Ken Lizzi's Blog, page 50

Flashing Swords! #4: Barbarians and Black Magicians. Truth in Advertising.

Lin Carter presents yet another anthology in his stellar Swords-and-Sorcery series. This one is Flashing Swords! #4: Barbarians and Black Magicians. Is there more than alliteration fueling the subtitle? He’s certainly doubled the thematic possibilities. Let’s see.

Lin Carter’s introduction is a mere rehash of a theme. Perhaps he was getting tired of covering the same ground in different words. Let’s move on to the content. (Note, I found a good price on a paperback copy, that will match better with the rest of the series on my shelf. The cheap, book club hard back can find a new home, I suppose.)

The Bagful of Dreams. Jack Vance. Seeing Jack VAnce’s name in a publication always makes me happy. Sure, this is a Cugel the Clever story I’ve read before, but I don’t care. Vance’s craft, cadence, and fulsome use of the English language are a pleasure. The droll cynicism of every uttered or internalized thought makes me grin, if not laugh volubly. Cugel is as delightful, amoral, and unredeemable as ever. Vance’s boundless imagination is once again given full rein. Bagful is a superlative tale. I suppose this one falls under the rubric of Black Magicians, embodied in Cugel’s antagonist, Iolo.

The Tupillak. Poul Anderson. Mermen. That Northern Thing. Inuits, magic, mayhem. As should be expected, given the Sagas as an influence, the story is grim and tragic.Anderson brings a historian’s eye, a fantasists’s imagination, and his personal affinity for all things Norse to this one. Skoll. I figure this one is chock-full of Barbarians, from the differing parties’ perspectives, at any rate.

Storm in a Bottle. John Jakes. We had a bagful of dreams. Now we have a storm in a bottle. There’s an anthology concept for you: containers of unexpected things. Call it Oddments. Anyway, it seems every barbarian swordsman must be enslaved at some point in his adventuring career, and Brak is no exception. I”m of two minds about this one. There is some decent adventure in this, and a suggestion of Brak’s intelligence, allowing him to piece together the mystery and solve the puzzle. On the other hand, there is no clean ending to this. Instead it seems the lead-in to another story. A story that does not follow in this anthology. And it all seemed a bit too long and too leadenly constructed to flow well. But stil, it was Brak, fighting sorcery. So, let it slide. And, besides, we get both a Barbarian and a Black Magician. Hurrah.

Swords Against the Marluk. Katherine Kurtz. I confess small familiarity with the Deyrni books. I read one or two of them when I was about twelve. I recall little, other than a certain dissatisfaction with what I felt was a lack of action. I was, remember, only a kid. (Digression begins. I remember much more clearly the library where I read them than the books themselves. I should — I clocked a lot of hours there. This was back in the early ‘80s. Walking a couple of miles by yourself after school to the library to wait two or three hours for your mother ti pick you up wasn’t considered akin to child abuse back then. End digression.) Anyways, the story is a rather confusing muddle for someone unfamiliar with — or who has forgotten — the Deyrni novels. And it certainly isn’t S&S. This is High Fantasy. That’s fine, but it isn’t why I bought FS#4. I found the story largely uninteresting, the magic elaborately detailed fo no particular reason I could see, and the king, Brion, to be a bit of an idiot, without even minimal tactical competence. But, if pseudo-medieval European/quasi-elvish fantasy is what you’re in the mood for, this might do. Black Magician? Check.

The Lands Beyond the World. Michael Moorcock. I have a long-standing prejudice against stories in which the main characters forgets prior adventures, perhaps an entire novel’s worth of events, or even long chapters. I’ve read and invested in these doings. I feel cheated if the character who experienced them no longer recalls them, as if now none of those events were “real.” As if somehow, I had wasted my time. Added to a sort of generalized distaste for Elric and Moorcock’s sketchy, ruminative omphalos fixation, I wasn’t predisposed to like this tale, one that begins with Elric forgetting the events of his previous adventure. But, y’know, this one is all right. As always, when Moorcock exerts himself, he is inventive, painting colorful, exotic word pictures. He gives us a fine ending of swashbuckling and sorcery, as well as an interesting and subtly complex villain. Absent the brooding opening section, I’d consider this a superior Elric yarn. Black Magician? You bet your soul-stealing sword.

So, I’d say Carter delivered on a specific, though extremely broad, premise, giving us stories of Barbarians and Black Magicians. Overall, a fine entry in the series, though I feel with the addition of Katherine Kurtz that Carter is beginning to cast more widely afield for contributors.

Here’s the point in the post where I try to sell you something. I’m pleased to announce that I signed a contract for a three-book series. More on that later. But I can hardly sell you something that isn’t even on the publisher’s schedule yet. So, how about one of these? Or one of these? This, perhaps? Or browse here, see if something catches your eye. If you pick something up, let me know what you think of it. Feedback is, I think, valuable for writer who hopes to do more than just amuse himself with his scribbling.

Drudgery

Completing a manuscript and typing “The End” is always a great feeling. It’s an accomplishment, the culmination of endless invested hours. But “The End” isn’t really the end. Not even close.

Once you find a home for the book a host of new tasks descend upon you. We’re assuming for the purposes of this post that the book has a publisher, and is not being self-published. That option carries with related, but divergent necessities. Where to start?

