SWORD OF CTHULHU
BY G.W. THOMAS
This article originally appeared on the Innsmouth Free Press website in 2011.
Robert E. Howard wrote some Cthulhu Mythos stories, though most are admittedly minor ones. His Serpent Men were coopted into the cycle by H.P. Lovecraft in “The Whisperer in Darkness” (Weird Tales, August 1931), thus creating an entire branch of the Mythos dedicated to these loathsome snakemen and their degenerate children. “The Shadow Kingdom,” the story first featuring the Serpent Men, was published in Weird Tales in January 1929 and is important for another reason. It is the first full-blooded sword and sorcery tale, as well. Howard had been trying out his ideas for a horror-oriented, fantasy-style tale with Solomon Kane, previously, but it is only with the creation of King Kull, the ancient Atlantean world of Valusia, and the insidious Serpent Men, that the mix is right.
I’ve pontificated on how the Conan stories belong in the Mythos (at least, tangently) at length in “Conan and the Cthulhu Mythos”, so I’m not going to cover that ground again. I’m not really that interested in nit-picking, anyway. What interests me more is how HPL’s ideas helped to enrich Howard’s invention. Taking the excitement of historical fiction (such as the stories Howard read in Adventure, or work by Harold Lamb, for instance), adding Howard’s own Dunsanian Fantasy world and, finally, the monsters that could only exist in a reality of the cosmic horror of Lovecraft, we get the final form of sword and sorcery. Nothing was quite like it before Howard and everything would change after him.
“The Shadow Kingdom” tells the story of Kull, a barbarian who has taken the crown of Valusia by force, and his struggles to keep it. There is dark sorcery afoot in the castle of the King and his only allies, the equally barbaric Picts, must help him to survive a terror that threatens his throne, his soul and the safety of the human race. Kull has his work cut out for him in facing the shadowy Serpent Men, who can assume the likeness of any man. Howard ends the ghostly tale with a splendid fight scene, in which Kull battles a room full of snaky assailants. The final product features bloody combat, ghostly spirits, and cloak-and-dagger maneuvers, all dressed in medieval splendor and romance.
The Howardian tale deviates from the traditional Lovecraftian story, outside of the window-dressing of time period, in one important way. HPL worked in a form based on the ghost story, in which his hapless hero eventually perceived the staggering vastness of cosmic horror. The point is often that we are small, unimportant specks in a terrifying universe. Howard’s fantasy does not embrace this philosophy entirely. Whether it is Kull, Conan, or Turlogh O’Brien, the barbarian warrior, no believer in civilization, rails against the forces of darkness, fighting with his sword, his body, his brain. Despite Howard’s brooding mood, it is still one of survival against the universe; no crying, simpering victims need apply.
As would be expected, the sword and sorcery tale does not usually achieve the same pitch of fear as does the Lovecraftian terror tale, largely due to this Darwinian attitude of the hero. Still, there are rewards to be had from the sword and sorcery tale. Instead of the pure frisson of horror, there is the color of the fantastic background. In the hands of C.L. Moore, in her Jirel of Joiry stories, in the best of Jack Vance or Fritz Leiber, this is enchanting, fascinating and evocative. There is also the pulse-pounding action of battle, personal or epic. In this, Howard is closer to J.R.R. Tolkien, who also knew how to evoke a chill (remember the Black Gate, Cirith Ungol and Shelob’s lair).
There have been other writers who have used the Lovecraftian style of fantasy. The stories of the ironic Clark Ashton Smith feel as if they sit halfway between HPL and REH. “The Testament of Atthammaus” (Weird Tales, October 1932), “The Charnal God” (Weird Tales, March 1934) and “Necromancy in Naat” (Weird Tales, July 1936), to name but three, all have the same combination of weird magic that Howard possesses. More recently, Brian Lumley penned similar tales for Weirdbook, collected in The House of Cthulhu (1984). These are what I think of when people use the term “dark fantasy” instead of “horror.” I’m sure it’s incorrectly used, but they are “dark” and “fantasy.” The term “sword and sorcery” is better-known.
