Conan: Road of Kings (13 page)

Conan surged across a battlefield alien to any of his experience. Beneath the streets of Kordava, the Pit was a claustrophobic maze of carnage and mayhem, more resembling a sprawling tavern brawl than a pitched battle. There was no open space—only streets and buildings crushed with struggling and frenzied humanity, while overhead a pall of smoke lowered the vaulted ceiling of the Pit. The air choked his lungs; the tumult deafened his ears. Conan had once seen two armies of ants locked in battle upon an anthill, had broken open the mound to marvel at the ferocious combat that attacker and defender waged within its tunnels. That memory came to him now, as he shouldered through the congested alleys of the buried city.

It was chaos more than any armed resistance that impeded their progress. Having surrounded the Pit, Korst had invaded the underground city from three points, intending to secure the area before its inhabitants had time to react. But the Pit took warning with the first appearance of the cordon, and the presence of the Royal Zingaran Army convinced all within that Rimanendo intended to cleanse Kordava of its infamous sink of vice and crime, as had long been threatened. Desperate, unable to flee, the denizens of the Pit fought back like cornered rats.

Expecting no more resistance from the populace than from a mass of frightened sheep, Korst’s vanguard instead encountered savage beasts. These were no helpless law-abiding citizens, accustomed to responding blindly to the commands of authority. The people of the Pit were rogues and hardened criminals, heavily armed men to whom violence was a fact of life—who hated the king’s laws only less than they hated those who enforced them. Korst’s men had not penetrated very far into the narrow streets, before they found their way blocked by barricades and mobs of desperate men and women. Arrows and stones struck invisibly into their ordered ranks, as the walls of the overhanging buildings gave protection to snipers within. The soldiers bogged down upon their own dead and wounded, unable to progress along the close confines of the tunnel-like streets. Retreating as best they could, they sent word to Korst that any ordered advance was impossible. Korst, unimpressed, attacked with fresh troops.

Into this impasse, Conan and his companions fought their way. The perimeter secured, Korst’s soldiers battled without success to force an entrance into the Pit. Within, a state of seige existed—as the denizens of the Pit united to defend their city from an invader whose triumph would surely mean their extinction. Fires raged out of control along the periphery—threatening to spread conflagration throughout Kordava. Men and women raced through the streets, carrying weapons and material to barricade all passages that gave entrance into the Pit. Behind the barricades and in the cramped alleyways, a grim and ugly struggle to the death flung up new barriers of butchered flesh.

They had almost reached Mordermi’s stronghold, when Conan caught sight of the outlaw leader mounted amidst a circle of his men. Mordermi’s face was flushed with excitement, but he gave no evidence of panic as he deliberately gave orders for the defense of his realm. His lips made a quick smile, as he answered Conan’s hail.

“There’s a Cimmerian for you!” Mordermi laughed. “While some of my bold rogues talk of fleeing, Conan comes rushing back looking for a fight. What did you find out?”

“Korst has the Pit surrounded…” Conan began.

“Tell me something I don’t know. We’ll give Korst a belly full! We’re holding our own against his assault, and Santiddio has the White Rose up in arms to man the barricades. Korst’s attack won far more recruits for their people’s army than ever did their long-winded speeches. If we hold the barricades, Korst can’t dig us out without tearing down most of Kordava, and not even Rimanendo will give him leave to go that far.”

Mordermi nodded toward Callidios. “I meant, what did you find out about our self-announced kingmaker? Did he show you anything worth mentioning, or did you just go chasing after yellow lotus?”

“Ask Sandokazi,” Conan snorted, in no mood to talk of sorcery when the smell of battle was in his nostrils. “Where do you want me?”

“Take command of the barricades at Eel Street, and send Sifino to report back to me,” Mordermi told him, touching his bandaged left shoulder with a scowl. “Korst is concentrating his forces there, and if he makes a breakthrough he can penetrate the Pit in strength. I’ll coordinate the defense from here—with this shoulder I’m not worth a damn in close fighting—and we’ll fall back to my stronghold if we have to. It will be better for us if we can keep Korst out of the Pit.”

“Now tell me something I don’t know,” Conan returned. “And give me one of those horses, or I’ll miss the fight before I can push through the mob.”

