Read Solomon Kane for Free Online

man.
    “Shouldn’t ought to have left home,” said the man with the raw pate.
    Kane was unsure whether they were taunting him as a preamble to worse. “Take what you want,” he said.
    “Don’t worry, pilgrim.” The bearded man seemed eager to take Kane’s words as an insult. “We will,” he said.
    His companions were regarding Kane’s belongings with disfavour. All at once the tattooed man stooped with an oath. One of the scrolls had partly unfurled, and the man stamped on it as though it were an insect. He used his other foot to spread it out and bent wide-legged to examine it. “Look at these,” he urged.
    The baldest of them gripped his thick thighs as he squatted to glower at the scroll. “That’s no English writing,” he objected as if he were challenging anybody to suggest he was unable to read.
    The bearded man poked at the scroll with his staff and used the tip to trace the lines of occult symbols Kanehad studied in a vain attempt to define the forces ranged against him. The man might have been a child learning to read with a fingertip underlining each word in a primer, except that his lips found no way of shaping the text. Resentment of his inability seemed to stoke his eager rage. “That’s magic,” he informed his cronies. “That’s how witches write.”
    The three men turned to face Kane as the scroll writhed on the leaves, attempting to regain its secretive shape. It was obvious that they were pleased to find a reason to assault Kane afresh – any reason. The tattooed man tramped at him, pulping leaves underfoot. “What shall we do with you, eh?” he enquired, and a thought seemed to flare in his eyes as he glanced at the fire. “Shall we burn you for a witch?”
    A crow cawed, and the other bird flapped like a black flag at a tournament. The man seized Kane by the hair and dragged him staggering to his feet. His grip felt capable of tearing clumps of hair out of Kane’s scalp. He manhandled Kane to the fire and forced Kane’s head down towards the flames while the shaven-pated man toyed with his knife, testing the point with his thumb, and the bearded man raised his staff as an additional threat. “Burn him,” he shouted, and the man with the knife yelled louder “Burn him.”
    As though it were in league with his adversaries, the fire was blazing now. Kane felt the heat on his face like a reminder of Hell. It seared his cheeks, where he felt stubble begin to smoulder. The fire was stinging his eyeballs by the time he found the power to heave his head back against the grasp in his hair and then to stiffen his whole body against the brute strength of his captor. “Burn him,” the others cried like spectators at an execution. “Burn him.”
    The tattooed man redoubled his grip on Kane’s hair and twisted it viciously before shoving with all his brutish might. Perhaps the unjust accusation of witchcraft lent Kane strength. After all his months of meditative retreat on the island – after all that he had done for the church and for himself – surely he was not to be slain as a sorcerer. He tensed every muscle against the assault, and this time his captor was unable to force him down. Eventually the tattooed man gave up the attempt but kept hold of Kane’s hair while he moved to peer into Kane’s face. His lips drew back from his teeth in a feral grimace. “There’s murder in your eyes,” he said in delight.
    The other men welcomed the development with grunts of pleasure. Kane was silent, and his captor yanked ferociously at his hair. “Would you kill me, pilgrim?” he said.
    Kane gritted his teeth while he offered up the painful ignominy to God. “No,” he said.
    The shaven man brought his face so close that Kane had to breathe in the fellow’s raw stale exhalation. “You won’t kill the man who steals from you?” he said with disbelief that sounded gleeful.
    Kane’s time at the monastery was being put to the test, and he did not hesitate. “I will not fight another