Well, for one thing you’ve got a contract to review and, perhaps, negotiate the terms of. It seems a simple enough thing, but contract issues can eat up an inordinate amount of time. I haven’t experienced much difficulty in that department, but since contracts comprise a significant chunk of my day job, perhaps it comes more easily for me.

Then you’ve got editing lurking ahead. Just when you thought you were done with the manuscript. Sure, you’ve gone over and over this baby, revised, moved things around, spell-checked the hell out of it. And now someone is going to show you everything you missed, and it will be appalling. And that’s discounting more substantive changes the editor might suggest. Patience. At the end of the process you’ll have something you’re even more proud of.

But you’re not done yet. You need to bat around cover ideas, maybe choose from between a couple of different artists. Review sketches and give feedback, as if you have some special expertise in what sells books. Truth is, you’re probably busy picking nits. “That’s not what he was wearing in this scene, and the building back there should be made of brick.” Or some other irrelevancy that won’t move a single copy off the shelf.

Interfering with the cover art process is the easy part. Look out, it’s time for book descriptions. Think of all the enjoyment you’ll get attempting to compress your plot, theme, and main character down into chunks of 250, 150, and 50 words. Focus on the important parts and distill it all down. The important parts? Everything in your manuscript is important, or you wouldn’t have put it there in the first place. How does anyone expect you to abbreviate such a complexly interwoven narrative? Well, your publisher does. Suck it up and get ready to spend more time writing 50 words than it took you to write 500.

Even more fun awaits. You’ll need to help out with marketing, answering interview questions, maybe writing guest blog posts, working your social media while trying to appear as if you are not working your social media. Then there’s begging people you may barely know for cover blurbs. (Which reminds me…Oh, never mind. Now isn’t the time.)

Why am I writing about this? Well, misery loves company and I want you to share my pain. It is too early for me to share details, but I’m already in the early stages of this drudgery. And I’ll get to extend it over three books. What joy. What rapture. Still, if the end product is something you get a kick out of reading, then it is all worthwhile.In the meantime, if you want to read something I’ve already gone through all these stages of grief for, how about Reunion, my sci-fi/fantasy/post-apocalyptic/action-adventure novel? Or Under Strange Suns, my science-fiction homage to ERB’s Barsoom?

Swords Against Darkness V: A Fitting Send Off

So, here it is, the final Swords Against Darkness installment. #V. Sad. I wish Andrew Offutt had produced more. But how about that cover? I think it is terrific.

There is an advertisement just inside the book for a series called Ro-Lan by Mike Sirota. Anyone read those? Any good?

Andrew Offutt’s introduction states that he overbought — paying out of his own pocket, and this volume might be a gamble due to the number of neophyte contributors. I’ll admit that makes me curious and concerned. I like these anthologies for the comfort of seeing tales by known masters of the craft. At the same time, I don’t want to limit myself to the same dozen or so big names. I wonder how many of these writers made a go of it, or was this SAD contribution the lone hurrah?

The Mouths of Light. Ramsey Campbell. Another Ryre story. Those have been hit and miss for me. I’d say this one split the difference. Fitting, I suppose, for the final volume. Swords-and-Sorcery tends to contain a streak of horror. In the Ryre stories that streak has been wide. This one is no different. It is creepy and atmospheric. If you don’t try to make sense of it, it works well. Here, in the last volume of SAD, it pleases me to finally see Ryre come out ahead; that is, with more than just his skin. He’s had a rough go.

Perfidious Amber. Tanith Lee. A finely written, clever story; half-fantasy, half-mystery. As Offutt notes in his introduction, “This collection contains some barely-heroic fantasy, some very heroic fantasy, and some h.f./othertime fantasy…” There’s little of the heroic about this one. There is, however, a touch of Sherlockian superciliousness that I suppose can serve as a substitute.

Awake, Awake Ye Northern Winds. Simon Greene. Now there’s a writer who’s made a go of it. This is a solid freshman outing, comfortably in the S&S wheelhouse. It easily meets all the criteria I set to consider a yarn Swords-and-Sorcery. I liked this one; a ghost-pirate story anachronistically combining buccaneer stereotypes with pre-gunpowder technology in the grand tradition that stretches as far back as Conan.

Rats. Robert Fester. This reads more as an anecdote, or a chapter of a longer work, rather than as a story in its own right. We have an undeveloped, uninteresting main character going to an undesignated location for largely uncertain reasons, passing at night through a ruined city haunted by some undefined monster. There our heroine dispatches the monster by a method telegraphed early in the story. She rides on. The end. Robert Fester had a scene in mind to write, not a tale. It is competently enough written, but there’s just no substance or purpose to it.

The Forging. Robin Kincaid. Robin Kincaid? That name doesn’t ring a bell. Perhaps his writing career diverged from Smon Greene’s after this. Whatever, his contribution to SAD V is a well-written, engaging, even intriguing — what? The first chapter of a novel, perhaps? Or did Offutt run out of money, cutting Kincaid off in mid-story? Seriously, what the hell was that? I was enjoying it, interested to see how it ended. Did it end? Did I miss something?

