RATTLE of BONES

"Landlord, over here!" The shout shattered the heavy silence and echoed through the dark forest with an unsettling reverberation.

"This place has a forbidding look, it seems to me."

Two men stood in front of the forest tavern. The building was short, long, and sprawling, made of thick logs. Its small windows were heavily barred, and the door was shut. Above the door, its ominous sign faintly displayed—a split skull.

This door slowly swung open and a bearded face looked out. The person with the face stepped back and waved his guests in—with a reluctant gesture it seemed. A candle flickered on a table; a flame glowed in the fireplace.

"What's your names?"

"Solomon Kane," the taller man said shortly.

"Gaston l'Armon," the other replied sharply. "But what does that matter to you?"

"Strangers are rare in the Black Forest," grunted the host, "but there are plenty of bandits. Sit at that table over there and I’ll bring you some food."

The two men sat down, looking like travelers who have come a long way. One was a tall, thin guy wearing a featherless hat and dark black clothes, which highlighted the pale, serious look on his face. The other was completely different, dressed in lace and feathers, though his fancy outfit was a bit dirty from the journey. He was strikingly handsome, with restless eyes that darted around, never staying still for even a moment.

The host brought wine and food to the rustic table and then stepped back into the shadows, like a serious figure. His features, now fading into obscurity, now sharply defined by the firelight as it danced and flickered, were obscured by a beard that seemed almost wild in its thickness. A prominent nose arched above this beard, and two small red eyes watched his guests without blinking.

"Who are you?" the younger man suddenly asked.

"I run the Cleft Skull Tavern," the other replied gloomily. His tone seemed to dare the questioner to ask more.

"Do you have a lot of guests?" l'Armon continued.

"Very few come back," the host grunted.

Kane started and looked straight up into those small red eyes, as if he was searching for some hidden meaning in the host's words. The fiery eyes seemed to widen, then fell dejectedly before the Englishman's cold gaze.

"I'm heading to bed," Kane said suddenly, finishing his meal. "I need to start my journey at daybreak."

"And I," said the Frenchman. "Host, please show us to our rooms."

Black shadows flickered on the walls as the two followed their quiet guide down a long, dark hallway. The stocky, broad figure of their host appeared to swell in the light of the small candle he carried, casting a long, ominous shadow behind him.

At a certain door, he stopped, signaling that they would be sleeping there. They went inside; the host lit a candle with the one he had brought and then staggered back the way he had come.

In the room, the two men looked at each other. The only furniture in the space was a couple of bunks, a few chairs, and a sturdy table.

"Let’s see if there’s any way to secure the door," said Kane. "I don't like the looks of our host."

"There are racks on the door and frame for a bar," Gaston said, "but there’s no bar."

"We could break up the table and use the pieces for a bar," Kane thought.

"My God," said l'Armon, "you are fearful, m'sieu."

Kane frowned. "I’d rather not be murdered in my sleep," he replied gruffly.

"My faith!" the Frenchman laughed. "What a coincidence—until I caught up with you on the forest road an hour before sunset, we had never met."

"I feel like I've seen you somewhere before," Kane replied, "but I can't remember where. As for the other guy, I believe every man is good until he proves otherwise; besides, I'm a light sleeper and I keep a pistol nearby when I sleep."

The Frenchman chuckled again.

"I was curious how m'sieu could manage to sleep in a room with a stranger! Ha! Ha! Okay, m'sieu Englishman, let's go and grab a bar from one of the other rooms."

Taking the candle with them, they went into the hallway. Utter silence reigned, and the small candle flickered ominously in the thick darkness.

"Neither guests nor staff, this place has," muttered Solomon Kane. "A strange tavern! What’s the name again? These German words don’t come easily to me—the Cleft Skull? That’s a bloody name, I swear."

They tried the rooms next to theirs, but no bar rewarded their search. At last, they reached the final room at the end of the hallway. They entered. It was furnished like the others, except that the door had a small barred opening and was locked from the outside with a heavy bolt, secured at one end to the door frame. They lifted the bolt and looked inside.

"There should be a window out there, but there isn’t," Kane muttered. "Look!"

