Conan: Road of Kings

by Karl Edward Wagner

  “Soldiers of Zingara! Why do you serve the tyrant who has betrayed his people!”

  “Whose brothers will his demons butcher next!”

  “The army of liberation has come! Will you kill your brothers to preserve a tyrant!”

  “Throw down your weapons! It is you who are slaves!”

  “Come over to us! Join your brothers to depose the tyrant!”

  “Death to the tyrant! Death to Mordermi!”

  By now the answering shouts from the soldiers at the gate drowned out the uproar in the square beyond. From the flickering light, Conan guessed they must have fired a building. In the fortress, the garrison was turning out to quell the riot. All eyes would be drawn toward the disturbance before the gate.

  Conan judged that the diversion was having the desired effect. “Here we go,” he hissed to Destandasi.

  Leaving the shelter of the doorway, they darted across the open space and into the shadow of the rear wall. In their dark cloaks, they would have been difficult to see even had a sentry been watching at that moment. Conan strained his ears, but heard no challenge from atop the wall.

  From around his waist, the Cimmerian uncoiled a length of plaited silken rope, thin and light but immensely strong, with knots spaced along it to facilitate climbing. One end was tied to a small grapnel. Conan stepped back, cast the rope upward. The grapnel made a soft chink as it struck the rampart. Conan waited. The fog muffled all sound, and the riot before the main gate echoed crazily about the walls. Conan drew the rope taut, felt the grapnel scrape across the parapet, catch there.

  He tested the grapnel’s purchase with his weight. The rope was firmly anchored. “Are you ready?” he asked. The Cimmerian could swarm up the wall like a lizard—as once before he had scaled the Elephant Tower in Zamora—but his concern was for Destandasi. True, she had managed well enough after several practice climbs, but this was not a dry run.

  “Go on,” Destandasi whispered. They removed their cloaks for greater freedom of movement; Conan made a roll and thrust them into his swordbelt. Destandasi wore men’s attire beneath her cloak—less restrictive for climbing than a woman’s gown. In black trunk hose and loose shirt of black silk, her hair coiled upon her neck, she might have been a tall boy. The damp silk clung to her, so that Conan noticed that the breast over which her hair fell when she wore it as wont was somewhat smaller than the other.

  “Are you ready?” she asked with icy inflection.

  Conan went first, alert for sentries. He gained the rampart in an instant, it seemed, although the street was a good fifty feet below. He could see no one on the section of the wall. The diversion was working thus far. Steadying the rope, he watched Destandasi ascend—she was almost invisible in her black garments. She followed swiftly, gripping the knots in the slippery coil for purchase. The woman was lithe as a cat, and strong.

  The palace proper stood within the enceinte of its fortress. The garrison barracks abutted the front wall. Between the rear wall and the palace buildings, the tower they must scale rose more than a hundred feet into the darkness. Originally the donjon, as the fortress expanded it was incorporated into the outer wall as a redoubt. Testament to its sturdiness, it was one of the few structures of old Kordava that had withstood the earthquake. With the walls of new Kordava protecting the city, the old fortress lost much of its defensive significance. Now Callidios had found a use for its tower.

  Keeping low along the parapet, Conan and Destandasi reached the base of the tower without being seen. The uproar at the gate seemed to be spreading into the streets now, as the guard turned out to drive away the rioters. Moreover, a faint grayness stole through the sky in the east. Their time was growing short.

  From the rampart to the summit of the tower rose a stone face of well over another fifty feet of height. The massive walls of the tower were unbroken for most of its height—near the base, the thickness of the walls must have been tremendous—although a few balistraria pierced the stone toward the top. Destandasi might conceivably wriggle through one of these; Conan, never. They must enter from the tower roof.

  Conan cast his grapnel, drew the line taut—then cursed as the grapnel slid free and came spinning down upon the coiling rope. He made a second cast. This time the metal hooks held. Rapidly the Cimmerian clambered up the silken cord. He gained the roof of the tower, gazed quickly around.

