black wings of the Hawk...Solomon Kane pt 1
Oct 16, 2017 2:26:30 GMT -5
Post by themirrorthief on Oct 16, 2017 2:26:30 GMT -5
Just ran across this that I saved from the old site...will try to find the rest soon
Solomon Kane had been summoned. The heavy iron gate protested vehemently with a series of groans, screeches, and clanking as the big man with the pallid features wrenched it ajar. Then he glided through, his steps quiet and cat-like as they fell on the ancient cobblestone path. To his right and left useless weeds grew as tall as most men. However, try as they might, they failed to dwarf Solomon Kane.
Pale grey eyes, hard and deep set, studied the hulking outline of the old manor house. The moon was more than half full and its gloomy light dripped about the somber scene in an odd way that some might have found disconcerting or at least vaguely mystical.
The Puritan found himself, on this particular night, in a lonely and quite isolated part of old Cornwall. Few lived within or near this scenic but rather poor parcel of the Queen's island. Here it was difficult for farmers to scratch out a living due to the rocky soil and various other natural obstacles that were characteristic of the weather-beaten area where Kane found himself.
Solomon Kane's thoughts scarcely dwell long on such facts save that he found himself very much alone before the foreboding old mansion and its adjoining acreage. None lived near the Doak house, who would dare? Here was an estate deemed by many to be haunted or cursed . . . if not both. Folk whispered that perhaps a fortune in antiquities alone might lie within. But who could speak of such things with any degree of certainty? Not a single person was known to have so much as entered the three story structure in nearly a decade. Not since the last of the Doaks, Edward, had raced onto a neighboring farm and screamed that his former home was demon possessed.
True, he was quite mad and died shortly thereafter in an asylum. The simple country folk were very superstitious and old Doak Manor ranked high on their list of local places best avoided no matter the cost. Rumor had it that some brave soul had in fact chanced to take a peep inside the house. Not long after, he had exited the grounds just as mad as old Edward. And, just like the last of the Doaks, he died a few short months later having never regained what had once been a sound and purpose-filled mind.
There were other tales as well, each stranger and more chilling than the last. Still, these were merely tales and not easily verified or traced to any reputable source. Finally, more practical heads prevailed and the entire property was purchased by an enterprising businessman. This gentleman did not think it necessary to inspect his new property personally. Oh no, instead he called on the local constable to make a thorough investigation on behalf of all concerned: not that anyone else had a financial stake in the Doak place. Still, who could say with any honesty that most weren't at least curious about the crumbling mansion that had left an ugly scar on the population's reputation as sensible Christian folk?
Yet no one was eager to accept the new landlord's request. They were held fast by dread. Certain well traveled elements in the local government sent urgent inquiries to Devonshire in regards to a man known as neither superstitious nor faint hearted in the least . . . a somber Puritan named Solomon Kane. Here was a man whose mysterious ways were whispered about nearly as much as the Doak house. It seemed a sound idea to combat strangeness with strangeness.
A detailed letter was sent. His interest piqued by the unusual message and the urgency that permeated the words, Kane left immediately on horseback. As was his custom, he traveled alone, fast and hard, scarcely pausing for a bite of nourishment or more than two hours repose until he had gained his current destination. Kane's fevered, driven brain paid little service to the eerie glow reflecting off the old house trapped beneath the haunting moonlight. Arriving late at night begged no delay for Solomon Kane. Rather, he suffered no hesitation, only some irritability due to the inconvenience of darkness.
Sad old oaks swayed, and rattled their twisted limbs as if to give warning, and an owl cried out, but Kane dismounted and proceeded unabashed, with his customary long strides. The leather of his soft Cordovan boots cushioned his steps and his footfalls created no sound. The gaunt Puritan pushed on through the creaking gate and listened to the spooky thump-thump of a loose shutter.
The wind picked up suddenly with a groan and a whisper. The tall lithe man dressed mostly in drab black emitted no response. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of a long, diamond edged rapier. The other hand briefly brushed against a slender dirk held firm against his waist by a bright green oriental sash . . . the type of garment more common amongst seafaring men. This was a lone reminder of many years of fighting and adventure upon the world's seven seas.
The Puritan stepped quietly onto the first of thirteen stone steps that led to the veranda. He quickly gained those ancient planks which groaned but held beneath his deceptive weight. At first glance Kane might have been mistaken as slender but his shoulders were unusually broad, his chest deep, and his biceps quite massive. His dark, drab wear further aided this trick played on the casual observer. Still, Kane was a man who always drew considerable scrutiny from anyone crossing his path . . . he was not a man quickly dismissed or easily forgotten.
He found the door standing slightly ajar, almost as if someone within wished to glance out and discover who might be calling at the midnight hour. Kane pushed against the well built object and it widened easily enough. A spider web Kane crushed with an impatient swipe of his gloved hand and its ruined tendrils were swept aside. The dark figure of the big man slipped smoothly inside. The tension on the hilt of his lethal blade increased but only barely.
Kane's eyes struggled momentarily with the reduced visibility. The eerie rays of the pale moonlight were quite naturally diminished as was to be expected when indoors at night. Still, the large Gothic style windows were scarcely shielded by the pathetic remnants of curtains that hung in grim tatters. Slightly more than mere slivers of ancient lunar illumination filtered through the rags. Kane's eyelids narrowed to mere slits as his vision gradually adjusted to some extent. Despite the obvious disadvantage of night, the swordsman remained subject to the insatiable curiosity that was often a shared trait of especially intelligent men. He fully expected to inspect every corner, characteristic, and object that lay within those old foreboding walls. It would have been better to have waited until morning before proceeding with his unannounced tour but Solomon Kane was not a patient man. He would have knowledge of the odd forsaken ruin and he would most certainly have it now.
He searched a small pouch momentarily before producing a large candle set within a plain brass holder. Soon lighted, the bright flickering flame defeated some of the impenetrable shadow and the adventurer began his search in earnest. At that moment more than a simple search was given birth. Kane began to experience a most queer sensation deep within his very psyche. It was not fear or dread, it was not loathing of his dreary surroundings or the desire to flee . . . although his situation was one that would have driven an ordinary man to distraction, or at the very least supreme discomfort. Kane hardly felt terror but he felt something . . . something as yet hidden or indefinable.
While this sensation was unusual, it was not a thing altogether unknown to Solomon Kane: in fact he had encountered such strange emotions before . . . and it was an emotion. He did not accept as fact wild rumors, handed down tales, or unsupported explanations for an apparent onset of madness. However, he would be a fool to deny the suspicions born of his own innate, razor-keen instincts. Those same instincts had served him often and well on a great many occasions during a lifetime of danger, bloodletting and perilous risk-taking.
