Conan The Destroyer Read Free

to turn their horses. A club swung at Conan’s head. Its wielder grunted in surprise when his wrist slapped into the Cimmerian’s palm, yelled in disbelief as the massive youth jerked him from the saddle. Conan’s fisted hilt struck once, spraying blood and teeth, and his opponent slumped.
    Drumming hooves alerted him to an attacker coming from behind. His hand closed on the long club as it fell from nerveless fingers, and he rose, spinning into a backhand blow with the staff. The thick length of wood cracked as it slammed across the midsection of a charging horseman. Eyes bulging and air rushing from him in one long strangled gasp, the rider bent as if seeking to fold himself around the club, and his horse galloped out from under him.
    “Conan!”
    Before his last opponent had struck the ground Conan was seeking the reason for Malak’s cry. Two of the black-armored warriors were leaning from their saddles to club at a bloody, writhing shape on the ground.
    With a wild yell the Cimmerian was on them, ensanguined steel slashing. Two corpses fell away from him as he dragged the small thief to his feet, dazed of eye and with scarlet rivulets streaming down his face. The net-bearers were coming once more, he saw, and Malak was barely able to stand, certainly in no shape to fight.
    Muscles bulging in a massive shoulder and arm, Conan hurled his companion aside and leaped for the net. His hand closed on it, and he heaved. A surprised warrior was catapulted from his saddle to land atop the grid of thick ropes, tangling in it as he rolled. A club smashed into the Cimmerian’s back, staggering him, but he whirled, roaring, and drove his blade under iron breastplate.
    There was no hope of escape. He knew that. Too many men crowded around him, striking with staves and clubs. Dust pounded up by dancing hooves coated his sweated body. The coppery stench of blood was in his nostrils, and his ears were filled with the din of men shouting their rage that he would not fall. Soon he must go down, but he would not surrender. His blade was a whirlwind of razor steel, encarnadining whatever it touched. By fury alone he hacked a way through the press of mounted men, but the mass swirled and enclosed him again.
    Loudly the horn sounded, the brazen note slicing through the tumult. And the men who had crowded so about him drew back. With obvious reluctance they abandoned their silent dead and groaning wounded, galloping back to form once more their circle at three hundred paces distance.
    In wonder Conan watched them go. Blood trickled in the dust on his face, and stained the back and chest of his tunic. Malak was gone, he saw. No, not gone. Captured. Netted, an arm and a leg sticking through the thick mesh, like a pig on its way to market. Regret coursed through the Cimmerian, and a determination not to end so.
    Slowly he turned, attempting to keep an eye on all of those about him. Horses wandered riderless between the circle and him. He might seize one of those and fight his way clear, if he was willing to abandon Malak. He made no move toward a horse. Close to him there were bodies, some still, some twitching. A few cried out for succor, or stretched a hand toward the black-armored watchers.
    “Come, then!” Conan shouted at the iron circle. “Let us finish it, an you have the stomach!” Here and there a horse moved as if its rider had shifted angrily, but only silence answered him.
    The rattle of rocks sliding down the hill announced the arrival of the two who had remained on the hilltop. The big man in the gold-chased armor stopped at ten paces distance from the Cimmerian, but the leather-masked rider halved that before drawing rein. Conan set himself. He could make out little of the one who approached, for the mask covered all but eyes, and a cloak of black wool swathed all else, but if single combat was sought, Conan was ready.
    The lone figure’s hands rose to remove the nasaled helmet. Then the mask came off, and the Cimmerian