Excerpts from other

Stories of 

Robert E. Howard

Outremer reeled before his blows. The land was filled with the chanting of the riders, the twang of bows, and the whine of swords. Zenghi's hawks swept through the land and their horses' hoofs spattered blood on the standards of kings. Walled castles toppled in flame, sword-hacked corpses strewed the valleys, dark hands knotted in the yellow tresses of screaming women, and the lords of the Franks cried out in wrath and pain. Up the glittering stairs of empire rode Zenghi on his black stallion, his simitar dripping in his hand, stars jeweling his turban.

- "The Lion of Tiberias"

Douglas forgot the blow too quickly to regret it. But Donald's was the vengeful heart of those wild folk who keep the fires of feud flaming for centuries and carry grudges to the grave. Donald was as fully Celtic as his savage Dalriadian ancestors who carved out the kingdom of Alba with their swords.

- "Lord of Samarcand"

Timour hurled Donald against his foes as a man hurls a javelin, little caring whether the weapon be broken or not. The Gael's horsemen would come back blood-stained, dusty and weary, their armor hacked to shreds, their swords notched and blunted, but always with the heads of Timour's foes swinging at their high saddle-peaks. Their savagery, and Donald's own wild ferocity and superhuman strength, brought them repeatedly out of seemingly hopeless positions. And Donald's wild-beast vitality caused him again and again to recover from ghastly wounds, until the iron-thewed Tatars marvelled at him.

- "Lord of Samarcand"

"Open the gates, dog, lest ill befall you!"

"It is the Kizil Malik -- the Red King -- whom men call The Mad," whispered an archer. "He rode with the lord Renault, the shepherds say. Hold him in play while I fetch the Shaykh."

"Art thou weary of life, Nazarene," called the first speaker, "that thou contest to the gate of thine enemy?"

"Fetch the lord of this castle, dog," roared the Gael. "I parley not with menials -- and my horse is dying."

- "Sowers of the Thunder"

"Lord of the East!" his voice rang like a trumpet-call, "welcome to the fellowship of kings! To the glory and the witch-fire, the gold and the moon-mist, the splendor and the death! Baibars, a king hails thee!"

- "Sowers of the Thunder"

"And everybody figgered Blaine was such a big man," meditated Johnny.

"Well," answered Allison, "a few more big herds grabbed for nothin', and I reckon he would have been a big man; but big or little, it's all the same to a .45."

Which comment embraced the full philosophy of the gunfighter.

- "Knife, Bullet and Noose"

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