The Hidden Masters of Pulp Fantasy

One of the regular series for which this blog was once known is Pulp Fantasy Library, in which I highlighted individual fantasy and science fiction stories I felt had been influential, directly or indirectly, on the development of the hobby of roleplaying. The series eventually grew to more than three hundred entries and taught me a great deal in the process of writing it. However, it also required considerable effort and often received little reader engagement, so I brought it to a quiet close in 2023. I sometimes consider reviving it in a modified form, but I’ve yet to find the right approach. Still, I keep thinking about these early works of fantasy, which is what led to this post.

From the vantage point of the first quarter (!) of the twenty-first century, it’s all too easy to forget just how strange fantasy and science fiction once were – not merely in their imaginative content but in the intellectual and spiritual traditions from which they drew. We tend to think of early speculative fiction as arising primarily from a matrix of adventure tales, scientific romances, and classical mythology. However, another powerful and often overlooked influence is the world of Spiritualism, Theosophy, and other esoteric traditions. These weren’t mere fads in the late 19th and early 20th centuries; they were serious systems of belief for many, including a surprising number of the authors who helped lay the foundations of what we now call genre fiction.

Even more fascinating is how many once-occult concepts have since become commonplaces of fantasy and science fiction, like astral projection, past lives, lost advanced civilizations, invisible planes of existence, and cosmic cycles of spiritual evolution, to name just a few obvious ones. These weren’t originally the products of scientific or rationalist speculation. They were occult doctrines, often articulated with the structure and certainty of any other religion. Early speculative fiction served as a powerful conduit for these ideas, transmitting them into the cultural imagination.

Take, for instance, astral projection, which recurs throughout pulp fantasy and science fiction. In Theosophy, this is the “etheric body” or “etheric double” leaving the physical body to traverse the astral plane. In fiction, this idea becomes John Carter’s unexplained voyage to Barsoom in A Princess of Mars, where his body remains behind on Earth while his spirit is transported to another world by sheer force of will. Burroughs never offers a scientific explanation for the phenomenon nor did he need to do so. His readers would likely have recognized the trope from already extant popular occult literature.

Similarly, reincarnation and karma, central tenets of Theosophy and many forms of Eastern-influenced Spiritualism, appear in the works of authors like Talbot Mundy, whose protagonists sometimes recall past lives in ancient empires. The same is true of many tales penned by Abraham Merritt. In The Star Rover, Jack London tells the story of a prisoner who escapes his unjust physical confinement by entering trance states that allow him to access a series of former incarnations. This isn’t merely a fictional conceit; it reflects a specific metaphysical worldview in which human identity unfolds across many lifetimes, a view that gained traction during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Even readers who didn’t share this worldview would nevertheless have been familiar with it.

William Hope Hodgson is another fascinating case. He blends arcane science with mystical speculation in his "Carnacki the Ghost-Finder" stories, which feature protective sigils, vibrational zones, and references to the "Outer Circle," a realm inhabited by malevolent entities existing just beyond human perception. All of these ideas draw heavily on contemporary occultism. His novel The Night Land, a work of science fantasy more than horror, is set on a dying Earth haunted by monstrous spiritual forces and saturated with the oppressive weight of cosmic time. It echoes Theosophical doctrines of vast evolutionary cycles and the occult preoccupation with psychic resistance to spiritual evil.

Marie Corelli (born Mary Mackay), once one of the most popular authors in the English-speaking world, is now rarely read. Her novel, A Romance of Two Worlds, for example, blends Spiritualist belief with melodrama and science fictional concepts, such as portraying electricity as a bridge between the material and spiritual realms. She directly influenced writers like H. Rider Haggard and even Arthur Machen, both of whom in turn shaped the subsequent development of fantasy. Even Edward Bulwer-Lytton, now best known for the infamous incipit “It was a dark and stormy night,” was a serious student of esoteric lore. His novel Zanoni depicts an immortal Chaldean adept who achieves transcendence through secret knowledge, an early example of the “hidden masters” who would later become a staple of Theosophy.

Which, of course, brings us to Theosophy itself, which had perhaps the most lasting and far-reaching impact on the development of both esoteric thought and fantasy. Founded in the 1870s by the Russian-born mystic, Helena Blavatsky, Theosophy combined elements of Hinduism, Buddhism, Neoplatonism, and esoteric Christianity into a vast occult cosmology. Through books, journals, and lectures, it promoted a view of the universe in which mankind was but one phase in an immense spiritual drama, involving lost continents, ascended masters, and ancient wisdom. These ideas found fertile ground in genre fiction. The controversial “Shaver Mystery” stories published in Amazing Stories in the mid to late 1940s and purportedly based on true events involve ancient subterranean races like the evil Deros (which itself served as an inspiration to Gary Gygax). Shaver's stories read like Theosophy blended with pulp sensationalism.

Even Clark Ashton Smith, whom regular readers will know is my favorite of the Weird Tales trio, drew on esoteric themes. Ideas like cyclical time, forgotten civilizations, and arcane knowledge recur throughout his work. His Zothique cycle, set on the last continent of a dying Earth, reflects the Theosophical notion of a future “seventh root race” and the eventual exhaustion of history.

Against this background, H.P. Lovecraft stands out, not because he rejected religion in general (though he did), but because he specifically targeted Spiritualism and occultism. He was deeply familiar with the claims of mediums, astrologers, and Theosophists and dismissed them with open contempt. In his correspondence, he regularly mocks the “credulous” who place faith in séances, reincarnation, and similar beliefs. At the behest of Harry Houdini, Lovecraft even collaborated on a book titled The Cancer of Superstition, intended as a wholesale debunking of Spiritualist claims. The book was never completed due to Houdini’s sudden death in 1926.

Despite this, Lovecraft’s stories are filled with forbidden books, lost knowledge, and ancient alien races whose truths are too terrible for the human mind to bear. In this way, Lovecraft doesn’t discard the tropes of occult literature – he inverts them. Where Theosophy promised spiritual enlightenment and cosmic unity, Lovecraft offers only madness, degeneration, and a universe that is not merely indifferent but actively hostile to notions of human significance. His “gods” are not hidden masters but incomprehensible and uncaring forces. Structurally, however, he preserves much of the occult worldview: a hidden reality lurks behind the surface of things, accessible only to initiates – scholars, madmen, and cultists. Lovecraft didn’t reject that structure; he twisted it and filled it with dread.

All of this makes it remarkable just how thoroughly modern fantasy and science fiction still bear the imprint of these early occult influences. Astral travel, alternate planes, soul transference, hidden masters, and cosmic cycles remain staples of the genres. They’re treated today as neutral, even secular, tropes of worldbuilding, even though their origins are anything but secular. They are spiritual, mystical, and often explicitly religious in intent.

My purpose in this post isn't to diminish these genres or to reduce their works to a list of influences. Nor am I offering an invitation to embrace the esoteric as literal truth. Instead, I'm reminding everyone of just how permeable the boundary between belief and imagination has always been and how fantasy, in particular, has long served as a vessel for metaphysical speculation, even when dressed in the garb of swords and sorcery or rocket ships and ray guns. Perhaps this is one of the reasons these genres endure: they don’t merely entertain; they echo the ancient human desire to find meaning in a world that so often seems devoid of it.

