The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  'We can only forge ahead. We know little of what lies before us. I will whittle away at them as I can. When the facedown comes, well'—he shrugged his broad shoulders—'I am too old a campaigner to try to foretell the outcome so soon. It shall be as always: fight when it is a good idea, run when you must.'

  With their waterskins refilled and in a relatively lighthearted mood, they set off at first light. The mountain loomed ahead of them, but anything seemed preferable to the desert. It was not so great a mountain as the first they had climbed, and it was deeply cleft by the pass defined by the Horns of Shushtu.

  Conan eyed the pass warily as they marched. There was magic up there, black sorcery that dated back ages. He detested all such wizardry, and he knew that it must be of great evil to have remained potent for so long. He had never sought out wizardry, and avoided it at every opportunity. Yet in his adventurous life he had fallen afoul of it more times than he could readily count. Some fate followed him, turning his steps directly toward that which he would most willingly avoid. He did not understand why this should be, but he accepted it as a part of living a life unlike that of other men.

  'Now we near the end,' said Springald, walking along beside the Cimmerian with a spring in his step Conan had not seen for a long time.

  'Speak not of the end until our steps are well set upon the homeward road,' Conan chided. 'It is bad luck to do otherwise.'

  'Superstition!' Springald scoffed.

  'Perhaps,' Conan said, 'but it pays to be cautious.' Ulfilo strode up to them.

  'I own that you were right, Conan,' he said grudgingly. 'The rest has done us all much good.' It was not exactly an apology but Conan had expected none.

  'Aye, we are ready for the mountain now,' the Cimmerian answered. 'Think you Marandos has taken care of the guardian spells?'

  'If not, we are in deep trouble,' Springald said cheerfully. 'All my scholarship may avail us little in that case. We could sit outside that pass forever, unless, of course, Sethmes were to come along and help us out.' He laughed merrily at this while Conan resisted the urge to tell him exactly how close he was to the real situation. It would almost be worth it, he thought, just to see the look on their faces, when they understood that, in playing their games of secrecy, they had left themselves open to the greatest betrayal of all.

  'Come, let us not speak pessimistically,' said Malia, linking an arm through Springald's and Ulfilo's. 'The pass is in sight, the mountain is not high, and all is well. We will find my husband hale, we will have the treasure, and we will live forever.' 'That is the spirit!' Springald commended. Malia's recovery had been dramatic. Her burns had faded and her lips were no longer cracked and bleeding. Her hair shone and she was beginning to regain some of the flesh she had lost during the days of greatest privation.

  Conan eyed the mountain in the near distance. Its sides were cloaked in greenery, but it looked far less dense than that upon the earlier mountain. He hoped that meant an easier ascent. It was a part of his calculations that they would make better speed for the rest at the oasis, while the Stygians would be forced to stay there longer themselves. It was his hope to gain the pass before Sethmes and his men and half-men even reached the base of the mountain.

  By midday of the day following the morning when they left the oasis, they stood at the base of the final mountain. A wide path slanted to their right, ascending the slope. Far above, they could see that it cut back to the left.

  'It looks strangely regular,' Springald said, stroking his bearded chin. 'Could it be the remains of a road built long ago?'

  'It is just a washed-out old path, albeit a broad one,' said Ulfilo. 'There is not a paving stone to be seen.'

  'It would indeed be surprising if any paving were to survive after thousands of years,' Springald said. 'Not a stone remains of Python, famous though the city was.'

  'The only stones that interest me are the sort that sparkle and flame in many colours,' Wulfrede said. 'If they are set in crowns and rings, tores and necklaces of gold, so much the better!'

  'Our friend of Vanaheim keeps the crucial matters ever in the forefront of his mind,' said Springald, chuckling.

  'And we may at last find Marandos, my husband,' Malia said. Conan suspected that she said this for the benefit of the other two.

  'We'll find nothing at all if we don't get moving,' Ulfilo told them. 'Let's be off.'

  With that, they began to climb. The ground was uneven, but compared to what had gone before it was an easy climb. The heavy, sloshing waterskins made the going hard, but after the desert they were not about to abandon a drop of water until they found a reliable source. Despite the greenery, the mountain did not appear to be rich in springs.

