The Savage Tales of Solomon Kane

by Robert E. Howard

  “I wonder not thereat,” quoth he. “Belike I'd scarce know myself should I meet myself suddenly. Well, Solomon, my sober cutthroat, it's been many a year since I gazed on that sombre face of yours, but I'd know it in Hades. Come – have you forgotten the brave old days when we harried the Dons from the Azores to Darien and back again? Cutlass and carronade! By the bones of the saints, ours was a red trade! You've not forgotten Jeremy Hawk!”

  Recognition glimmered in Kane's cold eyes as a shadow passes across the surface of a frozen lake.

  “I remember; we did not sail on the same ship, though. I was with Sir Richard Grenville. You sailed with John Bellefonte.”

  “Aye!” cried Hawk with an oath. “I'd give the crown I've lost to live those days again! But Sir Richard's at the bottom of the sea, and Bellefonte's in Hell, and many of the bold brethren are swinging in chains or feeding the fishes with good English flesh. Tell me, my melancholy murderer, does good Queen Bess still rule old England?”

  “It's been many moons since I left our native shores,” answered Kane. “She sat firmly on her throne when I sailed.”

  He spoke shortly and Hawk stared at him curiously. “You never loved the Tudors, eh, Solomon?”

  “Her sister harried my people like beasts of prey,” answered Kane harshly. “She herself has lied to and betrayed the folk of my faith – but that's neither here nor there. What do you here?”

  Hawk, Kane noticed, from time to time turned his head and stared back in the direction from which he had come, in an attitude of close listening, as if he expected pursuit.

  “It's a long story,” he answered. “I'll tell it briefly – you know there were high words between Bellefonte and others of the English captains –”

  “I've heard he became no better than a common pirate,” Kane said bluntly.

  Hawk grinned wickedly. “Why, so they said. At any rate, away to the Main we sailed, and by Satan's eyes, we lived like kings among the isles, preying on the plate ships and treasure galleons. Then came a Spanish war-ship and harried us sore. A bursting cannon shot sent Bellefonte to his master, the Devil, and I, as first mate, became captain. There was a French rogue named La Costa who opposed me – well, I hanged La Costa to the main-yards and squared sails for the south. We gave the war-ship the slip at last, and made for the Slave Coast for a cargo of black ivory. But our luck went with Bellefonte. We piled on a reef in a heavy fog and when the mist cleared a hundred war-canoes full of naked howling devils were swarming about us.

  “We fought for half a day and when we had beaten them off, we found ourselves nearly out of powder, half our men dead and the ship ready to slip off the reef where she hung and sink under our feet. There were but two things to do – take to sea in open boats or come ashore. And there was but one boat the bombards of the war-ship had left unshattered. Some of the crew piled into it and the last we saw of them, they were rowing westward. The rest of us got ashore on rafts.

  “By the black gods of Hades! It was madness – but what else was there for us to do? The jungles swarmed with blood-lusting blacks. We marched northward hoping to come upon a barracoon where slavers came, but they cut us off and we turned due eastward perforce. We fought every step of the way; our band melted like mist before the sun. Spears and savage beasts and venomous serpents took their fearful toll. At last I alone faced the jungle that had swallowed all my men. I eluded the blacks. For months I travelled alone and all but unarmed in this hostile land. At last I came out upon the shores of a great lake and saw the walls and towers of an island kingdom rising before me.”

  Hawk laughed fiercely. “By the bones of the saints! It sounds like a tale of Sir John Mandeville! I found a strange people upon the islands – black folk and a curious and ungodly race who ruled over them. They had never seen a white man before. In my youth I wandered about with a band of thieves who masked their real characters by tumbling and juggling. By virtue of my skill at sleight o' hand, I impressed the people. They looked on me as a god – all except old Agara, their priest – and he could not explain away my white skin.

  “They made a fetish of me and old Agara secretly offered to make me a high priest. I appeared to acquiesce and learned many of his secrets. I feared the old vulture at first for he could make magic that made my sleight o' hand seem childish – but the black people were strongly drawn to me.

  “The lake is called Nyayna; the isles thereon are named the Isles of Ra and the main island is called Basti; the brown masters call themselves Khabasti and the black slaves are named Masutos.

  “The life of these black people is wretched indeed. They have no will of their own save the desires of their cruel masters. They are more brutally treated than the Indians of Darien are treated by the Spanish. I have seen black women flogged to death and black men crucified for the slightest of faults. The cult of the Khabasti is a dark and bloody one, which they brought with them from whatever foul land they came from. On the black altar in the temple of the Moon, each week a howling victim dies beneath old Agara's dagger – always a black sacrifice, a strong young lad or a virgin. Nor is that the worst – before the dagger brings relief from suffering, the victim is mutilated in ways hideous to mention – the Holy Inquisition pales before the tortures inflicted by Basti's priests – yet so hellish is their art that the gibbering, mowing, blind and skinless creature lives until the final thrust of the dagger speeds him or her beyond the reach of the brown-skinned devils.”

