SWORD &
MYTHOS
EDITED BY SILVIA MORENO-GARCIA
AND PAULA R. STILES
SWORD AND MYTHOS © 2014 Innsmouth Free Press
All individual contributions copyright by their respective authors.
All stories are original to this anthology.
ISBN: 978-1-927990-00-1 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-927990-01-8 (e-book)
Edited by: Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Paula R. Stiles
Cover illustration: Nacho Molina Parra
Cover and interior design: Silvia Moreno-Garcia
Reproduction or utilization of this work in any form is forbidden without permission from the copyright holder.
Published by Innsmouth Free Press, 2014. Smashwords Edition.
Visit www.innsmouthfreepress.com
CONTENTS
Introduction
FICTION
The Iron Hut
By Maurice Broaddus
Jon Carver of Barzoon, You Misunderstood
By Graham J. Darling
Sun Sorrow
By Paul Jessup
The Wood Of Ephraim
By Edward M. Erdelac
Truth is Order and Order is Truth
By Nadia Bulkin
Spirit Forms of the Sea
By Bogi Takács
The Bones of Heroes
By Orrin Grey
Light
By Diana L. Paxson
The Serpents of Albion
By Adrian Chamberlin
The Call of the Dreaming Moon
By Thana Niveau
Black Caesar: The Stone Ship Rises
By Balogun Ojetade
And After the Fire, A Still Small Voice
By E. Catherine Tobler
No Sleep For the Just
By William Meikle
In Xochitl In Cuicatl In Shub-Niggurath
By Nelly Geraldine García-Rosas
The Sorrow of Qingfeng
By Grey Yuen
ESSAYS
Conan and the Cthulhu Mythos
By G.W. Thomas
Sword of Cthulhu
By G.W. Thomas
What’s So Great About Sword and Planet?
By Paula R. Stiles
Spanish Conan: Manos, Guerrero Indomito
By Silvia Moreno-Garcia
Mexican Belit: Conan Goes Viking
By Silvia Moreno-Garcia
THE AUTHORS
THE EDITORS & CONTRIBUTORS
INTRODUCTION
We might have titled this anthology When Lovecraft Met Howard and Moore. But we didn’t. Because we didn’t think that sounded too sophisticated. But that is the impetus of this book — to unite two pulp sub-genres. Not that they haven’t been united before.
Sword and sorcery, which can trace its roots to the works of Robert E. Howard and C.L. Moore, melded with the Cthulhu Mythos a long time ago. Considering the strong friendship between Howard and Lovecraft, along with Moore’s presence in their circle of writers, one could say it was bound to happen. This union is present in some of Howard’s tales (Kull and the serpent people, for example) and one could see hints in some of Moore’s creations (in “Scarlet Dream,” for one). “The Testament of Athammaus” by C.A. Smith, “The Curse of the Monolith” by L. Sprague de Camp and Lin Carter - featuring a monster (an amoeba-like creature) which is summoned by a strange piping - all seem to blend a bit of Mythos and a bit of sword and sorcery.
When we were blogging about this anthology, a Mythos fan, Matthew Carpenter, pointed to a number of other stories, including the tales of Brak the Barbarian (His nemesis is Yob Haggoth), “Oracle of Sadqua” by Ron Hilger in the Tsathoggua Cycle, “The Golden Keeper” by Ian R. MacLeod in Eternal Lovecraft, and The Throne of Bones by Brian McNaughton.
Suspiciously Mythos-like entities have gently permeated the silver screen, sometimes with a barbarian on the side. Who can forget the deity of that Conan sequel, Conan the Destroyer? Dagoth, ”The Dreaming God,” is the kind of evil deity that might be happily at home in a Mythos tale. His name recalls Dagon and his nickname recalls Cthulhu. Plus, if summoned, he will bring darkness upon the world. In the 1980s animated movie, Heavy Metal, Den saves a young woman from a sacrificial altar, surrounded by priests chanting, Uluht’c. An anagram for Cthulhu? Perhaps.
