Of The Hobbit and level titles in D&D

I was listening to The Hobbit while driving to work the other day when this exchange between Thorin and Gandalf impressed itself on my D&D-addled mind:

"But we none of us liked the idea of the Front Gate. The river runs right out of it through the great cliff at the South of the Mountain, and out of it comes the dragon too--far too often, unless he has changed his habits."

"That would be no good," said the wizard, "not without a mighty Warrior, even a Hero. I tried to find one; but warriors are busy fighting one another in distant lands, and in this neighborhood heroes are scarce, or simply not to be found."

Gandalf's lament about the lack of qualified swordsmen in the area immediately got me thinking of level titles in D&D, and why I'm a fan of them. Some people think that level titles are a vestigial organ of an older game and rather silly. Others have remarked that they add color and "fluff," but can be safely dropped. But this exchange proves that level titles are not without a practical function: They allow the relative competency of a PC or NPC to be identified without breaking suspension of disbelief, or resorting to metagame language (e.g., walking into a tavern and inquiring about the services of a 9th level cleric).

To get back to Gandalf's comment, in first edition AD&D a Warrior is a second-level fighter and a Hero is a fourth-level fighter. In AD&D terms, therefore, his comment makes perfect sense, as he implies that an experienced sword-arm (i.e., more than a common, 0-level man-at-arms) is needed if the party has any hopes of entering the front gate of Lonely Mountain. A second-level Warrior would fit the bill. From his comment a reader can also safely deduce a Hero is stronger than a Warrior ("even a Hero," Gandalf says.)

In fact, I would submit that this dialogue may have provided Gary Gygax with the idea of level titles.

Of course, as any D&D player knows, a 2nd level or 4th level fighter is hopelessly overmatched against any dragon, even a younger white dragon, let alone an ancient red such as Smaug (who is presumably of the 11 hit dice, 88 HP variety). But given that Third-Age Middle-Earth is, by D&D standards, low-magic and low-powered, and that an infamous article in the March 1977 issue of The Dragon speculated that Gandalf was only a 5th level magic-user, a 4th level fighter--excuse me, Hero--would be quite a formidable swordsman in Middle-Earth, and a welcome addition to the troupe of dwarves and hobbit.

Cimmerian sighting: A harrowing look into 'The Face of Battle'

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility;
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, [conjure] up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favor’d rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.

–William Shakespeare, Henry V

My copy of The Face of Battle greets its reader with the profiled, mail-coifed skull of a Swedish soldier killed in the Battle of Visby, 27 July 1361. This simple, arresting image serves as a proverbial “worth a thousand words” summary of author John Keegan’s seminal work of military history. It is, in my opinion, a must-read for devotees of historical and/or fictional combat.

When I read fantasy literature I often find myself caught up in the action, thrilling in the swirl of combat without regard for the carnage and misery that actual battle wreaks on its participants. The Face of Battle is the bitter antidote to these vicarious feelings of heroism and joyous slaughter that possess me during my literary excursions, reminding me that a battlefield—medieval, Napoleonic, modern, or Hyborian Age, for that matter—is no place that I’d really want to be. Ultimately, Keegan’s book is a powerful statement against the insanity of armed conflict.

To read the rest of this post, visit The Cimmerian Web site .

A review of REH: Two Gun Raconteur #13

Damon Sasser, as one Robert E. Howard fan to another: Take a bow. The editor of REH: Two Gun Raconteur (The Definitive Howard Journal) gets my praise for putting out a superb issue no. 13.

Before I delve into a description of the contents of REH: TGR 13, I’ll drop any pretense as a neutral reviewer and offer a mea culpa: I stand in awe of Sasser’s publication and the other journals dedicated to the life and writings of Howard. These include REH: TGR , The Dark Man, and until recently, The Cimmerian. These publications require a great deal of work to write and illustrate, edit, produce, and distribute, and are labors of love for which Howard fans owe their editors a debt of gratitude. They certainly have mine. It is wonderful to see the flame of Howard’s literary and cultural reputation, passed down from the likes of Amra in the 1950s, kept alive and burning strong. I hope that these remaining presses of Howard fandom and literary criticism keep running in the years to come.

