Ken Lizzi's Blog, page 15

Announcing Semi-Autos and Sorcery 4: Silver and Bone. Plus Savage Journal Entry 32.

is time once again to shovel coal into the boiler and get the Publicity Express chugging out of the depot. Karl Thorson’s next adventure arrives March 7. With a sprinkling of Pirates of the Carribean and a dash of Die Hard on an oil rig there is plenty of action to keep you turning the pages.

If you are a reviewer, drop me a note.

The first three books, of course, remain available in print and digital from Aethon Books: Blood and Jade. Santa Anna’s Sword. Obsidian Owl. Audio editions are in the works. If you are a fan of fantasy action/adventure these are what you’re looking for.

If you like the stories, tell your friends, leave reviews. You know the drill. I’m always uncomfortable with marketing. But it is necessary.

Enough commerce: on to the next entry in Magnus Stoneslayer’s diary.

SAVAGE JOURNAL

ENTRY 32.

It was a good run, dear diary, but it couldn’t last. Unless a raiding band becomes an army itself it is fated to eventually succumb to an army. Interesting, I think. An outlaw organization feeds off a legitimate body politic until that body removes the parasite. The only way to avoid the excision is to transform from the illegitimate ��� an outlaw band, a chaotic nexus of violence ��� into one of the fundamental parts of the legitimate ��� an army, a nexus of controlled violence.

My mob of reavers wasn’t quite large enough for the transition, and I wasn’t interested in conquest and administration. Plunder and carousing still held too strong an attraction.

So I wasn’t greatly surprised to learn from my spies that an entire legion of Zantian soldiers was marching south to destroy us. My instinct was to scatter. Let every man take home a share of spoils and a lifetime of memories. These were desert raiders ��� wild, capricious. They weren’t soldiers. They could not stand against the Zantian legionaries.

But the mood of my men was defiant. I knew they were spoiling for a fight, whether I led them or not. Part of my rude barbaric code is loyalty ��� often haphazardly granted, but not discarded so long as the loyalty is reciprocated. I couldn’t run out on them.

So now I leave behind the remnants of a once feared band of wasteland brigands, dead, fleeing in disorganized groups, or skulking away in ones and twos. We made a fight of it, but as the day went on the soldiers’ discipline began to tell.

I performed prodigies of valor of course. But a blow on the head left me unconscious, half hidden between two dead horses, and the battle rolled on past me, becoming more a pursuit than a battle.

A savage adventurer takes these setbacks with equanimity. I’d had a good time while it lasted, and I was still alive.

I’ll put some miles between me and any Zantian patrols searching for survivors before I call it a night. I’ll lay down to sleep, dear diary, with an easy mind and a pleasant anticipation for what tomorrow might bring.

Magnus Stoneslayer

 

Setting and Sword-and-Sorcery. Plus Savage Journal Entry 31.

Location, location, location. Setting is a vital component of Sword-and-Sorcery fiction. The action needs to occur in some pre-industrial locale, a secondary world, a fictionalized fantasy Earth, another planet, or some similar backdrop. Somewhere, that is, where the sword is a viable weapon, rather than an antiquated prop. The sword is that evocative. A steel, iron, or bronze weapon, whether sword, axe, or spear (though the sword is most iconic) instantly tells the reader he’s not in the here and now, but in a time of raw immediacy.

A Western, even if complete with a supernatural element, a rogue of a protagonist, somewhat low stakes, and a violent conclusion wouldn’t be Sword-and-Sorcery. Sixguns, perhaps. Not Sword. The setting matters. Conan needs his “broadsword.” Fafhrd needs Graywand. The stories wouldn’t be the same if the men were armed with laser pistols. The ambience would be wrong. Not bad, necessarily, just wrong.

I wrote a series featuring a protagonist that I hoped could stand in the company of the likes of Conan, Brak, Fafhrd, etc. Karl Thorson possesses that level of competence, self-assurance, strength, and will power. As the setting is contemporary fantasy, his stories cannot be Sword-and-Sorcery, despite otherwise following the tropes and attempting to adhere to the overall feel of the genre. Thus I called the series Semi-Autos and Sorcery. As of March 7, the fourth volume, Silver and Bone, will be released by Aethon Books on Kindle. The print edition should follow soon. The other three are available in print and digital formats, with audiobooks in progress. If you’re interested in seeing how Karl Thorson stacks up to his peers in a parallel genre, please give his tales a try.

Meanwhile, here’s the next installment of Magnus Stoneslayer’s journal.

SAVAGE JOURNAL

ENTRY 31.

Illusion, dear diary, whether concocted by mummery or chemically, riles me. The latter, I think, can be the worst. The fever dreams and hallucinations incarnated by inhalation of spores of exotic jungle plants, or caused by scratching the skin with a blade coated in distillations of batrachian or ophidian secretions, or the like alchemical mischief can give rise to horrendous headaches, or stomach roiling nausea. The supernatural illusions tend to leave no lingering physical effects ��� provided you survive the illusion itself unscathed.