  Nothing moved atop the tower. Conan had assumed that Callidios would not permit sentries here—they would have had to pass through his secret chamber to reach the roof—and would trust to posting guards at the base of the tower stairs far below.

  He turned to hold the rope for Destandasi. Watching her ascent, it was only some primitive instinct that warned him of danger in time.

  A pool of darkness marked the steps that gave onto the tower roof. Up from the blackness lunged the jet figure of one of the Final Guard.

  Conan hissed a warning, flung himself away from its attack. An obsidian blade slammed into the parapet where he had stood an instant gone—narrowly missing the silken cord. The swordblade, had it have been forged or carven of any natural substance, would have shattered into fragments. Instead, it clove a gash into the stone of the parapet.

  Conan backed away, sword in hand out of reflex. He had to draw the creature away from the rope until Destandasi had time to descend to the rampart again. The creature of living stone advanced upon him boldly. It had nothing to fear from Conan; presumably it was only the warrior’s soul buried within its demon flesh that impelled it to go through the ritual of fencing with him, when it could as easily have rushed the Cimmerian and torn him apart in its hands.

  Destandasi clambered over the parapet, her white face a ghostly blur in the night as she witnessed the unequal combat.

  “Get away!” Conan warned with a curse. There was no safety below, but here there was certain death.

  The creature turned to look upon this second intruder. Destandasi recoiled in horror. Her hand struck the silken cord, dislodging the grapnel. She caught at it as it slipped, but her fingers were clumsy. The rope plummeted away into the darkness.

  Conan, as an armed opponent, drew the stone guardian’s attention more so than an unarmed girl. The demon again made for the Cimmerian. Conan tried to parry a blow, almost lost his sword from the force of the blow. He felt the open space of the crenel at his back, and rolled beneath the next blow, instead of stepping back into space.

  Destandasi uttered a piercing cry. It might have been an incoherent scream of fright, but there seemed to be syllables and cadence. Conan felt a tugging in his brain, but could not recognize the tongue, if such it was.

  As Conan flung himself past the stone warrior, the creature pivoted from the edge of the parapet to face the Cimmerian once again. As it raised its blade and started forward, leathery sails detached themselves from the darkness and flapped full into the demon’s face.

  Bats. A score of them suddenly. Attacking the head and face of the stone warrior. Their teeth and claws could not tear its invulnerable flesh, but the sudden frenzy of their attack drew the creature’s attention for an instant.

  Conan seized that instant. The creature’s back was to the crenel, as he had stood a moment before. Conan lunged forward, thrust the point of his broadsword into the jet-armored chest with all his strength. The heavy blade bent under the impact.

  The stone devil was driven backward by the blow. Overbalanced, it rocked back through the crenel. Arms clawed for support, as it toppled backward from the parapet. It fell silently.

  From the street a hundred feet below, a jarring crash seemed to vibrate through the tower itself.

  Conan glanced over the parapet, but could see nothing in the darkness far below. “If that didn’t kill the devil, let’s hope he takes his time climbing back. Crom! That’s drawn their attention! It won’t be long before they wonder how the thing came to fall off the tower.”

  He hastened to the steps that led below. “Those bats,” he wondered. “They came in answer to your call.”


  “It was fortunate they did,” Destandasi said. “Not many animals remember. There were these in reach of my cry who still do.”

  “This must be what we seek,” Conan considered. “Callidios wouldn’t trust human guardians—they might pry into his secret. Instead he left one of his devils to stand guard here.”

  “I pray there are no others.”

  “Callidios may have figured that one would be enough to guard his chamber. If there are others, I think they would have attacked together.”

  Conan had been cautiously examining the darkened chamber beyond the landing. With a curse he abruptly threw himself across the chamber, racing for the door that opened to the steps below. The Cimmerian’s keen ears had caught the scuff of booted feet ascending from below.

  He stationed himself beside the door. It was certain to be locked, and Callidios would entrust the key to no one, Conan felt certain. If the door opened, then the person who entered would be Callidios—and Conan would kill him in that instant.

