The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  Conan’s rough voice broke into the conversation. 'None of that, my friend. To lie unmoving in a coffin, indeed! But this Lion Dance gives me an idea. I have heard of it from travelers. Do not the dancers carry great dresses made for two men, with a lion’s head? At the end of the feast, I can slip into the castle. Then I shall be on my own. The only snag is the dancing dress. You have none here, and it would take too long to make one.'

  'Fate is indeed looking our way,' replied the old man gravely. 'In Shaulun, a day’s journey hence, there is a team that goes to the dance every year with their lion dress. We will make it worth their while to let us borrow it. As for the rest, you speak true. You will have many chances to slip away during the latter part of the feast, for Yah Chieng often plies the rabble with wine, and there arises such confusion and shouting that his swordsmen have to chase everybody out with naked swords. Perhaps this time we can turn the riot to our advantage. The swordsmen of the usurper would be surprised to meet sober men with forbidden swords in their hands. Aye, I think we could promise Yah Chieng an unusually lively feast!'

  'Not yet,' said Leng Chi. 'How many can we muster? Yah Chieng has his Two Hundred at instant call, besides his regular troops. Some of the latter might come over to us, did they know what was afoot. But…'

  'And we have but a few bits of armour,' said another headman. 'The troops of the usurper will be scaled and plated like the crayfish of Lake Ho.'

  As the meager forces that the refugees could put in the field were summed up, faces and voices fell again. Then Conan spoke:

  'The other day, Lord Kang, you said something about a troop of Western mercenaries captured by Yah Chieng last year. What is this?'

  The old man said: 'In the Month of the Hog, a company of fifty came marching out of the west. They said they had served the king of…what was the name of the kingdom? Turan, that is it. But, resenting the scornful way this king’s generals treated them, they had deserted and struck out eastward to seek their fortunes in Khitai.'

  Leng Chi took up the tale. 'They passed a few leagues north of here, through the village of Shaulun. They found favour with the villagers because they destroyed a band of robbers, and they did not loot or rape. Therefore the villagers warned them against Yah Chieng. But they would not listen, and marched on to Paikang. There, we heard, they offered their swords to Yah Chieng. He feigned acceptance but had other plans in mind. He gave them a feast, at the height of which he had their captain’s head cut off and the rest cast into his dungeon.'

  'Why did he do this?' said Conan.

  'It seems he wanted them for sacrifices in some great rite of devilish magic!'

  'What became of them?'

  'At last accounts, they still awaited their doom, though that is three months since.'

  'How did you hear of it?'

  'A woman of Paikang, who had been having a love affair with one of the Two Hundred, fled to Shaulun, and thence the tale came to us.'

  'Lord Kang,' said Conan, 'tell me about your palace. I shall need to find my way about it.'

  Kang Hsiu began drawing lines on the earthen floor of the hut. 'You know that the usurper may have changed things since I dwelt therein. But this is how they were in my day. Here stands the main gate; here rises the great hall …'

  Hours later, plans were made down to the last detail. Kang Hsiu rose and swung his goblet high, the amber liquid swirling in the smoky lamplight. He cried in a ringing voice: 'To the future and honour of great Paikang, and may the head of the Snake soon be crushed under the boot of the Avenger!'

  An answering shout went up, and Conan made a gesture and drank. His brain whirled with the realization that he was at last within reach of his goal.

  Dust rose in choking clouds on the road that ran west from Paikang.

  Hundreds of Khitans in blue and brown shuffled along it towards the city.

  The sun gleamed whitely on the massive marble wall of Paikang. The waters of the moat reflected the white walls, the brown hills, and the blue sky, save where the wakes of a flock of swimming ducks disturbed its surface. Over the walls rose the pagodas of Paikang, their multiple roofs gleaming with glazed tiles of green, blue, and purple and glittering with gilded ornaments at the corners. Golden dragons and lions snarled down from the angles of the battlements surmounting the great gate.

