The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  Time passed while the inconclusive archery duel continued. Then a group of thirty men advanced, pushing before them a great shield made of planks from the boats and the timbers of the boathouse itself. They had found an oxcart and mounted the mantlet on the wheels, which were great Solid disks of oak. As they rolled it ponderously before them, it hid them from the sight of the defenders except for glimpses of their moving feet.

  It rolled toward the gate, and the straggling line of archers converged toward it, shooting as they ran.

  'Shoot!' yelled Valenso, going livid. 'Stop them ere they reach the gate!'

  A storm of arrows whistled across the palisade and feathered themselves harmlessly in the thick wood. A derisive yell answered the volley. Shafts were finding loopholes now as the rest of the pirates drew nearer; a soldier reeled and fell from the ledge, gasping and choking, with an arrow through his throat.

  'Shoot at their feet!' screamed Valenso. 'And forty men at the gate with pikes and axes! The rest hold the wall!'

  Bolts ripped into the sand before the moving shield. A bloodthirsty howl announced that one had found its target beneath the edge. A man staggered into view, cursing and hopping as he strove to withdraw the quarrel that skewered his foot. In an instant he was feathered by a dozen arrows.

  But, with a deep-throated shout, the pirates pushed the mantlet against the gate. Through an aperture in the centre of the shield they thrust a heavy, iron-tipped boom, which they had made from the ridgepole of the boathouse. Driven by arms knotted with brawny muscles and backed with bloodthirsty fury, the boom began to thunder against the gate. The massive gate groaned and staggered, while from the stockade bolts poured in a steady stream; some struck home, but the wild men of the sea were afire with fighting lust.

  With deep shouts they swung the ram, while from all sides the others closed in, braving the weakened arrow-storm from the walls and shooting back fast and hard.

  Cursing like a madman, the count sprang from the wall and ran to the gate, drawing his sword. A clump of desperate men-at-arms closed in behind him, gripping their spears, in another moment the gate would cave in, and they must stop the gap with their bodies.

  Then a new note entered the clamor: a trumpet, blaring stridently from the ship. On the crosstree, a figure waved and gesticulated wildly.

  The thunder of the ram ceased, and Strombanni's bellow rose above the racket: 'Wait! Wait, damn you! Listen!'

  In the silence that followed that bull's bellow, the blare of the trumpet was plainly heard, and a voice that shouted something that was unintelligible to the people inside the stockade. But Strombanni understood, for his voice was lifted again in profane command. The ram was released, and the mantlet began to recede from the gate as swiftly as it had advanced. Pirates who had been trading shafts with the defenders began picking up their wounded fellows and helping them hastily back to the beach.

  'Look!' cried Tina at her window, jumping up and down in wild excitement, 'They flee! All of them! They are running to the beach! Look! They have abandoned the shield! They leap into the longboat and pull for the ship! Oh, my lady, have we won?'

  'I think not.' Belesa was staring seaward. 'Look!'

  She threw the curtains aside and leaned from the window. Her clear young voice rose above the amazed shouts of the defenders, who turned their heads in the direction she pointed. They sent up a deep yell as they saw another ship swinging majestically around the southern point. Even as they watched, she broke out the royal flag of Zingara.

  Strombanni's pirates were swarming up the sides of their carack and heaving up the anchor. Before the stranger had progressed halfway across the bay, the Red Hand was vanishing around the northern horn.

  III

  The Dark Stranger

  The blue mist had condensed into a monstrous black figure, dimly seen and not quite definite, which filled the hither end of the cave, blotting out the still, seated figures behind. There was an impression of shagginess, pointed ears, and close-set homs.

  Even as the great arms shot out like tentacles toward his throat, the Cimmerian, quick as a flash, struck at them with his Pictish axe. It was like chopping at a trunk of the ebony tree. The force of the blow broke the handle of the tomahawk and sent the copper head flying with a clank against the side of the tunnel; but, so far as the Cimmerian could tell, the blade had not bitten into the flesh of his foe at all. It took more than an ordinary edge to pierce a demon's hide. And then the great fingers closed upon his throat, to break his neck as if it were a reed. Not since he had fought Baal-pteor hand to hand in the temple of Hanuman in Zamboula had Conan felt such a grip upon him.

