(“Sword and sorcery” is sometimes used as a derogatory term for “bad fantasy” or a specific type of bad fantasy. We shall acknowledge but otherwise ignore this usage.)
So. What is “sword-and-sorcery” fantasy?
Lin Carter, in his introduction to L. Sprague de Camp’s Literary Swordsmen and Sorcerers: The Makers of Heroic Fantasy (1976) wrote, among other things, that sword and sorcery “is written primarily to entertain.” That’s certainly part of it.
Among the many who have defined it one way or another, Darrell Schweitzer described sword-and-sorcery fantasy this way: “In the broadest sense, a sword-and-sorcery story is one about heroic adventures, in a primitive or imaginary-world setting, with supernatural elements.” He continues, explaining the definition is both too general and too specific and wonders if “sword and sorcery ever exist[ed] in the first place, or was it merely a subset of fantasy defined by its cliché?”
Schweitzer goes on to note (and this is why I chose his definition):
Much of what was retrospectively lumped together into the “genre” had little in common before that point: Howard’s Conan. Clark Ashton Smith’s tales of Hyperborea and Zothique. Jack Vance’s Dying Earth. Leiber’s Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, de Camp’s Poseidonis and Jorian adventures, Moorcock’s Elric, Charles Saunders’s Imaro, and so on. Those stories have some elements in common, but their merits, we suggest, have more to do with their differences. It is precisely because Leiber’s or Moorcock’s or de Camp’s work constitutes an original vision, and is not a retread of Howard, that it is of interest.
It’s an interesting theory. Does retaining some tropes, but turning others on their heads keep S&S vital, relevant, and entertaining? Maybe the best S&S is not just evolutionary but revolutionary.
All fantasy, including sword and sorcery, has its ancient antecedents in myth and legend. At the least, what came to be known as both the genre and the marketing category of fantasy builds on the past but constantly progresses.
Genres—or subgenres—arise due to public demand. What I mean is: there may be appreciation and critical notice of a literary genre, even a quantity of readers, but it takes sufficient public demand for a particular type of fiction for it to become a marketing category. In order to successfully market a type of fiction, publishers have to produce predictable fiction that the public recognizes as what it wants. Genrification. Yes, lots of formulaic garbage results, but the non-garbage is apt to survive and be recognized as something more than the surrounding refuse.
I am briefly looking at the gentrification of fantasy and, specifically sword-and-sorcery fantasy, here. Categories begat opportunities for writers to create. Writers may then subvert or defy the very boundaries that give them opportunity; great originality, even great art may result. (Or not.)
[Note: This introduction and I owe a great deal to “The Making of the American Fantasy Genre” by David Hartwell from The Secret History of Fantasy, edited by Peter S. Beagle (Tachyon Publications, 2010). I wish David were still with us for many reasons, the least of which is so I could have picked his brain on the subject.]
In the mid-nineteenth century, fantasy was set apart from adult literature and deemed suitable only for children. In the 1920s and 1930s, pulp magazines were about the only venues through which fantasy (and science fiction) could reach a reading public.
The progenitor of what later came to be known as sword-and-sorcery fantasy was Robert E. Howard (1906-1936). He created the character of Conan the Cimmerian, a barbarian warrior whose adventures first began appearing in Weird Tales in 1932. The stories were popular and there was a demand for similar tales. Other writers added their own flavors to the not-yet-seen-as S&S mix.
Aided by the slow death of the pulp magazines in the 1940s, sword and sorcery overall fell out of favor with the reading public. It hadn’t disappeared, mind you—in fact, some of the best managed to get published, sometimes lightly disguised as science fiction, during the period—but without enough readers clamoring for it, few opportunities existed.
The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien (1892-1973) was published in three volumes in 1954 and 1955. Not as fantasy, but as general fiction. Critically acclaimed, it was no bestseller but sold well enough in hardcover. Then, mass-market paperback editions—as fantasy—appeared in 1965; it became a publishing phenomenon. A commercial market for fantasy was born.
Publishers, naturally wanting to repeat such sales success, started publishing fantasy of many types. Surprisingly (and to the dismay of many) only the Lancer editions that reprinted Robert E. Howard’s Conan stories sold anywhere close to the numbers of Tolkien. Sales for direct imitators of Conan and other more innovative sword-and-sorcery authors—including Fritz Leiber and Michael Moorcock—were also healthy enough to make publishers happy. Sword & sorcery thrived.
