Kevin Wright's Blog: SaberPunk - Posts Tagged "sci-fi"

Greetings all.

This is the first entry of my new blog, SaberPunk. Awesome name, I know … or maybe I just think it’s awesome and really I’m trying too hard for it to sound cool.

Anyways, I chose the name mainly because I like it as a play on the science fiction genre ‘cyberpunk,’ of which I am a fan (particularly of William Gibson) but with the word ‘saber’ in it, to cleverly denote a more fantasy-centric feel. My wheelhouse for reads, fictionwise(I enjoy history as well) is mainly confined to the realms of fantasy, sci-fi, and horror (though I also enjoy detective fiction).

Who are my favorite sci fi and fantasy authors? In no particular order: Joe Abercrombie, China Mieville, Neil Gaiman, M. John Harrison, H.P. Lovecraft, Patrick LeClerc, Lloyd Alexander, Robert E. Howard(Conan! Though I prefer Solomon Kane to the mighty-thewed barbarian), J.R.R Tolkien, of course (except for Tom Bombadil whom, I believe — probably along with anyone else who’s ever read it — would be gleefully edited out of ‘Lord of the Rings’ were it published in this day and age), and again, of course, George R.R. Martin.

And exactly why should you care about SaberPunk and me and who my favorite authors are? Really you shouldn’t. I’m not very important. Not even slightly.

Moving on, my plan for SaberPunk is to offer reviews, opinions, or just discuss works and authors within these particular genres. I’m hoping to work my way through both classics that many fans of these genres(myself included) may have missed or overlooked or forgotten and some new works that aren’t quite so mainstream(mainly indie authors). Maybe you’ll find a new favorite author. Maybe I will. Maybe you’ll begin to hate me. Maybe I’ll begin to hate myself. Who knows?

The first work I’d like to highlight is ‘Elric of Melnibone’ written by the sci fi and fantasy legend Michael Moorcock and published by DAW Books in 1972.

I was first introduced to ‘Elric of Melnibone’ in the early 1980’s when I started playing Dungeons and Dragons, the role-playing game that made young men across the world virtually irresistible to women. Thumbing through ‘Deities and Demigods’ (the greatest — in my opinion — work of TSR, the publisher of AD&D and Dungeons and Dragons) was always one of my favorite literary pastimes(I’ll highlight ‘Deities and Demigods’ in a later post because it is so very awesome).

The first thing a 1980’s nerd(I used to be wicked smart) such as myself would notice about Elric in ‘Deities and Demigods’ is that, despite being the marquee entry in his respective area of Melnibonean Mythos, Elric is not tough. Not even in the least. For a guy who memorized the stats of all the gods and goddesses and heroes in ‘Deities and Demigods’ and pontificated regularly on who would win if Thor fought Zeus in a no holds barred contest of fisticuffs and thunderbolts(It’s too close to call, but my money would be on Thor because he’s Thor), and who was the toughest god(It’s Hastur the Unspeakable pg.45), Elric was far and away one of the most disappointing and pathetic entries in the entire book. His strength and constitution are 6 and 3 normally, which means that the 1980’s version of myself, a ten-year-old lad, could have probably taken him a fair fight. Not the stuff of legend, except for the fact that he looks like the cracked-out albino version of the lead singer of virtually any eighties hair band, which might be considered awesome by some.

So, when I was about ten or so, I became so enthralled with the Elric Mythos that I never went out and searched for him in book stores or the library. I have no excuse(It was probably that strength of 6 thing and I didn’t want to read about a guy I could best at arm wrestling). Fast forward thirty or so years to last month when my friend handed ‘Elric of Melnibone’ to me because he thought I’d like it.

He was right.

‘Elric of Melnibone’ is the first full length high-fantasy novel featuring Elric. It’s about 170 pages long, and it’s good. It’s not the greatest fantasy I’ve read, but I can see how Moorcock was looking to turn the world of fantasy, at the time, on its head. It seems to me(I was not born until 1976 and have neither researched nor confirmed and cannot corroborate that the following statements I’m making are even slightly true)that much of the fantasy of the day was centered around powerful warriors whose martial prowess more often than not carried the day(See: Conan, Kull, Aragorn, Boromir, Prince Gwydion, Solomon Kane, etc…).

Enter Elric, the desiccated husk of an albino emperor of a fallen empire, who is only able to function due to the imbibement of various magical potions he brews. Essentially, he’s a fantasy version of Walter White that’s become addicted to and requires his own homebrew of methamphetamine to function. If he doesn’t have his drugs, he just kind of sits around. Maybe he does poetry or something.