Retrospective: Star Wars: The Roleplaying Game

Between early exposure to televised coverage of NASA launches and constant reruns of Star Trek, it was almost inevitable that I would become a science fiction fan. It helped, too, that my father’s only sister, who was barely twenty years my senior, shared that passion and actively encouraged my fascination with all things related to space travel, robots, and laser guns. So, when George Lucas’s space opera Star Wars premiered in the late spring of 1977, my aunt and I wasted no time in seeing it. Like countless other children of my generation, the experience marked a turning point in the development of my imagination.

As I’ve written elsewhere, Star Wars dominated the mental landscape of my childhood from 1977 to 1979, a reign challenged only by my discovery of Dungeons & Dragons and, through it, the wider world of roleplaying games. Even so, my enthusiasm for Star Wars didn’t vanish. I vividly remember the thrill I felt at the first rumors of "Star Wars II" (the film’s actual title wouldn’t be revealed until late 1979, as I recall). While D&D redirected some of my imaginative energy, it never fully replaced my love for Lucas’s galaxy. That said, there’s no denying that the fervor of my early affection dimmed somewhat in the face of newer, competing obsessions.

By the mid-1980s, that dimming had become a common experience. Star Wars itself seemed to be fading into the past. In 1987, the franchise appeared adrift. Four years had passed since Return of the Jedi had concluded the original trilogy and no new movies were on the horizon. For many fans, the galaxy far, far away was becoming a relic of childhood. The Kenner toy line was winding down, Marvel’s comic book series had ended, and while fan interest endured, it was increasingly nostalgic in character. There were occasional whispers of more to come, but nothing concrete. To be a Star Wars fan in the late ’80s was to dwell in the long shadow of what had been, clinging to worn VHS tapes, dog-eared storybooks, and well-loved action figures.

Meanwhile, the tabletop roleplaying game hobby was entering a new phase. TSR’s Dungeons & Dragons still loomed large, but the landscape was shifting. A host of new games had appeared, offering players fresh ways to explore favorite genres. Yet the RPG industry had not yet figured out how to handle licensed properties particularly well. With a few notable exceptions, like Star Trek or Marvel Super Heroes, most licensed RPGs of the era felt to me like clumsy grafts, existing more as marketing tie-ins than true adaptations. Then, in 1987, West End Games released Star Wars: The Roleplaying Game, designed by Greg Costikyan.

What West End delivered was more than just a faithful adaptation of a beloved movie trilogy: it was a revelatory act of worldbuilding. The game employed a streamlined D6 system, originally developed for Ghostbusters, that emphasized speed, flexibility, and cinematic flair over rules complexity. It was a system that matched the tone and pacing of Star Wars perfectly. Characters weren’t defined by a tangle of subsystems but by evocative archetypes: the Brash Pilot, the Young Senatorial, the Quixotic Jedi. Combat was fast and improvisational, encouraging swashbuckling heroics rather than tactical micromanagement. It felt, in a word, right.

But the real genius of the Star Wars RPG wasn’t its rules; it was its tone and presentation. The game didn’t merely borrow the setting of Star Wars; it inhabited it. The rulebook and its indispensable companion, The Star Wars Sourcebook, were filled with film stills, in-universe schematics, detailed planetary entries, and short snippets of fiction. These books didn’t feel like products about the galaxy far, far away; they felt like artifacts from within it. For fans starved for new material, the RPG was a lifeline, offering a way not just to revisit Star Wars, but almost to live in it.

It’s hard to overstate the influence these books would go on to have. Much of what we now take for granted about the Star Wars universe, like species names, background details about the Empire and the Rebellion, classifications of ships and vehicles, and descriptions of distant planets, originated not in the films, but in the pages of these RPG books. Lucasfilm itself came to rely on West End’s material. When Timothy Zahn was hired to write Heir to the Empire in 1991, he was handed a stack of WEG books to use as reference. In many ways, West End Games defined the Star Wars expanded universe before it officially existed.

Within the RPG hobby, Star Wars: The Roleplaying Game was also a harbinger of things to come. Unlike many earlier games, it emphasized genre emulation and collaborative adventure over simulationist detail. Its influence can be seen in the rise of narrative-focused design philosophies that would emerge in the late 1990s and early 2000s. It welcomed new players with familiar characters and easy-to-grasp mechanics, helping to expand the hobby beyond its traditional fantasy roots and making it more accessible to newcomers.

As I mentioned earlier, there were other successful licensed RPGs during this period, each with its own merits. But, in my opinion, none matched the totality of West End’s vision. The Star Wars RPG wasn’t just a game; it was a doorway into a living, breathing world, one that players could explore, shape, and make their own. Today, with Star Wars a global media brand, it’s worth remembering the quiet, crucial role this game played. It expanded the setting beyond what we saw on screen. It kept the flame alive during a fallow period. And it reminded us all that, with a few friends, a handful of dice, and the right kind of scenario, we too could journey to that galaxy far, far away.

Computer God

Something I've observed is that, if you look at the totality of a creator's work, you'll sometimes notice patterns in their creations. By "patterns," I mean subject matter or themes that keep cropping up again and again. Sometimes, this is done deliberately, with the creator explicitly embracing this, while at other times, it's done subconsciously. There are plenty of exceptions to this, of course; not every creator is given to this behavior. Indeed, one could make a reasonable case that the best creators are those whose works are genuinely varied in their subject matter or themes. 

Yesterday, I posted a story about an "AI agent" that had supposedly become very adept at playing Diplomacy. In reflecting on it, I realized that one of the reasons the story so intrigued me is not simply for its connection to a game I enjoy, but because it connects to a recurring subject within my own creative endeavors: computers as gods. I was suddenly struck by the fact that, without my specifically intending to do so, I'd been playing around with this idea under a variety of different guises. Clearly, it's something that has fired my imagination, hence the prevalence of it in my works to date.

The initial intention behind my Dwimmermount campaign setting was to create a setting for D&D that was outwardly fairly ordinary and traditional but with a secret science fiction background. Part of this background is that the gods of the Great Church were, in fact, artificial beings created by technological advanced Men in the ancient past and whose civilization was ultimately destroyed as a consequence of their hubris. None of this was ever revealed in the course of the campaign, but it provided the intellectual frame by which I understand the setting.

In my House of Worms Tékumel campaign, the characters have spent a long time, both in game and in the real world, interacting with several strange cultures of the mysterious Achgé Peninsula. Among the many ways these cultures differ from those of the characters' homeland of Tsolyánu are the gods they worship. One of the most important is called Eyenál, who is generally depicted as a war god. Some months ago, while interacting with a device of the Ancients, the characters learned of the existence of "ANL/1043," described as being "a 301st generation strategic agent" – in short, Eyenál is some sort of artificial intelligence, possibly charged with Tékumel planetary defenses.

Likewise, in the Secrets of sha-Arthan, I've imagined many different artificial beings created by "the Makers" whose ruins are scattered across the True World. Some of these beings are mere automatons without much in the way of individual will or intelligence, while others are closer to Men. Others still possess vast and alien intelligence utterly unlike that of any other intelligent species. Some of these direct and guide cities or even entire nations, ruling them as gods, though, of course, few on sha-Arthan understand this. 

In each case, knowledge of the true nature of the gods as artificial beings is largely unknown within the setting. Naturally, I know the truth and occasionally the players (as opposed to their characters) catch on to what's really going on. The reaction has been universally positive, so far as I can recall. I distinctly remember the revelation about Eyenál being met with pleasure by several of the players, who felt it provided a clever and unexpected re-interpretation of many of the details they'd already collected about the Achgé Peninsula and its history. 

