Smith's Most Well-Known Creation

Artwork by Clark Ashton Smith

I've already touched on the fact that, compared to his contemporaries, H.P. Lovecraft and Robert E. Howard, the overt influence of Clark Ashton Smith on later writers is minimal and I stand by that assessment. I would, however, like to point out an obvious exception to this: the deity Tsathoggua. Unlike nearly everything else CAS created in his weird tales, Tsathoggua not only reappeared multiple times within his own story cycles but was also used by some of his colleagues in theirs. Indeed, the first time the name Tsathoggua appears in print is not in one of Smith's stories but in Lovecraft's "The Whisperer in Darkness."

In that story, Tsathoggua is mentioned three times, mostly in passing, as part of a litany of other ancient beings, like Cthulhu and Shub-Niggurath. However, one of these mentions not only describes him but associates him with CAS:

It’s from N’kai that frightful Tsathoggua came – you know, the amorphous, toad-like god-creature mentioned in the Pnakotic Manuscripts and the Necronomicon and the Commoriom myth-cycle preserved by the Atlantean high-priest Klarkash-Ton.

Klarkash-Ton is, obviously, Smith and "the Commoriom myth-cycle" is then-unpublished "The Tale of Satampra Zeiros," which had been written in 1929 but not published until a few months after "The Whisperer in Darkness." We must remember that the writers in the Weird Tales circle regularly discussed and shared drafts of their work with one another, which is how HPL beat Smith to the punch when it came to introducing his own creation.

When "The Tale of Satampra Zeiros" was published, Smith talks a bit more about Tsathoggua by reference to one of his idols:

He was very squat and pot-bellied, his head was more like a monstrous toad than a deity, and his whole body was covered with an imitation of short fur, giving somehow a vague sensation of both the bat and the sloth. His sleepy lids were half-lowered over his globular eyes; the tip of a queer tongue issued from his fat mouth.

Smith would go on mention Tsathoggua several more times in his Hyperborean stories, as well as in his Averoigne stories, where the god appears under the variant name Sodagui. From these other stories, we learn that Tsathoggua – also known as Zhothaqquah – once dwelled on the planet Cykranosh, which we call Saturn, where "some of [his] relatives were still resident ... and were worshipped by its peoples." His relatives include his "uncle," having the unpronounceable name of Hziulquoigmnzhah, about which I'll have a little more to say in an upcoming post.

From "The Seven Geases," we find out that, after having from Saturn "in years immediately foIlowing the Earth's creation," Tsathoggua slept in a secret cave beneath Mount Voormithadreth. That story describes him as having "great girth and his batlike furriness and the look of a sleepy black toad." This particular story is interesting, because Tsathoggua not only appears in the flesh but actually speaks, carrying on a brief conversation with its unfortunate protagonist, Ralibar Vooz. We also learn that the god enjoys blood sacrifices offered to him by his worshipers.

I can't help but wonder why it was that Tsathoggua, of all of Smith's creations, should be the one that Lovecraft (and, apparently, Robert E. Howard, though the story in question was never completed during his lifetime) should find compelling enough to include in his own stories, if only by reference. I don't really have any theories to offer, since, as fond as I am of Tsathoggua, he's nothing truly notable about him. Perhaps Lovecraft and others simply liked the sound of his name. Whatever the reason, I think it's unquestionably the case that Tsathoggua is Smith's most well-known creation. 

The Worlds of Clark Ashton Smith (Part I)

Among the more interesting aspects of Clark Ashton Smith’s literary output is the way many of his best-known stories fall into a series of loosely connected “cycles.” Each cycle is defined by a shared setting, one that all the stories belonging to it inhabit, even if those stories are separated by vast stretches of time or only lightly connected by recurring names, places, or legends. While these cycles share certain common elements – decadence, black magic, sardonic humor, and a pervasive sense of decline – each nevertheless possesses a character and atmosphere all its own. A story set in Hyperborea feels different from one set in Zothique or Averoigne, not merely in geography but also in tone, mood, and underlying assumptions about history, magic, and humanity’s place in the cosmos.

Since I plan to write about several of Clark Ashton Smith’s settings over the course of the coming month, it seems worthwhile to begin with a short series of introductory posts outlining these worlds for readers who may not yet be familiar with them. Each post will offer a brief overview of a particular setting, highlighting its distinctive features and thematic concerns. I’ll also include a selective bibliography of some of the key stories associated with each setting, many of which I’ve already examined in earlier Pulp Fantasy Library posts. This is by no means meant to be an exhaustive or encyclopedic survey. Rather, I simply wish to establish a shared foundation, one that will make it easier to explore these settings in greater depth in later posts devoted to Smith’s most enduring and influential creations.

In this first installment, I’ll focus on two of Smith’s best-known settings – Averoigne and Hyperborea –with additional settings to follow in Parts II and III of the series.

Averoigne

Averoigne is a fictional region in southern France, with its own unique geography and history. It's a land of walled cities like Vyones (home to a grand cathedral and a scheming archbishop), winding rivers such as the Isoile, dense sinister forests, and ruined castles like Fausseflammes and Ylourgne. Set during the Middle Ages and early modern period, supernatural elements abound in the tales of Averoigne, like sorcery (often practiced covertly, even by clergy), vampires, werewolves, ghouls, and demonic intrusions. The Church holds sway but is frequently helpless or corrupt against these forces, which enables Smith to blend religious satire with elements of horror. The Averoigne stories often explore themes of lust, forbidden knowledge, and the clash between faith and paganism. 

The major stories in this cycle are:

• "The End of the Story" (1930): The earliest written story of Averoigne, it takes place in the 18th century. In it, a law student uncovers a forbidden tome at Périgon Abbey, leading to a romantic encounter with a lamia in a ruined chateau.
• "A Rendezvous in Averoigne" (1931): A troubadour and his lover stumble into a vampire-infested castle, blending romance with gothic horror.
• "The Maker of Gargoyles" (1932): A lustful stonemason's creations come alive to terrorize Vyones, serving as karmic punishment.
• "The Holiness of Azédarac" (1933): A bishop-sorcerer uses time magic to send a monk back to pagan times, where he finds love and questions his faith.
• "The Colossus of Ylourgne" (1933): A necromancer assembles a giant corpse to ravage the land, stopped by a heroic wizard in an epic tale of dark sorcery.
• "The Beast of Averoigne" (1933): An alien serpent creature arrives via comet, pitting science against religion as a sorcerer battles it.
• "Mother of Toads" (1938): A grotesque witch seduces a young man with potions, leading to horrific revenge.
• "The Enchantress of Sylaire" (1941): A dreamer enters a fairy realm, defeats a werewolf, and chooses eternal love over mortal life.

Hyperborea

Hyperborea is an ancient, lost land roughly where Greenland stands today, existing in a warm prehistoric era (possibly the Miocene or Pleistocene) before glaciers engulfed it. It's a jungle-clad realm of ebony mountains, opulent cities like Commoriom (abandoned due to dire prophecies) and Uzuldaroum, as well as northern locales like Mhu Thulan. Dinosaurs roam alongside mammoths and saber-tooths, while wizards, thieves, and elder gods like Tsathoggua dominate. The themes of cosmic indifference, ironic comeuppance, and the encroaching ice-doom of the land permeate the stories, often with black humor amid the horror. Smith's Hyperborean stories are the most sword-and-sorcery in content and tones of his work.

The key stories of this cycle are:

• "The Tale of Satampra Zeiros" (1931): A pair of thieves raid a ruined temple, awakening a monstrous guardian in ironic horror.
• "The Door to Saturn" (1932): Sorcerer Eibon flees to an alien planet, encountering bizarre creatures in a comedic quest.
• "The Testament of Athammaus" (1932): An executioner fails to kill a regenerating criminal tied to ancient gods.
• "The Weird of Avoosl Wuthoqquan" (1932): A greedy lender chases cursed gems into a monster's lair.
• "The Ice-Demon" (1933): Treasure hunters face a malevolent glacier in a tomb city.
• "The Seven Geases" (1934): A hunter endures escalating curses, bouncing through underworlds to a punchline end.
• "The Coming of the White Worm" (1941): A wizard confronts a deceptive iceberg-entity enslaving others.

