The Dragon Masters and their beasties.

In a previous entry, Jon Mollison mentioned the races in The Dragon Masters. He's correct, and the main weapon used in the conflict between the two human kingdoms and, later, between humans and the "Basic" (or Grephs) are living organism, selectively-bred from the original stock of their enemies. The humans use grephs, and the grephs use humans. 

This genetic arms race and its panoply of creatures may be a bit confusing. Jack Vace had a knack for descriptions, but there is a limit to what words can convey, not to mention that in this story Vance doesn't seem to have bothered giving detailed descriptions of the creatures (perhaps he knew someone was going to draw them?) Luckily, there's another way! 

The original story was published in Galaxy, August 1962, and it was supplemented by awesome drawings of the various creatures. I can understand why so many (now famous writers) young people mentioned this story as the reason they fell in love with Vance, but it wouldn't surprise me if the drawings by Jack Gaughan also helped a bit.

Use these sketches as a visual aid if you are reading (or rereading) The Dragon Masters.

-The Basics (or Grephs): Space-faring and technologically advanced. They look somewhat insectoid/reptilian and are gray or "pearl-pallid"

-The Spider: they serve as mounts for the humans.

"A few minutes later Joaz Banbeck appeared on Banbeck Verge riding a Spider caparisoned in gray and red velvet."

-The Striding Murderers: Described as the cousins of the Long-horned Murderers. In one sentence they are described as "silken." From the description of a battle,  they seem to have the function of "light cavalry."

-Long-horned Murderers: If the Striding Murderers were "light cavalry," these are clearly the equivalent of Heavy Cavalry.

"Long-horned Murderers, their fantastic chest-spikes tipped with steel.[...] steel-spiked and crested with steel prongs; [...] Banneck's long-horned Murderers came circling, struck from the flank into Carcolo's Striding Murderers, goring with steel-tipped horns, impaling on lances."

-Other beasties:

1. Jugger: They are massive, brutal, well-armored, and not very intelligent.

2.Blue Horror: Intelligent, massive, agile, quick, and good climbers.

3.Fiends:

"black-green [...] useless on the cliffs [...] low to the ground, immensely strong, tail tipped with a steel barbel [...] Flanking the Juggers marched the Fiends, carrying heavy cutlasses, flourishing their terminal steel balls as a scorpion carries his sting."

-Termagaunt: apparently, the most common "dragon."

"the rust-red Termagant [...] the fecund Termagant [...] Ervis Carcolo turned away, pretended to watch a pair of Termagants exercising with wooden scimitars. [...] small active dragons with rust-red scales, narrow darting heads, chisel-sharp fangs.

"A man pitted against a Termagant stood no chance, for the scales warded off bullets as well as any blow the man might have strength enough to deal"

Termagant is an odd word. According to wiktionary, it means:

1.A quarrelsome, scolding woman, especially one who is old and shrewish. 

2.(obsolete) A boisterous, brawling, turbulent person, whether male or female. 

Perhaps it's another Vancian joke. 

In any event, Warhammer 40K fans might recognize the word because one of the Tyranid creatures is called Termagaunt. I suspect this is not a coincidence because the Tyranids use all sort of bio-weapons and also engage in some kind of genetic engineering (with themselves, though,) not to mention that this is how Vance's Termagant looks, compared to how W40K Termagaunts originally looked.

But the Basics (named like that by the humans because they are the basic template for all the other creatures*) also practiced their own form of selective breeding. In fact, they probably started it and it seems it's part of their species worldview or "political" ideology. Their goal seems to be to "integrate" the other species they encounter, to make them into slaves, weapons, and so on. Of course, the book only mentions their conflicts with the remaining humans, so we don't know what else are they doing out there, but I like the theory that they are doing this with all the intelligent species they encounter.

Really, after seeing these images, I think these creatures would be a great addition to any D&D campaign or, even, to some tabletop wargame. I mean, the Dragons are almost begging to be converted into miniatures.

*Ironically, the Greph probably see themselves as the Basic or original creature too, but for different reasons and with another meaning in mind.

A perambulatory commentary on Jack Vance and his epigones.

Jack (John Holbrook) Vance (San Francisco, August 28, 1916 - Oakland, May 26, 2013) is one of those authors whose influence is felt, but it's sometimes not admitted or openly spoken.

All influential artists have followers and detractors, but Vance is one of those few that have no open enemies or anyone trying to "subvert" them. There are anti-Conan characters or anti-Tolkien writers, but I don't know of anyone trying to improve, correct, or subvert Vance. Why would anyone do that if his successors and imitators are still attempting to write like him? For similar reasons, I have yet to find someone saying, "Vance? Yeah, I've read him. Meh, nothing especial, really. There are dime a dozen like him." 

That cannot be because he is an unknown author. Sure, he isn't as popular as others, but he wasn't a two-bit writer either. During his life, he wrote around 60 books, received multiple awards, and those who knew him had only positive things to say about his work and style. My guess is that he is one of those hidden giants whose presence is an intimidating force. Something magnified by the fact that he always tried to stay out of the spotlight.

Although there are strong and passionate communities of Vancians, most sff fans probably know of him indirectly, through the influence he had on Dungeons & Dragons. Perhaps they have also heard about his Dying Earth books and their baroque language. 

In the famous AD&D Appendix N, Vance was one of the authors that had the "et al." abbreviation, meaning that Gygax believed all their works were important as a source of inspiration. But even that would downplay the importance Vance had for Gygax, as this article he wrote in 2001 shows:

"Need I say that I am not merely a Jack Vance fan, but that he is in my opinion the very best of all the authors of imaginative fiction? Well I am and he is!"

Gygax, mostly known as a game designer, was probably the most open and public about his awe and debt to Jack Vance,  but he wasn't the only one.

This excellent article, The Genre Artist, by Carlo Rotella, dedicated exclusively to Vance, also mentions many other Big Names who became immediate fans of Vance the first time they read him. These include Dan Simmons, Neil Gaiman, Tanith Lee, and even a young Ursula K. Le Guin is mentioned. And these are the ones who are open about it. Truth is, the fan letters sent to him were probably full of (now) famous rabid fans sending him their undergarments. 