I would finish with this last thought. Mythos is not a genre in itself but an idea that attaches itself to genres. There exists Mythos science fiction, just as there are Mythos westerns and Mythos mysteries. I know. I’ve written all of them. The trick with any Mythos genre story is that it must stay true to both halves of the equation. It must be horror and fantasy to be good sword and sorcery. An example of what this is NOT is best illustrated by Howard’s Kull story, “Swords of the Purple Kingdom”(written in 1928), in which Kull faces no supernatural foes, but fights a great battle on an ancient stairway. The story was written for Adventure not Weird Tales. The writing is fine, but, without fantasy elements, it lacks the spark that “The Shadow Kingdom” has. (I almost (but not quite) wish L. Sprague de Camp or Lin Carter would have written in a monster or two, as they did with some of the Conan stories.)
It is not necessary for sword and sorcery writers to name the deities of Lovecraft’s Mythos. They may want to create their own pantheon of terrors, albeit to evoke the same dark, lurking sense of the universe against the hero. Lovecraft’s cosmic horror added jet fuel to Howard’s fantastic visions. It can do the same for you.
WHAT’S SO GREAT ABOUT SWORD
AND PLANET?
BY PAULA R. STILES
This article originally appeared on the Innsmouth Free Press website in 2012.
Sword and Planet. What is it? Well, originally, it was just science fiction. Or adventure. Or Weird fiction. But with swords. And barbarians, alien cultures, and maybe a touch of what we’d now call steampunk.
If you’ve read a John Carter of Mars story, seen a Flash Gordon comic strip, or watched Star Wars, you’ve encountered Sword and Planet. Poul Anderson’s swashbuckling Flandry, the James Bond of a stellar empire on the edge of decline, can sometimes be found in this subgenre. Lovecraft didn’t write it, but, just as there are Lovecraft-period Mythos sSword and sSorcery stories (Robert Howard’s “Queen of the Black Coast” (1934) being the ur-tale here), you’ve also got some Sword-and-Planet Mythos.
C.L. Moore’s “Jirel Meets Magic” (1935) has the doughty title character, the Countess Jirel of Joiry, leaving late-medievalesque France through a portal in a fallen castle in pursuit of a treacherous sorcerer. It is remarkably progressive in its two strong female antagonists, using the secondary male antagonist as a pawn between them. It’s also nice to see female anger treated as a strength in the heroine and not a weakness. None of that submissive Little Women crap for Jirel, nuh-uh. Now that’s a woman who will use your intestines for yarn should you make the error of suggesting she go back to her knitting.
“Jirel Meets Magic” does mostly Sword and Planet (disguised as medievalesque alternate-world fantasy along the lines of Andre Norton’s “Witchworld” series) and only delves briefly into Mythos near the end. A later Jirel story, “The Dark Land” (1936), goes straight-up Mythos and has Jirel get involved with a Prince Charming type who turns out to be a bit more like Nyarlathotep. I didn’t like that one as much, though, because Jirel is uncharacteristically passive in it.
It would be easy to say that Sword and Planet is any space setting with fantasy (or what we’d now characterize as fantasy because its science is outdated), but that’s not true. There is a distinct difference between the Mars of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ “A Princess of Mars” (1917) or Leigh Brackett’s Stark series and that of Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles (1950) that is based in the basics of their respective genres. Sword and Planet is set in a sort of historical version of Space Opera. People may have rayguns, but they prefer swords. There are sorceries, or at least religious mysticism. The heroes and heroines are violent adventurers interacting with civilization (one usually based on the Roman Empire, Egypt, or Bronze Age Mesopotamia). The genre being referenced is Sword and Sorcery, or at least something like Historical Fantasy. A
nd there are many different intelligent races, rather than a binary conflict between would-be conquerors and soon-to-be-conquered.
In The Martian Chronicles, the setting is modern and the basic genre referenced is the Western not Historical Fantasy. The Martians could be the Calusa of Florida — fierce, highly cultured, secretive, and doomed. Robert Silverberg’s ancient Martian civilization in “A Rose for Ecclesiastes” (1963) evokes the Far East by way of Egypt, but it’s a similar thing to Bradbury. The fantastical canals of Mars can be used to evoke different genres.
