Conan: Road of Kings Read online

  Climbing the steps to the scaffold was no easy task with leg-irons, but the guards plied their halbards with a will to urge them upward. The man in front of Conan stumbled—unable to catch himself with his hands tied behind his back. A halbard spike goaded him as he struggled to rise. Conan, his hands manacled before him, reached out to the limit of the chain that connected wrist and leg-irons, caught the back of his jerkin and hauled the smaller man to his feet. Ignoring the abuse of the guards and the laughter of the crowd, they took their places beneath the gallows.

  “Thanks,” muttered his companion automatically. He seemed no more than Conan’s age—a slender youth with aristocratic features and feverish dark eyes.

  “Little cause for thanks,” the Cimmerian pointed out.

  “One likes to do these things with a certain dignity,” returned the other, echoing Conan’s thoughts. He nodded distastefully toward some of those near the head of their line: one man had fainted and had to be supported by the guards; another was pleading tearfully for mercy to the jeering mob.

  “Let those who will continue our battle see that we do not tremble to give our life to our cause,” he concluded. Conan wondered to whom these brave words were directed, decided the youth was but speaking to himself.

  They stood upon a long scaffold, the faces of the crowd on a level below their feet. Massive uprights at either end supported a huge overhead beam—more than sturdy enough to bear the weight of seven men. There was no trap to the scaffold. Instead, each waiting noose was passed through an overhead iron hook, with the other end of the rope secured to a windlass and rachet apparatus. No sudden drop and quick death from a broken neck here. This was the Dancing Floor, where the recipients of Zingaran justice were slowly hoisted from the scaffold and left to writhe and kick until strangled.

  Passing along the row of the condemned, a warder solemnly hung a placard about the neck of each man. Pausing before Conan, he took care to stand clear of the Cimmerian’s manacled hands.

  Conan scowled down at the placard that lay upon his broad chest. He tried to spell out the inverted letters, but his ability to read Zingaran was dubious under any circumstances. “What does it say?” he asked his companion.

  The thin youth glanced at the placard with ironic interest. “It says: Conan Mutineer. Congratulations.”

  “What does yours say?” Conan wanted to know.

  “Mine proclaims: Santiddio Seditionary. Our companions are sundry thieves, murderers and publishers.”

  “Publishers?”

  “No, I wasn’t merely being redundant. The fellow on the end there had the misfortune to publish my little political treatise that so incensed our beloved King Rimanendo.”

  “May your beloved king catch the pox from his catamites!” snarled Conan. “I killed an officer in a fair fight of his asking, and Rimanendo’s laws declare that to be mutiny and murder!”

  “Ah!” Santiddio’s feverish eyes studied him with sudden respect. “Then you’re that barbarian mercenary who gutted the dashing Captain Rinnova! Korst’s chief butcher, that one. I’d shake your hand, if these ropes would permit it. The people will mourn the loss of two heroes of their struggle this day.”

  “Cut the chatter, you two!” a guard warned, as he fitted nooses about their necks. “You’ll wish you’d saved that breath before long!”

  The crowd didn’t look mournful just now, Conan decided. Stoically he gazed out across the morass of bodies. Arguments and angry scuffles broke out as latecomers forced their way to the front of the crowd. Glancing down at their surly faces and rough clothes, Conan judged that many of these late arrivals could as easily be standing upon the gallows as amongst the throng. He wondered at the morbid curiosity that compelled them to watch the execution of their fellow brigands.

  A cheer from the crowd broke off Conan’s musings. Anonymous in his black mask, the king’s executioner ascended the scaffold and returned the applause with a grandiose bow. Swaggering across the platform, he inspected the preparations of his assistants with the businesslike air of a director who surveys the stage and the players before lifting the curtain on his drama. His smile was polished, with just the right inflection of suave boredom. It was a professional touch that seemed to bestow confidence upon the players. Conan had seen that same smile on a day when the royal executioner had broken a man on the wheel.