Some diabolical magicians employ both, like the mystic denizen of the lonely tower arising deep in the desert’s inhospitable empty quarter. He had spirited away a captive from one of my recent pillaging forays. I cannot abide someone kidnapping what I have rightly abducted. Besides, she was a sweet girl and it was my intent to keep her out of the clutches of my ruffians and send her back home ��� in good time. She must have held some allure for Malantiz as well, considering the trouble he took in sending his demonic familiar to steal her from my tent. My hand picked trackers quailed once we’d trailed the familiar far enough into the waste for the more experienced of them to deduce where the tracks were leading to. It took all of my considerable persuasive power to keep them from turning back. They agreed to wait a night and a day for my return.

I’ve led an eventful life thus far, but when regaling drinking companions in the future I will always recount that journey across the burning sands, and overcoming the guards, wards, and traps protecting Malantiz’s tower for my topper, my conversational end game. But my concern here is illusion, not the extraordinary tale itself. Another time perhaps.

High up in the tower, in one of the upper floors, I eased open a door and stepped into a room glittering and shimmering with light reflecting from dozens of triangular silver mirrors hung on silver threads at head height. My entrance caused them to begin to sway, and that, or some unseen tripwire triggered a cascade of sparkling dust from above. It was too late to hold my breath. All too soon I was battling demonic monstrosities vomited up from the very bowels of hell. Now unknown to me, at the far end of the room opened a hole in the floor, a pit descending far into the tower’s foundations, a killing drop. The illusionary devils should send any intruder panicking towards certain doom. Malantiz committed a fundamental oversight in failing to factor in the iron will of the barbarian swordsman. My dread of the supernatural is ingrained. But my inflexible will prevents that fear from becoming panic. At length the drug wore off, leaving my panting and sweating amidst a tangle of silver shards and wires.

Malantiz’s surprise at seeing me alive was short lived, ending simultaneously with his heartbeat. The girl’s gratitude at her rescue lasted considerably longer, dear diary. No illusion.��

Magnus Stoneslayer

 

The Web Log Takes a Sick Day. Plus Savage Journal Entry 29 and Bonus Savage Journal Entry 30.

Sadly I can’t even claim a hangover for this enforced downtime. I didn’t earn the brain-fogging misery through any sort of fun. So, a brief word from our sponsor (me), then enjoy two Savage Journal entries.

Pick up a copy of Thick As Thieves, my sword-and-sorcery/crime mashup. Also available from Amazon, or, I imagine, anywhere you can buy books online.

SAVAGE JOURNAL

ENTRY 29.

Treachery is a constant peril for a barbarian wanderer, dear diary. Location does not affect this basic truism: so long as other people are present, the savage swordsmen faces the risk of treachery.

Of course, some situations present a greater likelihood of a knife in the back than others. Take an outlaw band of desert reavers, for example. It is an unavoidable fact, dear diary, that the men attracted to the life of a wasteland marauder tend to be generally unpleasant people. Vicious cutthroats, most of them. And vicious cutthroats are not, as a rule, the most trustworthy associates.

(To be fair, I am not particularly genteel myself. But I am a barbarian adventurer and cannot be categorized and judged as other men.)

So I was not greatly surprised when one of my bandits attempted a sudden and violent usurpation of my leadership. I was feasting with my lieutenants, celebrating another successful raid with the lusty abandon of a barbarian. Wine slopped from plundered silver goblets. Teeth tore into tender lamp and split sweet, succulent dates. Dancing girls swayed seductively to the beat of drum and tambour.

Abdel Hazan, my chief lieutenant, leaned towards me, requesting my attention with a beckoning finger and a jovial grin that promised some jest in the offing. I turned his way and bent my head to better hear his jape. I caught the glint of candlelight on steel as a concealed dagger dropped from his wide sleeve into his treacherous hand. He drove the blade towards my throat.

Perhaps he thought I’d be slowed by wine. Perhaps too much time had passed since he’d witnessed my panther-like reflexes. Perhaps he’d consumed too much wine himself. Perhaps all of these.

He lived. I do not think that condition will last a great deal longer, since I had him stripped of his belongings and driven into the deep desert. Well, not stripped of all of his belongings ��� I left him with his breach clout. I’m not completely heartless dear diary.��

Magnus Stoneslayer

 

SAVAGE JOURNAL

ENTRY 30.

The wandering barbarian swordsman encounters all manner of people and cultures, and hence, dear diary, all manner of languages.�� Communication is always a concern.�� Luckily, I have a good ear and pick up new tongues rapidly.�� It also helps to be unusually large and heavily armed; people speak slowly and clearly to me, very anxious to not be misunderstood.�� This is quite beneficial to the neophyte speaker any given language.�� Also of some assistance is the usual cultural blending of adjoining geographic groups, the corresponding frequency of bilingual citizens, and the common (though by no means universal) similarity of neighboring tongues.����

So, I get by.

This comes as a surprise to many people.�� They see me, blatantly foreign and barbaric, and assume that I do not comprehend their language.�� They either speak slowly and loudly (as I have already noted) or they speak freely concerning me, under the delusion that I won’t understand a word.

The latter can at times work to my advantage.�� Take today, for instance.�� I was doing a bit of scouting, spying out in person a town I considered ripe for a raid.�� While the name Magnus is known in these parts ��� getting downright notorious, in fact ��� my face is still mostly anonymous.�� I posed as just another itinerant northern mercenary and sat in the common room of the village’s sole inn, soaking up wine and information.