Also, unlike the beefier heroes such as Conan, who pretty much do what they want without hesitation or regret, Elric feels. He regrets. He does possess a conscience. He’s just not ruled by it, or even swayed by it, not even a little. In fact, after he pontificates on the evil he’s about to commit, he usually commits it. Within the first thirty pages of the book, he stands by approvingly as a woman and child are tortured to death … under his own orders. Then he pretty much high fives the torturer for doing such a darn good job. Elric makes Jaime Lannister’s murderously incestual decision making prowess in ‘Game of Throne’s’ seem trite by comparison. In fact, it seems like Elric’d be more comfortable sitting next to Emperor Palpatine and zapping the crap out of whiny Jedi knights than being the protagonist in a series of high fantasy novels and rescuing damsels in distress(Fear not, the said damsel in distress is the love of his life, but she also happens to be his cousin, so it’s still rather icky).

‘Elric of Melnibone’ is dark and it’s horrible and it’s good. And even if you don’t dig it, it’s a super short read. So read it.

Rock on.

Kevin Wright
Revelations: http://amzn.to/1rbza7Q
GrimNoir http://amzn.to/1GaFsYw
Lords of Asyum http://amzn.to/242AqeO

I had some concerns when I began reading Ren Warom’s Escapology. But I’ll get to that. For now, just know that I’m a fan of William Gibson’s Neuromancer. A big fan. It’s my favorite sci-fi novel, in fact. William Gibson’s writing moves. It’s sleek and stylish and you may not know where it’s going or even where you are when you get there, but you definitely feel the wind blowing back your hair while it’s happening. Ren Warom has a similar style which is the style of excellence incarnate. Warom’s writing style wasn’t my concern, however, it was merely its foreshadowing.

In the interest of avoiding spoilers with either work, let me just say that my concerns pertained to the many and profound similarities between the two, culminating in Escapology’s first chapter appearance of a character by the name of Mim who is dead-nuts identical to Molly from Neuromancer. Dead-nuts…

As I said, I had concerns.

Before Mim’s nail-in-the-coffin appearance, there was always this echo of Neuromancer pervading the prose in many forms: in the main character(Shock Pao), in the setting(the Gung), in the opening sequence(hangover), in the drugs(pervasive), and in the writing style(excellence incarnate). However, holding my concerns at bay and on the strength of Warom’s writing, I continued reading, and I didn’t stop because, as it turns out, my concerns were unfounded.

As I said, I’m a fan of Neuromancer. Warom is, too, she has to be, and that first chapter of Escapology is Warom’s tip of the cap to Gibson’s Neuromancer. She’s acknowledging Neuromancer for the masterpiece it is before striking off on her own drug-induced cyberpunk thriller. It’s a madcap dash through a futuristic techno-junglescape where everyone and anyone is a predator. The rub is that there’s always a bigger, badder, nastier predator waiting just around the next corner. And it’s hungry and you’re delicious.

—Kevin Wright

Chapter 1. A Bargain on Champions

THE TWO COMBATANTS circled each another amidst the raucous Swamp Rat Tavern crowd.

“FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!” the crowd tossed chairs and tables and goblins out of the way to form a circle.

“I piss on first-blood duels.” Madam Spew hopped atop a table. “Just ain’t proper. So, whoever survives gets the job!”

The crowd roared its approval.

Really, though, Madam Spew could only afford to hire one thug. And only one from the bottom of the barrel, which just so happened to be exactly where the Swamp Rat Tavern was situated.

“Two grunts on the Mullet!”

“I got one on the Tricorn!”

The first combatant was a straw-headed youngster wearing a tricorn hat, a rapier jutting from his quivering fist.

“A most unmanly weapon!” shouted his opponent, a tall mulleted man with a dashing patchwork cape cast across his shoulder. Within each fist, he wielded a bone steak knife.

“Kill him!” Madam Spew spat nut fragments as she screamed, entranced by the intoxicating promise of impending barbarity. Gimpy, her new chitterling pet, gnashed his rat teeth from the bottom of the bar stool.

“Stab him, mullet man!”

“FILLET HIM!”

The Mullet acted first, hurling a knife end over end at young Tricorne who tripped, serendipitously avoiding the flying blade.
“Ahhhhhhh!” cried a goblin in the crowd, clutching the knife buried in his skull.
Tricorn recovered wide-eyed, breathless, and lunged forward. Awkwardly. At best. The Mullet lurched aside as the rapier stabbed harmlessly past and into the crowd—

“Ahhhhhh!” screamed the same goblin.