Joe Doolin's Duo

The artwork that often accompanied the stories appearing in Weird Tales and other pulp magazines fascinates me. What strikes me about it is how good so much of it is. I don’t just mean in a technical sense – though that is obviously true – but also in its imaginative confidence and narrative clarity. These illustrations rarely function as mere decoration. Instead, they act as visual doorways into the story’s mood and possibilities, offering a concentrated distillation of wonder, menace, or strangeness that primes the reader before a single word is read. 

A good case in point is the single illustration included with Clark Ashton Smith's "The Tale of Satampra Zeiros" from the November 1931 issue of Weird Tales. Here, we see the titular Satampra Zeiros and his ill-fated companion, Tirouv Ompallios, as they stumble upon the amorphous monster guardian the temple of Tsathoggua in ruined Commoriom. If you ever wondered where Call of Cthulhu's formless spawn of Tsathoggua came from, this is the story and that depiction, by pulp artist Joe Doolin, is probably the first one ever produced. 

One of the things I find notable about the illustration above is the way the two thieves are drawn. Both are attired in generic "Ancient World" garb vaguely reminiscent of a Greek chiton or Roman tunica, complete with sandals. This is common in fantasy art of the pulp era. Many of the earliest depictions of Conan, for example, are similarly dressed, so it's not unusual. Even so, seeing them here made me wonder when it was that we first start to see more genuinely fantastical modes of dress in fantasy or sword-and-sorcery art. That might be a topic worthy of further exploration.

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Tale of Satampra Zeiros

With The Ensorcellment of January now underway, I’m taking a brief hiatus from H. P. Lovecraft’s Dreamlands tales to share my thoughts on four Clark Ashton Smith stories I consider particularly worthy of attention. The first of these is a story of which I am especially fond, “The Tale of Satampra Zeiros,” which appeared in the November 1931 issue of Weird Tales. Whatever its other virtues – and they are many – it stands as one of the clearest early expressions of sword-and-sorcery literature. More broadly, it encapsulates many of the qualities that define what I think of as pulp fantasy at its most effective: immediacy, moral ambiguity, horror, and a palpable sense that the world is not merely indifferent to human ambition but actively hostile to it.

The tale opens with one of my favorite first sentences ever to appear in a fantasy story:

I, Satampra Zeiros of Uzuldaroum, shall write with my left hand, since I have no longer any other, the tale of everything that befell Tirouv Ompallios and myself in the shrine of the god Tsathoggua, which lies neglected by the worship of man in the jungle-taken suburbs of Commoriom, that long-deserted capital of the Hyperborean rulers.

The story that follows fully earns that opening. It is a first-person account by a professional thief explaining not only how he came to lose his right hand, but how his most recent heist ended in catastrophe. Not a bad beginning! Together with his companion, Tirouv Ompallios, Zeiros ventures into Commoriom, the long-abandoned capital of Hyperborea, a place shunned even by other robbers. Rumored to be cursed and haunted by strange gods, Commoriom nonetheless promises fabulous wealth to anyone bold (or foolish) enough to plunder it. For Zeiros, that promise is irresistible.

The two thieves break into an ancient, seemingly intact temple of the elder god Tsathoggua – the toad-god’s first appearance in Smith’s fiction – where they find no jewels or gold, but instead disturb a foul, viscous substance resting within a vast bronze basin. This substance rises and assumes the form of a monstrous, many-limbed creature that hunts them through the ruins all night long. At dawn, the thieves realize they have come full circle and have returned to the temple itself. Barricading themselves inside proves useless. The creature oozes through a damaged lintel, consuming Ompallios in silence and nearly claiming Zeiros as well. He escapes only by sacrificing his right hand, surviving to record the tale as a warning.

Smith wrote “The Tale of Satampra Zeiros” early in his career as a prose writer, when he was still finding his footing in the pages of Weird Tales and the story bears the clear imprint of his literary influences. Poe’s fascination with doom, confession, and inevitable consequence is evident in the framing, while the French Decadents inform the luxuriant prose and preoccupation with corruption, blasphemy, and decay. At the same time, Smith is also clearly engaging with the raw material of adventure fiction – thieves, lost cities, fabulous treasure, and sudden violence. The fusion of these elements gives the story its remarkable staying power. Even decades after first reading it, I can still vividly recall the experience.

A great deal of the story’s success lies in Smith’s choice of protagonist. Zeiros is no hero. He is greedy, cynical, and ultimately self-preserving, surviving only at the expense of his partner in crime. This perspective strips the tale of any romantic gloss and reinforces a central truth of Smith’s Hyperborea, namely, that audacity is not rewarded, only punished. For that reason, “The Tale of Satampra Zeiros” is more than merely a foundational sword-and-sorcery text (though it certainly is that). It represents a decisive shift away from quests, kingdoms, and moral uplift toward immediate danger and personal survival. The stakes are not cosmic salvation or political destiny, but simply whether the protagonist lives to see another day. In that respect, it is a near-perfect encapsulation of the pulp fantasy ethos.

Though he never, to my knowledge, confirmed it, I have long suspected that “The Tale of Satampra Zeiros” exerted some influence on Fritz Leiber’s conception of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. These roguish protagonists, with their ill-conceived schemes and narrow escapes, feel like natural descendants of Zeiros and Ompallios. Likewise, the relationship between Smith’s two thieves – transactional, greedy, and ultimately fragile – anticipates later depictions of adventuring partnerships defined more by convenience than by trust.

For similar reasons, I strongly associate this story with old school Dungeons & Dragons. The abandoned city of Commoriom, its forbidden temple, and its inhuman guardian are all immediately recognizable elements of dungeon-based play. More importantly, the story embodies an ethos in which exploration is genuinely dangerous and curiosity often carries a terrible price. Nearly a century after its publication, “The Tale of Satampra Zeiros” remains a sharp and unsettling work of pulp fantasy. It reminds us that an abandoned ruin may be a trap, filled with inimical gods and lethal consequences. In doing so, the story helped establish a tradition of fantasy that values peril over heroism and survival over glory, a tradition that continues to shape the genre today.

Interview: Jeff Talanian

1. How did you first discover the works of H.P. Lovecraft and what was it about his writing that captivated you?

Greetings, James, and thank you for the opportunity to chat about one of my favorite authors, H.P. Lovecraft. So, when I was a young teenager in the early- to mid-1980s, I was playing in a local AD&D group that was run by a childhood friend by the name of Andrew. One week, my friend Bob, whom I am still friends with to this day, wanted to run something different for the group as a one-shot. It was Call of Cthulhu, by Chaosium. I played a scientist armed with a pistol, and my guy either died or went mad – I don't recall the specifics. But I loved the content, and it led me to looking up the story "The Call of Cthulhu," by Mr. Lovecraft, and it's since been a lifelong fascination. So, I discovered HPL through gaming. I think it was about 1983 or 1984.

2. Lovecraft’s influence on Hyperborea is unmistakable. What elements of his cosmic horror do you think best lend themselves to tabletop roleplaying?

The crushing sense of futility in which mankind must come to terms that he is an insignificant ant in comparison with the Great Old Ones; that no matter how much he achieves, whatever lofty heights he attains, there is something larger out there that views man with indifference, if even at all. It is a different mindset than some previous presentations in which player characters can actually achieve a god-like status or even become immortals with all the benefits derived therefrom. In a true cosmic horror campaign, for no matter how much power and glory you achieve, you are still no more than the aforementioned ant in the grand scheme of things.

3. Lovecraft is often associated with "modern" horror, but Hyperborea is firmly sword-and-sorcery. How do you blend the alien terrors of the Mythos with the more grounded violence and heroism of pulp fantasy?