The village headman entered, along with a couple of his cronies.�� He gave his name�� Usman Something Something Something, long at any rate ��� and added a sting of self-aggrandizing titles like Sun and Rain of the People, Father of the Village, and a slew more absurdities.�� I did not feign lack of interest.�� No dissimulation was required, I simply wasn’t interested in this puffed up politico.�� He took my lack of response for lack of comprehension and proceeded to disparage me as a ���muscle-headed militant mercenary moron��� and other such abuse.�� He seemed as fond of alliteration as he did the sound of his own voice.

My initial instinct was, of course, to demonstrate my knowledge of his language in a physical and graphic fashion.�� But while I am, as a barbarian, impulsive, I am not stupid.�� I turned and stared at a wall until he lost interest in me and began discussing with his associates their share of the tariff from the caravan expected later in the week.

I sincerely hope we don’t kill him when we raid this village later in the week.�� I truly want him to realize his mistake.�� Look, dear diary, a barbarian may be above gloating, but he does savor.

Magnus Stoneslayer

Bulfinch and Howard? Plus Savage Journal Entry 28.

I’ve been reading Thomas Bulfinch’s The Age of Chivalry. How many times and in how many versions have I encountered the deeds of King Arthur and his knights I couldn’r say. But the reason I bring up this book is that I encountered a couple of passages that brought Robert E. Howard to mind. Allow me to quote:

“The earliest inhabitants of Britain are supposed to have been a branch of that great family known in history by the designation of Celts. Cambria, which is a frequent name for Wales is thought to be derived from Cymri, the name which the Welsh traditions apply to an immigrant people who entered the island from the adjacent continent. This name is thought to be idenetical with those of Cimmerians and Cimbri, under which the Greek and Roman historians describe a barbarous people, who spread themselves from the north of the Euxine over the whole of Northwestern Europe.” (Pages 107-108.)

“But none to Cattraeth’s Vale return

Save Aeron brave, and Conan strong…” (Page 110.)

Those of you who’ve read Howard’s Conan tales will doubtless understand why these passages caught my eye.

Howard, from all evidence, was very well read. He may well have run across references to Cimmeria in any number of sources. And Conan was not exactly an unknown name. Yet it wouldn’t surprise me if Howard had read Bulfinch. Age of Chivalry was published in 1858, so it was likely available to him. Certainly the mythic relationship of Cimmeria to the Celts would have appealed to Howard.

I’m probably treading well-traveled ground here. But I wanted to mention it. And if I can’t mention something that interests me in my own web log, where can I?

I’d also like to mention that my books are available pretty much anywhere you purchase books online. Why not pick up a copy? Try, for example, Under Strange Suns. People seem to like it.

Now, on to Magnus Stoneslayer’s diary.

SAVAGE JOURNAL

ENTRY 28.

The ax is a tricky weapon to master, dear diary. It lacks the finesse and versatility of the sword. But what it does do it does very well. With all of the lethal weight concentrated at the far end of the shaft it is a top heavy and cumbersome weapon that requires precise timing to accurately strike a blow. If it is properly timed, all of the muscular strength of the wielder if focused, amplified, and delivered to one spot for a clean ��� well, all right ��� messy, kill. But if the wielder commits to the blow at the wrong moment he will be off balance and not only will he miss, but he will be improperly positioned for defense; there is no checking the swing once commenced in earnest.

Ax theory can also apply to the tactics employed by the leader of a band of desert raiders. Me, for example. I can feint and posture, but the decisive blow must be nicely calculated. My weapon here is of course figurative: my fierce desert warriors whose ranks are swelling with news of each successful raid I lead. My ax head just keeps growing and requiring more deliberation to employ effectively.

Today’s foray can prove illustrative. The Zantian Empire is stretching its influence south, encompassing the villages and walled towns that dot the desert fringe. The Empire claims that only its patrols can protect the settlements from the depredation of wild nomads and bandits. There is some truth to this assertion; I do have to account for the location of the Imperials before launching a raid.

I had intelligence of a reinforced patrol in the vicinity of the fortified settlement (more a jumped up caravansary enjoying a period of prosperity) that I intended to pillage. Now if I’d

simply gone bulling ahead, my raiders would be running amok through the streets, disorganized and leaderless when the Imperials came on the scene. I would have committed to the blow too early and would have thrown myself off balance, leaving my flank defenseless for a counter stroke.

Instead I feinted. I detached a couple dozen of my renegades to posture and threaten a town nearly a day’s journey east. Word reached me that the Imperials had bought the feint and were on the march. Then I committed to the blow and launched my sortie.

I’m sure the glow in the night sky from the town burning at my back has alerted the Imperial officer that he lost this contest, dear diary. I will sleep well tonight, enjoying the taste of plundered wine and victory.

Magnus Stoneslayer

First World Problems. Plus Savage Journal 27.

It seems the more you try to provide for yourself and your family the more difficulties arise. I suppose that’s logical enough: problems proliferate in proportion to possessions. The more you have, the more can go wrong. Not that I have all that much. But what I do have now is a swimming pool. Getting that put in proved interesting enough, but that’s another story.