  A harsh rattle of the rachets brought Conan’s gaze around—even as the hemp noose about his throat suddenly bit into his flesh. Under the royal executioner’s supervision, the guards were completing final preparations—turning the seven windlasses so that each of the condemned prisoners stood straight upon his toes beneath the tautly stretched rope.

  Beneath his outward impassivity, Conan’s mind grappled with the hopelessness of his plight. Until this moment, he had been unable to accept the reality of his situation. Always there had been the false hope of escape, the lingering sense of outraged justice that argued that this could not be happening to him. Conan had faced death uncounted times since his childhood in the savage northlands. Always he had escaped; it bred for a certain contempt of death as an adversary. As the noose tightened about his neck, Conan fought down a rush of despair. Cimmerian warriors had died without a groan upon the torture stakes of the Picts, and Conan now stood straight and glowered his silent contempt upon the mob.

  “In the name of his Royal Majesty, King Rimanendo,” proclaimed the executioner above the vibration of the crowd, “let the sentences of his royal court be carried out!”

  Abruptly there was silence, Conan sensed that the crowd was holding its breath—as was he. A dreamlike stillness seemed to grip those upon the scaffold.

  Then the gnashing of the rachet’s teeth, as the executioner cranked the first windlass. Neatly he coiled the hemp upon the horizontal barrel as it spun. Effortlessly, almost magically, the first of the condemned was levitated from the scaffold floor—to hang suspended beneath the gallows beam. Neck stretched impossibly, head twisted, eyes and tongue bulging from grimacing face, body writhing, leg-irons clattering: the first dance began.

  There was a sighing murmur, then a rumble of harsh sounds—like surf soughing across sand to crash against the rocks. It was the chorus of the mob, letting out its breath and breaking into a babble of excited cries.

  The second in line broke down then, shrieked mindlessly for mercy. The breath of the crowd smothered his sobs, and then came the laughter of the rachet wheel—as the noose lifted him toward the heavens that ignored him.

  Tearing away from the morbid fascination that had bound his gaze upon the kicking puppets, Conan turned his face toward the crowd. Behind him, the executioner crawled like a great black spider upon its web—moving between the pieces of his apparatus, skillfully setting one rachet, then moving to the next windlass. Again the chatter of gears, and a third dancer twitched into the air.

  Three more. And then …

  But Hell was not waiting. Hell had come to the Dancing Floor.

  Across the square—bawling howls of pain and terror, shrill trumpeting of panic-stricken horses. From one, then another, of the narrow streets that opened into the prison yard—billowing gouts of flame burst full into the screaming crowd.

  Intent upon the hangman’s inexorable approach, Conan’s brain groped drunkenly to assimilate the sudden explosion of violence that erupted within the square. Two hay wagons, piled high with straw, spewed flame from out of the adjacent streets and into the packed square, as their fear-maddened teams tore into the ranks of onlookers. Black smoke boiled from the splashing streamers of yellow incandescence that engulfed both wagons—a glance told Conan that someone had thrown oil upon the hayracks before igniting them—as the blazing wagons ripped like vengeful comets into the horrified masses upon the Dancing Floor.

  A glance impinged the flaming chaos upon his brain, but could not explain its sudden eruption. And as the stricken mob spun around from the gallows, to gape without comprehension upon the unforeseen terror that had burst upon them, another exp
losion of violence swept across the scaffold itself.

  From the corner of his eye, Conan saw the blur of steel as it left the hand of one of those who had pushed to the foot of the scaffold only moments before. The hangman, poised beside the windlass of his fourth victim, straightened to gawk at the uproar across the square. The heavy-bladed throwing knife struck him full in the chest—its crimson haft a bursting flower upon his black velvet robe.

  Carried back by the impact, the hangman maintained his death-grip upon the windlass crank. Death rattle and chatter of rachet blended, as the weight of his crumpling body spun the mechanism—wrenching the condemned man just beyond toes’ reach of the scaffold. And King Rimanendo’s royal executioner performed his office even as Death came for him.

  Conan’s gallowsmate was the first to recover from the paralysis of astonishment. “Mordermi! Mordermi!” he roared in glee. “Mordermi, you bloody bastard, I love you!”