  The dusty lines of countryfolk streamed into the gate, afoot and on donkeyback. For once Yah Chieng’s soldiers stood back, leaning on their bills and tridents and watching the throng without stopping each one for questioning, search, and extortion. Now and then the drab column was lightened by the brilliant costumes of the dancers. The lion dancers of Shaulun made an especially brave show. The gilded lion mask flashed in the sun, turning its bulging eyes and curling tongue this way and that. The man in the forequarters must have been of unusual stature, for the headpiece of the lion costume towered far above the heads of the Khitans.

  Inside the city, the countryfolk poured along a winding avenue toward the palace. Conan, peering through the holes below the lion mask, sniffed the pungent smells of a Khitan city and pricked his ears at its sounds. At first it sounded like a meaningless din, though each horn, bell, whistle, and rattle was used by tradesmen of a particular kind to make themselves known.

  Following the crowd, he came to another wall with a great gate standing open in it. The folk poured in. The column divided to flow around a jade screen of carven dragons, ten feet high and thrice as long, and joined again on the other side. They were in the courtyard of Yah Chieng’s palace, formerly the seat of the Kang clan.

  Pushing, shouting masses pressed against the tables where Yah Chieng’s servants ladled out rice stew and rice wine. Many of the guests were already in a stimulated condition; the singsong talk of the crowd rose to a roar. Here a juggler tossed balls and hatchets; there a musician plucked a one-stringed lute and sang plaintive songs, though only those within a few feet of him could hear him.

  Conan heard Leng Chi’s voice in his ear: 'Over this way. The dancing will soon begin. Be not so proficient as to win the prise. It would not forward our plans to have the judge demand that you doff your headpiece to receive it …'

  The long stone corridor was dark. Deathly silence reigned in its murky depths. Conan slunk stealthily forward like a jungle cat, avoiding the slightest sound, carrying his sword unsheathed. He was clad in a Khitan jacket and silken trousers, bought from a merchant in a border village.

  As he had planned, so had things befallen. During the rising turmoil in the courtyard, nobody had noticed by the flickering torchlight that one of the lion dresses was now borne by only one carrier. Shadows and nooks had aided Conan’s swift entry. Now he was on his way into the heart of the enemy’s stronghold.

  His senses were sharpened to the utmost. It was not the first time he had entered the abode of a hostile wizard. Memories of the ghastly things he had met on similar occasions thrust themselves upon his consciousness like attacking demons. All his life, the supernatural had been the one thing that could send tendrils of fear probing into his brain. But with iron self-possession, he shrugged off his atavistic fears and continued his catlike stalk.

  The corridor branched. One stairway led up, the other down, hardly discernible in the all-pervading darkness. Conan chose the one leading downward. The plan of the castle was well-learned and locked in his brain.

  Yo La-gu, one of Yah Chieng’s Two Hundred, lolled on his bench in the dungeon beneath the citadel of Paikang. His temper was ruffled. Why should he of all men sit here, guarding these milksop western prisoners, while outside the feast was in progress and wine and love were to be had for the asking? A stupid idea of the wizard to keep people prisoner for years, preparing to use them up in some magical stunt, when a single raid on the countryside would’ fetch as many Khitans in a week!

  Grumbling, he eased himself off the creaking settle to fetch more wine from his secret hoard. His armour rustled and clanked.

  He reached the niche in the wall where he had secreted hi
s bottles and stretched his hand towards it …and that was his last conscious act. Ten steely fingers fastened on his windpipe, crushing his throat, until black unconsciousness swamped his brain, and he sank down in a heap.

  Conan surveyed his handiwork with a grim smile. It was good to slay foes again! The old barbarian instincts boiled in his blood, and his lips writhed in the snarl of the hunting beast.

  His kill had been so swift and silent that none of the sleeping occupants of the cells had stirred. Conan stooped and tore the bunch of keys from the dead jailor’s belt. He tried several of them in the lock of the nearest cell.

  At the soft metallic sound, a prisoner turned, shook his head, and opened his eyes. The imprecation on his lips was stifled as he beheld the strange figure at the grille. His astonishment grew as the bars swung inward. In a bound, he was on his feet. He checked his rush, for the light from the wall cresset glinted faintly on the blade in the stranger’s right hand. A gesture from the giant cautioned him to silence, and another beckoned him to follow.