One of Mordermi’s men dismounted and tossed his reins to Conan. The Cimmerian swung into the saddle and wheeled the horse toward Eel Street—anxious to clear his brain of Callidios’ scheme and sorceries by plunging headlong into red battle. Man against man, steel against steel—Conan asked for no more subtle game than this.

Mordermi grinned as he watched the Cimmerian ride through the press. “Mitra! Give me a hundred such men, and Zingara will have a new king!”

He felt Callidios’ gaze upon him. “Well, Stygian?” he asked curtly.

“Conan rides to battle, as a good pawn should,” Callidios smiled. “Such pawns are useful to win battles, and such battles to win wars—but the man who knows how to make use of his pawns and his victories is the man who follows the road of kings. I think it is time, Mordermi, for the two of us to talk further upon such matters.”

Ten

White Heat

Eel Street—again the pun was typical of Zingaran humor—was as close an approximation to a main thoroughfare as the Pit could boast. In the days of old Kordava, the avenue had borne another name—now forgotten—and had been a wide, straight passage between proud buildings. This day—when most streets within the Pit would scarcely pass two carts abreast—Eel Street offered Korst his best point of assault, and, as his advance faltered elsewhere, the king’s general concentrated his attack here.

“Conan!” A familiar voice hailed him from a group of wounded. “You’re a welcome sight! Santiddio said you’d gone fishing.”

Carico was trying a dirty bandage about one massive thigh. “Bastard just got a nip out of me below my hauberk,” he half apologized, as Conan dismounted. “But then, he’s not complaining about where I scattered his brains.”

“Where is Santiddio?” Conan asked the smith.

“Lit out the back door,” Carico said, trying his weight on his wounded leg. “Going to try to rally the new city to our fight. Been better if I’d gone to talk to them, but this sort of work here takes more meat than Santiddio has on his bones.”

“Mordermi wanted me to take over the defense here,” Conan told him. “Where’s Sifino?” Down the smoke-filled street, the sounds of combat sounded like rolling thunder.

“Dead, most likely,” Carico said. “He was at the first barricade, and that’s fallen. Korst is throwing all he’s got at us. You’ll need some mail. Take mine. My forge is close by, and I’ll send a boy for my other coat of mail, while I staunch this damned scratch. Not many men of our build you can pick from.” He nodded toward a row of the slain.

Conan muttered a hasty thanks and dragged Carico’s padded gambeson and hauberk over his torso. The stocky blacksmith was shorter than Conan, but his shoulders and girth gave away nothing to the hulking Cimmerican. Carico’s gift was no casual gesture: without mail no warrior could long survive this close infighting, and Conan would have had little chance of finding mail large enough to fit his huge frame.

Daylight poured through from the mouth of Eel Street, to some extent obscured by a collapsed pile of masonry and smouldering rubble, where one of the topside buildings had crumpled in flame. This afforded the defenders a moment’s respite, while Korst’s soldiers were driven back by the heat. Close to the burning rubble, men dragged bodies away from a barricade—overrun, to judge from the burgundy and gold clad bodies that lay between it and a second barricade farther within the Pit. Conan paused here briefly, watched the frantic efforts to strengthen the makeshift fortifications: carts, doors, timbers and large pieces of furniture formed a bulwark from wall to wall, pavement to ceiling. Unlike any ordinary barricade, there was no climbing over one such as this; the invaders would have to smash through it. A gap in the second barricade let men pass through to the fallen one.

“Carry some of this forward,” Conan ordered. “We can man the first barricade while Korst regroups, then fall back here if we’re driven back. No sense in giving up any more ground to the bastards than we have to. And start a third barricade farther back. Archers—take up positions where you can rake their front as they advance, then fall back to the next barricade and be ready to cover our retreat if they break through.”

The defenders here—Conan guessed their number to be several hundreds—were most of them ordinary citizens, with the remainder partly from Mordermi’s band and the rest members of the White Rose who had come here with Carico. If any of them wondered at taking orders from the young Cimmerian, none grumbled aloud. Conan was well liked and respected by those who knew him by acquaintance or reputation; to the others, the mailed giant with the broadsword posed too formidable a figure to tempt any to question his leadership.