Hungry Grass. Keith Taylor. We’ve encountered Keith Taylor in SAD before, writing as Dennis More (hat tip to Stan Wagenaar for pointing that out.) Good to see him back. I couldn’t help note something in Offutt’s intro to this story. 1979 doesn’t seem like that far back to me. Hell, it was almost the eighties. But, consider this paragraph in light of today’s nigh instantaneous communication: “In 1977 and 1978 Keith Taylor and I collaborated on two novels…As of today, 1st August 1979: Presumably Ace Books will publish the books someday; they did pay us. (Q: How do a Yank and an Aussie who’ve never met collaborate on two novels, with all the back-and-forth copy and correspondence? A: Expensively.)” As much as I may view my past through rose-colored shades, I have to admit in some ways things have vastly improved. Okay, end digression. This story hit the spot. As long as it needed to be and not one word longer. Action, a desperate break for freedom, and a perfectly placed, supernatural/horror element. Great stuff.

The Tale of the Cat, the Mouse, the Sorcerer, and the Children. Edward DeGeorge. I wanted to like this, I really did. Any story that commences by appreciating tales that begin in taverns, instantly earns my sympathy. But here is an example of Offut being — let’s say, overgenerous with the publisher’s money. This tale was not ready for the big leagues. Not even the semi-pro market. The style is rudimentary, giving to passive voice construction, and hampered by elementary grade vocabulary. The story also suffers from weaknesses that wizard-centric stories are prone to: arbitrary, inconsistent application of magic. Like watching episodes of Star Trek: Did you all just forget you had the ability to do this techno-thing last week? I’ll stop there. I’m not writing this to denigrate anyone’s craft. Glass houses and all that. Leave it at this one not working for me.

Golden Vanity. James Anderson. This is more like it. And written by a pupil or short-term protégé of Andrew Offutt. There is a bit too much backstory forced into the tale at the beginning, but it is hard to see how all the necessary exposition could have been more seamlessly introduced into such a short work. It is tolerably well written, showing evidence of the influence of old school S&S authors. Golden Vanity engagingly and atmospherically tells what befalls a tomb raider. Nice work. Satisfying, if simple.

The Castle of Kites and Crows. Darrel Schweitzer. I liked Sir Julian’s appearance in SAD III and I liked this just as much. A good story, well told, of a damned knight. S&S as a sort of latter-day, cynical chanson de geste. Atmospheric, even chilling at times.

The Scream of the Rose. Paul McGuire III. A beautifully elegiac tragedy, featuring vengeance, sword play, ninja, demons, and demon-blades. There is a finely calculated aspect of the exotic about its asian-flavored fantasy setting and the characters’ motivations and behavior. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Joni. Gordon Linzer. This story is…fine. I found getting through it rather a trudge, though the ending, despite not coming as any surprise, offered some payoff. Still, why use the present tense to write this? What did it add? What about the nature of the story required this awkward narrative construction? It came across as an affectation, becoming an irritant that constantly threatened to thrust me out of a story that barely engaged my interest in the first place.

Druin’s Heritage. Richard K. Lyon. Here is a grimly amusing story; one in which the only real good guy is himself possessed of a less than wholesome heritage. The revelations are carefully dribbled out, so that each no secret is both surprising and earned. Dark, but entertaining. Druin’s Heritage is a satisfactory conclusion to both SAD V and the series itself.

So, that wraps up the SAD anthology series. #V fits smoothly in with the previous volumes, containing as it does a few duds, but more than enough solid yarns to make it worth your reading time. I hope to have more out in 2021 that will also be worth your reading time. I’m waiting to sign the contract before I begin shooting my mouth off. In the meantime, if you’d like to sample some of my work, why not try Reunion? Or you can browse through my Amazon page, see if anything catches your eye.

Over the River and Through the Woods

The tide of Yule is ebbing this annus horribilis. (Has the near match between annus and anus ever been more appropriate?) Good riddance, I suppose. Still, I’ve made the best of it. I hope you have as well, dear reader.

This year it seemed important to sustain tradition. I drove MBW and the HA to my mother’s house for Christmas. The HA enjoyed Christmas Eve as only a seven-year old can, tearing through wrapping paper like a buzzsaw through whipped-cream.

The receipt of gifts no longer remains a priority for a man in his middle age (“I’m in my prime.”) What little I did get was eminently practical and very much appreciated for that reason. One additional, unplanned gift was that I was able to concentrate somewhat, working my way partially through the third draft of a Karl Thorson novel. With any luck, 2021 will see several volumes released with my name on the covers. If so, 2020 will have proved a productive year for me.

The drive back home consumed most of my post-writing opportunity, so let me wrap up this short one by issuing a happy belated Christmas to you all.

Barbarians II: Jarringly Civilized

This anthology reads like the literary equivalent of hosting a costume party, but neglecting to mention that aspect to most of the guests. 

Barbarians II has three, count them, three editors credited. I wonder what about this endeavor required so many hands on deck.Richard Adams’ introduction jokingly discusses the etymology and history of the word barbarian. I found this introduction — and the title — odd in a collection in which barbarians are few and far between. Though, in fairness, the intro did suggest that the word barbarian is, ultimately, meaningless. So, touché, Adams, I guess.

The important question is: are the stories any good? Let’s see, shall we?