To reiterate, when I say "fans," I don't mean just people who "like" him:

"Among them are authors who have gained the big paydays and the fame that Vance never enjoyed. Dan Simmons, the best-selling writer of horror and fantasy, described discovering Vance as 'a revelation for me, like coming to Proust or Henry James. Suddenly you’re in the deep end of the pool. He gives you glimpses of entire worlds with just perfectly turned language. If he’d been born south of the border, he’d be up for a Nobel Prize.' Michael Chabon, whose distinguished literary reputation allows him to employ popular formulas without being labeled a genre writer, told me: 'Jack Vance is the most painful case of all the writers I love who I feel don’t get the credit they deserve. If ‘The Last Castle’ or ‘The Dragon Masters’ [both are in this month's anthology] had the name Italo Calvino on it, or just a foreign name, it would be received as a profound meditation, but because he’s Jack Vance and published in Amazing Whatever, there’s this insurmountable barrier.'

Vance may not have been a proper pulp writer (his style is too unique, and his first published story, The World-Thinker, was written in 1946) but the curse of being considered a low-brow writer followed him, as it inevitably does to anyone who writes "fantasy" (writers of "magic realism", whatever that may be, are forgiven.) Not that he seemed to care, though. In fact, he probably liked it that way.

One of the most obvious traits of Vance's work was his distaste for fame, attention, and blowhards of all kinds. People who live in mental castles of their own creation are routinely mocked in his stories, perhaps because he knew he could have become one of them. From the Jack Vance's biographical sketch at the Vance Museum:

"'By the age of 15, I had read ten times the books an average person might read in a lifetime. [...]  

Vance entered high school at age 11 and graduated at 15.  He described himself at the latter age as bright, arrogant, introverted, and lacking in social skills. Then his grandfather died, the family was broke, and it was the bottom of the Great Depression.  College plans were set aside and, for the next several years, Vance ranged the state of California, working at a wide variety of jobs: fruit picking, canning, construction, surveying, bell-hopping.  He described this period as a metamorphosis: “Over a span of four or five years, I developed from an impractical little intellectual into a rather reckless young man, competent at many skills and crafts, and determined to try every phase of life.'”

I wouldn't describe that as "anti-intellectual" stance, since Vance stories have many deep intellectual themes, but these are seamlessly weaved into the story in such a way that many readers believe they are just enjoying a story of simple, pure, and unadulterated adventure. And that's probably one of the best compliments anyone could say about a SFF writer.

Souldancer: The second half.

Well, that's it. The end is here.

As I suspected, the second half of Souldancer ramps up the action and the story's reach. Although the book already started hinting at bigger threads and plot elements, the first half was a tighter story. I'm perfectly fine with that, by the way. I think it makes great storytelling.

At the same time, I feel I have to correct something I said in my piece about the first half. Now, I can't remember my exact wording, but I may have implied the story was complex, which carries the connotation of "difficult to understand or complicated." I don't think that's exactly accurate because, broken down into its components, the basic plot is pretty linear and straightforward (notwithstanding more esoteric interpretations of the book.) Sure, you may forget who this guy is or what is that thing doing there or what was the difference between the Serapis and the Exodus, but that's pretty much it. I kept reading it even when I momentarily forgot or missed a key reference and, in the end, it didn't make much of a difference.

There is, it's true, a superabundance of names and references, but if you are reading it on Kindle, ctrl + f and the Glossary are your friends. Speaking of which, I believe the Glossary should have a few entries more. At least two, one for Nesshin and another for Shaiel. Both of them are presented to the reader in a somewhat abrupt manner, especially Shaiel, a name that doesn't turn up in Nethereal but here appears as the "Ruler of the Void" —not a minor title. I believe that the confusion some readers may have expressed may be due to the undisclosed or obscured relationship between the triad of gods that is the cornerstone of Souldancer: Zadok, Thera, and Shaiel. On the other hand, in Nethereal, the relation was dyadic (with hints to a third party, though) —Zadok and Thera, as in:

"[Malachi] remembered the suns' namesakes in Nesshin myth: father and daughter eternally annihilating and returning into each other."
Nethereal, page 13.

Still, as I have said, I understood it in the end anyway, so no biggie.

About the plot, well, you'd probably want to follow Nathan Housley's posts, but I think I can deal with the story's ending.

My theology may be a bit rusty, but I think I got the important references. Neimeier, if he wants to chime in, will comment and tell me how wrong I am.

I

I cannot but think the ending represent the intervention of our world's theology in the Soul Cycle's universe. And I'm talking about Christianity here.

For those who haven't read the last chapters, this is the gist of it: Xander and Tefler find themselves before the Zadok, the All-God (or something that looks like that,) in a place known as Kairos. Kairos was one of the Ancient Greek words for Time, but not in the sense of a physical quantity but "opportune moment" or "the proper time for [something to happen]" In Souldancer, Kairos is described as "time as the gods know it," and pay attention to the wording: gods, not God (Xander is one of the few characters that uses the word God, more about that later.) A few hundred pages later, Smith the Clockboy describes it as "sacred time that touches eternity." Not eternity per se, but touches it.

So Xander is in Kairos, trying to save Astlin, and... well, he kills God, with a sword named Elohim. Now, killing God seems difficult, and, in fact, once Zadok/Szodrin is "killed" (he returns, though,) he is not named God anymore but god. And what drove Xander to such blasphemous actions? He seemed a bit possessed, somehow, and by a force from outside the world.

Xander hears the words like thunder that heralds rain.
 "There is another way. Even the White Well is a shadow that cannot conquer the darkness. Allow true light to shine upon this world."

Now, that's no way to speak to a god! In any event, Zadok seems shocked, but answers:

"How shall this light above all known good enter our shadow play?"
Xander: "'Its bearers wait for you to admit them," Xander says, his heart swelling with a conviction he can't explain.

And later:

Beyond his own mind; in the upper darkness where Zadok once reigned, Xander sees a new light descending. [...]
The blue star falls like desert rain, finally quenching Xander's lifelong thirst for the sublime.

"Szodrin's [Zadok's] death made an opening to the world beyond the world," Thera says to Tefler. "Astlin escaped and brought the true light back with her."

And in the epilogue:

"Honestly, does haruspicy even work anymore? The gods are gone."

and

"so has the Righteous One brought forth the Zadokim."

And what are the Zadokim? 

"Souls who [...] have returned from the light beyond the cosmos."

As I said, my theology is rusty, but I recognize a deicide when I see one, especially one that allows the Light to enter a world whose creator (Zadok, now demoted to "god") describes it as a "shadow play." A light that quenches a thirst for the "sublime" and can actually vanquish evil, unlike the White Well.

The point here, I presume, is that Zadok had the function of a Demiurge, and then is stabbed by a sword conveniently named Elohim, a Hebrew word for (among other things) God. And that happens in a place named Kairos, which means the correct/opportune time for... ¿God?

After stabbing him, Xander actually outsmarts Zadok in a debate, even though he has no idea from where his words come from. Then Zadok allows a Light from "beyond this world" to enter his creation, a light that transcends kairos (which touched eternity, but wasn't eternity) and infuses Xander (the only proper monotheist in a world full of heathens) with a desire to save as many souls as possible.

