Ken Lizzi's Blog, page 44

Anthologies: Warlocks and Warriors, Emphasis on the Warlocks.

This one is a gem. And take a look at that cover. Interestingly, it promises cover-to-cover hand-to-hand combat, but while there is plenty of sword-swinging in this Sword-and-Sorcery anthology, the emphasis is on the sorcery. Perhaps that theme is hinted at in the title��Warlocks and Warriors, giving precedence to the Warlocks. The supernatural takes center stage in this collection, from sorcerers, to the undead, from demi-gods to druids.

L. Sprague de Camp��compiled this one. Unlike his sidekick and serial anthologizer, Lin Carter, he did not take the opportunity to include one of his own stories. I rather regret that, but the talent lineup herein is compensation enough. Heavy hitters. Rock stars. Pick your analogy, it���s probably apt. I���m not going to hide my verdict until the end. If you don���t already have a copy of this on your shelves, snag one at the first opportunity.

You���d expect a big name to lead off the anthology. You���d be wrong. A writer by the name of Ray Capella gets the honors. I���m not familiar with him beyond his story here,��Turutal. Capella apparently wrote a series of stories set in Robert E. Howard���s Hyborian Age, featuring his own hero, Arquel. I rather doubt you could get away with that now, without a license from the owners of the Conan franchise. The 1960s were another time. Anyhow, this is a solid, Howardesque story, featuring a band of mercenaries and Arquel facing off against a Stygian sorcerer and a tribe of undead pygmies. The sorcerer is sufficiently potent. He���s not what you might expect, he���s more of a direct action spell-slinger, a D&D style magic user rather than the sort of thaumaturge who requires hours of chanting and a blood sacrifice. He presents enough of a threat and an obstacle to keep the action going. It was nice to find an enjoyable story from an unfamiliar name.

De Camp did not include himself in the anthology, but he made room for��Lin Carter. Carter���s story is admittedly styled after the stories of Lord Dunsany. And you���ll get a chance later on to make a direct comparison.��The Gods of Niom Parma��is actually a charming, well-written fable featuring a squabbling pantheon of gods, and the results of one their number taking on human form to settle the argument. No sword swinging at all, in this one. It is instead a whimsical tale of the supernatural experiencing the natural. I liked it.

The action picks up dramatically in the next of the stories, one of��REH���s��Solomon Kane stories,��The Hills of the Dead. One of my favorites. Here you have our stalwart hero facing off against waves of vampires, aided by his blood brother, the shaman/witch doctor N���Longa. It is always a pleasure to revisit that bloody-handed, dour puritan. I doubt I need say any more on the subject.

Henry Kuttner���s��Elak is featured in the next story,��Thunder in the Dawn.��This is a novella, that keeps the action going from the first scene all the way through. Kuttner is sometimes regarded as rather a lightweight in the field. It is true that the prose flags at times, or lacks the scintillation of, say, Vance, and the combination of Druids, Vikings, and Atlantis might seem a trifle odd. But it works. The prose might flag but the story never does. This is adventure fiction after all, and Kuttner offers it in spades. There is magic galore, moving the plot along, threatening and rescuing our heroes. We have a Druid���s magic squared off against that of an Elf. We have some sort of pan-dimensional death god, scrying, magical gales at sea, lighting bolts and fireballs. (Tell me someone, is Dalan the archetype of the D&D Druid?) The point is, the story is rip-roaring fun.

Somewhat unfortunately for Kuttner, he is followed by��Fritz Leiber. I mean to speak no ill of Kuttner���s talent. Most anyone���s prose would be diminished in comparison with Leiber���s.��Thieve���s House��is one of the iconic tales of Fafhrd and The Gray Mouser. I���ve always been partial to the stories set in the city of Lankhmar, and this one never disappoints. It is somewhat of a ghost story, if you swap out ghosts for animate skeletons. Leiber keeps the tension high, the dialog witty, and the prose sparkling. But, you know all that.

Back to back classics.��C.L. Moore��(Henry Kuttner���s wife, if you didn���t already know) is next with the first Jirel of Joiry story,��Black God���s Kiss. To appreciate this story, it helps to put yourself in the same frame of mind as you would to read an H.P. Lovecraft tale. The work is rather a mood piece, with impressions and psychic revelations taking the place of visual description. Nothing is fully explained. Much of the yarn feels dreamlike, unreal. If you want to know exactly what it is that the extra-dimensional tunnel beneath Jirel���s castle actually leads to, who those beings are who exist in that space, and how they interact with our world, then you���re on your own. Moore isn���t interested in those questions. Much of the story exists in what isn���t written. I suppose there is some Post-graduate paper to be written on the psychology of Jirel of Joiry, but frankly, I wouldn���t want to read it. I���d rather read the story, and let myself be moved about by the weird imagery.