The pool came with a Pentair Pump. The original pump installed was the high end, quiet-running pump. That one, however, was incompatible with the app that runs the pool: the lights, pump cycle, times, etc. So enter the next model down. A bit noisier, but not disturbingly so. The problem is the automated system, the app. After a couple of months of running smoothly, the Pentair Pump decided it no longer wishes to connect electronically. The “Link” light does nothing but flash red. So goodbye the daily running cycle. Goodbye control over the lights: colors, light shows, etc. I need to run the pump manually. The instructions tell me to turn off the power to the pump at the breaker box for ten seconds. Then I should be able to pick up the Pentair network on my cellphone. Alas, the blinking Link light begs to differ. Pentair has not been responsive to my emails, sadly.

I’ll figure something out eventually. In the meanwhile, the handle of one of the toilets has broken off. That I might be able to do something about. No inscrutable blinking red light to mock me. I could use a sense of control right now.

You know to whom this sort of problem would never happen? Karl Thorson. His adventures are much more interesting than mine. Read all about them.

And now, on to Savage Journal.

SAVAGE JOURNAL

ENTRY 27.

I am unable to determine which I find more revolting, dear diary: date wine or fermented camels’ milk. I cannot recommend either one. Both are cloying and nauseating. The saving grace of both is, of course, alcohol.

I may, perhaps, give the tie breaker to date wine, simply because that beverage does not require interaction with camels. Never have I encountered such obstreperous beasts. We employ primarily horses, swift desert steeds, as speed is everything in the raiding business. But we do maintain a small herd of camels. Despite the ugly temperaments and ungainly stride they are useful beasts of burden.

Many of my gaunt desert wolves are remarkably attached to these foul, shaggy brutes. They even compose poetry in praise of whatever superlative they claim to observe in animals that to me are simply more proof that the gods are cruel jokers. This evening, for example, one of my men, deep in a gourd of fermented camels’ milk, recited an ode to his favorite’s eyelashes. And received a favorable response from his auditors! Flushed with success he challenged me to provide a sample of northern verse and to let the camp judge between us.

Now, I am no versifier. This is not because I am a barbarian. I’ve met savage warriors gifted by the muses. I recall a great, redheaded fellow with the sweetest tenor you have ever heard, and he could split a skull with the best of them. And my inability is no reflection on my homeland; I’ve spent many nights in my youth listening to a skald chant long rhythmic sagas more than equal to a paean to a camel’s sticky eyelashes. My gifts simply do not extend to rhyme and meter. Still, I am chief and I must maintain a certain barbaric mystique to retain my position.

I stood, left arm raised in a pose of declamatory preparation. ���I think I shall never see a sight as lovely as this��� I intoned. Then I drew my broadsword and let the firelight play redly along the steel. I held that position until I was certain I’d got the point across. Then I drove the blade deep into the sand between the insubordinate poet’s legs, a hand’s breadth shy of the crotch of his baggy trousers.

My raiders, dear diary, in one voice acclaimed me the victor of the contest.

Magnus Stoneslayer

David Drake’s Thieves’ World Novel “Dagger.” Plus Savage Journal Entry 26.

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Thieves’ World was a remarkable achievement. The first few books, anyways, delivered some terrific stories, and the shared-world concept produced an outpouring of creativity. That included tie-in novels. Most people, I believe, gravitated toward Andrew Offutt’s Hanse Shadowspawn novel. I’m sure Janet Morris’ Tempus books had fans. The stories and novels offered us some fun new characters. But my favorite was Samlor hil Samt. (A name spell check despises.) Amongst all the thieves, warriors, demi-gods, and wizards, Samlor was just a merchant. A tough, stubborn, caravan master who merely wanted to do his job and do the right thing, take care of his family, and make a fair profit.

I thought I’d read all of the tie-in books. But happily, I discovered I was wrong, running across David Drake’s Samlor hil Samt novel Dagger in a used bookstore. I’m glad I did. However else would I have encountered a mashup of Sanctuary and the ancient Egyptian How Nefer-Ka-Ptah Found the Book of Thoth. (I wrote about that tale here.) Drake is also familiar with the legend of Apollonius of Tyana finding the mummy of Hermes Trismegistus gripping the magical Emerald Tablet. These two legends provide the foundation of the story. And it’s a good one.

We start in the Vulgar Unicorn, and it was good to see that dangerous dive again. Action moves out into the Maze and we encounter the worst of Sanctuary life, emphasizing that Samlor is visitor to Sanctuary, not a denizen. He’s more than happy to get out. When he does, we are essentially in a world grafted onto Thieve’s World. It could have been set anywhere, really. But by that point it doesn’t matter. We’re now in for a weird ride. You’ll either go with it, or the story will bounce off of you and leave you disappointed. In enjoyed it, though I have three criticisms. One: there extensive denouement seemed overly drawn out. The build up and payoff occurred fifty pages before The End. I understand why, narratively, this was necessary, but I think it could have been trimmed. Two: Drake can fall into over description. As a writer I understand that sometimes you get so fully into the scene that you want to describe precisely how something is held, how it feels, what adjustments must be made to perform an action, etc., etc. You have imagined it so fully that you want to clearly get across what you’d envisioned. And that can be great for immersion, to put the reader fully in the moment. But readers also want to know what happens next. It’s a balancing act. On the whole, Drake succeeds marvelously. Still, I noticed myself starting to breeze through certain paragraphs detailing certain mechanical actions in order to get on the results. Three: Drake clearly wants to use w Nefer-Ka-Ptah Found the Book of Thoth as a story-telling springboard. It works well enough in Thieve’s World, but it isn’t a natural fit or outgrowth. You can almost feel the shoehorn.

