PROLOGUE
“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”
–EXODUS 22:18
“And if a man or woman have a spirit of divination, or soothsaying in them, they shall die the death: they shall stone them to death, their blood shall be upon them.”
–LEVITICUS 20:27
“What is divine is full of Providence. Even chance is not divorced from nature, from the interweaving and enfolding of things governed by Providence. Everything proceeds from it.”
–MARCUS AURELIUS, THE MEDITATIONS
Chapter 1
Lightning Over the Black Forest
On a stormy night in late September, Solomon Kane soared high above the treetops of the Black Forest, sure he was going to die.
The sky above was pitch black, the stars and moon obscured by heavy storm clouds. The air around him was an endless sheet of brutal, relentless rain. It fell hard and stinging and cold against his exposed skin.
Kane did none of the flying himself, but instead clung to the neck of a great winged beast with his right arm. In his left, he gripped a staff almost as tall as himself. Its bottom was pointed and sharp, and it was topped with a strange carving of a cat’s head.
Lightning slashed the night sky, momentarily filling the world with light, and Kane got his first good look at the beast. In the darkness of the forest below, it had seemed similar in shape to a great black horse, but the light made clear several differences. First were its eyes, which burned red like coals. Second, when its lips parted, it had not the large, flat teeth a man could expect in a horse’s mouth, but several rows of razor-sharp teeth, perfect for rending flesh from bone. Third, of course, Kane had needed no extraordinary light to see: the great skeletal wings sprouting from the creature’s back, which now carried it, whinnying and huffing, through the night sky.
The beast’s hide was not soft and smooth, like a horse’s, but cold and repulsive to the touch, almost like the skin of a lizard. Its flesh was slippery as well, and the only thing between Kane and a steep drop was his grip upon the demon-steed’s oily black mane. Even now, he could feel the greasy black hair slipping between his fingers.
He looked down and experienced a moment of wooziness as he realized just how high he was, then looked back up at the demon-steed. He needed to act quickly, if he was to survive this. With his strength divided between the staff and the creature’s mane, he could not swing himself up onto its back and ride it. Nor could he hang on for more than another moment or two.
Death was inevitable, then. But would he die falling, letting this beast get away? Or would he try to stop it once and for all, and make a noble end for himself?
Kane lifted the staff in his left arm. To the unlearned observer, it would appear to be a handsome wooden stave—but the wood was older and stranger than any still found upon this earth. It was hard and strong as iron, and possessed of powerful magic.
He shifted it so that his grip fell nearer the middle than the top, pointed its sharp bottom end at his opponent, and drove
the weapon into the beast’s side.
The beast screamed, and dropped a dozen feet through the air. The jolt and fall caused Kane to lose his grip upon the demon-steed’s mane, leaving him hanging only by his staff, impaled into the beast.
He raised his right arm and gripped the staff in both hands. The extra weight caused its sharp end to grind upward through the beast’s innards. It screamed again and lost more altitude. Below, the treetops grew alarmingly close.
Using his grip upon the staff as leverage, Kane swung back and then forward, up into the air. For a second, he felt as if he were flying himself. Then he landed upon the beast’s back, and gasped as most of the air was knocked from his lungs. His body, operating almost on instinct now, leaned forward and wrapped arms about the demon-steed’s neck. As his mount fell out of the sky, the treetops flew up at him. He closed his eyes and braced himself. This was going to hurt.
Hurt it did.
They crashed into the trees. Pine needles and sharp branches stabbed and scraped at Kane’s exposed face and hands. Their descent slowed as the demon-steed’s wings tangled in the branches—and then the beast, blind with pain and panic, trying to free itself lunged forward, and slammed face-first into the thick trunk of a huge fir. Kane was dully aware of a great cracking sound. Had that been the tree? The beast’s skull? Perhaps both?
He had no time to ponder, because the beast’s body flailed about once more, tossing him off, and then he was falling once more. The forest floor smashed into him, knocked the air from his lungs all once more, and the entire world went gray around him.
The call to action had been simple enough. Lately, Kane had been moving through Europe, tracking a coven of vampires, who seemed to be perpetually one step, one move ahead of him. While stopped for supplies in a small German town, he had overheard tavern talk about a great black horse and rider running other riders off the road.
The story reminded Kane of a similar incident from his own younger days. Many years before, he himself had encountered such a horse and rider in the Black Forest. They had almost run Kane and his horse off the road, but instead of a painful collision, the figures had passed right through Kane.
