The Moon of Skulls
By Robert E. Howard
Then, when they vanished, he began to review his present plight. His opponent was dead, and only for the fact that his corpse had cushioned the fall, Kane would have been dead likewise, for they had fallen a considerable distance. As it was, the Englishman was stiff and bruised.
He drew his sword from the native’s body, thankful that it had not been broken, and began to grope about in the darkness. His hand encountered the edge of what seemed a cliff. He had thought that he was on the bottom of the chasm and that its impression of great depth had been a delusion, but now he decided that he had fallen on a ledge, part of the way down. He dropped a small stone over the side, and after what seemed a very long time, he heard the faint sound of its striking far below.
Somewhat at a loss as to how to proceed, he drew flint and steel from his belt and struck them to some tinder, warily shielding the light with his hands. The faint illumination showed a large ledge jutting out from the side of the cliff, that is, the side next to the hills he had been attempting to cross. He had fallen close to the edge, and only by the narrowest margin did he escape sliding off it, not knowing his position.
Crouching there, his eyes seeking to accustom themselves to the abysmal gloom, he made out what seemed to be a darker shadow in the shadows of the wall. On closer examination, he found it to be an opening large enough to admit his body was standing erect. A cavern, he assumed, and though its appearance was dark and forbidding in the extreme, he entered, groping his way when the fuel burned out.
He naturally had no idea where it led to, but any action was preferable to sitting still until the mountain vultures plucked his bones. For a long way, the cave floor tilted upward—solid rock beneath his feet,” and Kane made his way with some difficulty up the rather steep slant, slipping and sliding now and then. The cavern seemed large, for at no time after entering it could he touch the roof, nor could he reach the other with a hand on one wall.
Finally, the floor became level, and Kane sensed that the cave was more significant. The air seemed better, though the darkness was just as impenetrable. Suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks. There came a strange, indescribable rustling from somewhere in front of him. Without warning, something smote him in the face and slashed wildly.
Genre: Thriller | Short Story
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Robert E. Howard
Robert Ervin Howard (January 22, 1906 – June 11, 1936) was an American writer who wrote pulp fiction in a diverse range of genres. He created the character Conan the Barbarian and is regarded as the father of the sword and sorcery subgenre.
Howard was born and raised in Texas. He spent most of his life in the town of Cross Plains, with some time spent in nearby Brownwood. A bookish and intellectual child, he was also a fan of boxing and spent some time in his late teens bodybuilding, eventually taking up amateur boxing. From the age of nine, he dreamed of becoming a writer of adventure fiction but did not have real success until he was 23. Thereafter, until his death by suicide at age 30, Howard’s writings were published in a wide selection of magazines, journals, and newspapers, and he became proficient in several subgenres. His greatest success occurred after his death.
Although a Conan novel was nearly published in 1934, Howard’s stories were never collected during his lifetime. The main outlet for his stories was Weird Tales, where Howard created Conan the Barbarian. With Conan and his other heroes, Howard helped fashion the genre now known as sword and sorcery, spawning many imitators and giving him a large influence in the fantasy field. Howard remains a highly-read author, with his best works still reprinted, and is one of the best-selling fantasy writers of all time.
Howard’s suicide and the circumstances surrounding it have led to speculation about his mental health. His mother had been ill with tuberculosis her entire life, and upon learning she had entered a coma from which she was not expected to wake, he walked out to his car parked outside his kitchen window and shot himself in the head while sitting in the driver’s seat. He died eight hours later.
Robert E. Howard