Solomon Kane held the flickering candle high with his left hand whilst the right exerted a bit more pressure upon the hilt of his one true and steadfast companion; that long diamond edged blade, that had, more often than not, found play shortly after the onset of the queer emotion that had only now passed yet again through the brain of the Puritan. Something was amiss here, something that quite possibly could not be explained away naturally. Of course those fools who called themselves men of logic and mathematics might attempt a scientific discourse on the subject, but Kane knew they would be wrong. Kane was pious and devoutly spiritual; to a fault, many would say. He would know more of these mysterious forces that he sensed moving in Doak Manor. By means subtle or brazen he would seek satisfaction for his curiosity by finding answers to questions he was as yet incapable of even asking.
He moved slowly but steadily through the rooms on the first floor of the old house. His eyes missed nothing as the meticulous and completely thorough inspection continued without pause, though little of substance was revealed. Furnishings long neglected and covered by deep layers of dust, insect droppings, and cobwebs gave few clues to the source of any underlying force save stark human abandonment. Kane was hardly discouraged; he was smothered in the embrace of the unexplained and he would explore farther yet. Satisfied to a point with his search on the first floor, he took to the first of two flights of stairs. He was of a mind now to seek out the third floor rooms and attend to the middle landing on his return descent.
The stairs were sturdy and well made. Kane brushed away some of the dust to feel the smooth mahogany of the banister beneath. He wondered as to what distant land the expensive imported wood might owe its origin; and what perils or adventures might the crew have endured during the transport? He mused briefly that he may well have visited the same distant lands sometime during his many travels. He briefly chided himself for such frivolity of mind. A weakness, this wanderlust of his.
Kane put aside all whimsical musings and soon gained the third floor. To his disappointment he found the rooms there empty . . . clearly unused space and nothing more. Little deterred, he moved on to the second floor . . . rooms that he suspected comprised the former inhabitants? bedrooms. Soon enough he discovered his assumptions to be true. However, that was scarcely all he found!
Kane pushed against the door of the bedroom closest to the staircase. There appeared to be four rooms in all and he intended to explore each. Ignoring the woeful creaking of rusting hinges, the Puritan entered the room with his keen eyes peering over and noting every detail. There was one ghastly horrible thing that gave him sudden pause whilst drawing his undivided attention. The decrepit hinges had since ceased their screeching protest, but an abrasive sound continued. Beneath the dust-caked room's only window a rocking chair gently swayed back and forth with a slow and steady rhythm. This might have easily been explained by the wind reaching into the room through the open window. It was the thing in the chair that the Puritan locked his eyes upon. A fine suit of old fashioned clothes lay there, they stretched over the bones of a man long dead.
The skeleton sat upright with the death's head grinning fiendishly, with bony fingers crossed neatly in its lap. Despite the filth of the long neglected sleeping chamber, the once gay and stylish garments appeared surprising clean, even pristine. This made no sense, had someone recently dressed these bones in order to terrorize superstitious intruders? If so, it was not a trick that would succeed in frightening the gaunt swordsman from Devon.
Kane stood mulling over this new mystery when before his unbelieving eyes the thing seemed to somehow quiver as if assailed by a bizarre spasm! Kane moved a step closer, holding his flickering candle as near as he dared lest it be extinguished by the chilling night wind that threatened then penetrated the broken shutters. Astonished, the Puritan observed and nearly gasped as the smartly dressed skeleton shook violently before appearing to burst into hundreds of tiny flames.
This was hardly normal fire. Neither warm nor golden, weird tendrils of fire burned a dark purple then nearly black. Soon the entire body, if it could truly be called that, took on the horrid aspect of a charred corpse. A stench filled the room, equal parts sulfur and foul offal, forcing the Puritan to draw one drab sleeve over his offended nostrils. Then suddenly the quiet, broken only by the wind, was destroyed by an ear shattering scream.
The shocked Puritan's mouth gaped open as the blackened thing ascended rapidly from the chair, changed its shape into something resembling a long dark serpent, then shot like a lightning bolt out the open window. It all happened within the space of mere seconds.
Had Kane blinked at that moment he would have surely missed the entire event . . . save for the horrendous scream. Solomon Kane was not a man like unto other men. True, he was startled by this unholy turn of events, but instead of cowering with fear or charging out of the house half mad, he became angry. His brow darkened and streaks of red formed on his pallid cheekbones. His deep, hate-tinged voice burst upon the room with all the fury of a sudden thunderstorm. "In the name of the Lord of Hosts I command all foul daemons and hellish spirits to begone from this place or face the mighty vengeance of one a hundred thousand times more powerful than all the forces of Satan combined! Begone now, I say!"
The sound of the dark swordsman's voice could be called a violent force of nature in its own right and when his forceful speech ended, total silence ensued . . . even the wind took pause and waited as if out of curiosity.
Kane stood there with his eyes cold and his black form still as a solid block of black ice. He glared through narrow slits of eyelid at everything and seemingly nothing. The waiting was perhaps rewarded when another odd sound, subtle but clearly audible, replaced the eerie stillness. The sound of a dozen or perhaps a hundred or even a thousand voices flitted on the air. Kane could not discern one distinct voice or even the language or languages used. It was as a melting pot of sounds, both like human speech and very much unlike any mouthing he had ever heard. Then, just as suddenly as they had commenced, the eerie voices ceased.
The Puritan listened intently for a few moments longer. Appearing satisfied, he turned to exit the room. He managed only one long stride before pausing to prick up his ears again. Had the voices returned . . . ? No. This was somehow very different. The gaunt Puritan was no stranger to the sobs of a frightened or injured child . . . though he wished he were. Whatever this manifestation should be, it drifted to him from the room just across the wide hall opposite the doorway where he presently stood.
Kane moved slowly and cautiously towards this second room. It was open, nearly inviting. He was pulled towards the feeble but magnetic wailing. He entered fully steeled and expecting anything. The point of his drawn sword led the way, probing the shadow like a faintly gleaming angel of death.
Indeed, here was something not to be taken lightly by flesh or spirit. The Puritan encountered his second great surprise of the night. No daemon or howling apparition awaited, nor black manifestation of foul unfiltered wickedness or monstrous deformity. Rather his eyes were greeted by a soothing and soft image. A young woman, beautiful, with eyes both large and lovely stared into the Puritan's icy grey pupils. As pretty as the large dark eyes were, they were an equal measure sad and despairing.