  As the hairy fingers touched his skin, the barbarian tensed the thickly-corded muscles of his massive neck, drawing his head down between his shoulders to give his unnatural foe the least possible purchase. He dropped the knife and the broken hatchet handle, seized the huge black wrists, swung his legs upward and forward, and drove both bare heels with all his might against the chest of the thing, straightening out his long body.

  The tremendous impulse of the Cimmerian's mighty back and legs tore his neck loose from that lethal grip and sent him shooting like an arrow back up the tunnel down which he had come. He landed on the stone floor on his back and flipped over in a back somersault on to his feet, ignoring the bruises and ready to flee or fight as occasion required.

  As he stood there, however, glaring with bared teeth at the door to the inner cave, no black, monstrous form shambled out after him. Almost as soon as Conan had wrenched 'himself loose, the form had begun to dissolve into the blue mist from which it had condensed. Now it was all gone.

  The man stood poised, ready to whirl and bound up the tunnel. The superstitious fears of the barbarian whirled through his mind. Although he was fearless to the point of rashness toward men and beasts, the supernatural could still throw him into terror-stricken panic.

  So this was why the Picts had gone! He should have suspected some such danger. He remembered such demonological lore as he had picked up in his youth in cloudy Cimmeria and later in his wanderings over most of the civilised world. Fire and silver were said to be deadly to devils, but he had neither at the moment. Still, if such spirits took gross material form, they were in some measure subject to the limitations of that form. This lumbering monster, for instance, could run no faster than a beast of its general size and shape, and the Cimmerian thought that he could outdistance it if need be.

  Plucking up his wavering courage, the man shouted with boyish braggadocio: 'Ho there, ugly-face, aren't you coming out?'

  No reply; the blue mist swirled in the chamber but remained in its diffused form. Fingering his bruised neck, the Cimmerian recalled a Pictish tale of a demon sent by a wizard to slay a group of strange men from the sea, but who was then confined to that cave by this same wizard lest, having once been conjured across nighted gulfs and given material form, he turn upon those who had snatched him from his native hells and rend them.

  Once more, the Cimmerian turned his attention to the chests that lay ranked along the walls of the tunnel . . .

  Back at the fort, the count snapped: 'Out, quick!' He tore at the bars of the gate, crying: 'Drag that mantlet in before these strangers can land!'

  'But Strombanni has fled,' expostulated Galbro, 'and yonder ship is Zingaran.'

  'Do as I order!' roared Valenso. 'My enemies are not all foreigners! Out, dogs, thirty of you, and fetch the mantlet into the stockade!'

  Before the Zingaran ship had dropped anchor, about where the pirate ship had docked, Valenso's thirty stalwarts had trundled the device back to the gate and manhandled it sideways through the opening.

  Up in the window of the manor house, Tina asked wonderingly: 'Why does not the count open the gate and go to meet them? Is he afraid that the man he fears might be on that ship?'

  'What mean you, Tina?' asked Belesa uneasily. Although no man to run from a foe, the count had never vouchsafed a reason for his self-exile. But this conviction of Tina's wa
s disquieting, almost uncanny. Tina, however, seemed not to have heard her question.

  'The men are back in the stockade,' she said. 'The gate is closed again and barred. The men still keep their places along the wall. If that ship was chasing Strombanni, why did it not pursue him? It is not a war galley but a carack like the other. Look, a boat is coming ashore. I see a man in the bow, wrapped in a dark cloak.'

  When the boat had grounded, this man paced in leisurely fashion up the sands, followed by three others. He was a tall, wiry man in black silk and polished steel.

  'Halt!' roared the count. 'I will parley with your leader, alone!'

  The tall stranger removed his helmet and made a sweeping bow. His companions halted, drawing their wide cloaks about them, and behind them the sailors leaned on their oars and stared at the flag floating over the palisade.

  When the leader came within easy call of the gate, he said: 'Why, surely, there should be no suspicion between gentlemen in these naked seas!'