As a newcomer to the universe of Howard journals, this was the first issue of REH:TGR that I’ve ever seen. Although they say you cannot judge a book by its cover I was sold after viewing its wonderful full-color cover illustration of Kull and Brule battling a horde of serpent-men. This is perhaps the most memorable scene from Howard’s “The Shadow Kingdom,” commonly regarded as the first swords-and-sorcery tale ever written. The journal is a cleanly laid out, 8.5x11 black and white format with glossy paper, illustrated lavishly throughout and nice to look at and hold.

I was doubly pleased to find a Howard story leading off the issue, “The Black Moon.” This is a rare detective story by Howard and one I had never read before. Steve Harrison is a hard-bitten, tough, and muscular investigator that you don’t want to tangle with in a dark alley. The story starts with the murder of Harrison’s friend Wang Yun, an old Chinese shopkeeper who suffers a fatal bite from a cobra deviously planted in his shop. With his dying breath Yun tells Harrison that someone is after the Black Moon, described by Howard as “the biggest, most perfect black pearl in the world,” worn by the Empress Wu-hou in 684 A.D. and the prize of the crown jewels of China. The pearl is hidden in Yun's shop. Harrison spends the rest of the story finding the Black Moon, uncovering the identity of the murderer, and setting the trap to catch Yun’s killer.

“The Black Moon” isn’t Howard’s strongest work and some of the dialogue is downright clunky, but as with almost all of Howard’s tales it’s carried by a compelling, fast-paced plot. There’s also some surprising humor in here (or at least surprising to those who only know Howard through Conan and the grim Solomon Kane): For example, there’s one scene in which a suspect refuses to take the Black Moon, telling Harrison with a perfectly straight face that, “Pearls like that cause more murder than women do.”

As much as I enjoyed “The Black Moon,” the centerpiece of the issue is Bob Roehm’s “The Long and Winding Road: A Poetic History,” which tells in detail the fascinating publication history of The Complete Poetry of Robert E. Howard, as well as previously published books of Howard poetry, including Always Comes Evening (1957) and Singers in the Shadows (1970). Roehm’s piece left me feeling very sad for Howard’s father, Dr. Isaac Howard, who suffered so much following his wife’s passing and his son’s suicide. Dr. Howard dearly wanted to see his son’s poetry published in his lifetime, but unfortunately he passed away in 1944, 13 years before Always Comes Evening and with his son’s poems in limbo, sitting in the hands of the faltering Druid Press. Roehm’s article also gave me another reason to admire the great work of Glenn Lord, whose tireless work tracking down Howard’s poetry led to the publication of Always Comes Evening.

“Kingdoms of Cloud and Moonmist: Casual Observations on the Harold Lamb influence in the Crusader tales of Robert E. Howard” by Brian Leno explores the influence of Lamb on Howard’s writings. Lamb was a noted writer of historic pulp fiction and Howard delved into the genre in the early 1930s with a few stories of his own set during the Crusades. I’ll admit to having read very little of Howard’s work in this genre, an oversight I plan to correct some day.

“The Hyperboreans Re-Imagined” by Morgan Holmes pieces together details on a little known race from the Hyborian Age, the Hyperboreans, offering a different vision of Hyberborea than the one presented in pastiches and role-playing games. This warlike nation lost a showdown with Aquilonia near the end of the Hyborian Age, and, crippled by the destruction of their army, fell to barbarian invasions. Pulling together evidence of various mercenaries and other surviving Hyberboreans from Howard’s tales, Holmes offers informed speculation on what the race and its empire may have been like.

“The Skald and the King” by Chris Green draws comparisons between Marvel Comics great Jack Kirby and Howard, two creative visionaries who burned with a fire to tell stories of larger-than-life heroes.