That theological upturning, which causes a Götterdammerung of sorts, changes the nature of Souldancer's setting. Before that moment (before "kairos"), the setting had been somewhat "broken," Manichean, and closed, with good and evil having substance and fighting in an apparent eternal and protracted fight. Now that the unnamed light from "beyond the world" has entered, the old gods are gone, Zadok and Thera stand aside, a Good that is superior to "all known good" enters, and the "test" (Creation) is corrected; the judgment of Zadok is averted, the test of souls fixed, Good restored to its proper place, and evil goes to the Void, literally and metaphorically I think.

Really, that's pretty much the "divine invasion" of Christianity, I believe. Now, I do not know if I'm tripping balls here, or if what I'm writing here about the plot is common knowledge or an esoteric easter egg or something, but I doubt everything I have pointed out is a coincidence. 

May's Puppy of the Month Book is...

"They saw beetles tall as dogs, with heavy saw-toothed pincers attacking objects resembling horses; pens of insects even larger, long, narrow, segmented, with dozens of heavy legs and nightmare heads. All of these creatures [...] it was plain that the First Folk had been practicing selective breeding for many years, perhaps centuries."

Who's Jack Vance, you ask? Well, that's a nuncupatory question if I have ever heard one.

Most of you probably know him already for his Dying Earth stories, but he was a very prolific author whose work spanned decades and multiple genres, and some of his tales might now be more obscure.

Cugel's Saga, the Demon Princes, Planet of Adventure? Sure, those are known and recommended, but what about The Miracle Workers or The Last Castle? They may not be the most well-known (or the best) Vance, but they are still Vance (as you will quickly see once you start reading these stories.) Therefore, from the master who seamlessly shifted and mixed fantasy and science fiction, I present you The Dragon Masters and Other Stories, a collection of three stories (two of them Hugo winners) about scientific voodoo, mystical science and vinegar, a genetic-engineering arms race, knights driving cars, astronauts, foppish and decadent aristocrats, slave rebellions, and an alien threat with very human weapons. And dragons, of course.

Souldancer, the first half.

Souldancer is shorter than the fist book in the series, Nethereal, but it still presents the reader with a heavy, 510-pages (including glossaries, epilogues, and a preview) challenge. 

Given its size, I have decided to split my general impressions into two parts. This one, the first, will be for chapters 1-24, which are almost half the book. 

First things first: a comparison. How does this book (at least, the first half) hold up compared to the previous one? Well, I think I like Souldancer more, which is something uncommon for a sequel. And strange as that may sound, you can actually read this book without having read the previous one.

Sure, they are closely connected, and there is an encyclopedic level of world-building behind, but almost everything you need to know is explained, hinted, or suggested in one way or another, and sometimes not knowing the specific details (e.g. what caused the Cataclysm) makes the story more intriguing, mysterious, and -in my opinion- better. Speaking of which, burning almost all your fictional setting in a firestorm of divine retribution has some perks, which brings me to what I first noticed about Souldancer –the scope of the story.

Although the setting and the story are part of the same universe, Souldancer starts on a much smaller scale, something that makes the story and the characters more relatable and interesting. A problem, to me anyway, with the previous entry in the Soul Cycle saga was that the universe Brian Niemeier had created was too... crowded, almost ready to burst (it did actually burst, to be fair.) It was so crowded that the story proper started with the promise of finding new worlds but in another dimension (i.e. Hell.) For the same reasons, that made that Universe feel oddly small.

There is no reason to assume that has changed, but starting the story after a universal cataclysm, following the -at first- quite "low-level" adventures of a young exiled nomad from a tribal society, gives the setting some space to breath and that sense of mysterious wonder that too much exposition or a high-powered quest can easily shatter. After a few bizarre events and a close encounter with some shape-shifting freaks, we find the protagonists searching the ruins of a secret Guild base/lab, an episode that allows for a powerful contrast between the old and the new and scarred world. That part and similar others are also, I presume, what justified including Souldancer as a Horror Novel in the Dragon Awards (which it won, by the way,) although I probably wouldn't classify the book as "horror."

After that, the story quickly ramps up the action and its scope, but it still manages to be somewhat personal since, at least in this first half, it's hinted that the narrative will revolve around a love story. Sure, it's between two weirdos with the ability to alter reality at will (an even higher form of "magic" than the one we saw in Nethereal,) pitted against a Demon Prince and a power-crazy (and utterly ugly) "wizard" with God delusions, but eh... couples need shared hobbies, I guess. By the way, while I'm on it, I greatly enjoyed the "telepathic" episode. Usually, "it was a psychic dream all along" sequences fall flat or make me feel as if I have been cheated, but this one is finely crafted and, in retrospect, necessary to better appreciate the setting and the protagonists.

I cannot comment on how the story continues, but the plot already revealed (which involves the fragmented soul of a goddess whose return has dangerous eschatological implications,) and even the name of the next book in the series, tell me that the story will progressively become more vast and epic in scale. Nonetheless, I believe it was an intelligent decision to start small and new (with new protagonists.) 

Speaking of epicness, Nethereal's profulgently pyrotechnic descriptions of action and combat are still in this sequel, but I have noticed a somewhat more down-to-earth tone or style. It may be a trick of my memory, but Souldancer's action scenes seem a bit more... visceral, deadly, and straight to the point? The protagonists still have that anime hero ability to withstand extreme punishment, but it feels more subdued this time. 

catskinner's book 1: My Analysis

You know it's bad to judge a book by its cover, although we do it all the time. So here's an experiment: Quick, look the cover art on the right and tell me (well, you know what I mean) your first thoughts. Be as prejudiced and superficial as you want.

If you had to guess its genre, style, or typology, what would it be? Emo poetry? A gothic novel pastiche? The autobiography of a gardener gone mad? Well, whatever it was, I'm sure it wasn't "a thriller starring a paranormal symbiote -a human with a predatorial daemon inside his head- and parasitic alien entities, with spirit-driven genetic engineering and X-files levels of cover-ups."

I don't know why Misha Burnett chose that cover style or what hidden symbolism lies behind them or their titles, but if he ever wants to change the vibe, he could try to imitate one of those Shudder Pulp covers, with an almost naked damsel chained to an operation table, ready to be dissected by a demented doctor while the hero struggles with the mad doctor's mutated underlings. And it would be somewhat close to a real scene from the book.

I mention this in case a random person with no knowledge of the book is reading this. Sure, the short Amazon synopsis for this book will dispell any possible genre confusion or mislabel, but you'd be surprised how many people don't even read that. Having said all that, let's jump into the meat of our business.

