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The Savage Tales of Solomon Kane

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Overview

With Conan the Cimmerian, Robert E. Howard created more than the greatest action hero of the twentieth century—he also launched a genre that came to be known as sword and sorcery. But Conan wasn’t the first archetypal adventurer to spring from Howard’s fertile imagination.

“He was . . . a strange blending of Puritan and Cavalier, with a touch of the ancient philosopher, and more than a touch of the pagan. . . . A hunger in his soul drove him on and on, an urge to right all ...

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The Savage Tales of Solomon Kane

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Overview

With Conan the Cimmerian, Robert E. Howard created more than the greatest action hero of the twentieth century—he also launched a genre that came to be known as sword and sorcery. But Conan wasn’t the first archetypal adventurer to spring from Howard’s fertile imagination.

“He was . . . a strange blending of Puritan and Cavalier, with a touch of the ancient philosopher, and more than a touch of the pagan. . . . A hunger in his soul drove him on and on, an urge to right all wrongs, protect all weaker things. . . . Wayward and restless as the wind, he was consistent in only one respect—he was true to his ideals of justice and right. Such was Solomon Kane.”

Collected in this volume, lavishly illustrated by award-winning artist Gary Gianni, are all of the stories and poems that make up the thrilling saga of the dour and deadly Puritan, Solomon Kane. Together they constitute a sprawling epic of weird fantasy adventure that stretches from sixteenth-century England to remote African jungles where no white man has set foot. Here are shudder-inducing tales of vengeful ghosts and bloodthirsty demons, of dark sorceries wielded by evil men and women, all opposed by a grim avenger armed with a fanatic’s faith and a warrior’s savage heart.

This edition also features exclusive story fragments, a biography of Howard by scholar Rusty Burke, and “In Memoriam,” H. P. Lovecraft’s moving tribute to his friend and fellow literary genius.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“Howard’s writing seems so highly charged with energy that it nearly gives off sparks.”
—STEPHEN KING

“I adore these books. Howard had a gritty, vibrant style—broadsword writing that cut its way to the heart, with heroes who are truly larger than life. I heartily recommend them to anyone who loves fantasy.”
—DAVID GEMMELL
Author of Legend and White Wolf

“The voice of Robert E. Howard still resonates after decades with readers— equal parts ringing steel, thunderous horse hooves, and spattered blood.
Far from being a stereotype, his creation of Conan is the high heroic adventurer. His raw muscle and sinews, boiling temper, and lusty laughs are the gauge by which all modern heroes must be measured.”
—ERIC NYLUND, Author of
Halo: The Fall of Reach and Signal to Noise

“That teller of marvelous tales, Robert Howard, did indeed create a giant [Conan] in whose shadow other ‘hero tales’ must stand.”
—JOHN JAKES, New York Times bestselling author of the North and South trilogy

“For stark, living fear . . . what other writer is even in the running with Robert E. Howard?”
—H. P. LOVECRAFT

“Howard wrote pulp adventure stories of every kind, for every market he could find, but his real love was for supernatural adventure and he brought a brash, tough element to the epic fantasy which did as much to change the course of the American school away from precious writing and static imagery as Hammett, Chandler, and the Black Mask pulp writers were to change the course of American detective fiction.”
—MICHAEL MOORCOCK
Award winning author of the Elric saga

“In this, I think, the art of Robert E. Howard was hard to surpass: vigor, speed, vividness. And always there is that furious, galloping narrative pace.”
—POUL ANDERSON

“Howard honestly believed the basic truth of the stories he was telling. It’s as if he’d said, ‘This is how life really was lived in those former savage times!’ ”
—DAVID DRAKE
Author of Grimmer Than Hell and Dogs of War

“For headlong, nonstop adventure and for vivid, even florid, scenery, no one even comes close to Howard.”
—HARRY TURTLEDOVE

“HOWARD WAS THE THOMAS WOLFE OF FANTASY.”
—STEPHEN KING

“The stories have a livingness about them [that’s] impossible to fake. . . . Not one of them is boring—there is always some special touch—and most, of course, are rousers.”
—GAHAN WILSON
Reviewer and author of I Paint What I See

“The best pulp (fantasy) writer was Robert E. Howard.”
—FRITZ LEIBER
Author of Green Millennium
and Farewell to Lankhmar

