Fantasy Master: Michael Moorcock

Yesterday, Dan Collins and Paul Siegel of the Wandering DMs channel hosted a truly excellent interview with author Michael Moorcock, creator of Elric of Melniboné, among many other memorable fantasy characters. Regular readers of this blog – and lovers of pulp fantasy in general – will definitely find it worth an hour of their time.

A Delightfully Blank Canvas

William Church's map of Prax from the second edition of Chaosium's RuneQuest remains one of my favorite RPG maps ever. The other day, for reasons that will become clear later, I found myself perusing a different Chaosium RPG, Stormbringer. The game's original 1981 boxed set includes, among its many goodies, a fold-out wall map of the Young Kingdoms that's also the handiwork of Mr Church. 

Please enlarge!

Though the map of the Young Kingdoms lacks the wonderful little details of the Prax map, I nevertheless find it quite compelling. Michael Moorcock and his evocative names – the Sighing Desert, the Weeping Waste, the Silent Lands, among many others – deserve a lot of the credit for that, of course, but Church also did a great job of bringing this classic fantasy setting to life. In fact, I might even argue that, in this case, the sparseness of the map works in its favor, particularly as a map for use with a roleplaying game. The map practically invites players and referees to fill in the blank spaces and make it their own, as any good RPG map should. 

Pulp Fantasy Gallery: Three Hearts and Three Lions

Poul Anderson's 1961 novel, Three Hearts and Three Lions (originally released in two parts in the September and October 1953 issues of The Magazine of Science Fiction and Fantasy) is one of the most influential fantasy tales ever written, though I imagine very few fantasy fans under the age of 50 have read it. Michael Moorcock, for example, thought very highly of it, borrowing its conception of the eternal war of Law versus Chaos for his Elric stories, which in turn influenced countless other authors. Among those was Gary Gygax, whose conception of alignment in Dungeons & Dragons – itself a remarkably influential fantasy text – derives equally from Moorock and Anderson, hence the inclusion of both authors in Appendix N to his Dungeon Masters Guide.

I was (and am) a huge fan of Poul Anderson's science fiction stories, particularly those featuring the character of Dominic Flandry, but I don't think I picked up any of his fantasy stories until sometime after I'd already started playing D&D. When I finally did so, I think it was The High Crusade that initially most impressed me. In the years since, my appreciation for Three Hearts and Three Lions has eclipsed it, especially as I came to understand its importance to the subsequent history of fantasy.

The first book edition appeared in 1961 as a hardcover from Doubleday and featured a fairly obvious cover image, though its artist is notable – Edward Gorey:

The following year, in 1962, Avon released the book in paperback, with a cover illustration by Richard Powers. This was, I believe, the edition I first encountered almost two decades later:

In 1970, Avon re-released the book with a new cover by Jeff Jones:

Just a few years later, in 1974, Sphere released a UK paperback. Patrick Woodroffe provided this cover illustration:

Later, in 1978, Berkeley released a new paperback edition, this time with art by Wayne Barlowe. 

There was a special Doubleday hardcover edition released in 1983 and made available to members of the Science Fiction Book Club. Susan Collins is the cover artist.

Rounding out the '80s is another paperback edition from Ace, this time with a cover by Carl Lundgren.

Wild, Fanciful, and Often Trippy

I don't think it's much of an exaggeration to suggest that the covers of science fiction and fantasy novels have gotten much less imaginative over the years. By the mid-1980s, the writing was already on the wall and the wild, fanciful, and often trippy covers that simultaneously attracted and frightened me as a kid were on the way out, to be replaced by an endless parade of Michael Whelan, Darrell K. Sweet, and their imitators. This is no knock against Whelan, who's a great artist, but there is a certain predictability to even his best work that I frequently find disappointing. Come to think of it, predictability might well be the defining characteristic of post-1970s SF and fantasy art, itself a reflection of the mainstreaming and commodification of these genres. (Cue my inevitable dig at much of the oeuvre of Larry Elmore.)

Science fiction and fantasy were still (relatively) fringe interests in the 1960s and '70s and the artwork from the period reflects that. Take a look at these three different covers to the paperback releases of Michael Moorcock's The Stealer of Souls, starting with the Lancer edition of 1967:

I have a certain fondness for this cover, because my local public library still had a copy of the book on one of its spinner racks, where I first saw it. Jack Gaughan, best known for his work on the unauthorized US printings of The Lords of the Rings, is the artist of this piece, depicting Elric in battle against the reptilian demon Quaolnargn, summoned by Theleb K'aarna as part of a plan to separate the Melnibonéan from Stormbringer, while the spectral visage of (I assume) Yishana watches. 

The 1968 Mayflower edition took a completely different tack:

Bob Haberfield, who'd go on to do the covers of many more Elric novels, is responsible for this one, which is a terrific example of the kinds of covers I remember well from my youth. Unlike Gaughan's Lancer cover, this one has no obvious connection to anything that occurs in the novelette. That's pretty much par for the course in the late '60s and throughout the 1970s.

Finally, there's another Lancer edition, this time from 1973.

This piece is by Jeff Jones, who had an extensive career as a comics illustrator and I think that shows in the cover. I'm not entirely sure what it depicts, though my guess is that it might be the naval assault on Imrryr from The Dreaming City, with the monster being a Melnibonéan dragon. In any case, it's a very dynamic piece that grabs the attention, which is exactly what the covers of science fiction and fantasy covers used to do. 

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Stealer of Souls

Michael Moorcock's Elric of Melniboné is unquestionably one of the greatest characters in all of fantasy literature. The stories of his exploits exercised a profound influence not just on subsequent writers in the genre but also on the early history of roleplaying games. In particular, the idea of an eternal war between the powers of Law and Chaos – cribbed from Poul Anderson's Three Hearts and Three Lions, by Moorcock's own admission – is one without which Dungeons & Dragons, RuneQuest, and Warhammer Fantasy Role-Play, to cite just three prominent examples, would be impossible. 

Yet, for all the cosmic elements of the saga of Elric, what makes its tales compelling are the personal struggles of its protagonist, as he attempts to square the demands of his conscience with those of the soul-hungry demon sword whose magic enables him to overcome the physical impairments of his birth. In this respect, the stories of Elric are very much in keeping with those of his pulp fantasy forebears, including Robert E. Howard's Conan, whose own adventures often stem from clashes between his convictions and the vicissitudes of life. Though Elric and Conan could not be more different – intentionally so – in this important respect there is a remarkable similarity.

I was reminded of this when re-reading The Stealer of Souls, the third of Moorcock's original Elric novelettes. Originally published in the February 1962 issue of Science Fantasy, it was published as a separate volume less than a year later by UK publisher, Neville Spearman. The Stealer of Souls is, first and foremost, a story of revenge and, in that respect, it could have featured Conan as its protagonist – except, of course, that Elric, unlike REH's barbarian, depends upon and wields dark magic to achieve his desired ends. Indeed, dark magic plays a significant role in the tale's events, which is part of why it's one of my favorite stories of Elric.

Another reason is that Moorcock's prose is delightfully pulpy and evocative throughout. Consider, for example, the start of the novelette:

In a city called Bakshaan, which was rich enough to make all other cities of the north-east seem poor, in a tall-towered tavern one night, Elric, Lord of the smoking ruins of Melniboné, smiled like a shark and dryly jested with four powerful merchant princes whom, in a day or so, he intended to pauperize. 

