windows may be seen
Vague leprous faces, haggard, fungus-white,
That peer and start and ever seem to listen.
Rattle of Bones
“Landlord, ho!” The shout broke the lowering silence and reverberated through the black forest with sinister echoing.
“This place hath a forbidding aspect, meseemeth.”
The two men stood in front of the forest tavern. The building was low, long and rambling, built of heavy logs. Its small windows were heavily barred and the door was closed. Above the door its sinister sign showed faintly–a cleft skull.
This door swung slowly open and a bearded face peered out. The owner of the face stepped back and motioned his guests to enter–with a grudging gesture it seemed. A candle gleamed on a table; a flame smoldered in the fireplace.
“Your names?”
“Solomon Kane,” said the taller man briefly.
“Gaston l’Armon,” the other spoke curtly. “But what is that to you?”
“Strangers are few in the Black Forest,” grunted the host, “bandits many. Sit at yonder table and I will bring food.”
The two men sat down, with the bearing of men who have traveled far. One was a tall gaunt man, clad in a featherless hat and somber black garments, which set off the dark pallor of his forbidding face. The other was of a different type entirely, bedecked with lace and plumes, although his finery was somewhat stained from travel. He was handsome in a bold way, and his restless eyes shifted from side to side, never still an instant.
The host brought wine and food to the rough-hewn table and then stood back in the shadows, like a somber image. His features, now receding into vagueness, now luridly etched in the firelight as it leaped and flickered, were masked in a beard which seemed almost animal-like in thickness. A great nose curved above this beard and two small red eyes stared unblinkingly at his guests.
“Who are you?” suddenly asked the younger man.
“I am the host of the Cleft Skull Tavern,” sullenly replied the other. His tone seemed to challenge his questioner to ask further.
“Do you have many guests?” l’Armon pursued.
“Few come twice,” the host grunted.
Kane started and glanced up straight into those small red eyes, as if he sought for some hidden meaning in the host’s words. The flaming eyes seemed to dilate, then dropped sullenly before the Englishman’s cold stare.
“I’m for bed,” said Kane abruptly, bringing his meal to a close. “I must take up my journey by daylight.”
“And I,” added the Frenchman. “Host, show us to our chambers.”
Black shadows wavered on the walls as the two followed their silent host down a long, dark hall. The stocky, broad body of their guide seemed to grow and expand in the light of the small candle which he carried, throwing a long, grim shadow behind him.
At a certain door he halted, indicating that they were to sleep there. They entered; the host lit a candle with the one he carried, then lurched back the way he had come.
In the chamber the two men glanced at each other. The only furnishings of the room were a couple of bunks, a chair or two and a heavy table.
“Let us see if there be any way to make fast the door,” said Kane. “I like not the looks of mine host.”
“There are racks on door and jamb for a bar,” said Gaston, “but no bar.”
“We might break up the table and use its pieces for a bar,” mused Kane.
“Mon Dieu,” said l’Armon, “you are timorous, m’sieu.”
Kane scowled. “I like not being murdered in my sleep,” he answered gruffly.
“My faith!” the Frenchman laughed. “We are chance met–until I overtook you on the forest road an hour before sunset, we had never seen each other.”
“I have seen you somewhere before,” answered Kane, “though I can not now recall where. As for the other, I assume every man is an honest fellow until he shows me he is a rogue; moreover I am a light sleeper and slumber with a pistol at hand.”
The Frenchman laughed
Vague leprous faces, haggard, fungus-white,
That peer and start and ever seem to listen.
Rattle of Bones
“Landlord, ho!” The shout broke the lowering silence and reverberated through the black forest with sinister echoing.
“This place hath a forbidding aspect, meseemeth.”
The two men stood in front of the forest tavern. The building was low, long and rambling, built of heavy logs. Its small windows were heavily barred and the door was closed. Above the door its sinister sign showed faintly–a cleft skull.
This door swung slowly open and a bearded face peered out. The owner of the face stepped back and motioned his guests to enter–with a grudging gesture it seemed. A candle gleamed on a table; a flame smoldered in the fireplace.
“Your names?”
“Solomon Kane,” said the taller man briefly.
“Gaston l’Armon,” the other spoke curtly. “But what is that to you?”
“Strangers are few in the Black Forest,” grunted the host, “bandits many. Sit at yonder table and I will bring food.”
The two men sat down, with the bearing of men who have traveled far. One was a tall gaunt man, clad in a featherless hat and somber black garments, which set off the dark pallor of his forbidding face. The other was of a different type entirely, bedecked with lace and plumes, although his finery was somewhat stained from travel. He was handsome in a bold way, and his restless eyes shifted from side to side, never still an instant.
The host brought wine and food to the rough-hewn table and then stood back in the shadows, like a somber image. His features, now receding into vagueness, now luridly etched in the firelight as it leaped and flickered, were masked in a beard which seemed almost animal-like in thickness. A great nose curved above this beard and two small red eyes stared unblinkingly at his guests.
“Who are you?” suddenly asked the younger man.
“I am the host of the Cleft Skull Tavern,” sullenly replied the other. His tone seemed to challenge his questioner to ask further.
“Do you have many guests?” l’Armon pursued.
“Few come twice,” the host grunted.
Kane started and glanced up straight into those small red eyes, as if he sought for some hidden meaning in the host’s words. The flaming eyes seemed to dilate, then dropped sullenly before the Englishman’s cold stare.
“I’m for bed,” said Kane abruptly, bringing his meal to a close. “I must take up my journey by daylight.”
“And I,” added the Frenchman. “Host, show us to our chambers.”
Black shadows wavered on the walls as the two followed their silent host down a long, dark hall. The stocky, broad body of their guide seemed to grow and expand in the light of the small candle which he carried, throwing a long, grim shadow behind him.
At a certain door he halted, indicating that they were to sleep there. They entered; the host lit a candle with the one he carried, then lurched back the way he had come.
In the chamber the two men glanced at each other. The only furnishings of the room were a couple of bunks, a chair or two and a heavy table.
“Let us see if there be any way to make fast the door,” said Kane. “I like not the looks of mine host.”
“There are racks on door and jamb for a bar,” said Gaston, “but no bar.”
“We might break up the table and use its pieces for a bar,” mused Kane.
“Mon Dieu,” said l’Armon, “you are timorous, m’sieu.”
Kane scowled. “I like not being murdered in my sleep,” he answered gruffly.
“My faith!” the Frenchman laughed. “We are chance met–until I overtook you on the forest road an hour before sunset, we had never seen each other.”
“I have seen you somewhere before,” answered Kane, “though I can not now recall where. As for the other, I assume every man is an honest fellow until he shows me he is a rogue; moreover I am a light sleeper and slumber with a pistol at hand.”
The Frenchman laughed
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