The Toads of Grimmerdale. Andre Norton. I have written about this story before. It’s still good. Barbarian Quota: Only via reference to previous Witch World events.

Maureen Birnbaum at the Earth’s Core. George Alec Effinger. Jokey, genderswapped Pelucidar parody. Presumably, this is a sequel to Maureen Birnbaum on Mars, which I haven’t read. (I just researched this after writing the previous sentence. Seems I was basically correct.) The Jewish American Princess shtick is amusing, but the references are dated. Luckily, I’m old enough to appreciate them. This is fluff, fast food. The McRib of S&S. Goes okay with beer, though. Then again, doesn’t everything? Fun stuff if that’s what you’re in the mood for. Barbarian Quota: The only barbarians are the ape-men of the Earth’s core.

Trapped in the Shadowland. Fritz Leiber. The incomparable duo, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, once again cross paths with the Death of Newhon in this slight tale, more anecdote than story. Barbarian Quota: Fafhrd, of course, qualifies.

The Blacksmith. Raul Garcia Capella. When I first started these anthology posts (still primarily re-reading volumes picked from my shelves) I noted Ray (or Raul) Capella as an unknown. Yet he’s popped up frequently, and for good reason. He’s an excellent writer. I can’t help but wonder if we’ve been deprived of some great, never produced Capella works. Blacksmith is a tale of arrogance and comeuppance, virtue and reward. It seems to be an origin tale of a unique S&S hero. I”m curious if any further tales of this new character ever saw print. Barbarian Quota: No barbarian in this one, though we do have a wizard, the eponymous blacksmith, and some sort of quasi-demon from a Valhalla lacking all the upsides. Perhaps he counts.

Demon of the Snows. Lin Carter. At last, a barbarian swordsman. A warrior of the cold north, broadswords strapped to his back, faces peril and mystery. Something like was promised on the cover. How about that? It is Thongor and LIn Carter, so you know what you’re getting. And that’s okay with me. Barbarian Quota: One Conan-clone.

The Dark Mother. Diana L. Paxson. I reviewed this one recently. Barbarian Quota: No barbarians here, except if they might be, metaphorically, the priestesses of the Dark Mother.

Misericorde. Karl Edward Wagner. KEW’s Kane is many things, but a barbarian is not one of them. Kane is, if anything, too civilized. Machiavellian, even. This is a jewel of a Kane story: a dark, vile jewel. If you need Kane encapsulated, here he is. Barbarian Quota: Zip.

The Warrior Race. L. Sprague de Camp. De Camp is reliably entertaining, so I’m always happy to see his name in an anthology. But Warrior Race is a science fiction story, not fantasy — heroic, S&S, epic, or otherwise. Are the Centaurans of the story barbarians? Well, in this historical analogy, yes. Corrupted and assimilated by the civilization they conquer. It’s a fine SF story. But I question it’s inclusion here. Barbarian Quota: See discussion above.

Fredeya. Charles Fontenay. A rather tedious slog through a post-apocalyptic setting to an end that is supposed to be some major surprise, but that is instead glaringly obvious about a third of the way through. It has its moments, and the author clearly spent a lot of time thinking about the setting. But it is undercooked. For example, the mutated monster that shows up out of the blue near the end comes without any set-up or foreshadowing. I’ve no problem with post-apocalyptic S&S (not that there is any sorcery in this) but after the straight up SF of the previous story and the ERB cutesy parody earlier, I”m growing rather disappointed with this supposedly themed S&S anthology. Barbarian Quota: There is a piratical atmosphere at the beginning of the story that was rather promising. I suppose freebooters might be considered as a type of barbarian.

A Logical Conclusion. Poul Anderson. Ahh, there we go. Leave it to Poul Anderson to right this listing ship. A man of our world exchanges minds with a Northern barbarian pirate in a fantasy world. This yarn is written as only Anderson could. A Logical Conclusion deserves recognition as part of the canon of S&S. Can’t recommend this highly enough. Barbarian Quota: You betcha.

The Winged Helmet. Fred Saberhagen. And…we’re back to science fiction. A time travelling Berserker story, to be exact. It’s entertaining enough, if overlong. Saberhagen knows what he’s doing. Still, I don’t think this is what I signed up for. Barbarian Quota: We’ve got a a barbarian in the form of a time-displaced cave-man type. (I think, so anyway. He seems to be a character from a previous story.)

The Changer of Names. Ramsey Campbell. Reviewed earlier. Barbarian Quota: Nope.

The Valley of the Worm. Robert E. Howard. The Ur-barbarian story. Anthologized many times, and for good reason. You all know this one. I need add nothing further. Barbarian Quota: Chockablock.

The Ghastly Pond. Jessica Amanda Salmonson. This is — fine. The setting lacks verisimilitude, like a hastily thrown together D&D campaign. I didn’t quite buy it. But the horror element of the second half add a compelling aspect, sufficient to carry me through. Barbarian Quota: Lacking barbarians, while at the same time portraying barbarity.

Verdict? Ignore the title and you’ve got yourself an excellent anthology. Only one or two didn’t work for me. Get yourself a copy.

And.or get yourself a copy of one of my books. How about this crime/S&S mashup?

