Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four)

by Robert E. Howard

  “God, the battles I have fought! But always it overcame me and drove me ravening after some new victim. But after the moon had passed its fullness, the thing’s power over me ceased suddenly. Nor did it return until three nights before the moon was full again.

  “Since then I have roamed the world-fleeing, fleeing, seeking to escape. Always the thing follows, taking possession of my body when the moon is full. Gods, the frightful deeds I have done!

  “I would have slain myself long ago, but I dare not. For the soul of a suicide is accurst, and my soul would be forever hunted through the flames of hell. And harken, most frightful of all, my slain body would for ever roam the earth, moved and inhabited by the soul of the werewolf! Can any thought be more ghastly?

  “And I seem immune to the weapons of man. Swords have pierced me, daggers have hacked me. I am covered with scars. Yet never have they struck me down. In Germany they bound and led me to the block. There would I have willingly placed my head, but the thing came upon me, and breaking my bonds, I slew and fled. Up and down the world I have wandered, leaving horror and slaughter in my trail. Chains, cells, can not hold me. The thing is fastened to me through all eternity.

  “In desperation I accepted Dom Vincente’s invitation, for look you, none knows of my frightful double life, since no one could recognize me in the clutch of the demon; and few, seeing me, live to tell of it.

  “My hands are red, my soul doomed to everlasting flames, my mind is torn with remorse for my crimes. And yet I can do nothing to help myself. Surely, Pierre, no man ever knew the hell that I have known.

  “Yes, I slew von Schiller, and I sought, to destroy the girl Marcita. Why I did not, I can not say, for I have slain both women and men.

  “Now, if you will, take your sword and slav me, and with my last breath I will give you the good God’s blessing. No?

  “You know now my tale and you see before you a man, fiend-haunted for all eternity.”

  My mind was spinning with wonderment as I left the room of de Montour. What to do, I knew not. It seemed likely that he would yet murder us all, and yet I could not bring myself to tell Dom Vincente all. From the bottom of my soul I pitied de Montour.

  So I kept my peace, and in the days that followed I made occasion to seek him out and converse with him. A real friendship sprang up between us.

  About this time that black devil, Gola, began to wear an air of suppressed excitement, as if he knew something he wished desperately to tell, but would not or else dared not.

  So the days passed in feasting, drinking and hunting, until one night de Montour came to my chamber and pointed silently at the moon which was just rising.

  “Look ye,” he said, “I have a plan. I will give it out that I am going into the jungle for hunting and will go forth, apparently for several days. But at night I will return to the castle, and you must lock me into the dungeon which is used as a storeroom.”

  This we did, and I managed to slip down twice a day and carry food and drink to my friend. He insisted on remaining in the dungeon even in the day, for though the fiend had never exerted its influence over him in the daytime, and he believed it powerless then, yet he would take no chances.

  It was during this time that I began to notice that Dom Vincente’s mink- faced cousin, Carlos, was forcing his attentions upon Ysabel, who was his second cousin, and who seemed to resent those attentions.

  Myself, I would have challenged him for a duel for the toss of a coin, for I despised him, but it was really none of my affair. However, it seemed that Ysabel feared him.

  My friend Luigi, by the way, had become enamored of the dainty Portuguese girl, and was making swift love to her daily.

  And de Montour sat in his cell and reviewed his ghastly deeds until he battered the bars with his bare hands.

  And Don Florenzo wandered about the castle grounds like a dour Mephistopheles.

  And the other guests rode and quarreled and drank.

  And Gola slithered about, eyeing me if always on the point of imparting momentous information. What wonder if my nerves became rasped to the shrieking point?

  Each day the natives grew surlier and more and more sullen and intractable.

  One night, not long before the full of the moon, I entered the dungeon where de Montour sat.

  He looked up quickly.

  “You dare much, coming to me in the night.”

  I shrugged my shoulders, seating myself.

  A small barred window let in the night scents and sounds of Africa.

