The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  He was confident that nothing could stop his hordes of horse-archers once they were united under a single rule. He had accomplished much by force of personality and native intelligence. Now he had as well the aid and advice of his beautiful, utterly ruthless concubine Lakhme. A great deal of his tactical planning in the taking of Sogaria had been her idea, as had the concept of gaining a stranglehold on the caravan routes between east and west. He meant to have the world eventually but he had grasped instantly the importance of control ling all the goods and virtually all the information passing between the great lands. Thus at will he could either terrify or lull into complacency the kingdoms at both ends of the routes.

  He dragged his thoughts back to his tent. Dreams were for the future. For the present, he had yet to firmly cement his alliances with his fellow Kagans.

  'Tonight,' Bartatua announced, 'we have special entertainment. I have selected my most rebellious slaves and prisoners, but only those best skilled in arms. They shall be pitted against one another for our amusement and so that you may see how your enemies are accustomed to fighting.'

  A great cheer greeted this announcement, and slaves came in bearing chests from which protruded a great variety of weapons. The Vendhyan dancers scampered off amid a shower of coins, and the rich carpets upon which they had been dancing were taken up, revealing the bare ground. Silent anticipation reigned.

  'Bring in the first pair,' Bartatua ordered.

  Two men were led in on chains. One was the hulking brute with whom Conan had spoken when he entered the fighter pen. 'This one I know,' said Bartatua. 'He was the victor in the last combat a few evenings ago But you,' he said to the other, 'I know not. Who are you, slave?'

  'I am Conan of Cimmeria, and I am a warrior, not a slave.' He folded his arms across his massive chest and lowered from beneath lowering brows. He was clean-shaven once more, and he had contrived to bathe with a bucket of water and a rough cloth. His skin was now oiled and caught highlights from the torches.

  'Say you so? Yet you wear my neck ring, and that makes you my slave.'

  'No,' Conan said, 'it makes me your prisoner. There is a great difference.' There was nothing subservient in his pose nor in the volcanic glare of his blue eyes.

  'This one has a sharp tongue,' said a warrior as he drew a dagger. 'Let me split it for you, Kagan.'

  Conan turned his baleful gaze upon the one who had spoken. 'You had best dip your dagger in yon bowl of sauce, warrior,' he said.

  'And wherefore should I do such a thing, slave?' asked the man scornfully.

  'Because,' said Conan, 'if you seek to use it on me, I shall make you eat it.' The tent rocked with laughter, and the dagger-bearer would have leaped upon Conan but was checked by a gesture from Bartatua.

  'Nay,' said the Kagan. 'A free man may not fight with a slave as if with an equal. You amuse me, man of Cimmeria, but the time has come to see whether there is more to you than talk.'' He signed to a slave master and the neck rings of the two were unlocked. 'The first fight,' said Bartatua, 'shall be without weapons. Begin.'

  No sooner had the command been given than the huge easterner burst into motion. With a speed incredible in a man so large, his foot whipped up and around, aimed for Conan's face. The Cimmerian was still facing Bartatua and had not even glanced toward his opponent beside him. Any other man would have died in that

  moment, Its neck snapped by the terrible force of this easterner's kick.

  Conan's muscles and nerves acted without hesitation and without need for thought. When the callused f hissed through the space where his head had been Conan was three paces away. The easterner's ft assault flowed into his second as if it were a single motion. The instant his kicking foot touched the ground,, his pivot foot lashed out at the Cimmerian's midsection. Conan slapped the foot aside with his open palm am the easterner spun away, out of range.

  There was a ferocious cheer for the vicious assault and for Conan's superb recovery. The Cimmerian never let his eyes move from the man opposite him, who now stood with one leg slightly advanced, fists clench before him at waist level. He could see that the eastern was using a highly sophisticated style of unarmed combat and that the man was accustomed to killing unskilled opponents with it.

  Conan had no use for highly structured styles, with or without weapons. They taught a man to think in terms of set situations and left him vulnerable to the unexpected. He preferred to rely upon his own strength, speed and reflexes.