If you are a Thieve’s World fan, a David Drake fan, have an interest in Egyptology, or just like weird, spooky tales with some solid action scenes, then pick up Dagger.

Speaking of action, why not buy one of my action-laden books? Start with Blood and Jade, book one of Semi-Autos and Sorcery.

And now let’s catch up with Magnus Stoneslayer.

SAVAGE JOURNAL

ENTRY 26.

Outlaw life affords a substantial amount of freedom, dear diary. Not saddled by the twin burdens of responsibility and routine, outlaws eat when they please, sleep when they please, carouse and wench when the opportunity presents. Military discipline is a foreign concept to them. Rising before dawn to attend to husbandry or agriculture is for the farmers whose settlements they periodically raid. Commerce is for the caravan masters and intrepid merchants whose goods they plunder. No cares, no thoughts of tomorrow.

So, dear diary, the leader of such outlaws must be the most carefree and unhindered of all, right? Wrong. When no one undertakes responsibility, when no one concerns himself with routine, the outlaw band starves. Or is taken by surprise by a military patrol. Or dissolves as boredom, or hunger, or thirst takes its toll.

Seeing to it that a hundred shiftless wastrels are regularly fed ��� in the desert ��� takes some doing. Demanding that a couple of armed, professional malcontents give up a night’s sleep to stand watch is a daily ordeal of intimidating and browbeating nascent mutineers into compliance.

I have to run what amounts to a combination intelligence service and organized crime syndicate (the difference, I’m cynical enough to posit, equivalent to that between pirate and privateer.) Scouts in the field and spies in village and caravansary must be coddled, bribed, and threatened for information about potential targets. Town elders must be extorted; it is simpler to run a protection racket for regular supplies of millet, dates, mutton, and wine than it is to mount a full scale raid every time the larder runs dry.

I’m a busy man. And I’m enjoying every minute of it, dear diary.

Magnus Stoneslayer

 

Top Five Hollywood Film Sword Fights. Plus Savage Journal 25

I’m going to point out the cheat right away instead of hiding it at the end. Limiting this to Hollywood films eliminates any number of terrific sword fights from foreign films. No Japanese samurai epics. No Polish saber duels. Etc. And — here comes perhaps an even bigger cheat — I’m limiting this to films I happen to own copies of. Pretty convenient for me. I don’t have to decide, for example, if The Duelist beats out any of the films I’ve chosen, and, if so, which fight therein would get the nod. So, let me get on with my much simplified task. Drop me a note with your own suggestions, criticism of my choices, or related obloquy and calumny.

I’ve set no particular order, so I begin arbitrarily with #1:��The Three Musketeers: The Queen’s Diamonds. I’m choosing the fight in the convent courtyard. I could pick almost anyone from either this film or The Four Musketeers: Milady’s Revenge. They are all brilliant and entertaining. But the convent fight encapsulates what makes the sword fights in these films so great: creativity, humor, tension, acrobatics, yet all the while conveying a sense of immediacy and realism.

#2. Conan the Barbarian. One could go with the wonderful extended sequence of “rescuing” the princess from Thulsa Doom’s pleasure chambers, with that exquisite soundtrack. But I’ve selected the fight near the end between Conan and Rexor. There is admittedly a dearth of masterful swordplay in this sequence. The two men appear rather slow and clumsy if viewed a certain way. But what that allows is a clear, blow-by-blow exchange, each swing of the sword given time to be appreciated. The choreography plays up the visceral power of the two antagonists and allows us to feel the pathos and rage of each man. Remember, Rexor may be the bad guy, but Conan had just killed his son (in a memorably horrific fashion.)

#3. The Princess Bride. Sure, the duel between the Man in Black and Inigo Montoya is on everyone’s list. But there’s a reason for that. It is by no means realistic. It is pure theater, fencing as spectacle, as dance. But for what it is, it’s glorious. It is the apotheosis of the fencing choreographer’s art. If watching it doesn’t put a smile on your face, check your pulse.

#4. Highlander. There had to be one, right? I suppose most would pick the climatic duel between Macleod and the Kurgan. But my preference is the first fight, between Macleod and Fasil in the parking lot. I love the sweeping camera movement contrasted with the constraints of the parking lot, the acrobatics, the contrast of two entirely different types of blades, the improvisation, the running fight, the hide-and-seek suspense. Plus, it’s the first one, setting the tone for the film. Though it does lack an anthemic Queen song.

#5. The Fellowship of the Rings. Aragorn vs. Lurtz. After all these elaborate, entertaining duels, here is one I appreciate for its abbreviated brutality. It is long enough to generate tension, but eschews extensive thrust-parry-riposte routines and gets right down to one opponent hacking another to pieces as efficiently as possible.

That’s my list. What do you think?

I’ve written plenty of sword fights. Many appear in short stories, notably the Cesar the Bravo tales. Then there’s the swashbuckling in Escapement and Resource, a couple of other, unconnected stories. I can help you locate any of these if you’re interested. Or check out my��Falchion’s Company series. Even Thick As Thieves contains a bit of swordplay.