  “Hark to the native drums,” I said. “For the past week they have sounded almost incessantly.”

  De Montour assented.

  “The natives are restless. Methinks ’tis deviltry they are planning. Have you noticed that Carlos is much among them?”

  “No,” I answered, “but ’tis like there will be a break between him and Luigi. Luigi is paying court to Ysabel.”

  So we talked, when suddenly de Montour became silent and moody, answering only in monosyllables.

  The moon rose and peered in at the barred windows. De Montour’s face was illuminated by its beams.

  And then the hand of horror grasped me. On the wall behind de Montour appeared a shadow, a shadow clearly defined of a wolf’s head!

  At the same instant de Montour felt its influence. With a shriek he bounded from his stool.

  He pointed fiercely, and as with trembling hands I slammed and bolted the door behind me, I felt him hurl his weight against it. As I fled up the stairway I heard a wild raving and battering at the iron-bound door. But with all the werewolf’s might the great door held.

  As I entered my room, Gola dashed in and gasped out the tale he had been keeping for days.

  I listened, incredulously, and then dashed forth to find Dom Vincente.’

  I was told that Carlos had asked him to accompany him to the village to arrange a sale of slaves.

  My informer was Don Florenzo of Seville, and when I gave him a brief outline of Gola’s tale; he accompanied me.

  Together we dashed through the castle gate, flinging a word to the guards, and down the landing toward the village.

  Dom Vincente, Dom Vincente, walk with care, keep sword loosened in its sheath! Fool, fool, to walk in the night with Carlos, the traitor!

  They were nearing the village when we caught up with them. “Dom Vincente!” I exclaimed; “return instantly to the castle. Carlos is selling you into the hands of the natives! Gola has told me that he lusts for your wealth and for Ysabel! A terrified native babbled to him of booted footprints near the places where the woodcutters were murdered, and Carlos has made the blacks believe that the slayer was you! Tonight the natives were to rise and slay every man in the castle except Carlos! Do you not believe me, Dom Vincente?”

  “Is this the truth, Carlos?” asked Dom Vincente, in amaze.

  Carlos laughed mockingly.

  “The fool speaks truth,” he said, “but it accomplishes you nothing. Ho!”

  He shouted as he leaped for Dom Vincente. Steel flashed in the moonlight and the Spaniard’s sword was through Carlos ere he could move.

  And the shadows rose about us. Then it was back to back, sword and dagger, three men against a hundred. Spears flashed, and a fiendish yell went up from savage throats. I spitted three natives in as many thrusts and then went down from a stunning swing from a warclub, and an instant later Dom Vincente fell upon me, with a spear in one arm and another through the leg. Don Florenzo was standing above us, sword leaping like a live thing, when a charge of the arquebusiers swept the river bank clear and we were borne into the castle.

  The black hordes came with a rush, spears flashing like a wave of steel, a thunderous roar of savagery going up to the skies.

  Time and again they swept up the slopes, bounding the moat, until they were swarming over the palisades. And time and again the fire of the hundred- odd defenders hurled them back.

  They had set fire to the plundered warehouses, and their light vied with the light
of the moon. Just across the river there was a larger storehouse, and about this hordes of the natives gathered, tearing it apart for plunder.

  “Would that they would drop a torch upon it,” said Dom Vincente, “for naught is stored therein save some thousand pounds of gunpowder. I dared not store the treacherous stuff this side of the river. All the tribes of the river and coast have gathered for our slaughter and all my ships are upon the seas. We may hold out awhile, but eventually they will swarm the palisade and put us to the slaughter.”

  I hastened to the dungeon wherein de Montour sat. Outside the door I called to him and he bade me enter in voice which told me the fiend had left him for an instant.

  “The blacks have risen,” I told him.

  “I guessed as much. How goes the battle?”

  I gave him the details of the betrayal and the fight, and mentioned the powder-house across the river. He sprang to his feet.