I drew a lot of inspiration from HPL's brothers-in-arms, as it were – Clark Ashton Smith, Robert E. Howard, and no small amount of inspiration from other authors such as Abraham Merritt and Fritz Leiber. As Howard and Lovecraft became closer friends, as evidenced by the letters they exchanged, we started to see the influences of cosmic horror played out in Howard's fiction, which was a subtle shift away from some of his earlier themes of more heroic, action-oriented yarns. This also applies to Smith's work, which borrows from Lovecraft's work, but in a lot of cases, HPL was borrowing from CAS (see Tsathoggua). So, even though HPL was writing a lot of his works from a modern (for his time) perspective, and other authors have since done the same, I think it should be recognized that authors such as REH and CAS were taking these same concepts and themes and applying them to other worlds and other times of a more fantastic bent.

4. What’s your favorite Lovecraft story, and why? Has it ever directly influenced an adventure or mechanic in Hyperborea?

"The Shadow Out of Time" is not only a personal favorite, but also one that I have derived a great amount of inspiration from for the entire Hyperborea adventure game itself. In 2008, in the aftermath of Gary Gygax's passing, whom I'd been working for three years as a writer, I found myself back to square one. I decided to make my own game that I would enjoy playing with my beer-drinking buddies, and if other gamers liked it – great! If they didn't, then to hell with them! I wanted my game to be built out from and inspired by earlier systems by Gygax and Arneson, and I wanted its setting to have a Bran Mak Morn, Conan, and Kull feel to it, but with a heavy dose of the weird fiction produced by Howard's friends, H.P.L. and C.A.S. At the time, I was rereading all of Lovecraft's works, and when I read "The Shadow Out of Time," I had an epiphany. It was inspired by the following passages:

I learned—even before my waking self had studied the parallel cases or the old myths from which the dreams doubtless sprang—that the entities around me were of the world’s greatest race, which had conquered time and had sent exploring minds into every age. I knew, too, that I had been snatched from my age while another used my body in that age, and that a few of the other strange forms housed similarly captured minds. I seemed to talk, in some odd language of claw-clickings, with exiled intellects from every corner of the solar system.

There was a mind from the planet we know as Venus, which would live incalculable epochs to come, and one from an outer moon of Jupiter six million years in the past. Of earthly minds there were some from the winged, star-headed, half-vegetable race of palaeogean Antarctica; one from the reptile people of fabled Valusia; three from the furry pre-human Hyperborean worshippers of Tsathoggua; one from the wholly abominable Tcho-Tchos; two from the arachnid denizens of earth’s last age; five from the hardy coleopterous species immediately following mankind, to which the Great Race was some day to transfer its keenest minds en masse in the face of horrible peril; and several from different branches of humanity.

Here was a story showing me exactly what I needed to do with my setting and how I could pull it all together – whether you are talking about Kull's Valusia, the Elder Things of Antarctica, or Tsathoggua worshipers of Hyperborea – it was all there! I then began to conceive of an idea of an adventure game setting in which all these elements could be pulled together, and more!

5. You’ve cited not just Lovecraft but also Howard, Smith, and Merritt as inspirations. What do you think the shared thread is among these authors and how does Hyperborea pay homage to that tradition?

I think that each and all they were incredibly imaginative writers who dared to write for a genre that was largely shunned, and they were excelling at it. I believe they wrote "up" to their readers, and never catered to a lowest common denominator to increase sale. Their themes were complex, thoughtful, and induced a range of emotions from curiosity to dread to fear. Sure, I have tried to pay homage to this in my works and the works I'm overseeing, and I hope that my stuff has honored the great pulp tradition (at least in gaming form).

6. What does pulp fantasy offer that contemporary fantasy often neglects or downplays?

Contemporary fantasy has largely been stuck in Tolkien's back yard for many years. It's not a bad backyard to be trapped in, because the good professor was one of the greatest practitioners of literature to ever do it, and there have been some wonderful homages to his works. Pulp fantasy is different. It often features a single viewpoint protagonist, it's usually not about saving the world, and it has a more immediate, realistic feel to it, even if the things experienced are beyond the mundane. They often feature an unexpected twist at the end that results in the death of the protagonist or worse, so you are almost always at the edge of your seat when reading these fantastic tales.

7. You've continued to refine and expand Hyperborea across its editions. Has your approach to incorporating Lovecraftian elements evolved over time?

I think conceptualizing a world setting in which Lovecraftian elements are real and present is something that I am always trying to see improved or evolved, as you put it. For example, a ranger in Hyperborea is not a specialist versus humanoids and giants; rather, he is a specialist against otherworldly creatures whose objectives do not accord with the welfare of mankind. So, rangers in Hyperborea hunt Mi-Go, the Great Race, Night Gaunts, and so forth. The content we produce touches on this, in a world that has seen mankind nearly wiped out by a star-borne contagion and now clings to a meager existence in which these many horrors abound.

8. Do you think there's such a thing as too much Mythos in an RPG? Can it become over-familiar or even cliché?

I think if it is done well, with purpose and a vision that is worked hard for, it can never be too much. Imagine, if you will, how many people in the last two millennia have studied the classics, reading and rereading The Odyssey and The Iliad. So, I don't think the Mythos will ever get old, but as readers become more savvy, they will discern between quality pastiche and silly pastiche.

9. As a game designer and worldbuilder, what lessons have you learned from Lovecraft’s approach to mythmaking and the unknown?

I learned that we, as designers and world builders, should not feel bound to the religions and myths of the ancients when conceptualizing and exploring antemundane concepts. Anyone can create a world or a setting that draws inspiration from known works but also has the audaciousness to explore and develop strange new worlds and realities. You just have to have the stubbornness to do it, dismissing naysayers and detractors. Do what thou wilt, my friends.

Thank you for having me, James. Cheers!

Hyperborea's Lovecraftian Adventures

As The Shadow over August draws to a close, I keep catching myself thinking about the posts I never got around to writing. That seems to be the curse of writers everywhere. It’s all too easy to dwell on the missed opportunities instead of celebrating the pieces that did make it to the page. One post in particular keeps nagging at me: an exploration of RPG adventures that wear their Lovecraftian influence on their sleeve, whether through mood, themes, or outright horrors. Since time is short and a full treatment is no longer possible, I’ll settle for the next best thing: highlighting three terrific Hyperborea modules that practically drip with Lovecraftian atmosphere, strange terrors, and otherworldly monsters.

Rats in the Walls: Sharing its title with one of Lovecraft’s most famous tales, this collection offers three short adventures for levels 1–2. Each works perfectly as the start of a new Hyperborea campaign, though the standout is the namesake scenario: helping a desperate Khromarium tavernkeeper rid his alehouse of an unsettling infestation of otherworldly rats. The set also includes "The Lamia’s Heart," a tense caper centered on the attempted theft of a legendary gem from a wealthy merchant’s mansion, and "The Brazen Bull," a foray into a crumbling temple of Thaumagorga, Daemon Lord, where a sinister new power is beginning to stir.

The Mystery at Port Greely: This level 4–6 adventure doesn’t just echo Lovecraft’s The Shadow over Innsmouth: it embraces the same eerie vibe while spinning it into its own dark tale. The player characters arrive in the coastal town of Port Greely to investigate the unexplained disappearance of envoys from Khromarium’s Fishmongers’ Guild. Needless to say, what's happening here isn't very pleasant – a fact made all the more apparent when they meet the locals, whose fish-like appearance points to the horrible truth. The more the characters dig, the clearer it becomes that something profoundly inhuman is lurking in Port Greely.

The Sea-Wolf's Daughter: At 60 pages, this level 7–9 adventure is the biggest of the three and the most unabashedly “weird science-fantasy” of the lot. On the surface, it’s about the abduction of a Viking jarl’s daughter by a notorious pirate. But beneath that pulpy premise lies a heady mix of Lovecraftian horror and science-fantasy: nightgaunts, elder things, alien technologies, and the looming weight of cosmic dread. Imagine Robert E. Howard, H.P. Lovecraft, and Jack Kirby locked in a fever-dream collaboration, and you’ll have something of the adventure's flavor. It’s a great showcase of what makes Hyperborea such a distinctive game and one that I have long admired.