Remember the Lin Carter story? Next up is��Lord Dunsany���s��whimsical fable��Chu-Bu and Sheemish.��Consider it a sort of palate cleanser, an amusing sorbet before getting on to a meatier story. It is a brief, charmingly written tale of ineffectual, petty gods. I���ve always liked this one.

The great ones keep rolling in this. I mentioned it is a gem of an anthology, didn���t I? Next up is��Clark Ashton Smith��with one of his Zothique stories,��The Master of the Crabs. If you are fond of Vance���s Dying Earth stories, you���ll feel right at home here with this story told by an apprentice wizard of his journey accompanying his master across the sea in pursuit of a rival wizard. Smith, Vance, and Leiber are the three great stylists of the genre. This story is a bit more straightforward than many of Smith���s other stories, but that doesn���t mean it isn���t written with his characteristic elegance and expert use of the archaic and sesquipedalian. A good story. One of those in which the Sorcerers are also the Swordsmen.

H.G. Wells��is rather the odd man out in this collection. He isn���t known for S&S, and you may quibble as to whether or not��The Valley of the Spiders��qualifies as such. I���d hazard that it does, as swords do appear and the threat faced does seem to have some sort of supernatural origin. Everything about the story is kept deliberately vague, from the three main characters, who go nameless, to the location of the setting. It is, I think, mostly a brief character study, considering bravery, class, and status. It is fine, but probably the weakest of the stories.

Last comes��Roger Zelazny. His Dilvish the Damned is one of those S&S characters, like Elric, who is both a swordsman and a sorcerer, which fits in with the apparent theme of the anthology.��The Bells of Shoredan��follows Dilvish on a quest to summon a supernatural army to come to the aid of a besieged city (think the scrubbing bubbles from the film version of��Return of the King.) Dilvish faces supernatural perils, and fights them both with his own demonic magic and with the sword. I liked the story, but I found the mannered style a bit off-putting, with the ���and then did he��� phrasing. But it works, once you allow yourself to grow accustomed to it.

An excellent anthology. It would be hard to top this one.

Shifting to another topic, the cover artist of my novel��Under Strange Suns��is selling t-shirts based on the art.

 

 

They look pretty good, don���t you think? If you liked the book, or just want a cool looking shirt, contact him at his��website��and pick one up.

A Weekend at the Cabin Means a Snippet Day.

I spent the weekend at a forested cabin on a riverbank. A cabin weekend means relaxation. I did get some work done on the third Karl Throson novel, but otherwise the time was dedicated to playing board and card games, reading, strolling about a bit, and relaxing. That means the Sunday afternoon at home is full of chores, limiting time to write a post. So, instead, here are some pictures and a bonus snippet from my hybrid Sword-and-Sorcery/crime novel��Thick As Thieves. Enjoy.

Glum Arent greeted the sun climbing near to noon. He woke in his cubby hole of a room in the cloisters of the Fullers Brotherhood. The Brotherhood had begun as a monastic order devoted to solitary contemplation, so the structures within their walled grounds held numerous private cells, more than the Brothers knew what to do with after the sect���s conversion to a proselytizing faith premised upon achieving unity through shared meals. Fellowship through Feasting, the Brothers called it, and the members of the order now spent most of their time catering. That freed up a lot of space and the Fullers��� abbot allowed Glum a room in exchange for the odd bit of copying, mostly recipes.

Glum snagged a bread roll and a cold slice of ham from one of the refectory kitchens. Breakfast leftovers. Food never presented a problem in the cloisters of the Fullers Brotherhood. Meals weren���t part of his arrangement with the abbot, but no one seemed to mind if he helped himself to leftovers now and again.

He���d endured worse hangovers. Cutting out of Shib���s early and the long walk home seemed to have forestalled the more typical aftermath. The food and a pottery mug of cloister-brewed ale took the edge off. Glum felt ready to face the day.