I presume regular return to the subject of artificial gods is rooted in my lifelong love of science fiction. Stories of "computer gods" or, at least, computers viewed as gods are commonplace in the genre. I wonder, though, if there's more to it than that and, if so, what it is. Clearly, I'm trying to grapple with something through the vehicle of my imagination, though I'm not yet sure what it is. Regardless, I find it fascinating that I continue to revisit this idea and wonder if others find that they return to the same ideas over and over within their own creations.

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Cold Gray God

Though C.L. Moore is probably best known for her stories of the swordswoman Jirel of Joiry, it's her tales of interplanetary smuggler Northwest Smith that I've long found most appealing. Smith debuted in the November 1933 issue of Weird Tales and, over the course of the next six years, appeared in a dozen more stories in the Unique Magazine and elsewhere. Like adventures of John Carter and other early science fiction, these yarns are now wholly improbable, based as they are on incomplete or just plain erroneous science. They're also a lot of fun, filled with memorable characters and exciting situations.

"The Cold Gray God" opens in the "outlaw city" of Righa at the North Pole of Mars. A mysterious woman, hooded and cloaked in "the concealing folds of rich snow-cat fur," strolls down the down the cobblestoned streets of the city in search of someone. She only stops when she spies 

a man as he belted his heavy coat of brown pole-deer hide and stepped briskly out into the street. He was tall, brown as leather, hard-featured under the pole-deer cap pulled low over his eyes. They were startling, those eyes, cold and steady, icily calm. Indefinably he was of Earth. His scarred dark face had a faintly piratical look, and he was wolfishly lean in his spaceman's leather as he walked lightly down the Lakklan, turning up the deer-hide collar about his ears with one hand. The other, his right, was hidden in the pocket of his coat.

This is Northwest Smith, the very person for whom she's looking. She asks him to come with her, but he's reluctant to do so.

"What do you want?" he demanded. His voice was deep and harsh, and the words fairly clicked with a biting brevity.

"Come," she cooed, moving nearer again and slipping one hand inside his arm. "I will tell you that in my own house. It is so cold here."

Smith allowed himself to be pulled along down the Lakklan, too puzzled and surprised to resist. That simple act of hers had amazed him out of all proportion to its simplicity. He was revising his judgment of her as he walked along over the snowdust cobbles at her side. For by that richly throaty voice that throbbed as colorfully as any dove's, and by the subtle swaying of her walk, he had been sure, quite sure, that she came from Venus. No other planet breeds such beauty, no other women are born with the instinct of seduction in their very bones. And he had thought, dimly, that he recognized her voice. 

When at last the woman takes Smith to her home, she flings back her cloak "in one slow, graceful motion," revealing her face for the first time. The smuggler's "iron poise" is shaken by what he sees; not only was she a "breath-taking beauty," she is a famous woman.

Judai of Venus had been the toast of three planets a few years past. Her heart-twisting beauty, her voice that throbbed like a dove's, the glowing charm of her had captured the hearts of every audience that heard her song. Even the far outposts of civilization knew her. That colorful, throaty voice had sounded upon Jupiter's moons, and sent the cadences of "Starless Night" ringing over the bare rocks of asteroids and through the darkness of space.

And then she vanished. Men wondered awhile, and there were searches and considerable scandal, but no one saw her again. All that was long past now. No one sang "Starless Night" any more, and it was Earth-born Rose Robertson's voice which rang through the solar system in lilting praise of "The Green Hills of Earth." Judai was years forgotten.

And now she was standing before Northwest Smith in a criminal haven atop the Red Planet. Judai explains that she had come because "something called" to her and she "could not resist it." "I have been searching for a long time … for such a man as you – a man who can be entrusted with a dangerous task." Though suspicious, Smith is nevertheless intrigued and wants to know the nature of this task. 

"There is a man in Righa who has something I very much want. He lives on the Lakklan by that drinking-house they call the Spaceman's Rest … The man's names I do not know, but he is of Mars, from the canal-countries, and his face is deeply scarred across both cheeks. He hides what I want in a little ivory box of drylander carving. If you can bring that to me you may name your own reward."

Like any good story of a noir-ish sort, nothing, including Judai of Venus, is what it seems, but, of course Northwest Smith is a man accustomed to such situations. Still, he is ever in need of money and, when Judai agrees to his terms – "Ten thousand gold dollars to my name in the Great Bank of Lakkjourna, confirmed by viziphone when I hand you the box." – he accepts the job. He soon finds himself entangled in a mystery far worse than he could have imagined, involving one of the dark, nameless "gods" that once ruled over Mars millennia before the coming of Earthmen.

"The Cold Gray God" is a quintessential Northwest Smith tale, in which the world-weary interplanetary smuggler finds himself face-to-face with a malevolent cosmic entity when he agrees to help a beautiful woman in trouble. What sets it apart from others with a similar plot are the very personal stakes for Smith. He finds that it's not Judai who is seeking "a man like [him]," but rather the something that called her to Mars. It's a compelling set-up and it contributes greatly to the success of the tale, especially if, like me, you're fond of science fiction from the first half of the last century.

Pulp Fantasy Library: Witch of the Demon Seas

I frequently reflect on my own lack of industry, especially when compared to nearly all of the writers I discuss in my Pulp Fantasy Library posts. These energetic men and women cranked out exciting stories by the ream – so many, in fact, that they sometimes had to resort to using a variety of noms de plume to ensure the magazines would publish their submissions (many of which had policies, formal or informal, against the inclusion of more than one story by the same author in a single issue). 

I bring this up because this is precisely what happened in the case of "Witch of the Demon Seas," which first appeared in the January 1951 issue of Planet Stories. Though credited to "A.A. Craig," the yarn is actually the handiwork of Poul Anderson, another of whose stories is featured in the same issue under his usual byline. Like many pulp fictioneers, Anderson had an incredible work ethic: sixteen of his short stories and novellas were published the same year as "Witch of the Demon Seas." It's difficult not to feel inadequate when faced with such a remarkable output.

Though nowadays Anderson is most remembered for his science fiction, notably his tales of Nicholas Van Rijn, David Falkayn, and, of course, Dominic Flandry, he was also an accomplished writer of fantasy. Three Hearts and Three Lions is perhaps the best known of his fantasies, at least for players of roleplaying games, but The Broken Sword is, in my opinion, equally worthy of admiration (both appear in Gary Gygax's Appendix N, for what it's worth). Pulp writers had to be omnivorous if they wanted to make a living at writing, hence the existence of stories, such as this one, that might broadly be described as "fantasy" (or perhaps sword-and-planet, which was the bread and butter of Planet Stories during its 71-issue run).

Regardless, "Witch of the Demon Seas" certainly takes place on another world, one whose surface is almost entirely covered by water. What civilization exists can be found on numerous island kingdoms, such as the Thalassocracy of Achaera, whose ruler is Khroman the Conqueror. Khroman is "a huge man, his hair and square-cut beard jet-black despite middle age, the strength of his warlike youth still in his powerful limbs." He's also honorable, which we learn early in the story, when he tells his advisor, Shorzon the Sorcerer, that he intends to treat his recently defeated enemy, the fair-haired pirate Corun, with respect, as he is "the bravest enemy Achaera ever had."

When Khroman interrogates him, Corun reveals much about his origins and the reasons for his turn to piracy. Come to think of it, the interrogation reveals a fair bit about Khroman as well.

Khroman stared at him in puzzlement. "But why did you ever do it?" he asked finally. "With your strength and skill and cunning, you could have gone far in Achaera. We take mercenaries from conquered provinces, you know. You could have gotten Achaeran citizenship in time."

