Conan: Road of Kings

by Karl Edward Wagner

  Callidios was tugging off his boots. “There is, if you know where to look. Marble temples and golden fountains may have outlasted the ages no more than a wreath of flowers tossed upon a grave, but the paramount wonders of King Kalenius’ tomb were hidden beneath the earth.”

  Callidios laid his boots beside his rapier, spread his doublet atop the pile, and began to wriggle out of trunk hose. “Of course,” he looked up at the Cimmerian, “you’ll have to swim a bit, if you want to see for yourself.”

  Conan shrugged, and kicked off his boots. He was already stripped to the waist, and in a moment he had dragged his legs free of trousers. About his naked waist he belted his dagger, taking care that it was snug in its sheath.

  Sandokazi smiled at him boldly, then began to unlace her bodice. Stepping out of her skirts, she drew her blouse over her head and faced him wearing only her thin cotton shift.

  “You’re coming along?” Conan half objected.

  “Why not? It’s a fine morning for a swim, and Callidios has promised to show us ‘paramount wonders.’”

  “We won’t be long at this,” Callidios said, adjusting the anchor rope so that they floated across the edge of the submerged knoll. Stripped, the Stygian seemed a mismatched assortment of knobby joints and angular limbs. Beside Conan’s sun-bronzed, broadly muscled frame, Callidios resembled an undernourished alley cat that had just crawled out of a puddle.

  “What are we supposed to see?” Conan demanded.

  “Just follow me,” Callidios evaded, and tumbled into the sea.

  Laughing gaily, Sandokazi dived into the sea after him. Frowning, Conan followed.

  Three heads bobbed above the open sea. Behind them, the empty skiff rode its anchor in the morning breeze. Callidios, his tow-colored locks plastered muddily against his domelike skull, dog-paddled out to where the bottom fell suddenly away. Treading water, he awaited the other two swimmers.

  “The thousand-columned mausoleum with its ceiling panes of lapis lazuli across which a golden sun traversed by day and a platina moon by night, and its paving tiles of serpentine through which rivers of quicksilver coursed, was meant to be no more than a gaudy display for generations of mourning subjects. The flesh of King Kalemius, preserved through the arcana of his sorcerers, was laid to rest beneath the earth, in a secret tomb whose marvels surpassed those of his mausoleum even as the edifice overawed a pauper’s grave. From the level plain, Kalenius commanded his subjects to bring forth a mountain. Two hundred thousand slaves toiled for three decades, carrying earth to raise for Kalenius a mountain where no mountain had stood before.

  “It was a barrow worthy to enshrine a dead god. Two hundred feet above the plain it rose, a circular tumulus a thousand feet in breadth. Upon its height were raised the temples and funerary monuments to daze the imagination of his subjects. But within its depths was buried a palace more lavish than that from which King Kalenius ruled a continent, wherein the king’s mortal remains were placed upon a golden throne to rule in the afterworld for eternity.”

  Callidios paused for breath. Conan cast a wary glance toward the skiff, saw that its anchor held, and thought that the Stygian might have offered this grandiloquent speech before jumping overboard.

  “At the time when the earth shook and destroyed old Kordava,” Callidios continued, “Kalenius was a name forgotten, and his barrow was no more than an inconsequential knoll. Then the sea swallowed up all that remained of one of the greatest works of the Pre-Cataclysmic Age, and the mountain that a king had raised was reduced to a nameless shoal. Riven by Cataclysm and earthquake, the hidden tomb of Kalenius sank beneath the sea, where now the tides and storms of more than a century have relentlessly stripped away the final barrier to his subterranean palace. If you’ll see proof of my words, then follow me.”

  Conan grew suddenly interested in spite of his skepticism. The prospect of a royal tomb for the looting made his thoughts race with the possibilities. King Kalenius’ gold, if not his fame, would have outlasted the ages.

  “This tomb…” Conan began.

  But Callidios had already doubled over and vanished beneath the waves.

  Conan sucked in his breath with a curse and twisted in a surface dive to follow the Stygian into the depths.

