Conan: Road of Kings

by Karl Edward Wagner

  “What do we do?” Santiddio wondered, still puzzling over the message. “Do we follow my sister’s pet?”

  “We follow,” Conan agreed. “And that wolf is no pet.”

  They left the clearing, and in a moment the trading post and all evidences of man’s work had vanished behind a darkening wall of tall trees.

  Another mile, and the darkness had so deepened that neither man could see the trail they followed—if indeed a trail existed beneath the black columns of the trees. Santiddio rested his hand lightly on the wolf’s hackles, trusting the beast to lead them to whatever awaited them. Conan gripped his swordhilt and listened uneasily to the sounds that followed them through the darkened forest. He knew that they need not fear Picts on this night journey, but that knowledge held no reassurance for him.

  They were alone in the midst of a forest that had been ancient when Conan’s ancestors had squatted in caves and brooded upon the mystery of fire. The Pictish Wilderness was a trackless ocean of forest and mountains; no man of the white races had ever traversed it, even the savage Picts had never penetrated vast sections of the forestland. Time and distance became meaningless concepts—human and therefore meaningless—as they walked on and on between boles whose girth ten men could not encompass, upon a carpet of forest mold that swallowed the sound of their footsteps. But for the presence of their feral guide, they might have been two damned souls adrift in limbo.

  “A region where the old gods are more than memory,” Destandasi had warned them. Truly as they walked through this primeval forest, Conan realized that these trees shared the antiquity of the very rocks beneath their roots. It was an awful sensation when a living presence exuded the frightful antiquity of the earth itself.

  There was suddenly a distant glimmer of light through the forest ahead of them, and Conan had never greeted a dawn with deeper joy.

  It was a small clearing, although after the claustrophobic passage between the gigantic columns of trees, the clearing seemed a living island of space and of light. A woman stood within the clearing, awaiting their coming. It was a moment before Conan looked beyond her.

  Conan had pondered in the course of their journey as to what the remaining sibling of the Esanti triplets would look like. Aloof, Mordermi had described her, and sharing the features of sister and brother. Conan had envisioned a sort of skinny Sandokazi with the cold sneer of a maiden queen. He had not expected the Destandasi who greeted them here in this lost grove.

  Strangely enough, she did make him think of both Sandokazi and Santiddio. Destandasi was tall and straight, neither thin nor buxom. Her face called to mind Sandokazi, with its dark complexion and glowing eyes whose dark pupils seemed larger than the normal. Again the angular chin and high-bridged nose, but her lips smiled bitterly where Sandokazi’s were roguish. Her shoulders were straight and almost mannish, her breasts small and high, her lips slender—as opposed to her sister’s generous display of curves. She might have been a sister of some years younger to compare their figures, but her face made her seem an equal span of years older then Sandokazi. Her hair was of lustrous black highlights, and she wore it gathered into one long fall that trailed down over one breast to her waist. Her gown was of some dark green material—a simple affair that was tied at her shoulders and fell straight to her bare calves, gathered at the waist by scarlet cord. She was barefoot despite the chill of an autumn night.

  Conan thought of her as a dryad or a virginal wood sprite, and when he looked elsewhere in the clearing, he decided his first impression was a true one. There was a colossal elm—ancient beyond calculation—squatting upon one edge of the clearing. The bole could not have been encircled by ten tall men with arms outstretched and joined, and, as sometimes occurred with trees of this age, its trunk was hollow. A gap between two huge root buttresses made a doorway; crevices where the heartwood had rotted out of the scars of lost branches made windows. Like a dryad, Destandasi lived within a tree. There was a small spring near the center of the clearing. A small fire burned upon slabs of stone not far from the base of the hollow elm, and lamplight peered through the crevices and doorway.

  Conan thought brother and sister embraced one another with more restraint than the circumstances allowed for. “Welcome to my home, brother,” Destandasi greeted him with equal formality.

  “Destandasi, this is Conan. He’s been a tremendous friend to both Sandokazi and me—as you’ll soon learn.”

