Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures

pieces by other authors. There are occasional moments where an adjustment would have been called for – FitzGeoffrey’s retelling of his early battles goes on for far too long near the fragment’s conclusion – but it’s a rough draft, and an impressive one. It starts with a bang and flows smoothly from scene to scene. FitzGeoffrey may not be likable, but he fascinates, which is more than he did in the first two stories. He’s a shrewd schemer, a mighty warrior who has been shaped by his tumultuous past and genetics into more a force of nature than a normal human. In his physical description, with his volcanic blue eyes and square cut mane of black hair, he physically resembles Conan. His fighting prowess and cleverness look forward to the Cimmerian as well, although there the similarities end, for he lacks Conan’s humor, and it is hard to picture Conan so completely losing his cool that he launches into a berserk frenzy, as FitzGeoffrey does, nearly choking his host to death.

Judging from the surviving plot synopsis, Howard abandoned the story with only a few thousand words to go; most of the key scenes were composed, and he had to have known that the story was working. Writers have a sense about such things. It would have been a good story, had he completed it. But perhaps he abandoned a potentially good story because he had in mind one that would be great.

FROM JOURNEYMAN TO MASTER

If Howard had stopped with the FitzGeoffrey tales his historical work would only be an interesting sideline in the adventure writer’s career. Instead, he found his comfort level and sat down to write masterpieces.

In its first moments, “The Sowers of the Thunder” seems to mimic “Hawks of Outremer,” for the story begins with the arrival of a mighty Frank who before long seems poised to pour out his tale in too much detail, just as FitzGeoffrey had done in “Hawks of Outremer.” But Howard has to have recognized how artificial that opening discussion from “Hawks” was, and closes the mouth of Cahal just as his tale is growing interesting. It leaves the reader wanting more rather than drowning in details, and is a sign that Howard has mastered his narrative.

In the first chapter Howard introduces us to Cahal and Haroun, both giants of men. Howard has Haroun play cleverly with clues about his own identity without tipping his hand to readers or Cahal and presumably other listeners; the character is clearly trying to amuse himself via his own antics, be it the subtle hints as to his true identity or the broad attempts to find pleasure in a drinking contest with the grim Cahal. Haroun recognizes in Cahal a kindred spirit, a theme that runs through the story. If Cahal sees the same thing he does not show it, understanding instead that he and Haroun are evenly matched, which wakens in him a wary suspicion that the Moslem is a threat. He is right, of course, for Cahal and the readers eventually learn that Haroun is Baibars. The Moslem is more reckless than Cahal perhaps by nature or perhaps because he is more secure in his place and has unlimited resources at his disposal. Cahal is loyal to his people, Baibars is loyal to his cause – namely himself. Command and power are his, but he is lonely, a lion among sheep. In Cahal he senses a man like himself, one he would rather name friend.

Howard presents events like a master playwright, revealing key moments on stage and discussing mighty battles that take place beyond. He shows us Cahal plotting a mad dash for treasure with the knight Renault, but not the encounter with Kharesmians which destroys all but Cahal. The conversation between the Shaykh Suleiman and Cahal is head and shoulders above the informative discussion in the tales of FitzGeoffrey: it reveals both the character of the noble Shaykh, who mourns the death of an enemy and respects the prowess of the mad Frank, and emphasizes to us again the might and endurance of Cahal himself.

In the end, though, Baibars triumphs no matter Cahal’s great efforts. Glittering, victorious, he is in a fine mood as he looks down upon the Frank dying in the midst of the battlefield. Baibars names him king, then says “they who oppose the destiny of Baibars lie under my horses’ hoofs, and over them I ride up the gleaming stair of empire!”

But Cahal, whose own kingdom eluded him, whose own hopes were dashed just as they were within his grasp, has no joy to share. He knows that there is no glory in the rule of men. “Welcome to the fellowship of kings!” Howard has him say: “To the glory and the witch-fire, the gold and the moon-mist, the splendor and the death! Baibars, a king hails thee!”

