From Robert E. Howard’s fertile imagination sprang some of fiction’s greatest heroes, including Conan the Cimmerian, King Kull, and Solomon Kane. But of all Howard’s characters, none embodied his creator’s brooding temperament more than Bran Mak Morn, the last king of a doomed race.
In ages past, the Picts ruled all of Europe. But the descendants of those proud conquerors have sunk into barbarism . . . all save one, Bran Mak Morn, whose bloodline remains unbroken. Threatened by the Celts and the Romans, the Pictish tribes rally under his banner to fight for their very survival, while Bran fights to restore the glory of his race.
Lavishly illustrated by award-winning artist Gary Gianni, this collection gathers together all of Howard’s published stories and poems featuring Bran Mak Morn–including the eerie masterpiece “Worms of the Earth” and “Kings of the Night,” in which sorcery summons Kull the conqueror from out of the depths of time to stand with Bran against the Roman invaders.
Also included are previously unpublished stories and fragments, reproductions of manuscripts bearing Howard’s handwritten revisions, and much, much more.
Special Bonus: a newly discovered adventure by Howard, presented here for the very first time.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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|Title of eBook: Bran Mak Morn: The Last King|
|Release Date: 05-31-2005|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Random House Publishing Group|
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Bran Mak Morn: The Last King
Men of the Shadows
From the dim red dawn of Creation From the fogs of timeless Time Came we, the first great nation, First on the upward climb.
Savage, untaught, unknowing, Groping through primitive night, Yet faintly catching the glowing, The hint of the coming Light.
Ranging o’er lands untraveled, Sailing o’er seas unknown Mazed by world-puzzles unraveled, Building our land-marks of stone.
Vaguely grasping at glory, Gazing beyond our ken Mutely the ages’ story Rearing on plain and fen.
See, how the Lost Fire smolders, We are one with the eons’ must. Nations have trod our shoulders, Trampling us into the dust.
We, the first of the races, Linking the Old and New – Look, where the sea-cloud spaces Mingle with ocean-blue.
So we have mingled with ages, And the world-wind our ashes stirs, Vanished are we from Time’s pages, Our memory? Wind in the firs.
Stonehenge of long-gone glory Sombre and lone in the night, Murmur the age-old story How we kindled the first of the Light.
Speak night-winds, of man’s creation, Whisper o’er crag and fen, The tale of the first great nation, The last of the Stone Age men.
Sword met sword with clash and slither.
“Ailla! A-a-ailla!” rising on a steep pitch of sound from a hundred savage throats.
On all sides they swarmed upon us, a hundred to thirty. Back to back we stood, shields lapped, blades at guard. Those blades were red, but corselets and helmets, too, were red. One advantage we possessed, we were armored and our foes were not. Yet they flung themselves naked to the fray with as fi