The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  'Very well,' Conan said. 'I accept your commission. I will need five thousand now. In this town the authorities alone have set a high standard for bribe-taking.'

  Casperus nodded. 'Done. And may I say, sir, that you fulfil my highest expectations as a man of decisive action.' The fat man rose and crossed to the pile of effects on the floor. He uncovered a strongbox and opened it with a key that hung from his neck on a golden chain. From the box he extracted five clinking bags of soft leather. Relocking the box, he returned to his chair.

  'Each of these bags contains ten golden imperials of Aquilonia, each coin worth a hundred marks.'

  Conan took the weighty bags and placed them in his belt pouch. 'Now describe the thing to me. I know that it is a woman-headed scorpion, but how large is it? Will I need help to move it? Is it heavy enough to require an ox cart?'

  Casperus chuckled. 'By no means, sir. The value of the object is in its beauty and the sorcerous art of its making. It is only about thus long,' he held his hands nearly a foot apart, 'and perhaps half as high.'

  'So small?' Conan said, astonished.

  'That is what makes it so easy to hide and transport. Had it been the size of a great sphinx of Stygia, it would never have been stolen. Its colour, as I have said, is black, and the lacquer itself is beautiful in its own Way. You would think it made of obsidian until you should lift it. It is quite weighty for its size. This is not the weight of the base metal alone, but also the burden of its sorcerous power and its many curses.'

  Conan felt an involuntary shiver. 'Do not speak so much of sorcerous things.'

  'Then just consider it a valuable object, sir, and fetch it for me.'

  Conan rose. 'I will return when I have the thing in my hands. Good evening to you.'

  Casperus rose and bowed. 'And the best of fortune to you, sir, the very best of fortune!'

  The Cimmerian left the upper chamber and descended the stair to the street below. He was cheerful as he wended his steps to-

  ward the inn, the bags making a comfortable weight at his waist. Surely, his fortune had turned since he departed Belverus.

  Within his room at the inn, Conan noticed something subtly wrong. He held his candle high and surveyed his surroundings. The scanty furniture was as he remembered it. Then he saw that one of his saddlebags lay on the floor a bit to one side of a crack in the wall. He distinctly remembered placing it directly against the crack on the previous night, to block a draft. He was sure he had not touched it since. He crossed to the bag and examined it. Nothing had been taken. There had been nothing in it of any value. The Cimmerian knew better than to leave valuables in a hired room. He shrugged. Doubtless, he thought, some thieving inn servant had rifled his goods in search of loot. He turned at scratching from the adjoining door. He kept his hand on his sword hilt until he was certain that it was Brita.

  'Ah, there you are!' she said. 'I grew worried, with you away for so long. Where did you go?'

  'First, tell me what you've been doing,' Conan said.

  She sat on the bed, her look despondent. 'Since the perfumer's, I have had no luck. It is as if Ylla has vanished into the air.'

  'Well, do not lose heart. This is not a large city, but it has more than enough room for one girl to hide herself for some time. As for me, I had an invitation to dinner and I accepted it.' He began to unbuckle his brigantine, turning slightly to slip it off his shoulders. 'It was from a strange man, an unbelievably fat fellow named Casperus.' He turned back to see that her face had gone deathly pale. 'What is it, lass?'

  She shook herself and the look vanished. 'Oh, nothing. I but had a fleeting memory of a fat man I detested when I was a girl.' The strange look had disappeared so quickly that Conan thought it might have been a trick of the flickering candlelight. She smiled at him brightly. 'And please, take no note of my changing moods. I do not want you to think that I am some flighty girl who does not appreciate all you have done for her.' She stood and came closer, smiling. 'I am, in fact, a grown woman, and very grateful.' Of a sudden, her face was no longer as innocent as its wont, .aid the Cimmerian was acutely aware of the ripe beauty he had .admired upon first seeing her.

  'And,' she went on, 'I did say that I would find some way to repay you.' She came into the circle of his arms and he crushed her to him as eagerly as she drew his lips down to her own.