The aim of the protagonists in the Space Western is colonization, whereas the protagonists of Sword and Planet are not outsiders to their world. Exoticism is on prominent display in Sword and Planet, as much as in Sword and Sorcery. It is not on a frontier and it is not seen as a threat to the protagonist. In fact, the protagonist is often one of the most exotic of the characters, unlike the mundane, booted protagonists of more general Space Opera, who kick in the doors of mysterious cultures and bemoan the bad form of said cultures’ inhabitants for not dying off and leaving a pristine frontier, as all good ancient cultures should.
Sword and Planet has its good points. The protagonists have room to breathe into more than two dimensions and be quite close to anti-heroes at times (Howard’s original Conan is an unabashed thief, pirate and mercenary — and smart about it, too). Jirel of Joiry has no compunction about killing her way across the new purple land she finds in “Jirel Meets Magic,” just because she first meets the sorceress Jarisme while Jarisme is torturing one of her subjects — and because Jarisme is protecting a sorcerer whom Jirel has sworn to kill. So, Jirel’s main reason for taking on an opponent twice her size is (as is usual for her) simply that said opponent pissed her off.
This aspect also has its bad side. Sword and Planet — even relatively good Sword and Planet — is a major haunt for the Mary Sue. And Mary Sue likes to indulge in a lot of hurt/comfort.
This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. C.J. Cherryh’s Gates series is loaded with damage for its male narrator and it’s still great. Andre Norton practically made a career of popular Mary-Sue-laced Sword and Planet aimed at the moody, misunderstood teenager. Even Heinlein romped through the subgenre in his novel Glory Road.
But the constant sexually charged torture endured by the heroine, Alys, in Jo Clayton’s Diadem series gets really uncomfortable, especially when it’s reinforced by almost every female character Alys meets unfairly accusing her of being a red-haired hussy who steals their rather dim-witted and brutal menfolk. Similarly, while Marion Zimmer Bradley delved into feminism later in her Darkover series, making it initially a Scottish-medievalesque, misogynistic world meant that she was always somewhat limited in what her heroines could realistically accomplish.
That’s not even getting into the race stuff, which can be pretty uncomfortable. Yes, I am thinking of John Carter’s florid Civil War backstory, the happy robot slaves of Star Wars, and the Yellow Peril paranoia embodied in Flash Gordon’s Ming the Merciless, among other historical embarrassments. Let’s not go there.
But Sword and Planet revels in its warts. It’s not about the hard science, never has been. It’s about pushing the exoticism of its worldbuilding, and even characters, to the limits of space — like Norton’s ancient multilayered cities that are products of a hundred centuries of building, a setting that readily lends itself to Mythos. When you write Sword and Planet, you shouldn’t hold back for fear that it’s not scientifically realistic. This is the realm of the technosorcerer, the vacuum-immune barbarian, and the ringed Saturn or dying red giant in your planet’s sky. Go for it.
SPANISH CONAN: MANOS,
GUERRERO INDOMITO
BY SILVIA MORENO-GARCIA
This article originally appeared on Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s blog in 2012.
When evil attacked in the 1980s, what sword-wielding barbarian would you call for assistance? Manos, Guerrero Indomito!
Manos was a comic book published in Spain by Editorial Bruguera. I’ve heard that it was actually a translation of a German comic titled Manos Der Dämonenjäger. Apparently, a single issues was published in Spain by Dalmau Socias Editores as Wulkan before making its way to Bruguera, which published a variety of speculative fiction. However, I cannot confirm the existence of the German edition as I only read the Spanish-language comics. At any rate, it was drawn by a Spaniard, Correa, and was supposed to be an homage to Conan. It was actually a fairly blatant copy of Conan, at least in the first few numbers.
Manos was not the first sword-and-sorcery hero to appear in Spanish-language comics. Víctor de la Fuente created Haxtur in 1971. Haxtur is a guerilla fighter who is transported to a secondary world populated by warriors and wizards. Fuente also created Mathai-Dor and Haggarth. Esteban Maroto (credited with coming up with Red Sonja’s bikini) drew Manly and Korsar. Other barbarian heroes out of Spain include Andrax, Arcano and Sigfrid, plus a plethora of comics too numerous to name. Suffice to say there is a rich history of speculative history comic books in Spain and also in Latin America. Sword and sorcery has been but one sub-genre that got the comic book treatment and Manos only one hero, probably one of the minor ones if we compare him to the likes of Haxtur. However, Manos was one of my first forays into sword and sorcery, which is why I’m bringing him up today.