It's wonderful stuff, all the more so because Elric is much more immediately active in this adventure than he was in his previous outings. That lends a certain energy, even urgency, to The Stealer of Souls that I find quite attractive.

The merchant princes wish to hire Elric for his "particular qualities as a swordsman and sorcerer" and are willing to pay well for them. They offer him gold and gems for his services, but he rejects them, calling them "chains," adding that "free travelers need no chains." Elric says he decide on the nature of his payment later, which arouses some suspicion in his would-be employers, but they are sufficiently keen to enlist his aid that they let the matter rest.

The merchants explain that they wish Elric to eliminate a competitor of theirs, a man named Nikorn of Ilmar. Nikorn, it seems, is able to undercut all other merchants of Bakshaan. This impresses Elric, who states that, from what they have described of him, "[Nikorn] has earned his position." Why should he wish to kill him? Moreover, why not simply employ an assassin? They are commonplace in Bakshaan, after all. This is where the merchants come to the real crux of the matter – and of their need for Elric.

"... Nikorn employs a sorcerer – and a private army. The sorcerer protects him and his palace by means of magic. And a guard of desert men serve to ensure that if the magic fails, then natural methods can be used for the purpose. Assassins have attempted to eliminate the trader, but unfortunately, they were not lucky."

After briefly pausing to drink "a wine for those who wished to dream of different and less tangible worlds," Elric asks

"And who is this mighty sorcerer, Master Pilarmo?"

"His name is Theleb K'aarna," Pilarmo answered nervously.

Elric's scarlet eyes narrowed. "The sorcerer of Pan Tang?"

"Aye – he comes from that island."

Elric put his cup down upon the table and rise, fingering his blade of black iron, the runesword Stormbringer.

He said with conviction: "I will help you, gentlemen." He had made up his mind not to rob them, after all. A new and more important plan was forming in his brain.

Theleb K'aarna, he thought. So you have made Bakshaaan your bolt-hole, eh? 

Theleb K'aarna, we learn, is not only a sorcerer of Pan Tang, but an enemy of Elric, in large part because Elric had previously displaced him in the affections of Yishana, the queen of Jharkor. Now, he seeks to "prove" to Yishana, whom he still loves, that Elric is not worthy of her esteem by bringing him low. Elric, for his part, has been pursuing Theleb K'aarna across the Young Kingdoms for some time and sees the merchant princes' offer as an opportunity to best the Pan Tangian once again. 

Naturally, there's more to The Stealer of Souls than the tale of two men seeking vengeance upon one another, but revenge is its through-line, as well as its overarching theme. Along the way, though, the reader is treated to several magnificent displays of sorcery, including a battle between two elementals summoned by Elric and Theleb K'aarna. Elric must also deal with the aftermath of the downfall of Melniboné that he effected in The Dreaming City and that, too, adds to the personal stakes of the story's events. All in all, it's a fast-moving and character-driven narrative that, I think, shows Moorcock at his best.

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Insects from Shaggai

The real appeal of many of the stories I discuss in this series isn't so much their plots or characters as their ideas. This isn't to suggest that pulp fantasy tales necessarily lack interesting plots or compelling characters. Rather, it's to emphasize that their greatest value, particularly from the perspective of roleplaying games, often lies in the author's imaginative conceptions of strange lands, weird magic, or terrifying monsters. One need not look very far into the contents of Dungeons & Dragons, for example, to find examples of ideas inspired by – if not outright stolen from – the works of fantasy and science fiction authors popular during the younger days of Dave Arneson or Gary Gygax. 

The early horror stories of Ramsey Campbell demonstrate my point quite effectively, I think. Like his fellow Brit, Michael Moorcock, Campbell began writing fiction at a very young age. His first professional sale was to Arkham House in 1962, when he was only 16 years old. This early success encouraged him to submit several more stories. Arkham House's editor, August Derleth, initially rejected them on the grounds their New England settings didn't ring true, since Campbell, a native of Liverpool, had never visited the region. Instead, he encouraged the young Campbell to rework the stories by setting them in England, leading to his development of the Severn Valley and its fictional city of Brichester. The result was the 1964 anthology, The Inhabitant of the Lake and Less Welcome Tenants.

Among the best stories included in The Inhabitant of the Lake is "The Insects from Shaggai." Campbell later explained that the tale

is based on [an] entry in the Commonplace Book, or rather on my misreading of it. Lovecraft wrote "Insects or some other entities from space attack and penetrate a man's head & cause him to remember alien and exotic things – possible displacement of personality," a superb idea I rushed at so hastily that I failed to notice he hadn't meant giant insects at all ... Of all my stories, this is probably the pulpiest. As such, it has some energy, I think, but I wish I'd left the note alone until I was equipped to do it justice.

This is a very fair and indeed self-aware assessment of "The Insects from Shaggai." Campbell recognizes that its central idea, one he borrowed from Lovecraft's Commonplace Book – his notebook of story germs – is a strong one. He also recognizes that, at his young age, he wasn't quite up to the task of fleshing it out into a fully satisfying story. Yet, for all that, I still think it a story worth reading, if only for that central idea, which has stuck with me all these years and which likely served as the inspiration for at least one of my own creations.

The story itself is told from the perspective of a writer of fantasy, Ronald Shea, who "feel[s] bound to write down some explanation for [his] friends," since he "must not be alive after sunset," as his "continued existence might endanger the whole human race." This is another variation on a tried-and-true Lovecraftian formula: a narrator who wishes to explain his actions and why they were necessary to safeguard mankind, no matter how insane they might sound. When one considers that this is the work of a very young author who was attempting to imitate his literary idol, I think it's a forgivable set-up. 

While drinking at a hotel bar in Brichester, Shea is approached by a middle-aged teacher who promises to tell him "all the Severn Valley legends which might form plots of future stories." The teacher speaks of a meteorite that fell in Goatswood sometimes in the 17th century. The meteorite soon attracted the attention of the local folk, including one who discovered a metal cone "made of a grey mineral that didn't reflect, and more than thirty feet high." The cone had a "circular trapdoor on one side" and "carved reliefs" on the other. When he got near the cone, he heard "a sort of dry rustling inside," as well as "a shape crawling out of the darkness inside the trapdoor."

Shea is unimpressed with the legend's vagueness and Campbell uses this as an opportunity to mock the conventions of many Lovecraftian pastiches.

"Too vague – horrors that are too horrible for description, eh? More likely whoever thought this up didn't have the imagination to describe them when the time came."

It's a solid jab at the worst of HPL's imitators – and, honestly, some of the worst of HPL's own stories – that I can't help but think that Campbell was using it at least in part to cover for the flaws in "The Insects from Shaggai." In any case, Shea is nevertheless interested enough in the legend, vague though it is, that he seeks out more details and then sets out to look for the supposed location of the metal cone. 

Shea succeeds in finding the cone in a clearing within Goatswood – something he had not expected, given the vagueness of the legend. Equally unexpected was the fear he felt upon seeing it and hearing the "faint dry rustling sound which came from somewhere in the clearing." Not long thereafter, the circular trapdoor opened and

a shape appeared, flapping above the ground on leathery wings. The thing which flew whirring toward me was followed by a train of others, wings slapping the air at incredible speed. Even though they flew so fast, I could, with the augmented perception of terror, make out many more details than I wished. Those huge lidless eyes which stared in hate at me, the jointed tendrils which seemed to twist from the head in cosmic rhythms, the ten legs, covered with black shining tentacles and folded into the pallid underbelly, and the semi-circular ridged wings covered with triangular scales – all this cannot convey the soul-ripping horror of the shape which darted at me. I saw the three mouths of the thing move moistly, and then it was upon me.