"I was a prince of Conahur," said Corun slowly. "I saw my land invaded and my folk taken off as slaves. I saw my brothers hacked down at the battle of Lyrr, my sister taken as concubine by your admiral, my father hanged, my mother burned alive when they fired the old castle. They offered me amnesty because I was young and they wanted a figurehead. So I swore an oath of fealty to Achaera, and broke it the first chance I got. It was the only oath I ever broke, and still I am proud of it. I sailed with pirates until I was big enough to master my own ships. That is enough of an answer."

"It may be," said Khroman slowly. "You realize, of course, that the conquest of Conahur took place before I came to the throne? And that I certainly couldn't negate it, in view of the Thalassocrat's duty to his own country, and had to punish its incessant rebelliousness?"

"I don't hold anything against you yourself, Khroman," said Corun with a tired smile. "But I'd give my soul to the nether fires for the chance to pull your damned palace down around your ears!"

"I'm sorry it has to end this way," said the king. "You were a brave man. I'd like to drain many beakers of wine with you on the other side of death." He signed to the guards. "Take him away."

Upon hearing this, Shorzon takes an interest in Corun, for reasons that soon become clear. Together with his daughter, Chryseis, the story's titular witch, he visits the pirate in his solitary cell. The sorcerer then offers him "life, freedom—and the liberation of Conahur!" Naturally, Corun doubts the wizard's sincerity, but Chryseis, a remarkable beauty, reassures him, "You can help us with a project so immeasurably greater than your petty quarrels that anything you can ask in return will be as nothing. And you are the one man who can do so." 

"What do you want?"

"Your help in a desperate venture," said Chryseis. "I tell you frankly that we may well all die in it. But at least you will die as a free man—and if we succeed, all the world may be ours."

"What is it?" he asked hoarsely.

"I cannot tell you everything now," said Shorzon. "But the story has long been current that you once sailed to the lairs of the Xanthi, the Sea Demons, and returned alive. Is it true?"

"Aye." Corun stiffened, with sudden alarm trembling in his nerves. "Aye, by great good luck I came back. But they are not a race for humans to traffic with."

"I think the powers I can summon will match theirs," said Shorzon. "We want you to guide us to their dwellings and teach us the language on the way, as well as whatever else you know about them. When we return, you may go where you choose. And if we get their help, we will be able to set Conahur free soon afterward."

Corun shook his head. "It's nothing good that you plan," he said slowly. "No one would approach the Xanthi for any good purpose."

"You did, didn't you?" chuckled the wizard dryly. "If you want the truth, we are after their help in seizing the government of Achaera, as well as certain knowledge they have."

"If you succeeded," argued Corun stubbornly, "why should you then let Conahur go?"

"Because power over Achaera is only a step to something too far beyond the petty goals of empire for you to imagine," said Shorzon bleakly. "You must decide now, man. If you refuse, you die."

This is the proverbial offer that one cannot refuse, so, with some trepidation, Corun agrees. Shorzon and Chryseis then lead him to a fully-crewed vessel that will take them to the Xanthi, a race of inimical fish-men with a history of warring against the other peoples of the world. The ship leaves Achaera – without the knowledge of Khroman, I might add! – on a quest whose ultimate objective, Corun suspects, is far from virtuous. For the moment, though, he does not care, as he only wishes "to live! To die, if he must, under the sky!"

"Witch of the Demon Sea" is a delightful romp, filled with monsters, magic, sorcery, and swordplay. The characters, starting with Corun himself, are somewhat archetypal, let us say, but Anderson tells the story with such energy and enthusiasm that I soon didn't care. The story is interesting, too, because it contains elements that could be described as "secret sci-fi," thereby further muddying the waters regarding how to classify this yarn. For myself, I prefer to classify it as "fun" and leave it at that.

Pulp Fantasy Library: Enchantress of Venus

The distinctions separating the literary genres of fantasy and science fiction are fine ones, especially when dealing with early examples of the latter. For example, is A Princess of Mars a work of science fiction because its story takes place on the very real planet of Mars or is it a mere fantasy because so many of its setting details are incompatible with what we now know about the Red Planet? Over the decades, it's been a frequently contentious issue, hence the proliferation of even finer literary genres – planetary romance, science fantasy, and sword-and-planet, to name but a few – intended to put an end to such questions. As I've gotten older, I've simultaneously become less interested in these matters and more accepting of an expansive definition of "fantasy" that includes all types of imaginative fiction.

In the case of Leigh Brackett's tales of Eric John Stark, many of which appeared in the pages of Planet Stories in the 1940s and '50s, this primal concern nevertheless resurfaces. Even in 1949, when Brackett wrote her first story of Stark, enough was known about the other worlds of our solar system that there was little plausibility to their being habitable by mankind without significant technological aid, let alone having intelligent natives of their own. Was Brackett then writing fantasy or did her stories still qualify as science fiction, albeit of an old fashioned sort – or is this, as I increasingly feel, a distinction without a difference? 

Of course, little of this matters, as Stark's adventures are engaging yarns told with great enthusiasm. "The Enchantress of Venus," which first appeared in the Fall 1949 issue of Planet Stories, amply demonstrates what I mean. Second in the chronology of the tales of Stark, the novella takes place, as its title suggests, on the planet Venus, renowned for its "seas" of buoyant, phosphorescent gas. This detail is important because, as the story begins, Stark is aboard a ship making its way across one such Red Sea toward the town of Shuruun. 

Shuruun is, to borrow a phrase, a wretched hive of scum and villainy. Stark is no stranger to such places and thus has no fear of the town. However, he only sought it out to find his friend, Helvi, "the tall son of a barbarian kinglet," who had gone into the town previously and never returned. Stark feels an obligation to locate Helvi and, if necessary, rescue him from whatever peril awaited him in Shuruun. Like so many pulp fantasy protagonists, Stark lives by his own code of honor, one that places great value in friends.

Malthor, the captain of the ship on which he is traveling, repeatedly suggests that Stark, whom he recognizes as a stranger, due to his black Mercurian skin, would do well to lodge with him when they reach Shuruun. Each time, Stark declines. As it turns out, he has good reason to do so: Malthor's true intentions are wholly sinister. Just as the ship gets within sight of the "squat and ugly town" that "crouch[ed] witch-like on the rocky shore, her ragged skirts dipped in blood," Malthor and some of his crew attack Stark in an attempt to take him prisoner, though for what precise purpose he did not know (and would not until later in the story). Rather than suffer this fate, Stark dives overboard into the Red Sea.

The surface of the Red Sea closed without a ripple over Stark. There was a burst of crimson sparks, a momentary trail of flame going down like a drowned comet, and then—nothing.

Stark dropped slowly downward through a strange world. There was no difficulty about breathing, as in a sea of water. The gases of the Red Sea support life quite well, and the creatures that dwell in it have almost normal lungs.

Stark did not pay much attention at first, except to keep his balance automatically. He was still dazed from the blow, and he was raging with anger and pain.

Properly scientific or not, this is evocative stuff and a reminder of why Brackett made such a splash (no pun intended) in the world of pulp fantasy during the 1940s and '50s. 