“Weird, fantastic, but peopled with real men who think and act as we conceive the thoughts and acts of men. . . . None of the dummies that pirouette through some stories, using stilted, supposedly archaic language, and moving in response to the author’s obvious string-pulling. All of which leads you to believe that I like it. Correct. I do.”
—E. HOFFMAN PRICE
Author of The Jade Enchantress

“[Behind Howard’s stories] lurks a dark poetry, and the timeless truth of dreams. That is why these tales have survived. They remain a fitting heritage of the poet and dreamer who was Robert E. Howard.”
—ROBERT BLOCH
Author of Psycho

“HOWARD WAS A TRUE STORYTELLER—one of the first, and certainly among the best, you’ll find in heroic fantasy. If you’ve never read him before, you’re in for a real treat.”
—CHARLES DE LINT
Award-winning author of Forests of the Heart and The Onion Girl

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780345461506
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 6/29/2004
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 432
  • Sales rank: 411,284
  • Product dimensions: 6.10 (w) x 9.20 (h) x 0.85 (d)

Meet the Author


Robert E. Howard (1906–1936), an American pulp fiction writer who is best known as the creator of Conan, wrote a huge number of stories in a variety of genres, including fantasy, westerns, horror, and even boxing stories.

Paul Boehmer, who has appeared on Broadway, on television, and in films, narrated an award-winning unabridged recording of Moby Dick.

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Read an Excerpt

Skulls in the Stars

He told how murderers walk the earth

Beneath the curse of Cain,

With crimson clouds before their eyes

And flames about their brain:

For blood has left upon their souls

Its everlasting stain.

Hood

I

There are two roads to Torkertown. One, the shorter and more direct route, leads across a barren upland moor, and the other, which is much longer, winds its tortuous way in and out among the hummocks and quagmires of the swamps, skirting the low hills to the east. It was a dangerous and tedious trail; so Solomon Kane halted in amazement when a breathless youth from the village he had just left, overtook him and implored him for God's sake to take the swamp road.

"The swamp road!" Kane stared at the boy.

He was a tall, gaunt man, was Solomon Kane, his darkly pallid face and deep brooding eyes made more somber by the drab Puritanical garb he affected.

"Yes, sir, 'tis far safer," the youngster answered his surprized exclamation.

"Then the moor road must be haunted by Satan himself, for your townsmen warned me against traversing the other."

"Because of the quagmires, sir, that you might not see in the dark. You had better return to the village and continue your journey in the morning, sir."

"Taking the swamp road?"

"Yes, sir."

Kane shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

"The moon rises almost as soon as twilight dies. By its light I can reach Torkertown in a few hours, across the moor."

"Sir, you had better not. No one ever goes that way. There are no houses at all upon the moor, while in the swamp there is the house of old Ezra who lives there all alone since his maniac cousin, Gideon, wandered off and died in the swamp and was never found - and old Ezra though a miser would not refuse you lodging should you decide to stop until morning. Since you must go, you had better go the swamp road."

Kane eyed the boy piercingly. The lad squirmed and shuffled his feet.

"Since this moor road is so dour to wayfarers," said the Puritan, "why did not the villagers tell me the whole tale, instead of vague mouthings?"

"Men like not to talk of it, sir. We hoped that you would take the swamp road after the men advised you to, but when we watched and saw that you turned not at the forks, they sent me to run after you and beg you to reconsider."

"Name of the Devil!" exclaimed Kane sharply, the unaccustomed oath showing his irritation; "the swamp road and the moor road - what is it that threatens me and why should I go miles out of my way and risk the bogs and mires?"

"Sir," said the boy, dropping his voice and drawing closer, "we be simple villagers who like not to talk of such things lest foul fortune befall us, but the moor road is a way accurst and hath not been traversed by any of the countryside for a year or more. It is death to walk those moors by night, as hath been found by some score of unfortunates. Some foul horror haunts the way and claims men for his victims."

"So? And what is this thing like?"

"No man knows. None has ever seen it and lived, but late-farers have heard terrible laughter far out on the fen and men have heard the horrid shrieks of its victims. Sir, in God's name return to the village, there pass the night, and tomorrow take the swamp trail to Torkertown."