The event had set young Kane’s mind spinning, but as the phantoms had done him no injury, and he had already been about on urgent business, he had moved on. But there in the tavern, years later, he had at last seen an opportunity to revisit an old mystery. The talk had changed—it seemed that the horse and rider no longer passed through travelers on the road, but instead were taking on physical weight and dimensions, and were maiming and killing other travelers.
Kane had paused his vampire hunt to come to the Black Forest, hunting the beast and its rider. His quarry made no effort to hide. Soon after the sun had set, Kane entered the forest, and found himself shortly set upon. There had followed a short battle with the rider. Kane had managed to unseat the hooded figure, and run him through with a sword, whereupon the rider screamed and burst into smoke. The demon-steed, however, had proved a far more difficult matter.
* * *
The world gradually filled itself back in around Kane now: the forest floor, covered in fir needles; the trees standing about him like a gawking crowd; the rain falling from above, pelting his exposed face; and the sound of his own wheezing breath, as his body tried to fill itself with air once more.
He sat up with a groan and looked about. In the darkness of the wood, he heard no whinnying or neighing, or sounds of struggle; nor did he see any remains of the demon-steed. His staff lay nearby. It seemed unsullied, despite having recently been used to stab a monster. The monster itself must have burst into smoke and vanished. So it was dead, then.
And you, somehow, are still alive, he thought.
He ran his hands over his body, looking for broken bones or other injuries. Miraculously, he seemed unhurt.
Once his breathing returned to normal, he tried to stand, but as he did so, his right knee barked with pain, and sent him right back to the ground. He grunted as the pained knee struck the earth and sent a fresh wave of agony through his leg.
He crawled over to his staff, a few feet away on the ground. He drove the pointed end into the earth, and leaned upon it for support as he tried to stand once more. This time he managed it, but only barely.
He grinned through gritted teeth. This pain in his right knee had started a year ago, occasional flares of discomfort in his right leg. Pain when walking or putting weight upon it. While it occurred seldom at first, it had slowly increased in frequency and intensity, like an unwanted guest who decides to move into your home. Still he ought not complain. He was relatively spry for a man in his fifties and retained most of his strength and
skill.
He put his fingers to his lips, and whistled. The rain seemed to dampen the sound, and he briefly worried that it would go unheard, but his concern proved baseless, as, a moment later, a spotted gray destrier clopped out from between the trees and to Kane.
“Inglewood,” Kane murmured, speaking the horse’s name as he patted her neck.
The horse snorted gently and nudged Kane with her snout. Kane limped over to the saddlebag, removed an apple, and offered it to her. It disappeared from his hand in a single bite. He stroked her snout twice more, and then strapped the staff to the saddle and mounted the horse, groaning with the effort. He picked up the reins and, after a moment’s indecision—God above, it was difficult to determine directions in all this darkness and rain—started back toward the road.
Chapter 2
Dream Palaver
Kane was thoroughly lost, but Inglewood seemed to have an unerring sense of the direction they needed to go. She found the road, and brought them back to the village of Baumstadt, where Kane was staying.
It was a tiny place, nestled deep in the Black Forest, and on a rainy night like tonight, it was shut up tight against the elements. Windows glowed orange with hearth light, and Kane found himself eager to be back indoors.
Inglewood went straight to the barn. Kane found no hands to help him stable his horse, so he did it himself, unsaddling her, brushing her mane, and feeding her, before hobbling across the muddy yard and into the inn. He had to knock and give his name before the door was opened to him.
The common room was warm and cozy, full of the smells of fire and good food. The innkeeper, a gaunt little man, was bent over a table, setting out bowls of stew for two men. His daughters were likewise serving other tables with tankards of beer and plates of bread.
Kane limped to the nearest empty table, and sat down heavily upon one of the benches. He felt, rather than saw, the innkeeper approach. His name was Lauderman, and he was the one who had reported the black horse and rider to Kane earlier today.
“Good evening, Herr Kane,” Lauderman said, in heavily accented English. “How do you fare?”
“I am tired and hungry, Herr Lauderman,” Kane said. “But your demon-steed and its rider are dead.”
“Oh?” Lauderman asked. He stood up straight, and Kane lifted his head to look the innkeeper in the eye. The old man was clearly surprised.
“Aye,” Kane said. “I slew them. Or sent them back to Hell, since I am not sure such a thing can be killed. I would have brought you proof or a trophy, but both corpses vanished upon their defeat.”
“I suppose it is just as well,” Lauderman said. “I would not want such a cursed thing in my home. But I must tell you, Herr Kane—it will be difficult to prove to the rest of the village that you have done this thing. I know they have offered a reward, but without proof…”
“The proof will come in the days and months to come, as travelers will traverse the roads outside this village unharried by Hell’s own minions,” Kane said. “But worry not about your gold. I did it not for the reward.”