James Ozwryck (pronounce Awesig -not his real surname, by the way-) is a young introvert who works at a run-down hardware store and occasionally dreams of living a more fulfilling life someday. That would be common stuff for a tale about the woes and anxieties of a blue-collar worker, if it weren't for the fact that the store is a front, James is a professional hitman with abnormal strength, and, oddly enough, he has never killed anybody. At least he likes to think so. 

It's actually the demonic-like entity living inside and alongside him, called catskinner (lower case, it's important) who takes control of his (their?) body when someone needs to die or some unnatural feat of speed and strength is required. Also, his boss, Victor, who provides him with the targets, doesn't sleep, is ugly as hell, lives in a giant fridge which doubles as an office, and is probably undead. 

I must note that that weirdness isn't the plot or the events that trigger the story. That's the introduction, -his normal life- which theoretically could have gone on like that forever if it had not been for Victor's (and almost his own too) murder. This story is therefore not your average "normal man's life is upturned and thrown into disarray by unknown forces;" it already starts weird, and then it gets even weirder. The fantastic elements in his life, which James had taken for granted as personal idiosyncrasies, are revealed as being part of a bigger whole (although it is quickly stated that very little of its true nature is really known.) In other words, he is not the only freak in town.

You could say that the story is also about James changing and maturing, and leaving his mind-numbing apathy behind, something that is triggered by two events: Victor's murder (who had been his guardian as well as his exploiter,) and meeting Godiva. The first incident forces him to go beyond the brutal (but predictable and comfortable) realities of his life as someone else's tool, and the second gives him someone beyond himself to care about.

Godiva, who is also not entirely human, many not be your standard romantic partner, and it's probably not what James would have chosen (even though it superficially *looks* like your typical male fantasy,) but from a storytelling point of view, it works like one. She humanizes James, gives him someone to care about and a reason to live beyond simple survival (that's catskinner existential imperative/function, anyway.) They may be a pair of freak weirdos, but they make a lovely couple nonetheless. I'm not sure I want to see them naked, though.

"Disappointed" would be too big a word, but it was a bit of a letdown that the story didn't follow some threads it had hinted at the beginning, not necessarily because the new direction it took was the wrong one, but because I think the other would have been superior. The story started a bit like a mystery drama, with a few touches of hardboiled urban survival thrown in the mix. There were three specific mysteries to solve: (1) Victor's murder, (2) whatever was stolen from Victor's safe, and (3) how was James/catskinner incapacitated with an apparently magical sigil. That final one may not be very important since it is probably just a plot device to avoid a fight so soon, but it still has important worldbuilding implications concerning what powers some people (and entities) seem to possess there. The description of the consequences of that sigil is also one of the best scenes of the book, so there's that too.

The third one can be dismissed then, but I find it odd that the first seems to disappear so quickly from James' mind (or so it seemed to me) and that the second becomes almost a footnote, especially since the contents of the safe are mentioned (The Book of Thoth), and they seemed important enough. After that point, James loses a bit of its agency as the main character/investigator, and he is carried along by what happens (and crashes) around him and the people he finds along the way, usually after a fight, when allies, new or old, appear or disappear. And since he is not the only main character (there's also catskinner there,) this downplays him even more. That is, by the way, something James hints at the end of the book:

"What's been happening to me lately has not been conversations. What's been happening is that people make bizarre enigmatic little comments in my general direction, and weird crap comes out of nowhere and tries to kill me. And then when I say, hey, how come weird crap keeps coming out of nowhere and trying to kill me? everybody tells me I don't understand what's going on."

Even the emotionally-stunted psychopath inside his head seems to know much more about what is going on (and, oddly enough, it apparently chooses not to disclose it,) than him.

After that, an explanation is given, although I think it would have worked better if it happened earlier (there is no big revelation anyway,) especially since the end is somewhat abrupt (although not unfulfilling) and a few pages more to build a good hook for the next book (e.g. hints of a future problem) would have helped.

It is in the sense of investigation and discovery, and in the dialogues that shine a light on the nature of this supernatural world, where I believe the book excels. In fact, my favorite moments were the dialogues with those at the edge of that supernatural world (e.g. with Russwind, about his past.)

In any event, the crux of the story is the James/catskinner duo, and not surprisingly the series is named after the second since it is the mystery surrounding that strange entity what moves the whole plot and, to a considerable degree, the reader's interest. The interactions between the two of them are also some of the most amusing moments, especially because they are embedded as part of the narration itself. This book is written from a first-person narrative, but the trick is that there are actually two entities watching, and they both share the same point of view (James' eyes.) catskinner's comments and thought processes (although not all of them, probably) are part of the narration itself and they are written in italics*. This means that sometimes the narrator himself speaks directly to another character (catskinner,) engaging in a conversation that appears as part of the narration and only they (and us) see.

*And with an uncommon punctuation. It never uses upper-case letters, not even when using the pronoun I. i once met a person who wrote like that on-line, and he was edgy in extreme, quite unhinged and seemed possessed, so I guess bad grammar and a bizarre punctuation sometimes may be a sign of daemonic influence! It may explain a few things about Twitter, at the very least.
[*extra: I just realized the whole cover of the book is written using catskinner's style]

I thought that was a neat literary experiment, and I would not have minded (in fact, I would have enjoyed it,) if Burnett had decided to be even more experimental while playing with the limits of traditional narratives. And speaking of which, I was pleased that the story avoided the usual pitfalls of many postmodern stories: the temptation of self-referentialism and going excessively meta all the way down. Since this is a story that could have gone from zero to Philip K. Dick in 2.5 seconds, I was pleased to see that there was little of that nonsense. Although the "entities" that are behind the whole mess clearly dance and play with the limits of madness and reality, those nonetheless exist. James may be confused because he doesn't understand what is going on, but he knows perfectly well that what is going on is real and that there is something to understand.

And even if the mystery isn't yet explained, and the names (if they have any) and goals of the hidden forces are not yet revealed, the intrigue is strong enough to compel me to read the next books.

Four more stories

THE BLEAK SHORE

A short story that, nonetheless, conveys a lot in its meager ten pages. The adage about how what matters is the travel but not the destination applies here, at least from the point of view of the reader. 

Under a powerful geas, the two rogues set off to the distant and mysterious Bleak Shore across the vast ocean. Most of the story -and its better parts- is narrated by the only surviving Mingol sailor that managed to return from the deadly trip. And the fact that he only knows about the initial trip but not what Fafhrd and the Mouser did when they got there only makes it better.

