I am very excited about my latest book, 4 Blades of Ruin, a series of short stories of Robert E. Howard's heroes, Conan the Barbarian, Bran Mak Morn, Solomon Kane, and King Kull. The book is available on Amazon in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition and on Kindle. Here is an excerpt from one of the Solomon Kane stories entitled:
Demon of Darkness
The area is also known for its wide, open
moorlands, and just south of the moorlands is the town of Kirkland. It was
evening when Solomon Kane walked into Kirkland.
He
found an ale house on the edge of town. It was a humble domestic dwelling, and
was operated by Travis March, the landlord and proprietor. The old wooden sign
over the door depicted three crowns.
When
Kane entered, all heads, including Travis March and nine patrons, turned and
stared at the tall, dark stranger whose hat brushed the top of the doorframe.
The patrons, all locals, some farmers and craftsmen, all regarded the rapier at
his side, the dirk in its scabbard, and a brace of pistols tucked into his
belt. The stranger was dressed in the style of a Puritan, black and unadorned.
He wore tall riding boots and a black cloak. The man had a dark pallor and a
serious, almost grim demeanor, and the sharp eyes that peered from under his
broad-brimmed hat were cold and grey. Seeing the armed stranger, three of the
patrons walked out the door, as they had no desire for any intrigue. Kane
watched them walk out and closed the door behind them.
The
room had a low ceiling with wooden beams, blackened by age and smoke that came
from a stone fireplace. Rushes lined the bare floorboards, and benches lined
the walls.
Kane
regarded each of the patrons, then approached the low fire and warmed his hands
from the night’s chill.
Travis
March approached him warily.
“Wine?”
asked Kane.
“No
wine—ale. The best home-brewed ale for miles around.”
Kane
nodded. In a minute, the man brought a blackjack of ale. Kane drank it down and
looked in the cup.
“Landlord,
did you plan on charging me full price for this cup of ale?” Kane asked.
“Why,
yes, sir. Why do you ask?”
“There
appears to be a good amount of pitch in this cup.”
March
took the cup and looked in it, showing surprise and confusion at how that could
have happened.
“Pardon
me, sir. Let me refill this for you at no added expense.”
The
patrons in the room sniggered, for they had seen March use that cup on
unsuspecting customers before. They looked at the stranger and motioned at a
seat on one of the benches. Kane sat. After some initial hesitancy, they
accepted Kane into their group and began questioning him about all kinds of
matters: what’s your name? Where are you from? Where are you going? It took the
Puritan some time to get used to their distinctive accent and manner of speech;
still, Kane found the northerners blunt and direct, yet friendly.
When
Kane said he was headed across the moors, they grew a bit pensive. It was fine
to travel across the moors, but under no circumstances was he to go through the
middle of the moors and was to avoid Blaec Moor altogether.
“Why
is that?” the Puritan asked.
“Because
it’s haunted.”
“It’s
evil.”
“No
one goes there.”
“As
you value your life and your reason, stay away from Blaec Moor!”
Then
began a series of local folklore about Blaec Moor that Kane could not help but
think was enhanced by too much drink. Stories of animals on the moor
disappearing, and even residents of Kirkland who went missing and were never
seen again. Some of the stories stretched back generations and were passed down
father to son and mother to daughter. One story that patrons of the Three
Crowns could attest to, which was recent, was the strange sounds drifting
across the moor at night.
“When
did this happen?” Kane asked.
“Only
at night. Different people have told this same story many times. If you go deep
enough into the moor at night, you will hear it.”
“And
what does it sound like?”
They
all looked at one another as if to form a consensus.
“Like
no sound we ever heard before,” one man said.
Another
man added, “It’s hard to describe.”
And
another said, “I’ve heard it. It’s like some horde of ghosts crying out like
lost souls, or demons bemoaning their fate. It’s an awful sound, sir… awful.”
“We
thought of going out there, but none of us was eager to discover the source.”
“He
means none of us were brave enough to go. I’ll have no part of it.”
Solomon
Kane nodded as he wondered what could be behind these strange occurrences.
For
what the proprietor said was a nominal fee, Kane was permitted to sleep on the
floor of the Three Crowns that night. In the morning, he headed north for Blaec
Moor.
Blaec
Moor lived up to its name, as it was one of the bleakest places in all England.
It was a distinctive landscape; vast, inhospitable, and wild. A constant shadow
was on the moor, and a chilling wind swept across the uplands with little to
break its stride.
Solomon
Kane wrapped his long black cloak about him, for the wind carried a chill that
had little to do with the temperature. He stopped to survey the terrain before him
and to catch his breath, for he had been walking for hours, his long legs shod
in cordovan leather boots, eating up the miles. His keen grey eyes peered out
from under his wide-brimmed hat.
The
wide uncultivated uplands held few trees, but mainly low-growing vegetation
such as dull-purple heather, weedy grass, and peat. In the low-lying areas,
there were bogs and rushes. He had not scared up a grouse or a skylark in a
while, but adders seemed plentiful. Dark clouds hung low over the land,
creating a gloomy, moody atmosphere. Looking at the Puritan, one would suspect
he would fit in very well in this place, as he appeared dark and gloomy as
well.
Kane
walked on, looking like a grim, black shadow moving across the moor.
It
was getting to be evening by the time Kane came across a village: small stone-and-timber
homes with thatched roofs clustered together for protection and fellowship.
From a distance, he observed the village but saw few signs of activity. Even
the farm animals barely moved about in their pens or in the yards. It was late
summer, but here there was the gloomy aspect of fall. The constant wind from
the north brought a chill, but still the Puritan thought it was more than that.
Overall, he felt the portent of evil hanging over the village like the clouds;
it was in the very air. Kane was attuned to it, like a sot who could detect the
smell of drink. There was something so wrong here that he could not deny nor
turn away from it, as if he were drawn toward iniquity as other men are drawn
toward beauty and virtue. The Puritan had to know the source of this
maliciousness, and if he could, he would destroy it. He approached the village
warily.
He chose a door at random and knocked upon it.
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