  VI

  The Richest Man in Sicas

  Another day in the city, and still no sign of Piris. Conan decided, that he had waited long enough. If the strange little man still' wished to employ him, he would just have to await his turn to claim the Cimmerian's services.

  He had left Brita sleeping blissfully and gone below to lay in his usual substantial breakfast. Afterward he checked with the gate guard, to learn that there was still no sign of Piris. Next he headed for the Square. He now had a sufficient working knowledge of the town, and he knew where to go for information. He idled the morning away among the stalls and beggars, until he saw the person he wanted, standing before a dressmaker's shop.

  Delia turned and smiled broadly at his approach, 'I knew that you would seek me out.'

  She was a comely woman, but Conan's night with Brita had left him desirous only of information. For a girl raised in a sheltered home, Brita was most ardent and most eager to experiment. He gestured toward an open-fronted wineshop.

  'Have you had your midday meal yet?' he asked.

  She threw back her head and laughed lustily. 'I just got up! Hut I'll let you buy me breakfast. Come on.' She walked ahead of him, rolling her hips as if her spine had more bones than a snake's. She chose a table next to the low wall that separated the wineshop from the plaza and shouted for a server. The day was cool but a bronze bowl of hot coals stood in the centre of the able. The server brought heated wine and returned minutes later with laden platters.

  Delia picked up a fowl and bit into it, leaning with her elbows on the table. After swallowing a large mouthful, she spoke.

  'Well, what drew you back to me, Cimmerian? Was it my face or my body? Both are unsurpassed in this city.'

  'Tell me about a man named Andolla,' Conan said.

  She choked slightly, then looked at him in wide-eyed astonishment. 'What are you up to now?'

  'Business.' he said.

  'That being the case, I am accustomed to being paid for my services.' The Cimmerian placed a handful of silver coins on the table and Delia scooped them up expertly, dropping them into her ample cleavage. Still holding the fowl in one hand, she pointed with the other. 'You see that temple?'

  Conan looked to where she indicated. The building was an imposing one, set back from the Square by the width of a broad terrace and a ceremonial stairway. Its columns were red and black marble. Smoke from an altar fire seeped through an opening in the roof.

  'That's the old Temple of Mitra. People here care so little for the state gods that the priests closed it down years ago. A short time back, this man Andolla came to town and took charge of it. He dedicated it to Mother Doorgah, a Vendhyan goddess with breasts almost as splendid as mine.' She shook her shoulders to emphasise her endowments.

  'I saw this goddess yesterday, carried in a procession,' Conan said. 'For the money, I expect more information.'

  'Don't be so impatient,' she grinned. 'Don't you want to see if I compare favourably to her?'

  He grinned back. 'Later, perhaps. Business now. What is this Andolla's brand of knavery?'

  She pouted. 'Oh, very well. This procession you saw was made up of young people, was it not?' The Cimmerian nodded. 'Perhaps you also noticed that they were well dressed. That is because Andolla seeks followers who share three qualities: youth, wealth, and stupidity. He seems to find many such. Once, they attend his rituals, they act like his slaves. They squander their inheritances upon him, and some rob their parents, occasionally with violence.'

  'And do these parents take no action?' Conan asked.

  She wiped her mouth with a corner of the tablecloth. 'People who raise such children are usuall
y worthless themselves. Oh, a few have gone to the temple to confront Andolla, but his guards I expel them, and one or two have died because he cursed them, or at least so he claims.'

  Conan rubbed his chin as he stared at the temple with calculation. 'So this religious rogue has grown very rich, has he?'

  'Extremely.' She smiled slyly. 'What are you planning? You can tell me.' She feigned a look of innocent sincerity, causing Conan to laugh aloud.

  'Delia, if I have something in my mind that I wish to keep to myself, you are the last person I would inform.'

  She laughed as raucously. 'Be careful of him, Conan. He is most suspicious of people who seem both strong and clever and have no wealth to bring him.'

  'Know you of a good lever with which I can pry that place open?' he asked.