The insect-creature flew straight into Shea's head but he "felt no impact" and, when he turned to look behind him, there was no sign of it. Yet, "the whole landscape seemed to ripple and melt, as if the lenses of [his] eyes had twisted in agonizing distortion." He then realizes that the thing "had entered [his] body and was crawling around in [his] brain." It's here that the story truly becomes interesting – or at least grapples toward being so. 

With the insect-creature somehow ensconced like a parasite within his mind, Shea experiences strange perceptions and equally strange thoughts. The young Campbell then attempts to convey the twisting, phantasmagoric experience of Shea's being a host to an Insect from Shaggai and, while the end result doesn't quite succeed, I appreciate his effort nonetheless. What the reader gets echoes the experiences of Nathaniel Wingate Peaslee in Lovecraft's "The Shadow Out of Time," as his mind travels through time in bodies other than his own. It's a potent idea and should be at once wondrous and terrifying – if it weren't for the fact that Campbell uses this as an opportunity to regale the reader with a needlessly lengthy exposition of the history of the Insects, the home planet, their worship of Azathoth, and many other details. The elaborate exposition undoubtedly pleased August Derleth, whose own Lovecraftian pastiches luxuriated in similar catalogs of otherworldly places and entities, but it does little to improve the story.

And that's a great shame. As I said at the beginning, some pulp fantasies are best appreciated for their ideas than for their plots or characters and "The Insects of Shaggai" is a prime example of this. I absolutely adore the idea of psychic parasites that employ human beings as their vehicles on Earth. Likewise, the bizarre sensations and knowledge that come with playing host to these entities is worthy of exploration, since it's a splendid way to convey the cosmicism of Lovecraft's literary vision. Unfortunately, Campbell is quite right in judging that "The Insects from Shaggai" falls quite short of the mark. Yet, for all that, it's still of genuine interest to readers for whom ideas are paramount.

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Last Enchantment

Though the character of Elric of Melniboné is perhaps best known from the novelettes and novellas in which he appears, like "The Dreaming City," Michael Moorcock also penned numerous shorter works featuring the last emperor of the Bright Empire. One of my favorites is "The Last Enchantment," which was first published in the pages of Ariel: The Book of Fantasy: Volume Three in October 1978 and later included in several different collections (which is where I read it). Though this was its first published appearance, Moorcock had actually written it almost two decades earlier, in 1962, at which time it bore the title "Jesting with Chaos" – a much more apt title in my opinion. Consequently, in terms of its conception, it harkens back to the early days of Moorcock's writing about Elric, which may well explain its appeal to me.

The tale begins as "a shuddering man … his bloated eyes full of blood" is running through a dark forest, clutching "a glowing black talisman" in his hand and muttering to himself. The reader soon learns that the man is named Slorg and that the strange talisman he carries enables him to speak with a disembodied being called Teshwan. It's then that Elric enters the story, riding through the very same forest.

The horseman's long, sharply delineated skull was leper-white, as if stripped of flesh, and his slightly slanting eyes gleamed crimson. He wore a jerkin of black velvet caught at the throat by a thin silver chain. His britches, too, were of black cloth, and his leather boots were high and shining. Over his shoulders was a high-collared cape of scarlet and a heavy longsword slapped at his side as he pulled his steed to a standstill. His long, flowing hair was as white as his face. The horseman was an albino.

Elric comes across Slorg, who begs him to aid him against the Hungry Whisperers, demonic beings who dog his trail. "Now why should I, my friend? Tell me that." Elric replies. Slorg then explains – or tries to explain – that he has been "profaned," but Elric quickly tells him that this is "none of my business." This doesn't sit well with Slorg, who becomes angry and tells the wandering Melnibonéan that, though he was "a man no longer," he was nevertheless "Siletah Slorg – Siletah of Oberlorn," a title that means nothing to Elric. 

Elric, in turn, introduces himself and this elicits a reaction from Slorg, who calls him an "outcast." He then asks Elric again for aid. "Help me and I will tell you secrets – such secrets!" Elric remains disinterested and bids Slorg farewell. The strange man then threatens the Melnibonéan with his talisman's "last enchantment" if he does not do as he asks. When Elric urges his horse onward instead, Slorg calls upon Teshwan to perform "a deed of vengeance" against him.

Not long afterward, Elric finds himself transported to "a vast and lonely expanse of flat, grey stone" that he suspects is another world, one ruled completely by the Lords of Chaos, of whom Teshwan was undoubtedly one. Worse than that, his mighty runesword, Stormbringer, is dead.

Normally the blade, forged by unhuman smith for Elric's royal ancestors, was alive with sentience – throbbing with the life-force it had stolen from a hundred men and women whom Elric had slain. Once before it had been like this – in the Caverns of Chaos long ago. 

Elric tightened his lips, then shrugged as he replaced the sword in its scabbard.

"In a world completely dominated by the forces of Chaos," he said, "I cannot rely on the powers which normally aid me in my sorcery. Thank Arioch I have a good supply of drugs about me, or I would indeed be doomed."

Elric presses forward and encounters another traveler, a man "dressed in green, a silver sword dangling in his right hand." The man tells Elric that he travels "to Kaneloon, for the Rites." The Rites, it seems, are performed by the Lords of Chaos to reform the world "into a fresh variety of patterns." Hearing this, he asks the man if there might be some way he could leave this realm of Chaos. The man suggests visiting the palace of Kaneloon. There, he might be able to convince the Lords to return him to his own world – or not, since "the Lords of Chaos are fickle." The man then disappears.

Elric makes his way to the palace and is given entrance by the guardian giant, who tells him that 

"My masters order me to inform you that you may enter but that, having once come to the Palace of Kaneloon, you may never leave save under certain conditions."

"Those conditions?"

"Of these they will tell you if you enter. Are you reckless – or will you stand pondering?"

"I'll avail myself of their generosity," smiled Elric and spurred his nervous horse forward.

The remainder of the story details Elric's meeting with the Lords of Chaos, including Teshwan, whom Slorg beseeched to exact his revenge on the Melnibonéan. He must confront them and the aforementioned condition in order to return home: "You may leave only if you can create something which it has never occurred to us to create."

"The Last Enchantment" is short and evocative. Not only is the reader treated to seeing Elric attempt to outwit the Lords of Chaos to save himself, but we get to something of the nature of these mysterious beings and their role in the multiverse. It's fascinating, even thought provoking stuff, made all the more enjoyable because Moorcock keeps his philosophizing on a short leash. The story is not over-indulgent and Elric, despite his exile, does not much yield to his signature melancholy. Instead, we get tight, clever tale of almost mythological character, in which a mortal contends with godlike beings – and wins.

Pulp Fantasy Library: While the Gods Laugh

Whatever else one can say about Michael Moorcock's tales of albino sorcerer Elric of Melniboné, there's no question that they're chock full of fantastic concepts. This is notably so in "While the Gods Laugh," a short story first published in issue #49 of Science Fantasy (October 1961). Being the immediate sequel to "The Dreaming City," in which we see not only the sack of Imrryr and but also the death Elric's lover, Cymoril, Moorcock no doubt found himself in a difficult place story-wise. What does one do for an encore after such a startling opening act?

