'Already you have attracted attention, although it may be of the wrong kind. You may have the longest night of us all, or the shortest.'

  In the great tent, Bartatua held revel for the new arrivals. Two allied chiefs had come into the camp that day, bringing their hordes as well as a gaggle of slaves for the pit. He feasted them upon unaccustomed delicacies: imported wines and spices, birds that were not native to the steppe, even fish raised in the ponds of Bukhrosha, brought in by courier, still living in skin bags of water. It was important to his future plans that the austere Kagans of the steppe acquire a taste for the exotic delights of civilisation.

  'Your reputation for hospitality was not exaggerated, chief of the Ashkuz,' said a leather-faced Kagan. His narrow eyes drank in the sight of a dozen Vendhyan women, clad only in elaborate jewels and executing one of the lascivious dances for which their land was famed.

  'It is my pleasure to share with my friends all that I have,' said Bartatua. 'If you see aught that pleases you here, ask it of me and it shall be yours. Do you desire one of these dancers for your stay? Take your pick. They have been selected and trained by my own concubine, whom I took when I slew Kuchlug.' It did no harm to remind them that he had slain the great chief bare-handed in the midst of his people. It was the kind of feat that made the reputation of an ambitious man.

  'Your generosity is far-famed,' said another, younger chieftain. 'We are much intrigued by your scheme to take Sogaria. But we are puzzled by your plans for this great crowd of slaves. Would you explain this?'

  'Aye,' said leather-face, who sat upon Bartatua's other side. 'We have always defeated the city folk easily because we ride like the wind across the plain. While they lumber about in their armoured formations, we strike behind them and are gone. It is our swiftness and our incomparable bows that give us mastery. If we must take along these slaves, we shall be slowed to a walking pace and much of our advantage shall be lost.'

  'Attend me, then, and I shall explain.'

  The Kagan of the Ashkuz was taller than most of his race, with the long arms and tremendous shoulders of a great bowman. He was of the western Hyrkanians, with green eyes, and auburn hair worked into a number of small plaits. His handsome features had a slightly east-era cast, but his skin was fair beneath its weathering. Tattooed swirls decorated his cheeks, adding to the powerful ferocity of his countenance. Although Bartatua had no more than thirty years and was quite young to be so great a Kagan, his personal force and aura of power were those of a great leader of men. He sipped at his wine as he prepared his explanation.

  'Within a few days, we shall begin our campaign. The slaves will not be needed until we commence siege

  operations, so they shall not move with the regular army. Instead, they shall be sent forth first, under a small herding force. A few days later, the cavalry squadrons under their leaders shall move out. They shall pass the slaves before the borders of Sogarian territory are reached.'

  The others nodded, understanding the thrust of his tactics.

  'The first stage of operations,' Bartatua went on, 'shall be much like our accustomed raiding into the territory of the city people. A large number of detached forces shall hit several targets at once. These shall be outlying forts, villages and the like. Our purpose shall be to harry and terrify. It is important at this stage that we do little killing, no more than necessary.'

  'Why is that?' asked the older chief. It was ancient Hyrkanian custom to massacre all the defeated who were deemed of no value once their goods had been taken.

  'Because the people are more useful to us alive at this stage. Once they realise that their homes and garrisons are no longer safe, they will flee, and they will all go in a single direction.'

  'Straight into Sogaria!' said the younger chief.

  'Exactly, my friend,' Bartatua said with hearty approval. 'We shall herd them like sheep. They will pour into Sog
aria until the city bulges like a wineskin, eating up its stores, fighting for space to live, stirring up hatred among the regular inhabitants. Each batch of fleeing peasants shall make our task easier for us.'

  'Soon even the city folk must see the foolishness of taking in so many useless mouths,' said the older chief. 'They will close the gates against them.'

  Bartatua waved his hand in an airy gesture. 'Such as

  huddle without the walls we can dispose of handily. Some we may press into siege works. By the time we herded the whole countryside into the city, our entire horde will be reunited and we shall have the place surrounded. By then, the marching slaves shall have arrived and we may commence siege operations.'

  'This is a most sagacious plan,' said the older ', 'and you may count on my horde for this one.' The younger roan vigorously assented as well.

  He was deeply satisfied. His plans went much further than the taking of a single city, but he did not wish to burden these simple warrior-chiefs with anything too complex. In any case, he needed a season as sole leader of the united tribes so as to cement his position as over-chief of all the hordes, Ushi-Kagan. Let the tribesmen get a taste of the loot to be had and they would demand that he lead them to further conquests. In the meantime, he would accomplish much more with weapons than he would with talk.

  His ambitions spanned a far greater compass than these chiefs, and the others who sat in the tent, could ever comprehend. As a boy, he had listened to the tales of travellers describing distant lands and their great cities. He had gone on raids that probed the borders of those lands, and he had seen how soft, slow and poorly organised the civilised powers were. He wanted nothing less than to conquer them all, and to take all they had as his personal property. He would take great Khitai first, then voluptuous Vendhya, and after that, perhaps Turan and the gleaming kingdoms of the west, then sorcerous Stygia, and the lands south of Stygia, of which he had heard that the people were black and that there were elephants greater than those of Vendhya.