The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  Tina lifted her tear-stained face as if she were listening to the prompting of some inner voice. The child's understanding of Belesa's inmost thoughts was almost uncanny, as was her recognition of the inexorable drive of Fate and the only alternative left to the weak.

  'We must go, my lady!' she whispered. 'Zarono shall not have you. Let us go far away into the forest. We shall go until we can go no further, and then we shall lie down and die together.'

  That tragic strength is the last refuge of the weak entered Belesa's soul. It was the only escape from the shadows that had been closing in upon her since that day when they fled from Zingara.

  'We will go, child.'

  She rose and was fumbling for a cloak, when an exclamation from Tina brought her about. The girl was on her feet, a finger to her lips, her eyes wide and bright with terror.

  'What is it, Tina?' The child's expression of fright induced Belesa to pitch her voice to a whisper, and a nameless apprehension crawled over her.

  'Someone outside in the hall,' whispered Tina, clutching her arm convulsively. 'He stopped at our door, then went on toward the count's chamber at the other end.'

  'Your ears are keener than mine,' murmured Belesa. 'But there is nothing strange in that. It was the count himself, perchance, or Galbro.'

  She moved to open the door, but Tina threw her arms frantically about her neck, and Belesa felt the wild beating of her heart. 'No, no, my lady! Open not the door! I am afraid! I do not know why, but I feel that some evil thing is skulking near us!'

  Impressed, Belesa patted her reassuringly and reached a hand toward the metal disk that masked the peephole in the centre of the door.

  'He is coming back!' quavered Tina. 'I hear him!'

  Belesa heard something, too — a curious, stealthy pad, which she knew, with a chill of nameless fear, was not the step of anyone she knew. Nor was it the step of Zarono, or any booted man. Could it be the buccaneer, gliding along the hallway on bare, stealthy feet, to slay his host while he slept? She remembered the soldiers on guard below. If the buccaneer had remained in the manor for the night, a man-at-arms would be posted before his chamber door. But who was that sneaking along the corridor? None slept upstairs besides herself, Tina, the Count, and Galbro.

  With a quick motion, she extinguished the candle, so that it should not shine through the peephole, and pushed aside the copper disk. All the lights in the hall — ordinarily lighted by candles — were out. Someone was moving along the darkened corridor. She sensed rather than saw a dim bulk moving past her doorway, but she could make nothing of its shape except that it was manlike. A chill wave of terror swept over her; she crouched dumb, incapable of the scream that froze behind her lips. It was not such terror as her uncle now inspired in her, or fear like her fear of Zarono, or even of the brooding forest. It was blind, unreasoning horror that laid an icy hand on her soul and froze her tongue to her palate.

  The figure passed on to the stairhead, where it was limned momentarily against the faint glow that came up from below. It was a man, but not any man such as Belesa was familiar with. She had an impression of a shaven head with aloof, aquiline features and a glossy, brown skin, darker than that of her swarthy countrymen. The head towered on broad, massive shoulders swathed in a black cloak. Then the intruder was gone.

  She crouched there in the darkness, awaiting the outcry that would announce that the soldiers in the great hall had seen the intruder. But the manor remained silent. Somewhere a wind wailed shrilly; that was all.

  Belesa's hands were moist with perspiration as she groped to relight the candle. She was still shaken with horror, although she could not decide just what there had been about that black figure etched against the red glow that had roused this frantic loathing in her soul. She only knew that the sight had robbed her of all her new-found resolution. She was demoralized, incapable of action.

  The candle flared up, illuminating Tina's white face in the yellow glow.

  'It was the black man!' whispered Tina. 'I know! My blood turned cold, just at it did when I saw him on the beach. There are soldiers downstairs; why did they not see him? Shall we go and tell the count?'

  Belesa shook her head. She did not care to repeat the scene that had ensued upon Tina's first mention of the black man. At any event, she dared not venture out into the darkened hallway.

  'We dare not go into the forest!' shuddered Tina. 'He will be lurking there.'

