Solomon Kane Read Online Free PDF Page B

As he cursed his unwariness – enervation and the task of making the fire must have left him careless – the man with the knife emitted a whistle that caused both crows to flap and felt close to piercing Kane’s eardrum. In response the man’s companions emerged from behind the fallen trunk.
    The pair of them were built like bulls. One was as tattooed as any tribesman. His skin was a chaos of flaming colour, as if, Kane thought, he was dissatisfied with the form God had given him. The other man was adorned with a beard that he must have spent vain hours braiding. He bore a staff much like Kane’s, which was resting against a log opposite the slope. As the two men stalked across the glade they brought a smell of decay with them, perhaps from the sodden leaves they were trampling. They halted within arm’s length of Kane as if challenging him to defend himself, and peered with a parody of interest at his face. “What’s this we’ve found in the woods?” the tattooed man said.
    “Doesn’t look at home here,” the bearded man remarked.
    “Doesn’t look like it would be anywhere,” said the voice closest to Kane’s ear.
    Kane smelled breaths like the drains of a tavern – alcohol mixed with stale meat. The men’s eyes glittered with anticipation, and it was clear that staying silent would not help him. “I want no trouble,” he said.
    “That’s a pity.” The bearded man seemed pleased with Kane’s answer. “You’ve got it,” he said and swung his staff with both hands at Kane’s midriff.
    The handle caught Kane in the stomach, driving all his breath out of him. A wave of nausea surged through him, and he collapsed to his knees. The spectacle appeared to enliven the crows, which flapped as though they were applauding, but it failed to satisfy the tattooed man, who thumped Kane with great force on the back of the neck. This too was audibly appreciated by the crows, and it knocked Kane over. As he lay on the frozen ground with his knees drawn up – he might have been enacting the helplessness of a child yet to be born – the man with the knife stepped into view, sheathing his weapon. He was bald by choice, and his pate looked as raw with the elements as his broad sullen face. He considered Kane’s state for some moments before adding a vigorous kick in the ribs.
    The breath that Kane had managed to recapture abandoned him, making way for another onslaught of nausea. One of the crows greeted the kick with a caw that could have been mistaken for a mirthless laugh. The three men stood over Kane as if they were pondering how next to cripple him, and Kane could only reflect as he struggled to regain his breath that Christ had suffered worse on his behalf. For the present the trio seemed content with Kane’s condition, and they turned away to find what they could steal.
    The bearded man grabbed the bag from beside Kane’s staff and inverted it. The Bible fell out first, followed by a packet of bread and cheese, and the scrolls Kane had studied at the monastery. A few coins rolled across the leaves, and the tattooed man crouched ape-like to claim them. The bald man tore open the packet of food ashis bearded companion shoved a large fist into the bag and groped deep before heaving it wider to stare within. “Nothing,” he complained, and his fellows took up the refrain while a crow added a caw. “He’s got nothing worth lifting,” the bearded man declared, and scowled at the Bible before glowering at Kane. “You a priest?” he said like an accusation.
    Kane wished he were entitled to the name, even if it would not save him. He gathered his strength and levered himself to his knees. He might have been at his prayers or awaiting a headsman’s axe, but he was simply attempting to feel less ineffectual without appearing to offer a threat. “Just a traveller,” he said.
    “No traveller’s safe in these parts.”
    “You want to watch out who you make friends with,” said the tattooed