Here are Howard's greatest horror tales, all in their original, definitive versions. Some of Howard's best-known characters--Solomon Kane, Bran Mak Morn, and sailor Steve Costigan among them--roam the forbidding locales of the author's fevered imagination, from the swamps and bayous of the Deep South to the fiend-haunted woods outside Paris to remote jungles in Africa.

The collection includes Howard's masterpiece "Pigeons from Hell," which Stephen King calls "one of the finest horror stories of [the twentieth] century," a tale of two travelers who stumble upon the ruins of a Southern plantation--and into the maw of its fatal secret. In "Black Canaan" even the best warrior has little chance of taking down the evil voodoo man with unholy powers--and none at all against his wily mistress, the diabolical High Priestess of Damballah. In these and other lavishly illustrated classics, such as the revenge nightmare "Worms of the Earth" and "The Cairn on the Headland," Howard spins tales of unrelenting terror, the legacy of one of the world's great masters of the macabre.

From the Trade Paperback edition.

The sun had set. The great shadows came striding over the forest.

In the weird twilight of a late summer day, I saw the path ahead glide on among the mighty trees and disappear. And I shuddered and glanced fearfully over my shoulder. Miles behind lay the nearest village -- miles ahead the next.

I looked to left and to right as I strode on, and anon I looked behind me. And anon I stopped short, grasping my rapier, as a breaking twig betokened the going of some small beast. Or was it a beast?

But the path led on and I followed, because, forsooth, I had naught else to do.

As I went I bethought me, "My own thoughts will rout me, if I be not aware. What is there in this forest, except perhaps the creatures that roam it, deer and the like? Tush, the foolish legends of those villagers!"

And so I went and the twilight faded into dusk. Stars began to blink and the leaves of the trees murmured in the faint breeze. And then I stopped short, my sword leaping to my hand, for just ahead, around a curve of the path, someone was singing. The words I could not distinguish, but the accent was strange, almost barbaric.

I stepped behind a great tree, and the cold sweat beaded my forehead. Then the singer came in sight, a tall, thin man, vague in the twilight.

I shrugged my shoulders. A man I did not fear. I sprang out, my point raised.

"Stand!"

He showed no surprize. "I prithee, handle thy blade with care, friend," he said.

Somewhat ashamed, I lowered my sword.

"I am new to this forest," I quoth, apologetically. "I heard talk of bandits. I crave pardon. Where lies the road to Villefère?"

"Corbleu, you've missed it," he answered. "You should have branched off to the right some distance back. I am going there myself. If you may abide my company, I will direct you."

I hesitated. Yet why should I hesitate?

"Why, certainly. My name is de Montour, of Normandy."

"And I am Carolus le Loup."

"No!" I started back.

He looked at me in astonishment.

"Pardon," said I; "the name is strange. Does not loup mean wolf?"

"My family were always great hunters," he answered. He did not offer his hand.

"You will pardon my staring," said I as we walked down the path, "but I can hardly see your face in the dusk."

I sensed that he was laughing, though he made no sound.

"It is little to look upon," he answered.

I stepped closer and then leaped away, my hair bristling.

"A mask!" I exclaimed. "Why do you wear a mask, m'sieu?"

"It is a vow," he explained. "In fleeing a pack of hounds I vowed that if I escaped I would wear a mask for a certain time."

"Hounds, m'sieu?"

"Wolves," he answered quickly; "I said wolves."

We walked in silence for a while and then my companion said, "I am surprized that you walk these woods by night. Few people come these ways even in the day."

"I am in haste to reach the border," I answered. "A treaty has been signed with the English, and the Duke of Burgundy should know of it. The people at the village sought to dissuade me. They spoke of a -- wolf that was purported to roam these woods."

"Here the path branches to Villefère," said he, and I saw a narrow, crooked path that I had not seen when I passed it before. It led in amid the darkness of the trees. I shuddered.

"You wish to return to the village?"

"No!" I exclaimed. "No, no! Lead on."

So narrow was the path that we walked single file, he leading. I looked well at him. He was taller, much taller than I, and thin, wiry. He was dressed in a costume that smacked of Spain. A long rapier swung at his hip. He walked...

 

"For stark, living fear . . . what other writer is even in the running?"

 

"[Behind Howard's stories] lurks a dark poetry and the timeless truth of dreams."

 

"Howard had a gritty, vibrant style--broadsword writing that cut its way to the heart, with heroes who are truly larger than life."

 

"Howard's writing seems so highly charged with energy that it nearly gives off sparks."

 

Robert E. Howard, renowned creator of Conan the Barbarian, was also a master at conjuring tales of hair-raising horror. In a career spanning only twelve years, Howard wrote more than a hundred stories, with his most celebrated work appearing in Weird Tales, the preeminent pulp magazine of the era.


From the Trade Paperback edition.

 

The Horror Stories of Robert E. Howard by Robert E. Howard
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