Conan: Road of Kings

by Karl Edward Wagner

  “But now you’ve stolen their pride. Rimanendo can only save face when you and your men are feeding ravens on the Dancing Floor. And worse, you have made an alliance with the White Rose—goading it from sedition to insurrection. Korst will move against the Pit, and Rimanendo will give him authority to use whatever force he requires to destroy Mordermi and the White Rose.

  “And so,” Callidios concluded. “You’ll want to invest your newfound fortune with extreme care, or you’ll soon be boasting of your wealth to the ravens.”

  “This man is a genius,” Mordermi laughed sourly. “Until this moment, we’d thought Rimanendo had wanted us to share his wealth. And in a few breaths that you have left, pray tell us how to spend our treasure.”

  “Use it to destroy Rimanendo—before he destroys you!”

  Callidios lurched out of his chair, and began to pace the room in his maddeningly disjointed posturing.

  “You’ve stolen a fortune, but you don’t know its worth. You talk of food for the starving, fine clothes for yourselves, leaflets to disseminate your political theories, weapons for your followers. You remind me of the thieves who stole an ancient amulet from a temple of Set in my homeland. When they were captured, it was found that they had broken loose the gems, melted down the gold—thinking themselves wealthy men, when the amulet they had thus destroyed had the power to make its holder invulnerable.

  “Do you know what you have here? You have the price of a kingdom! If you use this wealth intelligently, you can bring about the downfall of Rimanendo. Instead of hunted fugitives hiding in the Pit, you can be the new rulers of all Zingara and live at ease in the palaces of your former masters.”

  “As you observed,” Santiddio nodded to Mordermi, “the man is mad.”

  “Perhaps he only shares his lotus dreams with us,” Mordermi said, “But such dreams are a splendid vision.”

  “I’ll cure his madness,” rumbled Conan.

  “No, wait!” Mordermi halted him. “Let’s hear Callidios out.”

  “Consider the balance of power that holds Rimanendo’s reign together,” Callidios went on, as confidently as if they were seated in his chambers. “At the top of the pyramid is King Rimanendo, corrupt and incompetent, his only concern as ruler being that the taxes that fill the royal coffers are sufficient to support his excesses. Below the king are his lords, left to tyrannize the people of Zingara as they will, so long as nothing disturbs Rimanendo’s pleasures. Any one of the strongest houses might depose Rimanendo, but for the jealousy of their rivals—who would surely interfere with any change in the balance of power. Supporting the king and his court is the army—both the Royal Zingaran Army and the private armies of the powerful lords. They enforce the will of their masters upon those who make up the base of the pyramid—the people of Zingara.”

  “This man,” said Santiddio, “has a wonderous obsession to tell us things we already know well.”

  “And yet you tolerate this situation,” Callidios gibed.

  “Not for very much longer!” Carico burst out, unable to contain himself further. “When the base of the pyramid moves, those at the top must fall. The White Rose shall lead the people of Zingara into a new social order in which there are neither oppressors nor oppressed.”

  “I’m sure we’re all of us here of a like sentiment,” Callidios cut him off. “But rhetoric does not overthrow princes, nor do peasants with clubs face down disciplined troops.”

  “The soldiers will not fight their brothers, once the White Rose convinces them that our cause is the cause of all the people of Zingara.”

  “Wrong, Carico! The soldiers will fight whomever they are paid to fight. That’s why they’re soldiers.”

  Callidios jerked about and pointed to the treasure-laden table.

  “They will fight for that.”

  Despite themselves, they found that they were listening to the Stygian’s words.

  “You see in that treasure only material wealth,” Callidios continued. “You are like the unfortunate thieves with the amulet. For I tell you that the true value of this treasure is power! And more than that, the means to far greater power. Absolute power in Zingara—if you dare.”

  “Why don’t I test this sorcerer’s illusions with honest steel?” Conan suggested. “His tongue weaves as twisted a course as his pacing.”

  “Let him continue,” Avvinti interceded. “The man may be mad, but he’s not a fool.”