“A fair thrust, boy!” The Mullet tore his cape from his neck and whipped it around his forearm. “But no man is Donvannos’s equal!” He slashed wildly, missing, recovered, and slashed again, missing even more. “Have at thee!”

Tricorn circled silently, eyes tearing up bloodshot in near panic, jabbing noncommittally here and there, using the rapier’s superior length, where his skill was obviously deficient, to his advantage. He spasmed forward suddenly, slamming his rapier to the hilt through the mulleted Donvannos — but wait — NO! Donvannos had deftly dodged the thrust and ensnared the rapier within his wrapped cloak which he whipped into Tricorn’s face.

The rapier clattered to the floor!

The crowd roared.

“Yield!” Donvannos bellowed.

Limbs locked together, they devolved to hand fighting, slapping at each other as they danced for supremacy. Donvannos was the bigger of the two, and he muscled Tricorn awkwardly to and fro, punching him in the kidney and spine until he tripped and both collapsed in a lanky heap. Donvannos landed on top. He pressed the point of his steak knife into Tricorn’s throat, a dot of red growing. “Yield!”

Tricorn still struggled.

“Enough, boy. Donvannos may kill by necessity, but he does no murder!”

“WHAT—!? BOOO!” roared the crowd, Madam Spew spearheading the jeer.

Tricorn’s eyes bulged from his skull, unaware even that Donvannos was talking.

“Cease this!” Madam Spew appeared suddenly amongst the legs of the bristling mob. An idea had metastasized in her warped brain. “You, Tricorn, are the vanquished! You, Donvannos, are the victor. Yet,” she raised her hands to either side, “I see no need for death this day!”

“WHAT—?!”

“KILL HIM, YOU PANSY!”

Whimpering, Tricorn closed his glistening eyes.

“There, there,” Madam Spew managed as she edged closer, disgusted but also impressed somehow by Tricorn’s complete and total lack of manliness. “There…” she added for good measure. “Ahem. How could I hire but one warrior, when two have so proven their mettle.” Madam Spew managed to croak it out without choking into laughter. But here it was: the victor hadn’t killed the loser, thus breaking the rules of the duel. So… She could shave his fee! And the loser, the very embodiment of the word, she could chisel down his fee to a quarter plog. She glanced at Tricorn’s puddle of saffron desperation growing beneath him. Possibly a eighth.

“Up, my boon comrade.” Donvannos grasped Tricorn by the forearm and yanked him up. “T’is time we met our generous employer.” He dusted off Tricorn’s shoulder then turned and bowed low. “Madam.”

“I believe this is yours.” Madam Spew handed Tricorn his rapier. “And this, I believe is yours,” she said as she stepped over and yanked Donvannos’s steak knife from the stupefied goblin’s head. He fainted. Possibly.

“Uh,” Donvannos winced, “perhaps someone should see to that fellow?”

Unsurprisingly, there were no takers. Except for Gimpy.

Madam Spew took a seat that the bar and ordered some swill.

“Uh, that chitterling…” Tricorn pointed surreptitiously with one finger.

“Ahem, what exactly shall be the nature of our work?” Donvannos nodded thanks to the bartender and took a sip of swill. He shuddered.

Madam Spew shoved a fistful of nuts into her maw and commenced chewing and speaking and spitting nut fragments as she did so. “The purpose of our quest is confidential. Know only that we’re trudging west to Festerfern Gorse come nightfall. And you are both to be my personal meat shields—ah, bodyguards.”

“Uh, Madam,” Tricorn whispered, “your rat-thingy-guy. He’s, uh, gnawing on that goblin’s head.”

“Yes well,” Madam Spew nodded her head in approval, “he’ll do that.”

Part 2. Corpse Conduct

“B-BUT, WE MUST give them a proper burial,” Criptchinn implored.

“Nay, Criptchinn, my goblin-lad, we must display them for all to see.” Wrackolyte Samharm laid a callused hand upon the altar goblin’s shoulder. “Nothing must seem amiss whence they arrive. I know it is a hard thing.” It seemed the empty black sockets of all the hanging dead were staring at him, loathing him, judging him. He averted his gaze and focused upon the remaining inhabitants of Festerfern Gorse. “We must not be ashamed of the unspeakable atrocities we as a community have committed upon our fallen brethren.” The stink was nearly unbearable. “It is a necessitude.”

“But it won’t work,” Criptchinn hissed. “They will know. If there is one thing they know, it is death! Death in all its forms. They will know it was fever killed them, not sacrifice!”