Sword and sorcery heroes, popular in comic book form during the 70s and 80s, faced Mythos-like entities in a number of (mostly) European titles like Manos Der Dämonenjäger.
Thus, this is not the first time that swords have clashed against Cthulhu, Dagon and their ilk.
One of the obvious questions when putting together this anthology, is: “What are the racial issues inherent in some of these stories?” Lovecraft and Howard’s views of people of color are well known and there is no denying their visions can be highly problematic in this regard.
Robert E. Howard is the man who wrote in a letter to Lovecraft, “I don’t know whether an Oriental smells any different than a nigger when he’s roasting.” He then went on to pen “Red Nails,” an adventure in a quasi-Prehispanic setting. Here’s a description of one of the Prehispanic bad guys named Olmec:
That smile [Olmec’s] contained all the cruel cynicism that seethes below the surface of a sophisticated and degenerate race, and for the first time in her life Valeria experienced fear of a man.
Lovecraft and Howard’s stories are riddled with such moments. The question then becomes: Can we and should we continue to access these pulp visions? The answer, we think, is yes. Though that does not mean that our visions have to be the same as the ones prevalent in Lovecraft and Howard’s era. While hardly a woman might have made it into Lovecraft’s short stories, and while Howard might not have featured many a person of color in a lead role, we are not the same writers they were.
In 1981, Charles R. Saunders wrote Imaro, a sword and sorcery collection with an African hero. He spawned what has become the sword and soul movement. Thirty years later, our speculative fiction is changing and will continue to change. The boundaries and heroes of yore are different, as are the stories. We hope that what remains constant is the vibrant impetus of sword and sorcery paired with the thrilling darkness of the Mythos.
Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Paula R. Stiles
FICTION
THE IRON HUT
BY MAURICE BROADDUS
I.
When they unearthed the mysterious shard, a sense of excitement rippled through the archaeological camp. They were onto something staggering. Professor Leopold Watson arrived first and examined the shard with reverent care. Kilwa Kivinje had disappeared into antiquity with no clues as to its whereabouts. Despite his colleagues’ skepticism, he was certain that the forgotten city was here — not far from the Olduvai Gorge — and this shard was the first evidence he’d seen that he was on the right track. Though anxious to send a report to the Associated Press, he opted to hold off until they knew what they were dealing with.
Leopold removed his broad-rimmed hat long enough to wipe the sweat from his scalp then tucked his few gray tufts of hair back under its protection. Small-framed glasses fixed to the bridge of his nose. Leopold possessed a thin face with weary creases radiating from his deep-recessed eyes. Miskatonic University, a small — though storied — university, couldn’t finance the expedition without the aid of the Nathaniel Derby Pickman Foundation. Dealing with the Foundation meant suffering their representative, Stanley McKreager. His crooked smile, as if he never quite got the hang of it, greeted the slow approach of his colleague.
“You know what this means?” McKreager puffed, his severe girth impeding his movements. The mere act of walking caused him to break into a sweat. Leopold wondered if the trek from the camp might be McKreager’s final undoi
ng.
“Of course I know what this means.”
“The first extra-folkloric proof of Kilwa Kivinje.”
Leopold sighed and adjusted his glasses. He opposed this expedition — this “intrusion,” he called it. He suspected that McKreager dreamt of gold mines and the opportunity to plunder the city in the name of science.
McKreager scrutinized the shard. His oval face reminded Leopold of a soft-boiled egg with a bulbous nose. His heavy head, like a turtle without a shell to withdraw into, craned about, feigning something akin to academic perusal. Leopold hated the way McKreager pulled the strands of his hair into a ponytail. A ponytail, for God’s sake.
“Do you see these markings?” McKreager puzzled over the shard.
“You are quite the fount of rhetorical questions today.” But Leopold couldn’t begrudge him his brand of excitement. He, too, felt the swell of pride.
“Can you make them out?”
Leopold took the shard and felt the press of McKreager’s eyes on him. For a moment, Leopold fantasized about the shard being the earliest known inscription ever to be discovered, written in an archaic proto-Bantu. “The shard will require intense examination. And carbon dating to be sure.”
