SKULLS IN THE STARS

There are two roads to Torkertown. One is the shorter, more direct route that goes across a desolate upland moor, and the other, which is much longer, twists and turns among the lumps and muddy areas of the swamps, going around the low hills to the east. It was a risky and exhausting path; so Solomon Kane stopped in surprise when a breathless young man from the village he had just left caught up to him and begged him to take the swamp road for God's sake.

"The swamp road!" Kane looked at the boy.

He was a tall, skinny man named Solomon Kane; his pale, serious face and intense, brooding eyes were made even gloomier by the dull Puritan clothing he wore.

"Yes, sir, it's much safer," the young boy replied to his surprised exclamation.

"Then the moor road must be haunted by the devil himself, because your townspeople warned me not to take the other one."

"Because of the swamps, sir, that you might not see in the dark. You should head back to the village and continue your journey in the morning, sir."

"Taking the back road?"

"Yes, sir."

Kane shrugged and shook his head.

"The moon rises almost right after twilight ends. With its light, I can get to Torkertown in a few hours, across the moor."

"Sir, you really shouldn’t. No one ever takes that route. There aren’t any houses on the moor, but in the swamp, there’s the home of old Ezra, who lives there all alone since his crazy cousin, Gideon, wandered off and died in the swamp, and he was never found. Even though old Ezra is a miser, he wouldn’t turn you away if you decide to stay until morning. Since you have to go, you might as well take the swamp road."

Kane stared at the boy intensely. The kid fidgeted and shifted his feet.

"Since this moor road is so bleak for travelers," said the Puritan, "why didn't the villagers tell me the whole story instead of just mumbling vague things?"

"Men don’t usually talk about it, sir. We were hoping you’d take the swamp road like the men suggested, but when we saw you didn’t turn at the forks, they sent me to chase after you and ask you to think it over again."

"Name of the Devil!" Kane exclaimed sharply, his unfamiliar oath revealing his irritation. "The swamp road and the moor road—what’s threatening me, and why should I go miles out of my way and risk the bogs and mire?"

"Sir," the boy said, lowering his voice and stepping closer, "we are just simple villagers who prefer not to discuss such things for fear of bad luck, but the moor road is a cursed path and hasn't been walked by anyone from the area for over a year. It's deadly to walk those moors at night, as many unfortunate souls have discovered. Some terrible horror lurks along that path and takes men as its victims."

"So? What's this thing about?"

"No one knows. No one has ever seen it and lived, but those who came late have heard terrifying laughter out on the marsh, and people have heard the awful screams of its victims. Sir, for God's sake, go back to the village, spend the night there, and tomorrow take the swamp trail to Torkertown."

Far back in Kane's dark eyes, a shimmering light started to flicker, like a witch's torch shining beneath layers of cold gray ice. His blood raced. Adventure! The attraction of danger and conflict! The excitement of heart-pounding, high-stakes drama! Not that Kane saw his feelings that way. He genuinely believed he expressed his true emotions when he said:

"These actions are the work of some evil power. The lords of darkness have placed a curse on the land. A strong person is needed to fight against Satan and his strength. So I will go, having defied him many times before."

"Sir," the boy started, then shut his mouth when he realized the futility of arguing. He simply added, "The bodies of the victims are bruised and torn, sir."

He stood there at the crossroads, sighing with regret as he watched the tall, lean figure walking up the road that led toward the moors.

The sun was setting as Kane crested the low hill that led into the upland marsh. Massive and blood-red, it sank behind the gloomy horizon of the moors, seemingly igniting the dense grass; for a moment, it looked like the watcher was staring out at a sea of blood. Then the dark shadows crept in from the east, the fiery glow in the west faded, and Solomon Kane set out confidently into the encroaching darkness.

The road was dark from lack of use but was clearly marked. Kane moved quickly but cautiously, with his sword and pistols ready. Stars flickered out, and the night winds whispered through the grass like grieving spirits. The moon started to rise, thin and worn, like a skull among the stars.

Then suddenly, Kane came to a halt. From somewhere ahead of him came a strange and eerie sound—almost like an echo. Again, this time louder. Kane started moving forward again. Were his senses playing tricks on him? No!

Far away, there was a whisper of terrifying laughter. And then again, it was closer this time. No one laughs like that—there was no joy in it, only hatred, horror, and soul-crushing fear. Kane stopped. He wasn’t afraid, but for a moment he felt a bit shaken. Then, piercing through that chilling laughter, he heard a scream that was definitely human. Kane moved forward, picking up his pace. He cursed the elusive lights and flickering shadows that cloaked the moor under the rising moon, making it impossible to see clearly. The laughter kept going, growing louder, and the screams did too. Then he faintly heard the frantic sound of running feet. Kane broke into a run.

