The Best of Robert E. Howard: Crimson Shadows (Volume 1) Read online

  A space of about a half-mile on every side of the castle was kept cleared away and roads had been built through the marshy land. All this had required an immense amount of labor, but manpower was plentiful. A present to a chief, and he furnished all that was needed. And Portuguese know how to make men work!

  Less than three hundred yards to the east of the castle ran a wide, shallow river, which emptied into the harbor. The name has entirely slipped my mind. It was a heathenish title and I could never lay my tongue to it.

  I found that I was not the only friend invited to the castle. It seems that once a year or some such matter, Dom Vincente brought a host of jolly companions to his lonely estate and made merry for some weeks, to make up for the work and solitude of the rest of the year.

  In fact, it was nearly night, and a great banquet was in progress when I entered. I was acclaimed with great delight, greeted boisterously by friends and introduced to such strangers as were there.

  Entirely too weary to take much part in the revelry, I ate, drank quietly, listened to the toasts and songs, and studied the feasters.

  Dom Vincente, of course, I knew, as I had been intimate with him for years; also his pretty niece, Ysabel, who was one reason I had accepted his invitation to come to that stinking wilderness. Her second cousin, Carlos, I knew and disliked — a sly, mincing fellow with a face like a mink’s. Then there was my old friend, Luigi Verenza, an Italian; and his flirt of a sister, Marcita, making eyes at the men as usual. Then there was a short, stocky German who called himself Baron von Schiller; and Jean Desmarte, an out-at-the-elbows nobleman of Gascony; and Don Florenzo de Seville, a lean, dark, silent man, who called himself a Spaniard and wore a rapier nearly as long as himself.

  There were others, men and women, but it was long ago and all their names and faces I do not remember.

  But there was one man whose face somehow drew my gaze as an alchemist’s magnet draws steel. He was a leanly built man of slightly more than medium height, dressed plainly, almost austerely, and he wore a sword almost as long as the Spaniard’s.

  But it was neither his clothes nor his sword which attracted my attention. It was his face. A refined, high-bred face, it was furrowed deep with lines that gave it a weary, haggard expression. Tiny scars flecked jaw and forehead as if torn by savage claws; I could have sworn the narrow gray eyes had a fleeting, haunted look in their expression at times.

  I leaned over to that flirt, Marcita, and asked the name of the man, as it had slipped my mind that we had been introduced.

  “De Montour, from Normandy,” she answered. “A strange man. I don’t think I like him.”

  “Then he resists your snares, my little enchantress?” I murmured, long friendship making me as immune from her anger as from her wiles. But she chose not to be angry and answered coyly, glancing from under demurely lowered lashes.

  I watched de Montour much, feeling somehow a strange fascination. He ate lightly, drank much, seldom spoke, and then only to answer questions.

  Presently, toasts making the rounds, I noticed his companions urging him to rise and give a health. At first he refused, then rose, upon their repeated urgings, and stood silent for a moment, goblet raised. He seemed to dominate, to overawe the group of revelers. Then with a mocking, savage laugh, he lifted the goblet above his head.

  “To Solomon,” he exclaimed, “who bound all devils! And thrice cursed be he for that some escaped!”

  A toast and a curse in one! It was drunk silently, and with many sidelong, doubting glances.

  That night I retired early, weary of the long sea voyage and my head spinning from the strength of the wine, of which Dom Vincente kept such great stores.

  My room was near the top of the castle and looked out toward the forests of the south and the river. The room was furnished in crude, barbaric splendor, as was all the rest of the castle.

  Going to the window, I gazed out at the arquebusier pacing the castle grounds just inside the palisade; at the cleared space lying unsightly and barren in the moonlight; at the forest beyond; at the silent river.

  From the native quarter close to the river bank came the weird twanging of some rude lute, sounding a barbaric melody.

  In the dark shadows of the forest some uncanny night-bird lifted a mocking voice. A thousand minor notes sounded — birds, and beasts, and the devil knows what else! Some great jungle cat began a hair-lifting yowling. I shrugged my shoulders and turned from the windows. Surely devils lurked in those somber depths.

