The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  Decision flashed in his dark eyes. He sprang to his feet and pushed out the cabin door, bellowing: 'Vanchol'

  'Aye, Captain?' said the mate.

  'Set course due south, until the pole star be but one point above the horizon!'

  'Into the open sea, sir?' said Vancho incredulously.

  'You heard me, damn your hide! Due south!'

  Blocks rattled and ropes slapped as the PetreTs yards rotated to take the wind right abeam on the starboard tack, and the carack's blunt bow swung into the new course across the star-spangled sea.

  Menkara retired to his cabin to study the chart. He was afire with the lust for old and sinister knowledge. With the Book of Skelos, Thoth-Amon could become all-powerful. To help Villagro to a throne would be a mere trifle; the great Stygian wizard might even hold the empire of the world within his grasp. And, when the sons of Set held dominion over all lands, what might not be the fortune of the priest Menkara, who had made it all possible?

  Conan thoughtfully followed the running light of the Petrel as the larger carack changed course from east-by-south to due south. He knew nothing of Chabela's presence aboard the Petrel, or Villagro's . plot, or Menkara's ambitions. He only knew―or thought he knew―that Zarono had taken the chart from Ninus and was on his way to the Nameless Isle and its treasure. The reason for the sudden change of course he could not even guess.

  The giant Cimmerian scrambled down the shrouds from the main top with the agility of a monkey. 'Zeltran!'

  'Aye, Captain?'

  'Six points to starboard! Full and by on the starboard tackl Follow the PetreTs light!'

  'Aye aye, sir. Start the starboard braces; helms down; trim the port braces…

  Helms up; straighten her out… Steady as you go…'

  Conan stood silently at the quarterdeck rail as the Wastrel took her new course into strange waters. Once they left the coast of the continent, they would have no means of knowing where they were beyond the pole star, which, on clear nights, would tell them how far they had come in a north-south direction. Zarono had better know whither he was bound. If he got lost on the featureless plain of water, he would lose the Wastrel as well.

  As far as Conan knew, the darkly glittering immensity of water before him ran clear to the world's edge. What might lie beyond it he could not even guess.

  Old legends whispered of fabulous islands, strange continents, unknown peoples, and weird monsters.

  The legends might even be true. Less than a year had elapsed since, in this selfsame Wastrel, he had sailed with its former captain, the saturnine Zapo-ravo, to an unknown island in the West, where Zapo-ravo and several of the Zingaran crew had met their doom. Few things in Conan's adventurous life had been stranger or more sinister than the Pool of the Black One and its inhuman attendants. Now, for all he knew, he might be on his way to even deadlier perils.

  He drew a deep breath and laughed gustily. Croml A man can die but once, so what boots it to maunder over imaginary perils? Enough to combat the terror when you meet it, with steel in your hand and battle madness in your heart. He would take his chances with fate on the Nameless Isle, ahead of him on the rim of the world.

  V

  At the World's Edge

  All night, the two caracks plied the warm southern waves. With dawn, the Wastrel, as she had done for the past five days, took in sail to drop back, so as not to be seen from the Petrel in the waxing light. With nightfall, if they had not yet reached the Nameless Isle, she would make up the time, since her slimmer hull and hollowed bow gave her an advantage in speed over the blunter, beamier Petrel.

  Meanwhile, the WastreVs sharp stem cut through the endless hillocks of blue-green. Flying fish leaped from her forefoot to hurl themselves aloft, soar for half a bowshot, and plunge back into the sea. Neither carack had sighted another ship since taking the southerly course.

  Presently, a cluster of cloudlets appeared in an otherwise clear sky. The Petrel altered course to starboard, and in a few hours an island hove into view on the horizon, beneath the clouds.

  From the PetreFs forecastle, Zarono thoughtfully scanned the unknown island. It looked innocuous enough: a tawny-sanded beach; tall, slender palms with emerald fronds. What lay beyond the fence of palm trunks, none could say as yet.

  Menkara, a black cloak wrapped about his lean shoulders, joined Zarono. 'It is the island,' he said tonelessly.

