Free Conan: Road of Kings by Karl Edward Wagner Page B

narrow fringe of beach exposed as the sea ebbed from beneath the sheer bluff. With precise timing, they breached the surf and touched shore in the interval that the guards who should have patrolled the cliffs were decoyed to repel the rioters at the gate. Previous reconnaissance had settled upon the best approach to the headland, and now the hotly pursued raiders made for the prearranged landing site.
    The promontory rose a hundred feet or more above the surf—its escarpment a sheer wall of broken rock. As they reached the pick-up point, one of those on the beach below shot an arrow to which a cord was affixed. Eager hands hauled in the cord, after its nether end had been made fast to a heavy rope. Drawing the rope upward, they secured it to a tree that was firmly rooted close beside the precipice. Clinging to the rope, the raiders hurriedly worked their way down the face of the cliff—their descent encumbered by their weighty sacks of plunder.
    Conan tore off the silken mask that covered his features and glared back along the path they had followed. The grounds were extensive, and along the edge of the cliffs stunted trees replaced roses and floral arbors. With the cover of darkness, it was impossible to know which way the outlaws had fled, and this had given them a distinct advantage over their pursuers. But Conan could hear the frantic sounds of men crashing through the brush, fanning out in their search, and he knew that time was running out for them.
    “Get on down there, ’Kazi!” Mordermi urged her. “We may have fighting here very shortly.”
    “I’ll wait for the rest of you,” Sandokazi returned.
    “Santiddio, see that your sister gets down that rope, or I’ll toss her off and let the falcon fly home. Conan and I will guard the rear.”
    Conan observed the progress of the others down the rope. “We’d all be down in no time, if they’d just let those sacks drop and slide down after them.”
    “What! And risk losing all these lovely baubles in the surf?” Mordermi demanded incredulously. “Conan, what’s the point in stealing all this gold if we don’t mean to spend it?”
    “Look sharp, then,” Conan warned. “Here comes some who don’t mean to let us live to spend it!”
    The first straggling group of soldiers pelted toward them, howling like a pack with its quarry at bay. The light was just enough for them to discern the raiders silhouetted along the edge of the precipice, so that they shouted to their comrades that the outlaws were trapped.
    Conan risked a glance toward the rope. Most of the men had made it down; others were scrambling in mad haste. But they would have to deal with these soldiers before he and Mordermi could make good their escape.
    The soldiers were breathless from the pursuit, but they were ready enough with their swords. Conan, in helmet and scale armor, had the advantage over his comrades, and he unhesitatingly attacked the first of the guard to reach them. Swinging the war axe with both hands, Conan’s heavy blade snapped the other’s rapier as it made a futile parry, sheared through cuirass and caved in the man’s chest. Wrenching the axe free, Conan parried another’s blade against the iron straps that reinforced its haft, smashed the man’s arm with a sudden blow of the hammer head, then finished him with a slash of the broad blade.
    Beside him, Mordermi was engaged with another of the kings’s soldiers. Clearly the superior swordsman, Mordermi was held in check momentarily by the guard’s cuirass. Lunging swiftly, he evaded his opponent’s attempt to parry, and thrust his rapier tip through the unprotected throat above the cuirass. Giving back as another guardsman rushed past the toppling body, Mordermi stumbled—as a third assailant dropped low and ripped his blade through the outlaw’s belly in a disembowelling stroke.
    Conan spun from his own dying opponent, to split the man’s skull as he straightened from dealing Mordermi his mortal wound. To the