The narrator shift highlights and magnifies the sense of unreality and madness as he explains the foolish, inhuman,  and almost suicidal behavior of their (as he suspects) charmed masters. The distance between his knowledge as a uniformed participant and what we actually know or suspect amplifies the dread and eeriness that could have been lost with a more detached or omniscient narrator. Like the scraps and fragments of a diary narrating the unexplained horrors of a failed expedition, sometimes not knowing creates a stronger effect than knowing.

THE HOWLING TOWER

Another story with a ghostly theme, this one gave me a strong Edgar Allan Poe feeling, probably for the whole familicide and "vengeance from beyond the grave" themes. I enjoyed it, but your mileage may vary. I won't say more since I think it's better just to read this one.

THE SUNKEN LAND

A story with a clear Lovecraftian vibe. This is also one of the best stories in this collection, and since they are all self-sufficient (although it is implied they are all connected and arranged in chronological order,) you can jump straight to this one if you want.

Many stories that try to convey the Lovecraftian sense of horror fail for the simple reason that they go too far into the neurotic/psychological horror territory, going overboard by telling how shaken the protagonists are by the incomprehensible events they are witnessing, but we have little reason to believe it or care about things that are TOO incomprehensible. This is not the case here since the whole story depends on an -in isolation- plausible list of coincidences, which we later realize were the design of vast and malevolent intelligence. 

It is also clear that there is little that Fafhrd could have done to stop the chain of events, and his actions don't depend on any charm or supernatural influence either. He is just a human pawn who survives thanks to a fleeting gut feeling which tells him to run, to get out of the sunken city of Simorgya (akin to R'lyeh.)

When reading the final scene, it occurred to me that the cloak-like creatures that are mentioned are somewhat similar to the D&D monster the Cloaker. Reading about it, Wikipedia mentions that a variant of the cloaker appeared in the Lankhmar – City of Adventure booklet (1985) for D&D. And the name of the beast? Sea cloaker.

And if you search that term, you will find this article that explains the ecology of the cloaker and its background, and here's what it has to say about the subspecies of the sea cloaker:

"An aquatic aberration native to, and mainly inhabiting, the sunken city of Simorgya, which means minimal study has been done, but the numerous similarities between them and cloakers has led many ecologists to speculate on a relationship. "

There you go. I'm getting better at sniffing obscure D&D references.

THE SEVEN BLACK PRIESTS

"I think they're unreasonably angry," Fafhrd asserted, scrambling to his feet.
"Priests always are," the Mouser said philosophically,

I like to imagine Leiber watching the Disney movie Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937) and thinking to himself, Yeah, this is nice and all, but wouldn't it be better if the dwarfs were meaner, crazy, black, and worshiped a mind-controlling volcano god? Also, you know what? Screw Snow White and everything else, just keep the mad midgets.

[Obviously, this is a completely made-up and apocryphal explanation, but I encourage you to cite it anyway as if it were true.]

This must be one of the best sword & sorcery stories I have read (to be fair, I haven't read as many as others.) It has that bigger-than-life threat hanging over the protagonists, but the story in itself is quite lighthearted, focusing on the action and exploration, the fights (including one while skating on ice,) the comedic traps the priests set up, and the excellent banter between the two rogues. Nothing out-of-this-world, perhaps, but effective nonetheless.

You can also read Jon and Nathan's more useful analyses.

Thieve's House and the picaresque archetype.

Thieve's House is a story that happens after what most people would consider a more proper venture for a sword & sorcery adventure. We are told about how the Gray Mouser managed to pick an apparently unpickable triple lock, and we are also told of how Fafhrd killed the dreadful monster that guarded a treasure. But we are told of all that after the fact, and in a passing manner, with not a single description or narration. 

Thieve's House, as the title says, is not about the dungeon raid but about the following problems concerning loot allocation and why you should be suspicious of sneaky NPCs that offer you information about treasures only you can recover (Protip: he plans to double-cross you.)

As with Jewels in the Forest, our duo's motivation is simple and straightforward: money. Some may prefer more noble and epic goals, but "the rent is due" (or the bar tab, probably) is a good motivation as any. I think I'm growing on these more mundane objectives as they make the characters more down-to-earth and relatable. Besides, I'd be lying if I said there is no nobility or courage in this story. 

Some readers may have missed it because Leiber doesn't explicitly state it and there are no grandiloquent proclamations of loyalty, friendship, and goodness, or inner struggle either, but here the Gray Mouser behaves in a really selfless manner, made more pronounced by the fact that Leiber doesn't bring our attention to it and it develops in a natural and almost reflex manner, as true emotions always do.

Not only does the rogue go back to a thieve's den to rescue his friend, Fafhrd, he does it after he managed to get his hands on the treasure, the skull Ohmphal. He could have fled with the treasure, but he did not. Sure, we know he would never have done that, after all, they are called Fafhrd AND the Gray Mouser for a reason, but still, it is a notable behavior, especially when it comes from characters like these.

In my previous post, I mentioned a few connections between that Jewels in the Forest and D&D. There are also a few here, but probably more of tone and style. Although Fritz Leiber was not the first to create the concept of a Thieve's Guild (I'll go back to that point later,) he probably was one of the firsts to create a Thieve's Guild as we understand them, in a Fantasy context. In fact, it's hard to read this story and not recognize many other thieve's guilds from scores of games and novels. 

It may be just a coincidence, but as I was reading this story, my mind kept telling me "I'm sure I have played this one before." Yes, played. A Thieve's Guild, with labyrinthic sublevels and, finally, a dark, forgotten, and ruined underground where the undead roam and dark gods are worshiped? Uhh...

Baldur's Gate (1) Thieve's Guild, (2) Thieve's Maze (3) Undercity

In any event, there was a sentence that made me think of a curious and old rule (I don't know how many people use or used it) which has mostly disappeared from later editions and RPGs. When most people think about traps they think about a yes/no event. Perhaps this is an influence from video games (as in Baldur's Gate) where most traps occupy the whole width of a corridor and the only option to avoid them is to disarm them (no 10-foot pole allowed!) Whatever the reason, this what not always the case:

"Traps are usually sprung by a roll of a 1 or a 2 when any character passes over or by them. Pits will open in the same manner."

             OD&D, Book III: The Underworld and Wilderness Adventures, page 9.

Sure, that was when the thief class didn't exist, but the same rule still appeared years later:

"If any character does something which could trigger a trap (such as walking over a certain point), the trap will be sprung on a roll of 1-2 (on 1d6)."

                                                                  D&D Basic Set (1981,) page 22.