Of course, what unites all three of these fine modules is their author, Jeff Talanian, the creator of Hyperborea and a tireless promoter of pulp fantasy. I recently put a few questions to Jeff about Hyperborea and its ties to HPL and he kindly offered some responses, all of which will appear in an interview to be published later today. I hope you'll enjoy his answers as much as I've enjoyed Jeff's adventures.

Amalaric the Ill-Tempered

When I attended Gamehole Con this year, I decided I wouldn't referee any games, but would instead play in several. I did this for a couple of reasons. First, I'm usually the referee, so having the opportunity to play is a treat (even though I'm actually quite bad at it). Second, I intend to run some sessions at future Gamehole Cons – and perhaps some other cons, too, if I can decide on others to attend – and wanted to do some "field research" on what these games are typically like. Though I'm a pretty experienced and, if my players are to be believed, good referee, I'm nevertheless quite self-conscious about my abilities. Seeing how others handle the referee's duties at a con thus provided me with some very useful information. 

The very first game I played at the con was Hyperborea. I've been a fan of the game since its original edition, released more than a decade ago. It's a delightfully game, inspired by the greats of pulp fantasy, like Howard, Lovecraft, and Smith. Rules-wise, it's pretty much a rationalized and house ruled version of AD&D and, like AD&D, Hyperborea is baroque and idiosyncratic. To tell the truth, that's a big part of why I like the game so much. I appreciate it when a designer imbues his game with himself – his likes and dislikes, his philosophy and worldview – that's just what Jeff Talanian did with Hyperborea. That's a welcome break from recent attempts to sand down the rough edges of our popular culture to make it appeal to everyone, in the process making it appeal to no one in particular.

Like most con games, this one had a four-hour time slot and featured six players. Entitled "A Tale of Crows and Shadow," it was, so far as I know, an original adventure by our referee. Before we began, he passed out a stack of pregenerated characters from which to choose. I selected a warlock – a fighter/magic-user, more or less – named Amalaric the Ill-Tempered. After everyone had chosen their characters, the referee then asked if we all had dice. Embarrassingly, I did not. I was sitting next to the referee and, as I explained that I had no dice, he turned, looked at me, and asked, "Are you sure you're in the right place?" He meant it humorously, of course, but I can't deny feeling a little sheepish at his words. Fortunately, a player seated across from me tossed me a bag of dice and told me to keep them. "I always carry extras for times like this."

The adventure began with all of the characters awakening aboard a slave galley headed out to sea. Our food and drink had been drugged after a night's debauchery in the metropolis of Khromarium. Below decks and chained to our oars, we first had to find a way to escape. The first half of the scenario involved us plotting to free ourselves and then take control of the vessel. After many extraordinary feats of Strength (and Dexterity) and much combat, we were successful. Now in command of the ship, we had to pilot it back to land without quite knowing where we were. Once there, we trekked through the wilderness at night, while someone (or something) was following us. Eventually, we discovered that our stalker was a vampire – and a child vampire at that. Dealing with her was creepy, unnerving, and surprisingly difficult, but we eventually prevailed.

I had a lot of fun playing this adventure, which felt very picaresque in its structure. This wasn't a scenario in which everything that happened in it was directly connected. Instead, one thing happened after another, each being a kind of mini-scenario of its own. It was a bit like a series of pulp fantasy vignettes, all sharing the same cast of characters, but not having any overarching plot or theme. I was quite fine with that. Not only did it suit Hyperborea, but it also gave the session a "light" feeling. We weren't following some grand storyline or trying to achieve anything beyond saving our skins and escaping the latest danger we stumbled upon. 

Not being a veteran of con games, I'm not sure how typical my experience was. One of the most notable things about it, to my mind anyway, is that the players were frequently willing to take chances on harebrained schemes and reckless gambits. That might be a function of the fact that everyone knew this was a one-shot. Our natural self-preservation instincts were blunted. If our character died while trying to bowl over a group of guards, Captain Kirk style, so what? We were having good, pulpy fun and that's all that mattered. As I think about the possibility running my own games at a future con, I'll bear this in mind. I think a good convention adventure is probably its own thing, distinct from the kind of adventure that works well in a campaign situation.

Anyway, Hyperborea's a fun game. I should play it more (and so should you).

Against the Black Priory

Back at the start of April, I wrote about my inability to replay the old AD&D computer game, Pool of Radiance. The difficulty lay primarily in its user interface, which was clunky and difficult to use on a contemporary computer. Likewise, the graphics, which looked fine on the screen in the late 1980s, did not translate well on a better monitor with a higher resolution. Consequently, I found it nigh impossible to play, let alone enjoy, Pool of Radiance again (or likely any of the other AD&D computer RPGs from that era). That's a shame, because I'm a fan of computer roleplaying games and am always on the lookout for enjoyable ones.

Fortunately, I stumbled across Skald: Against the Black Priory, a brand new (released May 2024) computer RPG inspired by the 8-bit CRPGs of old, while introducing aspects of modern design to make it more playable on contemporary machines. Though Skald no doubt took a lot of inspiration from games like Bard's Tale – likely explaining its title – one of the things that sets it apart in my opinion is the combination of sword-and-sorcery and cosmic horror of its narrative. Think Robert E. Howard's "Worms of the Earth" or Clark Ashton Smith's Hyperborea stories and you have a good idea of the kind of thing I'm talking about.

I've enjoyed my time playing the game. It's party-based (with up to six characters) and uses a top-down perspective, in keeping with its inspirations. There are lots of little details hidden throughout the game, both to assist you in your quests and to paint a picture of the overall setting. The game is quite unforgiving at times (again, in keeping with its inspirations). Not only are enemies tough, especially at low levels, but there are some choices you can make that result in automatic death. Though its interface is better suited to modern sensibilities, the game itself is quite old school in its deadliness (though there is an option for "narrative play," if you aren't interested in a challenge).

All in all, I have almost entirely positive feelings about Skald: Against the Black Priory. My biggest complaints are minor (the combat system can be grindy) and are outweighed by the game's cleverness and atmosphere. Playing through it has definitely whetted my appetite for more games like this. Now, I just need to find them ...

REVIEW: Hyperborea

When I first read Astonishing Swords & Sorcerers of Hyperborea, two things about it greatly impressed me. Most significant was that this roleplaying game of "swords, sorcery, and weird fantasy" demonstrated an obvious love for the pulp fantasies of Robert E. Howard, H.P. Lovecraft, and Clark Ashton Smith. Equally obvious was its love for Gygaxian AD&D. The latter should have come as no surprise, given designer Jeff Talanian's stint as Gygax's protégé and amanuensis for the uncompleted Castle Zagyg project. Still, both these qualities endeared AS&SH – an infelicitous acronym of there ever was one – to me. 

In the more than a decade since its initial release in 2012, the game has found a place for itself among fans of old school Dungeons & Dragons and its descendants, particularly among those, like myself, whose tastes tend toward the pulpy end of the fantasy spectrum. A second edition of the game was released in 2017 in the form of a single hardcover book. The new edition added some new material to the contents of its original boxed rulebooks, as well as new art and layout. Unfortunately, the second edition rulebook was over 600 pages in length and very unwieldy to use, either in play or as a reference volume. On the other hand, the many adventures published to support the new edition were both excellent and evocative of Weird Tales-inspired fantasy.

2022 saw the appearance of a third edition of the game, this time in the form of two, smaller hardcover volumes – a Player's Manual and a Referee's Manual, each around 300 pages long. In addition to their much more convenient size, these new volumes contain even more art than the two previous editions, as well as a cleaner layout and organization. The game also acquired a new title with this edition – Hyperborea. The combined effect of all these changes is, in my opinion, the best-looking and easiest-to-use edition of the game to date. 