  Valenso stared at him suspiciously. The stranger was dark, with a lean, predatory face and a thin black moustache. A bunch of lace was gathered at his throat, and there was lace on his wrists.

  'I know you,' said Valenso slowly. 'You are Black Zarono, the buccaneer.'

  Again the stranger bowed with stately elegance. 'And none could fail to recognise the red falcon of the Korzettas!'

  'It seems this coast has become a rendezvous of all the rogues of the southern seas,' growled Valenso. 'What do you wish?'

  'Come, come, sir!' remonstrated Zarono. 'This is a churlish greeting to one who had just rendered you a service. Was not that Argossean dog, Strombanni, just now thundering at your gate? And did he not take to his sea-heels when he saw me round the point?'

  'True,' grunted the count grudgingly, 'although there is little to choose between a pirate and a renegade.'

  Zarono laughed without resentment and twirled his moustache. 'You are blunt in speech, my lord. But I desire only leave to anchor in your bay, to let my men hunt for meat and water in your woods, and, perhaps, to drink a glass of wine myself at your board.'

  'I see not how I can stop you,' growled Valenso. 'But understand this, Zarono: no man of your crew shall come within this palisade. If one approaches closer than thirty paces, he shall presently find an arrow through his gizzard. And I charge you to do no harm to my gardens or the cattle in the pens. One steer you may have for fresh meat, but no more. And, in case you think otherwise, we can hold this fort against the ruffians.'

  'You were not holding it very successfully against Strombanni,' the buccaneer pointed out with a mocking smile.

  'You'll find no wood to build mantlets this time, unless you fell trees or strip it from your own ship,' assured the count grimly. 'And your men are not Barachan archers; they're no better bowmen than mine. Besides, what little loot you'd find in this castle would not be worth the price.'

  'Who speaks of loot and warfare?' protested Zarono. 'Nay, my men are sick to stretch their legs ashore, and nigh to scurvy from chewing salt pork. May they come ashore? I guarantee their good conduct.'

  Valenso grudgingly signified his consent. Zarono bowed, a shade sardonically, and retired with a tread as measured and stately as if he trod the polished crystal floor of the Kordavan royal court — where indeed, unless rumour lied, he had once been a familiar figure.

  'Let no man leave the stockade,' Valenso ordered Galbro. 'I trust not that renegade cur. The fact that he drove Strombanni from our gate is no guarantee that he, too, would not cut our throats.'

  Galbro nodded. He was well aware of the enmity that existed between the pirates and the Zingaran buccaneers. The pirates were mainly Argossean sailors turned outlaw; to the ancient feud between Argos and Zingara was added, in the case of the freebooters, the rivalry of opposing interests. Both breeds preyed on the shipping and the coastal towns; and they preyed upon each other with equal rapacity.

  So no one stirred from the palisade while the buccaneers came ashore, dark-faced men in flaming silk and polished steel, with scarves bound around their heads and golden hoops in their ears. They camped on the beach, a hundred and seventy-odd of them, and Valenso noticed that Zarono posted lookouts on both points. They did not molest the gardens, and the steer designated by Valenso, shouting from the palisade, was driven forth and slaughtered. Fires were kindled on the strand, and a wattled cask of ale was brought ashore and broached.

  Other kegs were filled with water from the spring that rose a short distance south of the fort, and men with crossbows in their hands began to straggle toward the woods. Seeing this, Valenso was moved to shout to Zarono, striding back and forth through the camp:

  'Do not let your men go into the forest! Take another steer from the pens if you lack enough meat. But if the men go tramping into the woods, they may fall foul of the Picts. Whole tribes of the painted devils live back in the forest. We beat off an attack shortly after we landed, and since then six of my men have been murdered in the forest at one time or another. There's peace between us just now, but it hangs by a thread. Do not risk stirring them up!'

  Zarono shot a startled glance at the lowering woods, as if he expected to see a horde of savage figures lurking there. Then he bowed and said: 'I thank you for the warning, my lord.' He shouted for his men to come back, in a rasping voice that contrasted strangely with his courtly accents when addressing the count.