He dug the purse from its concealment beneath his tunic, counted out the take from last night���s rounds. He���d done well. The tale of the Battle of Shib���s Tavern proved popular, Cester Bailick Faren���s personal involvement and evident culpability intrigued a few night owls.

Glum figured he���d wrung what he could from the raw information. He began compiling mental notes for a poetic depiction, an epic in verse commemorating the battle. Something to occupy his pen that evening at Shib���s tavern. Maybe talk Shib into sponsoring a recitation, or at least standing him a few free rounds for the publicity.

The letdown was his description of the necklace Trader Vawn wore, the Panaegic Periapt. His tale met mostly with inscrutable masks. Glum figured his auditors did not want to let on how intrigued they were. A few���young, low ranking priests of some of the charity oriented religions���had listened with skepticism or outright derision. Probably too junior to have heard rumors of the Periapt���s power. In all, disappointing.

Glum made his way out on to the street. The paving fronting the cloister of the Fullers consisted of worn cobbles decades past due for maintenance. Glum wasn���t sure what was more dangerous: the cobbles slick with rain or the ankle catching gaps where a potentially rain slick cobble ought to be. At least it was still dry out. The rains weren���t due for at least a month.

Priests��� Promenade bustled with midday worshippers and the usual assortment of ecclesiastics, proselytizers, beadles, and deacons. The Clackmat Confederacy could not boast the sheer number of gods the Leyvans possessed, but the Confederacy���s indigenous faiths, sects, cults, and nascent enthusiasms counted in the dozens, almost all of which claimed places of worship in Kalapo lining the Boulevard of the Heavens. In fact, the Leyvan pantheon itself had begun making recent inroads, the clergy of one of the myriad Leyvan gods taking possession of an abandoned shrine and beginning construction on a new temple. The colorful garb of the Leyvans added to the chaotic rainbow of surplices, robes, cassocks, and other religious attire livening up Priests��� Promenade.

Glum wormed into the crowd. It was about time to make his way to Shib���s Tavern, pick up a more substantial meal, maybe a spot of wine to help inspire his composition.

He saw a familiar figure approaching, tall but slightly stooped, with the eagerness of a bird dog on a scent. Harribol Gravin, Apostolic Truthseeker of the Verians. A decent sort, earnest. Glum could tolerate him. Harribol had once purchased an epigrammatic verse from him as well as the odd bit of gossip.

���Harribol,��� Glum said, meeting the Truthseeker where the cobbles of the Fullers met the pitted limestone pavers of the Pontifical Henotics.

���Glum, have you heard the news?��� Harribol Gravin grinned as he spoke, the expression incongruous on the man, his long face normally so earnestly serious. ���Funny, me asking you if you���ve heard the news.���

���That is funny. Positively droll. What have you got, Harribol? I can���t pay you.���

���The Truth is a gift to all, Glum. I���ve told you that many times.���

���And since that would put me out of business, Harribol, I���ve ignored you many times.���

���Well, you won���t ignore this. The Panaegic Periapt is in Kalapo. One of the Sharks is wearing it. They say it allows safe communion with the very gods themselves. How���s that for an eye opener?���

Where There���s Smoke���

You may have noticed that the West Coast is on fire. I certainly have. My house has been blanketed by an apocalyptic miasma for days. At least the color has shifted, from a Martian orange, to powdered-urine yellow, to what it is now, a sort of dry white fog.

One of the major fires reached close enough that my small town was put on the second stage of alert, one short of ���get the hell out now, we���re not going to save your ass.��� MBW called me at the office on Thursday to inform me of the elevated threat status, so I came home early (earlier than I had anticipated, since I stopped off at the gym for a workout ��� fire be damned, I need my workout fix ��� only to discover that the wussies had closed for the day, despite being at the lowest threat level.)

It was odd seeing so much traffic heading inbound at that time of day. So many people had felt the need to evacuate. It certainly reinforced the reality of the situation, the danger so close to my backyard.

We packed up some essentials. Essentials. That simple word raises some interesting questions. The truth is, I wasn���t overly concerned. I doubted we���d need to scoot. But nonetheless I did think about it. The thought of my library burning is painful. I took a few videos about the house, anticipating a potential insurance claim and took a few moments appreciating��things, objects I���ve acquired, collected, treasured. How important are they really?

I made some calls, checking on relatives, and securing a place to stay if it came to it. I made a couple of smoky excursions outside, chatting with neighbors. About half of them decided on pursuing the better part of valor. Not an encouraging realization. But no one I talked to sounded particularly worried.