Far back in Kane's gloomy eyes a scintillant light had begun to glimmer, like a witch's torch glinting under fathoms of cold gray ice. His blood quickened. Adventure! The lure of life-risk and battle! The thrill of breathtaking, touch-and-go drama! Not that Kane recognized his sensations as such. He sincerely considered that he voiced his real feelings when he said:

"These things be deeds of some power of evil. The lords of darkness have laid a curse upon the country. A strong man is needed to combat Satan and his might. Therefore I go, who have defied him many a time."

"Sir," the boy began, then closed his mouth as he saw the futility of argument. He only added, "The corpses of the victims are bruised and torn, sir."

He stood there at the crossroads, sighing regretfully as he watched the tall, rangy figure swinging up the road that led toward the moors.

The sun was setting as Kane came over the brow of the low hill which debouched into the upland fen. Huge and blood-red it sank down behind the sullen horizon of the moors, seeming to touch the rank grass with fire; so for a moment the watcher seemed to be gazing out across a sea of blood. Then the dark shadows came gliding from the east, the western blaze faded, and Solomon Kane struck out boldly in the gathering darkness.

The road was dim from disuse but was clearly defined. Kane went swiftly but warily, sword and pistols at hand. Stars blinked out and night winds whispered among the grass like weeping specters. The moon began to rise, lean and haggard, like a skull among the stars.

Then suddenly Kane stopped short. From somewhere in front of him sounded a strange and eery echo - or something like an echo. Again, this time louder. Kane started forward again. Were his senses deceiving him? No!

Far out, there pealed a whisper of frightful laughter. And again, closer this time. No human being ever laughed like that - there was no mirth in it, only hatred and horror and soul-destroying terror. Kane halted. He was not afraid, but for the second he was almost unnerved. Then, stabbing through that awesome laughter, came the sound of a scream that was undoubtedly human. Kane started forward, increasing his gait. He cursed the illusive lights and flickering shadows which veiled the moor in the rising moon and made accurate sight impossible. The laughter continued, growing louder, as did the screams. Then sounded faintly the drum of frantic human feet. Kane broke into a run.

Some human was being hunted to his death out there on the fen, and by what manner of horror God alone knew. The sound of the flying feet halted abruptly and the screaming rose unbearably, mingled with other sounds unnamable and hideous. Evidently the man had been overtaken, and Kane, his flesh crawling, visualized some ghastly fiend of the darkness crouching on the back of its victim - crouching and tearing.

Then the noise of a terrible and short struggle came clearly through the abysmal silence of the fen and the footfalls began again, but stumbling and uneven. The screaming continued, but with a gasping gurgle. The sweat stood cold on Kane's forehead and body. This was heaping horror on horror in an intolerable manner.

God, for a moment's clear light! The frightful drama was being enacted within a very short distance of him, to judge by the ease with which the sounds reached him. But this hellish half-light veiled all in shifting shadows, so that the moors appeared a haze of blurred illusions, and stunted trees and bushes seemed like giants.

Kane shouted, striving to increase the speed of his advance. The shrieks of the unknown broke into a hideous shrill squealing; again there was the sound of a struggle, and then from the shadows of the tall grass a thing came reeling - a thing that had once been a man - a gore-covered, frightful thing that fell at Kane's feet and writhed and groveled and raised its terrible face to the rising moon, and gibbered and yammered, and fell down again and died in its own blood.

The moon was up now and the light was better. Kane bent above the body, which lay stark in its unnamable mutilation, and he shuddered - a rare thing for him, who had seen the deeds of the Spanish Inquisition and the witch-finders.

Some wayfarer, he supposed. Then like a hand of ice on his spine he was aware that he was not alone. He looked up, his cold eyes piercing the shadows whence the dead man had staggered. He saw nothing, but he knew - he felt - that other eyes gave back his stare, terrible eyes not of this earth. He straightened and drew a pistol, waiting. The moonlight spread like a lake of pale blood over the moor, and trees and grasses took on their proper sizes.

The shadows melted, and Kane saw! At first he thought it only a shadow of mist, a wisp of moor fog that swayed in the tall grass before him. He gazed. More illusion, he thought. Then the thing began to take on shape, vague and indistinct. Two hideous eyes flamed at him - eyes which held all the stark horror which has been the heritage of man since the fearful dawn ages - eyes frightful and insane, with an insanity transcending earthly insanity. The form of the thing was misty and vague, a brain-shattering travesty on the human form, like, yet horridly unlike. The grass and bushes beyond showed clearly through it.