  Zarono's white teeth showed in his sallow face as he smiled. 'Aye, priest, so it isl Now about this treasure: how is it guarded? Ghosts, demons, or merely a few dragons? I count on your supernatural powers to shield us from harm whilst we loot the tombs or crypts or whatever they are. Vanchol Take her into yonder bay, if it prove deep enough…'

  A quarter-hour later, Zarono commanded: 'Let go the anchor! Trice up all sailsl Vancho, lower the first longboat and pick a landing party―all stout men, well armed.'

  With much bustle and clatter, the boat was lowered and a dozen Zingarans, clanking with arms, swarmed down ropes to take their places on the thwarts. They pulled away from the Petrel to the beach. There they ran the boat's nose up on the sand, then piled out into shallow water to haul the boat farther up on the strand. Under the boatswain's command, they spread out along the beach, swords drawn and fingers on the triggers of crossbows, warily watching the palms. A small group pushed into the trees out of sight and presently reappeared, waving an all-clear signal to the Petrel.

  'Lower the other boat,' said Zarono. He and Menkara took their places, together with eight more sailors. Vancho remained aboard the Petrel.

  The second boat reached the shore without incident. Zarono mustered his men. In a few minutes he, Menkara, and the bulk of the landing parties had vanished into the palms. Three buccaneers were left to guard the longboats: a swart, hook-nosed Shemite, a giant black from Kush, and a bald, red-faced Zingaran.

  All of this Conan, in the main top of the Wastrel, observed with keen interest.

  His ship lay just over the horizon, hove to with her foresail backed and rolling uneasily in the long oceanic swells.

  For a time, Zarono's party hacked its way through dense, tropical undergrowth.

  There was no sound save the grunts and heavy breathing of labouring men, the chopping sound of the blades of broadswords and cutlasses as they sheared through the stems of vines and saplings, and the rustle of leaves as the pirates pushed their way through the jungle.

  The air was hot and steamy. Sweat glistened on muscular arms, matted bare chests, and scarred brows. The smell of decaying vegetation blended with that of exotic flowers, which blazed in gold and crimson and white against the dark green of the forest.

  Zarono became aware of another odor, as well. It took him some time to recognise it. At last he realised, with a prickle of revulsion, that it was the musky stench of snakes. With a muttered curse, he pressed to his nostrils a gilded pomander ball, wherein scraps of citron peel and bits of cinnamon yielded a spicy scent. But, even above the soothing smell of the pomander, he could still detect the odor of snakes. This puzzled him, when he thought about the matter.

  In his piratical career he had visited many small oceanic islands, and never had he known any to harbour serpents.

  It was sweltering; the close-set palm trunks, draped with loops and curves of flowering lianas, cut off the fresh sea breeze. Soaked with sweat, Zarono probed the greenery about them with sharp black eyes. He spoke to Menkara: 'Save for this damnable stink of serpents, Stygian, I sense naught dangerous about your Nameless Isle.'

  Menkara gave a wan, thin-lipped smile. 'Do you truly notice nothing, then?'

  Zarono shrugged. 'Outside of the stench and the 't heat, no. I had expected supernatural terrors, and I am disappointed. No ghouls or specters―not even a gibbering, drooling thing from a tomb? Ha!'

  Menkara gave him a coldly meditative stare. 'How dull are you Northerners'

  senses! Do you not even feel the silence?'

  'Hm,' grunted Zarono. 'Now that you mention

  A cold p
rickling crawled over Zarono's flesh. Truly, the jungle was ominously silent. One would not expect large beasts on a small island; but still, there should have been the whir of birds, the rustle of scuttling lizards and land crabs, and the rattle of the fronds of the palms overhead as the breeze stirred them. But there was no sound at all, as if the jungle held its breath and watched them with unseen eyes.

  Zarono muttered a curse but controlled his feelings. Busy hacking their way through the brush, the men had not yet noticed anything. Zarono signed Menkara to hold his tongue and plodded after his crew into the interior. But the sensation of being watched did not cease.

  Toward midday, the buccaneers reached their goal. It was strange: pushing through a dense tangle, they suddenly found themselves in an open glade. The jungle ended abruptly, as if the foliage dared not cross an invisible boundary.