  If Zarono's vision could have penetrated the leafy screen, he would have been even more apprehensive. He would have seen the sinister figure that lurked there, watching the strangers with inscrutable black eyes — a hideously-painted warrior, naked but for his doeskin breechclout, with a hornbill feather drooping over his left ear.

  As evening drew on, a thin skim of grey crawled up from the sea-rim and overcast the sky. The sun sank in a wallow of crimson, touching the tips of the black waves with blood. Fog crawled out of the sea and lapped at the feet of the forest, curling about the stockade in smoky wisps. The fires on the beach shone dull crimson through the mist, and the singing of the buccaneers seemed deadened and far away. They had brought old sail canvas from the carack and made shelters along the strand, where beef was still roasting and the ale granted them by their captain was doled out sparingly.

  The great gate was shut and barred. Soldiers stolidly tramped the ledges of the palisade, pike on shoulder, beads of moisture glistening on their steel caps. They glanced uneasily at the fires on the beach and stared with even greater fixity toward the forest, now a vague, dark line in the crawling fog. The compound now lay empty of life — a bare, darkened space. Candles gleamed feebly through the cracks of huts, and light streamed from the windows of the manor. There was silence except for the tread of the sentries, the drip of water from the eaves, and the distant singing of the buccaneers.

  Some faint echo of this singing penetrated into the great hall, where Valenso sat at wine with his unsolicited guest.

  'Your men make merry, sir,' grunted the count.

  'They are glad to feel the sand under their feet again,' answered Zarono. 'It has been a wearisome voyage — aye, a long, stern chase.' He lifted his goblet gallantly to the unresponsive girl who sat on his host's right, and drank ceremoniously.

  Impassive attendants ranged the walls: soldiers with pikes and helmets, servants in satin coats. Valenso's household in this wild land was a shadowy reflection of the court he had kept in Kordava.

  The manor house, as he insisted on calling it, was a marvel for that remote place. A hundred men had worked night and day for months to build it. While its log-walled exterior was devoid of ornamentation, within it was as nearly a copy of Korzetta Castle as possible. The logs that composed the walls of the hall were hidden with heavy silk tapestries, worked in gold. Ship's beams, stained and polished, formed the lofty ceiling. The floor was covered with rich carpets. The broad stair that led up from the hall was likewise carpeted, and its massive balustrade had once been a galleon's rail.

  A fire in the wide stone fireplace dis
pelled the dampness of the night. Candles in the great silver candelabrum in the centre of the broad mahogany board lit the hall, throwing long shadows on the stair.

  Count Valenso sat at the head of the table, presiding over a company composed of his niece, his piratical guest, Galbro, and the captain of the guard. The smallness of the company emphasized the proportions of the vast board, where fifty guests might have sat at ease.

  'You followed Strombanni?' asked Valenso. 'You drove him this far afield?'

  'I followed Strombanni,' laughed Zarono, 'but he was not fleeing from me. Strombanni is not the man to flee from anyone. Nay; he came seeking for something — something I, too, desire.'

  'What could tempt a pirate or a buccaneer to this naked land?' muttered Valenso, staring into the sparkling contents of his goblet.

  'What could tempt a Count of Zingara?' retorted Zarono, an avid light burning in his eyes.

  'The rottenness of the royal court might sicken a man of honour,' remarked Valenso.

  'Korzettas of honour have endured its rottenness with tranquility for several generations,' said Zarono bluntly. 'My lord, indulge my curiosity: Why did you sell your lands, load your galleon with the furnishings of your castle, and sail over the horizon out of the knowledge of the regent and the nobles of Zingara? And why settle here, when your sword and your name might carve out a place for you in any civilised land?'

  Valenso toyed with the golden seal-chain about his neck. 'As to why I left Zingara,' he said, 'that is my own affair. But it was chance that left me stranded here. I had brought all my people ashore, and much of the furnishings you mentioned, intending to build a temporary habitation. But my ship, anchored out there in the bay, was driven against the cliffs of the north point and wrecked by a sudden storm out of the west. Such storms are common enough at certain times of the year. After that, there was naught to do but remain and make the best of it.'

  'Then you would return to civilisation, if you could?'