She surveyed the large, black-clad man with more than a passing apprehension. She seemed to almost wilt backwards from the glowing candlelight. Kane moved quickly to reassure the lass after also assuring himself that no one, or no thing, lurked in the shadowy corners of the dilapidated room. Satisfied they were alone, he turned his full attention towards the girl who huddled in a very defensive posture on a rickety old bed.
"Do not fear me, lass. My name is Solomon Kane, and I have been sent here by the new owner of this property . . . one Lord Downing. I came to ascertain the condition of this house . . . true, it's a late hour to be about, but I'm not one to dally when something needs to be done, be it night or day. Yet I had not thought to find anyone here and all alone in this crumbling old relic."
The girl wrung her hands desperately. "If only I could believe you, I want to, but I'm so very afraid, you see."
Solomon Kane did his best to smile warmly. It was not something that he did very well; the effort earned no warm smile in return.
"By chance you are indeed who you say you are . . ." the girl began hesitantly. "I must warn you that I am not alone here . . . not at all."
Kane nodded. "I know; already I have encountered certain haunts. Dear Lord, what horrors they must have put you through! Why, in the name of all that's holy, did you not put a distance between yourself and these crumbling walls?"
The girl shook her head, frustrated by Kane's misunderstanding of her situation. "I could not flee, though a million times I wished with all my heart I might do so. Yes, this is a horribly haunted old mansion . . . I fear I'm near mad from it all. But truly I am a prisoner, and not one held by these daemonic forces that torture me night and day. I am held here by a man . . . a human monster more terrible than even the dreadful apparitions that call this hellish place home!"
The distressed girl's voice dropped to a mere whisper. "If you are who you say you are, Solomon Kane, then you are in grave danger and should never have come here alone. I pray you can make good use of that blade of yours for I fear you will certainly have need of it this night, make no mistake of that."
"Who is responsible for holding you here, girl? And where is he now? And I would know your name if it pleases you, lass? Hold no doubts that I can make good use of this blade; I swear to stand between you and any that mean you harm . . . be they human or goblin; and I am not a man who swears an empty oath."
"My name is Cassie Bowe," the girl said as her dark eyes darted about, searching first Kane's face and then the shadows. "I was dragged out of my bed last night and brought here by a horrible brute . . . a man who calls himself Hawk."
"Go on, speak without fear, lass."
Cassie nodded and seemed resigned to the idea that any or all hope she held for escaping her dreadful situation did indeed lie within the huge frame of this man who was a complete stranger to her. Besides, what other path lay open to her? None, and that was a certainty. Still, she was alarmed to think it might be naught but another of her tormentor's cruel pranks.
She pulled her tattered shawl tighter across her slender shoulders before continuing. "I canna say for a certain where that devil is at this precise moment. However, I doubt not that he lies hidden, waiting for the opportunity to ambush you and slit your throat. I suspect that he is in the house yet, watching and waiting for his chance to kill you and do me more mischief."
"Very well lass, follow close behind me and we'll be gone."
The girl shuddered with great dread. "Nay, I'll not leave this very spot until I know that Hawk is either gone or dead, hopefully dead, for he used me most hard last night. And again, I know you not, Solomon Kane, nor do I know of a certain where it be that you'd lead me. If you mean well, try to understand. I am frozen with fear and should Hawk or his like show their face in this room, I'd gladly hurl myself through yon window. Then I'll trust to fate whether I dash my brains out on some misplaced stone or merely break my neck."
"Very well, I'll seek out this Hawk. Then I'll drive him away with the point of my steel, or if he desires, give him a taste of it. Get ye behind the bed and call out loudly in the event someone besides myself should enter. I swear I'll return in less than a heartbeat and deal most severely with Mr. Hawk. I'll need the candle, and besides the dark is best suited for concealing yourself. But fear not the darkness for I am here."
After uttering the oath, Kane wheeled about and made to return to the wide hallway separating the two sets of bed chambers. Fully aware like a stalking panther, the drab Puritan almost simultaneously spotted a dark flash of movement. He blew out the candle and dropped into a crouch just as the shattering report of a gunshot rattled the ancient walls of Doak Manor.
Kane felt the ball whistle just over his head before imbedding itself with a sharp thump within the wall. Kane elicited a groan and pounded the flooring with his heavy fist. With any luck, the assassin might mistake the sound for that of a body dropping heavily.
The next part of the ruse was to remain silent and still, as still as death itself. However, at that precise moment a dark cloud must have passed over the face of the moon because whatever tiny slivers of light there had been quickly dissipated into sheer pitch blackness.
Still Kane hesitated, the blackness both an advantage and disadvantage. He kept his breathing shallow and subdued and waited, then waited yet more.
Seconds turned into a minute, and then minutes. Then the Puritan Redresser of Wrongs heard the creak of timber. Someone had tired of the game and taken a step . . . then another.
Kane remained as still as a cold slab of tombstone passing the years in a stoic country graveyard. Somewhere in the distance a dead limb crashed to the earth and some half starved mongrel howled to forget the empty gnawing in his long neglected stomach.
Solomon Kane heard these things and did not hear them. The creaking footsteps were deliberate and searching. Kane tensed in preparation, with legs like steel springs, ready to launch his lithe body at the foe despite the cloaking darkness.
Kane's nostrils were assaulted by the unpleasant odor of an unwashed human body. Whomever had fired at the Puritan drew closer. A tiny glint of moonlight bled through a rotted shingle at that moment and Kane could see the darkened outline of a man groping along the wall not more than two feet away. The Puritan hesitated no longer. The long rapier lashed out and bit deep into solid flesh.
A startled scream sliced through the stagnant air and the shadowy figure rushed past Kane before stumbling and plunging headlong down the staircase. A series of loud thumps, groans, and splintering sounds finally ceased with a final pronounced thud where Kane presumed the stairs ended.
The Puritan re-ignited the candle and drifted down to the first floor where the body of a man lay covered in blood. The pistol lay by his side and a cutlass remained clutched in his still right hand. A single eye stared out at nothing, the other orb had been lost long before; a withered, blackened hole was all that remained.
The dead man's dress was simple save for a bright red sash bound about his waist and large brass rings that adorned the ears. His hair was dark, unkempt and bushy. A thick mustache and several days? growth of beard gave the corpse the aspect of exotic wildness. "A man of the sea," Kane whispered to himself. He had seen a great many such men during his wanderings. Kane had spent years at sea himself. What a sailor, likely a corsair, was doing so far from the coast, one could only surmise.
