Reverent Chandler is by far the most violent and most racist thing I have ever written. It is my tribute to Robert E. Howard, and I would truly appreciate it if you bought a copy for some liberal, who I assure you will have nightmares after reading it.

The last warband of the Nord Clans has descended the Mud River for the Final Cull. But they alone gather at the Place Reverent. The Sark Clans have failed to glide downriver from the rocky west. The Cumber Clans have not come stalking out of the forested east. Only the enemy, foul, arrogant and teeming, have arrived at the Place Reverent, leaving not a man, woman or child alive. Only Reverent Chandler survives, maimed and staked by the Papas, the last seer of the Nords south of Broodhome, to where he must be conveyed in haste to speak with Reverent Arbor, last of his pondering line. As winter falls, and the remorseless ice-choked current bedevils them, the last warriors of their kind must ascend the accursed river of their foes, one final time, where once, in the time of their fathers, the first warriors of their kind had descended in triumph.