Of course it was even less encouraging when we heard that the firefighters working the closest conflagration had thrown in the towel for the night, deciding there was nothing more they could do and they might as well get a good night���s sleep.

Not everyone slept well that night at the Lizzi house. The alert, moving up to level three, could come at any time. It did not, staying at level two throughout the day. I called in to the office. If circumstances changed, it wouldn���t be practical to drive all the way back home in order to help get MBW and the HA out the door. Best to stay home.

I still wasn���t particularly concerned, and grew even more confident as the day went on. I doubted the fire would jump the river, consume the evacuated small town the firefighters were trying to save, march toward me, cross a highway, and eat my house. It just seemed unlikely. And the weather cooled, the horrific winds that had fanned the blaze stopped, and the color of the enveloping pall of smoke paled to something that looked more familiar.

Yesterday, in the late afternoon or early evening, the level dropped back to level one. Everything still smells like smoke, and I expect it will for some time to come. But the house is still standing. And I had time for more writing, doubling my usual word count over the last couple of days. So, ill wind etc. I take my hat off to those fighting the blazes. Salute!

I hope the rest of you are getting through the latest catastrophe 2020 is serving up from the special Biblical menu. (I for one was looking forward to the plague of frogs. I bought additional hot sauce.)

If you���re looking for something distracting to read, you might find a book you���d like from this��selection of my works.

Monsters

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Light means nothing without darkness and a good fantasy hero is little more than a department store manikin with a sword absent a monster. Opposition defines greatness.

Speculative fiction provides fertile soil for monsters. Memorable ones, not merely sword fodder providing our heroes a stack of corpses to pose atop for Frank Frazetta after the battle. Who could forget Smaug? Bram Stoker created the definitive Count Dracula. Frankenstein’s Monster is the archetypal introspective, self-loathing monster. (Not my favorite trope, but I can appreciate the complexity without necessarily being an aficionado.) Other genres are limited to human monsters (which, admittedly, can be among the most interesting and most downright evil.)

Sword-and-Sorcery has done yeoman service in the field of monster creation. Ramsey Campbell can nearly populate a D&D Monster Manual with the critters he invented for his hero Ryre to face. These stories lean heavily into the horror aspect of S&S, which I think is a point in their favor. Poul Anderson’s The Tale of Hauk gives us a creepy, remorseless, undead monster. We have Andre Norton’s Toads of Grimmerdale. Toads are popular choices, especially for those writers working the (non-Euclidean) Lovecraftian angle. Robert E. Howard did, to good effect. And who can forget his The Valley of the Worm? Worms, snakes, dragons. All good monsters.

Bipedal monsters can be less reliable. Grendel, in the original saga, is a terrific monster. It seems that there is some international law requiring modern retellings to make Grendel sympathetic, make him a victim, or merely misunderstood. This weakens his effectiveness as a monster. LOTR’s Gollum isn’t a monster, he’s a villain. That isn’t a criticism; I’m simply avoiding a categorization error. The topic of the day is monsters, not villains. With a well-written villain you get the impression that there is a chance for redemption. That isn’t the case with a monster. No one believes there is the remotest prospect of Bilbo talking Smaug into relinquishing his claim on the Lonely Mountain and flying off to Mirkwood to perform community service cleaning up spiderwebs. Smaug’s a monster.

The difference lies in an unbridgeable gulf between humanity and an alien otherness. As with Smaug, there may be a superficial layer of familiarity, language, a veneer of formality in interaction. But the monster is fundamentally inhuman. This is why Lovecraft still resonates. This is partially why a dour, humorless character like Solomon Kane works so well; the dim outlines of his humanity show best in contrast against the inhuman darkness of evil. (The rest of the reason is Robert E. Howard, natch, skillfully hinting at hidden aspects of the Puritan swordsman’s psyche.)Those are my monstrous thoughts for today. Thanks for reading. Before you go, please consider picking up one or more books of the Semi-Autos and Sorcery series. You may encounter a monster or two, not to mention villains.

Who’s On First

“Does it have any sports?’ Fred Savage asks. That, I think, is the question for the day, and on roughly the same topic: Sports in fantasy. 