Emerging from the sea, Stark makes his way to Shuruun in search of Helvi. He is almost immediately recognized as a stranger by the locals, who confront him and appear ready to attack. Before this can occur, a white-haired Earthman named Larrabee calls out and invites him to drink with him. Larrabee, we soon learn, is a notorious thief who "got half a million credits out of the strong room of the Royal Venus." In the nine years since, he has holed up in Shuruun to avoid being found by the authorities. When Stark introduces himself, Larrabee mentions that he knows his name from a wanted poster as "some idiot that had led a native revolt somewhere in the Jovian Colonies—a big cold-eyed brute they referred to colorfully as the wild man from Mercury." 

Stark is amused by this description of himself but soon shifts the conversation to local matters, in particular the whereabouts of Helvi. Larrabee claims not to have seen him and instead speaks of the Lhari, "the Lords of Shuruun," who are "always glad to meet strangers." Hearing this, Stark decides he to call on the Lhari to see if they might know something about Helvi. Along the way, he meets Zareth, the teenage daughter of Malthor, who'd been sent into Shuruun to find him and then lure him into an ambush outside the city. Then, he'd be handed over to "the Lost Ones," who dwell in the interior of the swamp and have an interest in strangers like Stark. Zareth doesn't follow through on her father's plans, though, because he beats her and she hates him. However, she has no interest in joining Stark in visiting the Lhari, who frighten her as much as her father.

If you're having difficulty keeping all these narrative threads – Malthor, the Lhari, the Lost Ones – straight in your head, that's understandable. Brackett throws a lot at her readers at the beginning of "The Enchantress of Venus" and its can be confusing at times. Fortunately, she's a very skilled writer and repays the patience and forbearance shown to her. By the time Stark enters the castle of the Lhari and meets them, in all their decadent glory, for the first time, that things begin to make a great deal more sense. In some ways, that's the real beginning of the novella and the action barrels along from that point until it reaches its ultimate, satisfying conclusion. It's a lot of fun to read and reminds me, in some ways, like many of Robert E. Howard's tales of Conan the Cimmerian: a "wild" outsider finds himself caught up in the machinations of several sinister factions and must find a way to extricate himself from their clutches. What's not to love?

House of Worms Humor

Tékumel, despite its outward appearance, is actually a science fiction setting – a "secret sci-fi" setting, as I sometimes call it. Clarke's Third Law is in full effect and pretty much everything that is seemingly fantastical has a rational explanation (for a given definition of "rational," admittedly). I've leaned into this quite heavily over the last few years. I decided that the Achgé Peninsula was a storehouse of lost and forgotten ruins of the Ancients, many of which contained some remarkable pieces of "sufficiently advanced" technology. Likewise, the culture of the native Naqsái (and that of their west coast cousins, the Hnákho) owed a lot to the presence of these technologies, however misunderstood they are in the current age.

As a result of events almost two years prior in game-time, the characters inadvertently released three malevolent otherplanar entities from their prison. They were then bidden by the prison's equally otherplanar guardian to find and defeat them. One has was beaten at the Temple of the Ages to the west of the city-state of Mánmikel. The location of the second is now known: occupying the body of a Livyáni woman in the colony of Nuróab (in a strange parallel to what happened to Aíthfo) and causing havoc throughout the Peninsula as a result. The location of the third entity remains unknown.

Currently, the characters are searching for a transplanar energy siphon, a type of Ancient technology known colloquially as a "god trap." Their researches suggest that such technology might be found on an island old texts call the Isle of Sweet Gentility but that the local Naqsái call the Isle of Ghosts. The island is many weeks travel westward along the coast of the Peninsula in the direction of the Hnákho. Part way through their sea journey, they stopped to re-supply (among other things) at the city-state of Chámara. 

The people of Chámara have two great loves: trade and bureaucracy. The last couple of sessions have focused on the characters' attempts to wade through the city's seemingly endless procedures for doing pretty much everything, hence the image above, created by a player, who found the temporary derailment of the characters' goals amusing. Truth be told, these sessions have been amusing, especially as the characters grapple with the fact that, unlike the Tsolyáni, the Chámarans don't seem to go in for bribes and other forms of peculation. The rules are the rules and, if they want their supplies, they'll need to put up with all the interrogations, forms, and waiting in queues that the Chámarans throw at them.

Pulp Fantasy Library: Dragonflight

In my old age, I have become very set in my ways, particularly when it comes to literature. My tastes have hardened and it's rare that I'm willing to give something new a try – and rarer still when I enjoy something new. Such was not always the case, though. In my long ago youth, my prejudices were fewer and I devoured almost any book I came across with a dragon or a spaceship on its cover. 

This was especially the case after I discovered Dungeons & Dragons more than four decades ago. I was so enthralled with D&D that I looked everywhere I could for ideas to incorporate into my games. Needless to say, I spent a lot of time haunting the local public libraries, checking out any fantasy or science fiction book I could get my hands on. Fortunately for me, there were a lot of them and, over the course of a couple of years, I found myself reading books by authors whose names I recognized as well as those I hadn't. 

In the latter category was Anne McCaffrey, whose name I first came across in the "Inspirational Source Material" section of Tom Moldvay's Basic Rules. By this time – late 1981 or early '82 – McCaffrey had already published quite a few books in her "Dragonriders of Pern" series, so I figured the best place to start was at the very beginning, the novel Dragonflight.

Dragonflight was first published in 1968, but portions of it had appeared as novellas in the pages of Analog the previous year. The version my library had was a hardcover edition with cover art by Michael Whelan, but I liked the original paperback cover so much that I included it in this post instead. That said, what I most remember about Dragonflight is the reaction I had to reading its introduction, which begins as follows:

When is a legend a legend? Why is a myth a myth? How old and disused must a fact be for it to be relegated to the category "Fairy-tale?" And why do certain facts remain incontrovertible while others lose their validity to assume a shabby, unstable character?

Rukbat, in the Sagittarian sector, was a golden G-type star. It had five planets, and one stray it had attracted and held in recent millennia. Its third planet was enveloped by air man could breathe, boasted water he could drink, and possessed a gravity that permitted man to walk confidently erect. Men discovered it and promptly colonized it. They did that to every habitable planet, and then – whether callously or through collapse of empire, the colonists never discovered and eventually forgot to ask – left the colonies to fend for themselves.

When I read this, I was, if not exactly dumbfounded, I was at least surprised. There was a dragon the cover, wasn't there? The book was called Dragonflight, after all, and part of a larger series that had come to be known as "the Dragonriders of Pern." What was going on?

I've mentioned in other contexts that, at this time in my life, I often disliked fantasy that included science fiction elements and vice versa. In the years since, my stance on the matter has changed considerably, but, when I first read McCaffrey's introduction, I wasn't sure what to think about it. My confusion was amplified once I started to read the novel, which, on the face of it, very much seems like a fantasy novel. Nowadays, I'd call it a "secret sci-fi" novel – one where the characters don't realize the science fictional underpinnings of the world they inhabit.

Dragonflight tells the tale of Lessa, the daughter of the rulers of Ruatha Hold, whose parents were killed in a coup led by a usurper called Fax. Lessa had escaped death after experiencing a premonition of danger and now lives as a menial laborer, plotting the downfall of the man who slew her family. Meanwhile, F'lar, a dragonrider, travels to the court of Fax at High Reaches Hold, seeking a woman who could "impress" – mentally bond – with the soon-to-be-born queen dragon. Without such a "weyrwoman," the queen will die and, with her, the dragons themselves. 

