Solomon Kane by Ramsey Campbell Read Free Book Online

fire streamed along the blade of the molten sword held by the hooded figure he recognised all too well. The sword had been raised high to greet him, and now it swept down. It seemed to part Kane from his consciousness – from everything he had been. For a moment, unless it was an eternity, there was only the absence of light, a void too total even to be described as darkness, and then Kane grew aware of a face hovering above him – an innocent face,a young woman’s face. In that first instant he thought that, unworthy though he was, an angel had descended to earth to save him.

EIGHT

    T he world swayed around Kane as he regained consciousness once more, and at first he thought he was at the mercy of a storm at sea. Light flared above him, but it was not the blazing sword that awaited him at the end of every awful dream. It was weak sunlight, and his eyes flickered open to fasten on it. He was still being rocked from side to side by the vehicle that carried him, but there was no storm. He lay beneath a canvas roof, and above him he saw a young woman’s face.
    He had seen it before, when he had struggled free of the dream of his banishment from Axmouth. The small delicate face was crowned by a white cap that might have been the garb of a nurse rather than the headgear of a Puritan. “Be calm, sir,” she murmured. “You are safe.”
    Kane saw that they were not alone in the covered wagon. A boy was watching them, and now he parted the flaps at the back and jumped down. “He’s awake, father,” he called. “That man, he’s awake.”
    The wagon lurched over some unevenness in the road. As it steadied, the young woman leaned closer to Kane, unstoppering a leather flask. “Here,” she said softly, “take a drink of water.”
    Kane found that he was lying on a bed as narrow as the bench on which he had slept in his monastic cell. When he attempted to raise his head from the pillow, he managedjust an inch before the effort revived pains all over him – a throbbing of his head, a soreness of the stomach, a dull bruise over his ribs. He remembered the blows that had caused them all, but any rage at his assailants was too distant to grasp. Perhaps he had learned to put such feelings from him. As his head sank to the pillow the young woman murmured “Sir, let me help. Drink if you can.”
    She slipped a soft cool hand behind Kane’s head and lifted it. When she put the flask to his lips Kane sipped and then drank. At last he gasped, and the young woman let his head rest on the pillow. Not just the water seemed to be giving him back some strength; Kane thought her concern for him did. At first glimpse he had taken her for an angel, and it still seemed to Kane that in some way she was capable of redeeming him. “Who are you?” he said and was dismayed to hear how feeble his voice had grown.
    The young woman stroked his forehead and then straightened up as if she might have presumed too much. “My name is Meredith,” she said.
    “Meredith.” Kane lingered over the syllables, which sounded almost like a gentle prayer, as she turned away to acknowledge a newcomer. “His fever has broken, father,” she said.
    In a moment Kane recognised the pockmarked weather-beaten face, the eyes underlain with a trace of humour at odds with the sombre Puritan raiment. “Thank the Lord, sir,” the man said and made his way along the swaying wagon. “By His grace you will be well.”
    He reached for Kane’s wrist and found the pulse, which he contemplated for some moments before nodding in approval at his daughter. “My name is William,” he said. “William Crowthorn.”
    “And mine is Solomon.” For a breath Kane wondered if his whole name might be renowned for the evils he had perpetrated, but concealing it would be vain and a hindrance to repentance. “Solomon Kane,” he said.
    Crowthorn gave no sign of recognition, and Kane found he might have hoped the man would know of Axmouth. The wagon had not been travelling from