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By
Charles R. Saunders
A horizon, not a box. A frontier, not a niche. A wide space, not a narrow one. Those are some of the aspects of the branch of fantasy fiction that is coming to be known as “sword-and-soul.” The term has only been in existence for a few years. Full disclosure: I started the genre nearly forty years ago; and, much later, I coined its name.
I began writing for publication in an attempt to come up with a positive response to a problem I found troublesome. At that time, I was in my mid-20s, coming of age with my fellow members of the much-maligned baby-boom generation. A boom of another kind was going on then as well – or, more descriptively, a deluge of books either written by or derivative of Robert E. Howard, a pulp-magazine writer of the 1930s who had died during that decade.
Howard was the creator of the iconic character Conan of Cimmeria, and in the process he spawned a new kind of fantasy story, which was eventually dubbed “sword-and-sorcery.” Howard’s tales of Conan and other stalwarts such as Kull of Atlantis provided a heady brew of magic and mayhem, horror and heroism, warfare and wizardry. During his heyday, Howard’s readers couldn’t get enough of his output, which was prodigious. Catching the wave, others began to write similar stories, with varying degrees of success.
When the pulp era ended after World War II, Howard’s work and the genre he founded slipped into obscurity. It took a while for publishers of the paperback books that succeeded the pulps to pick up on the potential of sword-and-sorcery. When they finally did, Howard’s work received more attention after his death than it ever had during his short lifetime (He committed suicide at the age of 30 in 1936).
Enhanced through irresistibly eye-catching cover paintings by the great artist Frank Frazetta, paperbacks that were either “Conan” or “In the Tradition of Conan” became ubiquitous in bookstores and newsstands. I was in my late teens and early 20s when this publishing phenomenon occurred, and I was hooked from the get-go. I read all the sword-and-sorcery I could get my hands on. And my visits to the authors’ imaginary worlds were enjoyable – for the most part.
That lesser part, however, grated like a stone in my shoe. That stone was racism.
Robert E. Howard and his contemporaries were products of their time. Racism, in the form of white supremacy, was an integral part of the popular culture of the early decades of the twentieth century, and as such it pervaded pulp fiction. As a product of a later time during which the tenets of racism came under vigorous challenge, my enjoyment of fiction from past decades was often compromised by the racial attitudes I encountered in my reading. On some occasions, I simply let it slide. On others, I wrestled with resentment.
Then I discovered a way to resolve my dilemma.
Interest in African history and culture surged during the 1960s, and at the same time I was reading sword-and-sorcery and fantasy fiction, I was also absorbing heretofore-unknown information about a continent that was not as “dark” as its detractors made it out to be. And I realized that this non-stereotypical Africa of history and legend was just as valid a setting for fantasy stories as was the ancient and medieval Europe that served as the common default setting for everything from Conan to Lord of the Rings.
A character came into my head then: Imaro, a black man who could stand alongside mythical warrior-heroes like Beowulf and Hercules, as well as fictional creations such as Conan and Kull. Through determination of delusion – or perhaps both – I began to write stories about Imaro’s adventures in an alternate-Africa I called “Nyumbani,” from the Swahili word for “home.”
Though I didn’t know it at the time, my Imaro stories of the 1970s and novels of the 1980s were forming the foundation for sword-and-soul.
* * *
For a long time, I felt that I was alone in what I was doing ... kind of like a voice howling in the wilderness, only to hear Tarzan howl back. A few other writers, such as Mary C. Aldridge and Robert D. San Souci, placed African-themed fantasy stories in the same small-press magazines that published my work. But the audience for any of us seemed elusive.
Then, around the beginning of the 2000s, with the Imaro novels long since out of print, I discovered that I had more company than Id realized, such as Sheree Renee Thomas, editor of the Dark Matter anthologies; Amy Harlib, writer and interviewer; Carole McDonnell, author of Wind Follower; Brother Uraeus, creator of Jaycen Wise; Gregory Walker, author of the Memnon series; Mshindo Kuumba, artist extraordinaire, and many others.
As it turns out, more than a few people are writing African-based fantasy stories these days. And more non-stereotypic black characters are appearing in stories set in non-black milieus. The work of writers such as Joe Abercrombie (The First Law trilogy) and Paul Kearney (The Monarchies of God series) are examples of the latter trend. And I feel damn good about that.
The contact I cherish above all others, though, is the one I made in 2007 with Milton J. Davis. That contact was the beginning of a friendship that has led to our joint editorship of this anthology.
Milton is one of the most talented, creative, and energetic people I have ever known. Without having read or heard of my Imaro stories, he developed his own alternate-Africa setting and wrote a pair of epic novels – Meji and Meji II – which tell the story of how the destiny of twin brothers separated at birth affects the fate of their continent, Uhuru. He has also written a novel about a merchant-warrior named Changa, who cuts a wide swath of derring-do on the East Coast of the Africa of our world during the time before European exploration and colonization.
Even through the middleman also known as the Internet, meeting Milton was like finding a previously unknown sibling – a “sword-and-soul brother.” I’m proud to have worked with him to make Griots a reality.
So, what in – or out of – the world is this thing called sword-and-soul?
* * *
The term came about during a conversation I had with Brother Uraeus. At one point, I said: “Yes, I’m writing sword-and-sorcery fiction. But considering the African-based setting, I ought to call it ‘sword, sorcery, and soul.’” That phrase seemed a bit awkward, though.
Then it hit me. “Or maybe it should be called ‘sword-and-soul.’”
Those three words sparked great enthusiasm in Uraeus, and I gave him permission to use it as the designator of his nascent publishing company, Sword & Soul Media. Since then, Sword & Soul Media has published two of my Imaro novels, along with a volume featuring Dossouye, my Black Amazon.
Sword-and-soul is a broad term, not a confining one. Essentially, it is fantasy fiction with an African connection in either the characters or the setting ... or both. The setting can be the historical Africa of the world we know, or the Africa of an alternate world, dimension or universe. But that’s not a restriction, because a sword-and-soul story can feature a black character in a non-black setting, or a non-black character in a black setting. Caveat: Tarzan of the Apes need not apply.
A sword-and-soul story may also be set in a future in which science and magic have become interchangeable, or one in which modern technology has long since been lost. Regardless of the setting, magic and heroism form the underpinnings of sword-and-soul.
Just as soul music can include everything from blues to hip hop, sword-and-soul encompasses everything from Imaro to ... well, go ahead and read the stories in this book and you’ll see.