So, yeah, you could miss a trap just by sheer luck, just like Fafhrd:

"Had he originally entered this blind alley by way of the corridor, missing the deadly stone by pure luck?"

There's also the whole jargon used to describe and talk about the thieves, which is pure D&D. As I mentioned in my previous post, classes had Titles assigned to levels, and for thieves, they went from Apprentice to Master Thief. And in this story, the low thief novices are described as apprentices, and the title of the leader of the guild is, yes, a master thief. Also, one of the thieves, Fissif, is described as a "cut-purse of the first rank," and cut-purse was the Title for a level 5 thief. And then there's Leiber affection for the word "pilfer," which is the root word for another Title (Pilferer.) 

However, here I should mention that it was not Leiber who invented those labels. Gygax et al. may or may not have gotten the inspiration from him, but he was not the original creator of these conventions and titles. That honor should go to the XVI-XVII Spanish writers who created the genre of picaresque novels and, through them,  their followers and imitators in the English-speaking world, which adapted it to their own criminal underworld. But even these writers were merely drawing inspiration from the reality they saw around them, which -oddly enough- would make the Thief the most historically "accurate" class of them all.

Puzzling as it may seem to modern readers, the idea of a "guild" of thieves (without a maze or underground lair, though,) with a hierarchy and titles which went from apprentice to master, was nothing more than applying medieval guild's customs to the organizations of the criminal underworld. As with any other guild, you started as an Apprentice, and you finally became a Master. But unlike a Master Smith or Cobbler or whatever, you are now a Master Thief. Which sounds cooler, to be fair.

That medieval version of the Mafia was what those Spanish novels described with a style that, although they are centuries-old books, seems curiously modern for their naturalism. Con-artists, beggars, thief apprentices, and all sorts of rogues and scoundrels that survived thanks to their wits were the protagonists of those stories which tried to portray the dark side of cosmopolite and newly-rich cities like Seville, with all their contradictions, hypocrisies, moral degeneration, and peculiarities.

It is notable that while most fantasy archetypes are, well, exactly that, almost eternal archetypes like the Warrior or the Mage and various variations of those themes, the Rogue/Thief is unique in itself, the one with a more concrete sociological context and raison d'être. 

I'm not talking about his quasi-magical skills as defined in D&D, like hiding in shadows, as those would be added later to give him an almost mystical halo, as with Thief's protagonist, Garrett (a clearly D&D-inspired video game, by the way,) but its social and historical justification as a class. I mean, why (and how) would anyone specialize in picking locks, climbing buildings, or disarming traps? While, generally speaking, the idea of "adventurers" work better in an almost post-apocalyptical landscape, and the only thing a warrior needs is the will to fight and a weapon, the rogue is an urban creature that profits, in fact, requires, advanced civilizations and that sudden wealth that begets vice, misery, and organized crime. 

Even Lankhmar is a cosmopolitan port, like all the great cities and organizations that have inspired the Thief archetype, from Seville to Shangai, from our European criminal guilds to the more exotic and mysterious master criminals of the East which years later would become many of our Super Villains (e.g. Dr. Fu-Manchu.) 

As a source for villains or anti-heroes, the dark underbelly of our civilizations has created some our most memorable cultural icons. And to the question "Where can one find adventure?" the Thief is the urban answer to a genre used to the wilderness.

Jewels in the Forest & Ancient Sagas of Heroes and D&D

THE CIRCLE CURSE

If this is your first Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, The Circle Curse works as an excellent introduction to the two adventurers (and two wizards that will return in later stories.) It sets the main theme and a bit of the mood that will guide the rest of the stories, sketching the reasons for their sudden departure from the city of Lankhmar. There is probably no more classical motive for a wandering hero than a broken heart, and in this case, this driving passion also humanizes the characters and gives them a more complex personality, something important once they start their less unsavory exploits.

This story negates the traditional direction taken for granted in most fantasy, where the narrative begins in a small physical location, almost a prison for the main protagonist who yearns to discover what lies beyond the literal or metaphorical walls of his homeland. On the other hand, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser aren't really yearning for adventures as much as they are fleeing from their own demons. But that world beyond Lankhmar and their travels, something that could have been the story for a whole book, are barely described in a few short but evocative paragraphs. The journey doesn't bring them the peace they need, and since they have traveled all around the world and the pain has not yet subsided, the solution seems inevitable: they must return to the hated city of Lankhmar. And this is where the real story begins.

"And in any case Lankhmar seemed no worse than any other place in Nehwon and more interesting than most. So they stayed there for a space, making it once more the headquarters of their adventurers."

THE JEWELS IN THE FOREST

Although the events of the previous story are not mentioned, it is implied this story happened after those, after the two adventurers had settled once again in Lankhmar.

Having pilfered from a Lord an old and cryptic letter that hints at a gigantic and apparently unprotected treasure in a tower hidden deep inside the forest, the two protagonists set off on their next adventure. It's hard to find a more D&D motivation than "huge cache of jewels in an abandoned tower, probably protected by an unknown menace," so it's easy to see why the adventures of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser were always at the top of all the list of things that inspired D&D.

I'm sure the other contributors will write better analyses of this story (actually, they already have,) so I'll focus on a D&D-related piece of trivia hidden in this short story. Now, I don't know where I first heard about this, I guess it was some Old-School Revival blog years ago, but I haven't managed to find the original source. Still, I'm pretty sure I'm not making this up or, at least, I'm not the only one who has made this up.

There's a scene in this story where Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser are fighting some noble's henchmen (the same one from whom the Gray Mouser had stolen the letter,) and this happens:

"Fafhrd, his back to a great oak, had his broadsword out and was holding off two of Rannarsh's henchmen, who were attacking with their short weapons. It was a tight spot and the Northerner realized it. He knew that ancient sagas told of heroes who could best four or more men at swordplay. He also knew that such sagas were lies, providing the hero's opponents were reasonably competent. 

And Rannarsh's men were veterans."

Used to other fantasy stories, where the hero slashes through hordes of enemies as if the were hay, this is an interesting shift in tone and style. But I want to focus on a specific sentence, the one about the ancient sagas and the four or more men. Because I think that sentence is the source of a D&D element: the name levels.

If any non-grognard is reading this, name levels (or "Titles") was a curiosity from the days of OD&D and Basic D&D. The official title of your class wasn't really "Magic-user, level 5" or something equally bureaucratic and bland, but Enchanter, which was the Title for 5th level magic-users. For example, this is the table for the Thief class, as found in p6 of the Expert Rulebook (1980.) 

Now, I'm sure most people just said "my character is a level X-whatever, " but the Titles were kinda cool, and going from Apprentice to Master Thief probably felt great. Also, people like Titles.