Some person was being hunted to their death out there in the marsh, and only God knew what kind of horror it was. The sound of running feet suddenly stopped, and the screaming grew unbearable, mixed with other unnameable and horrifying sounds. Clearly, the man had been caught, and Kane, feeling a chill down his spine, imagined some nightmarish creature lurking over its victim—crouching and tearing into them.

Then the sound of a violent and brief struggle broke through the deep silence of the marsh, and the footsteps began again, but they were unsteady and uneven. The screaming went on, but now it had a choking, gurgling quality. Cold sweat drenched Kane's forehead and body. This was piling on horror in an unbearable way.

God, just give me a moment of clarity! The terrifying scene was unfolding very close to him, considering how easily the sounds reached him. But this hellish dimness covered everything in moving shadows, making the moors look like a haze of distorted visions, and the small trees and bushes seemed like giants.

Kane yelled, pushing himself to move faster. The screams of the unknown turned into an awful, piercing noise; once more, there was the sound of a struggle, and then from the shadows of the tall grass, something stumbled out—a creature that had once been a man—a blood-soaked, horrifying sight that collapsed at Kane's feet, writhing and groveling, lifting its dreadful face to the rising moon, chattering and babbling, then collapsing again and dying in its own blood.

The moon was out now and the light was better. Kane leaned over the body, which lay exposed in its unrecognizable mutilation, and he shuddered—a rare response for him, who had witnessed the actions of the Spanish Inquisition and the witch-hunters.

Some traveler, he thought. Then, like an icy grip on his spine, he realized he wasn't alone. He looked up, his cold eyes cutting through the shadows from where the dead man had stumbled. He saw nothing, but he knew—he felt—that other eyes were returning his gaze, terrifying eyes not of this world. He stood up straight and drew a gun, waiting. The moonlight spread like a pool of pale blood over the moor, and the trees and grasses appeared in their true sizes.

The shadows faded, and Kane saw! At first, he thought it was just a shadow of mist, a wisp of moor fog swaying in the tall grass in front of him. He stared. More illusion, he thought. Then the figure started to take shape, vague and unclear. Two hideous eyes glared at him—eyes that held all the stark horror that has been humanity's legacy since ancient times—eyes terrifying and insane, with an insanity beyond earthly madness. The form was foggy and indistinct, a mind-blowing distortion of the human shape, similar yet horrifyingly different. The grass and bushes behind it were clearly visible through it.

Kane felt his blood surge in his temples, but he was as cold as ice. How someone so unpredictable as the figure before him could inflict harm was beyond his comprehension, yet the gruesome sight at his feet silently proved that the monster could cause devastating physical damage.

Of one thing, Kane was certain: there would be no one hunting him across the bleak moors, no screaming and running to be dragged down over and over. If he had to die, he would do it on his own terms, with his wounds facing forward.

Now a vague and gruesome mouth gaped wide, and the maniacal laughter again shrieked out, chilling in its closeness. In the face of that impending doom, Kane intentionally aimed his long pistol and fired. A crazed yell of fury and mockery responded to the shot, and the creature came at him like a swirling sheet of smoke, long shadowy arms reaching out to pull him down.

Kane, moving with the fierce speed of a hungry wolf, fired the second pistol with minimal effect, grabbed his long rapier from its sheath, and thrust it into the center of the foggy attacker. The blade sang as it went right through, facing no solid resistance, and Kane felt icy fingers clutch his limbs, animalistic talons shred his clothes and the skin underneath.

He dropped the useless sword and tried to engage his opponent. It felt like battling a floating mist, a flying shadow with dagger-like claws. His fierce strikes hit only air; his powerful arms, which had once ended the lives of strong men, grasped at nothing and clutched emptiness. Nothing was solid or real except for the brutal, apelike fingers with their twisted talons and the wild eyes that pierced into the trembling depths of his soul.

Kane realized that he was in a pretty desperate situation. His clothes were already in tatters, and he was bleeding from a bunch of deep wounds. But he didn't flinch, and the idea of running away never crossed his mind. He had never run from a single enemy, and if it had occurred to him, he would have been embarrassed.

He saw no way out of it now, except for his body to lie there next to the remains of the other victim, but the thought didn't frighten him. His only wish was to put up a good fight before the end came, and if he could, to do some damage to his otherworldly enemy.