  The salt water stung his eyes at first, but once the blur left his vision, he could see quite well. Close beside him, Conan caught sight of Sandokazi—her white shift translucent as it pressed and swirled about her lithe figure. Ahead of them, Callidios was swimming out past the edge of the sunken knoll, diving deeper still. The pressure began to lancinate his skull, but Conan set his teeth and swam after the sorcerer.

  The bottom fell away quickly, once they were past the shoal. Writhing tangles of seaweed shrouded the submarine slope, making its exact contours impossible to define. Conan caught vague outlines of huge slabs of stone, skewed out from the sea bottom in irregular order. Looking closer, he thought he could make out the cylindrical outcroppings of broken columns.

  Conan’s chest was tight, his skull compressed with pain, when Callidios hovered above a sudden patch of blackness against the sunken slope. The Stygian gestured frenziedly downward, then shot toward the surface. Using the last of his breath, Conan swam closer to where Callidios had pointed.

  Festooned by waving strands of weed, a fissure gaped darkly from the face of the sunken knoll. A talus of stone slabs and truncated columns spilled away from the fissure and downward along the slope into the murky depths of the former shoreline. As he swam past the opening, Conan saw that it penetrated the tumulus beyond the limits of his vision. Half-blocked with muck and debris, the mouth of the tunnel was flanked by a row of stone figures, vaguely glimpsed against the blackness within.

  His lungs thirsting for air, Conan turned quickly for the surface. Protruding from the wall of sunlight above, he could see Callidios’ bony legs treading the water, and next to him Sandokazi’s shapely limbs—temptingly displayed as her shift floated upward. Conan surfaced beside them, sucking in a huge breath of air.

  “Well?” Callidios demanded. “Did you see?”

  “I saw stone ruins and a cave in the side of the bar,” Conan rumbled, wiping at his eyes. The skiff bobbed in the waves not far from where they now swam.

  “Just as I told you,” the Stygian exulted. “Sea and earthquake have at last broken open the barrow, and the passage into King Kalenius’ tomb is laid bare. I spent long days out here in search of this passage, seeking proof that it was indeed his tomb—and have I not found it? Did you not see? Was I not right?”

  “You claimed to know of some mysterious army that you could summon to help us overthrow Rimanendo,” Conan reminded him. “We came out here to see proof of that boast, and instead you show us drowned ruins and a sunken barrow. It comes to me that your promise to aid us is an empty boast, and what you really want is our help in seeking questionable loot in an underwater tomb.”

  “Did you think I would have shared this knowledge with you and your cutthroat friends if I didn’t need your help?” Callidios chided. “The tomb holds riches beyond your dreams, Cimmerian—or I’d never have fled Stygia to seek it out. But I said I’d show you proof of the powers I can command for you. Think again. What else did you see down below?”

  “Nothing but a hole in the mud and broken columns,” Conan repeated. “And some statues, like those we passed earlier.”

  “Statues?” Callidios laughed. “You saw them then? Examine them more closely this time, Cimmerian.”

  Without wait for argument, Callidios again made a surface dive and plunged into the depths. Wondering what mad jest the Stygian played, Conan followed suit.

  Again the lancing agony within his skull as the pressure of the depths closed upon him. Conan judged that only a skilled diver would be capable of reaching this fissure except at low tide. That the Stygian had been able to locate the submerged cave was an achievement that earned Conan’s grudging respect—albeit, what game the sorcerer played remained an enigma to him.

  Ca
llidios swam slowly above the dark opening in the side of the underwater ridge. Although the forest of seaweed obscured the bottom, from the position of the stone ruins Conan decided that the Stygian had spoken the truth: that the earthquake coupled with the action of the sea had broken open a barrow whose hidden tomb must have been of royal magnitude.

  Swimming closer to the mouth of the passage, Conan glanced at the statues that stood within, half-buried in debris and seaweed. They were life-size figures of warriors, bearing weapons and armor of archaic and unfamiliar pattern, cunningly sculpted with careful attention to detail from some glossy black stone that had resisted the cerements of barnacles and sea-growths that encrusted the stone ruins. There were half a dozen or more of them arrayed near the tunnel mouth, and others dimly visible farther within. The craftsmanship was exquisite, and assuming they could be raised, they would doubtless fetch a good price in Kordava. This then: the army of Callidios’ jest. Fantastic riches might indeed lie within the drowned barrow, but these were safe from any thief who lacked gills. No wonder Callidios had sought help in despoiling this tomb he had discovered.