  She picked up a small apple and bit it in two, chewing it slowly, seeds and all, before swallowing. 'There is a rich man of this town named Rista Daan, a spice merchant. He has a daughter named Rietta. She has been taken under Andolla's spell and has fled to the temple with a great sum of money. The father wants her back and has tried to hire bravos to go there and take her, but the gang leaders have been paid off by Andolla and refuse to

  rouble him. That might be a good place to start, whatever you have in mind.'

  'Well, well,' drawled a voice the Cimmerian had heard before. 'Look at who is consorting with Maxio's slut!' Conan turned slightly to see the three thugs clad in red leather whom he had encountered on his first day in Sicas: the tall one, the short one, and the one with the stringy yellow beard. It was the tall one who had spoken. 'Still in town, eh, Cimmerian?'

  'It would be pointless to deny it,' Conan answered.

  'Barbarians should not pretend to wit,' said the bearded one.

  'Half-wit boys should not pretend to manhood, however long their swords,' Conan returned. He felt Delia's restraining hand upon his corded forearm.

  'Leave us in peace,' Delia said. 'We want no trouble with you.'

  'We might have done so,' said the short one. 'But now this savage has insulted us. We do not tolerate such insolence.'

  Conan turned to Delia. 'These three have baited me since I arrived in town. I think that three times should be sufficient for anyone to endure them.' His tone was easy and conversational. Her expression was a near-comic mixture of apprehension and excitement.

  'Don't be foolish,' she urged. 'There are three of them.'

  He shrugged. 'That still won't make it an even fight.' He glanced beyond the three. On the other side of the Square was the temple. A short distance away from it was the house of the rich man named Xanthus. He beckoned to a server, who came running, his expression fearful. The Cimmerian pointed to the platter of hot breads and meat on the table before him. 'Fetch a cover for this. I do not want it to get cold while I attend to this matter.' Then he rose. 'I will be back shortly,' he said to Delia, who goggled at him in disbelief.

  The Cimmerian sprang lightly over the low wall and pointed to a spot near the centre of the Square. 'Let's go over there and fight,' he suggested.

  The thugs stared in amazement. They had lost a little of their confident swagger. The tall one shrugged. 'You may die anywhere you like, foreigner.'

  Conan walked easily, followed by the three, his hands well away from his weapons. He did not expect a fair fight, having seen them kill before, but he doubted that their vanity would let them cut him down from behind. Even so, he kept far enough in advance of them to be safe. The slightest rasp of blade unsheathing would be all the warning he would need.

  He stopped in a decorative circle formed of coloured paving stones. He was within easy view of the temple, the Reeve's headquarters, and the palace of Xanthus. Word of the impending fight had spread with uncanny swiftness. People were already coming out onto stairs, balconies, and rooftops to witness the show.

  'This seems a good spot,' the Cimmerian announced.'Plenty of room to fight.'

  'However you choose to perish, barbarian,' said the bearded one.

  Conan turned to face them. The three came forward slowly, the short one and the bearded one edging away from the tall one, who stood in the centre. Each grasped his sheath in one hand, the long grips positioned almost vertically. Conan knew that they would draw straight up and cut straight down, the quickest way to attack with such a weapon, and the most efficient for three men standing so close. A horizontal or an oblique cut might foul a companion's blade.

  'How will you have it, then?' asked Conan. 'One at a time, or all at once?' He caught a glimpse of armour among the quickly forming crowd. It was Ermak, the mercenary leader, come to judge the new talent.

  The three faltered, and the tall one frowned. 'I thought you said you fought only for business,' he muttered.

  'Now it is business,' Conan answered. 'Well, don't stand there all day. My food is getting cold.' Still they did nothing, clearly uneasy at the barbarian's seeming lack of concern. 'Will you laugh as you did when you murdered that man the other day? I hope so. It is always good to die laughing.'