Naturally, "While the Gods Laugh" begins with Elric brooding, as he drinks alone in a tavern. While he ruminates over the disastrous events of the previous year, he is interrupted by "a wingless woman of Myyrrhn," who initially does not identify herself by name. She has sought after Elric for some time and, now that she has found him, she wishes to speak with him. For his part, Elric attempts to dissuade her, explaining that he is "an evil man" and his destiny is "hell-doomed." 

The woman is undeterred. She tells him that her name is Shaarilla of the Dancing Mist, the "wingless daughter of a dead necromancer – a cripple in her own strange land, and an outcast." Further, she asks Elric if he has ever heard of the Dead Gods' Book.

Elric nodded. He was interested, despite the need he felt to disassociate himself as much as possible from his fellows. The mythical book was believed to contain knowledge which could solve many problems that had plagued men for centuries – it held a holy and mighty wisdom which every sorcerer desired to sample. But it was believed destroyed, hurled into the sun when the Old Gods were dying in the cosmic wastes which lay beyond the outer reaches of the solar system. Another legend, apparently of later origin, spoke vaguely of the dark ones who interrupted the Book's sunward coursing and had stolen it before it could be destroyed. Most scholars discounted this legend, arguing that, by this time, the Book would have come to light if it did still exist.

Shaarilla insists that the book exists and that she knows where it is. She promises to give the Book – and herself, if he wishes – to Elric, if only he would aid her in finding it. Elric is confused.

"If you want it so badly that you seek my help," he said eventually, "why do you not wish to keep it?"

"Because I would be afraid to have such a thing perpetually in any custody – it is not a book for an ordinary mortal to own, but you are possibly the last mighty nigromancer left in the world and it is fitting that you should have it. Besides, you might kill me to obtain it – I would never be safe with such a volume in my hands. I need only a small part of its wisdom."

"What is that?" Elric enquired, studying her patrician beauty with a new pulse stirring within him.

Her mouth set and the lids fell over her eyes. "When we have the Book in our hands – then you will have your answer. Not before."

"This answer is good enough," Elric remarked quickly, seeing that he would gain no more information at that stage.

Elric himself seeks the book because he believes it might contain "the secret of peace" within its pages, the secret that would free him from the "incommunicable self-loathing" that leads him to "scream in [his] sleep." As they travel in the Silent Land together later, Elric talks more explicitly to Shaarilla about why he seeks the Book.

The tall albino dropped the folded tent to the grass and sighed. His fingers played nervously with the pommel of his runesword. "Can an ultimate god exist – or not? That is what I need to know Shaarilla, if my life is to have any direction at all.

"The Lords of Law and Chaos now govern our lives. But is there some being greater than them?"

Shaarilla put a hand on Elric's arm. "Why must you know?" she said.

"Despairingly, sometimes, I seek the comfort of a beningn god, Shaarilla. My mind goes out, lying awake at night, searching through black barrenness for something – anything – which will take me to it, warm me, protect me, tell me that is order in the chaotic tumble of the universe; that it is consistent, this precision of the planets, not simply a brief spark of sanity in an eternity of malevolent anarchy."

Elric sighed and his quiet tones were tinged with hopelessness. "Without some confirmation of the order of things, my only comfort is to accept anarchy. This way, I can revel in chaos and know, without fear, that we are all doomed from the start – that our brief existence is both meaningless and damned. I can accept that, then, that we are more than forsaken, because there was never anything there to forsake us. I have weighed the proof, Shaarilla, and must believe that anarchy prevails, in spite of all the laws which seemingly govern our actions, our sorcery, our logic. I see only chaos in the world. If the book we seek tells me otherwise, then I shall gladly believe it. Until then, I will put my trust only in my sword and myself." 

How one reacts to this passage will, I think, say a great deal about how one views the overall story of "While the Gods Laugh." This is, in many ways, a fairly straightforward fantasy quest, with Elric and Shaarilla, later joined by Moonglum of Elwher, who will of course become the Melnibonéan's boon companion, traveling across the Young Kingdoms and facing many obstacles before reaching their ultimate destination – and the Book itself. What separates it from similar fare are the philosophical musings and asides, as Moorcock begins to work out the details of the cosmology of Law and Chaos and how that cosmology affects the realm of mortals like Elric. 

I won't pretend there's anything deep here, but it's compelling stuff nonetheless. It's for this reason that I put up with Elric's perpetual moping: it's often an occasion for Moorcock to tease out underlying reality of the Young Kingdoms and the forces that govern it. If nothing else, it's more food for thought in the eternal struggle to make sense of alignment and how it might be made to work in Dungeons & Dragons. That's more than worth the price of admission in my opinion.

Pulp Fantasy Library: Three Hearts and Three Lions

Appendix N includes just shy of thirty different authors whom Gary Gygax considered to have been "of particular inspiration" to him creating Dungeons & Dragons. Of these, Gygax singles out a handle for special mention: DeCamp & Pratt, Robert E. Howard, Fritz Leiber, Jack Vance, H.P. Lovecraft, and Merritt. I think it would be difficult for any fair-minded person to find fault with his selection of these authors; their direct influence on D&D (and on the wider fantasy genre) is undeniable. 

Nevertheless, there is one Appendix N author not listed among "the most direct influences upon AD&D" that I feel ought to be there – and, no, I'm not talking about J.R.R. Tolkien. That author is Poul Anderson, particularly with reference to his 1961 novel, Three Hearts and Three Lions. Anderson is generally seen as a science fiction author and understandably so, given his output in that genre, which might explain why he's often overlooked compared to Howard or Leiber or Vance when it comes to seminal D&D inspirations. If you look more closely at his fantasy works, however, I think it becomes harder to deny his direct influence on the game.

More than a decade ago, I wrote a very brief post about Three Hearts and Three Lions. While that post references many of the novel's major connections to Dungeons & Dragons, I thought it worthwhile to return to it at greater length in this post, focusing not just on those connections but on more of the details of its story. Like many older works of fantasy, starting with Edgar Rice Burroughs's A Princess of Mars, Three Hearts and Three Lions is presented as "true" account of the adventures of its protagonist, as told to the author of the book. In this case, the protagonist is a Danish engineer named Holger Carlsen, who had come to the United States as a university student sometime before World War II. Though enamored of America and intending to stay there, the invasion of his homeland by the Nazis in 1940 awakened in him a patriotic fervor that, within a year, resulted in his returning to Europe to join the resistance in Denmark. 

Carlsen fought in the resistance for a couple of years, evading capture and dealing significant blows to the Nazi war effort. In 1943, he helped Niels Bohr to escape to Sweden and, ultimately, to safety. This endeavor, however, brought him face to face with the Nazis, who shoot him in the head. He blacks out and awakens some time later in a place that is at once familiar but not. Like John Carter, Carlsen is naked, but it doesn't take him long to find some attire. An immense, friendly stallion (named Papillon, according to the engraving on his headstall) approached him, bearing medieval armor and weapons. The armor fits him perfectly – too perfectly – as if it were made specifically for him. His shield bears three hearts and three lions upon it, heraldry very similar to that of the coat of arms of Denmark, which has nine hearts and three lions. 

Carlsen is completely confused and begins to wonder if he is mad or dreaming. Over the course of the next several short chapters – the novel is arranged more or less as a series of vignettes – he comes to realize that, against all logic, he has somehow been transported to Denmark during the reign of Charlemagne. Even so, Carlsen is determined to find some way to return to the 20th century and enlists the aid of multiple magical beings to aid him in this. The first is Hugi the dwarf, but he is soon joined by Alianora the swanmay as well. From them, he learns much about the world to which he has been transported and it's this that is of great interest to players of D&D.