“So noble,” Lauderman said. “Perhaps it is true what people say about you. That you are God’s vengeance made human. His angry right hand.”
“People say many things,” Kane said.
But even as he discounted the compliment, he felt it warm his breast. The innkeeper had spoken to Kane’s secret feeling
about himself. That he had been chosen by God to travel the world, right wrongs, and punish evildoers. That it was God’s own Providence that guided Kane’s steps, and His righteous fury that directed Kane’s sword, gun, and staff.
“You will have the undying gratitude of this village, I am sure,” Lauderman said. “I shall see to your supper at once.”
He took a few steps away before he stopped and snapped his fingers.
“I almost forgot,” Lauderman said, returning to the table. “A courier arrived while you were out. Said he’d been chasing you all across Europe, and was very relieved to find out you were staying with us.”
He reached into his apron and removed a battered envelope, which he offered to Kane. Kane took it and nodded his thanks to the innkeeper. He waited until Lauderman had left to turn the envelope right-side-up and read it. It was addressed to an inn in France where Kane had been staying for several weeks. He thought he recognized the small, neat hand in which it was written.
Kane broke the wax seal, removed the letter inside, and unfolded it upon the table to read:
Dearest Solomon,
I know it has been quite some time since we last spoke. I hope you will forgive me dispensing with the usual courtesies of asking about your health and latest adventures. The situation is dire, and I must be quick.
I write to you from my home in the village of Windsend. We are a young settlement, less than five years old, and several miles from the hamlet where you and I grew up in Devonshire. My husband Enoch and I were among the
group of Puritans who helped found the town, which sits in a valley outside of a dark wood. Here we hoped to make an Eden, a paradise on Earth that the Lord would look upon with favor.
Unfortunately, life in Windsend has been difficult. Our crops fail. Our livestock ails. Our children are often born sickly, and we lose too many babes and mothers in childbirth. We have struggled and fought for everything we have in this valley. Each victory is hard-won.
I do not tell you this to garner your sympathy. You know as well as any that life is hard, and ease is not guaranteed. The Lord has His plans and we but move within them. I tell you these things because I want you to understand the mindset of my neighbors. We have lived five years of unceasing hardship. We are all tired, and scared, and we now face a new problem.
Men in town have begun to die in horrible ways. All have been prominent leaders—town elders and businessmen and the like. The deaths only seem to occur at night. Sometimes we hear the screams of the victims. Sometimes we do not. There have not yet been witnesses to any of the deaths, but too many of us have discovered the aftermath. Ruined human bodies, mutilated in ways that no Christian should ever see.
The people of the town—including my own husband, Enoch—are convinced that something inhuman and unnatural is committing these murders. The focus of this suspicion seems to be coalescing about my friend Sybil Eastey, the local midwife. She lives just outside the village, and is one of the only members of our community who is not of the Puritan faith.
Rumblings of witchcraft have already begun. They suspect her of plotting against the town. A few now openly accuse her—of the killings,
yes, but also the poor harvests, the dying livestock, and worst, the sickly children. They are convinced that she is the root of our problems here.
Enoch and the town leaders have not yet made an arrest, but the talk grows louder. I fear it is only a matter of time now.
Sybil has been a good and true friend to me—the only one I have in Windsend. She delivered my youngest son, Isaac, through a difficult birth—a birth many women and children might not have survived. I now fear for Sybil’s safety. I do not believe her capable of this evil, but I know that my perspective is skewed by my love and gratitude.
If anyone can discover the truth at the root of our woes, and pronounce Sybil innocent or guilty, I know it will be you, Solomon. You are among my oldest and truest friends. I implore you to return to England, and help me if you can.
Please hurry.
Your sister in Christ,
Catherine Archer
Kane ran a thumb over the signature. Your sister in Christ. There was a time when he and Catherine Archer (née Hyland) might have been more. They had grown up together, and gotten along well. If not for Bess, Catherine would have been the obvious choice. But then life had unfolded as God had willed. Kane had left home young, and set upon a life of adventure—a path that had guided his footsteps up until this very moment.
to his room after he’d finished eating. The stairs were a trial, his knee crying out with each step. Thankfully, Kane’s room was close to the top of the stairs.
He suppressed a groan of relief as he latched his door behind himself and sat upon the room’s narrow bed, where he glared at his traitorous knee.