Fantasy is not the genre in which you expect to encounter sports and games. And yet it shows up, even beyond fencing and fighting. Of course those are the two big ones. Wrestling makes an appearance surprisingly often. One of the heroes squares off with the local champion in the castle/village/barracks/whatever. Or a dispute is decided. The Worm Ouroboros provides a good example.

As the film A Knight’s Tale illustrates, jousting serves as a spectator sport analog. Medieval based epic fantasies provide a showcase for jousting scenes, continuing a tradition stretching back to Thomas Malory and beyond. G.R.R. Martin has you covered for a (relatively) recent example.

But what about non-combat sports? The Lord of the Rings mentions in passing hobbits’ love of quoits and other games of the aiming and throwing variety. Books playing with Irish mythology often include hurling. Then there’s quidditch. You can have it; it never made a great deal of sense to me as a coherent sport, but then it doesn’t have to. Others enjoy it. I understand there are even quidditch leagues, so someone has been able to piece together a playable sport out of it. (Speaking of turning fictional sports into real-life contests — and at the risk of going off topic by mentioning post-apocalyptic fiction — jugger, the game played in the Rutger Hauer film Blood of Heroes, has spawned leagues worldwide, playing versions of varying degrees of authenticity and violence.)

I suppose I ought to mention the tangentially related Blood Bowl, which I’ve never had the chance to play but looks like fun. Does Car Wars count? What to you is the most memorable appearance of sport in fantasy fiction? And, while we’re on the topic, may I suggest that some publisher put together an anthology on the theme? I’d read it. Hell, I’d submit something.

Anyway, that’s all the time I have today for rambling on. The project I have in progress demands my attention (and is likely to do so for the rest of the year at least.) If you’d like to read something I’ve actually completed, why not give Under Strange Suns a try?

The Web Log Takes a Nap

I managed two, perhaps three hours of sleep last night. I think the cats woke me. (I won’t bore you with those details.If you are interested in feline habits and antics, send me a message.) Falling asleep again proved impossible. My mind refused to allow it, insisting upon reminiscing — where was the washer/dryer in the apartment I rented in the late 90s? Was it in the unit, or did I have to carry the laundry basket to a laundry room, and if so, where was it? That led to further side trips through Memory Maze. Sometime around dawn this transitioned to disjointed, incomprehensible half-dreams.

I haven’t been this tired since those first few months after the HA’s birth. (Don’t get me wrong, I’ll take this relative peppiness over that Season of the Zombie any day.) The point is, this post might be somewhat incoherent. Given the high bar I’ve set for incoherence in this Web Log, that could be noteworthy.

Sleep of the fictional variety is a tool for writers. It can advance a plot and help with characterization. There are a few literary sleep conventions. For example, the oft-used suggestion that soldiers can drop off to sleep instantly and in any location. You see that one everywhere. That led to a disappointment: my time in uniform failed to instill such a talent. (Yes, I was a soldier. Not much of one, true, but I’ve got pictures, bad feet, and a DD-214 as mementos.) Then there is the common heroic trope (think Conan) of the man who can fall into a recuperative sleep and yet come to instant, fully alert wakefulness at the first hint of danger. That would come in handy; I’d save so much money on coffee.

Tolkien played with sleep frequently, and not just as a dream delivery device. Comfortable sleep coincided with places of safety. RIght now I’m quite envious of Sam’s repose under Tom Bobadill’s roof. I’m more like a defective version of Legolas, wandering in my memories but failing to receive the benefit of rest.

Frankly, a nap would be nice.

Do you know what else is nice? Under Strange Suns. I ought to know, I wrote it. If you haven’t read it, give it a try. If you have, tell your friends. There, that’s all the marketing I have the energy for.

The Dark World: Glimmers in the Gloom

A certain murkiness surrounds the authorship of The Dark World (1946), which is only appropriate given the title and the contents of the novel. (Novella? I didn’t count the words, but I wonder if the total actually reached 40,000.) But I’ll hold off on the question of authorship until after I write a bit about the contents.

I’m glad we still have access to such oddities. It is unlikely a publisher would pick up such a weird tale today, one lacking clearly defined genre boundaries. Is it fantasy? Sword and sorcery? There is sorcery involved, indeed a wizard of note makes an appearance. And swords come into play. Yet at the same time, the story is at pains to ascribe pseudo-scientific causes to lycanthropy, vampirism, and other supernatural qualities and events that occur in the Dark World. Indeed, the Dark World itself is described as resulting from a splitting of the timeline, a relatively early use of the multiple universe theory. And much of the combat that occurs in the story involves firearms. So is it science fiction?