  “What’s happening, Santiddio?” Conan demanded, as a riot broke out before the scaffold.

  “It’s Mordermi! These are Mordermi’s men!” Santiddio yelled, struggling to slip his noose. “Sandokazi won him over!”

  Conan knew Mordermi to be the boldest rogue among Kordava’s not inconsiderable criminal populace, but the remainder of Santiddio’s exultant outburst was beyond his comprehension. It was enough for Conan to understand that a desperate attempt to free the condemned prisoners was being made—albeit somewhat tardily—and the reasons behind such a move concerned him not.

  The strangling noose bit into his throat. The hangman had previously taken in all slack in the ropes, so that his clients must stand on their toes to draw breath. It was a refinement that made it impossible for a frantic prisoner to duck out of his noose and make a futile leap into the crowd. Unless another hand freed him from the noose, Conan realized he could only stand helplessly beneath the gibbet while the melee raged about him.

  Conan’s wrists were chained in front of him, but the restraining length that connected manacles and leg-irons effectively prevented him from raising his hands above the level of his waist. Desperately Conan strained his powerful muscles in an effort to break one of the partially filed links of chain. His exertions were instantly halted by the noose, which all but throttled the Cimmerian into unconsciousness as he doggedly continued to strain against the heavy fetters.

  Relaxing his muscles to gulp for breath, Conan took in the struggle within the prison yard. For a moment his vision blurred, throbbed agonizingly from the occluded circulation to his head. Beside him, Santiddio was dancing on his toes and howling like a madman—evidently a rescue did not demand the aloof dignity of an execution.

  Across the square the mob surged and roiled in mindless panic to escape the frantic rush of the terrified draft horses and their juggernaut conflagration. Maddened by pain and fear, the teams could only plunge desperately forward—seeking to escape the blazing pyre that pursued them, heedless of the screaming masses of humanity that ripped apart beneath their smashing hooves. Made helpless by its panic-stricken myriads, the crowd flung itself to the outlying streets with all the blind impetus of a beheaded python—trampling scores of the less agile in its frenzy to escape. Blocked in by the press of the frantic mob, reinforcements from the prison itself were unable to force their way across the Dancing Floor.

  Beneath the scaffold, Mordermi’s brigands fought an uncertain battle with the guards who had been posted there for the execution. The initial surprise and confusion gave an advantage to the attackers—Conan judged there must be a score of them; in the chaos that ensued it was impossible to be certain. That any organized force would have the temerity, let alone the motive, to attempt to rescue any of these common felons from the public gallows was an eventuality that the prison officials would have deemed absurd. Now, as the beleaguered guards wielded their halbards in frantic defense against an unexpected assault, it would take time for a reserve force to breach the panic-stricken masses.

  Backs to the scaffold, the remnant of the guard met sword and knife with their long-shafted halbards. Upon the scaffold itself: three bodies swung lazily, a fourth kicked frenetically an inch above the platform, and the hangman’s corpse glared at the three men who yet waited beneath their hempen tethers. The initial attack had cleared the scaffold of all others.

  One of the attackers burst past the faltering circle of guards, dashed up the scaffold steps toward the helpless captives there. Santiddio shouted a cheer—then cursed impotently, as a halbard blade swept up out of the melee to sever their rescuer’s leg at midcalf. Screaming, the crippled man pinwheeled back down the steps and into the struggle below.

  “Santiddio!” Conan bellowed. “Stretch out your wrists toward me!”

  Despite his excitement, the other man instantly understood. Turning his back to Conan, Santiddio extended his bound wrists toward the Cimmerian’s manacled fists. By straining to the limits of their nooses, they were just able to bring their hands together. Setting his teeth against the throttling agony of the noose, Conan tore at the knots that held the other’s wrists. The knots were hard, the cord tightly bound, cutting deep into Santiddio’s wrists. Conan cursed and broke his nails digging against the knots. His temples throbbed with congested blood.

  An angry shout penetrated Conan’s consciousness for all his maniacal concentration on the knots: “Kill the prisoners! Kill the prisoners!”