As pleased and impressed as I am by the visual improvements of the third edition, its actual content is not significantly changed from second edition. Aside from combat, which is much simplified, most of the changes are quite small, small enough that I, as a casual player of the game over the last decade, had to dig around online to notice most of them. There are also new additions to the selections of monsters, spells, and magic items, not to mention playable human races. When combined with all aforementioned esthetic changes, I think this is more than sufficient justification for a new edition, but whether it's enough for any individual to replace their existing copy of second edition with it is for each person to decide himself. By design, none of the changes or additions make, say, adventures written with 3e in mind incompatible with previous ones, so there is no necessity in "upgrading."

Players of Gygaxian AD&D will immediately find Hyperborea familiar – six attributes, a plethora of classes and sub-classes (22 in all!), nine alignments, multiple lists of spells, etc. It's a big, baroque stew of often idiosyncratic but flavorful options, but it's never overwhelming. In large part that's because of Talanian's presentation of the material, but it helps, too, that Hyperborea is much more clearly a cohesive ruleset than a sometimes-contradictory hodgepodge built up over time, which only makes sense, given that Hyperborea came out decades after AD&D. Consequently, I consider Hyperborea the best modern restatement of AD&D. 

Of course, the real joy of Hyperborea is not its rules, however solid they are. Where it most stands out is setting. The titular Land Beyond the North Wind is a flat, hexagonal plane that was once a component of "Old Earth" and the source of many of its myths and legends. Inhabited by the peoples of many ancient cultures – Amazons, Atlanteans, Kelts, Kimmerians, Norse, Picts, and more – Hyperborea is a adventuresome, horror-tinged sandbox in which to set all manner of pulp fantasy adventures. If you read about it in story by REH, HPL, or CAS, you can easily set it in Hyperborea. The setting is sketched out with just enough detail that the referee isn't left entirely to his own devices, but neither is he hamstrung. Think of the original World of Greyhawk folio and you have a good idea of the level of detail I'm talking about.

If I have a complaint about Hyperborea compared to its predecessors, it's that the setting map is now presented in a softcover Atlas of Hyperborea, which is sold separately. Previous editions, including the second edition hardcover, included a very nice, fold-out map of the lost continent; the Atlas chops up that map into smaller (and much less usable, in my opinion) portions. It's a shame, because Glynn Seal's map of Hyperborea is lovely and deserves better.  

Hyperborea is a product of real passion and dedication, both to the legacy of Gary Gygax and to the imaginations of the greatest writers of Weird Tales. It's a good example of what can be accomplished by a designer with a singular vision and a dedication to seeing it realized. Certainly, Hyperborea is not a fantasy roleplaying for everyone. Its focus and authorial voice are distinctive, even a little out of step with what some may want. But if what you're looking for is a florid, flavorful take on pulp fantasy that nevertheless hews closely to the outlines of Gygaxian AD&D, you're in for a treat.

Pulp Fantasy Library: The White Sybil

I am regularly struck by the industry demonstrated by the writers of the Golden Age of the Pulps. The sheer number of stories they collectively produced during the period between the two world wars is simply staggering. Despite the large number of professional, paying magazines actively soliciting submissions at the time, there was no way these periodicals could keep pace with the torrent of fiction being penned. For that reason, even established wordsmiths of the caliber of Clark Ashton Smith sometimes had to turn to amateur fanzines or limited run anthologies if they hoped to see some of their works to see print.

Such was the case with Smith's "The White Sybil," completed in mid-1932 and reluctantly rejected by Farnsworth Wright, editor of Weird Tales, who considered it more a prose poem than a story proper. This was a common – and I daresay fair – criticism of many of Smith's submissions. He was by training and temperament a poet and even his best works of "pure" fiction nevertheless evince the incantatory rhythms of verse. For this reason, "The White Sybil" only saw print in 1935 as part of a limited (500-copy) anthology produced by William L. Crawford, the young science fiction fan behind Marvel Tales and Unusual Stories, two short-lived but important semi-pro periodicals.

"The White Sybil" tells of Tortha, himself a poet, who after having "wandered in the quest of that alien beauty which had always fled before him like the horizon," returns to his native city of Cerngoth in Hyperborea. During his travels, Tortha had "beheld many marvels," which is why he was surprised to behold an even stranger marvel while he wandered the streets of Cerngoth, namely, the fabled White Sybil of Polarion. 

He knew not whence she had come, but suddenly she was before him in the throng. Amid the tawny girls of Cerngoth with their russet hair and blue-black eyes, she was like an apparition descended from the moon. Goddess, ghost or woman, he knew not which, she passed fleetly and was gone: a creature of snow and norland light, with eyes like moon-pervaded pools, and lips that were smitten with the same pallor as the brow and bosom. Her gown was of some filmy white fabric, pure and ethereal as her person.

In wonder that turned to startled rapture, Tortha gazed at the miraculous being, and sustained for a moment the strangely thrilling light of her chill eyes, in which he seemed to find an obscure recognition, such as a long-veiled divinity, appearing at last, would vouchsafe to her worshipper.

The White Sybil was a " mysterious being who was rumored to come and go as if by some preterhuman agency in the cities of Hyperborea." None knew her name or her origins, only that she often "utter[ed] cryptic prophecies and tidings of doom." Indeed, she had long ago pronounced the destruction of Hyperborea and its civilization and, for that reason, men feared her – except for Tortha.

In that single glimpse, he had found the personification of all the vague ideals and unfixed longings that had drawn him from land to land. Here was the eluding strangeness he had sought on alien breasts and waters, and beyond horizons of fire-vomiting mountains. Here was the veiled Star, whose name and luster he had never known. The moon-cold eyes of the Sybil had kindled a strange love in Tortha, to whom love had been, at most, no more than a passing agitation of the senses.

 Overcome by "wild Uranian ecstasy," the poet determines to seek out the White Sybil by ascending a snow-capped mountain where he believed she could be found. The ascent was both physically and mentally arduous, yet he never once considered turning back, so great was the "unearthly fervor and exaltation" that she engendered in him. Eventually, he succeeds in finding the object of his quest.

With timid steps, with eyes that faltered before her mystic beauty, and a flaming as of blown torches in his heart, he entered the arbor. From the bank of blossoms on which she reclined, the Sybil rose to receive her worshipper. . . .

Of all that followed, much was forgotten afterwards by Tortha. It was like a light too radiant to be endured, a thought that eluded conception through surpassing strangeness. It was real beyond all that men deem reality: and yet it seemed to Tortha that he, the Sybil, and all that surrounded them, were part of an after-mirage on the deserts of time; that he was poised insecurely above life and death in some bright, fragile bower of dreams.

He thought that the Sybil greeted him in thrilling, mellifluous words of a tongue that he knew well, but had never heard. Her tones filled him with an ecstasy near to pain. He sat beside her on the faery bank, and she told him many things: divine, stupendous, perilous things; dire as the secret of life; sweet as the lore of oblivion; strange and immemorable as the lost knowledge of sleep. But she did not tell him her name, nor the secret of her essence; and still he knew not if she were ghost or woman, goddess or spirit.

The last paragraph is, I think, quite effective in the way it struggles to describe the painful, delightful, and contradictory human experience of beauty and the desire to somehow possess it, not to mention the equally human experience of being unable to do so, no matter how much we might wish it.

There are two endings to "The White Sibyl," the one published in Crawford's 1935 anthology and Smith's original ending, the former of which can be found via the link above and which offers a somewhat more hopeful conclusion to Tortha's sojourn. Much as I like the tale, neither version strikes me as the kind of thing that would likely have appealed to the typical reader of the Unique Magazine and I can hardly blame Wright for having rejected it. "The White Sybil" is not a weird tale as generally understood, but rather an extended meditation on longing and the futile lengths to which we will sometimes go in an attempt to sate it – hardly the stuff of rousing adventure but a worthy topic for introspection and one especially well suited to the talents of Clark Ashton Smith.