  Hawk's covert glance showed him that deep volcanic fires were beginning to smolder coldly in Kane's strange eyes. His expression became more darkly brooding than ever, as he motioned the buccaneer to continue.

  “No Englishman could look on the daily agonies of the poor wretches without pity. I became their champion as soon as I learned the language and I took the part of the black people. Then old Agara would have slain me, but the black folk rose and slew the fiend who held the throne. Then they begged me to remain and rule them. I did so. Under my rule Basti prospered, both the brown folk and the black. But old Agara, who had slunk away to some secret hiding place, was working in the shadows. He plotted against me and finally even turned many of the black people against their deliverer. The poor fools! Yesterday he came out in the open and in a pitched battle, the streets of Basti ran red. But old Agara prevailed with his evil magic, and most of my adherents were cut down. We retreated in canoes to one of the lesser islands and there they came upon us, and again we lost the fight. All of my henchmen were slain or taken – and God help those taken alive! – only I escaped. They have hunted me like wolves since. Even now they are hard on my track. They will not rest until they slay me, if they have to first follow me across the continent.”

  “Then we should waste no time in talk,” said Kane, swiftly, but Hawk smiled coldly.

  “Nay – the moment I glimpsed you through the trees and realized that by some strange whim of Fate I had met a man of my own race, I saw that again I should wear the golden gem-set circlet that is the crown of Basti. Let them come – we will go and meet them!

  “Harkee, my bold Puritan, what I did before, I did unarmed, by sheer craft o' head. Had I a firearm, I had been ruler in Basti at this hour. They never heard of powder. You have two pistols – enough to make us kings a dozen times over – but would you had a musket.”

  Kane shrugged his shoulders. Needless to tell Hawk of the fiendish battle in which his musket had been splintered; even now he wondered if that ghastly episode had not been a vision of delirium.

  “I have weapons enow,” said he, “though my supply of powder and shot be limited.”

  “Three shots will put us on the throne of Basti,” quoth Hawk. “How, my brave broadbrim, wilt chance it with an old comrade?”

  “I will aid you in all that it be my power,” answered Kane sombrely. “But I wish no earthly throne of pride and vanity. If we bring peace to a suffering race and punish evil men for their cruelty, it is enough for me.”

  They made a strange contrast, those two, standing the
re in the twilight of that great tropic forest. Jeremy Hawk was as tall as Solomon Kane and like him was rangy and powerful – steel springs and whalebone. But where Solomon was dark, Jeremy Hawk was blond. Now he was burned to light bronze by the sun, and his tangled yellow locks fell over his high narrow forehead. His jaw, masked by a yellow stubble, was lean and aggressive, and his thin gash of a mouth was cruel. His grey eyes were gleaming and restless, full of wild glitterings and shifting lights. His nose was thin and aquiline and his whole face was that of a bird of prey. He stood, leaning slightly forward in his usual attitude of fierce eagerness, nearly naked, gripping his reddened sword.

  Facing him stood Solomon Kane, likewise tall and powerful, in his worn boots, tattered garments and featherless slouch hat, girt with pistols, rapier and dagger, with his powder-and-shot pouch slung to his belt. There was no hint of likeness between the wild, reckless hawk's face of the buccaneer and the sombre features of the Puritan, whose dark pallor rendered his face almost corpse-like. Yet in the tigerish litheness of the pirate, in the wolfish appearance of Kane the same quality was apparent. Both of these men were born rovers and killers, curst with a paranoid driving urge that burned them like a quenchless fire and never gave them rest.

  “Give me one of your pistols,” exclaimed Hawk, “and half your powder and shot. They will soon be upon us – by Judas, we won't await them! We'll go to meet them! Leave it all to me – one shot and they will fall down and worship us. Come! And as we go, tell me how you come to be here.”

  “I have wandered for many moons,” said Kane, half reluctantly. “Why I am here I know not – but the jungle called me across many leagues of blue sea and I came. Doubtless the same Providence which hath guided my steps all my years has led me hither for some purpose which my weak eyes have not yet seen.”

  “You carry a strange stick,” said Hawk as they moved with long swinging stride beneath the huge arches.

  Kane's eyes drifted to the stave in his right hand. It was as long as a sword, hard as iron and sharpened at the smaller end. The other end was carved in the shape of a cat's head, and all up and down the stave were strange wavering lines and curious carvings.

  “I doubt not but that it is a thing of black magic and sorcery,” said Kane sombrely. “But in time past it hath prevailed mightily against beings of darkness and it is a goodly weapon. It was given me by a strange creature – one N'Longa, a fetish man of the Slave Coast, whom I have seen perform nameless and ungodly feats. Yet beneath his black and wrinkled hide beats the heart of a true man, I doubt not.”

  “Hark!” Hawk halted, stiffening suddenly. From ahead of them sounded the tramp of many sandaled feet – faint as a wind in the tree-tops, yet, keen-eared as hunting hounds, both he and his companion heard and translated it.