More Note Than Post

Is there a more appropriate book for this year than Boccaccio’s Decameron? Not that I’ve personally holed up in a countryside villa to ride it out. I’m one of those who still goes into the office everyday. But I understand there’s quite a bit of that sort of voluntary seclusion going on. Read even just the first story of The Decameron: duplicity, corruption, malfeasance rewarded. Timely, right? (I figure I can make such a nebulous comment without offending anyone; it’s applicable enough that you can assume I’m referring to the bugaboos of your choice.)

Anyways, I thought I’d toss that out in case you’re looking for a book recommendation. That’s about all I have time to write today. I’m busy. I’m trying to finish the second draft of my third Karl Thorson novel by the end of next week. Then I hope to complete the third draft of my Cesar the Bravo novel by around the New Year. I generally take Sunday off to write this weekly post, but I can’t do it if I’m going to meet my self-imposed deadlines.

Have a good week.

Oh, obligatory marketing. Read my stuff. It’s good. You’ll like it.

Flashing Swords #2: A Craftsman’s Showcase, or You Win Some, You Lose Some

The cover of Flashing Swords #2 promises four original stories. New S&S stories! Of course, since it was published in 1974, only five years after I was born, it turns out only two were new to me. But, I’ll take it.

The Rug and the Bull. L. Sprague de Camp. De Camp offers up a signature de Campian story featuring one of his gallery of rogues, conmen, and scoundrels. This time, instead of flying solo, the rapscallion is accompanied by his family; a sharp-tongued, no-nonsense wife and multiple precocious children. Last time I encountered Gezrun — the bounder in question — was in The Spell of Seven. He’s now a couple of decades older; more experienced, perhaps, but not wiser as he’s still a wandering adventurer, looking for the big score — with his family in tow. De Camp takes a shot at bullfighting, and — presumably — a fling at Hemingway. But this isn’t gratuitous. It pays off later.

This is typical de Camp: droll, never entirely serious even when characters are in peril. And, above all, it is fun. De Camp demonstrates what I think we all know: Sword-and-Sorcery is an admirable vehicle for tales of mountebanks and schemers.

The Jade Man’s Eyes. Michael Moorcock. Eyes is a story that begins with promise. A promise that, is, that Moocock will dispense with the aspects of his tale-telling that leave me dismissive or actively disengaged. With a few hiccups here and there, the promise holds true — up until a bit past the midway point. Then we are treated to a bit of that sixties-era, avant garde psychedelia I despise, followed by gloom and doom, woe-is-me, cruel-hand-of-fate histrionics. When I was a teen, this feature of the Elric canon hinted at the revelation of hidden truths. At my more — staid — age, it reads as angsty, existential clap-trap. But, as the automobile advertisements will have it, your mileage may vary. I speak only for myself, and sincerely have no intention of disparaging Mr. Moorcock nor the taste of any of his legion of fans. I mean, I don’t like avocados either. That doesn’t mean I think you’re wrong for dipping your chip in guacamole.

Thinking more objectively, I wonder if S&S is a viable vehicle for tragedy as a brand. That is, as a genre from which readers should necessarily expect tragedy. Not that it can’t by its nature, convey a tragic story. Beyond the Black River, for example, would give the lie to such an absurd overstatement. But doesn’t epic fantasy fit tragedy more comfortably? A Tale of Ice and Fire; The Malazan Book of the Fallen; even, arguably, The Lord of the Rings, are all tragedies. Maybe that’s why the Eternal Champion cycle doesn’t resonate with me when I sit down to read S&S. 

Or, maybe I should just relax and have a beer. Look; Jade Man’s Eyes is Elric. It’s Moocock, and an experienced, journeyman Moorcock. You know what you’re getting, and if that’s what you want, you get your money’s worth.

Toads of Grimmerdale. Andre Norton. I’ve been forthcoming about Witch World’s failure to, ah, enchant me. However, unlike with my preceding comments on the Elric story, I’m not going to pan this one. Toads is my favorite Witch World story, perhaps my favorite Norton story. I’ve read it before in at least one other anthology and was glad to encounter it again here. Despite a somewhat pokey pace, it hits most of the right notes for me.

Speaking of notes: This is a story of conjoined motives, two sides of a coin — protection and vengeance. One is pure, one tends to lead to unsavory compromises. There is a scene of psychic battle, one of Norton’s calling cards that I generally find off-putting. But in this case it does not come across as a dramatic crutch. The action is engaging. The denouement runs a trifle long, but is ultimately worthwhile. I specifically want to call out this bit: “To cling to this wrong or that, keep it festering in mind and heart, is to cripple one.” A story of forgiveness. Nice. If more Witch World  was like Toads, I’d be a fan.

Ghoul’s Garden. John Jakes. Up front: I like Brak the Barbarian. I dig him, like I dig Thongor, Kyrik, and Kothar. Jakes makes no bones about writing “in the Conan Tradition.” In the case of Garden, it is Conan with a touch of Jirel of Joirey. At least, it is supposed to be Conan-esque. Most Brak tales are so, fairly successfully. But in this escapade, Brak comes across as Conan’s incompetent cousin, lacking Conan’s intelligence, physical prowess, and primal will to live. The setup is fine, properly S&S. A chance encounter finds Brak saving a voluptuous woman and an insufferable, splenetic priest from a monster. He then becomes entangled with a wizard who is enamored with the woman. All good, so far. But Brak turns into an utter bungler, needing at one point to be saved by the woman. There is nothing wrong with being saved by a woman — infinitely preferable to the alternative of not being saved. But last I checked, the series was branded Brak the Barbarian, not Shana the Strumpet. Still, this is a John Jakes story. No writer that successful lacks basic craftsmanship. This story may be — is — sub-Conan, and is, for that matter, lesser-Brak, but it is still moderately entertaining, competently written, and reaches a satisfactory conclusion.