“To be sure of what? Still being confounded by the indigenous myth cycles?”
“Mount Kilimanjaro features heavily in local mythology. One of these legends, told by the Chagga people, has it that an ancient chief called ‘Mawenzi’ convinced his younger brother Kibo to fetch him coals from a mighty fire to light his pipe. Besides the fact that Mawenzi and Kibo are the names of the peaks, the legend could be a possible reference to volcanic activity, maybe as far back as the Stone Age.”
The peaks of mystery loomed above them, their shadow always felt. Leopold lamented that there was not much left of the ice caps now. Within fifty years they might be gone entirely, though they must have been magnificent centuries ago. Returning his attention to the shard, he flipped it in his palm. The strange markings on the crystalline piece made him nauseous if he held it or stared at it for too long. There was simply no earthly way the markings of the shard could be real. The weight of age enshrouded it. He knew without the tests that the words, and they were words, of a tongue long-dead and not quite human, pre-dated the written word.
McKreager snatched the shard with a near-mania. “I say we announce that this is the work of the artists of Atlantis,” McKreager pronounced, obviously impressed with the quality of the work.
“Atlanteans? And you say that I spin tired tales.”
“If not Atlanteans, then who?” McKreager couldn’t return to the Nathaniel Derby Pickman Foundation with news of African Negro artisans producing such exquisite work. Not before Europeans.
“Perhaps Portuguese artists,” Leopold started, his stomach turning at the thought of indulging such a ruse. Still, he needed the funding. “If dated four or five centuries ago. Or natives trained by the Portuguese.”
“Yes, yes. You may be onto something.” McKreager’s heavy eyes locked onto his. “Maybe you ought to lie down. You look positively dreadful, my dear boy.”
On the walk to his tent, Leopold’s mind brought to bear thoughts of those Elder Things. He suddenly regretted the long hours spent poring over the arcane papers of the Miskatonic University Library and the favors burnt in order to peruse that damnable book. Creatures of Prehistoric folklore that McKreager took special pains to dismiss, tales long whispered in dread. Leopold fidgeted in his cot, falling into a troubled sleep, and dreamt of ancient times and ancient warriors.
II.
What price friendship? Dinga focused on that single thought, his fingers groping for the next handhold in the rocky crag. The piercing gale tore through his heavy fur and hammered nails of ice through his body. His thickly muscled legs grew heavier with each tenuous step up the treacherous mountainside. Cursing the rocks that shifted underfoot, Dinga moved with the practiced ease of a hillman, his soft-booted foot finding purchase. The tempests blew torrents of snow and reduced the peak to a smoking cone.
He had been promised that his journey would be easier, not that he trusted the laibon who had sent him on this fool’s errand. Dinga had followed the narrow ridge, a kind of ramp that wound its way along the mountainside at the outset of his journey. He rested at shambas along the way and refreshed himself with the bananas and vegetables that grew in the small holdings. When the passage turned more arduous, he pressed on, heedless of the grim peril hidden by the white immensity.
Climbing coursed in his Nokian veins, as did bloodlust and the need for vengeance. Nothing, not the remoteness of the pinnacle, not the rarified air, not the gnawing cold, not whatever unfathomed mysteries awaited him, would stop him from reaching his destination. The hilt of his dagger jabbed him in the waist with each step, a gentle plea to be unsheathed in battle. The weight of his sword pressed against his back — he preferred an enemy to fight and a mountain in whose shadow many villages chilled would not suffice.
The forest roof looked like a verdant mat below him. A rolling ocean of green that only stirred longings in him to revisit the coast, a desire compounded by the sense of unease he experienced whenever he stared too long at the looming slopes and their irregular peaks. Drifting snow carpeted the shelf before he had finished his ascent to the snow-denuded summit. A sudden gust of wind nearly unseated him from his lofty ice shelf. In his scramble, he latched onto crystalline outcroppings.
No enemy to fight, only an immovable mound of earth and ice — the thought galled him. He’d put his blade to any foe. Yet, Onyame damn him if a rock bettered him. This mountain was a beast like any other he’d faced and it needed slaying. Remembering that his time drew short, that a friend’s life weighing in the balance, he pressed on.