This is a terrible fate, because dragonriders, we learn, exist to fight against the Thread, an alien enemy that descends from the sky every couple of centuries to bedevil the inhabitants of Pern. Fax, however, does not believe the Thread will return and thus he sees little cause for concern when F'lar discovers that there's no woman in High Reaches Hold. F'lar then wonders if perhaps he might have more success if he were to travel to Ruatha Hold, whose inhabitants were once reputed to have had families with "Weyr blood." Unsurprisingly, the former ruling family of the hold, believed to be extinct, had such blood. Believed to be extinct, since Lessa still lives …

My brief synopsis, I hope, isn't unfair to the overall story of Dragonflight, because I certainly don't mean it to be. Rather, my intention is simply to highlight the ways in which its plot resembles many of the elements common to fantasy literature: a usurper, the last survivor of a royal family living in obscurity, the imminent arrival of an ancient enemy, ancestral powers, and of course dragons. In its form and presentation, Dragonflight is largely indistinguishable from many of the stories I write about in this series. Again, that's not a criticism, merely an observation and one I bring up because of the way that "fantasy" and "science fiction" are so often set at odds with one another. 

In any case, I enjoyed Dragonflight at the time, though I never read any further books in the Pern series, though I occasionally considered doing so. If any readers have any thoughts on the matter, I'd love to hear them.

The Vaults of sha-Arthan

A few people have asked me for more details of the campaign setting I mentioned during my recent interview. Called The Vaults of sha-Arthan, it's an exotic science fantasy setting explicitly modeled on Jorune and Tékumel but intended to be much more "user friendly" and accessible. Rules-wise, it's based on Old School Essentials, with unique character classes, spells, monsters, and magic items. The classes are

• Adept: A skilled user of psychic disciplines
• Scion: An adventuring aristocrat, equally adept at combat and intrigue
• Sorcerer: A master of arcane arts
• Warrior: An accomplished combantant
• +3 Nonhuman Classes

The world of sha-Arthan (which means "true world" in an ancient tongue) is one filled with sclerotic, decadent empires, one of which – Inba Iro – was recently conquered and its venerable throne seized. Though the new rulers, from an upstart frontier kingdom, have largely attempted to maintain the old hierarchies without interruption, cracks have nevertheless begun to appear. Hoary traditions once considered inviolable are now being questioned, including exploration of the Vaults beneath the capital city of da-Imer. 

Many large settlements of sha-Arthan are built atop subterranean structures known Vaults. According to common belief, the Vaults are the original home of Man. They are "vast deeps" from which the Litany of the Forgotten states the Makers came, before even the First Cycle and the establishment of the Empire of the Light of Kulvu. Entering them, let alone looting them of their reputed treasures, is a great sacrilege in most civilized realms – or was until the conquest of Inba Iro. 

Characters begin the campaign as one of the brave souls recruited to explore the Vault beneath da-Imer, despite the taboos against it. They must contend with not only the dangers they surely exist beneath the city but also factions above that seek to help or hinder their progress for their own ends. As time goes on, I expect the characters will become more actively involved with these factions, in addition to traveling to other locales on sha-Arthan and unraveling the mysteries of the world.

In all likelihood, I'll start refereeing The Vaults of sha-Arthan sometime in July or August 2021. Ideally, it'll be a weekly online campaign, like my existing House of Worms campaign. However, it's also possible that I'll be running a play-by-post campaign in parallel, as a way to develop the setting further. I'm a firm believer in learning through play when it comes to setting design. While I already know quite a few high-level details of sha-Arthan, there's a lot more I haven't yet decided – and will only decide once I've had a chance to referee the campaign.

The Vaults of sha-Arthan is an exotic fantasy setting with lots of science fictional elements. It's a chance for me to play with many ideas I've been tinkering with for years but in a completely new context that draws on my years of experience refereeing Tékumel. I'm very excited about it.

Sci-Fi & Fantasy

Back in September, I was a guest on Dan and Paul's Wandering DMs channel and had a very good time. Apparently, they enjoyed it just as much as I did, because they've asked me to return tomorrow, June 6, 2021 at 1pm EDT. 

This time around, we'll be chatting about the relationship between science fiction and fantasy, particularly as it pertains to roleplaying games. This is a topic very near and dear to my heart, so I feel confident in saying the conversation should be a good one. Though I can't be certain what specific topics we'll discuss, I imagine The Temple of the Frog, Expedition to the Barrier Peaks, and Tékumel will all come up, as will The Vaults of sha-Arthan setting I've been working on the last few weeks. 

If any of that piques your interest, consider tuning in tomorrow afternoon.

Elementary Particles

I can't quite recall when I first encountered the notion of the four elements. I suspect it was quite early, probably through my reading of classical mythological stories, though it's possible I learned about it from some other source. However, I vividly recall that, when I cracked open the Monster Manual for the first time in early 1980, I was almost instantly enamored of elementals. There was something powerfully, if you'll forgive the term, primal about beings composed solely of a single substance. Also, the existence of elementals and indeed the entire conception of the four elements served as a useful reminder that I wasn't in Kansas anymore. Dungeons & Dragons takes place in a pre-modern world, one not merely operating according to different laws than our own but one whose inhabitants conceive of it in a different way than we do ours.

Over the years, my interest in the elements and elementals has endured. I remember when I first read about other elemental systems, like those of the great civilizations of Asia. What particularly struck me about the latter was that many of them included a fifth element, a concept not unknown in ancient and medieval European thought but less well known in popular presentations of them. I was likewise struck by the fact that many of these non-European elemental systems included different elements, like wood or metal. As a younger person, this was eye-opening and helped me to realize that there was room for variation within the broader notion of fundamental elements.

Lately, I've been working on a science fantasy setting rooted in Burroughs, Kirby, Wolfe, Zothique, and The Dying Earth – a formerly high-tech setting brought low to the point it appears to be a weird and/or exotic fantasy world. Think Jorune or Tékumel but more immediately accessible than either. As I began to work in earnest, one of my earliest thoughts was its elemental system, which I wanted to be unique and interesting but also intelligible. The result of my cogitations is depicted in the crude image above. While I need to give it some additional thought, I'm quite pleased with the results, especially the way it interacts with the psychic powers and sorcery of the setting. If nothing else, it's different from the usual fantasy presentation of the elements and their relationships, which pleases me. 

Retrospective: Flash Gordon & the Warriors of Mongo

Flash Gordon & the Warriors of Mongo is an unusual game. Released in 1977 by Fantasy Games Unlimited, it was written by Scott Bizar and Lin Carter, editor of the acclaimed (and influential) Ballantine Adult Fantasy series, author of the Callisto and Green Star series (among many others), and L. Sprague de Camp's longtime partner in crime. That alone places the game in rare – though not exclusive – company. 

Mind you, I have no idea of the extent to which Carter was actually involved in the design of this game. My guess is his prefatory "note" at the front of the 52-page rulebook is his biggest contribution, though I cannot prove that. Like De Camp, Carter was good at self-promotion and finding new ways to wring a few bucks out of his name and status within the fantasy and science fiction world at the time. I suspect this is the case here, though I should stress again that I have no direct evidence one way or the other and may be demonstrating a lack of charity toward Carter. 

All that aside, the game's structure is quite fascinating. Its introduction begins as follows:

It is the intention of these rules to provide a simple and schematic system for recreating the adventures of Flash Gordon on the planet Mongo. These adventures are free-wheeling and widely varied with the final goal of overthrowing the evil government of the Emperor Ming the Merciless.