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Testament of Athammaus

Clark Ashton Smith is perhaps my favorite pulp fantasy author, which is why his stories appear so often as entries in this series. Nevertheless, I am frequently torn over which of his works to feature. In part, that's because Smith was so varied and prolific, producing tales in multiple genres, some of which can be grouped into cycles of related stories. Of these cycles, I have a personal preference for those set in the far future of Earth's last continent, Zonthique, or in the forgotten medieval French province of Averoigne and, left to my own devices, I look to those two over others that are equally worthy, such as those taking place in Hyperborea.

Hyperborea is a prehistoric continent that existed before the coming of the Ice Age. At its height, Hyperborea was a warm, even tropical, place that boasted populous cities and a sophisticated culture. Educated Hyperboreans had a decidedly scientific cast of mind and dismissed magic and the supernatural as the superstition of the common folk. Of course, such a dismissal was ill-founded. Many of Smith's tales of Hyperborea involve supposedly "rational" people encountering something that can't easily be explained by recourse to reason and they pay a price for such narrowness of vision.

Such is the case with "The Testament of Athammaus," first published in the October 1932 issue of Weird Tales. As its title suggests, the story is a first-person account, written in old age, by a man named Athammaus. Athammaus was once chief headsman of the capital city of Commoriom before its "universal desertion" as a result of "curious and lamentable happenings" in which he "played a signal part." Despite his occupation as a royal executioner, Athammaus is no mere brute. Instead, throughout the narrative, he reveals himself to be a clever, thoughtful man – which is why he struggles to give a proper account of the final days of Commoriom.

Athammaus begins by boasting of his days as a headsman.

there was no braver and more stalwart headsman than I in the whole of Hyperborea; and my name was a red menace, a loudly spoken warning to the evil-doers of the forest and the town, and the savage robbers of uncouth outland tribes. Wearing the blood-bright purple of my office, I stood each morning in the public square where all might attend and behold, and performed for the edification of all men my allotted task. And each day the tough, golden-ruddy copper of the huge crescent blade was darkened not once but many times with a rich and wine-like sanguine. And because of my never-faltering arm, my infallible eye, and the clean blow which there was never any necessity to repeat, I was much honored by the King Loquamethros and by the populace of Commoriom.

He then speaks of an outlaw with the delightfully Smithian name of Knygathin Zhaum, who "belonged to an obscure and highly unpleasant people called the Voormis, who dwelt in the black Eiglophian Mountains." The Voormis, we learn,

inhabited according to their tribal custom the caves of ferine animals less savage than themselves, which they had slain or otherwise dispossessed. They were generally looked upon as more beast-like than human, because of their excessive hairiness and the vile, ungodly rites and usages to which they were addicted. 

Under Zhaum's leadership, the Voormis had begun to terrorize the people living near the Eiglophian Mountains and engaged in both "iniquitous rapine" and anthropophagy, among even worse atrocities. Athammaus comments that Knygathin Zhaum was an unusual kind of Voormis in that, unlike his fellows, he was completely hairless and covered in "great spots of black and yellow." Worse still, he "exceed[ed] all others in his cruelty and cunning."

Eventually, Zhaum is captured, tried – the folk of Commoriom are civilized, after all – and sentenced to death. It's in this capacity that he and the narrator, Athammaus, cross paths. When the Voormis bandit is brought before the executioner, he "surpassed [his] most sinister and disagreeable anticipations."

He was naked to the waist, and wore the fulvous hide of some long-haired animal which hung in filthy tatters to his knees. Such details, however, contributed little to those elements in his appearance which revolted and even shocked me. His limbs, his body, his lineaments were outwardly formed like those of aboriginal man; and one might even have allowed for his utter hairlessness, in which there was a remote and blasphemously caricatural suggestion of the shaven priest; and even the broad, formless mottling of his skin, like that of a huge boa, might somehow have been glossed over as a rather extravagant peculiarity of pigmentation. It was something else, it was the unctuous, verminous ease, the undulant litheness and fluidity of his every movement, seeming to hint at an inner structure and vertebration that were less than human—or, one might almost have said, a sub-ophidian lack of all bony frame-work—which made me view the captive, and also my incumbent task, with an unparallelable distaste. He seemed to slither rather than walk; and the very fashion of his jointure, the placing of knees, hips, elbows and shoulders, appeared arbitrary and factitious. One felt that the outward semblance of humanity was a mere concession to anatomical convention; and that his corporeal formation might easily have assumed—and might still assume at any instant—the unheard-of outlines and concept-defying dimensions that prevail in trans-galactic worlds. Indeed, I could now believe the outrageous tales concerning his ancestry. And with equal horror and curiosity I wondered what the stroke of justice would reveal, and what noisome, mephitic ichor would befoul the impartial sword in lieu of honest blood.

Forgive me for including this entire passage, but I how could I not do so? In any case, Athammaus later proceeds with his assigned task of severing Zhaum's head from his shoulders.

Necks differ in the sensations which they afford to one's hand beneath the penetrating blade. In this case, I can only say that the sensation was not such as I have grown to associate with the cleaving of any known animal substance. But I saw with relief that the blow had been successful: the head of Knygathin Zhaum lay cleanly severed on the porous block, and his body sprawled on the pavement without even a single quiver of departing animation. As I had expected, there was no blood—only a black, tarry, fetid exudation, far from copious, which ceased in a few minutes and vanished utterly from my sword and from the eighon-wood. Also, the inner anatomy which the blade had revealed was devoid of all legitimate vertebration. But to all appearance Knygathin Zhaum had yielded up his obscene life; and the sentence of King Loquamethros and the eight judges of Commoriom had been fulfilled with a legal precision.

With that, the threat of Knygathin Zhaum is ended – or so it appears, for Athammaus learns a few days later the Voormis bandit had "reappeared and had signalized the unholy miracle of his return by the commission of a most appalling act on the main avenue before the very eyes of early passers!" Caught again and charged with an act of cannibalism, Zhaum is once again tried and sentenced, under "a special statute, calling for re-judgement and allowing re-execution, of such malefactors as might thus-wise return from their lawful graves." As I said above, the folk of Commoriom are civilized! Zhaum is once again brought before Athammaus and beheaded. Surely, this must be the end of him, yes?

"The Testament of Athammaus" is an engaging tale, told with the usual mixture of cynicism and humor that one expects of Clark Ashton Smith. If I had a complaint, it would be that the story drags on a little longer than needed to achieve its ultimate conclusion, but the journey along the way, filled with poetic archaisms, horrific turns, and mordant observations, is so enjoyable that I cannot complain too loudly. This is a terrific short story and deserves wider recognition.

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Theft of the Thirty-Nine Girdles

When I was a child, among my favorite science fiction books were those of Isaac Asimov's Foundation series. I adored these books more for their grand scope than for their central gimmick -- psychohistory -- which, even as a kid, I considered to be absurd. My only complaint about the series was that it ended prematurely. According to Asimov's original plan, the period between the fall of the first Galactic Empire and the establishment of a second would be a thousand years. The Foundation stories would chronicle the efforts of the eponymous organization to see that the second Empire occurred on schedule. Unfortunately, the stories ended about halfway through the millennium and I was left wanting more.

In 1982, about three decades after the end of the series, Isaac Asimov returned to the universe of Foundation by penning a new novel, Foundation's Edge. I was immensely pleased by this turn of events and read the book with great relish -- that is, until I realized that this wasn't at all like the Foundation stories I'd loved. I suppose it was inevitable that, after so many years, Asimov would have changed as a writer. Foundation's Edge was thus the product of an older, different man than the ones that he'd written back in the late '40s and early '50s. As science fiction goes, Foundation's Edge isn't a bad book, I suppose, but it's not the kind of sci-fi I was looking for in 1982; what I wanted was more of the stuff Asimov had written years before. To my way of thinking, Asimov had forgotten what made the original Foundation stories so fun and that disappointed me.