  “Zingara is ripe for the taking,” Callidios went on unperturbedly. “But not by oratory and petty theft. Any of the powerful lords could take the throne from Rimanendo—if their rivals would permit it. But usurpation would upset the balance of power and bring about civil war—and civil wars have a way of leaving both factions devastated. So Rimanendo continues to rule.

  “But with the power that is now yours—if you choose to wield it—you can upset this balance. Mordermi is a hero to the downtrodden people of Zingara, and the White Rose has the ear of the masses. With this wealth you can buy powerful friends, win the attention of those in high places. You can bribe the king’s judges, buy favors from court officials. You can buy weapons and mail for your people’s army, or better by far, hire companies of veteran mercenaries to fight for you. Once your power is recognized, you can form secret alliances with the great lords. Then you will be strong enough to strike at Rimanendo and his followers—and from the flames of civil war, a new order and a new ruler can be forged by your will.

  “The moment for greatness is yours to seize. Hesitate, and that moment will be lost forever, and you will be destroyed by the powers you have already called forth.”

  “And exactly where do you fit into this glorious dream?” Santiddio wanted to know.

  “I expect to share in your power, obviously,” Callidios told him suavely. “As Mordermi has observed, I am a man of subtle talents. After all, I strolled into your hidden fortress without hindrance from your formidable crew of cutthroats. I can stroll out again—taking your treasure with me, if I needed such trifles. But my design is to seize a kingdom, not to snarl amidst the other dogs for the bones that are tossed from the king’s table.”

  “All very bold, this design of yours,” Mordermi said. “But I fail to see why we need a renegade Stygian sorcerer to help us carry it out. One wonders that a man of your self-proclaimed abilities should spend his days here in the Pit.”

  Callidios made a lopsided shrug. “As you have guessed, it would not be good for me to return to Stygia. Nor am I any lord of the Black Ring, or you’d not see me in this low state. But I have my reasons for biding my days prowling about the Pit.”

  He poured himself a chalice of wine as he talked, fell back into his chair, somehow without spilling a drop of wine.

  “My father was a priest of Set; my mother was an Æsir slave who was purchased to perform some central functions in a certain sacrificial rite. She was beautiful, my father lusted for her, and in a short time she was no longer acceptable for any ritual of virgin sacrifice. My father was powerful enough to escape discipline for his actions, but not disgrace. When I was born not long afterward, his enemies considered me beneath their attentions, while my father saw me as a reminder of his fall from grace.

  “My mother died. I was allowed to wander about the temples like a wild thing—tolerated much the way a stray dog is given run of a kitchen, so long as he remains unobtrusive. I learned many things in the temples of Set—absorbing secrets and forbidden knowledge just as a stray seeks out crumbs and scraps unnoticed by its indifferent keepers. In time it became essential for me to depart from Stygia, but not before I had mastered sufficient powers to make good my escape. That I sit here before you now is proof that I do not make idle boast.

  “From Luxur I fled to Khemi, and there took ship to Kordava. For some weeks now I have lived here in the Pit, but not because I sought to hide—this buried city would be no refuge against those who would seek me out if they could. Rather, I came to the Pit seeking to find certain things of which I had knowledge. I
found that which I sought, but was uncertain what use to make of my knowledge. Of course, every citizen of the Pit knows of the daring exploits of Mordermi. Once I learned of last night’s little coup, I saw how we two might serve one another to considerable mutual advantage.”

  “Callidios, I’ll say this,” Mordermi laughed. “For a self-taught sorcerer, you have as much effrontery as any rogue I’ve known. If your spells were half as alluring as your words, you’d rule Stygia today. Still, there’s some sense in what you’ve said, and I can always use another clever rogue in my band. Can you really use that sword, or do you first ensorcell your opponents to sleep before running them through?”

  “As to that, I really can’t judge,” Callidios said quietly. “But I can raise an army of swordsmen no human opponent would care to face.”

  “An army?” Mordermi wondered if he should laugh. There was an icy confidence to Callidios’ tone that no longer struck him as amusing.

  “An army that I can summon forth by my secret knowledge,” Callidios told him. “Just as you can summon an army by means of the wealth you have stolen. Shall we be allies, Mordermi, you and I?”