There, above the dead man's mangled body, a man battled a demon under the pale light of the rising moon, with every advantage on the demon's side, except one. And that one was enough to outweigh all the others. For if pure hate can manifest into something real, can't courage, equally intangible, become a powerful weapon against that specter?

Kane fought with his arms, feet, and hands, and he finally realized that the ghost was retreating from him, that the terrifying laughter had turned into screams of frustrated rage. Because a man's only weapon is courage that doesn’t back down from the very gates of Hell, and against that, not even the legions of Hell can prevail.

Of this, Kane knew nothing; he only knew that the claws that tore and ripped at him seemed to grow weaker and more unsteady, that a frenzied light increased in the terrifying eyes. Gasping and disoriented, he charged in, finally grabbed the creature, and threw it. As they rolled around on the moor and it twisted and coiled around his limbs like a serpent made of smoke, his skin crawled and his hair stood on end, as he started to comprehend its babbling.

He didn't hear and understand like a man hears and understands another man's speech, but the terrifying secrets it conveyed through whispers, chatter, and piercing silences sank icy fingers and flames into his soul, and he knew.

2

The hut of old Ezra the miser stood by the road in the middle of the swamp, partly hidden by the gloomy trees around it. The walls were decaying, the roof was falling apart, and huge, pale green fungi clung to it, writhing around the doors and windows as if trying to look inside. The trees leaned over it, their gray branches tangled together, making it hunch down in the dim light like a monstrous dwarf with ogres leering over its shoulder.

The road that wound down into the swamp, surrounded by decaying stumps and overgrown hills and mucky, snake-infested pools and bogs, crawled past the hut. Many people traveled that way these days, but few noticed old Ezra, except for a brief glance at a yellow face peering through the fungus-covered windows, which looked just like an ugly fungus.

Old Ezra the miser had many qualities of the swamp; he was twisted and hunched and gloomy. His fingers were like grasping weeds, and his hair hung like dull moss above eyes accustomed to the gloom of the wetlands. His eyes resembled those of a dead man but suggested dark and repulsive depths, like the lifeless lakes of the swamps.

These eyes now shone at the man standing in front of his hut. He was tall, thin, and dark, with a haggard face that bore claw marks, and his arms and legs were bandaged. A few villagers stood somewhat behind him.

"You’re Ezra from the swamp road?"

"Yeah, what do you want from me?"

"Where is your cousin Gideon, the crazy young guy who stayed with you?"

"Gideon?"

"Yeah."

"He wandered off into the swamp and never returned. No doubt he got lost and was attacked by wolves, or he perished in a bog, or was bitten by a snake."

"When was that?"

"More than a year."

"Aye. Listen up, Ezra the miser. Not long after your cousin vanished, a local farmer, coming home across the moors, was attacked by some unknown monster and ripped apart, and from then on, it became deadly to cross those moors. First, locals from the countryside, then strangers who wandered through the marsh, fell victim to the thing. Many men have died since the first one."

"Last night I crossed the moors and heard the chase of another victim, a stranger who was unaware of the dangers of the moors. Ezra, the miser, it was a terrifying sight, as the poor man escaped from the monster twice, severely injured, but each time the demon caught him and pulled him down again. Finally, he fell dead at my feet, killed in a way that would chill the heart of a saint."

The villagers shifted nervously and whispered anxiously to one another, while old Ezra's eyes darted around. Still, Solomon Kane's serious expression never changed, and his intense gaze seemed to hold the miser in place.

"Aye, aye!" muttered old Ezra quickly; "a bad thing, a bad thing! But why are you telling me this?"

"Aye, a sad thing. Listen closely, Ezra. The monster emerged from the shadows, and I fought it over the body of its victim. I don’t know how I managed to defeat it, as the battle was tough and lengthy, but the powers of good and light were on my side, which are stronger than the forces of Hell."

"Finally, I became stronger, and it broke away from me and ran off, and I tried to follow but couldn’t catch it. Yet before it escaped, it whispered a horrifying truth to me."

Old Ezra flinched, looked around frantically, and appeared to withdraw into himself.

"Nah, why are you telling me this?" he muttered.

"I went back to the village and shared my story," said Kane, "because I knew I had the ability to free the moors from its curse for good. Ezra, join us!"

"Where?" gasped the cheapskate.

"To the decaying oak on the moors."

Ezra staggered like he’d been hit; he shouted wildly and turned to run.

On the spot, at Kane's harsh command, two strong villagers rushed forward and grabbed the miser. They yanked the dagger from his frail hand and pinned his arms, recoiling as their fingers touched his cold, clammy skin.