Holger got the idea that a perpetual struggle went on between primeval forces of Law and Chaos. No, not forces exactly. Modes of existence? A terrestrial reflection of the spiritual conflict between heaven and hell? In any case, humans were the chief agents on earth of Law, though most of them were so only unconsciously and some, witches and warlocks and evildoers, had sold out to Chaos. A few nonhuman beings also stood for Chaos. Ranged against them was almost the whole Middle World, which seemed to include realms like Faerie, Trollheim, and the Giants – an actual creation of Chaos. Wars among men, such as the long-drawn struggle between the Saracens and the Holy Empire, aided Chaos' under Law all men would live in peace and order and that liberty which only Law could give meaning. But this was so alien to Middle Worlders that they were forever working to prevent it and to extend their shadowy dominion.

This passage and others like it are the ultimate origins of Chainmail's alignment system, which, in turn, would become the basis for that in D&D. They're also, not coincidentally, the origins of Moorcock's own takes on Law versus Chaos from his Eternal Champion stories. Regardless of what one thinks about D&D's use of this idea, it's hard not to find Anderson's version quite compelling. Had D&D done a better job of grounding alignment in a larger, cosmic struggle, I suspect that many, if not most, of the objections to alignment in the game would evaporate (though gamers, being a querulous bunch, would still find ways to complain about it).

As the trio travel across medieval Denmark, they encounter all manner of fantastical creatures, such as elves, a giant, a dragon, and a werewolf. They also make the acquaintance of a Saracen named Carahue and a wizard called Martinus Trismegistus, both of whom provide them with aid. Throughout the story, Carlsen begins to have increasing flashes of memory. He remembers more and more about this fairytale Denmark, as if he'd been here before. In time, he realizes that he's in fact from this time and place originally and that he is in fact Holger Danske, the legendary Ogier le Danois of the Matter of France who was destined to return when Denmark most needed him. 

Three Hearts and Three Lions is a quick read, being about 150 pages in most editions. It's engagingly written and filled with lots of interesting characters and ideas. Aside from the aforementioned presentation of alignment and the swanmay, there's also the first instance of the regenerating troll in fantasy literature and Holger himself, who is a paladin both within the story and as the inspiration for the character class of the same name. There's much to enjoy here, both for fans of classic fantasy literature and archeologists of roleplaying. I wish more people were familiar with this novel.

First Impressions

I owe a huge debt to the public library not far from my childhood home, because it was very well stocked with fantasy and science fiction paperbacks. So much of my early education in the classics of these genres came from books I borrowed from the library. To this day, I can still see the covers of many of them, such as this one, with its illustration by Michael Whelan.

My feelings about Elric have always been complicated. I love the ideas of the Elric novels and think the Young Kingdoms are a wonderful imagined fantasy setting, but I've often been less than enthusiastic about the execution of the stories. Likewise, I have a potent love/hate relationship with the character of Elric of Melniboné, finding him equal parts compelling and insufferable. I've come to believe that my feelings are precisely what Moorcock intended and, if so, kudos to him. 

When I was in high school, I decided that I needed to own the Elric novels for myself. I trudged down to the Waldenbooks at the local mall and sought out the science fiction and fantasy section, hoping I'd find copies of the DAW editions I'd first read several years before. Alas, they were no longer in print. Instead, I found the silver Berkeley Books versions with artwork by Robert Gould.

There's no question Gould's artwork is distinctive, but I don't find it as evocative as Whelan's, but perhaps that's a function of my having seen Whelan's first. Regardless, this is the cover of the first Elric book I ever owned and, for that reason, it's burned into my memory, even though I like Whelan's cover of the same book more.

Does this happen to anyone else? Is there a piece of artwork you saw that made such an impression on you that it's colored your ability to appreciate later illustrations of the same subject?

Imagine Magazine: Issue #23

Issue #23 of Imagine (February 1985) features a cover by Carl Critchlow of Thrud the Barbarian fame. As if that weren't enough to endear it to me, it also features Crusader great helm, something for which I've long had an inexplicable affection. The cover also boasts that this issue will highlight ghosts and so it does in an article by Chris Barlow entitled, naturally enough, "Ghosts." Much like last issue's article on vampires, this one seeks to expand the possibilities for ghosts. Unlike its predecessor, "Ghosts" includes no new mechanical options for these insubstantial undead, but instead devotes its three pages entirely to other options, such as appearance, actions, and origins, with an eye toward individualizing ghosts in this manner. I approve of this approach, which is buttressed with a follow-up AD&D scenario, "The Curse of Arivale," also by Barlow, dealing with an aristocrat's hall haunted by a variety of ghosts, including two new types – good stuff in my opinion.

This month's Pelinore article "The Big Wide World" expands beyond the City League to give readers an overview of the entire setting. A large scale map of the whole world is provided, along with information on geography and timekeeping. As described here, Pelinore is "a symbol of the central struggle of Opposites: Law and Chaos, Good and Evil, Beauty and Ugliness, Happiness and Misery." While most people in the setting are unaware of this cosmic struggle, it nevertheless colors everything that happens in it, though, as the article notes, "Harmony is the route to peace." I'm fascinated by this, since I've long felt that works best in Dungeons & Dragons when tied to a metaphysical battle á la Moorcock or Anderson. I'm curious to see if this idea is developed more in future articles. Accompanying this article is a single-page one by Venetia Lee describing the Basilisks, a criminal gang in the City League.

Paul Vernon's "Languages in AD&D Campaigns" is a fine, if broad, article on this subject. Its most interesting sections concern how languages can be used to establish facts about a campaign setting, as well as its musings on alignment languages. (I find it fascinating that so many Imagine articles take up the question of alignment and take it seriously, of which I approve. Makes me wonder why this was so.) "A Knight to Be King" by Chris Felton discusses the various ways a player character might acquire a royal title, including seizing it from an existing monarch. It's an interesting mix of advice and history, with some vague mechanical guidelines on how to handle the military conflicts that would inevitably follow any such seizure of power. Meanwhile, Carl Sargent's "The Multi-Character Campaign" discusses the pros and cons of a campaign where each player controls a "stable" of PCs of various classes and levels. I personally like this model of campaigning and have found that, if a campaign lasts long enough, it's almost inevitable that each player will have multiple characters. This has happened in my House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign, for example.

"The Shedu's Hall" by Matthew Parker is a D&D adventure set in Pelinore, which also centers around a hall haunted by a unique ghost. Roger Musson gives us "An Introduction to Board Wargaming," which is a very good sketch of this rather large subject. Most interesting, I think, is Musson's note toward the end that "wargames" need not be about wars or even military conflicts at all, which is absolutely true in my experience and probably explains why many contemporary wargames call themselves "historical simulations" or some variant thereof. "Getting In" by Paul Mason concerns itself with how one much become involved in the hobby of roleplaying, with an emphasis on the types of activities outside of playing at the table on might pursue, from fanzines to convention attendance.

This month's game reviews focus heavily on adventures "suitable for use with AD&D," such as those produced by Role Aids and Grenadier. There's also a very positive review of Chill and some Traveller supplements by FASA. "Fantasy Media" by Colin Greenland includes reviews of the movies Metropolis and Romancing the Stone, the latter film being one I'd completely forgotten existed until now. Roger Musson's "Stirge Corner" focuses on wilderness travel and its pitfalls, a topic in which I have a great deal of interest, having run several sandbox campaigns over the last decade. There are also new installments of "Rubic of Moggedon" and "The Phalanx" comics, though, as I repeatedly say, I've done little more than glance at them.