The assembled Gorsers began to mutter amongst themselves. Perhaps fifty strong they were. All those still hale enough to stand, to walk, to assemble. All those who hadn’t succumbed, hadn’t fallen, hadn’t hacked their own bloody lungs up. They were the lucky ones, perhaps…

“Our tithe’s a month late.” Criptchinn’s tiny hands balled into fists. “We should flee now—”

“Allay your fears, lad,” Wrackolyte Samharm said, though more to the Gorsers than the altar goblin. The Wrackolyte stood heads taller than the tallest, his one great cyclops eye surfing the crowd with an even gaze. “Yes, they come. Yes, they will be here on the morrow. Yet, we shall be long gone by then.” He crossed his arms. “Garmon Hawke and the Urzgareg brothers have watched the Old Ways this past week and watch them even now. They report back at every dawn and every dusk.” He glanced at the setting sun. “I expect Garmon within the hour. We require but another night for the final wagon to be complete.” He turned to a troll. “Is that a fair estimate, Moobruc?”

“Yes, Wrackolyte.” Moobruc twitched a dozen rapid-fire nods, his hat clutched between his two massive troll paws. “Is ready tomorrow. By sunrise tomorrow.”

“By sunrise,” Wrackolyte Samharm repeated, his clarion voice carrying. “Oberin, would you abandon your wife? Or you, Quaghain? Would you abandon your three children to the ravages of the fester-scorn fever? For a matter of a few hours?” He shook his head slowly. “Of course not. We all have loved ones who are ill, who are suffering, who are dying. We all have those we care about. I would not abandon a single one. Tomorrow,” he clasped his hands together, “it shall be the Craw we abandon forever. To Allbridge Tower in the west, the abode of the Healer. She shall cure our loved ones of this scourge.”

The crowd quelled. Hope, too, perhaps was infectious. Mayhap even more so than fester-scorn fever.

“Fertile soil awaits us across the river.” Wrackolyte Samharm nodded his bearded head as he gazed out with satisfaction over the crowd. “Good lives.” These were good peoples. And they had found the true path. They deserved better than muck-farming till the end of their miserable days. The festerfern that grew in the marshes often proved deadly with prolonged exposure. Outsiders feared it, avoided it, which was its sole boon. But its toll had been taken upon the populace, who swung lazily in the breeze, and it was time to move on.

“Lustrous crops and clean air await us.” Wrackolyte Samharm strode into the crowd. It parted before him and closed behind, embracing him. They had accepted him in the five short years the Black Temple been assigned him here. They had listened to him, grown with him, made him one of their own. All different races, all bound by propinquity and love of family, of farming, of peace.
“Salvation, brothers, sisters, harkens nigh but hours away.” He fixed his gaze upon one set of eyes and then another. “We have all committed sins.” He strode through the forest of bodies recognizing croakers and humans and goblins. All friends, all brothers, all sisters, all Travellers upon the Shining Path.

All…except one.

“We must align and hang the final bodies within the square.” Wrackolyte Samharm glanced past the stranger as he moved toward him. “We must apply the tithing rites to them though it sickens us to do so. I shall bear this gruesome burden, for it will take an expert hand, else all might be lost.”

The stranger was a male, a young human male.

Wrackolyte Samharm edged through the crowd, greeting folk, reassuring them. “Seamus, good to see you.” His eyesight was not strong at distance. “Clarista, you look well.” He moved closer to the man, a mere boy, really. “Marius, fear not.” A tricorn hat sat upon the boy’s head. A rapier at his hip. A most unmanly weapon.

“We take solace that our dead shall offer us life. We take solace that those who have passed on begged with dying breath that we do this. So that their loved ones might carry on.”

During the speech, the boy had remained upon the crowd’s outskirts. Now the boy shied away as Wrackolyte Samharm neared. He melted back into the shadows, but the sunlight was yet strong and Wrackolyte Samharm was close.

“You are new to Festerfern Gorse, lad,” Wrackolyte Samharm announced.

“Eh, who?” The boy turned, mumbling something unintelligible, and then turned back, flustered, stumbling.

“He’s a spy!” The crowd had oozed out from the hovels and lean-tos and hanging corpses to engulf the boy like an oozed. “A spy for them!”

The boy twitched from left to right, back and forth on the balls of his feet.

The crowd closed in on him slowly, edging nearer, hands flexing open and closed, heavy rusted farm tools borne by many.

“I would know your name and purpose, lad.” Wrackolyte Samharm towered over the boy. “You shan’t be harmed.” With the raise of his hand, the crowd hung back. “You have my word.”

“P-Please don’t hurt me.” The boy licked his lips. “Just let me go. Please. Madam Spew said—”

Someone in the crowd coughed behind him, and the boy grabbed at the rapier at his hip. “Stay back!”