I don’t much care. Let speculative fiction jumble whatever elements the author desires, so long as the result is entertaining and self-consistent.

There, however, Dark World might fall rather short. Perhaps due to the brevity of the story, perhaps due to authorial indifference, world building is scanty. What little picture we get of the world itself is — well, incomplete suggests that we have sufficient puzzle pieces to actually consider completion a possibility. We get what seems on the surface to be a fantasy medieval setting, with castles, wizards, men in armor, and a Robin Hood-ish resistance dwelling in the forest, all dependent upon horses for transportation. Yet at the same time both the zombie-like soldiers of the dominant power structure and the brave freedom fighters use firearms. And swords, though the battles are so ill-defined that you can’t really be sure how or at what point the fight switches from one to the other. Either the author forgot or simply didn’t care. (Or authors switched back and forth without bothering to carefully read what came before in the narrative.)

And yet there is an intriguing story here, a unique body-switching tale with much of the drama occurring inside the POV character’s head as first one, then another of the personalities takes over the body: Edward Bond from our world or Ganelon from the Dark, both identical in form. (I’m guessing there is not nature/nurture issue at play; it’s all nurture.) There is much early play with missing memories and so we learn the rules of the Dark World along with Ganelon as bits and pieces come back to him. This is reminiscent of Corwin’s early story in the Amber novels. (This, it seems, should not be a surprise as Roger Zelazny has pointed to The Dark World as an inspiration for Amber.) Ganelon is a dark lord in waiting, in many ways an outright villain, though the writing is strong enough that he is often sympathetic and we get hints that he might, just might, be redeemable.

For a story in which much of the action is internal, of a psychic nature, the pacing is reasonably quick and we reach a series of culminating battles in good time. Perhaps took quickly. I mentioned that I’d like to have seen greater world building. I’d also like to have more clearly defined set piece battles, with greater clarity as to what is happening. That is frequently an issue with many earlier stories written by authors who had a fascination with psychic powers.

And that brings me to the question of authorship. Who wrote The Dark World? I’m no literary detective. I don’t have programs at hand that evaluate a writer’s frequently used words or phrases. All I can do is speculate.

As is well known, Henry Kuttner and C.L. Moore’s marriage was also a writing collective. They co-wrote many stories. There is speculation that Moore wrote a significant portion — or perhaps even all — of The Dark World. I don’t know, but I can see it. Compare Moore’s Jirel of Joiry stories to Kuttner’s Elak of Atlantis stories. Moore’s settings tended to be sketchy, limning just enough to establish the peril Jirel was in, and then allowing Moore to delve deeply into her psychic battles. While Elak occasionally faced similar nebulous, primarily psychic threats, his surroundings were more neatly drawn. Kuttner provided a greater sense of physical reality, his Atlantis felt more real than Moore’s hazily mystic France.

Academic, I suppose. Whoever wrote The Dark World, I managed to keep my own preferences from preventing me from enjoying it for what it was. If you are in the mood for contrasting character studies and a deep dive into the psyche of a villain, this might be the book for you.

If you’d like to read something rather more grounded and gritty, why not something of mine?

Arthur, Rex

In addition to The Iliad, The Odyssey, and the Bible, it seems to me that all Western cultural tradition hinges upon the Arthurian myths. The world of letters and of popular entertainment are largely built upon Arthurian references, assumptions, retellings, adaptations, revisions, and unconscious imitation.

King Arthur might thus be considered the hub. A sort of centrally located Round Table, if you will. This can be considered a temporal hub as well. The stories of Arthur fit within a narrative continuum, each referring back to prior mythic cycles. I mentioned Homer’s poems. Go ahead and throw in the rest of Greek mythology. Then add Roman. The Arthurian cycle picks up from there, growing with mainland European accretions. Then Carolingian legends spin off. Later the chansons de geste build on all the preceding, creating a tottering narrative that grows ever more fantastic and precarious until Cervantes brings the whole creaky edifice crashing to ruins like Don Quixote landing a lucky lance strike on a dilapidated windmill.