  In the clear light, the eyes of the prisoner widened in surprise. Conan frowned, searching his memory. At last he said: 'Lyco of Khorshemish! Is it you?'

  'Aye.' Their brawny hands met in a firm grip. The prisoner continued: 'By the breasts of Ishtar, Conan, I am struck to the core with astonishment! Are you here with an Aquilonian host to deal with the evil sorcerer, or have you flown on the back of an eagle?'

  'Neither, Lyco,' came the rumbling reply. 'I am here to mete out justice to the yellow cur, true, but I counted on finding my army here. I think I have done so. When we fought as mercenaries, yours was always among the readiest blades.'

  'Most of the prisoners here are true men and fighters,' said the other. 'We long only to flesh our steel in those Khitan bravos.'

  'You will have your chance. Here are the keys to the dungeons; take them and free your men. The armory lies down this corridor; equip your followers with blades and strike! Strike to avenge your own suffering and to free the queen of Aquilonia!' He smiled grimly at Lyco’s astounded expression. 'Now you know why I’m here. You will find Khitan allies among the throng in the courtyard. Go swiftly.'

  He was gone again like a haunting phantom. Lyco began to waken his comrades, sending some to open the armory while others busied themselves at the locks of other cell doors.

  'By Mitra,' murmured Lyco, 'the barbarian is a mad one! travelling across the world to rescue a woman!' But admiration glowed in his eyes as he looked into the dark mouth of the corridor.

  X

  The Lair of the Sorcerer

  A vast, high-ceilinged hall opened at the end of the dank stone corridor. Its square flagstones were covered with dust undisturbed by human feet but its aura of silence brooded menacingly. Its upper part was lost in darkness. Conan stalked warily over the vast floor toward the opening of another corridor, as if he expected any one of the flagstones to drop out from under him.

  A noise like a thunderclap rang with booming crashes between the echoing walls, and a shrill wailing cry made Conan’s blood run cold.

  With a swish of mighty wings, an unearthly being swooped from the upper darkness. Like a stooping hawk it plummeted down towards Conan.

  The barbarian flung himself aside barely in time to avoid the razor-sharp claws in the monster’s paws. Then his sword swept in a glittering arc. The winged horror flopped away, howling. One arm, severed at the elbow, gushed dark, ill-smelling blood. With a horrible scream it again sprang towards the Cimmerian.

  Conan stood his ground. He knew that his only chance lay in a sure thrust through the creature’s vitals. Even partly dismembered, it had the strength to tear him, to pieces. It was, he was sure, the same thing that had borne off Zenobia long months before.

  The monster spread its wings to soar as it sprang. At the last moment, Conan ducked the claws of the remaining hand and put all his strength into a ripping thrust. His blade tore into the black body, as the searching talons ripped the shirt from his back.

  With a choking gasp, the monster fell. Conan braced his feet to drag his blade free, dripping with the creature’s dark juices.

  His hair was sweaty and tangled and his back was bloody from the clawing he had received. But a terrible fire burned unquenched in his eyes as he reached the mouth of the other corridor. Behind him, on the floor of the hall, the monster lay in a pool of brown, staring with sightless yellow eyes toward the darkness from which it had come.

  The corridor into which Conan stepped was short and straight. In the distance he saw a door of stone. Cryptic signs of Khitan origin covered its surface. This must be the Tunnel of Death that led to Yah Chieng’s private chambers. Beyond that door he would find his foe. Conan’s eyes glowed ferally in the darkness, and his hand gripped his hilt with vengeful force.

  Suddenly the darkness changed to bright illumination. Red licking flames arose from the floor in a hellish wall. Their writhing tongues reached up to the ceiling, and they burst toward Conan in hungry spouts of burning death. He could feel their terrible heat on his face and arms, and his clothes began to smoulder. Sweat ran down his face. As he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, a piece of metal rasped his skin.