I find this short paragraph noteworthy. First, it states upfront that the game will be "simple and schematic." Second, and more important, I think, is that the characters' actions are placed within a larger context, namely the defeat of Ming the Merciless. In this way, the game offers a greater context for all those "free-wheeling and widely varied" adventures to take place. Flash Gorden & the Warriors of Mongo is thus a campaign game.

The introduction continues:

Our schematic or representational outlook simplifies the situation to make a game playable without the extremes of paperwork necessary in most roleplaying games. For those who enjoy the full detail of role playing campaigns, we provide enough detail and flavor to provide a backdrop to which can be added simple modifications of existing role playing systems. Try the rules as they stand, a simple and understandable system. Additional complexity in role play can be added without harming the basic structure of the game.

I find it amusing that, even in 1977, three years after the release of OD&D, we see talk of "the extremes of paperwork," suggesting that there was already a sense in some quarters that RPGs were becoming unduly complex. More interesting to me is that the game's explicit encouragement to add to and modify the rules. 

More:

The game requires from two to twenty player adventures and a referee … The basic idea is that teams of players will begin on the outer sections of the schematic map and attempt to gain the support of all nations they pass through. To do so they must defeat monsters, overcome obstacles, deal with traitors, and go to any efforts to enlist the support and aid of the rulers of the countries they pass through on the way to Mingo City.

While the large number of potential players might raise eyebrows from the vantage point of today, it was commonplace for RPGs at the time and reflective of a focus on the campaign, something that's evident in Flash Gordon as well. 

Characters possess four characteristics (Physical Strength/Stamina, Combat Skill, Charisma/Attractiveness, and Scientific Aptitude), each generated by rolling three "ordinary dice." Three of the four characteristics map to a "role," warrior, leader, and scientist. Players make use of the aforementioned "schematic map," which consists of several rings of zones, with Ming's capital city in the center, to move their characters about. Each zone is a kingdom of Mongo and the bulk of the gamebook consists of descriptions of these kingdoms, their inhabitants, and hazards. The descriptions detail how large the kingdom is (and thus how many game turns it takes to traverse them) and, in many cases, the kinds of adventures that might be had there.

The game's rules are indeed simple – so simple that it's often difficult to see much evidence of them! The hazards and enemies of each kingdom generally have write-ups that specify how to overcome them. In some instances, this involves dice rolls, modified by high or low characteristics. For example, fighting the Dactyl-Bats of the Domain of the Cliff Dwellers requires a character to roll one die and add the result to his Combat Skill. If it exceeds 14, the Dactyl-Bats are defeated. The rest of the "rules" are like this: ad hoc and very simple. Whether one likes this or not depends, I imagine, on what one wishes to get out of the game. I would likely find it insufficiently detailed and engaging but tastes vary.

Like many early RPGs, Flash Gordon & the Warriors of Mongo comes across more as a sketch of a roleplaying game rather than a finished package. As a gazetteer of Mongo, it's excellent, far better than, say, the roughly contemporaneous Warriors of Mars. At the same time, I can't help but appreciate its focus on the overall arc of the campaign. The goal of overthrowing Ming by enlisting the aid of the various kingdoms of Mongo is a good one, as is the notion that said aid might be gained through adventures within each kingdom. This is not only true to the Flash Gordon comic strips of old but provides a terrific structure for a campaign. Had I come across this game in my youth, I doubt I would have thought much of it. Now, though, I can see what it was trying to do, even if it might have fallen short of its goal. 

REVIEW: Planet Eris Gazetteer

I have a complicated relationship with published Dungeons & Dragons campaign settings. On the one hand, there are settings, like the Wilderlands of High Fantasy or the World of Greyhawk, for which I have a great deal of affection. On the other hand, I feel very strongly that the best campaign settings are the ones referees create themselves. That's why it's been close to fifteen years since I made use of someone else's setting rather than simply making my own. Neverthelesss, I remain an ardent admirer of interesting and well made settings for D&D and, when I find one, I like to let others know about it.

The Planet Eris Gazetteer is both interesting and very well made. Written by Jimm Johnson, this 64-page, digest-sized booklet describes the titular planet, its history, peoples, and lands. Eris is "the 10th planet of a yellow sun known as Sol," inhabited by several different humanoid races, ranging from Earthmen who fled their dying world at the dawn of the 33rd Æon; to Barsoomians, elves, dwarves, halflings, and other staples of fantasy. That might sound like a chaotic jumble, but it's not – or at least it's no more of a chaotic jumble than is D&D generally. If anything, the Gazetteer leverages the game's mélange of fantasy and science fiction literary sources to good effect, presenting a setting that is both immediately accessible and ready-made for the kinds of fantasy gaming that Dungeons & Dragons (and its derivatives) do so well: rollicking sword-and-sorcery with a healthy dose of science fantasy. 

The book provides brief overviews of the planet's climate, seasons, history and calendar systems, races and languages before launching into the gazetteer proper. The first (and largest) entry describes the Empire of Sparn and its capital city. The Empire is a Lawful, authoritarian realm akin to the Roman Empire of old Earth – if the Romans had had magic. Sparn's subject realms also get their own entries, as do the lands outside the reach of the Imperator Sparnorum. Every geographical feature on the map receives short descriptions, generally a sentence or two – enough to fire the imagination but not limit it. This is a good time to show off said map, which is absolutely beautiful and available as both a PDF (provided with the purchase of the Gazetteer) or as a 24" × 36" poster map. Gaze upon its glory!

The book also describes the gods and demons of Eris, starting with the pantheon of Law worshiped by the Sparnians. Other deities, some of them having come from old Earth, appear, as do creatures of Chaos and the elemental powers. Again, it's a hodgepodge, but a well chosen one that buttresses the Howard-by-way-Burroughs feel of the setting. 

Though clearly intended for use with OD&D, the Gazetteer is largely rules-free. The only exceptions treat overland travel, random encounters, and seafaring and none of are mechanically complex; even calling them "rules" might be a stretch. Instead, the emphasis is on presenting an engaging setting full of adventure possibilities. The book's OD&D heritage is even more clear when you look at its layout and overall presentation, which is broadly reminiscent of that of Eldritch Wizardry. With a cover by old school favorite Peter Mullen and interior artwork by Rich Longmore and Luigi Castellani, the booklet does a very good job of evoking its clever take on sword-and-sorcery.

In short, the Planet Eris Gazetteer is fun and inspiring, particularly if you're a fan of the pulp fantasies that inspired Gygax and Arneson. It's the kind of setting in which I'd love to play, as well as being a great example of what a single individual or small group of people who share a vision can achieve. I would be very happy indeed to see more RPG books of this sort produced: concise, focused, and inspiring. Whether or not you're in the market for a new campaign setting, I still recommend the Planet Eris Gazetteer most highly. You can buy it as a PDF or in print from Lulu or from DriveThruRPG.  

Pulp Fantasy Library: Sea Kings of Mars

I've talked about Leigh Brackett's interplanetary tales in previous installments of Pulp Fantasy Library. Despite their relatively late publication dates, they're all very much in the sword-and-planet tradition established by Edgar Rice Burroughs in A Princess of Mars. Even at the time, these stories had something of a retro quality to them. Tastes were changing and, as we gained more knowledge of what the solar system was actually like, there was little of an audience for stories in this style.