  “Welcome, Conan,” she said, giving him her hand. “I hope you will neither of you regret your coming here.”

  Under the circumstances, Conan wasn’t certain whether to kiss her hand or clasp it. He chose the latter, was glad he did, for she returned his grasp with a strength that belied the aloofness of her smile.

  “Will you enter my home? I have set out food and drink.”

  As formal as a hostess. Or a priestess.

  And who but a priestess could endure the awful loneliness of this grove—no, not endure, rather cherish it.

  Conan wondered where the worshippers might be on this night.

  Eighteen

  A Sending From Kordava

  Santiddio talked while they ate. Talked to such length and feeling that Conan wondered how he remembered to take a mouthful of food.

  The food was simple fare of breads and cakes of coarse-ground grains and nuts, baked upon her stone oven outside the tree, accompanied by a soup of different vegetables, along with fruits and roasted nuts. Conan recognized most of the ingredients as coming from various wild plants. It was all well prepared and quite filling, although Conan guessed that the absence of meat was deliberate. Recalling what little he knew of the mysteries of Jhebbal Sag, this came as no surprise.

  The interior of the hollow elm was extremely cozy, and with its vertical dimensions, afforded far more interior space than Conan had expected. Destandasi’s possessions were few and simple, most of them evidently of her own making. A small loom took up some space, as did a table and cabinets of utensils and materials she used to make the things she needed. A few books made almost a discordant note. Shelves and niches were everywhere around the interior of the hollow bole. Steps cut into the trunk gave access to a bed laid out on a narrow shelf framed into the interior of the bole overhead from where they sat. Lamps of pine oil made a mellow light, and there was a stone slab by one knothole where small fires might be laid. Heavy curtains could shut off the doorway and windows.

  Conan did not like to think about a woman living alone in the Pictish Wilderness with no more than a curtain to shut out an intruder. As he thought more about it, the Cimmerian decided that the priestess of Jhebbal Sag would not be in danger from any attacker—man or beast—here in the sacred grove. Conan was an experienced woodsman, yet the Cimmerian sensed that had the wolf not guided them to this grove he and Santiddio might have wandered forever beneath the inimical shadow of the forest.

  Santiddio brought his narrative to a close with the account of their reaching Inizio’s trading post. Destandasi had listened almost without interruption throughout the tale, only her glowing eyes evincing any interest.

  “What do you expect of me?” she asked bluntly, when it was evident that her brother was awaiting some response.

  Santiddio waved his hand about the room in a vague gesture. He pointed toward her books.

  “You’ve delved into the occult,” he accused her. “Before you chose to lose yourself in the deepest wilderness the gods ever created, you studied other paths than the one you at last followed.”

  “This is not a place for flippancy,” Destandasi said quickly—and it was a warning, not a scolding.

  “But you did study such matters,” Santiddio pursued. “You must have some inkling as to how we can defeat Callidios, how we can fight against the Final Guard.”

  “I turned my back on all such matters when I became a priestess of Jhebbal Sag.” Destandasi reiterated.

  “Well, you can’t just turn your back on your brother and sister also,” Santiddio protested. “We still li
ve out there in the world of man and man’s cities.”

  “I took a vow never to leave this grove.”

  “Then stay here in your tree,” Santiddio said hotly. “I came to you because I need your advice.”

  “My advice is for both of you to leave Kordava. There’s nothing there to hold you. Kordava holds only doom for the Esanti blood.”

  “Kordava is the home of the Esantis. I, too, have certain vows and ties that bind me to Kordava. I’ve got to return to complete the work Mordermi has betrayed. All I’m asking for is some means to counter Callidios’ sorcery so that we can meet Mordermi on equal terms.”

  Destandasi pressed her lips together in thought. “From what you’ve told me. I have no idea how Callidios can command the Final Guard. The wizards who created them might have the power to usurp control over them, but this Callidios can’t have powers of that degree. If he did, be certain that he’d never have needed to play along with Mordermi and the White Rose. I suspect that what he has told you is the truth—that he has no formal apprenticeship in the black arts such as any archimage must endure, but that on his own growing up in the temple of Set he succeeded in developing some specialized power or talent to a high degree. A sort of dabbler in all sorceries and an adept in one.”