REH:TGR 13 concludes with “The Mighty Revelator Passes: Tributes and Farewells to Steve Tompkins.” These 10 mini-essays pay tribute to Tompkins, whose untimely death earlier this year extinguished the light of one of the brightest and most passionate minds in Howard studies. As I mentioned in a past post , I never met Steve, but e-mailed with him occasionally and read all of his essays I could find. His passing was and is a painful shock. I think Steve would have been humbled by the esteem in which he was held by guys like Rusty Burke, Mark Finn, Leo Grin, Al Harron, Scotty Henderson, Don Herron, Morgan Holmes, Deuce Richardson, Gary Romeo, Charles Saunders, and Sasser. For those who knew Steve, even peripherally, it’s difficult to get through this section with a dry eye. Access to these heartfelt tributes and farewells was worth the cover price alone.

Hrolf Kraki in the Guardian

As a longtime proponent of Poul Anderson's Hrolf Kraki's Saga, I was pleased today to see a review of this fine but mostly forgotten novel over at the online version of the British newspaper The Guardian, Cracking Poul Anderson's Kraki. The Guardian's Alison Flood is working her way through some of the fantasy genre's classics, including former British Fantasy award winners, which Anderson claimed in 1974 with Hrolf Kraki.

I don't agree with some of Flood's criticisms of the novel, including her disdain for Anderson's mythic language and poetry (which I think is part of the novel's unique charm and appeal, as well as a reflection of Anderson's faithfulness to the source material, the fragmentary Hrolf Kraki Saga and other ancient Icelandic sagas). But it's nice to see this mythic tale of a brief, shining period of peace in dark ages Denmark get some public recognition.

Cimmerian sighting: King Arthur film to get 300 treatment

Ain’t It Cool News is reporting that comic book writer/novelist Warren Ellis is currently working on a script for a King Arthur movie that he plans to turn over to the producers of 300. For me at least (and I may be a chorus of one here), this news ain’t so cool.

I know 300 was a box-office hit, and by rights I should have enjoyed it more than I did. But while I wasn’t bored with the final product I don’t have the need to ever see it again. 300 was all spectacle and no heart, remarkably devoid of any of the pathos that should have accompanied a story about the noble sacrifice of a group of incredibly brave, well-trained, and loyal soldiers. It's a heartless, empty bronze cuirass with little to offer outside of its shouting, angry Spartan soldiers and CGI-happy, slow-motion, Matrix-style combat.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—Steven Pressfield’s Gates of Fire did Thermopylae far, far better than Frank Miller or the one-note 300 ever did. Isn’t there more to fantasy films than the Helm’s Deep scene or knockoffs of Gladiator?

To read the rest of this post, visit The Cimmerian Web site.

Review: How the Irish Saved Civilization

While Rome and its ancient empire faded from memory and a new, illiterate Europe rose on its ruins, a vibrant, literary culture was blooming in secret along its Celtic fringe. It needed only one step more to close the circle, which would reconnect Europe to its own past by way of scribal Ireland.

—Thomas Cahill, How the Irish Saved Civilization

These days I find myself turning more and more toward non-fiction to satisfy my fantasy yearnings. After all, what is more fantastic than real events like the rise of the Roman empire, its conquest of great swathes of Europe, Asia, and Africa, and its decline and eventual overthrow at the hands of teeming barbarian hordes? At times it’s hard to believe that these events and the subsequent Dark Ages actually occurred, but of course they did, and I find their reality every bit as unearthly as most of the fantasy fiction I’ve read. Thinking about the enormity of these great events can take your breath away.

After reading Thomas Cahill’s How the Irish Saved Civilization I again experienced a sense of awe regarding history itself. I marveled that the great movers and shakers of that era—Saint Patrick and Saint Columba, among others—actually lived and breathed.

How the Irish Saved Civilization seeks to give the Irish their due in early medieval history. Cahill says that many historians have overlooked the Irish contribution, largely because the Irish helped transition two periods of history—the classical and medieval—without serving as a cultural force in either period. “It is also true that historians are generally expert in one period or the other, so that analysis of the transition falls outside their—and everyone’s?—competence,” he writes.