However, in June 1949, when Sea Kings of Mars appeared in the pages of Thrilling Wonder Stories, there was still an appetite for tales of derring-do on the Red Planet. Unlike her other novels, Sea Kings of Mars features not mercenary Eric John Stark but a new character, Matthew Carse. Carse was "ex-fellow of the Interplanetary Society of Archaeologists, ex-assistant to the chair of Martian Antiquities at Kahora, [and] dweller on Mars for thirty of his thirty-five years." Now, though, he was a thief, using the skills he'd acquired as an archeologist to acquire – and sell – Martian relics to the highest bidder. Imagine if Indiana Jones take a couple of steps toward becoming René Belloq.

While in the city of Jekkara, a Martian named Penkawr of Barrakesh seeks him out, offering him a "most rare and valuable gift." He takes him to a crumbling palace, inside of which is something that astounds Carse.

After a long while he [Carse] reached out and took the thing into his hands. The beautiful and deadly slimness of it, the length and perfect balance, the black hilt and guard that fitted perfectly his large hand, the single smoky jewel that seemed to watch him with a living wisdom, the name etched in most rare and most ancient symbols upon the blade. He spoke, and his voice was no more than a whisper.

"The sword of Rhiannon!"

Rhiannon, called the Cursed One and the Fallen One, was a rebel Martian hero-god who defied the others by sharing their secrets with others; for his defiance, his fellows had been imprisoned him within a tomb, along with his mighty blade. Carse is amazed that the sword is real and that he is now holding it in his hands. Penkawr believes no such thing, only that the ancient blade is worth an immense amount of money. He believes that Carse possesses the ability to smuggle the relic out of Jekkara to Kahora or some other city where it can be sold "to some Earthman for a fortune." 

Carse then presses Penkawr to take him to Rhiannon's tomb where he undoubtedly found the blade, believing that there must be other equally valuable artifacts within. The Martian is initially reluctant to acquiesce to Carse's request, be he eventually gives in. Inside the tomb, Carse a "weird bubble of throbbing darkness" that brings a "scholar's ecstasy upon, the ecstasy of discovery that is akin to madness." 

This brooding bubble of darkness–it was strangely like the darkness of those blank black spots far out in the galaxy which some scientists have dreamed are holes in the continuum itself, windows into the infinite outside of our universe!

Carse's conjecture is not far from the truth, as it turns out. Angered by the high-handed way that he has treated him – and the larger share of the profits he demanded – Penkawr pushes Carse into the bubble of darkness with the words, "Go share Rhiannon's doom, Earthman!" Carse plunges through an abyss before finding himself millions of years in the past, in the days when Mars was still lush and its canals were filled with water. It's here that the story of Sea Kings of Mars truly begins.

The novel is fun, if not necessarily Brackett's best work. As I mentioned above, it's very much a throwback to Burroughs, an early 20th century planetary romance filled with all the usual elements one expects in that genre, including a haughty Martian princess. What distinguishes it from Burroughs – and elevates the story – is its mournful, melancholy tone. As a man familiar with the future of Mars, when it is a dying, decadent world, Carse looks with wonder on its ancient past. More so than anyone, he can appreciate what the planet will lose in time and his sadness at this is what raises Sea Kings of Mars above similar fare.

The novel was revised in 1953 and released as one part of an Ace double under the title The Sword of Rhiannon. The novel on the reverse side was Robert E. Howard's "The Hour of the Dragon," under the name of Conan the Conqueror. 

Pulp Fantasy Library: Witch of the Demon Seas

When I was a kid, I never much bothered by the fact that Iron Man (whose superpowers were technological in origin) could fight side by side with Thor (whose superpowers were alien-science-appearing-as-magic in origin) and Dr. Strange (whose superpowers were purely magical in origin) to fight against Dr. Doom (who wielded both advanced technology and magic). So long as the story involving these four characters was compelling to me, what difference did it make?

As I got older, I became much more hung up over "genre" distinctions, due to the dual influences of some of the older gamers I knew and, more insidiously, English teachers. From that point on, I became a lot more dismissive of entertainments that didn't share my new fastidiousness toward keeping fantasy chocolate out of my science fiction peanut butter (or mixing any other two genres, for that matter). Older still, I find myself caring less and less about such literary miscegenation. Indeed, I find myself reveling in it, which is why, for example, the setting of my Dwimmermount dungeon includes lots of elements my younger self would almost certainly have abhorred.

I bring this all up because of the history behind today's pulp fantasy story, "Witch of the Demon Seas." Written by Poul Anderson using the pseudonym A.A. Craig (because he already had another story under his own name in the same issue), it was published in January 1951 issue of Planet Stories. Planet Stories, as you may know, was a pulp magazine that ran from 1939 to 1955 and whose stories were devoted to "planetary adventure." This category could include space opera or sword-and-planet yarns but it could not include "straight" fantasy. Consequently, Anderson's tale was given the thin veneer of being a science fantasy tale set on a far away planet so that it might be salable at a time when pulp magazines of any sort were drying up faster than the seas of Barsoom.

That said, "Witch of the Demon Seas" is not lessened because of Anderson's willingness to make a few fleeting references that pleased the editors at Planet Stories. The story opens with Khroman the Conqueror, thalassocrat of Achaera, pondering what to do with the pirates he has just captured, in particular one named Corun, whom Khroivian respects after a fashion.

"What will you do with them, sire?" asked Shorzon the Sorcerer.

Khroman shrugged heavy shoulders. "I don't know. Pirates are, usually fed to the erinyes at the games, I suppose, but Corun deserves something special."

"Public torture, perhaps, sire? It could be stretched over many days."

"No, you fool! Corun was the bravest enemy Achaera ever had. He deserves an honorable death and a decent tomb ..."

While still a prisoner awaiting execution, Shorzon and his daughter Chryseis -- the wife of Khroman -- visit Corun and make him an offer.  His voice shook:

"What do you want?"

"Your help in a desperate venture," said Chryseis. "I tell you frankly that we may well all die in it. But at least you will die as a free man—and if we succeed, all the world may be ours."

"What is it?" he asked hoarsely.

"I cannot tell you everything now," said Shorzon. "But the story has long been current that you once sailed to the lairs of the Xanthi, the Sea Demons, and returned alive. Is it true?"

"Aye." Corun stiffened, with sudden alarm trembling in his nerves. "Aye, by great good luck I came back. But they are not a race for humans to traffic with."

"I think the powers I can summon will match theirs," said Shorzon. "We want you to guide us to their dwellings and teach us the language on the way, as well as whatever else you know about them. When we return, you may go where you choose. And if we get their help, we will be able to set Conahur free soon afterward."

Corun shook his head. "It's nothing good that you plan," he said slowly. "No one would approach the Xanthi for any good purpose."

"You did, didn't you?" chuckled the wizard dryly. "If you want the truth, we are after their help in seizing the government of Achaera, as well as certain knowledge they have."

If Corun agrees to help the father and daughter, since they promise him not only his own freedom but the liberation of his homeland, currently subjugated by the Achaerans. Like any good barbarian, Corun is suspicious of his supposed benefactors but is also unwilling to let a chance like this slip through his fingers, thinking it better to die a free man engaged in a desperate adventure than executed as a prisoner.

What follows is a very enjoyable story well told, one that feels more like Robert E. Howard than Poul Anderson, filled as it is with swashbuckling combats, duplicitous alliances, and eldritch horrors. On the other hand, Anderson has always been good at producing interesting and believable characters, even when those characters are very "archetypal" as those in this story are. The same is true of the plot, which manages to be genuinely surprising at times, despite the clichéd nature of its set-up. "Witch of the Demon Seas" is thus a good example of the kind of pulp fantasy tale --  fun, fast-moving, and engaging -- I like to read.