  “Now by my hag-ridden soul!” he exclaimed. “I will fling the dice once more with hell! Swift, let me out of the castle! I will essay to swim the river and set off yon powder!”

  “It is insanity!” I exclaimed. “A thousand blacks lurk between the palisades and the river, and thrice that number beyond! The’ river itself swarms with crocodiles!”

  “I will attempt it!” he answered, a great light in his face. “If I can reach it, some thousand natives will lighten the siege; if I am slain, then my soul is free and mayhap will gain some forgiveness for that I gave my life to atone for my crimes.”

  Then, “Haste,” he exclaimed, “for the demon is returning! Already I feel his influence! Haste ye!”

  For the castle gates we sped, and as de Montour ran he gasped as a man in a terrific battle.

  At the gate he pitched headlong, then rose, to spring through it. Wild yells greeted him from the natives.

  The arquebusiers shouted curses at him and at me. Peering down from the top of the palisades I saw him turn from side to side uncertainly. A score of natives were rushing recklessly forward, spears raised.

  Then the eery wolf-yell rose to the skies, and de Montour bounded forward. Aghast, the natives paused, and before a man of them could move he was among them. Wild shrieks, not of rage, but of terror.

  In amazement the arquebusiers held their fire.

  Straight through the group of blacks de Montour charged, and when they broke and fled, three of them fled not.

  A dozen steps de Montour took in pursuit; then stopped stock-still. A moment he stood so while spears flew about him, then turned and ran swiftly in the direction of the river.

  A few steps from the river another band of blacks barred his way. In the famines light of the burning houses the scene was clearly illuminated. A thrown spear tore through de Montour’s shoulder. Without pausing in his stride he tore it forth and drove it through a native, leaping over his body to get among the others. They could not face the fiend-driven white man. With shrieks they fled, and de Montour, bounding upon the’ back of one, brought him down.

  Then he rose, staggered and sprang to the river bank. An instant he paused there and then vanished in the shadows.

  “Name of the devil!” gasped Dom Vincente at my shoulder. “What manner of man is that? Was that de Montour?”

  I nodded. The wild yells of the natives rose above the crackle of the arquebus fire. They were massed thick about the great warehouse across the river.

  “They plan a great rush,” said Dom Vincente. “They will swarm clear over the palisade, methinks. Ha!”

  A crash that seemed to rip the skies apart! A burst of flame that mounted to the stars! The castle rocked with the explosion. Then silence, as the smoke, drifting away, showed only a great crater where the warehouse had stood.

  I could tell of how Dom Vincente led a charge, crippled as he was, out of the castle gate and, down the slope, to fall upon the terrified blacks who had escaped the explosion. I could tell of the slaughter, of the victory and the pursuit of the fleeing natives.

  I could tell, too, Messieurs, of how I became separated from the band and of how I wandered far into the jungle, unable to find my way back to the coast.

  I could tell how I was captured by a wandering band of slave raiders, and of how I escaped. But such is not my intention. In itself it would make a long tale; and it is of de Montour that I am speaking.

  I thought much of the things that had passed and wondered if indeed de Montour reached the storehouse to blow it to the skies or whether it was but the deed of chance.

  That a man could swim that reptile-swarming river, fiend-driven though he was, seemed impossible. And if he blew up the storehouse, he must have gone up with it.

  So one night I pushed my way wearily through the jungle and sighted the coast, and close to the shore a small, tumbledown but of thatch. To it I went, thinking to sleep therein if insects and reptiles would allow.

  I entered the doorway and then stopped short. Upon a makeshift stool sat a man. He looked up as I entered and the rays of the moon fell across his face.

  I started back with a ghastly thrill of horror. It was de Montour, and the moon was full!

  Then as I stood, unable to flee, he rose and came toward me. And his face, though haggard as of a man who has looked into hell, was the face of a sane man.

  “Come in, my friend,” he said, and there was a great peace in his voice. “Come in and fear me not. The fiend has left me forever.”

  “But tell me, how conquered you?” I exclaimed as I grasped his hand.

