The Horned Prow

When the ice closed in, the ships were caught. Thane Ranne’s wounded fleet lay close to a rocky shore, the ice too thick to force a way through. The half-dozen longships groaned as the ice locked them in and winter descended, coating their dragon prows with ice. The sky was low and heavy with snow, and the winds from the northern seas were bitter and hungry, seeking for blood.

Buran was a young hearthman, and this raid had not borne him the fruits he had hoped for. He huddled against the rail on watch, keeping his gaze on the ice. He could not see far in the dim light, and the haze of the low clouds made the world a place of shadow and darkness. This had been his first taste of war, and it had been bitter.

A dozen war craft had set out, planning a surprise attack on the shores of Hadrad. It was the closing days of autumn, and no one would expect a sudden attack in ill weather and cold seas. They had planned to fire King Arnan’s hall and then range along the shores and pillage settlements and the halls of lesser thanes. Then they would slip back north before the freeze and return home covered in glory and laden with plunder.

But the ice came early and slowed their passage southward. Arnan and his war-hound Crune had been warned, and when they went ashore they met a heavy force of steel-clad warriors that threw them back into the sea with a price of blood. Buran had taken a hard blow on the helm and been carried senseless back to the ships as they escaped. Two had been burned before they could put to sea, and the others were short of crew.

There had been other raids in the weeks since, ships going ashore to plunder for firewood and food, rather than gold. Ranne still dreamed of a rich strike to fill the ship holds with treasure, but there was nothing. The heavy autumn mists separated the longships and now they were only six, with many wounded and hungry men. Now the winter had come and trapped them, and they would have to remain here until the thaw came in spring. The men looked ahead to privation and hunger and long winter nights. Already there were bitter words and hidden anger.

Primal

Sword & Sorcery tales traditionally take place in a world that is either an earlier era of our own, or a fictionalized analog of that. There’s a reason why my site is called New Iron Age and not “New Atom Age”, because that would be a different kind of image conjured in your mind, a different feel. Feel is a nebulous term in fiction, but it has meaning, and carries weight. Feel is what tells you, without having to be told, what a story is about in its essence. What kind of world you are being told about.

We develop a shorthand for this that encompasses a lot of things: style, dialogue, image, diction. In fiction it can center around what kind of prose this is: is it elevated and/or archaic? That gives us clues about how we are supposed to relate to this story. What things are described in the first lines of the story? Are we being told about mountains and forests and a castle on a hillside? That tells us something, and we begin – even if unconsciously – to set our feet.

Titles are important as well. A story that says “dragon” or “sword” is sending us one kind of message about what is going on, while a title that says, say “divorce” or “football” is telling us something very different. When a reader comes to a new story, they have a lot of things that can begin to set the scene in their minds, and a good writer takes advantage of that.

These days, a reader will often come to a story after a lot of stage-setting has already been done. They have seen the movie or the show made from the book, they have seen the cover art and read the back cover copy, they have read reviews online. They know, before they read a word, what kind of story this is in at least a broad sense. They know it is a story about a king and a war, or a story about a ballet dancer and a hostage situation in a cab, or an earthquake.

Yet as the author you still have to consider your opening very carefully. You have to choose details that will form the unconscious background the reader is building in their mind. You have to set the scene. A lot of modern fiction does not so much do this. It is rather common to see a story – or even a novel – begin with a line of dialogue divorced from any context. The author thinks this will get our attention, when really, without knowing who is speaking or even roughly where they are, the line is meaningless and makes no impact on the story.

So in a Sword & Sorcery story, you have to start selling what kind of story this is right from the word go. You have to make sure every detail is not only dripping with mood and dark atmosphere, but that it grounds you in a physical place that is like a more primally dangerous version of whatever you are basing this off of. In S&S you never dwell on the mild or nice aspects of a place – you go for the throat.

A forest might be pretty, but you don’t say that. You talk about the dark shadows and the huge, towering trees. You suggest timelessness and the gulfs of history by saying how ancient the forest is, and how it doubtless stood for aeons before the rise of man. Mountains loom, sunlight burns, rain slashes, cold bites. Everything in an S&S world has to be the amped-up, dangerous, pulp version of itself.

And characters should be introduced in the act of doing something. There is a good pulp maxim that a character should always be entering a scene with information or leaving it with intent. Characters in a Sword & Sorcery tale do not stand looking into the mirror or lounge in the autumn sunlight. A character should be hunting, fleeing, fighting, or defying something. Everything should be described in concrete terms to make the world vivid: iron swords, mail armor, burnished helms, battered shields. The adjective is your friend in this kind of story.

And you should always reach for the primal. The characters should inhabit a stark, dangerous world that feels primitive and filled with hazards. They should do things that are archetypal, like characters from legend. A Sword & Sorcery character should be in action from the start, and that action should be something that has always been, something that people have always done and that can hark back to the older, harsher world the story is evoking. It should be primal, always primal.

Black Seas

Autumn’s grief was not long, and the cold came down early from the north, bringing the ice that gathered between the islands and ground like stones trapped between the hard shores. The night skies came alive with the northern fire, and the wind bit through fur cloak and leather jerkin. The winter would come early, and hungry, in this year of battles.

Vane made his way up the stony hillside to where the cave crouched like a yawning maw, as though he could go in and be devoured by the powers that lay enchained beneath the earth. The headland was heavy with grass just browning in the cold, and the winds whipped at him across the sea. When he looked northward he saw the trails of ice flowing down from the north, the clear water between it narrower every day. This would be a hard winter, and his task would be made simpler.

He was a sea-watcher, charged by King Arnan to watch the coasts, and when the summer season of trade and warfare died, he might put away his guardianship. When the straits and narrows lay locked in ice, there was nothing to watch for, and he would shut himself away within his earthen fort and wait for the thaw. He had one slender ship and twenty men to row her, if need be. He did not need much else.

But now Kamlath sent word to him, and he had sought a reason to ignore her, but a seer-woman could not be lightly disregarded. Even if she was no bane-witch, still he did not trust her powers. He was a man of steel and leather and wood, and he did not wish any contact with the great powers that flowed unseen through the world.

Yet his dreams had been dark. All summer he had watched for an invasion, for a counter-blow to come from the usurper Hror after the bloody invasion of his land. He watched for ships upon the dark sea, and waited, and nothing came. And now, as the year ended, he woke from twisting dreams, seeing iron ships upon a bloody sea, feeling them close.