“!@*HOLD*@!” Wrackolyte Samharm thrust an illuminated hand out.

The boy froze in place just as his blade whisked free of its scabbard.

At the sight of the bared steel, Criptchinn, all needles and teeth, pounced upon the frozen lad’s back, sending them both to the ground in a ragged heap.

“I am Father Samharm, Litigate of Sanctos, He of Justice, He of Right, He of the Sun and the Swamp, and all betwixt. I walk the True Path, my apostasy nigh-complete.” Father Samharm peered down at the twisted heap. Neither one moved. “Up, Criptchinn. Do no harm. Criptchinn…?”

Father Samharm dropped to a knee in the muck and rolled Criptchinn off the spell-frozen boy.

“UUUUrrggh…” A black rose was blossoming fast upon Criptchinn’s chest and likewise upon the back of the fallen boy. The boy’s rapier blade protruded between the two, connecting them. Criptchinn crumpled grey into the muck, sliding from Father Samharm’s arms limp as a dead eel.

“Criptchinn!” Father Samharm roared. “NO!” He raised his open hand and grasped the red setting sun, drawing it down in effigy, glowing live and vermilion within his thick fist as he pressed the energy to Criptchinn’s chest. “!@*LIVE*@!” Father Samharm commanded, his voice echoing as he forced shimmering brilliance inside the wound. A chorus of seraphim filled the air as the wind blew warm and strong, and as it blew, color and life returned to Criptchinn’s small green form.

“Another corpse.” Garmon Hawke knelt, placing a hand upon the boy’s throat. He had returned suddenly and unawares, which was one of his gifts. “Gotta hide him, Father.”

“Please—” Father Samharm was at the boy’s body, rolling him over. The rapier had skewered him through and through, just below his sternum. “This,” his hands fell, weak, shaking, “is beyond me.” A great tear rolled from his single orb. “Why?”

“Cause he was a stupid kid, Father,” Garmon Hawke spat into the muck, “and nothin’ more.”

Father Samharm shook his head as he began the Prayer of the Sanctified Fallen. Hats amongst the crowd were doffed and gazes aimed low. When Father Samharm had finished, he closed the boy’s eyes and drew the rapier free, wiping the blade clean on his own robes.

“Will Criptchinn live?” Garmon Hawke asked.

“Yea, though it shall pain him the rest of his days.” Father Samharm took the boy’s tricorn hat and placed it over the boy’s face. “Moobruc, bear Criptchinn to my home, please. Watch over him until I return.”

The big troll obeyed, lifting Criptchinn with ease.

Father Samharm looked to Garmon Hawke. “How close are they?”

“Too close.” Garmon Hawke adjusted his brimmed hat and glanced at the horizon. “They’ll be here tonight. Two, maybe three hours.”

“Too soon by far.” Father Samharm clenched a fist. “The boy mentioned a name. Madam Spew? A Wrackolyte, no doubt. Have you gleaned anything of her in your forays?”

“Yup. She’s the one leads them.” Garmon Hawke knelt and wrapped the boy in his cloak. “Vicious little turd. A croaker. Wears a still-beating heart slung round her neck. Real pretty. Craven Lord’s sigil’s on it. Dresses like a whore — excuse me, father.” He sat the dead boy up then lifted him across his shoulders. “Was six all together. Five now. Two men. Two croakers. One chitterling. They got weapons. One or two might know how to use them. And they never seen us. Hmmph… City folk.” He adjusted a notched blade-breaker at his belt. “Spew sent the boy on ahead to spy. I let him through. Followed him.” A crossbow was slung across his back. “I’m going back to rendezvous with Nergril and Nurk after I take care of this. Father, we could take them in the swamps. They’d never know we was a coming…” He left it hanging as though hoping for no protest.

“I would risk neither Nergril nor Nurk, nor you, Garmon,” Father Samharm said. “Nay, let them come. We’ll evacuate who we can. Let it be me who deals with them.”

“Sure you’re up to it?” Garmon Hawke fixed him through one eye.

“I…I shall manage.”

“Me and the boys could do it.” He glanced up at the corpse borne across his shoulders. “You could take him.”

“Nay, brother.” He gazed at the horizon as the sun disappeared. “Enough death has been dealt on this day. The people of Festerfern Gorse shall need you to guide them to safety. To watch them. To protect them. And, Garmon,” he placed a hand upon Garmon Hawke’s shoulder, “do no harm.”

“Sure thing.” Garmon Hawke slung the corpse across the back of his shaggy garron’s back. “Old habits die easy, Father, just like everything else.” He stepped up into the saddle. “Trouble is keepin’ em that way.”