Kane felt the blood pound in his temples, yet he was as cold as ice. How such an unstable being as that which wavered before him could harm a man in a physical way was more than he could understand, yet the red horror at his feet gave mute testimony that the fiend could act with terrible material effect.

Of one thing Kane was sure: there would be no hunting of him across the dreary moors, no screaming and fleeing to be dragged down again and again. If he must die he would die in his tracks, his wounds in front.

Now a vague and grisly mouth gaped wide and the demoniac laughter again shrieked out, soul-shaking in its nearness. And in the midst of that threat of doom, Kane deliberately leveled his long pistol and fired. A maniacal yell of rage and mockery answered the report, and the thing came at him like a flying sheet of smoke, long shadowy arms stretched to drag him down.

Kane, moving with the dynamic speed of a famished wolf, fired the second pistol with as little effect, snatched his long rapier from its sheath and thrust into the center of the misty attacker. The blade sang as it passed clear through, encountering no solid resistance, and Kane felt icy fingers grip his limbs, bestial talons tear his garments and the skin beneath.

He dropped the useless sword and sought to grapple with his foe. It was like fighting a floating mist, a flying shadow armed with daggerlike claws. His savage blows met empty air, his leanly mighty arms, in whose grasp strong men had died, swept nothingness and clutched emptiness. Naught was solid or real save the flaying, apelike fingers with their crooked talons, and the crazy eyes which burned into the shuddering depths of his soul.

Kane realized that he was in a desperate plight indeed. Already his garments hung in tatters and he bled from a score of deep wounds. But he never flinched, and the thought of flight never entered his mind. He had never fled from a single foe, and had the thought occurred to him he would have flushed with shame.

He saw no help for it now, but that his form should lie there beside the fragments of the other victim, but the thought held no terrors for him. His only wish was to give as good an account of himself as possible before the end came, and if he could, to inflict some damage on his unearthly foe.

There above the dead man's torn body, man fought with demon under the pale light of the rising moon, with all the advantages with the demon, save one. And that one was enough to overcome all the others. For if abstract hate may bring into material substance a ghostly thing, may not courage, equally abstract, form a concrete weapon to combat that ghost?

Kane fought with his arms and his feet and his hands, and he was aware at last that the ghost began to give back before him, that the fearful laughter changed to screams of baffled fury. For man's only weapon is courage that flinches not from the gates of Hell itself, and against such not even the legions of Hell can stand.

Of this Kane knew nothing; he only knew that the talons which tore and rended him seemed to grow weaker and wavering, that a wild light grew and grew in the horrible eyes. And reeling and gasping, he rushed in, grappled the thing at last and threw it, and as they tumbled about on the moor and it writhed and lapped his limbs like a serpent of smoke, his flesh crawled and his hair stood on end, for he began to understand its gibbering.

He did not hear and comprehend as a man hears and comprehends the speech of a man, but the frightful secrets it imparted in whisperings and yammerings and screaming silences sank fingers of ice and flame into his soul, and he knew.

II

The hut of old Ezra the miser stood by the road in the midst of the swamp, half screened by the sullen trees which grew about it. The walls were rotting, the roof crumbling, and great, pallid and green fungus-monsters clung to it and writhed about the doors and windows, as if seeking to peer within. The trees leaned above it and their gray branches intertwined so that it crouched in the semi-darkness like a monstrous dwarf over whose shoulder ogres leer.

The road which wound down into the swamp, among rotting stumps and rank hummocks and scummy, snake-haunted pools and bogs, crawled past the hut. Many people passed that way these days, but few saw old Ezra, save a glimpse of a yellow face, peering through the fungus-screened windows, itself like an ugly fungus.

Old Ezra the miser partook much of the quality of the swamp, for he was gnarled and bent and sullen; his fingers were like clutching parasitic plants and his locks hung like drab moss above eyes trained to the murk of the swamplands. His eyes were like a dead man's, yet hinted of depths abysmal and loathsome as the dead lakes of the swamplands.

These eyes gleamed now at the man who stood in front of his hut. This man was tall and gaunt and dark, his face was haggard and claw-marked, and he was bandaged of arm and leg. Somewhat behind this man stood a number of villagers.