Having explained that, we'll still have to go back even further, to the most distant origin of the RPGs, the Fantasy Supplement that appeared in Chainmail, the miniature wargame that Gygax and Jeff Perren designed. That supplement included many fantastic creatures we now take for granted, and also a lot of spells that would later appear in D&D, like Slow, Haste, Confusion, Fireball, etc. Being a wargame, there were no Player Characters, but there were special units, like Wizards and Heroes (and Superheroes)

HEROES (and Anti-heroes): included in this class are certain well-known knights, leaders of army contingents, and similar men. They have the fighting ability of four figures, the class being dependent on the arms and equipment of the Hero types themselves, who can range from Ligh Foot to Heavy Horse. 

SUPER HEROES: Few and far between, these fellows are one-man armies! (Particularly when armed with magical weaponry.) They act as Hero-types in all cases, except they are about twice as powerful.

Some of you may have already realized what I'm trying to say, but if not, here's the table for the Fighter class as it appeared in the same Expert Rulebook, D&D 1st edition:

And that part about "they fight like four figures" was transferred directly to the old OD&D, since "fighting like a Hero" literally meant "fighting like four Men and having the Hits of four Men."

You can see that the title for level 4 and 8 are Hero and Super Hero, which are a reference to those Chainmail rules: Heroes have "the fighting ability of four figures, " and Super Heroes are "twice as powerful."

Now, reread that part I quoted from The Jewels in the Forest. This sentence to be specific:

"He knew that ancient sagas told of heroes who could best four or more men at swordplay."

"Hero" and "four (or more) men"? Well, isn't that a coincidence? Also, another coincidence, the title for a level 1 fighter is Veteran, as in "And Rannarsh's men were veterans." Translated into D&D-speak: 

"He knew ancient rules that told of level 4 Fighters who could best four or more men at swordplay. He also knew that was horseshit, providing the opponents were reasonably competent and not level 0 mooks. And Rannarsh's men were level 1 Fighters."

Now, I'm not saying this short paragraph was the source of the whole idea of class levels but... it's a fascinating possibility. In any event, it seems clear that at least it did inspire the Titles and power-level (first via Chainmail) of Hero and Superhero.

Also, if anyone ever tells you that "heroic" adventure starts at level 12 or somesuch, or that level 4 characters are "low level," remind them that level 8 was already considered Superhero back then, before the Great Level Inflation.

More about Moore.

In the anthology of C. L. Moore's short stories I'm reading —and now that I think about it, I suspect it is not the same book the other Puppy contributors are using— there are still more tales about Jirel of Joiry and Northwest Smith. And although I believe Shambleau proper and The Black God's Kiss are the best, the others still deserve a few words.

BLACK GOD'S SHADOW 

In Black God's Shadow, Jirel of Joiry finishes the job she had started in the previous story, but this times it's, well, it's still personal, but now even more since there are few thing more personal than guilt (even more than revenge, I'd say.) The Black God's Kiss ended with Jirel killing Guillaume with a cursed kiss, and then grieving over the realization of what she had done. Now, in the second story, she has apparently recovered her castle and is, once again, a proud feudal (or something like that) lady. Unfortunately, sleep eludes her, and she is haunted by a hellish voice which she recognizes as Guillaume's. He is in pain and suffering, doomed to be tortured in that infernal domain to which Jirel unwittingly sent him. Her revenge has turned its ugly head, and now she is cursed by Guillaume's ghost and her own guilt. 

The solution is obvious. Drink yourself into a stupor? Nah, this is a pulp story after all! The answer is to go back to hell and free Guillaume's soul. To accomplish that, Jirel of Joiry must descend once again through the slithery dark tunnels until she arrives at that strange land where darkness is safety, and sunlight is torture.

Like other Moore stories, there isn't much action or typical swashbuckling elements here, at least in their traditional shapes. The garments and "tropes" are there, but her focus is on her evocative language, the psychological descriptions, and mental contests. Personally, I think she still manages to pull off an interesting and disturbing alien landscape, but the (three?) "mental fights" in which she engages bored me a bit. That is a problem with these overly abstract or intellectual descriptions of incomprehensible horrors; they can become so abstracted they fly away, and so incomprehensible they actually don't scare at all.

In any event, Jirel resists the soul-devouring attacks of the Black God, and manages to free Guillaume and, also, herself.

BLACK THIRST

I quickly noticed that all of Northwest stories I have read follow the same pattern: Northwest Smith, with a woman being involved somehow —possibly following her— falls into a dreamlike (nightmare-like, usually) world, where he must battle a hellish creature which disguises itself as a human (or a tree, as in The Tree of Life.) This fight is a psychological attack which tests his Will Saving Throw, and when he finally manages (through force of will, anger,  stubbornness, or a little philosophical introspection) to resist the creature's psychic mind-rape, he pulls his trusted ray-gun and sends the demon back to its original dimension. Shambleau deviates a bit from that formula since it is his friend who shoots the creature, but the basic structure is similar.

Black Thirst is no exception although this story never leaves Earth, well, Mars. As usual, Northwest Smith follows the trail of a woman in peril and ends up entering the walled and mysterious fortress of the Minga, an exotic (orientalist, a more modern reader would say) castle-city that evokes all those legends about the forbidden cities and harems of the East. To the rest of the world, it is a place of mystery and the source of the most beautiful princesses and concubines. The woman that hires him is, in fact, one of those maids, and she explains to him, in obvious distress, that she saw the face of her master, the creator of those women. For that crime, she believes, she will be punished with something worse that death, like many other women who also end up disappearing and never heard of again. 

In this story, the Creature is the master of the Minga, an antediluvian monster which is, as usual,  only human in appearance. Curiously, this one tests Smith with an extreme form of Stendhal Syndrome, showing him women beautiful beyond comprehension —the final one barely had a body since it was almost a spirit of light. Those women are the secret creation of their master, cattle used to satisfy its black thirst for beauty. However, the creature has grown tired of always devouring the same perfection, and it realizes that the masculine, aggressive, and rough beauty of Northwest Smith is also appetizing (obviously, this story was written by a woman.) And this is where the psychic battle happens.

This story is also notable because it dabbles a bit in aesthetics, with that traditional observation concerning the uselessness of beauty: that something is beautiful not in spite of that uselessness but because of it. Something that Moore also uses to throw a few punches at, well, I think it's obvious at who:

"You must have noticed the vacuity that accompanies perfect beauty in so many women... the force so strong that it drives out all other forces and lives vampirishly at the expense of intelligence and goodness and conscience and all else."