The floor was stained dark. The walls and the single bunk were damaged in spots, with large splinters torn off.

"Men have died in here," Kane said seriously. "Isn't there a bar mounted in the wall?"

"Aye, but it’s secure," said the Frenchman, tugging at it. "The——"

A section of the wall swung open, and Gaston let out a quick shout. A small, hidden room was revealed, and the two men leaned over the gruesome thing that lay on the floor.

"The skeleton of a man!" said Gaston. "And look, his bony leg is chained to the floor! He was locked up here and died."

"Nah," said Kane, "the skull is split—looks like our host had a dark reason for naming his hellish tavern. This man, like us, was probably a wanderer who ended up in the devil's grasp."

"Probably," said Gaston, unimpressed; he was casually trying to pry the large iron ring from the skeleton's leg bones. When that didn’t work, he unsheathed his sword and, with an impressive show of strength, severed the chain that connected the ring on the leg to a ring embedded in the wooden floor.

"Why should he chain a skeleton to the floor?" thought the Frenchman. "Monbleu! It's a waste of good chain. Now, m'sieu," he said sarcastically to the white pile of bones, "I've set you free, and you can go wherever you want!"

"Stop it!" Kane's voice was deep. "Nothing good will come from mocking the dead."

"The dead should stand up for themselves," laughed l'Armon. "Somehow, I'll take down the guy who kills me, even if my body has to rise up forty fathoms from the ocean to do it."

Kane turned toward the outer door, shutting the door to the secret room behind him. He didn't like this conversation that felt like it was about demons and witchcraft, and he was eager to confront the crowd with the weight of his guilt.

As he turned, with his back to the Frenchman, he felt the cold steel against his neck and realized that a gun barrel was pressed tight beneath the base of his skull.

"Don't move, m'sieu!" The voice was soft and smooth. "Don't move, or I will splatter your few brains all over the room."

The Puritan, boiling with anger inside, stood with his hands raised as l'Armon pulled his pistols and sword from their sheaths.

"Now you can turn," Gaston said, stepping back.

Kane shot a stern glare at the sharply dressed guy, who was now bareheaded, holding his hat in one hand and aiming his long pistol with the other.

"Gaston the Butcher!" the Englishman said seriously. "What a fool I was to trust a Frenchman! You travel far, killer! I remember you now, without that cursed big hat—I saw you in Calais a few years ago."

"Aye—and now you will never see me again. What was that?"

"Rats checking out that skeleton," said Kane, keeping an eye on the bandit like a hawk, waiting for the slightest movement of that black gun barrel. "It sounded like bones rattling."

"Probably," replied the other. "Now, M'sieur Kane, I know you have a lot of cash on you. I was planning to wait until you were asleep and then kill you, but the chance came up, and I took it. You fall for tricks easily."

"I never thought I would fear a man I had shared a meal with," said Kane, a deep tone of slow anger ringing in his voice.

The bandit laughed mockingly. His eyes narrowed as he slowly started to back away toward the outer door. Kane's muscles tensed instinctively; he prepared himself like a giant wolf ready to spring into action, but Gaston's grip was steady as a rock and the pistol never wavered.

"We won't have any death dives after the shot," Gaston said. "Stay put, m'sieu; I've seen men get killed by those who are dying, and I want to keep enough distance between us to avoid that chance. Honestly—I’ll shoot, you’ll yell and charge, but you’ll be dead before you get to me with your bare hands. And my host will have another skeleton in his hidden spot. That is, unless I kill him myself. The fool doesn't know me, and I don’t know him, either——"

The Frenchman was now in the doorway, aiming his gun. The candle, which had been stuck in a nook on the wall, cast a strange and flickering light that didn’t reach beyond the doorway. Then, suddenly and silently from the darkness behind Gaston, a large, indistinct figure emerged and a shining blade came down. The Frenchman dropped to his knees like a slaughtered animal, his brains spilling from the gash in his skull. Above him loomed the figure of the host, a wild and terrifying sight, still clutching the sword with which he had killed the bandit.

"Hey! hey!" he roared. "Back!"