So, two out of four ain’t bad. And the two I didn’t care for are still well-crafted and provided me some enjoyable moments. I’m comfortable recommending FS #2. And if you’re still looking for something to read, browse through some of these. (Though, if you’re interested in picking up a copy of Thick as Thieves, may I please request you get this edition, since the other is from a defunct publisher and the only one who benefits (other than you, the reader, of course) is Amazon.)

The Thanksgiving Post: Dinner at Elrond’s

The Amber Room of Rivendell glowed with light, buzzed with a pleasant undertone of conversation, and echoed with the ringing peal of elvish laughter. The Amber Room was one of Rivendell’s lesser dining halls, usually reserved for intimate meals. This day its rectangular table hosted an irregular assortment of diners. Elrond sat in the position of honor at the head of the table. Arwen sat at his right, a vision in blue and silver. To her right, travel worn but beaming, sat Aragorn. An emissary from Thranduil sat at Elrond’s left, appearing somewhat off balance, if such a thing could be said of an elf. A few more of Elrond’s household filled out the rest of the table’s long sides.

Bilbo Baggins sat at the foot, elevated upon several cushions piled atop the seat of his chair.

Aragorn helped Arwen to a serving spoon full of a green bean and bacon casserole. The emissary stared at a heap of mashed tubers piled upon his platter. In a crater of the lumpy starch quivered a pool of gravy. Four empty wine glasses might have accounted for his bemusement. Glorfindel speared a morsel of white meat from the massive serving tray in the center of the table. The carcass upon the platter was beginning to look rather picked clean. From the evidence of Glorfindel’s platter, he was on seconds, or perhaps thirds.

“Again I ask,” quoth Glorfindel, “what purpose there is in this rustic harvest festival, here in the land of Elrond where seasons hold no sway ‘gainst Elrond’s will.”

“Your stomach appears to hold no compunctions,” Elrond said. “This feast is the whim of our guest Bilbo, who has graced our halls with his wit and his appetite for many years now, as mortals count years.”

Bilbo looked up, lifting his head from his chest where he’d apparently rested it while napping. Yet he answered as if he’d followed the conversation. “I dreamed last night, Glorfindel. It was a vivid dream of visitors from the Shire. It must have been a symptom of a spot of homesickness.” Bilbo picked up a knife and fork. “I feel no longing to leave the Last Homely House. Yet I can’t help but think of Bag End from time to time. Elrond was kind enough to host this feast, such as must be occurring from East Farthing to West Farthing today.” Bilbo shook his head. Then he said, almost to himself, “That dream was so real. I could almost declare, with Iluvatar as my witness, that I’d been paid a visit by one of my cousins from Tuckborough.”

“Master Baggins is too modest,” Elrond said. “He has labored over the meal since the early hours this morning, assisting in the kitchens. As, I’ve no doubt, he will be happy to tell us if pressed. Likely in verse.”

Bilbo smiled. He rose, removed the pillows from his seat, and climbed up to stand on the chair. Pausing to retrieve a half-full goblet of wine, he began to recite.

I sit beside the fire and cook this bird upon a spit,

while basting it with butter infused with thyme, salt, and mint;

Of chestnut paste and peppercorn I concoct a stuffing

by which I’ll prove about my skills I have not been bluffing.  

I sit beside the fire and cook the turkey we will eat

when upon the afternoon Elrond’s bell calls us to meat.

For still I hunger, though I consume six meals in a day.

I wonder oft what commestibles I may yet assay.

I sit beside the fire and think of dinners I have ‘et.

For as years slip by I fear there is much that I forget.

In the Homely House of Elrond memories I forsook;

Peradventure I ask, “Is this a turkey or a Took?”

Glorfindel’s silver fork slipped from his fingers to clatter on his platter, its two tines still thrust through a morsel of meat.

Bilbo drained his goblet as Elrond roared with laughter, while Arwen pounded a choking Aragorn on the back.

Flashing Swords #1: A Master Class in Exotica

Lin Carter opens the introduction of his first collection in the Flashing Swords series with a definition of Sword & Sorcery. I’ll quote it below in its entirety. It will provide an interesting benchmark. Do the stories included match this definition? If not, does it matter?

We call as story Sword & Sorcery when it is an action tale, derived from the traditions of the pulp magazine adventure story, set in a land, age, or world of the author’s invention — a milieu in which magic actually works and the gods are real — a story, moreover, which pits a stalwart warrior in direct conflict with the forces of supernatural evil.

Carter also provides a brief history of the origin of SAGA: the Swordsmen and Sorcerer’s Guild of America. What I like most about that history is this line: “Think of it: an authors guild with no crusades, blacklists, burning causes, or prestigious annual awards.” That thought does my bitter, basalt heart good. I want to belong to such a group, a drinking club of scribblers that contains within its bylaws its own automatic dissolution the first time any of its members use its platform to espouse — anything.