By the start of the seventies, only the sword and sorcery category—or heroic fantasy as it was also called—was selling as well as Tolkien.
There were fewer periodical markets, but what magazines there were published some short S&S fiction. Sword-and-sorcery comics became popular. Reprint anthologies compiling previously published stories appeared, as did original-fiction anthology series with titles like Flashing Swords, Swords Against Darkness, and Sword and Sorceress.
A film, Conan the Barbarian (1982), which had little to do with Howard’s creation, was successful enough to be followed by even worse movies of the ilk. Sword and sorcery’s rep, already weighed down with too much trash, got worse.
Meanwhile, publishers figured out that readers wanted books that were not only fantasy, but close imitations of Tolkien. Backed by canny marketing, The Sword of Shannara, an epic fantasy novel by Terry Brooks become a major bestseller in 1977. The general public had found the next “big thing”: big commercial fantasy. Fantasy in general was further codified. (Briefly: virtuous male protagonist aided by mentor overcomes evil. Add magic and top-dollar cover art.) In time, this commercial epic fantasy more or less subsumed sword and sorcery, but S&S was also along for the ride by its own name.
(Generic fantasy that made money meant that higher quality fantasy got published, even though low sales were expected. Publishing still works this way.)
Eventually, the pubic was overwhelmed by too much epic fantasy from the same mold, too much of it of low quality. Publishers became more selective. The number of titles and series were reduced. Other subgenres of fantasy became popular. Generic epic fantasy—some good, some bad—continues to sell well in the twenty-first century, but it doesn’t dominate completely. There are still many earlier series being read today even as newer authors are making their mark.
As for S&S, the masses found it in other places. Like gaming. The role-playing game Dungeons & Dragons was influenced by many sources. But it owes a considerable debt—as do many games since—to the fiction of Robert E. Howard, Fritz Leiber, Michael Moorcock, and other S&S authors. Even if gamers never heard of such authors, without them video game consoles might never have existed. (And, in turn, gaming has influenced fiction writers.)
Video games are far more popular than books these days. So are films and television—other media often inspired, sometimes unknowingly, by S&S. (And, in turn, film and TV influences fiction writers.) HBO’s success with George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire epic fantasy series has brought attention—and thus opportunity for creators.
There is, of course, differences between epic fantasy and S&S. Exceptions are often the rule, but epic fantasy usually has grand scale, vast armies, global stakes, and lots of characters. Sword and sorcery tends to involve action and only a few characters concerned with more personal, immediate stakes. But many modern epic fantasy authors are using S&S elements and flavors in their fiction. And the “old masters” of S&S are still read and discovered by new readers. An author or a book or a series of books can become a cultural phenomenon if the general public becomes enthralled in a movie or television series or digital video content series. Screen versions of S&S classics are often rumored.
There are those who want S&S to remain as is once was, or kept within a strict definition. That’s their prerogative, but they also often wonder why others don’t appreciate or even read the “good old stuff.” The answer is easy: if you cannot wade through a style of writing or look past elements of racism, sexism, misogyny, and the like or find little to identify with and/or escape into—you are no longer being entertained. You don’t read it.
Even though I could not include all the authors I wanted to—particularly Andre Norton, Jennifer Roberson, and Charles R. Saunders—this anthology has examples of many styles and voices of S&S, all of which were published or labeled (by someone or someones other than me) as sword and sorcery. You may find some of the stories not to your liking. If so, you will, I hope, find others that you do enjoy. It is a big book!
The idea is to present a broad range of entertaining stories that can be seen as sword and sorcery. Despite the brief introductions I provide for each story, the aim is not to supply any sort of outline/history of S&S, just information and context.
I’ve divided the stories into three sections:
1. Forging and Shaping: the seminal authors
2. Normalizing and Annealing: those who followed and shaped
3. Tempering and Sharpening: those who bring something new to the genre
I can debate some of my own categorizations, but the intent is to simply organize and present—not provide profound interpretations or unassailable rules.
The title of this introduction? It is from “Adept’s Gambit,” a Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser story by Fritz Leiber.
Paula Guran