  There came a knock at my door and I opened it, to admit de Montour.

  He strode to the window and gazed at the moon, which rode resplendent and glorious.

  “The moon is almost full, is it not, Monsieur?” he remarked, turning to me. I nodded, and I could have sworn that he shuddered.

  “Your pardon, Monsieur. I will not annoy you further.” He turned to go, but at the door turned and retraced his steps.

  “Monsieur,” he almost whispered, with a fierce intensity, “whatever you do, be sure you bar and bolt your door tonight!”

  Then he was gone, leaving me to stare after him bewilderedly.

  I dozed off to sleep, the distant shouts of the revelers in my ears, and though I was weary, or perhaps because of it, I slept lightly. While I never really awoke until morning, sounds and noises seemed to drift to me through my veil of slumber, and once it seemed that something was prying and shoving against the bolted door.

  As is to be supposed, most of the guests were in a beastly humor the following day and remained in their rooms most of the morning or else straggled down late. Besides Dom Vincente there were really only three of the masculine members sober: de Montour; the Spaniard, de Seville (as he called himself); and myself. The Spaniard never touched wine, and though de Montour consumed incredible quantities of it, it never affected him in any way.

  The ladies greeted us most graciously.

  “S’truth, Signor,” remarked that minx Marcita, giving me her hand with a gracious air that was like to make me snicker, “I am glad to see there are gentlemen among us who care more for our company than for the wine cup; for most of them are most surprizingly befuddled this morning.”

  Then with a most outrageous turning of her wondrous eyes, “Methinks someone was too drunk to be discreet last night — or not drunk enough. For unless my poor senses deceive me much, someone came fumbling at my door late in the night.”

  “Ha!” I exclaimed in quick anger, “some —!”

  “No. Hush.” She glanced about as if to see that we were alone, then: “Is it not strange that Signor de Montour, before he retired last night, instructed me to fasten my door firmly?”

  “Strange,” I murmured, but did not tell her that he had told me the same thing.

  “And is it not strange, Pierre, that though Signor de Montour left the banquet hall even before you did, yet he has the appearance of one who has been up all night?”

  I shrugged. A woman’s fancies are often strange.

  “Tonight,” she said roguishly, “I will leave my door unbolted and see whom I catch.”

  “You will do no such thing.”

  She showed her little teeth in a contemptuous smile and displayed a small, wicked dagger.

  “Listen, imp. De Montour gave me the same warning he did you. Whatever he knew, whoever prowled the halls last night, the object was more apt murder than amorous adventure. Keep you your doors bolted. The lady Ysabel shares your room, does she not?”

  “Not she. And I send my woman to the slave quarters at night,” she murmured, gazing mischievously at me from beneath drooping eyelids.

  “One would think you a girl of no character from your talk,” I told her, with the frankness of youth and of long friendship. “Walk with care, young lady, else I tell your brother to spank you.”

  And I walked away to pay my respects to Ysabel. The Portuguese girl was the very opposite of Marcita, being a shy, modest young thing, not so beautiful as the Italian, but exquisitely pretty in an appealing,
almost childish air. I once had thoughts — Hi ho! To be young and foolish!

  Your pardon, Messieurs. An old man’s mind wanders. It was of de Montour that I meant to tell you — de Montour and Dom Vincente’s mink-faced cousin.

  A band of armed natives were thronged about the gates, kept at a distance by the Portuguese soldiers. Among them were some score of young men and women all naked, chained neck to neck. Slaves they were, captured by some warlike tribe and brought for sale. Dom Vincente looked them over personally.

  Followed a long haggling and bartering, of which I quickly wearied and turned away, wondering that a man of Dom Vincente’s rank could so demean himself as to stoop to trade.

  But I strolled back when one of the natives of the village nearby came up and interrupted the sale with a long harangue to Dom Vincente.

  While they talked de Montour came up, and presently Dom Vincente turned to us and said, “One of the woodcutters of the village was torn to pieces by a leopard or some such beast last night. A strong young man and unmarried.”