  Belesa did not ask the girl how she knew the black man would be in the forest; it was the logical hiding-place for any evil thing, man or devil. And she knew that Tina was right; they dared not leave the fort now. Her determination, which had not faltered at the prospect of certain death, gave way at the thought of traversing those gloomy woods with that dark, sinister creature at large among them. Helplessly she sat down and sank her face in her hands.

  Tina slept, presently, on the couch. Tears sparkled on her long lashes; she moved her smarting body uneasily in her restless slumber. Belesa watched.

  Toward dawn, Belesa was aware of a stifling quality in the atmosphere; she heard a low rumble of thunder somewhere off to seaward. Extinguishing the candle, which had burned to its socket, she went to the window whence she could see both the ocean and a belt of the forest behind the fort.

  The fog had disappeared, and along the eastern horizon ran a thin, pale streak that presaged dawn. But out to sea, a dusky mass was rising from the horizon. From it, lightning flickered and the low thunder growled. An answering rumble came from the black woods.

  Startled, Belesa turned and stared at the forest, a brooding black rampart. A strange, rhythmic pulsing came to her ears — a droning reverberation that was not the roll of a Pictish drum.

  'A drum!' sobbed Tina, spasmodically opening and closing her fingers in her sleep. 'The black man — beating on black drum — in the black woods! Oh, Mitra save us!'

  Belesa shuddered. The black cloud on the western horizon writhed and billowed, swelling and expanding. She stared in amazement, for the previous summer there had been no storms on this coast at this time of year, and she had never seen a cloud like that one.

  It came boiling up over the world-rim in great boiling masses of blackness, veined with blue fire. It rolled and billowed with the wind in its belly. Its thundering made the air vibrate. And another sound mingled awesomely with the reverberations of the thunder — the voice of the wind, which raced before its coming. The inky horizon was torn and convulsed in the lightning-flashes. Afar to sea she saw the white-capped waves racing before the wind; she heard its droning roar, increasing in volume as it swept shoreward.

  But, as yet, no wind stirred on the land. The air was hot, breathless. There was a sensation of unreality about the contrast: out there, wind and thunder and chaos sweeping inland; but here, stifling stillness. Somewhere below her a shutter slammed, startling in the tense silence, and a woman's voice was lifted, shrill with alarm. Most of the people of the fort, however, seemed to be sleeping, unaware of the oncoming hurricane.

  She realised that she still heard that mysterious, droning drum-beat. She stared toward the black forest, her flesh crawling. She could see nothing, but some obscure intuition prompted her to visualize a black, hideous figure squatting under black branches and beating out a nameless incantation on a drum of exotic design.

  Desperately she shook off the ghoulish conviction and looked seaward, as a blaze of lightning split the sky. Outlined against its glare, she saw the masts of Zarono's ship; she saw the tents of the buccaneers on the beach, the sandy ridges of the south point, and the rocky cliffs of the north point as plainly as by a midday sun. Louder and louder rose the roar of the wind, and now the manor was awake. Feet came pounding up the stair, and Zarono's voice yelled, edged with fright. Doors slammed, and Valenso answered, shouting to be heard above the roar of the elements.

  'Why didn't you warn me of a storm from the west?' howled the buccaneer. 'If the anchors hold not — '

  'A storm has never come from the west before,
at this time of year!' shrieked Valenso, rushing from his chamber in his nightshirt, his face livid and his hair standing stiffly on end. 'This is the work of —' His words were lost as he raced madly up the ladder that led to the lookout tower, followed by the cursing buccaneer.

  Belesa crouched at her window, awed and deafened. Louder and louder rose the wind, until it drowned all other sound — all except that maddening drone of a drum, which now rose like an inhuman chant of triumph. The storm roared inshore, driving before it a foaming league-long crest of white. Then all hell and destruction were loosed on that coast. Rain fell in driving torrents, sweeping the beaches with blind frenzy. The wind hit like a thunderclap, making the timbers of the fort quiver. The surf roared over the sands, drowning the coals of the fires the seamen had built.

  In the glare of lightning Belesa saw, through the curtain of the slashing rain, the tents of the buccaneers whipped to ribbons and whirled away; saw the men themselves staggering toward the fort, beaten almost to the sands by the fury of the blast. And limned against the blue glare she saw Zarono's ship, ripped loose from her moorings, driven headlong against the jagged rocks that jutted up to receive her.