  The ring of Rakhamon again! He had forgotten it in his single-minded determination. Would it prove potent against the strength of the yellow wizard?

  He swept his hand through the licking flames. A crash, like the beating of a thousand cymbals, reverberated in the corridor. The flames fell tinkling to the floor, like shards of glass. The remainder of the fire was immobile as a frozen image of Hell.

  The Cimmerian transposed of a powerful leap the wall of fire, and then advanced toward the door of stone. He felt armed of an overwhelming force. He knew that in his hand carried a ring with which all was possible.

  The cold stone-altar chilled the tepid meat of the body of Zenobia. She twisted her hands vainly, for her arms and legs were chained to a ring anchored to the floor. Her splendid body was laid out on the stone. Close by her tormentor was preoccupied in front of a dark and long table, packed with strange objects as flasks, boxes and rolls of dusty parchments. Under the hood of the cloak appeared the beard of the sorcerer.

  The ceiling of the extensive room was so high that Zenobia could not see it. The woman was full of desperation, only the self-control she had shown in those months of captivity permitted her to control her emotions.

  Thinking about Conan, her husband, Zenobia’s heart seemed that was going to explode of grief and nostalgia. Yah Chieng had told her that Conan had left alone in his search. Zenobia did not know by what arts the sorcerer knew that, but right now her beloved Conan could lay down dead in the Turanian steppes, or he could have been captured and killed by the himellian hillmen tribes. They were many powerful men of East that hated him.

  That same noon, the henchmen of the yellow sorcerer had removed Zenobia of the cell and carried her to that room, where they chained her on the frightening altar. Since then she had remained alone with the khitanian sorcerer. Nevertheless, he seemed to ignore her and was limited to manipulate his apparatuses, while murmuring enchantments that he read in his old books.

  But now the devilish old man approached Zenobia. The light was reflected in the leaf of the strange dagger he wielded. In the steel there could be seen engraved some cabalistic signs. The face of the sorcerer was tense with the evil expectation that animated it.

  Full of despair, Zenobia entrusted her soul to Mitra.

  Just then, the heavy door was violently opened toward the inside of the room, and fell with a terrible rumble to the floor, blowing up fragments of slabs and a great cloud of dust. A tall and strong man appeared in the vain of the door. He was a muscular giant of black long hair and vehement blue eyes that launched sparkles of ire. The torches reflected their light in the leaf of the sword he wielded.

  The heart of Zenobia almost burst out of happiness. At last Conan, her champion, had arrived!

  With a terrible and silent ferocity, the Cimmerian attacked t
he oriental necromancer. In a glance he took charge of the situation. The view of Zenobia’s body, prepared for the sacrifice, indicated to Conan that he had arrived in a timely fashion. Suddenly Zenobia raised herself of the altar, free of her chains. Then Conan saw that there no longer was his wife, but an enormous tiger. His roar echoed in the room while he jumped on Conan with claws extended and open jaws. When the Cimmerian raised his sword to behead to the enormous cat, it transformed to a green hooded skeleton. Its bony hand grasped the wrist of Conan with incredible strength.

  With a fierce growl, the Cimmerian freed his weapon from the green folds of the robe, in which it had entangled itself, with a titanic blow fragmented the smiling skull in a thousand pieces. Then he noted a burning sensation in his ring finger. As if it was in flames. He saw that the magical ring shone with a reddish otherworldly brilliance that made his head ache. Conan removed the smouldering ring and dropped it to the floor. Upon doing it, he heard an evil laughter that stemmed from the sorcerer.

  The khitanian remained standing, his arms extended above his head. Murmuring enchantments continuously, while dime flames shone in the lanterns. Conan, dazed, shook his head. Not yet recovered from the strong impression.

  With a strange apathy he saw, all around him, a blue mist raising from the floor; with deadly slowness it wrapped him in weak spirals. Shortly after, he was completely surrounded by vapors. He tried to move, but it was like walking on cold molasses. He could barely raise his feet of the floor. He began to pant, and sweat covered his face.