Conan: The Road of Kings

by Wagner, Karl Edward

  Conan turned away in disgust. He had seen this spectacle and had not liked it better then.

  “There’s still Morderrni,” he said.

  They descended from the tower. At the threshold of the smashed door, Conan noted an indistinct patch of dust, almost impalpable, and a few bits of corroded metal that crumbled when he stepped on them.

  The soldiers had virtually deserted the fortress. The few who remained were looting. The rumble of the mob was drawing near, and in a moment they would stream through the open gate.

  They entered the palace unchallenged. Conan’s blade was naked in his fist, but there were none to stop the Cimmerian’s hurtling body. He was on his feet like an acrobat, rapier drawn, as Conan flung himself clear of the desk.

  “I see you still favor the broadsword, barbarian,” Mordermi smiled. “Shall I give you another lesson in swordplay?”

  Conan in a rage sprang toward him—nearly taking Mordermi’s lunge as he bored in on the man. He parried the lighter blade with just enough speed, then slashed for the extended arm. Mordermi retreated with a laugh.

  The Cimmerian’s wrath was too great for niceties of fencing. Mordermi sensed this and goaded him., confident that in a moment the Cimmerian would lose his head—rush in with a frenzy of slash and smash brawling. Then Mordermi would drill him.

  Conan pressed him tirelessly, neither blade striking home. The Cimmerian’s speed was too great for Mordermi to risk opening his guard in a counterattack, as he could safely have done with any normal swordsman of Conan’s bulk and temperament. Mordermi had seen Conan’s handiwork too often; he must play a waiting game and then strike true.

  The noise of the crowd in the courtyard below was beginning to rattle the panes in the window. Mordermi realized that it was Conan, not he, who could win a waiting game. He must dispatch the berserk Cimmerian quickly, or escape would be impossible.

  Suddenly Mordermi saw his chance, as Conan drove him back with another of his reckless slashes. As the heavier blade ripped past, Mordermi’s riposte penetrated Conan’s guard. The rapier should have pierced the Cimmerian’s heart; instead, Conan twisted at the final instant, and the thin blade impaled the thick muscles that framed shoulder and axilla.

  Conan grunted, and seized the outstretched wrist. A brutal twist, and Conan snapped the blade.

  Mordermi surged backward, but the Cimmerian pinned his arm and the hand that still clutched the hilt of the broken rapier. Conan’s swordarm came down, but it was the basket hilt, and not the blade, that smashed into Mordermi’s face.

  Dashed half-senseless, Mordermi was hurled to the floor. Standing over him, Conan contemptuously withdrew the broken rapier blade from his shoulder muscles, threw it across the room.

  “So much for your gentleman’s toy,” he growled. “I could have finished you with a score of your stickpins in my hide!”

  Mordermi’s face was a bloody ruin, his nerve broken. “You swore you wouldn’t kill me,” he cringed. The Cimmerian, blood pouring from his shoulder, eyes murderous with rage, was not a reassuring sight.

  “I won’t kill you,” Conan sneered. “Why would I have only fought to disarm you, if I didn’t keep my word? I’m a man of honor, Mordermi—you said it yourself.”

  The roar of the mob shook the palace now. Conan could hear the smash of glass, the crash of doors being forced from the floor below. In a moment the mob would be surging through the palace. Conan had seen that before too.

  He threw open the windows of Mordermi’s chamber. A dozen feet below, hundreds of angry faces looked up at him. Rocks pelted through the aperture. The mob was in a bloodthirsty mood. They wanted vengeance after the Final Guard’s reign of fear.

  Conan hauled Mordermi to his feet, dragged him to the window. The mob saw movement there, and began to surge forward.

  “Conan, what are you doing! You promised not to kill me!”

  “I’m not going to kill you,” Conan repeated. “You said you would plead your case to the people. Well, I’m going to let you.”

  Thrusting the frenzied king through the window, Conan dropped him to the waiting mob below. The screams that lasted for some while afterward reassured the Cimmerian that the short fall had not killed Mordermi.

  By the time Santiddio reached the palace, the mob of looters had carried away all but the stripped walls. And by then Conan had descended into the pit beneath Mordermi’s trap, brought up the body that lay impaled at the bottom. Conan sat beside the body, leaning against the wall, bandages covering his arm, a cloak spread over Destandasi. He was not paying close attention to Santiddio’s words.

  “She will be remembered as a heroine of the liberation,” he was concluding. “All Kordava knows the story of how you two saved our land from the Final Guard, how you freed Zingara from Mordermi’s tyranny.”

  He gestured toward the open window. Cheers instead of angry shouts resounded from below now. And one of the cheers was the chant: “Conan! Conan! Conan!”

  “You’re a hero, Conan,” Santiddio told him. “Say that you will accept the crown of Zingara, and the people will proclaim you their king in this moment!”

  The crown had been found in one of Mordermi’s hidden coffers—preserved from the mob out of reverence for tradition. Santiddio held it out to Conan.

  “Crom’s devils, Santiddio! Take that out of my sight!”

  “I know how you must feel, Conan,” Santiddio said. “Both of us have lost good friends; I have lost two sisters. But think upon it. Zingara must have a king. The people love you. You are the greatest hero of the age. Take the crown!”

  “Santiddio,” Conan’s voice was grim. “In the morning I take a canoe to carry Destandasi back to her sanctuary.”

  “You’ll change your mind.”

  “I will not change my mind.”

  Santiddio held the crown in his hands, thinking. The procession through Kordava at the head of his army had been a glorious moment, making up for much pain and sorrow. And some of the cheers that floated through the palace window cried out “Santiddio! Santiddio!”

  Conan’s eyes were on him. Santiddio flushed.

  “If you will not change your mind, then I will accept the crown from the people myself. Zingara must have a king, until a new constitution can be established.”

  “I will not change my mind,” Conan repeated. “Not until I know whether it is the man who corrupts the power, or the power that corrupts the man.”

  the end.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  KARL EDWARD WAGNER is one of the most talented of the younger fantasy writers, and best known for his heroic fantasy saga of the mystical swordsman Kane. Born in 1945, he maintains a deep interest in and knowledge of fiction from the pulp era. Prior to becoming a full-time writer, Wagner was a practicing psychiatrist and M.D. He lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina,with his wife, Barbara.