I bring all this up because Clark Ashton Smith's "The Theft of the Thirty-Nine Girdles" reminds me a lot of Foundation's Edge. Set in his prehistoric continent of Hyperborea, the story was first published in the March 1958 issue of Saturn Science Fiction and Fantasy. Prior to this, the last Hyperborean tale appeared in 1933 -- a span even longer than the time between the last Foundation story and Foundation's Edge. It's not a bad fantasy tale; indeed there is much to recommend it. Yet, it lacks, for me anyway, a certain something present in Smith's other Hyperborean tales and, a result, I find it less satisfying than its predecessors.

The short story is a first-person account by the comic rogue Satampra Zeiros, previously seen in "The Tale of Satampra Zeiros," who begins this story thusly:

 Let it be said as a foreword to this tale that I have robbed no man who was not in some way a robber of others. In all my long and arduous career, I, Satampra Zeiros of Uzuldaroum, sometimes known as the master-thief, have endeavored to serve merely as an agent in the rightful redistribution of wealth. The adventure I have now to relate was no exception: though, as it happened in the outcome, my own pecuniary profits were indeed meager, not to say trifling.

It's a solid opening paragraph, one that succinctly introduces the character of the narrator and the reliability of his narrative. Satampra Zeiros then lays out the broad details of the adventure of which he spoke.

Often I think of Vixeela, my one true love and the most adroit and courageous of my companions in burglary. She has long since gone to the bourn of all good thieves and comrades; and I have mourned her sincerely these many years. But still dear is the memory of our amorous or adventurous nights and the feats we performed together. Of such feats, perhaps the most signal and audacious was the theft of the thirty-nine girdles.

These were the golden and jeweled chastity girdles, worn by the virgins vowed to the moon god Leniqua, whose temple had stood from immemorial time in the suburbs of Uzuldaroum, capital of Hyperborea. The virgins were always thirty-nine in number. They were chosen for their youth and beauty, and retired from service to the god at the age of thirty-one.

The girdles were padlocked with the toughest bronze and their keys retained by the high-priest who, on certain nights, rented them at a high price to the richer gallants of the city. It will thus be seen that the virginity of the priestesses was nominal; but its frequent and repeated sale was regarded as a meritorious act of sacrifice to the god.

Again, this is good stuff, filled with the kind of mordant exoticism that one expects from Smith. It's a good set-up for what any regular reader of the man would expect to be a whimsical fantasy filled with black humor.

That's not what we get, though. Instead, "The Theft of the Thirty-Nine Girdles" reads almost like mundane crime fiction, albeit set in an unusual locale. The writing often crackles with wit, yes, but gone are the wry insights into the human condition. Gone, too, are instances of magic, monsters, or fantasy of any kind. It feels almost as if Smith's heart wasn't in it anymore -- or, perhaps, he'd forgotten what it was that made the original Hyperborean stories so enjoyable.

I can't blame him for that, since the Hyperborean stories had a troubled publishing history, rejected again and again and rarely cited by fans as being their favorites of Smith's work. It's possible that, years later, when he returned to the setting he decided to "fix" the problems of his earlier work by penning a more "grounded" tale, lacking in the weirdness and whimsy of his previous efforts. Such a pity.

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Ice-Demon

Two of the traits for which Clark Ashton Smith's weird tales are most well-known are their black humor and luxuriant language. Both are nearly absent from his April 1933 story, "The Ice-Demon." Set in prehistoric Hyperborea, "The Ice-Demon" concerns Quanga the huntsman and his two companions, Hoom Feethos and Eibur Tsanth, are they "crossed the borders of a region into which men went but seldom -- and wherefrom they returned even more rarely." The frigid region north of the city of Iqqua was their goal but the object of their quest was, as is so often the case in tales such as this, wealth beyond imagining.

Their object was nothing less than the retrieval of the rubies of King Haalor, who, with the wizard Ommum-Vog and many full-caparisoned soldiers, had gone out five decades before to make war upon the polar ice. From this fantastic expedition, neither Haalor nor Ommum-Vog had come back; and the sorry, ragged remnant of their men-at-arms, returning to Iqqua, after two moons, had told a dire tale.

One must remember that the civilization of Hyperborea is dying, its cities and settlements slowly being swallowed up by "the great glacier of Polarion" and it was this glacier against which King Haalor and his wizard battled vainly. After their failure, acquiescence to the inevitable became the rule in Hyperborea.

But the kings that ruled in Iqqua after Haalor went not forth to do battle with the ice; and no wizard rose to make war upon it with conjured suns. Men fled before the everadvancing glaciations; and strange legends were told of how people had been overtaken or cut off in lonely valleys by sudden, diabolic shiftings of the ice, as if it had stretched out a living hand. And legends there were, of awful crevasses that yawned abruptly and closed like monstrous mouths upon them that dared the frozen waste; of winds like the breath of boreal demons, that blasted men's flesh with instant, utter cold and turned them into statues hard as granite.

Rather than fighting their fate, future generations of Hyperboreans plunged themselves into debaucheries and foolish quests for wealth. The latter is the purpose of Quanga and his companions, who are willing to brave the cursed, frozen north in order to obtain the rubies of Haalor, whose location the huntsman believed he knew thanks to his older brother, Iluac, who'd previously found their resting place before fleeing the place out of "a curious eery fear" that suddenly overtook him. But he told Quanga of what he had seen and, because "his was a heart that lusted after gain," vowed that he would not be frightened off as his brother had been.

After some weeks of travel, Quanga, Feethos, and Tsanth enter the area of the glacier where Iluac said the rubies could be found.

The scene before them was like some frozen world of the outer void. Vast, unbroken, save for a few scattered mounds and ridges, the plain extended to the white horizon and its armored peaks. Nothing seemed to live or move on the awful, glistening vistas, whose nearer levels were swept clean of snow. The sun appeared to grow pale and chill, and to recede behind the adventurers; and a wind blew upon them from the ice, like a breath from abysses beyond the pole. Apart from the boreal desolation and drearness, however, there was nothing to dismay Quanga or his companions. None of them was superstitious, and they deemed that the old tales were idle myths, were no more than fear-born delusions. Quanga smiled commiseratively at the thought of his brother Iluac, who had been so oddly frightened and had fancied such extraordinary things after the finding of Haalor. It was a singular weakness in Iluac, the rash and almost foolhardy hunter who had feared neither man nor beast. As to the trapping of Haalor and Ommum-Vog and their army in the glacier, it was plain that they had allowed themselves to be overtaken by the winter storms; and the few survivors, mentally unhinged by their hardships, had told a wild story. Ice — even though it had conquered half of a continent — was merely ice, and its workings conformed invariably to certain natural laws. Iluac had said that the ice-sheet was a great demon, cruel, greedy, and loth to give up that which it had taken. But such beliefs were crude and primitive superstitions, not to be entertained by enlightened minds of the Pieistocene age.

I noted earlier that "The Ice-Demon" that black humor was "nearly absent" in this story, but, as you can see from this passage, it's still present, albeit in muted form. Smith's wry reference to the "enlightened minds of the Pleistocene age" packs as much punch now as it did in 1933, probably even moreso.

This being a CAS tale, it's more or less a given that the protagonists will come to a bad end, but I won't say any more here about what happens to Quanga and his greedy compatriots when they eventually discover the last resting place of King Haalor, the wizard Ommum-Vog, and the treasure of jewels reputed to lie with them in their icy tomb, as that would ruin an enjoyable story. I'll say only that "The Ice-Demon" is a Smith story for those who find the author's rich prose a distraction. This is a very straightforward tale, both in terms of its plot and its presentation. Yet, it's still clearly a Smithian product. Doom hangs over the story nearly from the start and, though its meditations upon man's capacity for self-destruction even in the face of greater calamity are more muted, they are nevertheless present and effective. Consequently, if CAS doesn't normally speak to you, "The Ice-Demon" might offer a good opportunity to give him a second look. It's not, in my opinion, one of Smith's strongest stories, but it's still an interesting story well-told that conforms more closely to the conventions of "standard" pulp fantasies than do his other tales.