  Sandokazi swam past him for a better look at the Stygian’s discovery. Her tanned legs thrust powerfully as she reached the mouth of the passage and hovered close to the foremost of the stone warriors.

  The statue’s arm shot out. An onyx fist closed upon her shift.

  Sandokazi had started for the surface. She glanced down to see what her shift had caught upon. A scream stole a torrent of bubbles from her mouth.

  Holding Sandokazi fast, the statue lifted a stone mace in its other hand, dragged the struggling girl toward itself. Scarcely slowed by the enveloping sea, the mace swept down for her head in a killing blow.

  Not losing time to seek to comprehend, Conan drew his knife and lunged downward for the writhing figure of the girl. Catching her by the shoulder, he jerked her body aside just as the mace slashed past them.

  From the corner of his eye, Conan saw that another of the black stone figures was turning toward them. Seamuck churned from half-buried legs as it shuddered forth from the passage—onyx sword raised to strike.

  The trail of bubbles from Sandokazi’s mouth ceased, as her limbs thrashed in helpless frenzy. Conan’s knife stabbed against the black arm that pinioned her—its steel blade skidded harmlessly against adamantine stone. The mace smashed toward him. Conan doubled up, evaded the blow—kicking savagely against the stone shoulder in an effort to drag free.

  The girl’s cotton shift tore apart in the struggle, freeing her abruptly. Under the impetus of his thrust, Conan flung away from the stone warrior—clutching Sandokazi’s naked form.

  Holding the half-drowned girl in his arms, Conan kicked frantically toward the surface. He risked one quick glance downward. The stone warrior glared upward at them from the tunnel mouth, mace upraised and a rag of Sandokazi’s shift in the other black fist—proof that his had not been some nightmarish delusion of the depths.

  Conan broke water. Sandokazi retched and fought for breath, still struggling in mindless panic.

  “Callidios, you treacherous bastard!” Conan snarled. “You knew those things were alive! Why didn’t you warn us!”

  “I knew they’d start to move when you approached them,” the Stygian defended himself. “But they’re far too heavy to swim up to us, after all, and I never thought you’d be careless enough to swim within their reach.”

  Callidios smiled maliciously. “Where’s that sneering condescension now, my friends? So! Am I a mad lotus-dreamer? You thought me nothing more than that a moment ago. Why waste my wisdom on a doubting barbarian lout and a supercilious trull? I told you I could summon an army through my secret knowledge; you doubted and demanded proof of my claim. I have shown you proof as required, and if the demonstration was not without certain dangers, I shared them with you.”

  “Oh, leave him alone, Conan,” Sandokazi urged between coughs. “He’s right. We wouldn’t have believed him, if we hadn’t seen for ourselves. I wanted to see what stone they were carved from, or I wouldn’t have blundered into the thing’s reach.”

  Conan cursed him fervently, but the sorcerer kept his distance, and Sandokazi was still too shaken to swim without Conan’s help. Vowing to settle the account at another time, the Cimmerian made for the skiff.

  As quickly as they could, the three swimmers reached the rowboat and clambered on board.

  “You still could have warned us,” Conan repeated angrily. His blue eyes smouldered dangerously as he hauled in the anchor.

  Sandokazi, still coughing up sea water, cast an uneasy glance over the side. Maybe the stone warriors couldn’t swim, but she wished Conan would forget Callidios and start rowing. She was shivering, although the sun was hot.

  “What are those things?” she wondered.

  “They were called the Final Guard,” Callidios answered. “One thousand of the finest warriors in all Kalenius’ empire—fanatics who swore loyalty to their king through oaths that not even death might cancel.”

  “Those were no human warriors!” Conan protested. “The arm I struck turned my dagger blade as if its flesh were stone.”

  “Once it was living flesh,” Callidios told him. “But Kalenius knew that no mortal flesh could guard his tomb throughout the ages. Hidden chambers must ultimately yield their secrets to the patient; subtle pitfalls betray themselves even as they strike; deadly spells may be countered by more potent sorceries: these Kalenius knew would be insufficient to defend his eternal palace from thieves and interlopers.

