The Children of Asshur
Robert Ervin Howard
9781465658005
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
Solomon Kane started up in the darkness, snatching at the weapons which lay on the pile of skins that served him as a crude pallet. It was not the mad drum of the tropic rain on the leaves of the hut roof which had wakened him, nor the bellowing of the thunder. It was the screams of human agony, the clash of steel that cut through the din of the tropical storm. Some sort of a conflict was taking place in the native village in which he had sought refuge from the storm, and It sounded much like a raid in force. As Solomon groped for his sword, he wondered what bushmen would raid a village in the night and in such a storm as this. His pistols lay beside his sword, but he did not take them up, knowing that they would be useless in such a torrent of rain—a rain which would wet their priming instantly. He had laid down fully clad, save for his slouch hat and cloak, and without stopping for them, he ran to the door of the hut. A ragged streak of lightning which seemed to rip the sky open showed him a chaotic glimpse of struggling figures in the spaces between the huts, dazzlingly glinting back from flashing steel. Above me storm he heard the shrieks of the black people and deep- toned shouts in a language unfamiliar to him. Springing from the hut he sensed the presence of one in front of him; then another thunderous burst of fire ripped across the sky, limning all in a weird blue light. In that flashing instant Solomon thrust savagely, felt the blade bend double in his hand, and saw a heavy sword swinging for his head. A burst of sparks, brighter than the lightning, exploded before his eyes; then blackness darker than the jungle night engulfed him. Dawn was spreading pallidly over the dripping jungle reaches when Solomon Kane stirred and sat up in the ooze before the hut. Blood had caked on his scalp and his head ached slightly. Shaking off a slight grogginess, he rose. The rain had long since ceased, the skies were clear. Silence lay over the village, and Kane saw that it was in truth a village of the dead. Corpses of men, women, and children lay strewn everywhere—in the streets, in the doorways of the huts, inside the huts, some of which had been literally ripped to pieces, either in search of cowering victims, or in sheer wantonness of destruction. They had not taken many prisoners, Solomon decided, who- ever the unknown raiders might be. Nor had they taken the spears, axes, cooking pots, and plumed head-pieces of their victims, this fact seeming to argue a raid by a race superior in culture and artisanship to the crude villagers. But they had taken all the ivory they could find, and they had taken, Kane discovered, his rapier and his dirk, pistols, and powder-and-shot pouches. And they had taken his staff, the sharp-pointed, strangely- carved, cat-headed stave, which his friends, N’Longa, the West Coast witch-man, had given him, as well as his hat and cloak.
