Books published by publisher Robert E. Howard

Annancy or Anansi, is a character in Jamaican Folk Tales of in Africa Origin. In the tradition of Briar Rabbit in South, or the Coyote character of Native American folk lore, Annancy is a spider with human and supernatural characteristics who has adventures (and miss-adventures) with a Animals, People, Supernatural Creatures, Kings and Queens! Pamela Colman Smith illuminates this book both with her insightful wit and charming illustrations. This book contains over sixty unique drawings from the same artist who illustrated the most popular Tarot deck of all time (The Rider-Waite Tarot Deck).Stories Include :•Annancy and Chim-Chim.•De Man An' De Six Poach Eggs.•Why Toad Walk 'Pon Four Leg.•Annancy An' Tiger Ridin' Horse.•Mr. Titman.•Why John Crow Hab Peel Head.•Candoo.•Mother Calbee.•How Annancy Win De Five Dubbloon.•Morass.•Annancy And Gingy Fly.•How Annancy Went To Fish Country.•Haylefayly An' Pretty Peallope.•Paarat, Tiger An' Annancy.•Bull-Garshananee.•Annancy An' De Nyam Hills.•Ticky-Picky Boom-Boom.•De Golden Water, De Singin' Tree An De Talkin' Bird.•How Annancy Fooled Death.•The Three Sisters.•Annancy And Dry Kull; Or, Why Hog Hab a Long Mouth.•Dog An' De Duckanoo.

"Taramis, queen of Khauran, awakened from a dream-haunted slumber to a silence that seemed more like the stillness of nighted catacombs than the normal quiet of a sleeping place. She lay staring into the darkness, wondering why the candles in their golden candelabra had gone out. A flecking of stars marked a gold-barred casement that lent no illumination to the interior of the chamber. But as Taramis lay there, she became aware of a spot of radiance glowing in the darkness before her. She watched, puzzled. It grew and its intensity deepened as it expanded, a widening disk of lurid light hovering against the dark velvet hangings of the opposite wall. . ."

The cliffs rose sheer from the jungle, towering ramparts of stone that glinted jade–blue and dull crimson in the rising sun, and curved away and away to east and west above the waving emerald ocean of fronds and leaves. It looked insurmountable, that giant palisade with its sheer curtains of solid rock in which bits of quartz winked dazzlingly in the sunlight. But the man who was working his tedious way upward was already halfway to the top. He came of a race of hillmen, accustomed to scaling forbidding crags, and he was a man of unusual strength and agility. His only garment was a pair of short red silk breeks, and his sandals were slung to his back, out of his way, as were his sword and dagger.

The king of Vendhya was dying. Through the hot, stifling night the temple gongs boomed and the conchs roared. Their clamor was a faint echo in the gold–domed chamber where Bunda Chand struggled on the velvet–cushioned dais. Beads of sweat glistened on his dark skin; his fingers twisted the gold–worked fabric beneath him. He was young; no spear had touched him, no poison lurked in his wine. But his veins stood out like blue cords on his temples, and his eyes dilated with the nearness of death. Trembling slave–girls knelt at the foot of the dais, and leaning down to him, watching him with passionate intensity, was his sister, the Devi Yasmina. With her was the wazam, a noble grown old in the royal court.