  With a muttered curse, the bearded one grasped his hilt. Too swiftly for the eye to follow, Conan snatched out his dirk and snapped its edge against the man's wrist. The arm came up for the expected vertical draw, but the blade did not follow, nor did lie hand, which remained where it was, gripping the hilt.

  The tall one showed creditable speed, leaping back to give himself both time and distance as he drew, but Conan denied him the latter, springing past the now one-handed man and slamming the dirk upward beneath the tall one's chin, the point piercing the brain in an instant.

  The short one had gone dead white, but his blade was clear of its scabbard. With his free hand, the Cimmerian gripped the man's wrist as he jerked his own blade free of the tall one. The short one's eyes widened with horror as he felt his arm held as immovable as if fixed in a vice. He had only an instant for reflection before the dagger crunched through his ribs, piercing the light mail armour he wore beneath his clothing.

  Conan released the dirk and stepped back, his eyes wary. The tall one had dropped to the pave like a man beheaded. The short one tottered for a moment, still gripping his sword in one hand as with the other he plucked ineffectually at the hilt protruding from his side. Then the blade clattered to the stone and the man tottered and fell. The third gripped his severed wrist, glaring hate at the Cimmerian.

  'Go find a leech with a searing iron and you might yet live,' Conan said in disgust. 'None of you was truly worth killing.'

  The bearded man showed more fight than Conan would have given him credit for. With his left hand, he drew his sword straight up and wheeled around to his left, thrusting to his rear, trying to skewer Conan with his point. It was a tricky move, difficult even for an unhurt master swordsman, which the man was not. Conan simply stepped forward and turned along with the man, as if the two were dancing. He reached over the man's shoulder with one hand and gripped his chin. With the other he gripped the back of his opponent's head and twisted violently. The neck bones sheared audibly and the man dropped by the other two.

  Before proceeding, Conan looked around. It was foolish t assume that just because he had slain his immediate enemies, there would be none of their friends nearby. The crowd was dead'. silent, and no man made a hostile move. Conan nodded grimly, stooped and wrenched his dirk free of the bearded one's corpses He wiped the weapon on the man's red-leather doublet and re-sheathed it, then strolled back toward the wineshop.

  Delia tried to stammer a greeting when he resumed his seat, but she could not get the words out. He took the cover from his plate and began to eat, pleased to note that the food was still warm.

  'I knew you were strong,' Delia stammered at last, 'when you hauled me up on the pedestal yesterday. I knew you were mad when you so easily accepted the challenge of those three killers. But I never thought any man could be so fast!'

  Conan brooded into his cup of hot, spiced wine. 'A man of war who treads the world's roads alone, as I do, must be quick. Rarely do I have a trus
ted comrade to watch my back, or to fight by my side. Long ago I learned to strike swiftly and without scruple. I trouble no man without cause, but one who attacks me had best resolve to die.'

  'And yet you would have spared the man you unhanded,' she said.

  'He was no longer dangerous, alone and one-handed as he was. Considering that he was no warrior, he showed some heart at the end. I do not make such an offer twice.'

  'Uh-oh,' Delia said, 'here comes Ermak. What does he want?'

  'To talk to me,' Conan said, tearing open a loaf of bread.

  The man in half-armour stopped at the table, his left hand resting easily upon the pommel of his basket-hilted sword. He did not bow or make any formal greeting, but only regarded Conan steadily with chill, grey eyes, the eyes of a professional killer.

  'That was a remarkable show, Cimmerian,' he said.

  Conan shrugged. 'It would have been remarkable had made me draw my sword.'

  The man smiled grimly. 'Aye, it was not a fight. Rather, it was an extermination of vermin. Even so, only a real warrior could have done it so handily. My man Nevus told me of you. Are you seeking work? If so, there is a place for you in my band.'

  'I am employed just now,' Conan answered. 'But that may change.'

  'Then seek me out if it does. I am easy to find.' He turned to Delia. 'Where is Maxio hiding these days?'

  She tilted her head back and lowered her lids as if she were looking down her nose at him. 'My man's whereabouts are his own concern. If he wants me to tell you, he will inform me so.'