  “A leopard? Did they see it?” suddenly asked de Montour, and when Dom Vincente said no, that it came and went in the night, de Montour lifted a trembling hand and drew it across his forehead, as if to brush away cold sweat.

  “Look you, Pierre,” quoth Dom Vincente, “I have here a slave who, wonder of wonders, desires to be your man. Though the devil only knows why.”

  He led up a slim young Jakri, a mere youth, whose main asset seemed a merry grin.

  “He is yours,” said Dom Vincente. “He is goodly trained and will make a fine servant. And look ye, a slave is of an advantage over a servant, for all he requires is food and a loincloth or so with a touch of the whip to keep him in his place.”

  It was not long before I learned why Gola wished to be “my man,” choosing me among all the rest. It was because of my hair. Like many dandies of that day, I wore it long and curled, the strands falling to my shoulders. As it happened, I was the only man of the party who so wore my hair, and Gola would sit and gaze at it in silent admiration for hours at a time, or until, growing nervous under his unblinking scrutiny, I would boot him forth.

  It was that night that a brooding animosity, hardly apparent, between Baron von Schiller and Jean Desmarte broke out into a flame.

  As usual, a woman was the cause. Marcita carried on a most outrageous flirtation with both of them.

  That was not wise. Desmarte was a wild young fool. Von Schiller was a lustful beast. But when, Messieurs, did woman ever use wisdom?

  Their hate flamed to a murderous fury when the German sought to kiss Marcita.

  Swords were clashing in an instant. But before Dom Vincente could thunder a command to halt, Luigi was between the combatants, and had beaten their swords down, hurling them back viciously.

  “Signori,” said he softly, but with a fierce intensity, “is it the part of high-bred signori to fight over my sister? Ha, by the toenails of Satan, for the toss of a coin I would call you both out! You, Marcita, go to your chamber, instantly, nor leave until I give you permission.”

  And she went, for, independent though she was, none cared to face the slim, effeminate-appearing youth when a tigerish snarl curled his lips, a murderous gleam lightened his dark eyes.

  Apologies were made, but from the glances the two rivals threw at each other, we knew that the quarrel was not forgotten and would blaze forth again at the slightest pretext.

  Late that night I woke suddenly with a strange, eerie feeling of horror. Why, I could not say. I rose, saw that the door was firmly bolted, and seeing Gola asleep on the floor, kicked him awake irritably.

  And just as he got up, hastily, rubbing himself, the silence was broken by a wild scream, a scream that rang through the castle and brought a startled shout from the arquebusier pacing the palisade; a scream from the mouth of a girl, frenzied with terror.

  Gola squawked and dived behind the divan. I jerked the door open and raced down the dark corridor. Dashing down a winding stair, I caromed into someone at the bottom and we tumbled headlong.

  He gasped something and I recognized the voice of Jean Desmarte. I hauled him to his feet, and raced along, he following; the screams had ceased, but the whole castle was in an uproar, voices shouting, the clank of weapons, lights flashing up, Dom Vincente’s voice shouting for the soldiers, the noise of armed men rushing through the rooms and falling over each other. With all the confusion, Desmarte, the Spaniard, and I reached Marcita’s room just as Luigi darted inside and snatched his sister into his arms.

  Others rushed in, carrying lights and weapons, shouting, demanding to know what was occurring.

  The girl lay quietly in her brother’s arms, her dark hair loose and rippling over her shoulders, her dainty night-garments torn to shreds and exposing her lovely body. Long scratches showed upon her arms, breasts and shoulders.

  Presently, she opened her eyes, shuddered, then shrieked wildly and clung frantically to Luigi, begging him not to let something take her.

  “The door!” she whimpered. “I left it unbarred. And something crept into my room through the darkness. I struck at it with my dagger and it hurled me to the floor, tearing, tearing at me. Then I fainted.”