There's some good material in this month's issue, particularly the overview of Pelinore, but, overall, it's a much more middling issue than I had hoped. Mind you, as someone who's put out twelve issues of a fanzine, I understand very well how hard it can be to ensure that every issue is as good as, if not better than, the last. Still, I'm finding Imagine a good read overall and I look forward to future issues.

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Witcher

Like most native English speakers, I've generally been quite ignorant of fantasy and science fiction outside of my own linguistic bubble. I've made efforts to correct this myopia, but I've been hampered by the fact that, outside of French, I've largely had to wait until translations into English become available and that's necessarily limited the scope of what I can read. However, a little over a decade ago, a friend of mine suggested I take a look at the work of Polish writer Andrzej Sapkowski. I'd never heard of the man, but that's hardly surprising: despite my surname, I don't read Polish and no one in my family has done so in nearly a century. Even so, I'd come to trust my friend's recommendations and I sought out a copy of a newly translated volume of Sapkowski's short stories.  

The short stories in question concern a professional monster hunter named Geralt of Rivia, who made his first appearance in "The Witcher," published in the December 1986 issue of  the Polish magazine Fantastyka. Writing this in 2020, I almost feel as if there's little need to introduce Geralt and his world, since, in the years since I first read the story that introduced him, he's appeared in a series of successful video games, as well as a television series. A decade ago, this wasn't the case and I was, as I said, among the many people who was completely oblivious of the character or his author. At the same time, there's a very good chance that many people who are familiar with the character from spin-off media have never read the stories from which they are derived, which is why I though a post like this would be useful. 

The story begins as a stranger enters the city of Wyzim, looking for place to spend the night and encounters resistance from the locals.

The stranger was not old but his hair was almost entirely white. Beneath his coat he wore a worn leather jerkin laced up at the neck and shoulders.

As he took off his coat those around him noticed that he carried a sword – not something unusual in itself, nearly every man in Wyzim carried a weapon – but no one carried a sword strapped to his back as if it were a bow or a quiver.

The stranger did not sit at the table with the few other guests. He remained standing at the counter, piercing the innkeeper with his gaze. He drew from the tankard.

"I'm looking for a room for the night."

"There's none," grunted the innkeeper, looking at the guest's boots, dusty and dirty. "Ask at the Old Narakort."

"I would rather stay here." 

 As we soon learn, the innkeeper "recognized the stranger's accent" – a Rivian accent – and disliked him for it. "All Rivians are thieves," says one of the inn's patrons. Three men set upon the stranger, but he quickly dispatches them, showing himself to be an adept swordsman. Hearing the commotion, the city guard rush into the inn, overpower the stranger, and arrest him. The guards take him to Velerad, Wyzim's castellan, who declares himself "a just man" willing to listen to the stranger's explanation for his actions rather than simply ordering him impaled for murder.

The stranger, who introduces himself as Geralt, states that he is a witcher – a monster hunter – and he's come to Wyzim because of a proclamation by King Foltest, seeking aid in dealing with some sort of supernatural menace, the details of which are vague. Geralt presses the castellan to provide those details, which he does. Foltest, while still crown prince, got his sister, Adda, pregnant. Adda died in childbirth, as did their daughter, and both were buried in the royal crypt. Seven years later, the child had risen from the grave as a cursed monster called a striga and she set about killing the inhabitants of the palace and those who dwell nearby – several dozen a year, in fact.

Such has been the situation for another seven years – much to Geralt's surprise – and no one has found a way to resolve the matter, largely because King Foltest won't allow anyone to destroy the striga, whom he still, in some sense, considers his daughter. The king wants his daughter freed from the curse, not slain. This is why Geralt is met with suspicion both by Velerad and, later, the king himself: witchers aren't known for their compassion toward monsters. They have a well deserved reputation for success in slaying monsters, not saving them. Nevertheless, Geralt assures his skeptical would-be patrons that he knows a method of undoing the curse without killing the princess and sets out to do just that.

When I first read "The Witcher," what struck me immediately was how much it reminded me of a noir novel, with Geralt taking the place of the gruff but honorable private eye – a hallowed pulp archetype that's been reinvented numerous times. Like a lot of pulp fantasies, "The Witcher" isn't high art, let alone philosophically deep, but it's fun and I appreciated the way that Sapkowski made use of actual eastern European folklore in its plot, something he does in subsequent stories of Geralt's adventures. On the other hand, he also includes many clichéd fantasy elements, like elves and dwarves, that don't bring much to the table, though, in his defense, they might be less common in Polish fantasy than they are in English ones. Still, I enjoyed the first story enough that I eventually read several others and continue to think well of them. I believe the entire saga of Geralt is now available in English and, thanks to the success of the games and the TV series, are easy to come by should you wish to see for yourself.

Imagine Magazine: Issue #22

 Issue #22 of Imagine (January 1985) fittingly features a cover by Rodney Matthews entitled "Earl Aubec." I say fittingly, as this issue's "theme" is Michael Moorcock and his works.  That alone made me sit up and take notice, since I have long had a love/hate relationship with Moorcock as a writer and creator. I'm always interested in hearing what he has to say, even if I frequently disagree with it. Seeing the blazon on the cover announcing several Moorcock-related features immediately increased my enthusiasm to read the magazine's contents. 

"The Vampire Revamped" by Derrick Norton is the issue's first article. It's an extensive examination of the undead monster, with an eye toward expanding its powers and abilities for use with AD&D. I have no objection to this and in fact think it's a good idea. The vampires of Dungeons & Dragons have always been a bit bland in my opinion (hence my own variant of them) and Norton does a good job of presenting multiple alternatives, even if some of them are bit more potent than I'd prefer myself.

"Gibbet Street" is the latest installment in the series describing the City League of Pellinore. As its name suggests, Gibbet Street gets its name from the gallows that stands there – a reminder to the inhabitants of this shady part of the city that criminal behavior can have dire consequences. Also nearby is Beggars Alley. As usual, there are plenty of quirky NPCs detailed, along with examples of the city's guilds. Also presented is information on capturing and selling monsters for use as opponents in the arena (described in last issue). As I have said several times before, I find Pellinore quite charming in its content and terrific in its presentation. It's a good model, I think, for building up a fantasy setting from the ground up and has undoubtedly influenced my posts on Urheim.

Michael Moorcock's "The Last Enchantment" is a Elric short story originally published in 1978. It concerns the Melnibonéan's journey into a realm of Chaos and his efforts to escape it. The story, which I had read before, is not an action packed one. Rather, it's somewhat philosophical and gives Moorcock the chance to muse about the nature of Chaos. Not one of Moorcock's great tales but it's worth a read nonetheless. Much more interesting, I think, is his interview in which he touches upon a very wide range of topics, from Deities & Demigods to Mervyn Peake to why the Eternal Champion always has a companion at his side. If you've read interviews with Moorcock before, none of it is particularly revelatory (or new), but I enjoyed reading it nonetheless. Another article, "The Theatre of Michael Moorcock" by David Hill, is an overview of the three main Eternal Champions series (Elric, Hawkmoon, and Corum), presented as if it were notes from an imaginary stage production.

