Conan: Road of Kings (16 page)

King Rimanendo had ruled too long as a corrupt and hated tyrant. The Zingarans had endured his reign not from loyalty to their monarch, but out of fear. Now the heroes of the White Rose had brought forth a power greater than Rimanendo’s army. It was the despot’s time to know fear—a time his rebellious subjects intended to make mercifully brief. Deserted by all those who had the chance and wit to flee, King Rimanendo cowered in his opulent chambers, while the last of his faithful dogs prepared a hopeless defense.

Their march upon Rimanendo’s palace was unchecked. Only as they approached the fortress barracks was there any show of armed resistance, and this from a small garrison who either had not heard or did not believe the lurid tales of the rebels’ demon army. The front ranks of the Final Guard mowed the garrison down almost without breaking stride; the soldiers might as well have tried to check an avalanche by fending it off barehanded. The short, bloody spectacle only inflamed the mob all the more—as those who had not seen before now witnessed the awesome destructive power of the Final Guard.

Conan remembered the massacre of the Gundermen at Venarium, in which he had taken part several years before. The Cimmerian clans had united to annihilate this fort town that the Aquilonians built to colonize the southern marches of Cimmeria. Men, women and children were butchered; Venarium burned to the ground. For Conan it was a glorious memory. The massacre he now participated in would remain forever in his memory as well, but Conan knew he would never glory in its remembrance.

The wall that encircled the royal palace displayed a steel crown of weapons and armor, scintillant in the torchlight and the sullen glow of the distant conflagration that yet ravened the waterfront. The stars were blinded by a veil of smoke.

Perhaps the fortress walls gave them confidence. Whatever the case, it was evident that General Korst had no thoughts of surrendering the palace to the rabble. From atop the walls, iron-barbed arrows streaked downward into the mob. Behind the battlements, petraries flung a hail of stones full into the advancing throng. Men and women howled in agony and rage, as death swept the rebel horde—suddenly reminding them that Mordermi was leading them to battle, not in a holiday procession. Recoiling from the deadly barrage of arrows and stones, the rebels sought the cover of adjacent buildings.

Conan backed his mount into the cover of a buttress, watched to see what effect stone missiles would have against the Final Guard. The petraries hurled missiles ranging from baskets of rocks the size of a man’s fist to single stones of fifty to sixty pounds. The smaller stones pelted the Final Guard with no more effect than a barrage of snowballs. An instant later a small boulder smashed full into the breast and shoulders of one of the guardsmen—toppling the stone devil to the ground under its impact. The missile broke into shards, bounding away; the warrior of living stone picked himself up, unscathed. Its movement was so natural that Conan would not have been surprised to see it dust the rock dust from its jet breastplate.

But impervious to arrows and stones or not, the Final Guard did not stand idle in the face of the barrage. As the soldiers let fly to repel the army of rabble, the Final Guard formed a close column and marched swiftly toward the fortress’ main gate. From the barbican, the hail of missiles intensified—outlined now against the night as vats of flaming oil streamed down upon the attacking demons. The defenders might have poured scented bath water, for all the damage their frantic efforts inflicted upon the silent ranks.

The Final Guard reached the massive gate of the fortress—sturdy timbers braced with thick bars of iron, built to withstand the crushing impacts of a battering ram. The onlookers from both sides of the wall caught their breath and waited.

Sheathing their weapons for a moment, the front ranks of the Final Guard pressed their hands to the stout oaken barrier. For a heartbeat, thews of living stone strained against the handiwork of man. Only for an instant was their advance checked. Then, in a death groan of bending iron bolts and splintering oaken timbers, the fortress gate caved inward. A broken, sagging thing, the gate crashed down upon the defenders who had desperately thrown their shoulders to the creaking portal. Past its splintered wreckage, the Final Guard entered the fortress—dealing death to those whose faith in fortress walls and human weapons was now betrayed.

For only a moment did the crowd hold back in awe. Then, with a hungry roar from ten thousand throats, the people of Kordava rushed into the doomed palace to seek vengeance upon their hated oppressors. The beast was down. Now the pack closed for the kill.