  V

  A Man from the Wilderness

  The storm had spent its fury; dawn broke in a clear, blue, rain-washed sky. Bright-hued birds lifted a swelling chorus from the trees, on whose broad leaves beads of water sparkled like diamonds, quivering in the gentle morning breeze.

  At a small stream that wound over the sands to join the sea, hidden beyond a fringe of trees and shrubs, a man bent to lave his hands and face. He performed his ablutions after the manner of his kind, grunting lustily and splashing like a buffalo. But in the midst of these splash-ings, he suddenly lifted his head, his tawny hair dripping and water running in rivulets over his brawny shoulders. For a second he crouched in a listening attitude, then was on his feet facing inland, sword in hand, all in one motion. Then he froze, glaring wide-mouthed.

  A man even bigger than himself was striding toward him over the sands, making no attempt at stealth. The pirate's eyes widened as he stared at the close-fitting silk breeches, the high flaring-topped boots, the wide-skirted coat, and the headgear of a hundred years ago. There was a broad cutlass in the stranger's hand and unmistakable purpose in his approach.

  The pirate went pale as recognition blazed in his eyes. 'You!' he ejaculated unbelievingly. 'By Mitra, you!'

  Oaths streamed from his lips as he heaved up his cutlass. The birds rose in flaming showers from the trees as the clang of steel interrupted their song. Blue sparks flew from the hacking blades, and the sand grated and ground under the stamping boot heels. Then the clash of steel ended in a chopping crunch, and one man went to his knees with a choking gasp. The hilt escaped his nerveless hand; he slid full-length on the sand, which reddened with his blood. With a dying effort, he fumbles at his girdle and drew something from it, tried to lift it to his mouth, then stiffened convulsively and went limp.

  The conqueror bent and ruthlessly tore the stiffening fingers from the object they crumpled in their desperate grasp.

  Zarono and Valenso stood on the beach, staring at the driftwood that their men were gathering — spars, pieces of mast, broken timbers. So savagely had the storm hammered Zarono's ship against the low cliffs that most of the salvage was matchwood. A short distance behind them stood Belesa, listening to their conversation with one arm around Tina. Belesa was pale and listless, apathetic to whatever Fate held in store for her. She heard what the men said, but with little interest. She was crushed by the realization that she was but a pawn in the game, however it was to be played out — whether it was to be a wretched life, dragged out on that desolate coast, or a return effected somehow to some civilised land.

  Zarono cursed venomously, but Valenso seemed dazed. 'This is not the time of year for storms from the west,' muttered the count, staring with haggard eyes at the men dragging the wreckage up on the beach. 'It was not chance that brought that storm out of the deep to splinter the ship in which I meant to escape. Escape? I am caught like a rat in a trap, as it was meant. Nay, we are all trapped rats —'

  'I know not whereof you speak,' snarled Zarono, giving a vicious yank at his moustache. 'I've been unable to get any sense out of you since that flaxen-haired slut upset you so last night with her tale of black men coming out of the sea. But I do know that I'll not spend my life on this cursed coast. Ten of my men went to Hell in the ship, but I have a hundred and sixty more. You have a hundred. There are tools in your fort and plenty of trees in yonder forest We'll build a ship. I'll set men to cutting down trees as soon as they get this drift out of reach of the waves.'

  'It will take months,' muttered Valenso.

  'Well, how better to employ our time? We're here, and unless we build a ship we shall never get away. We shall have to rig up some kind of sawmill, but I've never encountered anthing yet that balked me for long. I hope the storm smashed that Argossean dog Strombanni to bits! While we're building the ship, we'll hunt for old Tranicos's loot.'

  'We shall never complete your ship,' said Valenso somberly.

  Zarono turned on him angrily. 'Will you talk sense? Who is this accursed black man?'

  'Accursed indeed,' said Valenso, staring seaward. 'A shadow of mine own red-stained past, risen up to hound me to Hell. Because of him, I fled Zingara, hoping to lose my trail in the great ocean. But I should have known he would smell me out at last.'

  'If such a man came ashore, he must be hiding in the woods,' groaned Zarono. 'We'll rake the forest and hunt him out.'