  Beyond that unseen circular barrier, flat, sandy soil stretched away, bearing only a few withered-looking patches of lank, pale, colorless grass. Menkara and Zarono exchanged a meaningful glance.

  Amidst this dead zone rose the mysterious edifice they had come to ravish.

  Zarono could not decide on the purpose of this structure; it might equally well be a tomb, a shrine, a temple, or a storehouse. It was a squat, heavy building of a dull, lusterless black stone, which seemed to soak up all the light that fell upon it, so that its physical outlines were difficult to discern.

  The structure was of roughly cubical shape; but its surfaces, instead of being simple squares, were made up of a multitude of planes and curves of irregular form, orientated every which way. There was no symmetry to the structure. It was as if every part of the building had been designed by a different architect, or as if the building had been assembled from parts of a score of other structures chosen at random from many lands and eras.

  The black temple―if such it was―loomed before them in the hazy light. Zarono felt the icy touch of an awe he had never before experienced. An aura of fear, radiating from the squat black thing, unmanned even that tough, steel-nerved ruffian. Blinking, he glared at it, striving to discover the source of the terror that made his breath come in quick gasps and caused his heart to pound.

  The temple looked wrong. The style was like nothing he had seen in his far voyaging. Even the ghoul-haunted tombs of Stygia were not so alien as this irregular block of black stone. It was as if the builders had followed some inhuman geometry of their own―some unearthly canon of proportion and design.

  Menkara's face was grey and pearled with sweat. He muttered, half to himself: 'It is as I thought. The Z'thoum Ritual has been enacted here.' He shivered. 'I had not thought that darksome rite had been uttered aloud these three thousand years…'

  'What is it, yellow dog?'- snarled Zarono, fear making him vicious.

  The Stygian turned wide eyes upon him. 'A protective spell,' he whispered. 'One of very great power. Were any man fool enough to enter the precincts of the temple without the counter-spell, his presence would awaken that which sleeps therein.'

  'Well? Have you this counter-spell?'

  'Thanks be to a Father Set, I have. Little is known of the pre-human serpent-men of Valusia. But, from what little I know, I can weave the counter-spell, albeit I cannot maintain it for long.'

  'Long enough to loot that black thing, I hope,' growled Zarono. 'Best that you set about it, man.'

  'Then go back into the woods, you and your men, and face away from me,' said Menkara.

  Zarono herded his buccaneers back into the brush, where they formed a cluster, with their backs to the clearing. They listened with tight lips as Menkara's voice rolled on in an unknown tongue. What else he did, they did not know. But the light diffused through the foliage seemed to flicker, as of shadows passing and repassing overhead. The Stygian's voice seemed to be echoed from above by other, inhuman voices that spoke with a dry, rasping tone, as if their vocal organs were never designed for human speech. The earth trembled slightly, and the light dimmed as if a cloud had passed athwart the sun…

  At last Menkara, in a weak voice, called: 'Come!'

  Zarono found the Stygian looking aged and bent. 'Hasten,' Menkara murmured. 'The counter-spell will not hold for long.'

  Pale and sweating, Zarono and Menkara entered the temple. Within, there was little light save that which entered through the open portal, and the dull black stone absorbed this light with little reflection.

  At the far end of the irregular chamber rose a huge black altar, and on top of this altar squatted an idol of grey stone. The idol was that of a being that combined the qualities of a man and a toad, with its male characteristics obscenely exaggerated. Toadlike, with a bloated, warty skin, it squatted on the altar. The surface of the grey stone had a rough, crumbly appearance, as if the stone itself were rotting and sloughing away.

  The idol's toothless mouth was slightly open in a mirthless grin. Above the mouth, a pair of pits corresponded to nostrils, and above these a row of seven globular gems, set in a row, corresponded to eyes. The seven gems faintly reflected the light that came through the portal.

  Shuddering at the aura of cosmic evil that radiated from the thing, Zarono tore his eyes away from it. Before the altar lay two small sacks of old leather. One had burst at the seam, and a glittering trickle of gems had poured from it to make a puddle of granulated splendor on the stone pave, shining in the dimness like a constellation sighted through a gap in the clouds.