  'Come, foreigner,' taunted the easterner. 'Meet your death at the hands of Tsongkha. I have slain hundreds with these hands and feet. Do not fear, I shall not make you suffer.'

  Conan grinned fiercely. The man had expected his first assault to kill, and now he had to boast to prop his shaken courage.

  'I have no intention of suffering,' Conan said. 'Let us see more of your dance.'

  Snarling, Tsongkha leaped in. He feinted a kick at Conan's knee but the true attack came from his right hand, which darted toward the Cimmerian's face, fingers spread to spear the eyes from his head.

  Swift as was the attack, Conan was swifter. He grabbed the easterner's wrist, stopping the fingers an inch from his eyes. With a mighty wrench, he twisted the arm mound and down, and Tsongkha grimaced as bones snapped and tendons tore. His other hand shot up, the other of the pair aimed to smash Conan's nose, but the Cimmerian batted the hand aside and smashed an elbow into the man's temple.

  Tsongkha collapsed upon the ground, and servants had to drag his inert form from the tent. Conan stood relaxed, unwinded. There were cheers for his performance, but not many of those present truly understood t lie intricacies of unarmed combat. Armed almost from birth, the Hyrkanians considered such things to be the sport of boys.

  'The next bout with weapons, Kagan,' called a chief whose face was covered by a dragon tattoo.

  'By all means,' said Bartatua. He looked at Conan and graciously waved a hand over the low table before him. It was still covered with food and wine. 'Excellent fight, Cimmerian. Here, refresh yourself before your next bout.'

  'Why?' Conan asked. 'Do I look tired?'

  Bartatua slapped his thigh in high amusement. 'Never have I seen such arrogance! You shall provide us rare sport. What is your favoured weapon?'

  'The sword.' He eyed the chests of weapons, seeking a blade to his taste.

  ;'Then you shall fight with the lance!' said Bartatua. The Hyrkanians rocked with laughter at this example of singly humour.

  Conan shrugged. 'It is all one.' He picked up a slender lance of Vendhya. It was about seven feet long and made of tough ash wood. At one end was a ten-inch point, razor-edged. At the other end was a steel ball the size of a child's fist. He had handled spears since earliest youth and was expert in their use, but the lance was far from his favourite weapon. Within the confines of the tent, he would not be able to use it to best advantage.

  The next man to be led in was a lean Turanian, tall and saturnine.

  'Choose your weapons,' said Bartatua. The man looked through the chests and came back with a long talwar in one hand and a round steel buckler in the other. The buckler was convex, with four bosses on its face, and was about twenty inches in diameter.

  'Begin,' said Bartatua.

  The Turanian leaned forward and closed with Conan, his shield held well out from his body for best protection from the thrust of a lance. Had Conan been armed with a sword, the man would have held the shield higher, for then the greatest danger would have been a cut to his unhelmeted head. For a spear, though, the prime target area was the torso, and the Turanian knew it.

  Conan thrust for the throat. It was a shrewd and unexpected move, but the Turanian turned it with the edge of his shield and replied with an almost simultaneous cut to Conan's leading thigh. The Cimmerian had to abandon the attack and leap back swiftly. He cursed the surroundings in which he had to fight. In the hands of an expert, the spear was a deadly and versatile weapon, but only if the spearman had room to manoeuvre. Otherwise, it was useful primarily for fighti
ng in

  formation, shoulder-to-shoulder with other spearmen. Against a disciplined body of spearmen, even fine cavalry could find themselves helpless.

  To add to his disadvantage, the Turanian had two weapons, one offensive and the other defensive. As he had shown with his last move, the Turanian could block an attack with one hand while launching an attack of his own with the other. Now the Turanian came in, cutting low at Conan's legs while keeping his shield no higher than before, secure in the knowledge that the Cimmerian's weapon was not useful for an attack to the head.

  Conan had to give ground, but he decided to disabuse the man of the idea that he could not be brained in this fight. Grasping the spear after the manner of a quarter-staff, Conan stabbed downward as if to pin the man's foot to the ground; then, as the shield lowered to protect that extremity, he swung the steel-weighted butt at his opponent's temple. The Turanian escaped a shattering blow only by retreating hastily with his shield, held above him like a turtle's shell.