"Earl Aubec and the Iron Galleon" is an adventure for Advanced Dungeons & Dragons written by Michael Brunton based on an outline by Moorcock. It's an unusual adventure in that it's intended for a single player, who takes the role of Aubec, Earl of Malador. Aubec is a great hero of the Young Kingdoms from before the time of Elric, as well as a previous incarnation of the Eternal Champion. A second character, Jhary-a-Conel, is provided in the event that a second player is included. It's an intriguing scenario, involving a sea voyage that results in a fogbound collision with the titular Iron Galleon. The adventure also includes rules for luck points that remind me of those in Conan Unchained!

Graeme Davis and Colin Greenland take a long look at gamebooks in "Solo Voyages." They cover a lot of ground in this piece, from Fighting Fantasy to Lone Wolf to Tunnels & Trolls and The Fantasy Trip. I find the concept of solo fantasy gaming fascinating, even though I have fairly limited experience with it myself, so this article held my attention. There are plenty of reviews this month, such as Lords of Creation, Middle Earth Roleplaying, and Star Trek the Roleplaying Game, in addition to supplements for Marvel Super Heroes, Indiana Jones, and Traveller. I enjoy reading old reviews, both for the perspective on how things were viewed in the past and for how things are viewed in different contexts. Overall, I'd say Imagine tends to be a bit harsher in its reviews than was Dragon, though, in the case of this issue, that wasn't quite so clear.

Brian Creese's "Chainmail" continues to discuss postal gaming, something with which I have no experience and still find it hard to imagine was once sufficiently popular to command a monthly column devoted to it. Colin Greenland's "Fantasy Media" reviews The Last Starfighter, which he praises for its computer effects, and The Dune Encyclopedia, one of my favorite bits of para-fiction ever published. I should write a post about it someday, because it's a remarkable piece of work that too few people have ever seen, let alone read. Rounding out the issue is Roger Musson's "Stirge Corner," which tackles languages – a topic dear to my heart – and new installments of "Rubic of Moggedon" and "Phalanx."

This is another strong issue, aided no doubt by the presence of all the Michael Moorcock-related material. I've lamented many times before the decoupling of roleplaying games and the literature that inspired them. Seeing the work of a genuine literary superstar like Moorcock in a magazine devoted to RPGs is thus a big thrill for me, as well as a reminder of the lost world I grew up in, when being a D&D player meant that of course you had read Elric (and Conan and John Carter and Middle-earth and …), a situation that seems far less true today than it was in my youth. Ah well.

Pulp Fantasy Library: Warriors of Mars

I am exceptionally fond of sword-and-planet stories. As I have discussed in numerous posts over the years, it's in these tales of heroic Earthmen transported to other worlds – most often Mars but far from exclusively – that so many of the conventions we now associate with both fantasy and science fiction first appeared. Despite that, the sword-and-planet genre fell into disfavor long ago, coinciding, at least in part, with advances in technology that enabled us to learn much more about planets beyond our own. It seems that writers and readers alike could no longer take seriously the idea of an inhabited Moon, Venus, or Mars, leading to a precipitous decline in the amount of fiction of this sort after the 1950s.

An intriguing exception is Warriors of Mars, the first book in a engaging sword-and-planet trilogy written by Edward P. Bradbury in 1965. I won't feign ignorance of the fact that Bradbury is a pseudonym of Michael Moorcock, though, as I understand it, this information was not well known at the time (in part to distance his public utterances as editor of the magazine, New Worlds, a proponent of the burgeoning field of new wave sci-fi). 

Warriors of Mars, like much of Moorcock's work at the time, was written very quickly, over the course of a single weekend and this might explain its breakneck, almost feverish pacing. In this particular case, I think it works to the novel's benefit. The narrative doesn't take time to linger over details or, in many cases, fully flesh out its characters or situations. Instead, it simply barrels along, following the exploits of its protagonist on "Old Mars" and the reader is left with little time to ponder how far-fetched Moorcock's tale actually is.

Warriors of Mars is quite deliberately a pastiche of and commentary upon the Barsoom novels of Edgar Rice Burroughs. For example, its protagonist, Michael Kane, is, like John Carter, an American, but hails from stolid Ohio rather than romantic Virginia and, rather than being a fighting man by profession, he is a professor and scientist attached to the Chicago Special Research Institute. The novel begins with a prologue, told in the first person, of Edward P. Bradbury's meeting with Kane in Nice, France, paralleling the foreword to A Princess of Mars, where Burroughs claims that he is sharing a strange manuscript composed by his "Uncle Jack." Such parallels abound in Warriors of Mars.

In the prologue, Kane explains that he was "doing top secret research on matter transmitters," which he tested on himself, resulting something wholly unexpected.

"I went through space – and time as well, I think. I went to Mars, my friend."

"Mars!" I was now even more incredulous. "But how could you have survived? Mars is lifeless – a waste of dust and lichen!"

"Not this Mars, my friend."

"There is another Mars?" I raised my eyebrows.

"In a sense, yes. The planet I visited was not, I am convinced, the Mars we can see through our telescopes. It was an older Mars, eons in the past, yet still ancient. It is my theory that our own ancestors originated on the planet and came here when Mars was dying millions of years ago!"

I think that short section gives a good sense of the general feel of the novel: brisk and full of exclamation points. It also reveals the way that Moorcock is playing with the template established by Burroughs. He is attempting to find ways to address some of the latter day criticisms of the plausibility of the sword-and-planet genre. Whether one agrees with his approach or not, Warriors of Mars is a fun read, particularly for fans of Burroughs. As I mentioned above, there are many deliberate echoes of Barsoom here, such as the giant blue Argzoon occupying a place similar to that of the Warhoon and Princess Shizala standing in for the incomparable Dejah Thoris. It's an unashamed pastiche but a well executed one. It's a reminder, too, that Moorcock's criticisms of his elders' work was often rooted in affection and respect rather than contempt. I think his appreciation of Burroughs is on display here and I therefore highly recommend Warriors of Mars (and its sequels) to anyone who feels similarly.

Elric in D&D

I've never been much of a fan of Deities & Demigods, though I owned it, of course. Why wouldn't I? I have always had decidedly completionist tendencies and being an unabashed TSR fanboy, there was no chance I wouldn't purchase this book as soon as I was able to do so. It's true I didn't get much use out of it, but I still proudly displayed it on my bookshelf, right next to the Monster Manual. 

One thing that always bugged me was the strange acknowledgement at the front of the book: "Special thanks are also given to Chaosium, Inc. for permission to use the material found in the Cthulhu Mythos and the Melnibonean Mythos." My copy of the book didn't include either of those mythoi and neither did the copies of any of my friends. I eventually learned from older gamers that the first printing of the book did include these chapters, but I could never find any evidence that it was true. In fact, it wasn't until college that could verify these stories; my roommate actually owned a copy of the legendary first printing and I finally beheld it with my own eyes.

These are the stats of Elric, as well as an illustration of him by Jeff Dee. Like so much in Deities & Demigods, I remember being struck by how powerful Elric is, not simply in terms of his ability scores but also his many classes and their levels. I never quite understood the logic of giving literary heroes so many classes, when such things were explicitly impossible under the AD&D rules. I remember, too, my puzzlement at assigning the Chaotic Evil alignment to Elric. He never struck me as evil himself. Most of the terrible things that happen in the stories are not due to his direct action, but I suppose that's a matter of interpretation.

More interesting to me were the stats for the sword Stormbringer.

Stormbringer was the ultimate magical sword in the mind of my friends and I. Forget Excalibur or Glamdring or Durendal, Stormbringer was what everyone wanted and fantasy roleplaying games have been filled with blatant rip-offs of the deadly runeblade for as long as I've been gaming. As you can see, Stormbringer is every bit as powerful as you'd imagine, putting Blackrazor to shame.

