Free Conan the Rebel by Poul Anderson

wonderful! Yes!' She kissed him, so hard that her teeth drew blood from his lips, and knelt to unlace his boots.
    He sent his encumbering chain mail rattling to the deck and slung his sword across his back. Barefoot, garbed merely in breeches and helmet, he darted forth. At the mast he studied the rigging for a moment, chose a halyard, and drew his dirk to cut it across. Thereafter he sought a rail and the shrouds on that side. His fingers and toes gripped tarry ratlines. Swift as a squirrel, he scampered
    The Stygians did not appear to have noticed him. Bêlit had gotten her own archers to keep them occupied. A bulwark around the poop protected them fairly well, but they must keep their heads beneath except when rising briefly for a return shot.
    Perched on the yardarm above the slatting sail, Conan hauled in the severed line. The back stay offered him a way down, but one that would be fatally slow. Instead, he cut the halyard again at its block and ran out along the pole. Unsteered, the ship wallowed in billows, her mast drawing wild arcs across the sky. Conan balanced himself without thinking. Near the tip of the yard he slashed enough of the sail loose that it would not interfere with him. Having gauged what length he wanted, he made the line fast. Taking the free end in both hands, he sprang.
    He fell, shocked to a halt as the cordage drew taut, and swung forward over deck, cabin, warriors, Tigress, and ever-hungry sea swept, jubilating like the boy who had once played this game in the, treetops of Cimmeria. Back aft he whirled, low above the poop, and let go.
    His feet caught the bulwark, a brunt that went through his bones. He rebounded and came to a crouch even as his sword hissed from its sheath. Shield-less, he drew dagger as well. A sailor gaped at him, stupefied. Conan hewed. A skull clove.
    'Hoy-ho!' Conan trumpeted, and smote right and left. A pike jabbed at him. He used his sword to deflect it, and slithered inward. His dirk found the pike man’s throat. He hurled the dying body against another, and brought his blade around in bare time to fend off an ax. No single, unarmoured man could stand before a massed attack; but he forced himself in among the Stygians, where they could not work together, and sowed havoc.
    A short sword grazed him. He smashed the pommel of his own weapon into the face behind and felt bone crunch. His edge sliced over the man's shoulder before that one could fall, and laid a belly open. Meanwhile he had locked the guard of his knife into that of another sword. He held it immobilized until he was ready to twist about and chop through the arm that wielded it.
    Towering over the tumult, he saw Bêlit's black fighters dash to a ladder now undefended. Abruptly he heard a laugh, long, savage, ascending. Bêlit flew onto the poop, in the same wise as he had before. He gasped. He had not intended that. She bounced about, her hair a-flicker. He roared. The fury of his combating redoubled. He would kill every last Stygian wretch aboard before any of them could harm his beloved!
    The event, he did not, for her men arrived and soon completed in- task.
    Sails furled, the linked ships rolled easily in the marching seas. More chilly than exuberant Bêlit, Conan took stock. Their crew had lost three, and five had such bad wounds that they would be out of action for a while, if infection did not take them off. No Stygians appeared to remain. The buccaneers had thrown all overboard, dead or alive; hey were not in the slave trade. However, Conan saw that eventually Bêlit would have to do what she had done before, return in Suba country for fresh recruits. She said there was no dearth of those.
    Hatches yawned where men had gone below to find out what cargo they had acquired. He heard happy noises and gathered that it was not only valuable but readily transferable – spices, perhaps. He himself approached the deckhouse, Bêlit at his side. Both had cast off their bloody, sweaty garb. Her glorious body