"No matter, Mr. Hawk, your days on land and sea have come to an end, and good riddance, I say."
"Who dares give my name to that carrion?"
Kane whirled about to face the man who'd spoken those words. The voice had a wisp of familiarity about it.
The Puritan was far from pleased for having not reckoned that Hawk might have had accomplices. He squinted into the shadows and not one figure, but two, emerged. They were big men, one a hulking dark brute and the other a tall blond man with a lean face, thin nose, and a cruel gash of hard mouth. As he drew slowly nearer, Kane could see the gleam in his dancing gray eyes.
"By Satan's own red eyes!" the man exclaimed. "It's Solomon Kane, a man I never expected to meet again this side of perdition." Both men held pistols and the blond carried a sword. "Aye, and blow me down, Abner, if it ain't Sir Richard's right-hand man," he continued.
The brute only grunted before speaking in guttural tones, "I know him not, though I've heard the name. He's killed Isaiah and that much is plain enough." Both men's eyes then drifted briefly to the sprawled dead man. In a flash they returned their gaze to the Puritan.
Kane's voice was heavy and deep, displaying none of the surprise he must have felt. "Jeremy Hawk, or the Hawk of Basti as ye called yourself the last time our paths crossed."
The blond man smiled and lowered his pistol . . . slightly. "True, true! The loan of your pistols gave me back my kingdom of savages for a while. By Satan's own red buckler, those were some times . . . aye, Kane? But why did you leave suddenly without a word? I had hoped you would stay and help me maintain my grip on those cursed heathens. There were high times to be had . . . at least until I sold a few too many of my subjects to the Portuguese slavers. It was not long aft I slipped away myself ere they skewered me but never you mind, being a king is dung compared to the life we once lived on the decks of Bellefonte's and Sir Richard's proud ships! By Satan's eyes, those were some red times, Abner!"
"What do ye here Jeremy Hawk? And what do ye know of those poor lass Cassie Bowe?" Kane was never one to avoid direct talk.
"I know of no lass, would that I did, though. Isaiah, Abner, and me have seen no one save your own dark self. We have used this dank old ruin as a shelter for more than a month now. All alone except for a host of restless spirits. They bothered Isaiah right enough, but Abner and I fear no one living or dead. By Satan's own plump whores, I'll freely admit that it goes a sight easier as we've smartly laid by a goodly supply of rum."
Kane's features became hard as chiseled granite and his voice took on a sinister aspect. "I heard talk that a man who'd sailed with Bellefonte by the name of Jeremy Hawk had been sentenced to hang for murder and piracy . . . and rape. I'm thinking there be only one Jeremy Hawk. Any thoughts I might have had of walking away from here were dashed by the lie that you've never heard of the poor lass I'd spoken to scant moments ago up there in yonder room. She says she was dragged here against her will by a man named Hawk. I thought she meant this carrion at my feet; I stand corrected. Had ye not revealed yourself, I might have never known the truth. I know not how you managed to flee the gallows but I vow you'll have a second chance yet to cheat the Queen's hangman."
A smirk crossed the hawkish features of the big blond. "I know of no lass. I'm thinking you have finally gone mad at last; Kane. You ran out on me in Basti and I swore an oath then that I'd see you dead. However, I am a forgiving man after all. I'll let you leave here, Kane, for sake of the old days. See Abner, what a doting and sentimental fool I've become?"
"True enough, I'll leave . . . but I'm taking you with me Hawk, back to prison is where I'll escort you and none other."
There was not the slightest hint of bluster or waver in the Puritan's voice. The fate of Jeremy Hawk appeared sealed where Solomon Kane was concerned.
"There's not many of us left, Kane . . . and after tonight there will be one less, I'm afraid. Don't fret, Your Blackness; Abner and me will hang your remains in the loft to feed the wild pigeons that roost there. I'm thinking you should appreciate us making good use of your worthless flesh when we've finished carving it into a red ruin!"
Kane made no reply, the time for talk was long past. He jerked his amazingly lithe frame aside with speed that would have put a cheetah to shame when Abner lifted his pistol and discharged it at the Puritan's head. The ball missed, but it was a near miss that carried Kane's shapeless black hat half way across the room.
The dark swordsman cursed himself for placing the candle holder on the floor whilst he'd inspected the body of the dead pirate. Hawk took careful aim, and Kane knew the pistols would have been useless had the candle been within reach and therefore easily dashed out.
As so many times before, providence was firmly on the side of the vengeful Puritan. A loud click announced the fact that Hawk's pistol had misfired.
A grim smile broke across Kane's eerily pallid face, and although it was pure vanity, he could not resist the temptation to goad his former companion at arms. "Had ye sailed with Sir Richard instead of Bellefonte you would learned long ago to check your weapon's charge against chance of dampness."
Hawk cursed and hurled the useless weapon at his opponent, who side-stepped the clumsy missile effortlessly.
Now Kane was glad for the light, though the odds were two against one. The three men circled like starving birds of prey. "Have a care not to give him any advantage, Abner, no prison can hold the Hawk and no man can best me in a fight, not even this pious fool, though a fair hand he be . . . so beware, and take heed of the point! I swear he favors it."
Abner growled and lunged, he was quick and his blade darting.
Steel clashed against steel, sending a shower of blue sparks in all directions. Kane turned the surly hulk's thrusts away easily but barely managed to parry a well timed strike by the Hawk. "Ha, well played," the blond corsair laughed confidently as he searched for another opening.
The flickering candle light cast huge gaunt shadows upon the walls of the filthy old parlor where the three men danced about. It was a surreal scene that no one had the chance to appreciate as they slashed and cut, the loud ringing of steel on steel reverberating through the decaying old mansion's many chambers.
Kane found himself hard pressed, but matters could have been much worse, all things considered. Jeremy Hawk was an expert swordsman but Abner was a brute long on strength and short on skill. His eager but clumsy tactics served mostly to impede the lightning attack of the Hawk.
As the two villains worked to co-ordinate their attack, Kane considered his own options. Somehow he must put Abner out of the fight as to clear the way for his duel with the Hawk, no opponent to be taken lightly. As luck would have it, the ever confident Jeremy Hawk solved this problem for the steady Puritan. "Stand away there, Abner, and let me at His Blackness; by Satan's own eyes, your oafish swordplay will have Kane suffocating himself on merry laughter ere long."
Abner's tone was black when he replied, "As you wish, I'll not interfere again . . . whatever your need be."
"Well enough," Hawk grunted as he and the pallid Puritan crossed blades with a fierce series of thrusts and parries. Hawk was skilled, and his athletic body was all whalebone and steel springs. "To the death, then!" Hawk declared.