It's worth noting that the earlier Gods, Demigods & Heroes supplement for OD&D also included the Melnibonéan mythos, though I was somehow unaware of this fact until many years after I acquired a copy of the book. Interestingly, Elric's stats therein are quite similar in many respects, though, in keeping with the generally lower power level of OD&D, they are not quite as egregious. The same is true of the stats for Stormbringer. Looking at them now, I find myself reminded of why I generally prefer OD&D to AD&D: the power curve is less steep and more human. Even the mightiest of fictional characters translated into OD&D are a far cry from the absurdities they become in AD&D. This is a topic to which I shall return in future posts.

Pulp Fantasy Library: Stormbringer

Today's entry is something of a cheat, because Michael Moorcock's 1965 novel, Stormbringer, is in fact a fix-up, which is to say, a collection of previously published stories stitched together into a single work. In this case, the stories in question are "Dead God's Homecoming," "Black Sword's Brothers," "Sad Giant's Passing," and "Doomed Lord's Passing," all of which were published in the pages of the British periodical Science Fantasy during the preceding two years. Taken together, though, these four stories form a coherent narrative of the final days of Moorcock's most famous literary creation, Elric of Melniboné. 

Stormbringer begins with a prologue that highlights both Moorcock's strengths as a writer and of the Elric saga as fantasy literature:

There came a time when there was a great movement upon the Earth and above it, when the destiny of Men and Gods, was hammered out upon the forge of Fate, when monstrous wars were brewed and mighty deeds were designed. And there rose up in this time, which was called the Age of the Young Kingdoms, heroes. Greatest of these heroes was a doom-driven adventurer who bore a crooning runeblade that he loathed.

His name was Elric of Melniboné, king of ruins, lord of a scattered race that had once ruled the ancient world. Elric, sorcerer and swordsman, slayer of kin, despoiler of his homeland, white-faced albino, last of his line.

That's powerful, heady stuff, almost Biblical in its verbiage. Reading that again for the first time in years, I found myself wanting to crack open the big box of Chaosium's 1981 roleplaying game and plan out a campaign in the Young Kingdoms. Moorcock excels myth-making and Stormbringer tells perhaps his greatest myth: the final battle between Law and Chaos.

Despite the epic backdrop, Elric's adventure in Stormbringer are, if not quite a picaresque, rambling, tumultuous affair, as he goes from place to place in response to the actions of his various antagonists. The novel begins with his wife, Zarozinia, being kidnapped by agents of Chaos under the cover of an unnatural storm. Shaken and fearing that Zarozinia would share the doom of his first love, Cymoril, Elric decides he must reclaim his runeblade, Stormbringer, which he had previously handed over to be locked away in the armory of Karlaak.

"I must have Stormbringer!"

"But you renounced the blade for fear of its evil power over you!" Lord Voashoon reminded him quietly.

Elric replied impatiently. "Aye–but I renounced the blade for Zarozinia's sake, too. I must have Stormbringer if I am to bring her back. The logic is simple."

Ominously, Elric says to his sword that "we are too closely linked now for less than death to separate us." The Melnibonéan is more correct than he realizes, but, for the moment, his only concern is rescuing his wife and he will do anything to ensure her safety.

Eventually, Elric learns that Zarozinia was kidnapped at the behest of the dead god Darnizhaan, now restored to life. Darnizhaan attempts to explain the true nature of what is happening to the world.

"No, Elric. Mark my words, whatever happens. The dawn is over and will soon be swept away like dead leaves before the wind of morning. The Earth's history has not even begun. You, your ancestors, these men of the new races even, you are nothing but a prelude to history. You will all be forgotten if the real history of the world begins. But we can avert that–we can survive, conquer the Earth and hold it against the Lords of Law, against Fate herself, against the Cosmic Balance–we can continue to live, but you must give me the swords!"

The swords in question are, of course, the Black Swords, Stormbringer and its counterpart, Mournblade. While Elric is willing to accede to Darnizhaan's demands, the swords have other ideas. Together, they return Darnizhaan to death and set into motion the events of the rest of the novel, which see Elric and his companion travel far and wide in a desperate effort to halt the apocalyptic battle of whose dire consequences Darnizhaan had spoken. 

On the off-chance that anyone reading this has not yet read Stormbringer, I will say no more of its plot, only that it concludes with one of the greatest lines in all of fantasy literature, "Farewell, friend. I was a thousand times more evil than thou!" Stormbringer is laden with portent and dripping with doom. Reading this, it's impossible not to recognize that the tale it's telling is the culmination of a saga years in the making. Whether one likes that sort of thing will color how one reacts to Stormbringer. I'm conflicted myself, as I frequently am with Moorcock's work, but, when it works, it works very well indeed. If nothing else, the novel might give more food for thought to those for whom alignment is an unnecessary abstraction. Stormbringer should put any such notion to rest. 

Horses of Different Colors

I've been re-reading A Princess of Mars lately and it's occasioned quite a few thoughts, starting with the fact that Barsoom is a wholly alien world. With the possible exception of Martians of all colors but green, there are no native life forms identical with those of John Carter's Earth (or Jasoom, as the Martians would say). Instead, Burroughs created an entire menagerie of unique Martian animals, some of which played significant roles in his stories. 

A good example are the thoats, which are used as steeds, beasts of burden, and even food. Possessing eight legs and a large mouth, thoats have been domesticated by both Red and Green Martians.

I can't be certain that this is the first example of a substitute for horses in fiction, but, if not, it's certainly a very early one indeed and one that likely had an influence on later writers. Jack Vance, for example, included leap-horses in the Tschai stories and the oasts in The Dying Earth. Straying farther afield, J.R.R. Tolkien described the goblins of The Hobbit as using massive wolves as mounts, while Moorcock introduces his readers to the Kamarg Flamingos in his chronicles of Dorian Hawkmoon (which always made me think of the flying ostrich-like mounts from 1982's Joust video game). Of course, the flamingos are flying rather than land mounts and fantasy isn't exactly lacking in examples of those, with dragons regularly being employed in that fashion.

Given these precedents, it's interesting that, by and large, Dungeons & Dragons has made comparatively little use of horse substitutes. The Dark Sun setting, which owes a lot to Barsoom in its general look, has no horses, only a variety of giant insects and reptiles. There's also the memorable Dave Sutherland piece from the Holmes Basic Rules depicting a lizard man riding a giant lizard. Outside of D&D, the Five Great Tribes of Prax in RuneQuest's Glorantha use unusual (but still terrestrial) riding animals, while Skyrealms of Jorune has sightless thombos and flying talmarons. 

Of course, this isn't really about horses, or at least only about horses. Rather, it's about the downside of Gygaxian Naturalism – the reining in of the imagination. D&D, at least D&D descended from AD&D (which, I would argue, is most D&D, including the current edition of the game), puts a limit on the fantastic. Certainly, Dungeons & Dragons has magic and monsters and even other planes of existence, among many other wondrous elements, but these are additions to the real world rather than replacements for them. The World of Greyhawk or even the Forgotten Realms, two D&D settings of which I am very fond, are not so different from a past age of Earth that they're unrecognizable. Unlike, say, Barsoom (or Tékumel), there's little need to immerse oneself in the setting in order understand it.

There's nothing wrong with this approach, of course, but it's a limited – and limiting – one that doesn't take full advantage of the freedom that fantasy affords us.