Conan retrieved a steel burgonet from a heap of the slain, and pulled it down over his head. Casting about, he scavenged a serviceable buckler from the same source. Men hastened to shore up the outermost of the barricades—flinging the dead onto the bulwark. This was like fighting in a cavern, Conan reflected—gloomy and cramped. It would be a brutal, inelegant combat—scarcely the stuff of romantic ballads. Notwithstanding, a certain calmness dominated his thoughts. The mores and motives of his civilized friends might baffle Conan, but when civilization shed its sophistication and sought to settle the issue through force of arms, Conan was in his element.

Beyond the smouldering barrier of the collapsed building, Conan could see Zingaran soldiers working to douse the flames and clear a path through the rubble. Those of their fellows who had been cut off by the cave-in had fallen to the regrouping defenders. Probably Korst’s men would otherwise have succeeded in making their breakthrough here.

As figures took shape through the smoke-filled passage, rebel archers loosed their bows. Advancing behind their shields, Korst’s men stumbled and wavered beneath the punishing barrage—deadly at pointblank range. But more soldiers forced past the bodies of their comrades, crossing the short space between the two sides to rush the first barricade. Now the quarters were too close for archery to be effective, as the attackers took cover below the loopholes, and the barricade became a wall of clawing bodies and stabbing steel.

Conan crouched in the cover of an overturned cart. The planks shuddered as several bodies struck against it, straining to shove it aside. A face flashed across one of the openings through which the archers had shot. Conan jabbed clumsily with his broadsword, missed the throat and tore the point through the man’s mouth. A spear thrust past the opening, as Conan lunged away. The man next to Conan caught the shaft and hauled inward. A fist clutched the haft, and, before the soldier could withdraw, Conan’s blade severed wrist and spear together. Conan’s companion fell away, still grasping the sundered spear. Conan glanced to see why the man did not return, and saw an arrow protruding from his face.

Another arrow bit into Conan’s buckler. Korst had archers, too, and they were aiming at any opening in the barricade—seeking to pin down the defenders. More of the soldiers advanced behind makeshift mantlets, hurling themselves against the barricade. Sword-blades, spears, and pole arms thrust and tore through the barrier from both sides, as the rebels fought to drive back the king’s soldiers before they could dismantle this hastily thrown-up bulwark.

Axes thudded against timber. Conan waited until a plank was wrenched from the wagonbed, then thrust his swordpoint through the axe wielder’s armpit. The broadsword was not suited for thrusting, but it worked well enough in a pinch, and the watered steel blade only rang from a counterstroke that would have snapped a lighter blade.

A halbard stabbed at him from an opening Conan had not seen appear. Its awl snagged his mail and crushed into the padded gambeson—inflicting no damage as Conan flung himself backward with the force of the blow. Carico’s gift had saved his life. Conan did not waste his edge on the steel-guarded halbard shaft. Carico was a good smith, his political philosphies notwithstanding. Conan slammed the buckler behind the axe blade, lodged it there, hauled back sharply. The links in the mail were tight and solid, had held against the point of the awl when most mail would have parted. The halbard’s owner was flung against the wagonbed, as he sought to retain his grip on the haft. Conan’s blade gutted him through the broken planks.

There were too many soldiers, Conan realized as the fight wore on. This barricade, quickly rebuilt after it had once before fallen, was being overwhelmed yet again. Korst’s men had hit upon the tactic of typing ropes to portions of the barricade, dragging whole sections free—out of reach of the rebels’ weapons. Conan knew they must fall back to the next barricade—and hope that it had been thrown together more substantially. It had been a mistake to keep the archers back, very probably; they might have picked men off the ropes. Conan made a mental note.

Just behind the barricade, a figure lurched from the doorway of a wineshop. Conan whirled to meet him, halted his sword stroke as he recognized Sifino’s black-bearded face beneath a bloody bandage. Mordermi’s lieutenant reeked of wine, and he stumbled from more than the blow to his skull. He blinked at Conan in some confusion.

“Crawled under the counter when the barricade fell,” he muttered. “Must have passed out. Where’s Carico? And how did we retake this barricade?”

“Carico’s getting his leg patched up,” Conan told him curtly. “Mordermi wants you. Take my horse and tell him our situation here. And tell him I’m going to have to fall back to our second line. I need more men to hold.”