"Well enough," Kane replied.
Solomon Kane had been summoned. The heavy iron gate protested vehemently with a series of groans, screeches, and clanking as the big man with the pallid features wrenched it ajar. Then he glided through, his steps quiet and cat-like as they fell on the ancient cobblestone path. To his right and left useless weeds grew as tall as most men. However, try as they might, they failed to dwarf Solomon Kane.
Pale grey eyes, hard and deep set, studied the hulking outline of the old manor house. The moon was more than half full and its gloomy light dripped about the somber scene in an odd way that some might have found disconcerting or at least vaguely mystical.
The Puritan found himself, on this particular night, in a lonely and quite isolated part of old Cornwall. Few lived within or near this scenic but rather poor parcel of the Queen's island. Here it was difficult for farmers to scratch out a living due to the rocky soil and various other natural obstacles that were characteristic of the weather-beaten area where Kane found himself.
Solomon Kane's thoughts scarcely dwell long on such facts save that he found himself very much alone before the foreboding old mansion and its adjoining acreage. None lived near the Doak house, who would dare? Here was an estate deemed by many to be haunted or cursed . . . if not both. Folk whispered that perhaps a fortune in antiquities alone might lie within. But who could speak of such things with any degree of certainty? Not a single person was known to have so much as entered the three story structure in nearly a decade. Not since the last of the Doaks, Edward, had raced onto a neighboring farm and screamed that his former home was demon possessed.
True, he was quite mad and died shortly thereafter in an asylum. The simple country folk were very superstitious and old Doak Manor ranked high on their list of local places best avoided no matter the cost. Rumor had it that some brave soul had in fact chanced to take a peep inside the house. Not long after, he had exited the grounds just as mad as old Edward. And, just like the last of the Doaks, he died a few short months later having never regained what had once been a sound and purpose-filled mind.
There were other tales as well, each stranger and more chilling than the last. Still, these were merely tales and not easily verified or traced to any reputable source. Finally, more practical heads prevailed and the entire property was purchased by an enterprising businessman. This gentleman did not think it necessary to inspect his new property personally. Oh no, instead he called on the local constable to make a thorough investigation on behalf of all concerned: not that anyone else had a financial stake in the Doak place. Still, who could say with any honesty that most weren't at least curious about the crumbling mansion that had left an ugly scar on the population's reputation as sensible Christian folk?
Yet no one was eager to accept the new landlord's request. They were held fast by dread. Certain well traveled elements in the local government sent urgent inquiries to Devonshire in regards to a man known as neither superstitious nor faint hearted in the least . . . a somber Puritan named Solomon Kane. Here was a man whose mysterious ways were whispered about nearly as much as the Doak house. It seemed a sound idea to combat strangeness with strangeness.
A detailed letter was sent. His interest piqued by the unusual message and the urgency that permeated the words, Kane left immediately on horseback. As was his custom, he traveled alone, fast and hard, scarcely pausing for a bite of nourishment or more than two hours repose until he had gained his current destination. Kane's fevered, driven brain paid little service to the eerie glow reflecting off the old house trapped beneath the haunting moonlight. Arriving late at night begged no delay for Solomon Kane. Rather, he suffered no hesitation, only some irritability due to the inconvenience of darkness.
Sad old oaks swayed, and rattled their twisted limbs as if to give warning, and an owl cried out, but Kane dismounted and proceeded unabashed, with his customary long strides. The leather of his soft Cordovan boots cushioned his steps and his footfalls created no sound. The gaunt Puritan pushed on through the creaking gate and listened to the spooky thump-thump of a loose shutter.
The wind picked up suddenly with a groan and a whisper. The tall lithe man dressed mostly in drab black emitted no response. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of a long, diamond edged rapier. The other hand briefly brushed against a slender dirk held firm against his waist by a bright green oriental sash . . . the type of garment more common amongst seafaring men. This was a lone reminder of many years of fighting and adventure upon the world's seven seas.
The Puritan stepped quietly onto the first of thirteen stone steps that led to the veranda. He quickly gained those ancient planks which groaned but held beneath his deceptive weight. At first glance Kane might have been mistaken as slender but his shoulders were unusually broad, his chest deep, and his biceps quite massive. His dark, drab wear further aided this trick played on the casual observer. Still, Kane was a man who always drew considerable scrutiny from anyone crossing his path . . . he was not a man quickly dismissed or easily forgotten.
He found the door standing slightly ajar, almost as if someone within wished to glance out and discover who might be calling at the midnight hour. Kane pushed against the well built object and it widened easily enough. A spider web Kane crushed with an impatient swipe of his gloved hand and its ruined tendrils were swept aside. The dark figure of the big man slipped smoothly inside. The tension on the hilt of his lethal blade increased but only barely.
Kane's eyes struggled momentarily with the reduced visibility. The eerie rays of the pale moonlight were quite naturally diminished as was to be expected when indoors at night. Still, the large Gothic style windows were scarcely shielded by the pathetic remnants of curtains that hung in grim tatters. Slightly more than mere slivers of ancient lunar illumination filtered through the rags. Kane's eyelids narrowed to mere slits as his vision gradually adjusted to some extent. Despite the obvious disadvantage of night, the swordsman remained subject to the insatiable curiosity that was often a shared trait of especially intelligent men. He fully expected to inspect every corner, characteristic, and object that lay within those old foreboding walls. It would have been better to have waited until morning before proceeding with his unannounced tour but Solomon Kane was not a patient man. He would have knowledge of the odd forsaken ruin and he would most certainly have it now.
He searched a small pouch momentarily before producing a large candle set within a plain brass holder. Soon lighted, the bright flickering flame defeated some of the impenetrable shadow and the adventurer began his search in earnest. At that moment more than a simple search was given birth. Kane began to experience a most queer sensation deep within his very psyche. It was not fear or dread, it was not loathing of his dreary surroundings or the desire to flee . . . although his situation was one that would have driven an ordinary man to distraction, or at the very least supreme discomfort. Kane hardly felt terror but he felt something . . . something as yet hidden or indefinable.
While this sensation was unusual, it was not a thing altogether unknown to Solomon Kane: in fact he had encountered such strange emotions before . . . and it was an emotion. He did not accept as fact wild rumors, handed down tales, or unsupported explanations for an apparent onset of madness. However, he would be a fool to deny the suspicions born of his own innate, razor-keen instincts. Those same instincts had served him often and well on a great many occasions during a lifetime of danger, bloodletting and perilous risk-taking.