Conan, determined to be in on the finish as well, nudged his mount forward. It was only a short time ago, he reflected, that he had fully expected to lie dead in the blood and filth of the Pit. Now he went to loot a king’s palace.

With the Final Guard striking down all those who stood in their path, the assault on Rimanendo’s fortress had passed the stage of battle and become sheer butchery. There was no quarter from the Final Guard. Those soldiers and retainers who attempted to surrender to Mordermi were pulled to pieces by the mob. Some escaped by shedding their burgundy and gold livery and joining the bloodthirsty crowds; others managed to take advantage of the chaos to get over the wall and flee beyond the reach of the rabble. And some, disdaining flight, rallied together for a final stand—preserving honor if not their lives.

Conan found where General Korst had fallen, with the last of his dreaded Strikers in a hopeless defense of the palace entrance. The mob had passed over their corpses—seeking richer loot for the moment. Conan paused there, respectful of a brave soldier who had served his king to the death.

The blue-black beard was clotted with dark blood, his chest shattered by the crushing blow of a mace, but not all the life had drained from him yet. Korst opened his eyes, returned Conan’s gaze, and recognition showed through the weary pain.

“I know you,” Korst said dully. “The Cimmerian mutineer. You escaped the gallows. Mordermi made you his right-hand man.”

“I offered you my sword,” Conan’s tone held rancour still. “You repaid me with a hempen noose. I’ll follow my fortune with Mordermi instead.”

Korst’s eyes looked past Conan. “So once did I follow my fortune. It led me to this. Look upon me, Cimmerian. It may be that you look upon your future self.”

Conan started to retort, then saw that Korst would not hear him.

Pushing throught the throngs of looters who had overrun the royal palace in every room, Conan went looking for Mordermi. He found the victorious outlaw leader battering down the heavy door that gave entrance to Rimanendo’s private chambers. Conan lent his strength to the broken column they had seized for a ram, and the door burst asunder.

Conan was not prepared for the scene that awaited them within.

Frightened out of his drink-clouded wits, King Rimanendo had barricaded himself in his chambers with sycophants and catamites to console him in his terror. These, knowing that Rimanendo’s rule was at an end, had determined to win the favor of Kordava’s new masters by turning upon the fallen monarch.

When Mordermi and Conan strode across the threshold of the king’s chambers, two youths minced toward them from the huddled group within. Their hair was curled and scented, their bare flesh oiled and rouged, and they carried between them a golden tray. Upon the tray was a golden crown, and the crown still rested upon the severed head of Rimanendo.

Thirteen

A New Order and a Coronation

It was decided that Mordermi should be king.

Initially Mordermi would not hear of it, but they argued down his objections.

Rimanendo and his court had perished in the palace massacre. The king had left neither issue nor heir, nor was it likely that the rebels would have surrendered Kordava to any of the tyrant’s blood. Nor, with the Final Guard at their command, was it likely that any claimant to the throne could have demanded the crown from the victorious rebels.

The old age of corrupt despotism was past. A new order now ruled in Kordava, and from Kordava claimed to rule all of Zingara.

This was not simply a change of rulers, Santiddio liked to point out, as when a palace revolt or
coup d’état
does no more than exchange one set of scoundrels for another. Rather, the victory of the White Rose marked the beginning of a new social order for Zingara. The White Rose would draw up a new constitution for the people of Zingara—giving the people a voice in their governing, implementing new laws that would insure equal justice for all the people.

Clearly, so radical and important an undertaking would require a great deal of time and deliberation to bring about. Committees must be formed, representatives elected, ideas and facts must be compiled, studied, discussed. In the interim, a revolutionary committee of the White Rose should undertake the management of Zingara’s government.

Moreover, these were perilous times for the new order. True, the Final Guard secured the freedom of Kordava from antirevolutionary forces, but Zingara was a large country, threatened by enemies from within who wanted a return to the old despotism of their class, from without by enemies who saw the success of the new order as a danger to their own corrupt rule. From the revolutionary committee, consequently, one member should be chosen who should have dictatorial powers with which to deal with any threat to the new order. Such a man, moreover, should be a leader of proven ability, a man of the people himself, and yet a man who could lead the people to victory in battle. Such powers would be only temporary, of course, pending the finalization of a new constitution and elected representatives.