Kane had jumped forward as Gaston fell, but the host shoved a long pistol into his face, which he held in his left hand.

"Back!" he repeated with a fierce roar, and Kane pulled away from the threatening weapon and the madness in the red eyes.

The Englishman stood quiet, his skin crawling as he felt a deeper and more terrifying threat than what the Frenchman had posed. There was something inhuman about this man, who now swayed back and forth like some massive forest creature while his humorless laughter echoed again.

"Gaston the Butcher!" he yelled, kicking the body at his feet. "Ha! Ha! My brave bandit won't hunt anymore! I had heard about this idiot who wandered the Black Forest—he wanted gold and ended up with death! Now your gold will be mine; and more than gold—vengeance!"

"I’m not your enemy," Kane said calmly.

"All men are my enemies! Look at the marks on my wrists! See the marks on my ankles! And deep in my back—the scars from the whip! And deep in my brain, the pain from years spent in the cold, silent cells where I was punished for a crime I never committed!" The voice cracked in a horrible, twisted sob.

Kane didn’t respond. This man wasn't the first he had encountered whose mind had broken from the horrors of the terrible Continental prisons.

"But I got away!" the scream rose triumphantly, "and now I wage war on all men.... What was that?"

Did Kane see a flicker of fear in those ugly eyes?

"My sorcerer is shaking his bones!" whispered the host, then laughed maniacally. "As he was dying, he promised that his very bones would create a trap of death for me. I chained his corpse to the floor, and now, in the middle of the night, I hear his bare skeleton clattering and rattling as he tries to escape, and I laugh, I laugh! Ha! Ha! How he longs to rise and roam like old King Death through these dark hallways while I sleep, to kill me in my bed!"

Suddenly, the crazy eyes flared up grotesquely: "You were in that secret room, you and this dead idiot! Did he talk to you?"

Kane shuddered despite himself. Was it madness, or did he really hear the faint rattle of bones, as if the skeleton had shifted just a bit? Kane shrugged; rats will even pull at dusty bones.

The host was laughing again. He moved around Kane, always keeping the Englishman in sight, and with his free hand opened the door. It was completely dark inside, so Kane couldn't even see the faint shine of the bones on the floor.

"All men are my enemies!" mumbled the host, in the jumbled way of someone out of their mind. "Why should I help any man? Who came to my aid when I spent years in the disgusting dungeons of Karlsruhe—and for a crime I never committed? Something happened to my mind back then. I became like a wolf—a brother to those in the Black Forest where I ran when I escaped.

"They have feasted, my brothers, on everyone who came into my tavern—all except this one who is now rattling his bones, this magician from Russia. I made sure he wouldn’t come creeping back through the dark shadows when night falls, and kill me—for who can kill the dead?—so I stripped his bones and chained him up. His magic wasn’t strong enough to save him from me, but everyone knows that a dead magician is more dangerous than a living one. Don’t move, Englishman! I’ll leave your bones in this hidden room next to this one, to——"

The maniac was standing partly in the doorway of the secret room, his weapon still threatening Kane. Suddenly, he seemed to fall backward and disappeared into the darkness; at the same moment, a stray gust of wind rushed down the outer corridor and slammed the door shut behind him. The candle on the wall flickered and went out. Kane's searching hands, sweeping over the floor, found a pistol, and he straightened up, facing the door where the maniac had vanished. He stood in complete darkness, his blood freezing as a horrifying muffled scream came from the secret room, mixed with the dry, eerie rattle of bones. Then silence descended.

Kane found flint and steel and lit the candle. Then, holding it in one hand and the pistol in the other, he opened the secret door.

"Great God!" he muttered as cold sweat broke out on his body. "This is beyond all reason, yet I see it with my own eyes! Two vows have been kept here, for Gaston the Butcher swore that even in death he would avenge his killing, and it was his hand that set that fleshless monster free. And he——"

The host of the Cleft Skull lay motionless on the floor of the hidden room, his animal-like face twisted in horrible fear; and embedded deep in his shattered neck were the bare finger bones of the sorcerer's skeleton.