Conan the Savage Read Online Free

quarry’s depths.
    “Now, Tjai, we must leave this spot.” Stretching his massive shoulders, Conan wiped sweat and dust from his tanned, grimy face. “You were right, ’tis foolhardy to work in such a cloistered hollow, with the paunch of the earth sagging over our heads. I thought I heard the mountain shift just now, didn’t you? Come, fellow, let us flee!” Tossing down his pick-hammer and taking up the end of a spliced, knotted rope that he trailed after him, he led the way out of the broad cul-de-sac the two of them had burrowed into the cliff.
    “Ahoy, you dogs, get clear of the wall!” At the Cimmerian’s shout, the nearby workers, without stopping to look or question, threw down their tools and bolted with him. “Tjai and I have heard grumblings, and yon cliff is sure to fell! Come, fellows, save yourselves!” The running, leaping fugitives soon numbered a score and more—bearded dusty hobgoblins, shouting and scrambling over the rock-strewn floor of the chasm into the bright sun at its centre.
    “I see no sign of a cave-in,” one of the hairy troglodytes declared at last. “What is it, then, another false alarm?” “The northman lost his nerve,” a miner jeered at Conan through gapped, broken teeth. “Get your wits about you, fellow, or you will be climbing these walls in madness— and clawing them down on your head, as better men have done!”
    “Pulling them down?” the Cimmerian countered, scowling. “Aye, ’tis an idea. If you dogs want to help, lay hold of this rope!”
    Conan held up the rope end he had brought along, drawing it hand over hand to form a taut length running straight into the hollow at the base of the cliff. He threw his whole weight against the line, and Tjai, suddenly grinning, followed suit. Others joined in, until a dozen or more of them had braced their backs to the task, chanting as they would for the daily ore lifting.
    “Steady, ready, heave!” Conan shouted, and the team followed through with a lusty cry, making the rope strain and oscillate in the half-shadow.
    The result of their effort could scarcely have been foreseen: a creaking of timber, a grating of stone, and then an abrupt slackening and collapse of the line, all resistance gone. Its haulers staggered and cursed, regaining their footing on the broken quarry floor while still gaping backward at the cliff.
    There followed stirrings and rattlings from the base of the overhang. A grating shock occurred, sending a man-tall puff of dust jetting out of the hollow, followed by creakings and small rivulets of stone from far above. Then, with a trembling roar, the whole cliff face began to slump down and forward.
    The rope-haulers raised their fists and issued a cheer, which was instantly drowned out by the tumultuous din of clashing, fracturing stone; then the miners leaped and scrambled farther away as the slide sent rubble tongues and jagged boulders trundling toward the spot where they stood.
    The avalanche roared and thundered, filling the air with its tumult, reverberation, and acrid-smelling dust. Then it ceased, leaving the group of miners cowering at the foot of a broad ramp way formed of loose, smoking rubble stretching up and out of sight into the pall of rolling grey.
    “Now upward,” Conan cried, “before the dust settles! Fight your way to the top, and to freedom!”
    Leading the charge, he started up the talus slope in great, leaping bounds. He was slowed by the rubble, which gave underfoot and caught at his loose, ill-mended sandals, vastly increasing the effort needed for every step. Seeking out the larger chunks of stone awash on the sea of gravel and shale, he began to leap from one to the next. As he progressed upward, the way grew firmer, if steeper.
    Yelling and jabbering on either side of him, seized by the novel and half-forgotten notion of escape, Conan’s fellow convicts swarmed desperately forward. Some of them—the leanest, wiriest veterans at rock-scrabbling— even raced ahead