  “Where is von Schiller?” asked the Spaniard, a fierce glint in his dark eyes. Every man glanced at his neighbor. All the guests were there except the German. I noted de Montour gazing at the terrified girl, his face more haggard than usual. And I thought it strange that he wore no weapon.

  “Aye, von Schiller!” exclaimed Desmarte fiercely. And half of us followed Dom Vincente out into the corridor. We began a vengeful search through the castle, and in a small, dark hallway we found von Schiller. On his face he lay, in a crimson, ever-widening stain.

  “This is the work of some native!” exclaimed Desmarte, face aghast.

  “Nonsense,” bellowed Dom Vincente. “No native from the outside could pass the soldiers. All slaves, von Schiller’s among them, were barred and bolted in the slave quarters, except Gola, who sleeps in Pierre’s room, and Ysabel’s woman.”

  “But who else could have done this deed?” exclaimed Desmarte in a fury.

  “You!” I said abruptly; “else why ran you so swiftly away from the room of Marcita?”

  “Curse you, you lie!” he shouted, and his swift-drawn sword leaped for my breast; but quick as he was, the Spaniard was quicker. Desmarte’s rapier clattered against the wall and Desmarte stood like a statue, the Spaniard’s motionless point just touching his throat.

  “Bind him,” said the Spaniard without passion.

  “Put down your blade, Don Florenzo,” commanded Dom Vincente, striding forward and dominating the scene. “Signor Desmarte, you are one of my best friends, but I am the only law here and duty must be done. Give your word that you will not seek to escape.”

  “I give it,” replied the Gascon calmly. “I acted hastily. I apologize. I was not intentionally running away, but the halls and corridors of this cursed castle confuse me.”

  Of us all, probably but one man believed him.

  “Messieurs!” De Montour stepped forward. “This youth is not guilty. Turn the German over.”

  Two soldiers did as he asked. De Montour shuddered, pointing. The rest of us glanced once, then recoiled in horror.

  “Could man have done that thing?”

  “With a dagger —” began someone.

  “No dagger makes wounds like that,” said the Spaniard. “The German was torn to pieces by the talons of some frightful beast.”

  We glanced about us, half-expecting some hideous monster to leap upon us from the shadows.

  We searched that castle; every foot, every inch of it. And we found no trace of any beast.

  Dawn was breaking when I returned to my room, to find that Gola had barred himself in; and it took me nearly a half-hour to convince him to let me in.

  Having smacked him soundly and berated him for his cowardice, I told him what had taken place, as he could understand French and could sp
eak a weird mixture which he proudly called French.

  His mouth gaped and only the whites of his eyes showed as the tale reached its climax.

  “Ju ju!” he whispered fearsomely. “Fetish man!”

  Suddenly an idea came to me. I had heard vague tales, little more than hints of legends, of the devilish leopard cult that existed on the West Coast. No white man had ever seen one of its votaries, but Dom Vincente had told us tales of beast-men, disguised in skins of leopards, who stole through the midnight jungle and slew and devoured. A ghastly thrill traveled up and down my spine and in an instant I had Gola in a grasp which made him yell.

  “Was that a leopard-man?” I hissed, shaking him viciously.

  “Massa, massa!” he gasped. “Me good boy! Ju ju man get! More besser no tell!”

  “You’ll tell me!” I gritted, renewing my endeavors, until, his hands waving feeble protests, he promised to tell me what he knew.

  “No leopard-man!” he whispered, and his eyes grew big with supernatural fear. “Moon, he full, woodcutter find, him heap clawed. Find ’nother woodcutter. Big Massa (Dom Vincente) say, ‘leopard.’ No leopard. But leopard-man, he come to kill. Something kill leopard-man! Heap claw! Hai, hai! Moon full again. Something come in lonely hut; claw um woman, claw um pick’nin. Man find um claw up. Big Massa say ‘leopard.’ Full moon again. Something come in lonely hut; claw um woman, claw um pick’nin. Man find um claw up. Big Massa say ‘leopard.’ Full moon again, and woodcutter find, heap clawed. Now come in castle. No leopard. But always footmarks of a man!”