But Cervantes couldn’t keep Arthur down for long. Whether or not there was a historical basis for King Arthur, a single Artorius or Ambrosius, or a portmanteau figure combining Riothamus, Cerdic, Urien of Rheged, et. al., is a question for others to answer. For the Western world’s collective imagination, Arthur exists, the same as Robin Hood, whether he actually lived or not. Mark Twain sent his Connecticut Yankee back in time to meet the old king. Mary Stewart, Gillian Bradshaw, Rosemary Sutcliffe, Bernard Cornwell, Stephen R. Lawhead, T.H. White, and even John Steinbeck have all found Arthur irresistible. Numerous filmmakers and television producers heard the same call of the Questing Beast, with varying results.

Why do we care? Why are we interested? Here’s my uneducated stab in the dark. Arthur fights on despite a preordained doom. He is taken to Avalon and there awaits a rebirth. His legend impacts us in that part of our psyche that we tend to shy away from: our mortality. Arthur’s story is the recognition of the inevitability of death and the simultaneous unwillingness to accept it. And in that manner he is each of us.

But, what do I know? I write stuff like Under Strange Suns and the Semi-Autos and Sorcery series. Buy them, read them, ignore the finite nature of existence for a while.

Winter Chilling

Saturday morning, I took MBW, the HA, and one of the HA’s little buddies up to the cabin of a close family friend. Situated on the bank of a snowmelt-high river, in the foothills of Mt. Hood, the cabin provides a sense of seclusion, aided by the virtual non-existence of cell phone signal, and the absence of televisions, radios, computers, etc. Entertainment consists of reading, playing board or card games, and conversation. Aided, perhaps, by the occasional adult beverage.

I did not feel too guilty about taking the time to relax. Before I left home, I finished the final polish of a short story. And earlier in the week I signed a contract for another novel, more on which later, I hope. I also wangled an invitation to sit as a panelist at a science-fiction/fantasy convention in Nashville, late in February. I’ve never been to Tennessee. Looking forward to it. More on that later too, I hope.

It is good, from time to time, to set down your burdens, leave the stresses of work and life at home, and simply go someplace where you have no alternative but to relax. If you can do so in the company of good friends, with whom you can freely exchange views without fear of causing offense, so much the better.

This trip up offered even more relaxation than normal. Bringing along a friend for the HA meant that neither MBW nor I had to expend much time keeping the HA entertained. Genius, I tell you. I hereby recommend the notion to myself for future cabin stays.

If you, dear reader, are ready for some relaxation, may I suggest a book? Perhaps one of these.

Singing the Praises of Bard II

With Felimid mac Fal, Keith Taylor offers a unique take on the Sword-and-Sorcery hero. Felimid is an Irish bard, making his way through the early sixth century power vacuum created by the fall of the western Roman Empire on the strength of his wits, his magical bardic skills, and (not least) his magic harp and magic sword. But he’s a reluctant warrior. He’s no coward, but he’d prefer to avoid a fight, and if it comes to it, would rather engage in a duel than become involved in a pitched battle.

Felimid’s gifts are dependent upon the natural world remaining relatively unaltered by civilization. Thus, he can still harp up the magic while in a Saxon longhouse, but once within the bounds of a decaying Roman town, with its ruler-straight roads and stone houses, his magic deserts him. The supernatural creatures that slip by unnoticed to the average woodcutter or farmer are perfectly visible to him, and he can and does converse with them. Taylor can thus set his tales in a quasi-historical setting while simultaneously mining the folk legends of Western Europe.

And that’s what he does in Bard II, throwing in some Eastern European mythology for good measure.

Felimid, attempting to slip away from Britain in the aftermath of the events of Bard, finds himself part of a pirate crew. He’s ambivalent about the role and, for about half the book, uncertain why he stays in the employ of the pirate captain, Gudrun Blackhair. Those two kids eventually figure it out, don’t worry.

The sea voyages provide Taylor the opportunity to play with European folklore from (Part 1) the West, (Part 2) the North, and (Part 3) the East. It all works seamlessly. And the forward momentum never lets up. Taylor doesn’t let more than a chapter or so go by without some serious action: ship battles, duels, monster attacks, etc. He brings the Swords AND the Sorcery. 

There’s plenty going on, and not all of it is surface level. Felimid is a thinker, a brooder. Through Felimid mac Fal, Taylor provides the kinetic action, brutality, and dark currents of despondency of Robert E. Howard layered over the wry cynicism, practicality, and humanity of Poul Anderson. Recommended.

I’d also recommend Blood and Jade, by me, because that horn doesn’t toot itself.