The Berbers, wandering barbarians that they were, prepared to set upon Dinga as if he were some unassuming cattle herder. They were ready to make off with whatever valuables he might have. A gold ring dangled from his broad nose and he wore a brass armlet. A tattoo covered the left half of his body, lines like a maze, broken by dots. Little did they know that he valued nothing as much as his weapons. Their numbers gave them false confidence, nine of their barbarous horde to his one.
He had them right where he wanted.
Dinga traveled Azania, the little-known country south of Kush, not expecting to see anyone this far into the interior. His restless nature often got the better of him, roaming without searching for anything in particular. Berbers were fierce, worthy to join with him in worship of Onyame. Lanky figures, able-limbed with knots of muscles poised to spring, their mad glares focused on Dinga. He sensed the impending attack and had tensed himself when an approaching figure distracted them all. The swagger of his stride had a familiar bearing. He was giant in stature, even compared to Dinga’s not-inconsiderable height. The man’s muscles rippled gracefully with each step, more dancer than warrior.
“What have we here? A lamb beset by a pack of jackals?” Naiteru spoke in a Bantu tongue, despite being Masai. Dinga also spoke Bantu, a good thing since he knew none of the Nilotic tongue of most Masai. Naiteru was not most Masai. Dinga knew loneliness as his primary companion, though, on occasion, he encountered a friend that he had made along his journey. Naiteru stared at him. A familiar admiration danced in his eyes.
“There are no lambs here, wayfarer, save for the gentle thing dangling between your legs,” Dinga said.
“You have a funny way of asking for help.”
“I never asked. My worship is a private affair, saved for these mongrels.”
“Come now — allow me to commune with your god. Is your heart the only one that beats to the sound of the ancient drum?”
Dinga knew the Berbers had planned to converge on him in the midst of the upcoming clearing. Instead, the pair of warriors plunged into the barbarians’ swarming formation. They crashed through the branches and hurtled into the nearly dozen men. Dinga had sinewy shoulders and a lean waist. His belted loincloth held a dagger hilt jutting from one side
, with the belt supporting a short, heavy sword.
Dinga killed the first two before they knew they could bring their weapons to bear then ducked the wide arc of the blade path of a third. Quick on his feet, Dinga moved toward the empty swish of sliced air. He parried the next slash and then cut off the Berber’s choking cry at his throat by severing him from ear-to-ear. A weird inhuman call announced another Berber who crashed through the dense forest wall like a rhinoceros crashing through saplings. Dinga clubbed him with the flat side of his heavy sword and the barbarian’s brains poured from his split skull.
“What say you?” Naiteru said, engaged by two Berber himself.
“When I need the help of a stray bamboo reed, I will shout.”
“Heh.” The Masai side-stepped a thrust then moved in close and snapped his foe’s neck with a quick twist. Another Berber attempted an attack from the rear, to trap him between himself and another approaching barbarian, but Naiteru caught him by the wrist, twirling him around into his companions’ thrusting spear. Naiteru let the impaled corpse fall to the ground and caught the spear. The Berber’s partner lunged forward, but the Masai tripped him with his spear then spun it and plunged it into his foe’s back. He ran his spear through the Berber’s spine and breastbone. Naiteru smiled as the Berber coughed out bloody foam and spasmed in death.
Naiteru’s height and skinny build belied his strength. With an elegance to his movement, he wheeled like a panther on cords of muscles, hard like steel rope. His wild and arrogant eyes measured the course of the fray. A lethal whirlwind, his combat was beauty to behold, an honor to Onyame. A Berber, through more luck than skill, managed to slice Naiteru along the side. The Masai reacted immediately. An upswing of his spear caught the Berber in his gullet and sent up a shower of red rain. Blood surged over the Berber’s hands as he clutched at his belly in a futile bid to contain his innards.
And then it was finished — the forest was still and silent except for the sound of two men breathing heavily.
“The wound doesn’t look too bad. It should heal well.” Dinga studied Naiteru’s side.
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