Okay, that’s the end of advertising. Now, on to the next entry in Magnus Stoneslayer’s diary.

SAVAGE JOURNAL

ENTRY 25.

The most challenging days can often wind up the most rewarding, dear diary. Any challenge, any obstacle can be overcome. Approaching adversity with the proper confident attitude is the first step, and confidence is not something I’ve ever lacked.

Confidence, as I’ve stated, is the essential foundation. But without the knowledge, skill set, and competence necessary to justify that confidence, one is more likely than not to quickly become a corpse with a baffled expression.

Knowledge, then, is a useful thing. As a barbarian I can often succeed on instinct and natural ability alone. As I age, however, my growing store of knowledge proves more and more indispensable. Today provides a good example. Reaching even my threshold of dehydration, I staggered gratefully into a small oasis, a pleasant stroke of luck. The oasis happened to be the temporary bivouac of a band of desert raiders, a not so pleasant stroke of luck. This was a decided obstacle. A challenge. Despite my thirst my confident remained unshaken. It only remained to deploy knowledge.

One of the important facts I’ve gathered is that outlaw organizations ��� bandits, pirates, marauding hordes ��� all hold to the same simple rule: if you are strong enough to best the leader you become the leader. It’s natural law, pack law, something a barbarian understands in his very bones. (I’m not so sure I like this correlation between the outlaw band and the barbarian tribe, dear diary. But I will set that aside for now.)

So, of course, I challenged the raider’s chief. Ragged, parched, and chapped from desert exposure, I did not, perhaps, look my most formidable. The chieftain ��� a big brute sporting an eye patch ��� certainly accepted my challenge lightly enough. He came at me with confidence. But he lacked the knowledge, the skill set, and the competence to overcome the challenge. It was his last mistake.

Thus, dear diary, after starting the day on the verge of death, I find myself leading a ferocious band of desert warriors. I cannot laud too highly the confident attitude. In that spirit, I confidently wish you a good night.

Magnus Stoneslayer

 

Some Thoughts on The Witcher. Plus Savage Journal Entry 24.

I finished Andrzej Sapkowski’s Witcher series a little while back. I’ve had a bit of time then to ponder the Work. (Eight books: that earns a capital w “Work.”) I haven’t played the games. I did, rather absent-mindedly, watch the two years of the Netflix series. And I’ve flipped through a few of the comic books. Sorry to anyone reading this who assumed this would be yet another commentary on the Henry Cavill drama. Don’t cavil about it; read on.

It is, I think, important to note that The Witcher commenced as a short story, and its early existence was a continuation of that, consisting of loosely linked short stories that were later collected in the first two volumes of the series. Sapkowski did not, therefore (so far as I know), have a fully mapped out saga to tell when he started writing. Therein, ��I think, lies one of issues I have with the Work. But let me get to that later.

Praise is probably due before grousing. Even before that, however, let me offer categorization. I think the first two books could qualify as sword-and-sorcery. (If you are interested in how I classify something as S&S, click here.) The remainder, I think, could be considered epic Grimdark. Sapkowski doesn’t spare the grisly details, the filth, the profanity, or the sex. Nor does he spare the characters; many who appeared in early volumes, or are given substantial page time in later volumes, don’t survive the last book.

Sapkowski is a gifted dialog writer. Or his English-language translator is a superlative dialog writer. I don’t speak Polish so am unqualified to say. We’ll assume from here on that the contents (for good or ill) are all Sapkowski’s responsibility. There is a great deal of humor and levity. The leisurely pace of the Work allows plenty of time for digressions, for full descriptions of meals, for characterization spooled out over multiple volumes. It doesn’t drag. It doesn’t suffer from Jordanitis. (With apologies to Wheel of Time fans.) Even the despicable characters are worth spending time with, and I didn’t mind lengthy conversations and descriptions of travel and stays at inns, waiting for the next action scene.

There is plenty of action. Sapkowski seems to know when it is time (metaphorically) for someone holding a gun to kick in the door. But here we get to some criticisms. The Work is extremely episodic. It is incident piled on incident. And that gets back to the issue I adverted to earlier. I don’t think he knew where he was going with the story. Complication adds to complication. More and more characters, intrigues, plots, and sub-plots get added. Prophecies multiply. All this has the virtue of increasing tension, raising the stakes, and maintaining suspense. Yet I received the impression that Sapkowski was plotting by the seat of his pants, because even after finishing the series, I’m not entirely sure what happened. How did that entire “chosen one” prophecy ultimately pan-out? There seems a plethora of sub-plots left unresolved.

This may partially be my fault, due to the manner in which I consumed the Work: audiobook. You really can’t flip back a few pages to review a point, to clarify an issue, or recall a character or place name. While I’m generally capable of concentration and immersion while driving or working out, there remain distractions. So I might have missed some vital clues. The lack of resolution might also (in fact I tend to believe this) have been intentional. Sapkowski is highlighting free will, the uncertainty of the future, the inevitable results of everyone having his own agenda. Or perhaps he’s just flipping the bird at fantasy literature conventions. Whatever the reason, I found the end a rather convoluted mess, even with the psuedo-Arthurian, partially tragic, partially happy ending.