Kane signaled for them to follow and walked up the trail, with the villagers behind him, struggling to carry their prisoner. They made their way through the swamp and out, taking a rarely used path that led over the low hills and onto the moors.

The sun was sinking below the horizon, and old Ezra watched it with wide eyes—staring as if he couldn’t get enough. Far out on the moors stood the massive oak tree, like a gallows, now just a rotting shell. There, Solomon Kane paused.

Old Ezra struggled in his captor's grip and made muffled sounds.

"More than a year ago," said Solomon Kane, "you, afraid that your crazy cousin Gideon would reveal your brutal treatment of him, took him away from the swamp along the same path we used to get here and killed him in the night."

Ezra winced and growled.

"You can't prove this is a lie!"

Kane said a few words to a nimble villager. The young man climbed up the decaying trunk of the tree and pulled something from a crevice high above, which fell to the ground with a loud noise at the feet of the miser. Ezra went limp with a horrifying scream.

The object was a man's skeleton, the skull split.

"You—how did you know this? You're Satan!" stammered old Ezra.

Kane crossed his arms.

"The thing I fought last night told me this as we struggled in battle, and I followed it to this tree. For the fiend is Gideon's ghost."

Ezra screamed again and struggled furiously.

"You knew," Kane said solemnly, "you knew who was responsible for these actions. You were afraid of the ghost of the crazy person, and that’s why you decided to leave his body in the marsh instead of hiding it in the swamp. Because you knew the ghost would haunt the spot where he died. He was insane when he was alive, and in death, he didn’t know where to find his killer; otherwise, he would have come to you in your hut. He doesn’t hate anyone but you, but his confused spirit can't tell one person from another, and he attacks everyone, just to make sure his killer doesn't get away. But he will recognize you and find peace forever after. Hate has turned his ghost into a solid thing that can tear and kill, and even though he was terrified of you when he was alive, in death, he has no fear of you."

Kane stopped. He looked at the sun.

"All this I got from Gideon's ghost, in his ramblings and his whispers and his loud silences. Nothing but your death will put that ghost to rest."

Ezra listened in silent shock as Kane delivered the news of his fate.

"A tough thing it is," said Kane solemnly, "to sentence a man to death in cold blood and in the way I'm thinking, but you have to die so that others can live—and God knows you deserve death."

"You won't die by hanging, gun, or sword, but by the claws of the one you killed—nothing else will satisfy him."

At these words, Ezra's mind broke, his knees buckled, and he collapsed, begging for death, pleading for them to burn him at the stake or skin him alive. Kane's face was grim, and the villagers, fueled by fear that turned cruel, tied the screaming man to the oak tree. One of them told him to make his peace with God. But Ezra didn't respond, only shrieking in a high, piercing voice with an unbearable consistency. Then, one of the villagers raised his hand to hit the miserable man across the face, but Kane stopped him.

"Let him make his peace with Satan, whom he is more likely to meet," the Puritan said grimly. "The sun is about to set. Untie his cords so that he can get away by dark, since it's better to face death free and unchained than tied up like a sacrifice."

As they turned to leave him, old Ezra babbled and made inhuman sounds before falling silent, staring at the sun with an intense gaze.

They walked away across the marsh, and Kane threw one last look at the grotesque figure tied to the tree, appearing in the dim light like a giant fungus growing on the trunk. And suddenly, the miser screamed horribly:

"Death! Death! There are skulls in the stars!"

"Life treated him well, even if he was twisted, grumpy, and malevolent," Kane sighed. "Maybe God has a place for souls like that, where fire and sacrifice can purify them of their impurities, just like fire cleanses the forest of decaying matter. Still, my heart feels heavy."

"Nah, sir," one of the villagers said, "you've only done God's will, and only good will come from what happened tonight."

"No," Kane replied slowly, "I don't know—I really don't know."

The sun had set, and night fell quickly, as if huge shadows were rushing in from unknown places to cover the world in swift darkness. From the deep night came a strange echo, and the men stopped and looked back at the path they had taken.

Nothing could be seen. The moor was a sea of shadows, and the tall grass around them swayed in long waves with the light breeze, breaking the eerie stillness with soft whispers.

Then far away, the red disk of the moon rose over the marsh, and for a moment, a grim silhouette was sharply outlined against it. A figure shot across the surface of the moon—a twisted, eerie being whose feet barely seemed to make contact with the ground; and right behind it came something like a flying shadow—a formless, indescribable terror.

A moment, the speeding train stood out sharply against the moon; then it blended into one indistinct, shapeless mass and disappeared into the shadows.

Far across the marsh came a single echo of horrifying laughter.