Fritz Leiber leads off with The Sadness of the Executioner. I doubt anyone reading this post requires an introduction to either the author or the characters Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. So, let’s skip that bit. Leiber’s stories of the duo are characterized by an affection for — if not affectation of — the bizarre, the outré, and outlandish. Like a rococo palace, nothing goes unadorned. There are no plain, merely utilitarian features. Executioner is a story as a piece of art, from its narrative conceit of the Death of Newhon artistically filling his quota while considering his role in existence, to Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser’s narrow escape of Death’s sentence through luck and the physical expression of their individual characteristics. It is all layered, from the descriptions of the players to the droll description of violent demise. The story also serves as a reminder that the “hero” of an S&S yarn might more accurately be described by the term “protagonist.” Good stuff, though it should decidedly not be used as the introductory tale of the Fafhrd and Mouser corpus.

Does Executioner meet Carter’s definition of S&S? I’d say it fits exactly. A perfect match.

Next: Morreion by Jack Vance. If Leiber relishes in the outré and rococo, Vance practically wallows in it. He is the stylist’s stylist, yielding position only — if at all — to Clark Ashton Smith. Here Vance provides one of the classic Dying Earth stories, a tale almost reaching novel length.

Vance’s typical cast of urbane, witty blackguards, turncoats, schemer, and backstabbers takes the stage. Even more so than the previous tale in this volume, sheer invention carries the narrative forward, leading the cabal of treacherous mages through increasingly bizarre locations `in search of IOUN stones. Vance conveys on space-faring palaces to the ends of the universe, using only his orotund lexicon and baroque syntax. Really, the man is just showing off. I, for one, don’t mind it a bit.

But, is it, per Carter, S&S? This is a tougher call than the previous. The story lacks a “stalwart warrior;” the “Sword” in S&S. And one might quibble that, instead of being in conflict with “the forces of supernatural evil,” Vance’s protagonists are the forces of supernatural evil. So, I’d say it doesn’t fit the definition? Does it matter? Not to me. Not in the least.

Poul Anderson’s The Merman’s Children follows. This story almost qualifies as a representative example of the S&S genre. Almost, but not quite. For protagonists, Anderson provides us with mermen. And, being the gifted, inventive writer he is, these aren’t merely humans with gills. These are creatures whose motives do not align perfectly with those of men. Anderson again indulges his fascination with Norsement, employing his considerable historical knowledge to include period authentic details that add verisimilitude; making a tale featuring water-breathing fantasy creatures feel grounded and real. The locations, language, and characters are the least ostentatious and colorfully bizarre of any of the fours stories, yet it still holds its own as a work of imagination. Anderson characteristically wants to know how the miraculous functions, the workings of the machinery of the wondrous. While his working this out aids suspension of disbelief and grounds his tales, it doesn limit the height of his castles in the sky. Merman might be the best pure S&S yarn in this volume (clearly passing the Carter test) but it is the least — prismatic.

Finally, we have Lin Carter and The HIgher Heresies of Oolimar. Carter is often dismissed as a derivative writer. Be that as it may, he makes a virtue of mimicry by consciously emulating the greats. With Oolimar, Carter suggests in his intro, he is continuing a trend in working in his own style. That is possible, I suppose. Personally, I believe Carter takes his stylistic inspiration for this story primarily from Clark Ashton Smith, and secondarily from Lord Dunsany. Oolimar is the first in a series of stories about Amalric, a demi-god in the mold of Hercules, going about his heroics on a planet with the typically Carterian name of Thoorana. With this story we are back to inventiveness as a higher good than realism. Carter gives us a virtual immortal for a protagonist along with an almost Vancian wizard as a sidekick. These are the normal, baseline features; our compass in a world filled with increasingly bizarre monsters and creatures. All of this charming weirdness serves as background color for a sort of Catch-22 satire on religion, with Carter creating an amusingly outlandish philosophy. The truth is, whatever his reputation, when Carter wished to stretch himself, he could sparkle.

Does Carter’s story fit his own definition of S&S. Yep.

What about some of my stuff? Does it pass the Carter test? If you’re curious, check out Thick As Thieves and let me know your verdict.

Swords Against Darkness IV: Anything Goes

Andrew Offutt’s introduction to Swords Against Darkness IV mentions that some found volume III rather dark. (Looking back on my review of volume III I suppose it was rather dark. But S&S tends to have an element of the horrific. So, no complaints.) Offutt hints that volume IV will be rather more light-hearted and contain some non-traditional stories. Well, let’s see.

Mai-Kulala by Charles Saunders. The death of Charles Saunders this year raised awareness of his contributions to the genre. Funny how that works — funny as in sad that it often requires death to achieve recognition. But I cannot claim any highground here. While I’ve long been aware of Mr. Saunders and his Imaro stories, I”m woefully unacquainted with either. If Mai-Kalala is representative of Charles Saunders output, I’m keen to remedy that lack. This is impressive, atmospheric, soundly written Sword-and-Sorcery. Contrary to Offutt’s introductory promise, it is ot light-hearted in the least, instead partaking of a similar mood to some of REH’s darker Conan yarns. I like to see such a strong lead off. Here’s hoping it is a trend.