  Beneath the sacks of jewels was a huge book, bound in the hide of some reptile and fitted with clasps and hinges of bronze, green with age. The scales of the reptile whose skin formed the cover were of a size that no earthly beast had worn for eons.

  The two men exchanged one wordless, triumphant glance. Zarono gathered up the burst sack, carefully so as not to spill out any more of the gems. When he had cradled it in the crook of one arm, he picked up the other sack with his free hand. Then Menkara pounced upon the book, raised it, and clasped it to his bosom. His gaunt visage was flushed and his eyes humid with a strange, darkling ecstasy. Without a word or a backward glance, they tiptoed out ' of the temple, crossed the clearing almost at a run, and rejoined the buccaneers who awaited them uneasily at the edge of the jungle.

  'Back to the ship, and yard' said Zarono.

  All hastened back along the trail they had cut, eager to leave behind this seat of ancient evil, over which accursed forces still hovered, and regain the clean air and blessed sunlight of the open sea.

  VI

  Flaming Eyes

  The princess Chabela had passed through terror and fury into relative calm. She knew not why the traitor Zarono had turned against his liege lord to destroy his royal vessel, nor why the buccaneer had captured her. But she was no longer paralyzed by fear, for at last her hands were free.

  Zarono had locked her in a small cabin with her hands tied behind her back with a length of silken scarf. The flimsy length of scarlet silk seemed un-suited for bonds; but Zarono had learned from a wandering Vendnyan mountebank the art of knotting a cord so as to defy the deftest fingers, and the scarlet fabric, for all its lightness, seemed as tough as rawhide. At meal times, Zarono himself came to the cabin to untie her and later bind her up again. He refused to answer her questions.

  Chabela, however, bore beneath her girdle a small knife. It was common for highborn Zingaran women to carry such a blade, wherewith to end their lives when menaced by brutal rape.

  The resourceful girl put the knife to another use. By stretching and straining, she got her hands on the bulge where lay the knife and teased it out from its concealment. Then she wedged the hilt into a cavity in the wooden scrollwork that formed a sill for the porthole. She withdrew the sheath from the blade and, with her back to the knife, she forced her wrists against the naked blade.

  The task was hard, for she could not see behind fher at such close quarters, and from time to time the bitter lass of the razor-sharp steel burnt her shrinking flesh. Before she had sawn the silk through, her wrists were slick with blood.
r />   But at last it parted.

  Chabela took the knife from its place, returned it to its sheath, and hid it again in her girdle. The silk, now in two pieces, she used to bandage the several small, superficial cuts she had inflicted upon herself.

  Now that she was free, how should she use her freedom? Zarono had left the ship, for she had overheard his last commands. Only part of the crew was left aboard, but Chabela knew that a burly seaman was posted outside the door to her cabin, which in any case was bolted from the outside.

  That left the porthole, which looked upon a turquoise sea, a stretch of cream-coloured beach, and a fringe of palms, thrusting emerald fronds against the clear blue of the sky.

  Luckily for her, Chabela was far stronger, bolder, and braver than most of the delicate noble damsels of the Zingaran court. Few of them would even have dared to attempt what she next did. She opened the casement of the porthole and pulled her gown up through her girdle until the hem was above her knees. Below, a lazy swell rose and fell, a couple of fathoms below the porthole.

  Quietly, Chabela wormed her way through the opening, lowered herself until she hung by her hands, and let go. She struck the water feet-first with a small splash, disappeared beneath the surface, and quickly bobbed up again, spitting water and brushing her heavy black hair back from her face. The water, though not cold, was cooler than the hot, humid air, and its coolness sent a shock through the princess's nerves. The brine stung her cuts.

  Chabela had no time to enjoy the cool embrace of the sea. At any moment a seaman, idly leaning on the rail, might espy her and sound the alarm. Above her rose the ship's high stern, checkered with the panes of the after portholes.

  Above them, the rail of the poop deck and the masts and rigging swayed gently against the sky.

  There would be a seaman posted on the poop somewhere, but at the moment no man's head showed above the rail. If she kept astern of the ship, she would be less likely to be seen than if she came abeam of it, where she would be exposed to the glances of men in the waist and the bow.