  When they resumed combat, both men moved with great caution. Each had the other's measure now, and knew he faced a skilled and wily opponent. Conan, though, was aware of something else: He was here not only to survive, but to make an impression on Bartatua. This was settling down to a protracted fight. He had no doubt that he would win in time, but he had to take the audience into account. A group of Vanir, or Kothians or Aquilonians, if they were themselves experienced warriors, would be enthralled by this display of two experts with mismatched weapons feeling each other out, testing one another's strengths and weaknesses and battling cautiously to a decision—or to the death. This pack of horse-archers, on the other hand, might quickly become bored, and Conan could not afford to bore them.

  A decided change in tactics was in order. So far, his opponent's major advantage was in possessing both an offensive and a defensive weapon. Conan had an answer to that. As the Turanian essayed a shrewd offensive attack with the shield, punching with its edge, Conan leaped back as though this manoeuvre had taken him unawares. Then he placed the middle of his lance in his mouth, bit down hard and snapped it in twain.

  'He surrenders!' shouted some in disgust. 'He throws himself on the other's mercy and destroys his weapon! Kill him!'

  But Conan was far from surrendering. In his left hand he now held the half of the lance that bore the point. In his right hand was the half terminating in the small steel ball. In effect, he held a short stabbing spear, such as certain Kushite tribes of his acquaintance favoured, and a light truncheon. The latter weapon was not a true mace, but it was perfectly adequate for braining an unarmoured man. He now slid in swiftly and stabbed beneath the shield. As the shield lowered, he swept the ball at the Turanian's head. At the last moment he had to use the right-hand weapon to block the sword, but the Turanian had become unnerved. Conan had gained a slight advantage, for both of his weapons were equally adept for offence or defence.

  The Turanian knew that he had to win quickly. To the Hyrkanians it looked an even match, with the Turanian perhaps somewhat the favourite. That wily warrior, however, was under no such misapprehension. He recognised that in Conan he faced an enemy deadlier than any he had known. His only hope was to take swift and full advantage of his shield and sword.

  With a blood-freezing war cry, the Turanian rushed in, shield held close to cover his torso, while with his

  sword he sought to split Conan's skull. He risked an almost certain spearhead through his leading thigh, but that was the sort of risk a warrior was accustomed to.

  Instead, Conan dropped to the ground and rolled. The Turanian could not check his rush and fell headlong. Before he could scramble to his feet, Conan was standing behind him. A swift blow of the steel ball paralysed the man's elbow, and the talwar dropped to the ground. Another blow to the shoulder rendered the shield useless. Conan rolled the man onto his back and presented the spearpoint to his throat.

  'Slay him,' said Bartatua after the others had finished cheering.

  Conan withdrew his spearpoint and signalled for his erstwhile opponent to leave the tent. After the man had gone, he turned to the Kagan of the Ashkuz.

  'Why?'

  'Why?'' demanded Bartatua, his face growing crimson at this defiance. 'What kind of warrior leaves a defeated enemy alive?'

  'When a man attacks me unprovoked,' Conan said, tossing the shattered bits of his lance back into a chest, 'I rarely fail to slay him. But why should I slay a fine swordsman who fights me merely because we are both prisoners of a chief who likes to see men fighting?'

  As Bartatua sat dumbfounded, the Cimmerian stepped up to his table and said: 'I will now trouble you for some of that refreshment you offered earlier. This was a harder fight than the first.' He poured a brimming cup of wine and took a long drink; then he picked up a handful of raisins and began tossing them into his mouth. The Hyrkanians stared at him as if at a ghost come to life.

  Bartatua broke into hilarious laughter. 'This man surpasses all expectation. Such insolence is tolerable only in a court fool. Could you entertain us as a fool, Cimmerian?'

  'I am a warrior,' Conan reiterated. 'Put me to work as a warrior and you shall soon know my value. Fools are those who misuse their fellow men.'

  There was deadly silence for a few moments. At last Bartatua said, 'Very well, there is more proving to be done. What next, my friends?'

  'He says he is good with the sword,' said the older of the two flanking chiefs. 'Let him prove it. Give him a sword and set him against another swordsman.'