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Door to Saturn

Appearing in the January 1932 issue of Strange Tales, Clark Ashton Smith's "The Door to Saturn" is part of his Hyperborean cycle, although very little of its action actually takes place in that ancient far northern realm. Instead, as its title suggests, the story is set on the planet Saturn, called Cykranosh by the Hyperboreans, a world that is totally unlike the Saturn of science. Cykranosh possesses a surface with Earth-like topgraphy, a breathable atmosphere, and at least two intelligent humanoid species: the Blemphroims and the Ydheems.

The story thus has more in common with Edgar Rice Burroughs than "true" science fiction, which should come as no surprise, given that its protagonist, the wizard Eibon, makes his journey to Cykranosh by means of magic -- a journey he undertakes only because he is being pursued by an inquisition led by Morghi, high priest of the elk-goddess Yhoundeh. Eibon's crime is the worship of "the long-discredited heathen god Zhothaqquah," known in later times as Tsathoggua. Rather than face death at Morghi's hands, Eibon uses

a large thin oval plate of some ultra-telluric metal, ... fitted as a hinged panel in an upper room of his house. The panel, if swung outward from the wall on open air, would have the peculiar property of giving admittance to the world Cykranosh, many million miles away in space.

According to the vague and somewhat unsatisfactory explanation vouchsafed by the god, this panel, being partly wrought from a kind of matter which belonged to another universe than man's, possessed uncommon radiative properties that served to ally it with some higher dimension of space, through which the distance to astronomically remote spheres was a mere step.

Zhothaqquah, however, warned Eibon not to make use of the panel unless in time of extreme need, as a means of escape from otherwise inevitable danger; for it would be difficult if not impossible to return to Earth from Cykranosh — a world where Eibon might find it anything but easy to acclimate himself, since the conditions of life were very different from those in Mhu Thulan, even though they did not involve so total an inversion of all terrene standards and norms as that which prevailed in the more outlying planets.

Morghi follows Eibon through the panel, intent on arresting him according to the doctrines of the elk-goddess.

"Detestable sorcerer! Abominable heretic! I arrest you!" said Morghi with pontifical severity.

Eibon was surprised, not to say startled; but it reassured him to see that Morghi was alone. He drew the sword of highly tempered bronze which he carried, and smiled.

"I should advise you to moderate your language, Morghi," he admonished. "Also, your idea of arresting me is slightly out of place now, since we are alone together in Cykranosh, and Mhu Thulan and the temple-cells of Yhoundeh are many million miles away."

Morghi did not appear to relish this information. He scowled and muttered: "I suppose this is some more of your damnable wizardry."

Eibon chose to ignore the insinuation.

"I have been conversing with one of the gods of Cykranosh," he said magniloquently. "The god, whose name is Hziulquoigmnzhah, has given me a mission to perform, a message to deliver, and has indicated the direction in which I should go. I suggest that you lay aside our little mundane disagreement, and accompany me. Of course we could slit each other's throats or eviscerate each other, since we are both armed. But under the circumstances I think you will see the puerility, not to mention the sheer inutility, of such a proceeding. If we both live we may be of mutual use and assistance, in a strange world whose problems and difficulties, if I mistake not, are worthy of our united powers."

Together, this odd couple traverses across Cykranosh, encountering strange gods, equally strange Saturnian life forms, and sparring with one another by means of typically Smithian dialog. "The Door to Saturn" soon becomes a darkly humorous tale, full of wit and wonder. It's a bit of sardonic fun rather than anything deep or substantial, but I find it difficult not to enjoy it.

Reading the story, I am reminded once again that Smith presents a universe almost as weird and inhuman as Lovecraft's but one whose alienness is suffused with equal parts whimsy and horror. It's a combination not everyone finds congenial and I can certainly appreciate that reaction, but, for me, it's the perfect antidote to the kind of self-seriousness that HPL can sometimes engender in his readers. Smith regarded "The Door to Saturn" as one of his best stories and there's a lot to recommend in it, especially if you enjoy the idea of planetary romance seen through a slightly twisted lens.

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Weird of Avoosl Wuthoqquan

First published in the June 1932 issue of Weird Tales, "The Weird of Avoosl Wuthoqquan" is a Clark Ashton Smith short story set in his prehistoric northern realm of Hyperborea. In this case, the adjective "short" is no misnomer, as the story is Smith's Hyperborean tales, being scarcely more than an extended vignette, albeit a well-written and darkly satisfying one. The story focuses on its titular character Avoosl Wuthoqquan, "the richest and most avaricious money-lender in all Commoriom, and, by that token, in the whole of Hyperborea." One day, while walking through Commoriom's busy streets, meditating on "the shining of costly metals, with coins and ingots and gold-work and argentry, and the flaming or sparkling of many-tinted gems in rills, rivers, and cascades, all flowing toward the coffers of Avoosl Wuthoqquan," the usurer's reverie is broken by the plaintive cries of a beggar, beseeching him for alms.

Wuthoqquan has no interest in giving away even a single pazoor, despite the beggar's offer to prophesy in exchange for the coin.

The eyes of the beggar became evil and malignant in their hollow sockets, like the heads of two poisonous little pit-vipers in their holes.

"Then, O Avoosl Wuthoqquan," he hissed, "I will prophesy gratis. Harken to your weird: the godless and exceeding love which you bear to all material things, and your lust therefor, shall lead you on a strange quest and bring you to a doom whereof the stars and sun will alike be ignorant. The hidden opulence of earth shall allure you and ensnare you; and earth itself shall devour you at last."

Wuthoqquan is not the least bit frightened by the beggar's prophecy of his demise and responds in a mocking tone that recalls one of Jack Vance's characters before the fact:

"Begone," said Avoosl Wuthoqquan. "The weird is more than a trifle cryptic in its earlier clauses; and the final clause is somewhat platitudinous. I do not need a beggar to tell me the common fate of humanity."

Of course, this being a Clark Ashton Smith story, there can be little doubt in the reader's mind that Avoosl Wuthoqquan will come to a bad end, just as the beggar prophesied. But knowing that it will happen is not the same thing as knowing how it will happen and the real pleasure in this tale is in seeing Smith unravel the fate of the greedy moneylender.

Some time after the beggar's curse, "in that year which became known to pre-glacial historians as the year of the Black Tiger," a stranger comes to Wuthoqquan seeking a loan of three hundred djals, which we are told is "a large sum." He offers as collateral "two uncut emeralds of immense size and flawless purity." These gems filled the usurer's heart with "a greedy spark," but pretends to be unmoved by them and offers only two hundred djals as a loan, which the stranger accepts hastily.

Thinking himself clever for the arrangement he'd just made with the stranger, Wuthoqquan then reflects on money and gems, the only things that "were immutable and non-volatile in a world of never-ceasing change and fugacity."

His reflections, at this point, were interrupted by a singular occurrence. Suddenly and without warning -- for he had not touched or disturbed them in any manner -- the two large emeralds started to roll away from their companions on the smooth, level table of ogga-wood; and before the startled money-lender could put out his hand to stop them, they had vanished over the opposite edge and had fallen with a muffled rattling on the carpeted floor.

Amusingly, Wuthoqquan is not much put out by the "high eccentric and peculiar" behavior of the gems so much as concerned that he might lose them, especially once the emeralds begin to make their way out of his home and into the streets of Commoriom itself. The moneylender continues to follow the gems, which always manage to stay one step ahead of him, thereby leading him on a merry chase through the city and then beyond ...

"The Weird of Avoosl Wuthoqquan" is not replete with many layers of meaning nor is it edifying in any lasting way, but it's extremely enjoyable and not simply because it depicts the bad end of a bad man. As with all of Smith's best stories, this one is sumptuously written, containing prose that perfectly complements both its fantastic and, above all, its human elements, all within the span of a handful of pages. It's not Smith's best work by far or even his most representative, but it's perhaps his most compendious. Reading "The Weird of Avoosl Wuthoqquan" is a great way to get a solid sense of what Smith is about as a writer, in terms of style and content. And because it's very commonly reprinted in fantasy anthologies, it should also be easy to find, even nowadays.