  Mordant laughter flickered in those gray-green eyes, so that Mordermi wondered suddenly which of them played the fool.

  Eight

  A Morning Swim

  The sea washed sluggishly against the snarl of rotted piers. At a distance, Conan could hear the roll of bells. He watched Sandokazi as she thrust her bare legs into the leaden waters, and wondered whether this could be heaven or might be hell.

  “We’ll need a boat,” Callidios had said. “And someone to row it. And someone who’s a strong swimmer.”

  Conan drew back on the oars with a sour grunt that sent the boat sliding through the low swells. In the stern, Sandokazi hitched her skirts over her thighs and kicked at their wake. In the bow, Callidios struck contorted attitudes and shouted fitful instructions. Conan had agreed to go on this excursion with the half-formed notion of tying the anchor to the Stygian’s neck and throwing him overboard in the deepest part of the bay.

  Mordermi and Santiddio were deep in schemes with the outlaw’s chief henchmen and the inner circle of the White Rose; had been throughout the night. To Conan’s unconcealed disgust, they had accepted the Stygian’s ideas wholeheartedly—so much so that Mordermi already declared (and perhaps believed) that Callidios had but seconded his own private thoughts.

  Moreover, Callidios had spoken of certain potent sorceries that were his to command—wondrous powers that he might summon to aid the cause of his newfound comrades. Lotus dreams, perhaps. But it is never prudent to ignore the claims of one who has been privy to the abhorrent secrets of the priests of Set. Callidios professed to be able to demonstrate proof of his bold assertion; Conan was detailed to examine such proofs, and Sandokazi joined their party to forstall Conan’s hostile designs upon a potentially useful ally.

  The morning was yet cool beneath the diminishing sea mists, although the speed with which the climbing sun melted the gray veil betokened the clear, hot day that awaited them. Conan, remembering that Korst would be watching the harbor, again cursed Callidios for this madman’s excursion onto the bay of Kordava. The tide was at ebb, and a motley confusion of merchant vessels and fishing boats put out to sea this morning, so that Conan felt some confidence that their skiff would draw no notice.

  “Conan, look!” Sandokazi called out. “You can see people down there on the bottom!”

  Callidios all but went over the side in his haste to see where she pointed. “Statues!” he snapped querulously. “Nothing but garden statuary. I’ll show you better than that.”

  Conan rested his oars and looked over the side. As the morning sunlight penetrated the blue depths, the sunken ruins of old Kordava could be discerned some fathoms below them. Half-buried beneath a forest of seaweed, a cluster of broken statuary stood watch amidst the toppled columns and broken walls of a drowned villa. Schools of small fish shimmered like flights of silver birds about the encrusted stones and jumbles of corroded brick. Dimly, other reefs of ruined structures merged into the inverted horizon, where long streamers of seaweed waved in the current as if stirred by a morning breeze.

  “I hadn’t realized so much of the old city had dropped beneath the sea during the earthquake,” Conan mused. “I thought only a section along the waterfront slid into the sea, but we must be close to a mile offshore here.”

  “We’re beyond the walls of the old city here,” Callidios told him. “This was once a long peninsula that enclosed part of what was then Kordava’s harbor. The entire peninsula sank beneath the sea when the earthquake struck this coast. The wealthy had their villas here; we’re passing over the remains of one now.”

  He squinted toward the open sea, where the running tide fretted across the submerged bar of land. “Good, we’re on course. Keep rowing along the shoal here. The tomb lies farther to sea, but we’ll have no trouble finding it at low tide.”

  “Is it a tomb you’re leading us to, then?” Conan asked sarcastically. “I thought you were going to show us your army.”

  “I’ll show you as much as you’ll care to see, Cimmerian.”

  Conan spat into the sea and took up the oars. The Cimmerian had given little thought and less credence to Callidios’ boasts. He entertained a vague notion that the Stygian renegade might have some sort of cutthroat band under his command—possibly waiting offshore aboard ship, or lurking upon one of the small islands at the delta of the Black River where it emptied into the sea at Kordava.