  'So be it!' cried Bartatua. 'Go choose yourself a sword, foreigner.'

  Conan complied. There were many swords in the chests, from many different nations. He preferred the straight sword of the western lands, but all the swords he could see were of the east. At last he found a Vendhyan sword that had a straight blade. The hilt was too short for his big hand, but he could achieve a comfortable grip by looping his forefinger over the cross-guard. The blade was broad but light and somewhat whippy. He would not have chosen this sword for battle, but against an unarmoured man, it would be adequate.

  'Bring in the next,' called Bartatua.

  The next man who came in was Rustuf. Neither prisoner wasted time on curses or recriminations. Rustuf went to the chests and came back with a sword of Iranistan, slightly curved and single-edged, with a flat, oval guard. Its long handle could be used by one or both hands.

  'Begin,' Bartatua ordered.

  The two faced off and Rustuf immediately started a combination attack, cutting high, low and in between. Conan blocked the cuts efficiently and replied with thrusts from the strong back third of his blade. The weapon was not well designed for the action, but a good swordsman could make do with almost any blade.

  Conan closed in with quick strides and began an attack at the Kozak's head. Rustuf blocked efficiently and replied with repeated attacks at Conan's waist. Conan fell into a routine of cutting high and blocking low, and then Rustuf cut yet lower and nicked the Cimmerian's knee, bringing blood for the first time in the fight.

  'Hah!' said the Kozak. 'I am not quite the child that the other two were, eh, Cimmerian?'

  'Save your breath for fighting, Kozak!' said Conan.

  The pair fell to with a will, and for many minutes steel rang on steel as they advanced and retreated around the righting space allowed. At one point Rustuf pushed Conan back across a table, both blades crossed under the Cimmerian's throat. With a superhuman effort, Conan pushed him away, and the swords licked back and forth like the tongues of fighting serpents.

  The tent resounded with cheers, and warriors from without crowded in to see the spectacle. After one especially vicious exchange, Rustuf threw away his sword and snatched up another that was not hacked into lie semblance of a saw.

  'Prepare now to die, Cimmerian!' shouted Rustuf as fie launched a furious attack.

  Conan was driven back until he fell sprawling upon the spread of meats, fruits, bread and wine flasks before them. Rustuf leaped through the air and fell upon him, cuttin
g furiously. Conan caught his sword wrist and twisted the weapon away from himself, driving the Kozak across the room and leaping upon him in turn.

  With both hands he forced his blade down upon Rustuf's throat.

  'Yield, dog!'

  'Cut and be damned!' said the Kozak. 'I yield to no man!'

  Conan turned to Bartatua. 'Kagan, I ask leave to spare this man. He is a superb swordsman, and he would be an asset to your army.'

  In the excitement of the splendid fight, it did not occur to Bartatua that the Cimmerian had not thought it fit to ask of him the disposition of the first two combatants.

  'Very well. Spare him.' The Hyrkanians acclaimed the Kagan's magnanimity.

  Conan straightened, his chest heaving. 'Have you any more opponents for me?'

  'Nay, this has been a good evening's work. You have proven yourself, Cimmerian. You are slave and prisoner no longer. I name you fifty-leader in my own horde. Does that please you?'

  'It pleases me well, my lord,' said the Cimmerian. He looked about the tent and saw that most were glaring at him. They had enjoyed the tights, but that was not' the same thing as accepting him as a fellow officer. He knew this situation as well. Bartatua was a born general, and he valued nothing but ability in his subordinates. Bartatua's men, however, were different. No foreigner, however skilful he might be, was the equal of a Hyrkanian. He would have to watch his back.

  'What would you have of me?' Bartatua asked. 'You shall have horses, armour, weapons in plenty. What else?'

  'My lord is generous,' said Conan, knowing that it was time to be diplomatic. SI would like to have my last two opponents under my command.'

  'As you will,' said Bartatua. 'Is there anything else?'

  'I would like to have one of your Hyrkanian bows and an expert instructor to teach me in its use.'

  'What?' asked Bartatua mockingly. 'Such a master of weapons, and yet you are not an archer?'