This was only the latest betrayal of his aging body. On the rare occasions when he looked into a mirror or saw his reflection in a body of water, he scarcely recognized himself. Silver now threaded his dark hair, and his gaunt face was marred with heavy lines. The image in the reflection told the truth: he was growing old. And old men’s bodies failed.
After a moment’s rest, he rose, set Catherine’s letter on his nightstand, then washed his face in the room’s little basin. He stripped his cloak, hat, and weapon belts, hanging them on the wall, pulled off his boots and stockings, and lay down upon the bed, staff in one hand, pistol in the other. The pistol he slept with every night, as a precaution. The staff he only brought to bed on the nights when he needed to speak with N’Longa.
* * *
Sleep came quickly, as it usually did for Kane. One moment, he was setting his head upon his meager pillow, and the next he found himself in an empty white space, facing N’Longa.
Kane had known N’Longa many years. He had met the African priest as a young man, during one of his first trips to that distant continent. N’Longa had helped Kane defeat a rogue murderer named Le Loup, and thereafter the two considered themselves blood brothers. They had met several times during Kane’s subsequent travels in Africa, and had worked together quite successfully. It had been N’Longa who had given Kane his staff, which was made of a wood no longer found upon this earth. The staff had helped Kane to defeat an ancient city full of vampires, but it had also allowed Kane to communicate with N’Longa across vast distances in dreams.
Kane had availed himself of this second power often of late. He and N’Longa had been working together to wipe out nests of vampires across the world. N’Longa, a powerful sorcerer, could see much, and had proved an able guide to Kane, setting upon the path in Africa, but lately sending him after a mobile coven traveling across Europe, leaving a trail of dead bodies and vampire fledglings in their wake. Kane had put down many confused fledglings in the last several months, although it gave him no pleasure to do so.
In the vast whiteness of the dreamscape, N’Longa sat upon a log, near a crackling fire. He looked up at Kane and smiled, his wrinkled face breaking into a thousand small lines.
Kane nodded a greeting as he sat down on a log opposite N’Longa’s. Around them, a dark and dense jungle began to sketch itself in.
“You have been busy,” N’Longa said. In the dreams, he spoke perfect English, a far cry from the more accented trade language he and Kane spoke to one another in person.
“Very,” Kane agreed.
“But not with our business, I see,” N’Longa said.
“I still hunt the coven,” Kane said. “But the people in Baumstadt needed help. I could not abandon them in their hour of
need.”
“Mm,” N’Longa said. “Perhaps Le Loup had the right of it, when he teased you. Monsieur Galahad, he called you. A famous knight of legend in your land, was he not?”
“He was,” Kane said.
“And now I sense you plan to delay our work once more,” N’Longa said.
Kane shifted upon the log. “An old friend in England has asked for my help. I cannot ignore her.”
“No, indeed,” N’Longa said. “You stop to investigate every stray cry, and right every wrong upon your path. And as you do, our prey gets further away.”
“I am not asking your permission, N’Longa,” Kane said.
“I know,” N’Longa said, and sighed. “And I know that what I say next will not affect your decision, but I will say it anyway. You were closing in on the coven before you stopped for this ghost horse business. The coven have gained ground since then. England—where you plan to return—is over seven hundred miles from the place where you sleep tonight. You will give our quarry ample opportunity to do more harm while you travel, and tarry in England.”
“Do what you can to mitigate it,” Kane said. “Send dreams to the people. Put them on alert. We might not be able to stop these villains yet, but mayhap we can make them go hungry for a time and lose speed.”
“I will do what I can,” N’Longa said. “But you must understand—right now, the coven are unaware of our pursuit. If I do too good a job, they may catch wind of us, and our task will become much more difficult.”
Kane nodded his understanding. N’Longa would try to save some, but would not be able to save all, of the coven’s
intended victims.
“It may be you can speed my own work,” Kane said. “I am bound for the village of Windsend, where a great many murders are taking place. A local midwife is suspected of using witchcraft to commit the murders. Can you see the truth of it from here?”
N’Longa took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His face was placid for a moment as he reached out with his powers, trying to see what Kane asked for. His calm was broken by a frown a moment later, and he grunted with surprise.
“What is wrong?” Kane said.
“It is strange,” N’Longa said, keeping his eyes closed. “I can… almost see the village. But it refuses to come into focus. It is almost as if…” he shook his head.
“Almost as if what?” Kane said.
“Almost as if something there is blocking my magic. Obscuring my sight.” He opened his eyes. “I have never seen anything like this, Solomon Kane.” “All the more reason for me to set off at once, then.” ...
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