  The foliage consisted primarily of dense brush and stunted trees that clung to the thin soil. They saw occasional birds and small animals, but no large predators. Rocky crags thrust from the flank of the mountain, and upon some of these stood mountain goats of a stocky breed, with long, knobby horns that formed a sweeping, graceful curve. Overhead soared birds with wide wingspans but they saw none of these land. From time to time, they passed large stones of an oddly regular shape, never very far from the path.

  'I could swear that those stones were cut by the hand of man,' Springald said musingly.

  'They look like mere chunks of rock to me,' said Ulfilo.

  But higher up the evidence grew unmistakable. Halfway up the mountain, they began to see flat, squarish stones atop the peak. A little higher yet, these began to form a definite pavement. At some unthinkably remote date, this had been a road.

  'Much good does it do us,' Ulfilo grumbled. 'What boots that the Pythonians built a road here?'

  'It is the first road we have encountered since we left the civilised lands,' said Malia. 'Let us enjoy walking on a paved road for a change.'

  Springald knelt and examined the paving stones carefully, frowning.

  'Is aught amiss?' asked Conan.

  'It is just ... I cannot say for certain, but it seems to me that this stonework is terribly old.'

  'Python fell long ago,' Ulfilo commented.

  'No, longer even than that. And the treasure wards had no reason to build a road here. The last thing they would have wanted was a regular travel back and forth, or a road pointing the way to their hoard. This must have been here long before the Pythonians came through the pass.'

  'Well, what of that?' said Conan, uneasy despite his words. 'The world is full of old ruins, in out-of-the-way places. If these few blocks date from the time of Atlantis it is not so great a marvel.'

  'Perhaps . . . perhaps you are right, my friend. It may be of no significance.' He sounded like a man trying to convince himself.

  They resumed their climb. Despite the easy going, all suffered from depressed spirits, except for Goma. The road was only a path of square-cut stone, but something in its very antiquity was depressing, as if it mocked the very brevity of their lives.

  As they ascended, the Cimmerian from time to time left the road to climb atop a prominent crag and spy out the mountainside ahead of them, and also downslope, along the path they had already negotiated. Ulfilo was not slow to notice this behaviour.

  'With unknown dangers ahead of us,' he said, 'wherefore do you pay so much attention to that which lies behind?'

  'It is never wise to think that danger can come from one direction only. I have seen many armies destroyed by an unexpected flank attack. Others have been overtaken by a pursuer thought to be far away.''

  'I never thought to be given military lessons by a naked savage,' Ulfilo said. 'And why speak of armies when we are a world away from the nearest civilisation, when we have not seen so much as a village in a score of leagues?'

  ' 'You hired me to help you find your brother,'' the Cimmerian maintained. 'I have served you well, and I will go about the task in my own fashion.'

  'Very well,' said Ulfilo with ill grace, 'but I am not satisfied with your explanation. Best I were not to learn that you have betrayal in mind.'
r />   'Do you accuse me of treachery?' said Conan, a dangerous gleam in his eye.

  'Will you two cease this stupid bickering?' Malia said sharply. 'We are almost at the Horns of Shushtu! Have we come all this way, enduring mountains and desert and jungle, just to have you two cut each other's throats over a few foolish words? I forbid it! We have come too far!'

  'Yes, now of all times we must be united,' agreed Springald. 'We are near our goal but our trials are not at an end. Let us reserve our energies for the task ahead. Curb your ferocity, my friends.'

  Slowly, the two bristling warriors lowered their hands from their hilts. The sailors watched apprehensively and Goma watched with sardonic amusement.

  'I am willing to let the matter drop,' Conan said. 'But it is my custom to answer such words with steel.'

  'For the sake of the mission, I am willing to let the matter rest here,' Ulfilo said. He was about to add more but an angry glare from his sister-in-law silenced him.

  'If that is settled, then let us go,' Goma said. 'We can be at the Horns by nightfall.'

  The rest of the day's march was accomplished amid a gloomy silence. Conan did not scan their backtrail again, but he was satisfied that the Stygian party was well behind them. He suspected that they still rested at the oasis and had not yet attempted the mountain.