But back to Manos. Manos is the ruler of the city of Polis, where he lives together with his sister Parda and rules with the wise counsel of Zango. During his adventures, he meets the feisty Alana, who becomes his love interest. Although Manos does perform as a low-rent Conan, he sometimes moves in more interesting directions.
First of all, Manos is a king who, on the side, goes on adventures. As the series goes on, things take a turn for the worse. He is forced to abandon Polis and heads to other lands with Parda, Alana and Zango. Eventually, Parda marries an evil demon lord, Manos kills the evil lord, and he continues onwards only with Alana (Parda having become his mortal enemy). We could say that while Conan climbs his way to a throne, Manos descends into bleaker situations.
Now, for all you Cthulhu heads, I’ll mention Issue #15, which has Manos meeting Cthulhu’s younger cousin. Okay, it isn’t really Cthulhu’s younger cousin, but look at the cover illustration for issue #15, and listen to my tale, and you’ll understand the Mythos connection.
Issue #15 opens with Manos and Alana at a tavern. They’re still on the run from Parda. A singer walks into the tavern and starts to perform. His music seems magical, so magical that for a moment, Manos sees the singer as a modern-day rock-and-roll singer (yeah).
Not everyone likes the music. Some of the patrons throw stuff at the singer. A brawl takes place. Manos intervenes and eventually, Manos, Alana and the singer join paths as traveling companions.
The singer is going back to the valley where he was born to seek revenge. When he was growing up, a kind old woman took care of him (He was an orphan). But the valley where they lived was cursed. A demon that demanded sacrifices of cattle to appease its hunger lived there. One night, the old woman went out and was slain by the demon. The singer left the town and is now returning to rid the valley of the monster.
Manos decides to help the young man. They watch as a cow is left tied to a post in a clearing. A beautiful young woman emerges and takes the cow away. They follow her and watch as she guides the cow towards a gigantic tentacled monster. Manos and his friends hurry to save the girl and kill the demon. However, she doesn’t seem to be interested in being saved and begs them to leave. No matter, as Manos eventually kills the demon.
The truth is then revealed. The young woman is the singer’s mother. Years before, she had been offered in sacrifice to the demon. He did not kill her. Instead, she became his companion and gave birth to the singer, giving him away so he could be fostered as a normal child. When the demon dies, the young woman magically ages (The demon’s magic had preserved her youth) and kills herself.
Enraged, the singer attacks Manos. Manos knocks him out. Alana wants to kill him, but Manos in
tervenes. When Alana pulls away the hair from the young man’s nape, they see he has a tiny demon’s face on the back of his neck. The issue ends with Manos and Alana fleeing the valley, knowing they’ve made one more enemy.
Now for the Mythos connection. I jokingly mentioned Cthulhu, but this tale probably has more in common with “The Shadow Over Innsmouth” and “The Dunwich Horror.” As in “Shadow,” we have a young man returning to his hometown, only to discover the truth of his monstrous ancestry. “The Dunwich” connection comes from the sexual relations with a monstrous creature, which produce offspring.
However, where Lovecraft saw the relationship between the woman and the creature as repellent, the story seems sympathetic. The monster is not evil; it just has “an eternal hunger” and needs to feed frequently. The monster is also kinder than the slave owner who ties the woman to a pole, an owner who considers her suitable for sacrifice because she is “worth less than a cow.” While Lavinia is likely pressured to have sex with a monster, the woman here engages the creature willingly.
Manos’ reaction is worthy of consideration: In a previous issue, he had killed his sister’s demon lover and had no qualms about attempting to murder her half-demon baby. Here, he stops Alana from murdering the singer. Is it because Parda’s husband was coded as an outsider, a Genghis Khan type of figure, while the singer is a wholesome blond youth? Or is Manos changing his view of monsters and demons?
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