Solomon Kane held the flickering candle high with his left hand whilst the right exerted a bit more pressure upon the hilt of his one true and steadfast companion; that long diamond edged blade, that had, more often than not, found play shortly after the onset of the queer emotion that had only now passed yet again through the brain of the Puritan. Something was amiss here, something that quite possibly could not be explained away naturally. Of course those fools who called themselves men of logic and mathematics might attempt a scientific discourse on the subject, but Kane knew they would be wrong. Kane was pious and devoutly spiritual; to a fault, many would say. He would know more of these mysterious forces that he sensed moving in Doak Manor. By means subtle or brazen he would seek satisfaction for his curiosity by finding answers to questions he was as yet incapable of even asking.
He moved slowly but steadily through the rooms on the first floor of the old house. His eyes missed nothing as the meticulous and completely thorough inspection continued without pause, though little of substance was revealed. Furnishings long neglected and covered by deep layers of dust, insect droppings, and cobwebs gave few clues to the source of any underlying force save stark human abandonment. Kane was hardly discouraged; he was smothered in the embrace of the unexplained and he would explore farther yet. Satisfied to a point with his search on the first floor, he took to the first of two flights of stairs. He was of a mind now to seek out the third floor rooms and attend to the middle landing on his return descent.
The stairs were sturdy and well made. Kane brushed away some of the dust to feel the smooth mahogany of the banister beneath. He wondered as to what distant land the expensive imported wood might owe its origin; and what perils or adventures might the crew have endured during the transport? He mused briefly that he may well have visited the same distant lands sometime during his many travels. He briefly chided himself for such frivolity of mind. A weakness, this wanderlust of his.
Kane put aside all whimsical musings and soon gained the third floor. To his disappointment he found the rooms there empty . . . clearly unused space and nothing more. Little deterred, he moved on to the second floor . . . rooms that he suspected comprised the former inhabitants? bedrooms. Soon enough he discovered his assumptions to be true. However, that was scarcely all he found!
Kane pushed against the door of the bedroom closest to the staircase. There appeared to be four rooms in all and he intended to explore each. Ignoring the woeful creaking of rusting hinges, the Puritan entered the room with his keen eyes peering over and noting every detail. There was one ghastly horrible thing that gave him sudden pause whilst drawing his undivided attention. The decrepit hinges had since ceased their screeching protest, but an abrasive sound continued. Beneath the dust-caked room's only window a rocking chair gently swayed back and forth with a slow and steady rhythm. This might have easily been explained by the wind reaching into the room through the open window. It was the thing in the chair that the Puritan locked his eyes upon. A fine suit of old fashioned clothes lay there, they stretched over the bones of a man long dead.
The skeleton sat upright with the death's head grinning fiendishly, with bony fingers crossed neatly in its lap. Despite the filth of the long neglected sleeping chamber, the once gay and stylish garments appeared surprising clean, even pristine. This made no sense, had someone recently dressed these bones in order to terrorize superstitious intruders? If so, it was not a trick that would succeed in frightening the gaunt swordsman from Devon.
Kane stood mulling over this new mystery when before his unbelieving eyes the thing seemed to somehow quiver as if assailed by a bizarre spasm! Kane moved a step closer, holding his flickering candle as near as he dared lest it be extinguished by the chilling night wind that threatened then penetrated the broken shutters. Astonished, the Puritan observed and nearly gasped as the smartly dressed skeleton shook violently before appearing to burst into hundreds of tiny flames.
This was hardly normal fire. Neither warm nor golden, weird tendrils of fire burned a dark purple then nearly black. Soon the entire body, if it could truly be called that, took on the horrid aspect of a charred corpse. A stench filled the room, equal parts sulfur and foul offal, forcing the Puritan to draw one drab sleeve over his offended nostrils. Then suddenly the quiet, broken only by the wind, was destroyed by an ear shattering scream.
The shocked Puritan's mouth gaped open as the blackened thing ascended rapidly from the chair, changed its shape into something resembling a long dark serpent, then shot like a lightning bolt out the open window. It all happened within the space of mere seconds.
Had Kane blinked at that moment he would have surely missed the entire event . . . save for the horrendous scream. Solomon Kane was not a man like unto other men. True, he was startled by this unholy turn of events, but instead of cowering with fear or charging out of the house half mad, he became angry. His brow darkened and streaks of red formed on his pallid cheekbones. His deep, hate-tinged voice burst upon the room with all the fury of a sudden thunderstorm. "In the name of the Lord of Hosts I command all foul daemons and hellish spirits to begone from this place or face the mighty vengeance of one a hundred thousand times more powerful than all the forces of Satan combined! Begone now, I say!"
The sound of the dark swordsman's voice could be called a violent force of nature in its own right and when his forceful speech ended, total silence ensued . . . even the wind took pause and waited as if out of curiosity.
Kane stood there with his eyes cold and his black form still as a solid block of black ice. He glared through narrow slits of eyelid at everything and seemingly nothing. The waiting was perhaps rewarded when another odd sound, subtle but clearly audible, replaced the eerie stillness. The sound of a dozen or perhaps a hundred or even a thousand voices flitted on the air. Kane could not discern one distinct voice or even the language or languages used. It was as a melting pot of sounds, both like human speech and very much unlike any mouthing he had ever heard. Then, just as suddenly as they had commenced, the eerie voices ceased.
The Puritan listened intently for a few moments longer. Appearing satisfied, he turned to exit the room. He managed only one long stride before pausing to prick up his ears again. Had the voices returned . . . ? No. This was somehow very different. The gaunt Puritan was no stranger to the sobs of a frightened or injured child . . . though he wished he were. Whatever this manifestation should be, it drifted to him from the room just across the wide hall opposite the doorway where he presently stood.
Kane moved slowly and cautiously towards this second room. It was open, nearly inviting. He was pulled towards the feeble but magnetic wailing. He entered fully steeled and expecting anything. The point of his drawn sword led the way, probing the shadow like a faintly gleaming angel of death.
Indeed, here was something not to be taken lightly by flesh or spirit. The Puritan encountered his second great surprise of the night. No daemon or howling apparition awaited, nor black manifestation of foul unfiltered wickedness or monstrous deformity. Rather his eyes were greeted by a soothing and soft image. A young woman, beautiful, with eyes both large and lovely stared into the Puritan's icy grey pupils. As pretty as the large dark eyes were, they were an equal measure sad and despairing.