THE TREE OF LIFE

The Tree of Life pits Northwest Smith against an interdimensional, all-devouring, transmogrified tree (yes, a tree) which I like to imagine as the child of Shub-Nigurath from the Quake video game and the Sleepy Hollow tree.

As with his other encounters with extradimensional entities, Northwest Smith's brain falls victims to some form of psychic attack. In this case, a charm-like spell that compels him to saunter towards the tree and accept its embrace (and then be eaten* alive, body, soul, and all.) From all the soul-swallowing creatures Moore created, this seems one of the most effective and well-crafted. 

*Disintegrated, actually. 

SCARLET DREAM

Something tells me that if Moore were alive today, as a twenty-something-year-old woman, she'd probably be in her gothic phase. I can't really put my finger on it, but it may be the psychosexual imagery, the constant vampirism, that feeling dread and damnation her stories exude, her constant use of metaphors to describe mental and spiritual anguish, or perhaps that THERE ARE BLOODSUCKING GRASS AND A TEMPLE WITH BLOOD-GUSHING SPIGOTS, WHICH ARE THE ONLY SOURCE OF FOOD IN THIS STORY. Also, as a side note, all the women (with the exception of Jirel, of course) that appear in these stories die.

In this story, Northwest Smith finds himself in a dream-like world where the grass eats you and the only food to eat is blood. Ignoring the creepiness of the whole thing and the fact that the few inhabitants of that world are terrified of some unknown menace, the place is pleasant enough, almost Edenic. In fact, our hero decides to face the creature, not because of anger, a desire to rescue someone, or survival instinct but out of boredom.

I think that in this short story the Monster seems to be almost an afterthought, as if Moore had realized she needed a creature or menace only after she had thought the whole thing. It is, in fact, quite a pathetic enemy but fighting was clearly not this story's purpose, so that's understandable.

In conclusion, I still believe that Shambleau is the crown jewel of this anthology. The other stories are also well-made, and certainly unique, but they don't get close to that one.

________________________

I'd also like to give my opinion on why I believe Shambleau succeeds where the other stories fall (short); and since I think there are many writers or aspiring writers reading this blog, perhaps this may help some of them.

At the risk of stating the obvious, first one must understand what writing (especially fiction) is all about. It's about manipulation or, if you don't like that word, evocation. The writer and its creation have to compete with all the other stimuli that could draw the reader's attention away from the book, which means anything at all, from television to his own imagination and musings.  And they can accomplish that only through words, whose work is to push specific semantic buttons inside the reader's mind. That includes everything that exists inside his head, with around 20 000 to 50 000 words, thousands of mental images and memories, an encyclopedia of previous works they have read/watched, and, of course, the whole range of human emotions, personalities, and mindsets.

Now, if you grab someone's attention is because you are provoking a reaction in them (probably emotional and visceral.) You certainly wouldn't listen to music that leaves you cold, right? The same with books and stories. So, if there is attention, there will be interest, and people will remember your story since memory is mostly a function of attention and interest. For example, I remember a lot about Shambleau, but not so much about the Black Thirst, even though it was the last story I read. For the same reasons, I suspect I will remember my mental picture of the Shambleau, bathed in moonlight, showing her true nature and slowly locking back over her shoulder, for a long, long time.

Not all minds are alike, and what works for one may not work for others, but I think Shambleau accomplishes its purpose. But why? Because it appeals to a very primal, or even primitive side of us, and then it attacks us by transforming it into a horror that, even if apparently "alien" and beyond comprehension, is still concrete and down-to-earth. Some parts of the description of the Shambleau could have worked for an erotic novel, and on top of that then Moore added a monstrosity and horrors which could only appear in a fantasy setting. But even if the whole thing is fantastic, the foundation is still human, unlike in the other stories, where the horrors are too alien.

I think the other stories don't achieve that feat because they lack that visceral, all-to-human foundation. The horrors they describe are too abstract and depend too much on a game of stacking metaphors in an attempt to describe an indescribable horror. They are mental horrors but, unfortunately, you cannot describe a mental horror; you have to show how the victim reacts and feels that fear. And because in Shambleau that is achieved through the contrast between sensuality and paralyzing terror, it works. That story could, in fact, be a perfect example of that "show, don't tell" thing everybody keeps talking about. 

Also, I can't finish this piece without mentioning that if there is something that Moore does is to shatter the belief that the Pulps were formulaic, a boys club, or unimaginative" Without even trying, they were more diverse and varied than today's fantasy. Did they write about barbarian warriors killing everything that moved? Sometimes, but here you have stories with combat being an apparent afterthought. Did they have damsels in distress? A few, but here you have a warrior lady, the master of her own domain and -to use today's language- a liberated woman, descending into hell to rescue the soul of a man. Did the pulps indulge in mindless hacking? There was something of that -but quite less than in contemporary fiction, I believe- but here you have stories which are tales of psychological terror. Did the pulps lack the imagination of today's genre-bending and trope-subverting writers? Pah! Certainly not, because just in this collection we have a pocket dimension with blood-drinking grass and whose only entrance is the dream-like pattern drawn in a mystic shawl found in the husk of one of the first spaceships; then you can also read about a haunted forest in another dimension, ruled by a demon-tree that is worshipped as the creator of the Universe. Then you can read about a Hell where sunlight is worse than darkness, and a Forbidden City where an entity made of the primordial soup of life engages in a eugenic program to create perfect beauty (and then devour it.) Contemporary writers are still too occupied trying to ape Tolkien while replacing their heroes with tokenized minorities to realize what true creativity and imagination actually mean. Even for all its faults, and a certain formula she seems to follow, Moore showed more creativity in a few stories than modern writers in their whole sagas.

February's Puppy of the Month Book: Swords against Death, by Fritz Leiber

The loss of your first true love and being cursed by their ghosts. Of a gigantic treasure trove rumored to be unguarded but surrounded by unknown dangers. Of thieves and stealing houses. Of the Mingol horde, sunken lands, seven black priests, and the mysterious wizards Sheelba of the Eyeless Face and Ningauble of the Seven Eyes, and how to become their servants. All of that and a lot of treasure, jewels, and adventure is what we will find in February thanks to Swords against Death, by Fritz Leiber, a classic of the sword & sorcery genre. 

This Appendix N classic, a template for what years later would become D&D, is the second collection of short stories about the adventures of Fafhrd and Gray Mouser, but it includes some of the earliest written stories about them.

You can buy the kindle version here at Amazon, but if you can get your hands on the First Book of Lankhmar, from the Fantasy Masterworks collection, that's also an excellent option (it includes the first four books, Swords against Deviltry, Death, Mist, and Wizardry.) 

Welcome to Lankhmar.