  The Horns of Shushtu loomed ominously above them, the two jagged crags all but identical except for their bizarre difference of colour. Their sense of unease increased as they drew nearer the Horns. Clouds began to gather, and lightning flickered above he jagged crests.

  'An ill place to be if a tempest comes,' said Springald.

  'Aye,' said Conan. 'A hard one could sweep us right off this mountain.'

  'Such storms must be why the road was obliterated on the lower slopes,' Springald opined. 'The torrents in the gorges must gather tremendous strength as they drain the slopes lower down, then overflow their banks with the power of—'

  'Save your wind for marching,' barked Ulfilo. 'Pick up the pace! We must be in the pass before the storm strikes!'

  They began to walk faster, then to trot. Hardened as they were by the long trek, this last burst of speed was murderous. By the time they gained the level ground between the Horns, Most of them were near collapse. Many of the sailors fell to the ground, gasping and retching, coughing their lungs out with agonizing pain. They had no time to examine their surroundings, for the storm broke upon them even as the last of the men came staggering in.

  Lightning flared luridly, accompanied by simultaneous claps of deafening thunder. The travellers set their burdens on the ground and crouched low, bracing themselves against the howling wind, tensing every muscle each time the lightning flashed. The bolts made an eerie, sizzling crackle as they snaked along the valley between the Horns, and their nostrils stung with a strange, sharp scent that accompanied each brilliant discharge.

  A flash of lightning brought two abrupt, brief screams that

  sounded even above the thunderous blast that accompanied it. Two of the sailors were incinerated in an instant, their screams merely a reflex of bodies turned to charred skeletons in a moment's time.

  A torrent of water sluiced through the narrows like a small river in full spate. They gripped rocks, dug their fingers into the ground, anything to keep from being swept back through the pass onto the steep road and the crags that awaited below.

  Conan, quick-witted as always, drew his dirk an instant before the wall of water struck. He jammed the foot-long blade into the ground hilt-deep and gripped its handle with iron strength. No sooner was he braced against the torrent than something swept back against him, a flailing thing of arms and legs and a voice that screamed in terror. He recognised the slender limbs instantly and wrapped a powerful arm around the slender waist. Malia's arms went around his neck and she clung to him tightly as a barnacle, shivering with dread and with the bone-chilling cold of the water, accompanied as it was by an uncannily cold wind. Even in such dire extremity, Conan was able to appreciate the feel of Malia's body against his own.

  Abruptly as it had begun, the rain and wind ceased. Within a few minutes the water drained from the pass and the survivors sat up to assess the damage.

  'Who would have thought,' Springald said, 'that such a short time ago we were complaining about lack of water?'

  Wulfrede laughed uproariously, 'Aye, and about the heat as well!' His breath made a white steam before his red beard and, incredibly, a few flakes of snow drifted down upon his shoulders. The drop in temperature had been dramatically sudden and they shivered in their rags.

  'Malia!' Ulfilo shouted. 'Do you live?'

  'I am here,' the woman said, unwinding herself from the Cimmerian, who was somewhat reluctant to let go. 'The water swept me away but Conan saved me.'

  Conan stood and tugged his dirk free of the hard-packed dirt of the pass. 'How many of us are left?' A quick head count

  revealed that, besides the leaders of the little band, five sailors remained alive. Toward the western end of the pass they found the two lightning-struck men wedged, freakishly, between a boulder and the vertical rock wall. They made a ghoulish spectacle, little more than charred flesh over bones, with white teeth and golden earrings winking strangely from the horrid mass. Their steel weapons had melted and fused with their corpses.

  'Mitra!' cried Malia, turning away and covering her face with both hands. She had seen much bloodshed and cruelty in her brief life, but this was a sight of unsurpassed horror.

  Of the other sailors there was no sign. Apparently, they had been swept out of the pass and over the edge of the paved road, to lie shattered somewhere down the slope.

  Conan looked in all directions. 'Where is Goma?'

  'Why,' Ulfilo said, surprised, 'the fellow was well ahead of us when the storm broke, about fifty paces before me when I last saw him. He must have been swept away as well.'