I could also have done without Sapkowski’s occasional interjection of his politics. But thankfully he kept that to a minimum, if we use much of contemporary fantasy writing as our yardstick of comparison.

Did I like it? On balance, yes. If I were to push a Grimdark epic into prominence, it wouldn’t have been The Witcher. I’d give the nod to Steven Erikson or Joe Abercrombie. (Respectively The Malazan Book of the Fallen��(including Ian C. Esslemont’s contributions) and The First Law Trilogy (and related works.)) But I don’t regret the time I invested in the story of Geralt, Yennefer, and Ciri.

And I don’t think you’d regret the time invested in my Semi-Autos and Sorcery series. I’m expecting to get a look at the cover of the fourth book soon.

Ready for the next installment of Magnus Stoneslayer’s diary? Here you go.

SAVAGE JOURNAL

ENTRY 24.

Tell someone ���don’t think about an elephant,��� dear diary, and you can be certain that the first image lumbering through his mind is a slowly pacing pachyderm. So you can imagine my difficulty when I direct myself to avoid thinking of water.

The desert and a sadly depleted water skin are a troublesome combination. Either one severally is a challenge. Jointly they spell thirst ��� debilitating, tongue thickening, dry mouthed thirst.

Of course, I was born for this. No, not the desert; I’m a northerner, born to cold climes. By ���born for this��� dear diary, I mean I’m a barbarian, equipped by nature to deal with climatic adversity, to survive the elements even at their most brutal. My skin has long since taken on a permanent ruddy bronze. With a makeshift kaffiyeh shading my face I can tolerate prolonged solar exposure that would crisp a civilized man like a beetle in a furnace. I continue to trudge along, mile after steady mile, long after lesser men would have dropped ��� just empty, waterless husks soon stripped to bare, sun bleached bone.

That is simply the way of it. Inserted into an unfamiliar environment with which I’ve no experience ���swamp, jungle, desert ��� I instinctively adapt. I’ll survive this sandy waste on a diet of lizards and scorpions. I’ll catch an adder and quench my thirst with its blood as if it were a cooling draft of spring water, drained gulp after gulp from a silver chalice, beaded with condensation.

Look, it is not easy to avoid thinking of thirst when so fundamentally parched. I have a will of iron and powerful self-control, both mental and physical. Still, given enough time and duress, the strongest self-control will slowly give way and eventually collapse like a dam springing one leak, then another…

Stop. Enough. It is time to rest or a few brief hours before continuing in the pre-dawn starlight, when the desert is as cool as a deep mountain tarn…

Until tomorrow, dear diary.

Magnus Stoneslayer

 

 

Down in New Orleans. Plus Savage Journal Entry 23.

A couple days after Christmas I drove MBW and the HA to New Orleans. It is about a 5 1/2 hour trip from Fortress Lizzi. Not bad, really, especially if you enjoy views of massive oil refineries and bayous.

Neither MBW nor the HA had visited the Big Easy before. This was my fifth or sixth trip. So there wasn’t really anything I felt compelled to do. Traveling with children does require a bit of reconfiguring of the traditional New Orleans jaunt. In other words, there was a noticeable absence of lasseiz les bon temps rouler. That’s okay. I’ve done Bourbon street more than once. Unfortunately, both the aquarium and the zoo were closed. We made do with trips to a playground at the Audubon Park, the Children’s Museum, and a paddle-wheeler trip down the mighty Mississippi.

I ate gumbo and was content.

I’ll drop some photos here then move on to the next entry in Magnus Stoneslayer’s diary. Any of you still reading that? But, before I do, please consider picking up one of my books. (I don’t even want to look at my bank account after that New Orleans trip.) If you’d like a suggestion, then how about Under Strange Suns? I need just a few more Amazon reviews for that one. I’m so close to the magic number for the Amazon automated marketing to kick in.

SAVAGE JOURNAL

ENTRY 23.

��

Just once, dear diary, I’d like to complete a journey with my loot intact. It is invariable: I’ll successfully conclude some hazardous escapade and ride off with a fat, jingling purse of gold or a small cask brimming with glittering diamonds, and somewhere along the road to my destination I’ll be parted from my hard gained booty. Infuriating!

It’s the same with women. I do quite a bit of rescuing the fair sex. It is seldom my intent at the commencement of one of my labors, but women, usually facing some life threating peril, frequently become embroiled. They are almost always grateful. They happily ride away with me and the loot.

And then both vanish.

I suppose I should have expected that my departure from Bandahar would prove no different. Yes, dear diary, the slave girl delivered from cruel edge of the sacrificial knife ��� gone. The fortune lifted from Haakon the Fence’s storehouse ��� gone. My string of remounts and pack animals ��� gone.

I’m leading a horse that is stumbling with exhaustion and sporting an arrow in its haunch like a second tail. I have a quarter-full skin of water. The pannier that once held provisions hemorrhaged food along unknown miles of gradually worsening terrain from a sword cut low on its side. I’m a bit tired myself from the running fight that occupied most of the day.

My pursuers have at last given over the chase, content to let the arid wasteland opening up before me finish their work. The girl? She seemed remarkably unsurprised by the sudden appearance this morning of a score of ragged light cavalry. She appeared somewhat less anxious to mount up and flee then circumstances would appear to warrant. Still, I hesitated a moment, giving her the benefit of the doubt as my barbaric sense of chivalry demanded.

