Bran Mak Morn: The Last King by Robert E. Howard

By Robert E. Howard

From Robert E. Howard's fertile mind's eye sprang a few of fiction's maximum heroes, together with Conan the Cimmerian, King Kull, and Solomon Kane. yet of all Howard's characters, none embodied his creator's brooding temperament greater than Bran Mak Morn, the final king of a doomed race.

In a long time previous, the Picts governed all of Europe. however the descendants of these proud conquerors have sunk into barbarism . . . all store one, Bran Mak Morn, whose bloodline is still unbroken. Threatened via the Celts and the Romans, the Pictish tribes rally lower than his banner to struggle for his or her very survival, whereas Bran fights to revive the distinction of his race.

Lavishly illustrated by means of award-winning artist Gary Gianni, this assortment gathers jointly all of Howard's released tales and poems that includes Bran Mak Morn--including the eerie masterpiece "Worms of the Earth" and "Kings of the Night," during which sorcery summons Kull the conqueror from out of the depths of time to face with Bran opposed to the Roman invaders.

Also incorporated are formerly unpublished tales and fragments, reproductions of manuscripts bearing Howard's handwritten revisions, and masses, even more.

Special Bonus: a newly came upon experience by means of Howard, offered the following for the first actual time.

From the alternate Paperback variation.

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Sam was already on the back of our truck, pulling on a pair of surgical gloves from the trauma pack. ’ He laid his hand on the boy’s head.  . ’ I went to his other side. The kid’s clothes were in shreds and it was easy to see the huge slit down his left thigh. It looked like a sausage that had split in a frying-pan. Most of his flesh was peppered with fragments of broken stone. His hair and face were caked with blood, sweat and sand. We didn’t have any fluids to get into him. There was nothing we could do but plug up the holes and try to stop him losing any more blood.

I followed him. I wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light or the rebels were recruiting pygmies, but he didn’t cast much of a shadow. My foresight slowly passed his feet from behind, and as it got about three body widths ahead, I fired a longer, six-round burst. Rounds plucked at the sand around him, and he went down. More shouting. I looked down into the compound again. Frankenstein was getting Davy and some others to relieve the government troops of their RPG launchers and rounds. Standish exited the building, followed closely by the youngest of the women I’d seen by the crates.

The noise of eight weapons opening simultaneously was deafening. I was buffeted by shockwaves from the RPGs, then the hot back-blast washed over me. Gravel splattered me. My nose filled with the acrid smell of cordite and spent propellant. My eardrums zinged. I put another double-tap into the lead vehicle as one of the grenades hit home about three back. Its headlights swerved and the dustcloud it threw up obscured the set I was aiming for. Next thing I saw, my vehicle, too, was swerving. It went into a complete roll not more than twenty metres from the wall.

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