  “I fought a frightful battle, as I ran to the river,” he answered, “for the fiend had me in its grasp and drove me to fall upon the natives. But for the first, time my soul and mind gained ascendency for an instant, an instant just long enough to hold me to my purpose. And I believe the good saints came to my aid, for I was giving my life to save life.

  “I leaped into the river and swam, and in an instant the crocodiles were swarming about me.

  “Again in the clutch of the fiend I fought them, there in the river. Then suddenly the thing left me.

  “I climbed from the river and fired the warehouse.”

  “The explosion hurled me hundreds of feet, and for days I wandered witless through the jungle.”

  “But the full moon came, and came again, and I felt not the influence of the fiend.

  “I am free, free!” And a wondrous note of exultation, nay, exaltation, thrilled his words:

  “My soul is free. Incredible as it seems, the demon lies drowned upon the bed of, the river, or else inhabits the body of one of the savage reptiles that swim the ways of the Niger.”

  * * *

  THE END

  WEIRD WEST

  CONTENTS

  BLACK CANAAN

  BLACK CANAAN

  First published in Weird Tales, June 1936

  CONTENTS

  1. CALL FROM CANAAN

  2. THE STRANGER ON TULAROOSA

  3. SHADOWS OVER CANAAN

  4. THE DWELLERS IN THE SWAMP

  1. CALL FROM CANAAN

  “TROUBLE on Tularoosa Creek!” A warning to send cold fear along the spine of any man who was raised in that isolated back-country, called Canaan, that lies between Tularoosa and Black River — to send him racing back to that swamp-bordered region, wherever the word might reach him.

  It was only a whisper from the withered lips of a shuffling black crone, who vanished among the throng before I could seize her; but it was enough. No need to seek confirmation; no need to inquire by what mysterious, black-folk way the word had come to her. No need to inquire what obscure forces worked to unseal those wrinkled lips to a Black River man. It was enough that the warning had been given — and understood.

  Understood? How could any Black River man fail to understand that warning? It could have but one meaning — old hates seething again in the jungle-deeps of the swamplands, dark shadows slipping through the cypress, and massacre stalking out of the black, mysterious village that broods on the moss-festooned shore of sullen Tularoosa.<
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  Within an hour New Orleans was falling further behind me with every turn of the churning wheel. To every man born in Canaan, there is always an invisible tie that draws him back whenever his homeland is imperiled by the murky shadow that has lurked in its jungled recesses for more than half a century.

  The fastest boats I could get seemed maddeningly slow for that race up the big river, and up the smaller, more turbulent stream. I was burning with impatience when I stepped off on the Sharpsvil le landing, with the last fifteen miles of my journey yet to make. It was past midnight, but I hurried to the livery stable where, by tradition half a century old, there is always a Buckner horse, day or night.

  As a sleepy black boy fastened the cinches, I turned to the owner of the stable, Joe Lafely, yawning and gaping in the light of the lantern he upheld. “There are rumors of trouble on Tularoosa?”

  He paled in the lantern-light.

  “I don’t know. I’ve heard talk. But you people in Canaan are a shut- mouthed clan. No one outside knows what goes on in there.”

  The night swallowed his lantern and his stammering voice as I headed west along the pike.

  The moon set red through the black pines. Owls hooted away off in the woods, and somewhere a hound howled his ancient wistfulness to the night. In the darkness that foreruns dawn I crossed Nigger Head Creek, a streak of shining black fringed by walls of solid shadows. My horse’s hooves splashed through the shallow water and clinked on the wet stones, startlingly loud in the stillness. Behind Nigger Head Creek began the countrymen called Canaan.

  Heading in the same swamp, miles to the north, that gives birth to Tularoosa, Nigger Head flows due south to ioin Black River a few miles west of Sharpsville, while the Tularoosa runs westward to meet the same river at a higher point. The trend of Black River is from northwest to southeast; so these three streams form the great irregular triangle known as Canaan.