She surveyed the large, black-clad man with more than a passing apprehension. She seemed to almost wilt backwards from the glowing candlelight. Kane moved quickly to reassure the lass after also assuring himself that no one, or no thing, lurked in the shadowy corners of the dilapidated room. Satisfied they were alone, he turned his full attention towards the girl who huddled in a very defensive posture on a rickety old bed.
"Do not fear me, lass. My name is Solomon Kane, and I have been sent here by the new owner of this property . . . one Lord Downing. I came to ascertain the condition of this house . . . true, it's a late hour to be about, but I'm not one to dally when something needs to be done, be it night or day. Yet I had not thought to find anyone here and all alone in this crumbling old relic."
The girl wrung her hands desperately. "If only I could believe you, I want to, but I'm so very afraid, you see."
Solomon Kane did his best to smile warmly. It was not something that he did very well; the effort earned no warm smile in return.
"By chance you are indeed who you say you are . . ." the girl began hesitantly. "I must warn you that I am not alone here . . . not at all."
Kane nodded. "I know; already I have encountered certain haunts. Dear Lord, what horrors they must have put you through! Why, in the name of all that's holy, did you not put a distance between yourself and these crumbling walls?"
The girl shook her head, frustrated by Kane's misunderstanding of her situation. "I could not flee, though a million times I wished with all my heart I might do so. Yes, this is a horribly haunted old mansion . . . I fear I'm near mad from it all. But truly I am a prisoner, and not one held by these daemonic forces that torture me night and day. I am held here by a man . . . a human monster more terrible than even the dreadful apparitions that call this hellish place home!"
The distressed girl's voice dropped to a mere whisper. "If you are who you say you are, Solomon Kane, then you are in grave danger and should never have come here alone. I pray you can make good use of that blade of yours for I fear you will certainly have need of it this night, make no mistake of that."
"Who is responsible for holding you here, girl? And where is he now? And I would know your name if it pleases you, lass? Hold no doubts that I can make good use of this blade; I swear to stand between you and any that mean you harm . . . be they human or goblin; and I am not a man who swears an empty oath."
"My name is Cassie Bowe," the girl said as her dark eyes darted about, searching first Kane's face and then the shadows. "I was dragged out of my bed last night and brought here by a horrible brute . . . a man who calls himself Hawk."
"Go on, speak without fear, lass."
Cassie nodded and seemed resigned to the idea that any or all hope she held for escaping her dreadful situation did indeed lie within the huge frame of this man who was a complete stranger to her. Besides, what other path lay open to her? None, and that was a certainty. Still, she was alarmed to think it might be naught but another of her tormentor's cruel pranks.
She pulled her tattered shawl tighter across her slender shoulders before continuing. "I canna say for a certain where that devil is at this precise moment. However, I doubt not that he lies hidden, waiting for the opportunity to ambush you and slit your throat. I suspect that he is in the house yet, watching and waiting for his chance to kill you and do me more mischief."
"Very well lass, follow close behind me and we'll be gone."
The girl shuddered with great dread. "Nay, I'll not leave this very spot until I know that Hawk is either gone or dead, hopefully dead, for he used me most hard last night. And again, I know you not, Solomon Kane, nor do I know of a certain where it be that you'd lead me. If you mean well, try to understand. I am frozen with fear and should Hawk or his like show their face in this room, I'd gladly hurl myself through yon window. Then I'll trust to fate whether I dash my brains out on some misplaced stone or merely break my neck."
"Very well, I'll seek out this Hawk. Then I'll drive him away with the point of my steel, or if he desires, give him a taste of it. Get ye behind the bed and call out loudly in the event someone besides myself should enter. I swear I'll return in less than a heartbeat and deal most severely with Mr. Hawk. I'll need the candle, and besides the dark is best suited for concealing yourself. But fear not the darkness for I am here."
After uttering the oath, Kane wheeled about and made to return to the wide hallway separating the two sets of bed chambers. Fully aware like a stalking panther, the drab Puritan almost simultaneously spotted a dark flash of movement. He blew out the candle and dropped into a crouch just as the shattering report of a gunshot rattled the ancient walls of Doak Manor.
Kane felt the ball whistle just over his head before imbedding itself with a sharp thump within the wall. Kane elicited a groan and pounded the flooring with his heavy fist. With any luck, the assassin might mistake the sound for that of a body dropping heavily.
The next part of the ruse was to remain silent and still, as still as death itself. However, at that precise moment a dark cloud must have passed over the face of the moon because whatever tiny slivers of light there had been quickly dissipated into sheer pitch blackness.
Still Kane hesitated, the blackness both an advantage and disadvantage. He kept his breathing shallow and subdued and waited, then waited yet more.
Seconds turned into a minute, and then minutes. Then the Puritan Redresser of Wrongs heard the creak of timber. Someone had tired of the game and taken a step . . . then another.
Kane remained as still as a cold slab of tombstone passing the years in a stoic country graveyard. Somewhere in the distance a dead limb crashed to the earth and some half starved mongrel howled to forget the empty gnawing in his long neglected stomach.
Solomon Kane heard these things and did not hear them. The creaking footsteps were deliberate and searching. Kane tensed in preparation, with legs like steel springs, ready to launch his lithe body at the foe despite the cloaking darkness.
Kane's nostrils were assaulted by the unpleasant odor of an unwashed human body. Whomever had fired at the Puritan drew closer. A tiny glint of moonlight bled through a rotted shingle at that moment and Kane could see the darkened outline of a man groping along the wall not more than two feet away. The Puritan hesitated no longer. The long rapier lashed out and bit deep into solid flesh.
A startled scream sliced through the stagnant air and the shadowy figure rushed past Kane before stumbling and plunging headlong down the staircase. A series of loud thumps, groans, and splintering sounds finally ceased with a final pronounced thud where Kane presumed the stairs ended.
The Puritan re-ignited the candle and drifted down to the first floor where the body of a man lay covered in blood. The pistol lay by his side and a cutlass remained clutched in his still right hand. A single eye stared out at nothing, the other orb had been lost long before; a withered, blackened hole was all that remained.
The dead man's dress was simple save for a bright red sash bound about his waist and large brass rings that adorned the ears. His hair was dark, unkempt and bushy. A thick mustache and several days? growth of beard gave the corpse the aspect of exotic wildness. "A man of the sea," Kane whispered to himself. He had seen a great many such men during his wanderings. Kane had spent years at sea himself. What a sailor, likely a corsair, was doing so far from the coast, one could only surmise.
"No matter, Mr. Hawk, your days on land and sea have come to an end, and good riddance, I say."
"Who dares give my name to that carrion?"