Then she called the reavers’ leader by name. I leapt into the saddle and cut my way free of the tightening circle of horsemen.

As I said, infuriating. And yet, dear diary, I feel a certain freedom, a sense that all is as it should be. And that is a good feeling to hold until tomorrow, dear diary.

Magnus Stoneslayer

A Christmas in Lankhmar.

The braziers in the Silver Eel could not press back the cold. So the tall swordsman and the small fought the chill with tankards of fiery red wine brought by Braggi, the tavern-master, who served his customers — the only two enduring the late hour and the cold — with a brusque efficiency.

“What is that I hear, Fafhrd?” asked the small, gray-clad man, one hand grasping the handle of his tankard, the other playing with the hilt of his dagger, Cat’s Claw. “Something tinkles, disturbing the silence of the night.”

“The clamor of your brain, Mouser,” replied the big northern barbarian. “It seldom lets you appreciate quiet.”

“Nay, oaf, listen.”

An almost musical jingling penetrated the Silver Eel from the street above. Sharing a brief glance, the twain arose and climbed up the steps. Facing the chill without complaint, they watched an astonishing apparition appear in the sky: a red sleigh flying through the gelid fogs of Lankhmar, drawn — or so it seemed — by deer, who’s harness jingled as their hoofs trod the sky. The sleigh slewed about and came down for a landing, runners crunching against the rime of ice frosting the cobbles. A stout, white-bearded man dressed in fur-accented red hauled back on the reins.

“One of yours?” The Gray Mouser asked. “He looks to have come from the Cold Waste. A relative, perhaps?”

“I know him not. None from Cold Circle would wear red; much too visible against the snow.”

“Verily. And had you such wonderful magic devices in the north, you’d never have journeyed to civilization. Perhaps then he is one of the gods in Lankhmar?”

“Certainly not one of the gods of Lankhmar. But observe, little companion, the bulk of that sack occupying the rear of the magical conveyance.”

“Loot?”

“Booty,” Fafhrd confirmed.

“It strikes me, oversize companion, that the guardian of such a sack might appreciate a tankard of something warming on a night such as this.”

“A tankard to be drunk out of sight of sleigh, beasts, and bag.”

As the twain spoke, the rotund old gentleman leapt with surprising dexterity from his sleigh. With black-booted strides he approached.

“Ho ho,” he ejaculated, “you rascals. I have a suspicion this world is not Narnia.”

“No, my good fellow,” The Gray Mouser said. “Newhon.”

“Newhon? These Bubbles get ever more confusing. And yet, I do have business in Newhon this night.”

“Bubbles?” asked The Mouser asked, intrigued despite himself. “Come within, let us discourse on worlds and Bubbles. Let me buy you a tipple of something warming while you regain your bearings.”

“Wellll,” the red-suited man temporized. “I suppose the reindeer could use a breather.”

“Reindeer, you say,” quoth Fafhrd. “Allow me to scrounge up some feed, whilst you take your repose, sir.”

“A good deed,” the man said. “You may call me Claus. They will eat most anything, but they are particularly fond of carrots.”

Fafhrd nodded, then moved sure-footedly across the ice. As Mouser led the newcomer downstairs, he overheard Claus ask, “Have you been good?”

“Good?” came The Gray Mouser’s rejoinder, “in what fashion? Concerning wine, women, and weapons I have been good. Exceptional one might say. Now, in a metaphysical, not to say moral sense…”

Fafhrd chuckled, approaching the sleigh. The reindeer snorted. Fafhrd kept to the rear of the train, away from the animals. He sprang up into the driver’s seat, then turned his attention to the enormous sack. What treasure might it conceal?

He leaned over the partition between front and rear of the sleigh, worked both hands around the soft, velvety material, getting a firm grip. He heaved. And the sack heaved back. Fafhrd found himself pulled off balance. He let go, returning to his starting position. He frowned. He’d not allow some puffed-up satchel to outmuscle him. This time he knelt. He tested his grip, braced, then pulled. He might as well have attempted to pull free an elephant’s trunk. And yet he hauled grimly on the sack.

The next thing Fafhrd knew, he was lying flat on his back, feeling the cold seep up from the iced cobbles. The sack sprawled atop him, pressing him down in a smothering embrace. He fought, pushing at it. Yet it merely yielded where he pushed, pressing down inexorably everywhere else. He could hear the reindeer snorting and stomping on the street.

“You two,” sounded Claus’ voice, as Fafhrd’s struggles grew more and more feeble, “are on the naughty list.”

The pressure vanished, as Claus, with one hand, raised the sack and deposited it in the back of the sleigh.

The Gray Mouser helped his companion arise. The two watched as Claus sprang nimbly into the sleigh and shook and the reins. The sleigh rose from the street and circled over the heads of the twain, heading east.

They heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight, “Coal for Ningauble, and for Sheelba, anthracite.”

 

With apologies to the great Fritz Leiber.

I suppose a Savage Journal hiatus is appropriate today. It will return next week. But I can’t end without a word from our sponsor, me: Buy one of my books, please. People seem to like them.

Merry Christmas.