While it was undeniably true, Mordermi was forced to admit, that the situation called for emergency measures, and that he did indeed conform to these qualifications; nonetheless, to accept the crown of Zingara when the king he had defeated was barely cold meat …

Avvinti, returning from his mission—whose success had been assured once news of the rebel victory reached the outlying gentry—made the telling point that, in a period of transition from one mode of government to another, the Zingaran aristocracy, whose support was essential to their fledging rule, would feel far more at ease pledging their loyalty to a king, with all the sanctity and tradition of the kingship, than to some committee president.

Mordermi protested. In the end he conceded to their logic.

It never failed to amaze Conan that his friends could exhaust themselves with so much verbiage and tortuous argument before agreeing upon the obvious. He put it down as another of the incomprehensible rituals that preoccupied civilized folk.

And through such rituals was the provisional government of Zingara established. Mordermi was to be king. As leaders of the major factions of the White Rose, the triumvirate of Avvinti, Santiddio, and Carico would head the revolutionary committee. Callidios, whose political acumen had proven to be no less brilliant than his command of sorcerous arts, would serve as prime minister. Conan, whose bravery and prowess in battle had made him a popular hero, would become general of the Zingaran Revolutionary Army.

“From common mercenary to general of the king’s army in a matter of months is some promotion,” Conan observed at Mordermi’s coronation.

“Well yes, it is quick work, isn’t it?” Mordermi laughed, motioning to a servant to bring them more wine. “But no more so than rising from prince of thieves to king of Zingara!”

He laughed some more at his own wit. “Besides,” Mordermi went on, more serious now. “I need a friend I can trust as my general. You’re young, Conan, but you’ve seen more fighting than most veterans—certainly you know more of battles than any of my band of rogues or Santiddio’s circle of high-minded fops. And I dare not entrust my army to any of Korst’s old officers, or to any of Avvinti’s friends among the great lords. You’re my friend, Conan—and the only friend I know I can trust.”

“If that is so, then heed my counsel,” Conan said earnestly. “Get rid of Callidios.”

“Cimmerians aren’t ones to sway from an idea, I can see. I need Callidios. It will take weeks to regroup the army. Until then, we’d be easy prey for any of the great lords with a private army and any scab of royal blood, if we didn’t have the Final Guard as a weapon in our defense. Callidios knows the secret of their command. I don’t.”

“Give me time to build this Zingaran Revolutionary Army into something more than one of Santiddio’s slogans,” Conan promised, “and you’ll have no need for any army of stone devils.”

“Come to me then with your counsel,” Mordermi suggested.

“What? Are you two the only sober ones here?” Santiddio lurched toward them, steadying himself not too well on his sister’s shoulder. “A plague on your new crown, Mordermi, if it’s kept you sober at your own coronation.”

“Conan and I are discussing the new army. Show more respect when you address the king and his general.”

Santiddio made a belch that did credit to so thin a man. “Avvinti thinks it would be politic for you to share some of your presence with Baron Manovra and Court Perizi, who have come to the coronation of their new king.”

“Of course.” Mordermi bowed to Sandokazi. “Your arm, milady? You’ll dazzle their shrewd brains with your beauty, and I’ll get them to promise to any alliance.”

Conan watched the three of them walk across the crowded ballroom, thinking back on their first meeting. Mordermi made a truly majestic figure in his court attire and golden crown. Santiddio still looked like a drunken student, decked out in his best suit of clothes. Sandokazi was radiant in a shoulderless gown of stiff brocade, swelling in many petticoats from the tightly corsetted waist. Conan, glancing down at his own none-too-fresh garments, wondered whether the king’s general was expected to dress formally for the coronation.

Rimanendo’s palace—Mordermi’s now—had been made presentable to some extent following the night of looting short days before. At some point it must have occurred to Mordermi that he and his men were plundering his own future palace. The people of Kordava had hailed Mordermi as their new king amidst loud cheers and wild celebration—the outlaw leader had always been a hero to them, and as the leader of the victorious rebels he was liberator as well as dashing rogue.