Conan: Road of Kings Read Online Free

Made helpless by its panic-stricken myriads, the crowd flung itself to the outlying streets with all the blind impetus of a beheaded python—trampling scores of the less agile in its frenzy to escape. Blocked in by the press of the frantic mob, reinforcements from the prison itself were unable to force their way across the Dancing Floor.
    Beneath the scaffold, Mordermi’s brigands fought an uncertain battle with the guards who had been posted there for the execution. The initial surprise and confusion gave an advantage to the attackers—Conan judged there must be a score of them; in the chaos that ensued it was impossible to be certain. That any organized force would have the temerity, let alone the motive, to attempt to rescue any of these common felons from the public gallows was an eventuality that the prison officials would have deemed absurd. Now, as the beleaguered guards wielded their halbards in frantic defense against an unexpected assault, it would take time for a reserve force to breach the panic-stricken masses.
    Backs to the scaffold, the remnant of the guard met sword and knife with their long-shafted halbards. Upon the scaffold itself: three bodies swung lazily, a fourth kicked frenetically an inch above the platform, and the hangman’s corpse glared at the three men who yet waited beneath their hempen tethers. The initial attack had cleared the scaffold of all others.
    One of the attackers burst past the faltering circle of guards, dashed up the scaffold steps toward the helpless captives there. Santiddio shouted a cheer—then cursed impotently, as a halbard blade swept up out of the melee to sever their rescuer’s leg at midcalf. Screaming, the crippled man pinwheeled back down the steps and into the struggle below.
    “Santiddio!” Conan bellowed. “Stretch out your wrists toward me!”
    Despite his excitement, the other man instantly understood. Turning his back to Conan, Santiddio extended his bound wrists toward the Cimmerian’s manacled fists. By straining to the limits of their nooses, they were just able to bring their hands together. Setting his teeth against the throttling agony of the noose, Conan tore at the knots that held the other’s wrists. The knots were hard, the cord tightly bound, cutting deep into Santiddio’s wrists. Conan cursed and broke his nails digging against the knots. His temples throbbed with congested blood.
    An angry shout penetrated Conan’s consciousness for all his maniacal concentration on the knots: “Kill the prisoners! Kill the prisoners!”
    Either to foil the escape attempt, or to cause the wouldbe rescuers to withdraw—the order had been given. Forcing his way out of the tumult below, a blood-spattered guard heaved himself onto the scaffold. An assailant from below seized the man’s legs as they cleared the platform edge, tumbled onto the scaffold behind him. The guard dropped his halbard as they grappled. In a writhing heap, the two rolled across the timber planks—knives stabbing for flesh.
    Conan clawed at the stubborn knots with bleeding nails, finally loosening the tight cords. With a savage wrench, he dug his fingers into the loosened coils, tore the bonds away from the livid flesh.
    Santiddio yelped, hastily flung off his loosened bonds. In another instant the slim youth was grasping the hempen rope, lifting himself clear of the scaffold. The slack he gained thereby took the tension from the noose, and after a frantic scramble, Santiddio slipped his noose and dropped back onto the platform.
    “Free me!” Conan shouted. In the seconds that had elapsed, the guard had dispatched his opponent, and now stumbled toward them with lowered halbard. Santiddio could easily leap from the scaffold and disappear into the milling fray within the square. Conan would not have blamed the man—neither would he have forgiven him.
    Instead Santiddio darted to Conan’s side, turning his back on the swiftly advancing guard. “Just give me some slack!” he