  Valenso laughed harshly. 'Seek rather for a shadow that drifts before a cloud that hides the moon; grope in the dark for an asp; follow a mist that steals out of the swamp at midnight.'

  Zarono cast him an uncertain look, obviously doubting his sanity. 'Who is this man? Have done with ambiguity.'

  'The shadow of my own mad cruelty and ambition; a horror come out of the lost ages — no man of common flesh and blood, but a —'

  'Sail ho!' bawled the lookout on the northern point.

  Zarono wheeled, and his voice slashed the wind. 'Do you know her?'

  'Aye!' the reply came back faintly. ' 'Tis the Red Hand!'

  Zarono cursed like a wild man. 'Strombanni! The devils take care of their own! How could he ride out that blow?' The buccaneer's voice rose to a yell that carried up and down the strand. 'Back to the fort, you dogs!'

  Before the Red Hand, somewhat battered in appearance, nosed around the point, the beach was bare of human life, the palisade bristling with helmets and scarfbound heads. The buccaneers accepted the alliance with the easy adaptability of adventurers, and the count's henchmen with the apathy of serfs.

  Zarono ground his teeth as a longboat swung leisurely in to the beach, and he sighted the tawny head of his rival in the bow. The boat grounded, and Strombanni started toward the fort alone.

  Some distance away, he halted and shouted in a bull's bellow that carried clearly in the still morning: 'Ahoy, the fort! I would parley!'

  'Well, why in Hell don't you!' snarled Zarono.

  'The last time I approached under a flag of truce, an arrow broke on my brisket!' roared the pirate.

  'You asked for it,' said Valenso. 'I gave you a fair warning to get away from us.'

  'Well, I want a promise that it shan't happen again!'

  'You have my promise!' called Zarono with a sardonic smile.

  'Damn your promise, you Zingaran dog! I want Valenso's word.'

  A measure of dignity remained to the count. There was an edge of authority to his voice as he answered: 'Advance, but keep your men back. You shall not be shot at.'

  'That's enough for me,' said Strombanni instantly. 'Whatever a Korzetta's sins, you can trust his word.'

  He strode forward and halted under the gate, laughing at the hate-darkened visage Zarono thrust over at him.

  'Well, Zarono,' he taunted, 'you are a ship shorter than you were when last I saw you! But you Zingarans were never sailors.
'

  'How did you save your ship, you Messantian gutterscum?' snarled the buccaneer.

  'There's a cove some miles to the north, protected by a high-ridged arm of land, which broke the force of the gale,' answered Strombanni, 'I was anchored behind it. My anchors dragged, but they held me off the shore.'

  Zarono scowled blackly; Valenso said nothing. The count had not known of this cove, for he had done scant exploring of his domain. Fear of the Picts, lack of curiosity, and the need to drive his people to their work had kept him and his men near the fort.

  'I come to make a trade,' said Strombanni easily.

  'We've naught to trade with you save sword-strokes,' growled Zarono.

  'I think otherwise,' grinned Strombanni, thin-lipped. 'You showed your intentions when you murdered Galacus, my first mate, and robbed him. Until this morning, I supposed that Valenso had Tranicos's treasure. But, if either of you had had it, you wouldn't have gone to the trouble of following me and killing my mate to get the map.'

  'The map?' Zarono ejaculated, stiffening.

  'Oh, dissemble not with me!' laughed Strombanni, but anger blazed blue in his eyes. 'I know you have it. Picts don't wear boots!'

  'But —' began the count, nonplussed; then he fell silent as Zarono nudged him.

  ' And if we have the map,' said Zarono, 'what have you to trade that we might require?'

  'Let me come into the fort,' suggested Strombanni. 'There we can talk.'

  He was not so obvious as to glance at the men peering at them from along the wall, but his listeners understood. Strombanni had a ship. That fact would figure in any bargain or battle. But, regardless of who commanded it, it would carry just so many. Whoever sailed away in it, some would be left behind. A wave of tense speculation ran along the silent throng at the palisade.

  'Your men shall stay where they are,' warned Zarono, indicating the boat drawn up on the beach and the ship anchored out in the bay.