"You are Ezra of the swamp road?"

"Aye, and what want ye of me?"

"Where is your cousin Gideon, the maniac youth who abode with you?"

"Gideon?"

"Aye."

"He wandered away into the swamp and never came back. No doubt he lost his way and was set upon by wolves or died in a quagmire or was struck by an adder."

"How long ago?"

"Over a year."

"Aye. Hark ye, Ezra the miser. Soon after your cousin's disappearance, a countryman, coming home across the moors, was set upon by some unknown fiend and torn to pieces, and thereafter it became death to cross those moors. First men of the countryside, then strangers who wandered over the fen, fell to the clutches of the thing. Many men have died, since the first one.

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Table of Contents

Foreword
In memoriam : Robert Ervin Howard
Skulls in the stars 1
The right hand of doom 19
Red shadows 29
Rattle of bones 73
The castle of the devil 85
Death's black riders 93
The moon of skulls 97
The one black stain 171
The blue flame of vengeance 177
The hills of the dead 223
Hawk of Basti 255
The return of Sir Richard Grenville 269
Wings in the night 273
The footfalls within 323
The children of Asshur 347
Solomon Kane's homecoming 379
Solomon Kane's homecoming (variant) 385
App A short biography of Robert E. Howard 393
App Gary Gianni 407
App Notes on the original Howard text 409
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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 25 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(13)

4 Star

(9)

3 Star

(2)

2 Star

(1)

1 Star

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 25 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 8, 2004

    Solomon Kane kicks butt!!!!!

    I first saw the comics and it really caught my interest. Then I managed to get hold of a partial copy of the actual short stories and loved it, but it wasn't enough. So when I saw this was comming out I just had to have it. I have enjoyed the book thus far and recomend it to anyone who loves Call of Cthulu. Solomon Kane helping to ease Evil men and women of their lives is thrilling!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted August 31, 2014

    more from this reviewer

    Why was I not taught about Solomon Kane when I learned about the

    Why was I not taught about Solomon Kane when I learned about the pilgrims in middle school?

    Swashbuckling tales of adventure and voodoo. Solomon Kane, the vigilante fanatic driven by demons to journey the world in a relentless and endless quest to destroy as many evil doers as he is physically capable of until he meets his own demise.

    First of all, this character is impossible and defies all reason. Solomon Kane is a puritan in puritan garb, but armed with daggers, a sword, pistols, a musket and a voodoo staff. He is not a priest, but an avenger of evil. This character is the reason why people like John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, Sylvester Stallone, Arnold Schwarzenegger had careers. There is something in the minimalist stroke of these kinds of characters that strikes deep within our souls. They may not be fleshed out or shown in full-color but their limited scenes, dialog and emotions gets across very quickly who they are and what they are all about. They are not flat; they come across by all the mastery of a genius stroke. Robert E. Howard was a master at this, focusing his short-lived but prolific career on powerful characters that stick with you.

    Like nearly all of Howard's works, Solomon Kane came alive in the serial magazines through short efforts. Given those parameters, Howard's talent clearly shines. Every story he told, he had to reset the character for new readers without overloading on back story (he does this sometimes in just few sentences!). And yet, the stories do sometimes relate back to each other and the character seems to progress within his own timeline.

    At first Solomon Kane tangles with evil men in England and Europe, but as the stories progress he ends up in Africa and the tales range beyond swashbuckling, and into the "weird" spaces where Howard excelled. Here, Kane, befriends various African tribal peoples and eventually is given his famous stave which he uses as both a weapon and ward against black magic. These elements really get fun when the protagonist is beset with demons and the undead. He even gets into Conan and Kull territory when he has to navigate through ancient temples and secret passages.

    Yet, Solomon Kane is all his own. He is a lean and cold, efficient avenger of justice. Howard does not bury the story with scripture quotes or biblical conspiracies like many modern authors might be tempted to do, but he does occasionally pepper in elements of religious and secular history. Solomon Kane is also uninhibited by most earthly desires, he has virtually no love interest and has little curiosity in women except a brotherly protectiveness. Again refreshing (in that he doesn't fall into classic romance tropes).

