Ruin, a series of short stories of Robert E. Howard's heroes, Conan the Barbarian, Bran Mak Morn, Solomon Kane, and King Kull. The book is available on Amazon in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition and on Kindle. Here is an excerpt from one of the Bran Mak Morn stories entitled:
Nil Desperandum
Bran Mak Morn, King of the Picts, peered out from
under concealment among the trees. Even if Caius Dracus or any Roman had been
looking directly at the Pict, they would not have seen him, camouflaged as he
was. Bran watched the Romans march down the road toward the trap he had set.
Hidden among the pine and fir trees that grew on the incline next to the trail,
his men lay waiting. The Pictish king had thought of this plan weeks ago, when,
after Bran and his men set fire to a Roman watchtower, the Romans retaliated
and then marched on a Pictish village, burning it to the ground. Bran knew if
he repeated an attack on the Romans, they would retaliate. If the Roman army
was anything, it was predictable. The Pictish king would have his revenge.
Lying
still undercover, Bran listened to the tramp of Roman feet and the rattle of
their armor and weapons. He shook his head at their foolishness. They marched
as if announcing their coming.
Mak
Morn watched the Romans getting closer. He had to trust that none of his men
would give away their location. Living their lives close to nature, Picts
respected their environment and natural settings. They were well known for
blending into their surroundings, whether it be the woods, tall grass, or even
the rock. Bran had seen how some of the smaller men could find hiding places in
rock crevices where it did not appear possible.
The
Romans were close now. Bran raised his arm. His men’s eyes were on him. Almost
there. Now!
Bran
lowered his arm, and a flight of spears were loosed at the Romans. Two spears
barely missed Caius Dracus, who drew his gladius and yelled, “Ad Scutum
Clina! To your shield, turn!”
Arrows
rained down from the trees and onto the Romans, but most were deflected by the
large, curved rectangular shields. The shields were made of multiple layers of
wood glued together, and covered with leather and canvas, with a metal boss fixed
in the center.
“Testudo!”
Dracus shouted, instructing his men to create a tortoise formation of
interlocking shields in front and overhead, creating an almost impenetrable
shell.
The
Picts exhausted their arrows and rushed at the Romans with swords and axes,
screaming their war cries.
Bran
focused on only one man. The centurion was his. Bran ran down the slope,
picking up speed, aiming directly for Dracus. Bran leaped at the Roman and
knocked him from his horse as Dracus called out orders to his men. In the
impact, Dracus lost his short sword, and the force of Bran’s attack sent them
across the road and down the slope, locked together in a strong grip. They
tumbled down the incline, rolling faster and faster as nothing impeded their
descent, neither man releasing his opponent. They were still gripped together
when they landed in the swift-flowing river, which carried them along and away
from the battle. Now Dracus’s armor put him at a disadvantage, weighing him
down, but not much more than Bran’s mail shirt helped keep him underwater. Somewhere
before landing in the river, both warriors lost their weapons, and the two
fought hand-to-hand, trying to drown the other. The Pict managed to get behind
the Roman and wrapped his legs around the centurion’s torso, while his right
forearm clamped around the man’s throat. Dracus felt his vision grow dim until
the current threw them against a boulder in the river with resounding force.
Bran struck the rock with his head, and he lost his grip on the centurion. But
even this did not shake them apart. They sought each other's throats in hopes
of drowning their foe. At one point, Bran found himself being forced under the
water for a long time. Struggling against his opponent, he fought his way to the surface and gasped for air. The
pair went over two short waterfalls, but still they refused to break their hold
on their opponent. After a long, mortal struggle, they released one another,
choking and sputtering. The current slowed and thoroughly exhausted, they each
dragged themselves onto the riverbank, half-drowned and breathing heavy. They
lay upon the grassy sward about thirty feet apart, coughing up water and trying
to regain their breath. Finally, they each turned and glared at one another.
Slowly, they stood weaponless. Each read the hate in the other’s eyes. Neither
thought of their men left on the road nor of how they were faring. They were
too far away to care. Their only enemy was before them; that is all they knew
or cared about.
This
was Bran Mak Morn, Dracus surmised. He had heard stories of the Pictish king
and had been given a physical description. The man stood somewhat taller, and
his skin was a bit lighter than most of his people. His wet mop of dark hair
hung in his eyes. He was not as tall as Dracus, but compact, with a powerfully
built body, and the eyes that glared at Dracus were piercing with a visage set
like the hard, flinty stones of this country.
The
Pict faced his adversary in a crouching attack posture, every muscle tense, and
his lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral gesture.
Almost
casually, Dracus began taking off his armor. He removed his scarf, his curiass,
his belt and straps, and all his undergarments. His helmet was lost in the
river.
Bran
Mak Morn looked at the Roman curiously, nodded, then stripped off all his
clothes. The two warriors faced one another naked. They were both well-muscled,
but the Roman was a bit taller and had a longer reach. Dracus had been a
wrestling champion in Rome and was technically proficient. Bran had naturally grown
up wrestling, as did every boy of their clan, and was quite adept. The Picts'
form of wrestling was not as structured as Greco-Roman wrestling. Bran’s
advantage was his fierceness, a wild animal-like fierceness. There were no
rules and disciplines, there were no fouls, but this was a combat between two
warriors, and Bran would try to refrain from biting and eye-gouging if he
could.
“I
would wager you are Bran Mak Morn, King of the Picts,” Dracus said.
Bran
did not confirm or deny, but said, “And you are the centurion Caius Dracus of
the Twelfth Legion.”
Dracus
gave a brief bow, complimenting the Pict.
“I’d
like to know the source of your intelligence gathering,” the Roman said.
“A
Roman would not understand it. It is carried on the wind,” Bran said. “The
trees speak to us.”
Dracus
smiled at this. He knew he was about to engage with a savage, undisciplined,
and unsophisticated barbarian. Still, he had heard rumors of Black Bran, the
hereditary king of the Picts, and as king, he held some honor. Though, how much
honor could a barbarian have? Dracus crouched and approached his opponent
warily, his hands in motion, his fingers splayed.
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