  Instead there came a cautious knock. This was repeated, then was a soft call: “Callidios? Are you within?” When there came no answer, a hand tentatively tried the bolt. It was locked. The footfalls retreated quickly.

  “Bad luck,” Conan growled. “They’ll fetch Callidios now. He won’t be fool enough to come through that door by himself. When they find that rope on the rampart, the trail will lead straight to here.”

  In addition to the lock, the tower door might be secured from inside by means of a heavy timber. Conan set the bar into the iron brackets. It would hold for a while; the tower was designed to withstand a siege.

  The shadows that spilled from the steps onto the landing were growing pale now. Conan squinted through a balistraria, saw that daylight was at hand. Santiddio would be on the march by now. Marching to his doom; if they failed him here.

  “Well, what are we looking for?” Conan wanted to know. He groped for an oil lamp, struck fire and got it alight. He held the lamp high and examined the chamber they had gone to such pains to break into.

  Conan had seen more than he cared of the inside of sorcerer’s secret chambers, so that he knew what to expect to some extent. Withal, the interior of Callidios’ chamber went counter to anything he had envisioned. The room was a shambles, a charnel house.

  Strewn throughout the chamber with no more order than a child scatters her dolls about were human cadavers in every stage of decomposition. A mummy sprawled stiffly in a pile of tattered wrappings; its case was filled with a tangle of dried bones—some mineralized, others with shreds of red flesh. A shelf held a number of human fetuses, floating in preserving fluid. A beautifully articulated skeleton hung from a hook against the wall. Beside it hung some desiccated horror that desert winds had seared. A mass of charred bones had been dumped in a pile on the floor. Next to it lay something that Conan first thought was a lifelike doll, then saw that it wasn’t a doll.

  Conan shook his head in disbelief. The air was heavy with the taint of decay and the spices and perfumes and oils that had preserved these dead with varying success. Intricate pentagrams were chalked upon the floor, then carelessly obliterated by spills and footprints. Charts and scrolls were spread amidst a litter of books upon a low table.

  “A necromancer’s den,” Destandasi broke their stunned silence. “But is Kalenius among these?”

  “Crom’s devils! What madness is this!”

  “It may be that Callidios seeks knowledge of hidden treasures. Perhaps he seeks to unveil the future. I think the Stygian told no lie when he said he had walked far down his chosen path.”

  Footsteps again climbed the steps from below. It was the tread of many men. The key turned the lock, drawing back the bolt. Conan, sword ready, waited.

  The door pressed against the heavy timber bar, nudging it against the iron brackets. Cautiously at first, then forcefully when the door refused to open. The door, Conan judged, would hold against a battering ram for as long as they needed.

  “Open the door and come out,” Callidios cajoled. “If you do so immediately, you’ll not be harmed. I respect resourceful men; I promise you a helmet of gold coins and safe passage to our borders.”

  The Stygian must have thought it was worth the try. When Conan made no reply, Callidios spoke in a different tone: “I think you are going to be very sorry now.”

  Confident that the door was secure, Conan turned to help Destandasi search. He would have to stand guard on the parapet, as well as watch the door; others could follow where they had scaled the tower.

  “Kalenius might be any of these,” he swore.

  “But he must be here. Callidios wouldn’t have given us his attention just now otherwise. The necromancer should be at his task even now—he knows the Final Guard must be ready to repel our attack.”

  Impatient, the Cimmerian wrenched the lid from a coffin and dumped a pile of earth onto the floor. A stone sarcophagus resisted his efforts for a moment, then slid open to reveal a drifting layer of rotted dust. Angrily Conan ripped the dry wrappings from the mummy he had seen at first glance, glared into the leathery face.

  It had been too quiet on the other side of the door. Conan had heard men depart, assumed they had gone for a ram and axes. He kept a wary eye on the door while he searched through the necrotorium. He could hear faint scraping sounds at one point, but nothing further. Its mystery worried him; Callidios was devious.

  Then, in a powerful voice he had not thought the Stygian possessed: “Kalenius! Step forth to your master and harken to my commands!”

