Callidios’ eyes had the glare of madness as they regarded Conan with hatred. The Stygian’s lips writhed like snakes.
“So it was you, Cimmerian,” he said in jerking syllables. “The pawn returns to the king. It’s wrong that way, you know. You’ve killed me now. Mordermi only used me to control the Final Guard. Now they’re gone, and Mordermi will kill me too.”
“I mean to spare Mordermi the trouble,” Conan snarled, raising his sword.
Callidios’ mad eyes blazed, as he put his hand to his rapier hilt. Conan gave him time to draw his blade—the Cimmerian would have cut the Stygian down like a mad dog, but it was better that the sorcerer face him man to man. He wondered if Callidios could even fence; he had never seen him draw his weapon.
The Stygian’s rapier cleared its scabbard. It seemed far too long a blade. Callidios lunged. His blade shot out for Conan’s throat. No blade of steel, but a living serpent. From its tip, dripping fangs struck at his flesh.
Conan flung himself away, bringing up his own blade just in time to sever the serpent head. The head flew away. Callidios laughed crazily, bringing his serpent-blade behind him, then flicking it forward like a whip. Another snake’s head snapped venomously for his flesh.
Conan slashed at the uncanny weapon, again severed its serpent body. The whiplike speed was more than any swordsman could parry for long.
“Keep your guard up, barbarian!” Callidios shrilled. “How long can you escape? The head returns with each blow, and its fangs are deadly. Keep dancing for me!”
Conan knew he could not keep this up very long. Again the serpent-blade lashed out, while the sorcerer pranced beyond the Cimmerian’s reach. Conan cut through the blade even as its fangs brushed his chest.
Conan glanced quickly to see if there was a wound, saw the roll of their cloaks he had thrust in his swordbelt. His free hand tore the roll loose. He threw it as Callidios lunged.
The cloaks unfurled with a snap of black silk, billowing to ensnare the serpent-blade. Callidios howled, as the coiling blade tangled in the silk folds. Conan’s broadsword struck in that moment, and the necromancer departed on the road from which he had recalled his slaves.
Beneath the cloaks, a reptillian frenzy heaved the folds. Conan smashed down with his boot. Kept smashing long after all movement had ceased.
Destandasi was arousing herself from her semiconsciousness. Slowly she came to her feet, regarded the Stygian’s body. “So, it is ended.” Her eyes held the shadow of the stresses she had endured in her struggle.
“There’s still Mordermi,” Conan said.
Mordermi was finished, he knew. Santiddio’s entrance into Kordava had been more of a hero’s welcome than an assault. It was no longer any question of defending the city against the rebels—Kordava belonged to the rebels. Few of Mordermi’s soldiers put up any resistance; some fled, some managed to surrender. The mob was massacring the rest.
Conan turned away in disgust. He had seen this spectacle and had not liked it better then.
“There’s still Mordermi,” 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 here to stand and fight. The Final Guard had failed them, leaving them at the mercy of those whom they had oppressed; knowing what mercy to expect, they deserted Mordermi and fled.
Conan knew the way to Mordermi’s private chambers. He kicked in the locked door and entered.
Mordermi was stuffing jewels from a large chest into an almoner, clearly disturbed that he must leave some choice gems behind. The king of Zingara wore dirty laborers’ garments and a patched cloak. His hair had been powdered to a mouldy gray, and when he pulled the bloody bandage back down over his face, he would blend into the crowd well enough.
“You should have deserted with the rest of the rats,” Conan told him. “Or does the rat-captain go down with his ship?”
Mordermi recovered nicely. “Well, Conan. Here already? I’d thought the press of well-wishers would delay your triumphal procession somewhat longer than this.”
“Your well-wishers are about to start a new coronation revel just outside. You remember the last one? Of course, first there’s the abdication ceremony.”
Mordermi swept off his masquerade bandages. “That’s why I’m relieved that you’re here to take my surrender, Conan. I know I can count on you to deal fairly with me. You’re a man of honor.”
“What makes you think you have anything to hope for in a fair deal, Mordermi? There’s not rope enough to hang you for all of your crimes.”
“And this from the felon I saved from the gallows?” Mordermi’s voice was pained. “I’d thought better of your gratitude than that, Conan. After all, we both have committed crimes which would hang us a hundred times over, if we were caught.”
“I’ve never betrayed a friend,” Conan sneered.
“Mitra, if I could only undo all those tragic errors of judgment! You were right, Conan. I should have let you slay Callidios the night he sought us out. That Stygian poisoned my brain with his schemes and lies. I know now that he had some sort of hold over my thoughts—some spell or drug.”
“The only drug that poisoned your brain was your lust for power, Mordermi. You used Callidios just like you used all of us. The more power you had in your hands, the more you wanted to grasp, and when you had it all, you still kept reaching. I liked you, Mordermi, and I’d like to think that you were somebody worth liking once, before power poisoned you. But maybe you were poisoned all along, just waiting for the right moment to use your friends because their backs were all the easier to thrust your knife into when you were through with them.”
“That’s quite a speech for you, Conan,” Mordermi said with his easy grace. “Santiddio was right, also: you are an altruist. All right then, call in your men and arrest me. I’ll plead my case to the people.”
“What men?” Conan jeered. “The palace is deserted but for us! Santiddio is leading the army into Kordava. Destandasi and I climbed over your wall this morning, so she could break Callidios’ control over the Final Guard. You can thank what you did to Sandokazi for Destandasi’s taking a hand. Did she trust you all the time that the noose was closing on her throat, Mordermi? Did you know she made the two of us promise not to kill you before she’d unlock our cell?”
But Conan in his rage had already said too much. The Cimmerian saw Mordermi’s face change, his hand thrust against something beneath his ornate desk. Acting without thought, Conan yelled and lunged for Mordermi.
Behind him, the floor dropped open an instant after his feet left the tiles.
Destandasi, still dazed from her exorcism, had no chance to react to Conan’s shout. Her outcry as she fell downward throught the trap was abruptly stilled.
Conan’s leap carried him onto the desk, scattering the chest of jewels across the room. Mordermi, agile as ever, rolled away from the desk and from 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.”
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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 fulltime writer, Wagner was a practicing psychiatrist and M.D. He lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, with his wife, Barbara.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
CONAN: THE ROAD OF KINGS
Copyright © 1979 by Conan Properties, Inc.
All rights reserved.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
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ISBN: 0-765-34020-8
First Tor edition: October 2001
eISBN 9781466834996
First eBook edition: November 2012
Karl Edward Wagner, Conan: Road of Kings
Conan: Road of Kings Page 19