Cahill’s book directly addresses the country’s role during this critical shift. He argues that a group of Irish monks, newly converted to Christianity, copied and preserved much of the ancient Greek, Roman, and other early Latin literature, saving it from loss and destruction in barbarian-overrun Europe and allowing future generations to learn from these priceless texts (sidenote: I've been to Trinity College in Dublin to see the Book of Kells, and it is pretty impressive). These same monks in the sixth through the ninth centuries emigrated to Dark Ages Europe and helped sew the seeds of learning and Christianity, founding monasteries that would in time become great European cities. Writes Cahill:

Wherever they went the Irish brought with them their books, many unseen in Europe for centuries and tied to their waists as signs of triumph, just as Irish heroes had once tied to their waists their enemies’ heads. Wherever they went they brought their love of learning and their skills in bookmaking. In the bays and valleys of their exile, they reestablished literacy and breathed new life into the exhausted literary culture of Europe.

And that is how the Irish saved civilization.

Cahill sets the stage for the Irish contribution by reminding us of the glory that was Rome, summarizing in the first chapter much of the existing theories on how it fell. He deftly sums up the state of learning that existed at the time, religion and philosophy and political thought developed by the Greeks and incorporated and expanded upon by the Romans. Much of this knowledge was in danger of eradication after 476 A.D., the year in which Romulus Augustulus, the last Roman emperor, was deposed by the barbarians. It’s also the date after which the western Roman empire generally ceased to exist.

The Irish monks—and thus, much of classical writing—would not have existed were it not for St. Patrick, Cahill argues. Originally a Roman citizen, St. Patrick helped convert Ireland from a warlike, pagan country that still practiced human sacrifice to a more peaceful Christian society, one that fostered learning and the transmission of knowledge. Cahill admits that much of what he has written concerning St. Patrick is conjecture, but the light evidence he does provide of St. Patrick’s pivotal role is convincing.

Unfortunately, How the Irish Saved Civilization overlooks the contributions of other countries and cultures during this era, including the fact that Byzantium in the east housed a great deal of classic literature and was at least as, if not more important, in preserving the Greek and Roman traditions. The book is also rather light (218 pages, plus some footnotes and a pronunciation guide), and feels a bit like an essay or term paper padded out with background, conjecture, and opinion. Many reviewers more history-savvy than I savaged some of its omissions and conclusions over on Amazon.com.

Still, its faults aside, How the Irish Saved Civilization is an engaging introduction to a fascinating (and literally) dark period of history. Cahill is a good writer with a strong, playful voice, and How the Irish Saved Civilization is such an easy read that even those who believe that history and non-fiction are dull subjects will likely enjoy it. In the end, I think it accomplishes what primers in general are supposed to do—get you interested in reading more, and more deeply, on the subject at hand.

Cimmerian sighting: Will World War Z translate to the screen?

War and zombies are two of my favorite subjects. So it should come as no surprise that Max Brooks’ terrific tale of the zombie war that nearly ended of all humanity—World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War—made for some damned fine reading in my household. Pardon the pun, but I devoured this book the minute it came in the mail.

The best zombie stories are not only fun and gruesome, but also reveal truths about the human condition. In this regard, World War Z can stand alongside the George Romero films with its combination of violence and horror sandwiched around a heaping helping of thoughtful social and political commentary.

The zombie plague of World War Z is deliberately left unexplained—it starts in the heart of China, half-hinted as the result of some undescribed industrial waste leak. But beginning with “Patient Zero,” an infected, gray-skinned, 12-year-old-turned zombie, Brooks manages to paint a very convincing picture of how the plague quickly spreads and threatens to overwhelm all of humanity. Brooks has done his research on politics, world economics, plague outbreaks, military tactics and technology, combat fatigue, and climate conditions, and the result feels like history, an event that really happened (or, chillingly, could actually happen).

To read the rest of this post, visit The Cimmerian Web site.