Kane whirled about to face the man who'd spoken those words. The voice had a wisp of familiarity about it.
The Puritan was far from pleased for having not reckoned that Hawk might have had accomplices. He squinted into the shadows and not one figure, but two, emerged. They were big men, one a hulking dark brute and the other a tall blond man with a lean face, thin nose, and a cruel gash of hard mouth. As he drew slowly nearer, Kane could see the gleam in his dancing gray eyes.
"By Satan's own red eyes!" the man exclaimed. "It's Solomon Kane, a man I never expected to meet again this side of perdition." Both men held pistols and the blond carried a sword. "Aye, and blow me down, Abner, if it ain't Sir Richard's right-hand man," he continued.
The brute only grunted before speaking in guttural tones, "I know him not, though I've heard the name. He's killed Isaiah and that much is plain enough." Both men's eyes then drifted briefly to the sprawled dead man. In a flash they returned their gaze to the Puritan.
Kane's voice was heavy and deep, displaying none of the surprise he must have felt. "Jeremy Hawk, or the Hawk of Basti as ye called yourself the last time our paths crossed."
The blond man smiled and lowered his pistol . . . slightly. "True, true! The loan of your pistols gave me back my kingdom of savages for a while. By Satan's own red buckler, those were some times . . . aye, Kane? But why did you leave suddenly without a word? I had hoped you would stay and help me maintain my grip on those cursed heathens. There were high times to be had . . . at least until I sold a few too many of my subjects to the Portuguese slavers. It was not long aft I slipped away myself ere they skewered me but never you mind, being a king is dung compared to the life we once lived on the decks of Bellefonte's and Sir Richard's proud ships! By Satan's eyes, those were some red times, Abner!"
"What do ye here Jeremy Hawk? And what do ye know of those poor lass Cassie Bowe?" Kane was never one to avoid direct talk.
"I know of no lass, would that I did, though. Isaiah, Abner, and me have seen no one save your own dark self. We have used this dank old ruin as a shelter for more than a month now. All alone except for a host of restless spirits. They bothered Isaiah right enough, but Abner and I fear no one living or dead. By Satan's own plump whores, I'll freely admit that it goes a sight easier as we've smartly laid by a goodly supply of rum."
Kane's features became hard as chiseled granite and his voice took on a sinister aspect. "I heard talk that a man who'd sailed with Bellefonte by the name of Jeremy Hawk had been sentenced to hang for murder and piracy . . . and rape. I'm thinking there be only one Jeremy Hawk. Any thoughts I might have had of walking away from here were dashed by the lie that you've never heard of the poor lass I'd spoken to scant moments ago up there in yonder room. She says she was dragged here against her will by a man named Hawk. I thought she meant this carrion at my feet; I stand corrected. Had ye not revealed yourself, I might have never known the truth. I know not how you managed to flee the gallows but I vow you'll have a second chance yet to cheat the Queen's hangman."
A smirk crossed the hawkish features of the big blond. "I know of no lass. I'm thinking you have finally gone mad at last; Kane. You ran out on me in Basti and I swore an oath then that I'd see you dead. However, I am a forgiving man after all. I'll let you leave here, Kane, for sake of the old days. See Abner, what a doting and sentimental fool I've become?"
"True enough, I'll leave . . . but I'm taking you with me Hawk, back to prison is where I'll escort you and none other."
There was not the slightest hint of bluster or waver in the Puritan's voice. The fate of Jeremy Hawk appeared sealed where Solomon Kane was concerned.
"There's not many of us left, Kane . . . and after tonight there will be one less, I'm afraid. Don't fret, Your Blackness; Abner and me will hang your remains in the loft to feed the wild pigeons that roost there. I'm thinking you should appreciate us making good use of your worthless flesh when we've finished carving it into a red ruin!"
Kane made no reply, the time for talk was long past. He jerked his amazingly lithe frame aside with speed that would have put a cheetah to shame when Abner lifted his pistol and discharged it at the Puritan's head. The ball missed, but it was a near miss that carried Kane's shapeless black hat half way across the room.
The dark swordsman cursed himself for placing the candle holder on the floor whilst he'd inspected the body of the dead pirate. Hawk took careful aim, and Kane knew the pistols would have been useless had the candle been within reach and therefore easily dashed out.
As so many times before, providence was firmly on the side of the vengeful Puritan. A loud click announced the fact that Hawk's pistol had misfired.
A grim smile broke across Kane's eerily pallid face, and although it was pure vanity, he could not resist the temptation to goad his former companion at arms. "Had ye sailed with Sir Richard instead of Bellefonte you would learned long ago to check your weapon's charge against chance of dampness."
Hawk cursed and hurled the useless weapon at his opponent, who side-stepped the clumsy missile effortlessly.
Now Kane was glad for the light, though the odds were two against one. The three men circled like starving birds of prey. "Have a care not to give him any advantage, Abner, no prison can hold the Hawk and no man can best me in a fight, not even this pious fool, though a fair hand he be . . . so beware, and take heed of the point! I swear he favors it."
Abner growled and lunged, he was quick and his blade darting.
Steel clashed against steel, sending a shower of blue sparks in all directions. Kane turned the surly hulk's thrusts away easily but barely managed to parry a well timed strike by the Hawk. "Ha, well played," the blond corsair laughed confidently as he searched for another opening.
The flickering candle light cast huge gaunt shadows upon the walls of the filthy old parlor where the three men danced about. It was a surreal scene that no one had the chance to appreciate as they slashed and cut, the loud ringing of steel on steel reverberating through the decaying old mansion's many chambers.
Kane found himself hard pressed, but matters could have been much worse, all things considered. Jeremy Hawk was an expert swordsman but Abner was a brute long on strength and short on skill. His eager but clumsy tactics served mostly to impede the lightning attack of the Hawk.
As the two villains worked to co-ordinate their attack, Kane considered his own options. Somehow he must put Abner out of the fight as to clear the way for his duel with the Hawk, no opponent to be taken lightly. As luck would have it, the ever confident Jeremy Hawk solved this problem for the steady Puritan. "Stand away there, Abner, and let me at His Blackness; by Satan's own eyes, your oafish swordplay will have Kane suffocating himself on merry laughter ere long."
Abner's tone was black when he replied, "As you wish, I'll not interfere again . . . whatever your need be."
"Well enough," Hawk grunted as he and the pallid Puritan crossed blades with a fierce series of thrusts and parries. Hawk was skilled, and his athletic body was all whalebone and steel springs. "To the death, then!" Hawk declared.
"Well enough," Kane replied.
