Title: Wolfshead

  Author: Robert E. Howard

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  Title: Wolfshead

  Author: Robert E. Howard

  Fear? your pardon, Messieurs, but the meaning of fear you do not know.

  No, I hold to my statement. You are soldiers, adventurers. You have

  known the charges of regiments of dragoons, the frenzy of wind-lashed

  seas. But fear, real hair-raising, horror-crawling fear, you have not

  known. I myself have known such fear; but until the legions of

  darkness swirl from hell’s gate and the world flames to ruin, will

  never such fear again be known to men:

  Hark, I will tell you the tale; for it was many years ago and half

  across the world; and none of you will ever see the man of whom I tell

  you, or seeing, know.

  Return, then, with me across the years to a day when I; a reckless

  young cavalier, stepped from the small boat that had landed me from

  the ship floating in the harbor, cursed the mud that littered the

  crude wharf, and strode up the landing toward the castle, in answer to

  the invitation of an old friend, Dom Vincente da Lusto.

  Dom Vincente was a strange, far-sighted man-a strong man, one who saw

  visions beyond the ken of his time. In his veins, perhaps, ran the

  blood of those old Phoenicians who, the priests tell us, ruled the

  seas and built cities in far lands, in the dim ages. His plan of

  fortune was strange and yet successful; few men would have thought of

  it; fewer could have succeeded. For his estate was upon the western

  coast of that dark, mystic continent, that baffler of explorers—

  Africa.

  There by a small bay had he cleared away the sullen jungle, built his

  castle and his storehouses, and with ruthless hand had he wrested the

  riches of the land. Four ships he had: three smaller craft and one

  great galleon. These plied between his domains and the cities of

  Spain, Portugal, France, and even England, laden with rare woods,

  ivory, slaves; the thousand strange riches that Dom Vincente had

  gained by trade and by conquest.

  Aye, a wild venture, a wilder commerce. And yet might he have shaped

  an empire from the dark land, had it not been for the rat-faced

  Carlos, his nephew-but I run ahead of my tale.

  Look, Messieurs, I draw a map on the table, thus, with finger dipped

  in wine. Here lay the small, shallow harbor, and here the wide

  wharves: A landing ran thus, up the slight slope with hutlike

  warehouses on each side, and here it stopped at a wide, shallow moat.

  Over it went a—narrow drawbridge and then one was confronted with a

  high palisade of logs set in the ground. This extended entirely around

  the castle. The castle itself was built on the model of another,

  earlier age; being more for strength than beauty. Built of stone

  brought from a great distance; years of labor and a thousand Negroes

  toiling—beneath the lash had reared its walls, and now, completely,

  it offered an almost impregnable appearance. Such was the—intention

  of its builders, for Barbary pirates ranged the coasts, and the horror

  of a native uprising lurked ever near.

  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

  slipt 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 Scluller; 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 slipt 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 quarters 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 nightbird 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 Desmarie broke out into a flame.

  As usual, 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 hare 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, eery feeling of

  horror. Why’ I could not say. I rose, saw that the door was firmly

 

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