  “That doesn’t tell us anything,” Santiddio said tiredly.

  “I’ve told you all I can. This isn’t my area of study by any means. The mysteries of Jhebbal Sag concern life forces. We are the few who remember—the last few.”

  “‘Remember’?” Conan repeated her stress on the word.

  “There is little I may tell you, less that you would understand,” Destandasi said carefully. “There was an age when all living things worshipped Jhebbal Sag, and men and beasts were brothers who spoke one language. Only a few have retained that memory—beasts more so than men. It is a memory that can be reawakened. More than this I may not disclose.”

  “But you can’t help us defeat the Final Guard with your knowledge?” Santiddio asked in dejection.

  “I have studied living things, sought to understand the unity of all life. You want to learn about the forces of death and of chaos. Go to a sorcerer.”

  “That’s the dilemma,” Santiddio sighed. “Assuming we were able to enlist the aid of a magician whose powers were greater than Callidios’—then we’d run the risk of his seizing control of the Final Guard.”

  “Better the devil you know,” Destandasi finished for him. “I’m sorry, but I honestly don’t know how to advise you in this.”

  A scream from the clearing outside ripped apart the brooding silence that had set in after her words. It was at once a howl of baffled rage and a shrilling of agony. Conan was not certain whether the cry was human or bestial, and in this grove the distinction might not be all that clear cut.

  Destandasi came to her feet in one fluid movement. Her face expressed shock and uncertainty. Conan gave her a single glance, understood that this was not the cry of one of the children of Jhebbal Sag, and was through the door with drawn sword in the next instant.

  The Cimmerian skidded away from the pool of light, crouched low against the massive bole, as he searched the clearing for the source of the outcry. Something white struggled frantically at the opposite edge of the clearing. Conan made for it in catlike bounds, keeping low.

  A woman stood at the edge of the sacred grove. It was Sandokazi.

  Conan stood gaping for a moment, as Santiddio and Destandasi caught up to him. Sandokazi stared back at him wildly.

  “Mitra! It’s ’Kazi!” Her brother recognized her face in the wan light. “Did you change your mind and decide to join us after all? How did you manage to find us? Poor ’Kazi, no wonder you…”

  He started forward to embrace her, but Destandasi hauled him back from her reach. “No! Keep back from her!” she hissed.

  Sandokazi made a low growl, tried to edge forward. Some force was holding her back.

  “Don’t you see!” Destandasi’s voice was sick. “She can’t cross the circle of the sacred grove!”

  Conan’s eyes adjusted from the light within the tree home to the near darkness at the edge of the forest. His brain now registered that which his instincts had warned him of an instant before.

  Sandokazi wore only a filthy shift. Her bare feet were torn and scratched, her tangled hair matted with briars and muck. Instead of a pearl necklace, a hempen noose bit into her throat—left there in a cruel jest. Her neck seemed unnaturally long, tipped crookedly away from the knot. Her eyes protruded in a ghastly stare, emanating insensate malice. Her tattered lips writhed in an animal snarl, and as she clawed at them from the edge of the circle, they could smell the sweet taint of decay.

  “Can’t you see?” Destandasi’s voice was shaken but her nerve was steady. “She’s dead. They killed her, and Callidios sent her on your trail to kill you. If you’d been camped along the river, she would have attacked you like a deadly beast. She would leap upon us now, if evil sendings could cross the sacred grove.”

  Santiddio knelt, retching between the sobs that tore from him as if hot nails had been driven into his breast.

  Conan raised his sword to strike. His face was terrible with the rage he could not express.

  “Don’t!” Destandasi checked him. “That isn’t the way. She’s dead—a dead thing that Callidios controls! The Stygian has revealed to us where his genius lies: Callidios is a master of necromancy.”

  “What can I do!” Conan groaned between clenched teeth.

