Solomon Kane by Ramsey Campbell

and then he saw that the figure silhouetted against the greyish glow of dawn was Samuel. “Solomon,” the boy whispered.
    He had been eager to take his turn on watch, and his father must have agreed at last. “What is it?” Kane said low.
    There was a tinge of excitement in the boy’s eyes, but apprehension too. “I heard something,” he said.
    Kane rose into a crouch beneath the awning. “Where?”
    “Beyond the trees,” Samuel whispered and pointed past the ashen remains of the fire. “Somewhere over there.”
    Kane grasped the boy’s shoulder to stay him and to communicate his approval. “Wait here, Samuel,” he said.
    In a very few moments he was out of the camp and swiftly climbing a slope on the far side from the woodland track. By the time he reached the summit he could hear the sounds the slope had concealed – a muffled rumble of wheels, a guttural clamour that might have been of voices. They were several hundred yards away, beyond another rise. He picked his way quickly over the frozen snow to the foot of the ridge and ran as fast as stealth would let him to the further slope. He could hear cries now and, in response to them, shouts that seemed close to bestial. He had almost reached the crest of the ridge when he heard someone behind him.
    Samuel was halfway to him. Kane gestured him back, but the boy advanced. As he climbed the icy slope there was nothing in his eyes but determination. “Keep down,” Kane murmured urgently, “keep quiet,” and fell into a crouch as he gained the top of the ridge.
    Even if Kane’s warning failed to silence the boy, the spectacle must have robbed him of words. Below the ridge was a track wider than the one the Crowthorns’ wagon had taken. Two horse-drawn vehicles were trundling along it – metal cages on wheels. They were full of prisoners packed together so cruelly that some were crushed against the bars. A third prison cart had been halted beside the track while more captives were herded in. Their cries were piteous, but their captors paid no heed, and Kane knew them for the raiders that plagued the land.
    They were hulking and brutish, and bald to a man. They were garbed in discoloured leather that only madethem look more nearly animal. Their raw lips were drawn back in ferocious grimaces that seemed far too much like the expression of one solitary face, while their eyes were as black as the moon’s hidden side – as the eyes of any creatures that might lurk in that unearthly region. Their faces were covered with symbols that Kane recognised as the language of the blackest magic, and the signs were not merely inscribed or even tattooed on the skin. Perhaps they were branded, but he had the unpleasant impression that the livid sigils had overgrown the flesh like some diabolical species of parasite. He crouched lower and grabbed Samuel’s shoulder. “Listen to me,” he whispered. “Go back to the camp and tell your father we must move out with all speed. And go quietly for all our sakes.”
    Samuel met his gaze like a man twice the boy’s age. In a moment he was sliding down from the ridge, and Kane turned to watch the raiders. The door of the third cage had been slammed and locked, and a raider was slashing with a whip at any hand or arm that protruded through the bars. Some of his fellows snarled hideous threats at the captives or jeered at them as the cart began to rumble along the track. Kane was pacing along the ridge in case the raiders turned towards the Crowthorns when he heard Samuel cry “Solomon!”
    Kane whirled around and saw smoke above the glade where the family was camped. He ran down the slope so fast that he was barely able to maintain his balance on the icy earth. He heard cries and brutish shouts, but they were not behind him. The smoke rose to meet him as he sprinted up the further bank. The Crowthorns’ wagon was ablaze, and he could have thought the flames were prancing in grim triumph.
    At least a dozen raiders had invaded the