    This character clearly has a code and keeps consistent, but he is not without struggles. Chiefly he struggles with some strange and mysterious drive that sets him wandering the world waiting for God to lead him to wrongs that must be righted in an almost Calvinist trajectory. He frequently admits that he is a fanatic and will explode in great, violent, berserker furies. This can cause problems for him when his impulses drive him to save the helpless in a rash and gallant move where a more prudent measure might be better served. He also cares deeply for the innocent and good. And there are interesting scenes of inner turmoil where Kane finds, to his dismay, that even his superior fighting and cunning cannot save all the world; and he must occasionally be satiated only with savage acts of revenge and the satisfaction that he has at least temporarily rid some small plot of land from a long-plagued evil that had resided there.

    On the negative side, these stories were written long ago and Howard suffered from old worldviews on race and evolution (and probably sexism). He was very interested in history and makes many references to racial histories, but there are parts that are somewhat cringe worthy if not offensive. That said, and keeping a historical perspective in mind, Solomon Kane's stories have much merit in them, sometimes refreshingly so. Of note, Howard receives his voodoo staff from an African shaman whom he later dubs his "blood-brother" and he is often found coming to the rescue of African tribes being tortured or oppressed. To be sure, Solomon Kane, is intolerant of all evils whomever may perpetrate them and whomever they may be perpetrated against.

    Stephen King has made comments to the effect that when Howard hits his stride his writing is charged and electric. This is so true. Howard's words fall into a soulful, blues-groove and speed you along with emotion. You feel the rains beating down and the fury and frustration of Solomon Kane as he screams out against the evil in the world. Like Howard's other characters, it's personal. Which is really amazing, because again this is not a novel and the character spends much of his time hacking and slashing his way through adventures. Still, somehow, someway, and where others have failed--Robert E. Howard always manages to find the right beats and notes to strike a chord in the soul and draw you into his characters. If J.R.R. Tolkien is the "Led Zeppelin" of epic fantasy, then Robert E. Howard is the "Jimmie Hendrix" of heroic fantasy.

    This book is a collection of (probably) everything Howard ever wrote about the character including a few poems and unfinished stories (even though others have tried to complete these fragments only Howard's original words are presented here). The book is also illustrated throughout and contains a scholarly appendix, short bio on Howard and a few words from HP Lovecraft on Howard's untimely death. A very great addition for anyone looking to get into Howard.

    Podcast: If you enjoy my review (or this topic) this book and the movie based on it were further discussed/debated in a lively discussion on my podcast: "No Deodorant In Outer Space". The podcast is available on iTunes or our website.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 25, 2011

    lacks the power of conan stories

    The Solomon Kane stories lack the power of the Conan stories. Conan managed to create am myth and universe on its own, but the Solomon Kane stories lack that vision; they are adventure tales but in my feeling not worth reading. The figure of the puritan swordfighter, a kind of dark Zorro who battles evil and avenges the innocent victims, is sent around to exotic places, which might be good for wild adventure, but it dissipates the atmosphere of the figure; a puritan swordfighter has really no business
    battling dark gods in africa, he should stay closer to home.

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted February 21, 2010

    Great Buy

    Excellent, classic collection

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  • Posted November 21, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    ROBERT E. HOWARD - SOLOMON KANE = OUTSTANDING!!

    This book is excellent as all of REH's stories. One of my favorite stories is Wings In The Night. All REH stories are classics but this one really stayed with me a while. Solomon Kane is now in comics at Dark Horse. Kull is coming soon and Conan is still there!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 8, 2005

    MORE THAN JUST CONAN!

    To many readers, Howard is known only by Conan -- so they especially need to read this volume. Personally, I prefer this character and his world. The Kane stories are so vividly written that Howard could have been known just for this character and been just as famous. For those who enjoy the period fantasy genre and for fans of pure high adventure, this volume satisfies both tastes. And for me, the pen and ink art is the fine touch, more than the paintings.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 30, 2004

    A Master Gone to Soon

    Robert E. Howard is one of the most gifted and talented writers ever to grace the genre of fantasy fiction. His contributions of 'sword and sorcery' have been emulated and copied in the time since his death and even into today. After purchasing this book last night and reading well into the wee hours of the morning, I felt I must implore you all to take a chance on a gifted American author and his Puritan swordsman. You will not be disappointed. These stories still carry all of the depth, tension, and swash-buckling adventure as when they were first written.

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