  'Did anyone see him go past?' Conan asked.

  ' 'Who was looking?'' said Wulfrede. ' 'We all had our own concerns with saving ourselves. It was only the greatest of luck that Malia struck you in passing. Would you have seen her otherwise?''

  'You mean we no longer have a guide?' Malia said. 'This is calamitous.'

  Ulfilo shrugged. 'The man only agreed to guide us as far as the Horns, and he did that. It is unfortunate that he has not lived to collect his pay, but he may have wished to turn back here in any case.'

  'Perhaps he is still alive, farther up the pass,' Springald said. 'Let us look.'

  'Aye, we might as well, since we must be through the pass soon, else we freeze,' said Wulfrede, clapping his arms against his shivering sides. 'I am from a cold land, but it has been many years since I fared thither, and by Ymir, I never thought to see snow in the black lands!' Random flakes still drifted down, and among them all only Conan showed no sign of distress from the cold.

  'I have known many mountain storms,' said Conan, 'and the violence of this one was in no wise strange. But its suddenness was, and we should not see such cold accompanied by snow. This mountain is not high enough for that. Is this more wizardry? Is it a part of the ancient curses left to defend the treasure of Python?' All looked to Springald for enlightenment. He was fussing with his satchel, fearful that water had entered it and damaged his books. Reassured that the satchel had remained watertight, he addressed them.

  'It is quite conceivable. It is also likely, though, that the spell has lost much of its potency, for if the Pythonians had such control over the powerful forces of nature, then surely we all should have been slain. This may have been the last, feeble gasp of the ancient magic, especially since the Stygian priest entrusted Marandos with spells to neutralize the guardian curses.'

  'Feeble!' Malia exclaimed. 'I rejoice that we did not encounter this curse at full strength!'

  'This whole mad venture is cursed!' shouted one of the sailors. The eyes of all of them were wide with terror. 'We will all die if we continue! We must go back!' Despite their evident exhaustion, they seemed more
than ready to flee all the way back down the mountain. Ulfilo's face coloured and he was about to launch into a roaring diatribe, but Wulfrede silenced him with an upheld palm. The shipmaster went to the speaker and stood before him, his thumbs hooked casually in his belt.

  'I will not argue with you, Alkhat. I release all of you from your obligation to me, and to our employers.' He spoke quietly, without a trace of rancour. 'Be off with you now, and take my blessing.'

  The sailors stood, nonplussed. 'But what of you, Captain?' asked one.

  Wulfrede's red eyebrows went high in mock surprise. 'Me? Why, I go on with the others, as I agreed to do long ago.' He half turned to address Ulfilo, Springald, Malia, and Conan. 'You do intend to continue, do you not?' They all nodded. He

  turned back to the sailors. 'But you are free of your obligation. You may go.'

  'But, Captain,' said the one named Alkhat, 'we will die in I hat desert, or in the jungles if we should get so far.'

  Wulfrede smiled benignly. 'I can see that you have been conversing with our schoolman. Already, you speak like a wise man.' He turned back and began to walk up the canyon. 'Come, my friends, I would be through this pass before it is fully dark.' The others went with him. Hesitantly, reluctantly, the surviving sailors followed.

  'There, you see? Was that not simply settled?' asked the Van. 'There was no need to take a hard line with the lads. They had a right to be upset. But they understand the difference between grave danger and certain death. They have chosen the former.'

  'You know how to handle your men, shipmaster, I'll grant you that,' Ulfilo conceded grudgingly.

  'Crom's bones!' Conan said. 'Look at this!' They were back at the point where they had gone to ground to weather the storm, and now they could see that the vertical stone walls to either side were covered with carvings. Line upon line, they marched up the walls as high as the eye could discern. Conan studied them in the fading light.

  'Some of these look like Stygian hieroglyphs,' the Cimmerian said, 'but others are of a sort I have never seen.'

  'You are right,' Springald said. He held one of his books, and looked back and forth from it to the incised figures. 'The clearer marks are hieroglyphs, which have changed very little from the days of Python to now. But the others are far more worn, and see'—he pointed to a confused section of the carvings—'the Pythonian carvings were carved over the others!'