  “Whose tomb do we seek?” Sandokazi asked, to break the silence.

  “That of King Kalenius.”

  Sandokazi pursed her lips in thought. “King of lotus dreams, perhaps. I don’t recall the name ‘Kalenius’ amongst the kings of Zingara.”

  Conan snorted, thinking that the water would be very deep once they were beyond this shoal.

  “Kalenius was one of the greatest of the Thurian kings,” Callidios informed them loftily. “His was an age when Atlantis and Lemuria yet rose above the waves, and the kingdoms of this land were Verulia and Farsun and Valusia, and Zingara was a realm whose birth awaited another millennium.”

  “Well, I’ve never heard of this Kalenius,” Sandokazi said petulantly. “Nor his kingdom, nor his tomb.”

  “The kings and kingdoms of ancient Thuria are ghosts and dust, forgotten by the proud Hyborian civilization that has arisen above the bones of their greatness,” Callidios sneered. “I think there will come a day when our age, too, shall pass into dust, and the children who dance upon our bones shall remember our lands and our races only in their dreams.”

  “What rot!” Sandokazi laughed. “Kings may die, but how can this land and its peoples pass away?”

  “Look beneath our wake for your answer,” Callidios returned.

  Conan forbore comment. If Sandokazi chose to bandy words with a madman, it was her amusement. A few lengths of anchor rope and a hundred fathoms would soon still Callidios’ tongue.

  “In the centuries after Kull the Atlantean seized the throne of Valusia and plunged the Thurian kingdoms into an age of internecine warfare, it was Kalenius who finally brought the peace of conquest to the lands north and west of Grondar and the Lost Lands. Kalenius’ was an empire beyond the dreams of even the ambitious Prince Yezdigerd of Turan. The rulers and peoples of a continent bowed their necks to his will and his whim. Kalenius declared that his empire should last a thousand years and his fame throughout eternity.

  “But Kalenius grew old and died; his empire shattered into civil wars even as the king was laid within his tomb. Finally the Cataclysm drew a veil of darkness over the kingdoms of Thuria, and the fame of Kalenius is remembered only by those few who seek out the lost knowledge of a lost age.”

  Callidios broke off his monologue with an abrupt shift of stance, and shouted wildly: “Hold your oars, Conan! We are here!”

  In another instant, the Stygian had thrown over the anchor. His crooked grin met Conan’s ey
es, and Conan cursed silently.

  They rode at anchor perhaps a league from shore. At low tide, the shoal here lay but a fathom beneath their skiff. Choppy waves foamed the surface above the sunken peninsula, and Conan guessed the currents would be treacherous with the turning of the tide. No other vessels were within hailing distance—their masters keeping to the deeper waters.

  “Below us,” gestured Callidios, “the tomb of King Kalenius.”

  Conan and Sandokazi peered dutifully. The sea was clear, but the wave-flecked shallows made it difficult to see below the surface. Gulls wheeled and cried overhead; the wind and sea grated together. Conan sensed that the bottom had risen here at the terminus of the shoal, indicating a sunken knoll of considerable expanse.

  “What tomb?” Conan asked, glancing significantly at Sandokazi.

  “Beneath the sea and beneath the sand,” Callidios replied. “A thousand years ago, and you might have discerned the ruins of some of the larger funereal monuments of the mausoleum upon which Kalenius lavished thirty years’ construction. What the Cataclysm spared, the founding fathers of Kordava hauled away for building stone. Only the barrow yet stood, and at last the sea swallowed up even that. We’re anchored atop all that remains of that barrow.”

  “Fascinating,” lied Sandokazi.

  “Thirty years Kalenius devoted to the building of his tomb. A hundred thousand skilled laborers, ten thousand master artisans, the riches of an empire—directed by the will of the absolute ruler of the Thurian continent to build for him a tomb that would be the wonder of the world, a tomb that would outlast the ages.”

  “I’m sure there’s a lesson here for us all,” Sandokazi yawned. The sun was growing hot, and the morning’s adventure had worn thin.

  “There’s nothing here,” Conan corrected her, feeling cheated after the Stygian’s grandiose speech.