  “Take Santiddio away from this and stay with him. There is a sign of power that I may use to break this foul spell. It would not be good if you saw what I do now, for the secrets of Jhebbal Sag are jealously guarded.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Conan swore. “I’ll stay to help you…”

  “Leave me with that which was my sister!” Destandasi hissed. “Haven’t you already helped her!”

  Conan swallowed a retort. Picking up Santiddio as if he were some broken doll who might shatter completely, Conan left Destandasi to do what must be done.

  Nineteen

  Dreams Are Born to Die

  They buried Sandokazi within the sacred grove at daybreak.

  Conan dug the grave beneath the graying skies of dawn. He flung back the earth, his breath jerking in savage grunts with each blow of the shovel. From the blaze in his eyes, he might have been striking against living flesh.

  Destandasi quietly washed the desecrated body of her sister—now exorcised of its depraved sham of life—and prepared a shroud from the coverlets of her bed. Her face was lined with a stress beyond even this horror, and Conan guessed that the powers of Jhebbal Sag were not to be invoked without a price.

  Santiddio remained silent throughout the ordeal. Looking into his eyes, Conan knew that the soul of adventurous youth had gone into the grave with Sandokazi.

  As the Cimmerian threw the final spadeful of earth upon the grave, Santiddio found his voice. “I don’t care any longer whether our cause is a lost one, or whether the final victory will be ours. I only know that I return now to Kordava to continue the struggle, and that I’ll send that Stygian down into the Hell that spawned him if it’s the last thing I do!”

  “I’m going to Kordava with you,” Destandasi stated.

  “But your vow!” her brother reminded.

  “There comes a time when vows must be broken.” Destandasi bent to place a spray of dried flowers and autumn leaves upon the grave.

  “All living things are sacred to Jhebbal Sag,” she continued. “It is wrong to take a life. It is an unspeakable sacrilege to enslave a dead soul by animating its clay with a hideous mockery of life. It was a great evil that Callidios did to Sandokazi. Such evil must not be permitted to endure.”

  “Then you can help us defeat Callidios’ sorcery?” Conan asked quickly.

  “I believe I have fathomed the secret of his command of the Final Guard,” Destandasi announced. “If I have, it may be that Sandokazi will be avenged—for in sending her fort
h as one of the walking dead to perform his commands, Callidios may have revealed himself. Had you any suspicion that the Stygian was a necromancer?”

  “Callidios is secretive and devious in everything,” Conan replied. “He belittles the demonstrations of his powers that he has revealed on occasion, boasts of his mastery of dark forces that remain his secret.”

  “His mastery of necromancy would justify his boasts. It demands the most potent spells in order to raise the dead and compel them to reveal the course of future events. Callidios, it seems, has exceeded the depraved ambitions of most others who delve into the necromantic arts. Callidios not only has the power to raise the dead, but he can compel the reanimated corpse to obey him in whatsoever he shall command. Sending Sandokazi across Zingara to slay those whom she loved was as arrogant a stroke as it was cruel. He meant that you should know in the moment of your death that the dread powers he boasted to possess were all that he had claimed.”

  Santiddio thought upon her words, trying to follow her line of reasoning. “Then you believe that Callidios can command the Final Guard through necromancy? But the Final Guard are no reanimated liches; if Callidios spoke the truth, the stone devils are virtually deathless. The wizards of ancient Thuria created them to obey only King Kalenius; to guard his tomb throughout eternity was Kalenius’ command to them.”

  “I believe that the Final Guard continues to obey only King Kalenius,” Destandasi concluded.

  “But Kalenius is dead!”

  “True. Even as Sandokazi is dead.”

  They stood mute as the understanding of her logic came to them. Destandasi laid it out for them, as their minds reeled with the enormity of it.

  “Callidios learned of the tomb of Kalenius through writings he perused in the temple of Set in Stygia. He told Conan that the body of Kalenius had been preserved by the king’s sorcerers and set upon a golden throne to rule his eternal palace. Kalenius was obsessed with his tomb; if his sorcerers were capable of creating the Final Guard, one can assume the same effort was devoted to the preservation of the king’s mortal remains.