  “His archimages created the Final Guard. In order that Kalenius’ tomb should remain guarded throughout the ages, one thousand of his elite warriors were transformed into deathless creatures of living stone. For millennia have they kept their watch beneath the earth, while continents reeled and sank, and Kalenius and his empire passed into legend and faded from memory. As you have seen, they are still at their post.”

  “How could any man have chosen such a fate!” Sandokazi shuddered, struggling into her clothes as the sun dried her skin.

  “History doesn’t record whether they were given their choice in the matter,” Callidios shrugged. “It is not uncommon that a great monarch should ordain that his household be entombed with him—either living or slain. The Final Guard was an elite regiment comprised of fanatics who considered it an honor to be chosen. And, after all, while other rulers allow their soldiers to die for them, Kalenius bestowed instead a certain immortality upon the warriors of the Final Guard.”

  “You call living death an honor?” Conan snorted, pulling vigorously at the oars.

  “But you’ll have to agree they’ve performed their duty without fail,” Callidios said. “The hand of time may have reduced Kalenius’ eternal palace to a drowned ruin, but his tomb has never been despoiled by any human thieves. How can any man prevail against guardians such as these? Steel cannot slay them; gold cannot corrupt them. Only Kalenius can command them, and Kalenius is dead. Kalenius commanded them to defend his eternal palace, and the Final Guard will obey that command until time itself comes to an end.”

  Conan stopped rowing. “So you have brought us out here to show us an army of devils that no man can control, and a royal tomb that no man can plunder. Mordermi will not thank you for this.”

  “Mordermi will indeed thank me when I accomplish both of these things,” Callidios said confidently.

  “Conan!” Sandokazi broke in. “There’s a fire on the waterfront!”

  Conan turned to see where she pointed. A plume of dark smoke had begun to climb into the cloudless sky. Then, elsewhere along the waterfront, other tendrils of gray suddenly crawled up from squalid buildings there. Conan shaded his eyes with his hand and peered intently. The sun and rising flames glinted from the tiny figures that milled about the distant streets.

  “It’s Korst!” Conan said grimly. “He’s attacking the Pit!”

  Nine

  No Road Back

  Korst’s attack was a move born of despera
tion.

  Following Mordermi’s raid, King Rimanendo had summoned his general to his presence. Rimanendo had expressed his royal will with unwonted terseness: “If, in three days, these thieves are not hanged, you will be.”

  That Mordermi was the mastermind behind the outrage was a discovery that would have yielded to a spy network far less capable than that which General Korst employed. Heretofore the daring outlaw had been little more than an annoyance to Korst—Mordermi’s depredations were a matter for the city guard, and not the army’s concern. The raid on the king’s pavilion changed all that. Rimanendo’s honor had been insulted, and the participation of the White Rose betokened open insurrection. Recovery of the loot was secondary; Mordermi and his band must be annihilated at any cost.

  And Korst knew full well that that cost would be high. The Pit was a city within Kordava—a realm where Zingara’s laws were of no more consequence than those of Khitai or Vendhya. To move against the Pit was to invade a foreign land, and the citizens of the Pit were certain to make a bloody resistance to Rimanendo’s authority.

  Korst did not intend to stand in Mordermi’s stead upon the Dancing Floor.

  By the time Conan reached the waterfront, Korst’s attack was well underway. The burgundy and gold of the Royal Zingaran Army seemed to flow through the streets. Buildings above the area of the Pit leaked smoke and flame, while tight knots of men bottlenecked at the chief entrances to the sunken city.

  “You’re not going into that?” Callidios asked.

  “Mordermi is my friend,” Conan stated simply. To the Cimmerian his course of action was unalterable.

  “Mordermi is caught in a trap,” Callidios said. “You’ll have to battle through Korst’s lines for the dubious privilege of joining your friends in a last stand.”

  “I’d be with them now, if you hadn’t led us on a pointless chase,” Conan growled. “If Mordermi can hold out long enough to stall Korst’s attack, there’s a chance for us. Korst won’t dare lay waste to half of Kordava just to smoke us out.”