At the Sign of the Brass Breast. Jeff P. Swycaffer. It is chockablock with absurdities and over-the-top gags. I did smile frequently. It is, however, difficult to sustain this mood in fiction if your name isn’t P.G. Wodehouse, and I found that the story came close to wearing out its welcome. Close, but no explosive cigar.

The Reaping. Ardath Mayhar. So much for a Ha-Ha theme. Dark-ish quest for vengeance by the seventh-borne (whose revealed identity is not actually much of a surprise.) I wanted to like it more than I did. It lacked context, as if plucked without backstory from a tale with some real world-building. And, sadly, the action did not ring true. But there were elements to appreciate. It was…fine.

The Ballad of Borrell. Gordon Linzer. The aging hero seems to be a recurrent trope in the SAD series. Something of a murder mystery, this one still manages an air of light-heartedness, in a manner akin to the Nero Wolf stories. The subject matter is serious, but the characters and interactions contain elements of humor. A decent, interesting, and entertaining story. A step-up in quality from the prior entry. (I know, comparisons are odious. Sue me.)

Deux Amours D’une Sorciere. Tanith Lee. This is a beautiful, faceted jewel of a story, but not the sort of I’m interested in reading in a Sword-and-Sorcery anthology. I’m glad I read it. I’m must unsure what it is doing here.

Of Pigs and Men. Poul Anderson. Here again is the light-heartedness Offutt promise. Here is the humor. Anderson writes a laugh-out-loud parody of the academic cant employed by those of a certain political persuasion. I smiled, chuckled, even guffawed. But, again, what is it doing here?

Cryptically Yours. Bryan Lumley. At this point, I’ve realized that anything goes in this iteration of SAD. Again we have humor, albeit a dark humor couched in the form of a clever, epistolary story. A story of sorcerers; not a sword-slinger to be found. I was, however, amused. The contents don’t jibe with what is advertised on the cover of the volume, but I might as well roll with it.

Dedication. Heartfelt, I believe, and moving. I understand why Offutt placed it in the center of the book rather than at the beginning. It would clash with his introductory claim of light-heartedness.

The Dark Mother. DIana L. Paxson. Competently told story that I’ve previously encountered in another collection. All the pieces are there: a protagonist with some sort of backstory, a motivation, what appears to be a carefully considered secondary world, a mission, sword fighting, magic. I should like it. But instead, well…it’s fine.

Wooden Crate of Violent Death. Joey Froehlich. Poetry. Sigh. Anything goes though, right? Great-souled readers, those with a keener aesthetic appreciation than this pulp-addled scribbler, may well get more from this than I did. Perhaps it requires recitation with harp accompaniment. And mead. It was…okay.

The Fane of the Grey Rose. Charles de Lint. I’ve admired de Lint’s painterly style for decades, his ability to evoke otherworldliness. Here, in an early story, he adumbrates his future novelist’s niche with a tale that feels steeped in Tolkien’s or Dunsany’s requiems for Faerie. Befitting the recurrent theme in this anthology, the story runs counter to expectations. The cover art promised me something more primal than this fairytale romance. The thing reads like the highlights of an epic fantasy novel, stitched together by the scaffolding of the author’s outline. I think I would have liked that novel. Here, in this context, the story felt interminable. It had its moments, but pared down to meet a word count, frankly I didn’t care for it. I’d rather have read something less poetic and more grounded. Again, within the context of the anthology.

Sandmagic. Orson Scott Card. In the introduction to this story, Offutt writes “How to hate a person who is decent, human, gentle? Try harder!” If Offutt had stuck around awhile, he’d have had the opportunity to see frothing hordes try just that much harder. (Sorry about the tangent. Once I read that bit in the intro, I couldn’t resist quoting it. Haters, you go right ahead and hate. Talking people out of hate is a waste of time, and I’m busy.)

We’re temporarily out of light-heartedness. S&S is often grim, as this story demonstrates. Card provides a parable of vengeance, written in an almost Biblical cadence. It is a parable of vengeance taken to extremity. This anthology contains a number of stories driven by vengeance, but this story demonstrates the darkside of pursuing revenge at all costs; the avenger growing more monstrous than the initial villains ever were. It is a relatively simple tale, but masterfully executed, like an expert carpenter fashioning a common table and creating a work of art in the process.

As you might expect by this point, Sandmagic doesn’t conform to the expected S&S mold. But it’s good. And that seems to be about all I can hope to ask for in SAD IV: Anything Goes. Except…

The Edge of the World. Manley Wade Wellman. Ahh, Kardios. Welcome back, you silver-tongued rascal. This anthology needed you. Sex, action, monsters, chases. Yeah, I remember; this is why I slapped down my nickel. A proper adventure, perhaps a trifle simplistic, but none the worse for it. Manley Wade Wellman comes through again

So, did I like it? Sure, though I’d have appreciated it more if I knew what I was getting myself into. Worth it for the Charles Saunders story alone. If you don’t already have a copy, you could do worse than picking it up. And, while you’re buying reading material, why not check out something of mine? People seem to like Under Strange Suns, my sci-fi ERB homage.