The story is a long, bloody thrill ride. Kings and kingdoms have fallen and loves have been lost; it is a masterful performance, and a sign of more great works to come.

Howard next turned to the time of Tamerlane. Lamb’s excellent “The Grand Cham,” published in Adventure in 1921, is set in the same time period Howard chose to write about, and features a protagonist, Michael Beorn, who interacts with both Tamerlane and Bayazid, just as Howard’s protagonist does. Despite these similarities, Howard’s inspiration seems to have come from Wright, who, as Howard wrote in a letter to Tevis Clyde Smith in August of 1931, had been “hinting Tamerlane as a fit subject for an Oriental Story story … Now I’ve got to get hold of something on the Big Tatar and try to pound out a novelet; I’ve been thinking of writing a tale about him for a long time. And Babar the Tiger who established the Mogul rule in India – and the imperial phase in the life of Baibars the Panther, the subject of my last story – and the rise of the Ottomans – and the conquest of Constantinople by the Fifth Crusade – and the subjugation of the Turks by the Arabs in the days of Abu Bekr – and the gradual supplanting of the Arab masters by their Turkish slaves which culminated in the conquest of Asia Minor and Palestine by the Seljuks – and the rise of Saladin – and the final destruction of Christian Outremer by Al Kalawun – and the first Crusade – Godfrey of Bouillon, Baldwin of Boulogne, Bohemund – Sigurd the Jorsala-farer – Barbarossa – Coeur de Lion. Ye gods, I could write a century and still have only tapped the reservoir of dramatic possibilities. I wish to Hell I had a dozen markets for historical fiction – I’d never write anything else.”

One can only wish Howard had written all that he lists here. It is likely, though not altogether certain, that Howard was introduced to many of these topics in the fiction and non-fiction of Harold Lamb, who wrote of Babur, and who’d written of Baibars three months before “Sowers of the Thunder” saw print, for Adventure was steadily publishing excerpts from Lamb’s upcoming history of the Crusades.

By this point, though, Lamb’s influence is no longer as obvious in Howard’s own historicals. Donald’s decision to flee the west with his newfound companion to serve in the east is reminiscent of Sir Robert’s departure with a disguised Chepe Bega to serve Genghis Khan in the opening of Lamb’s “The Making of the Morning Star,” but it is far from identical, and the persons of Tamerlane and Bayazid are similar in their portrayal only in that they are powerful rulers. Gone is the sense from “Red Blades of Black Cathay” that the historical figures have been borrowed from Lamb’s own depiction of them; Howard has grown confident enough in his own abilities that he makes of them what he wishes.

As with “Sowers,” “Lord of Samarcand” is the tale of an eastern monarch and a western man who crosses his path. In the case of “Samarcand,” Donald serves Tamerlane because he desires vengeance against Bayezid, and continues his work for the aging king because he has no other real options or allies, nor indeed does he have many pleasures. And as with “Sowers,” the story concludes with a last confrontation between fighting man of the West and monarch of the east. In “Samarcand,” though, the westerner slays Tamerlane. Howard cleverly writes Donald out of recorded history – for there is no record of a westerner slaying Tamerlane – yet still delivers us the ending he desires.

Reduced to an overview, the stories sound more similar in scope than they truly are; what they share more certainly are a bleak sense of hardship and loss, of victories won for priceless costs, of lives and empires tossed aside on whims. Even the mighty can fall, and fall they do when they overlook simple details, like the love of Donald for a simple slave girl who is not even true to him, or when they place trust in the wrong person, as does Bayazid when he relies upon Donald.

“Samarcand,” like all the best of Howard’s historicals, is an epic threaded with tragedy, showing us the sweep of battle sometimes from a distant vantage point and sometimes from a close-up. It compresses the span of years or months with a few choice phrases, and describes a relationship between characters with a few well-turned conversations. The prose is gilt everywhere with words that are crystal clear and descriptive, beautiful even when it describes the fall of cities and the death of men.

Perhaps the grimmest of all these historicals is “The Lion of Tiberias.” No matter that Sir Miles and Ellen survive