Conan: Road of Kings Read Free Page B

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 explosion 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.