  Conan whirled. A sudden rattle of dry bones pattered to the floor. It came from the mummy case.

  Rising stiffly from beneath the litter of bones that had hidden him, a naked man climbed out of the mummy case. He might have been a sleeper rising from his bed, but for the chill stiffness of his flesh. King Kalenius, his physique imposing for all his advanced age at the time of his death, glared at them with eyes that flamed with a mockery of life.

  “Kalenius!” the necromancer commanded. “I require the two warriors who bar passage to the entrance of my tower to break down this door and to slay the intruders within!”

  The dead king uttered no sound, but Conan heard the sudden pounding of stone tread upon stone stair, rising swiftly from below.

  “Hurry, Destandasi,” he advised grimly.

  She was facing the walking dead thing, her back to Conan. “Watch the door!” Destandasi commanded. “On your life, don’t turn to watch me! Only a few are permitted to enter the mysteries of Jhebbal Sag; it is dangerous for others even to look upon the secret symbols of power!”

  Conan turned his head. As he did so, in the corner of his eye he saw Destandasi start to draw a figure in the air. Blue flame hovered where her finger passed. Conan wrenched his eyes away, as the priestess of a forgotten god began to chant in the unknown tongue that seemed to stir memories within him.

  The door shuddered under a massive blow. Conan gripped his useless sword and waited. A second blow shook the stout iron brackets. Timbers groaned inward.

  “So … much … power…” Destandasi dragged the words out. “Must … try … again…”

  Dust sifted down from the stones of the doorway under the tremendous force of the blows that struck it. The timbers of the door were starting to buckle under the enormous stress. Conan saw a crack appear in one of them, then splinters popped out. A ripping of wood and iron bolts, and a stone fist smashed through the thick timbers. Fingers gripped the edges of the opening, tore out great hunks of splinters.

  Another fist rammed through another timber. Stone hands clawed at the wood, wrenched away the entire space between. The door was disintegrating before his eyes. Conan looked for something to barricade the crumbling door—knowing it could only buy a few moments for them.

  Behind him, a rattling sigh gushed forth, then the hollow jumbled sound that an unconscious body makes as it collapses unchecked. Destandasi moaned.

  And Conan could hear these sounds because the t
hunderous destruction of the door had abruptly ceased.

  An arm of black stone thrust motionlessly past the aperture. As Conan watched, it began to bend downward. He expected the attack to renew, but the arm slopped over like a jointless thing. The stone flesh began to crack and flow, dropping away to expose crumbling bone. Pieces struck the floor, melted, dried into dust.

  Conan gagged at the overpowering scent of decay. He tore his eyes from the hideous disintegration, gaped anew. On the floor where King Kalenius had fallen, a mass of crawling decay ran in a pool from collapsing loops of bone.

  Conan caught up the half-conscious girl and staggered for fresh air on the tower roof.

  Pandemonium reigned in the fortress spread out below them. Where the Final Guard had been stationed along the walls, pools of black liquescence boiled in a frenzy of ages-pent decay. Soldiers milled in gibbering panic, as their invincible allies rotted into masses of horror before their eyes. Through the main gate, soldiers fled in mindless fear.

  The situation along the walls of Kordava, where the main force of the Final Guard had been posted to meet the rebel army, was a repetition of what was happening in the fortress below. The hideous demise of their invulnerable warriors was totally demoralizing to Kordava’s human defenders—most of whom had expected to watch a day of massacre from a safe vantage.

  From the tower Conan could see his army marching into positions for the near hopeless battle they had been prepared to fight. Advance scouts were riding headlong back to their commanders—carrying the report that Mordermi’s sorcerous army had been annihilated by a greater sorcery. Santiddio would lose no time in launching his attack now—nor would he likely meet with any resistance. Kordava saw the destruction of the Final Guard at the moment the rebel army approached as a clear sign from the gods that Mordermi’s rule was doomed.

  A shuffling step from behind him brought the Cimmerian around. The door had been torn apart. An arm could reach through the gap and release the bar.