  “There's a glade just ahead,” grinned Hawk fiercely. “We'll await them there –”

  And so Kane and the ex-king of Basti stood in plain view at one side of the glade when a hundred men burst from the other side, like a pack of wolves on a hot trail. They stopped in amazement, struck speechless at the sight of he who had been fleeing for his life and who now faced them with a cruel, mocking smile – and at the sight of his silent companion.

  As for Kane, he gazed at them in wonder. Half of them were negroes, stocky burly fellows, with the barrel chests and short legs of men who spend much of their time in canoes. They were naked and armed with heavy spears. It was the others who arrested the Englishman's attention. These were tall, well-formed men whose regular features and straight black hair showed scant trace of negroid blood. Their color was a coppery brown, ranging from a light reddish tan to a deep bronze. Their faces were open and not unpleasing. Their garments consisted only of sandals and silken loin-cloths. On their heads many wore a sort of helmet made of bronze, and each bore on his left arm a small round buckler of wood, reinforced with hardened hide and braced with copper nails. Their arms were curved swords similar to that borne by Hawk, polished wooden maces and light battle-axes. Some carried heavy bows of evident power and quivers of long barbed arrows.

  And it came forcibly to Solomon Kane that somewhere he had seen men much like these, or pictures of men like them. But where he could not say. They halted in the midst of the glade, to gaze uncertainly at the two white men.

  “Well,” said Hawk, mockingly, “you have found your king – have you forgotten your duty to your ruler? – down on your knees, dogs!”

  A well-built young warrior at the head of the men spoke passionately and Kane started as he realized that he understood the language. It was much akin to the numerous Bantu dialects, many of which Kane had picked up in his travels, though some of the words were unintelligible to him and had a tang of peculiar antiquity.

  “Red-handed murderer!” exclaimed the youth, his dark cheeks flushing in anger. “You dare to mock us? I know not who this man is but our quarrel is not with him; it is your head that we will take back to Agara with us – seize him –”

  His own hand went back with the javelin he carried and in that instant Hawk aimed deliberately and fired. The heavy-bored pistol crashed deafeningly and in the smoke Kane saw the young warrior drop like a log. The effect on the rest was just as Kane had seen it be on savages in many other lands. Their weapons slipped from nerveless hands and they stood frozen, gaping like frightened children. Some of the black men cried out and dropped to their knees or flat on their faces.

  The distended eyes of all were drawn as by a magnet to the silent corpse. At the close range the heavy ball had literally shattered the youth's skull – had blasted out his brains. And while his comrades stood like sheep, Hawk struck while the iron was hot.

  “Down, dogs!” he cried sharply, striding forward and striking a warrior to his knees with a blow of his open hand. “Shall I loose the thunders of death upon you all, or will you receive me again as your rightful king?”

  Dazed, brains numbed, the brown men sank to their knees. The black men wriggled prostrate on their bellies and whimpered. Hawk placed his heel on the neck of the nearest warrior and grinned savagely and triumphantly at Kane.

  “Arise,” said he, with a contemptuous kick. “But none forget I am king! Will ye return to Basti and fight for me, or will ye all die here?”

  “We will fight for you, master,” came the answering chorus. Hawk grinned again.

  “Retaking the throne is easier than even I thought,” said he. “Rise now – leave that carrion where it has fallen. I am your king and this is Solomon Kane my comrade. He is a terrible magician and even if you should slay me – who am immortal! – he will blast you all out of existence.”

  Men are sheep, thought Solomon, as he saw the warriors, brown and black, meekly forming themselves according to Hawk's orders. They formed short ranks, three abreast, and in the center walked Kane and Hawk.

  “No fear of a spear in the back,” said the buccaneer to Kane. “They are cowed – see the dazed look in their eyes? Yet be on guard.”

  Then calling to a man who had the appearance of a chief, he ordered him to walk between himself and Kane.

  The Return of Sir Richard Grenville

  The Return of Sir Richard Grenville

  One slept beneath the branches dim,

  Cloaked in the crawling mist,

  And Richard Grenville came to him

  And plucked him by the wrist.

  No nightwind shook the forest deep

  Where the shadows of Doom were spread,

  And Solomon Kane awoke from sleep

  And looked upon the dead.

  He spake in wonder, not in fear:

  “How walks a man who died?

  “Friend of old times, what do ye here,

  “Long fallen at my side?”

  “Rise up, rise up,” Sir Richard said,

  “The hounds of Doom are free;

  “The slayers come to take your head

  “To hang on the ju-ju tree.

  “Swift feet press the jungle mud

  “Where the shadows a
re grim and stark,

  “And naked men who pant for blood

  “Are racing through the dark.”

  And Solomon rose and bared his sword,

  And swift as tongue could tell,

  The dark spewed forth a painted horde

  Like shadows out of Hell.

  His pistols thundered in the night,

  And in that burst of flame

  He saw red eyes with hate alight,

  And on the figures came.

  His sword was like a cobra's stroke

  And death hummed in its tune;

  His arm was steel and knotted oak

  Beneath the rising moon.

  But by him sang another sword,

  And a great form roared and thrust,

  And dropped like leaves the screaming horde

  To writhe in bloody dust.