  Either to foil the escape attempt, or to cause the wouldbe rescuers to withdraw—the order had been given. Forcing his way out of the tumult below, a blood-spattered guard heaved himself onto the scaffold. An assailant from below seized the man’s legs as they cleared the platform edge, tumbled onto the scaffold behind him. The guard dropped his halbard as they grappled. In a writhing heap, the two rolled across the timber planks—knives stabbing for flesh.

  Conan clawed at the stubborn knots with bleeding nails, finally loosening the tight cords. With a savage wrench, he dug his fingers into the loosened coils, tore the bonds away from the livid flesh.

  Santiddio yelped, hastily flung off his loosened bonds. In another instant the slim youth was grasping the hempen rope, lifting himself clear of the scaffold. The slack he gained thereby took the tension from the noose, and after a frantic scramble, Santiddio slipped his noose and dropped back onto the platform.

  “Free me!” Conan shouted. In the seconds that had elapsed, the guard had dispatched his opponent, and now stumbled toward them with lowered halbard. Santiddio could easily leap from the scaffold and disappear into the milling fray within the square. Conan would not have blamed the man—neither would he have forgiven him.

  Instead Santiddio darted to Conan’s side, turning his back on the swiftly advancing guard. “Just give me some slack!” he yelled.

  Conan lifted himself onto his boot toes, as Santiddio wrestled to loosen the noose enough to slip it past the Cimmerian’s chin.

  The guard rushed past the third surviving prisoner, intent on impaling the freed Santiddio. The other condemned man lashed out his foot, tripped the unsuspecting guard. The guard staggered, whirled about—then drove his halbard spike through the helpless man’s breast.

  It gained them only a short breath of time, but that was enough for Santiddio to slip the hempen noose over Conan’s jaw. Heedless of abraded skin, Conan dragged his head out of the noose.

  In a frenzy, Santiddio flung himself against the guard—Conan thought of an alley cat attacking a coach dog—gripping the halbard shaft as the other yanked its spike free of the entrapping ribcage and spun to face him. Not troubling to break the smaller man’s grip and bring the halbard blade to play, the burly guard simply rolled over Santiddio—forcing him onto his back against the platform. Astride the youth’s chest, the guard pressed the halbard shaft across Santiddio’s throat—bearing down with killing pressure despite the other’s frantic resistance.

  Free of the noose, Conan was nonetheless far from a free man. Hobbled by his prison chains, he knew there was no chance to escape the circle of guar
ds. Even as Santiddio went down, another guard was breaking away from the hard fighting at the scaffold steps to join his comrade in finishing off the prisoners.

  Conan threw every ounce of his great strength against his iron fetters—bracing legs and shoulders to draw maximum tension upon the length of chain that joined wrist and ankle chains. Massive knots of muscle bunched upon naked torso and shoulders, strained against the confines of his tattered leather trousers. Iron cuffs gouged into wrists and ankles, grinding flesh against bone. Bright blood trickled from torn skin—at once diluted by the glistening sweat that poured from his straining flesh. The footsteps of the onrushing guard reached his brain but dimly through the sledging pulse of his heart.

  Muscle against iron—one or the other must soon break under the unendurable stress. Iron was the weaker.

  A link of the chain, eroded by hours of stealthy abrasion against its adjacent link, parted with a sudden wrenching. Conan’s wrists were flung upward by the recoil—still chained together. To his disgust, Conan realized that only the connecting chain had parted—his wrists, his ankles were still fettered.

  It was enough to save his life. As the second guard rushed upon his back, Conan whirled and side-stepped—swinging the length of chain between his wrists as if it were a flail. The chain snapped into the startled guard’s face, ripping away his eyes and crushing the thin bone of the orbit. The guard howled and plummeted from the scaffold.

  With a quick leap, Conan was upon the other guard—too intent upon strangling Santiddio to recognize the sudden threat. In an instant, Conan had twisted his wrist chain about the guard’s thick neck. Driving a knee into the man’s back, Conan jerked savagely. The guard’s head all but tore away from his smashed vertebrae.