Writing Fantasy Heroes

by Jason M Waltz (ed)

  Dabir and I agreed that the stars were an awesome sight. We admired them as they rose, and stared long at them as we walked, for they marked our route. Almost I was glad that we might be trapped there, to have seen such a thing. The moon gleamed, too, like a silver ball unmarred by the mottled circles which usually decorate its surface. I fancied that I detected waves sweeping its face. Might there be a glistening sea there onto which brave souls could venture out in ships?

  “What is that?”

  Dabir’s question interrupted my imaginings. He pointed off to our right. A vast glow rose up from the sand somewhere to our northeast.

  “Is it a city?”

  “I have no idea,” Dabir admitted. “It might be something useful. We should go see.”

  “What if it’s something dangerous?”

  “It might well be,” Dabir acknowledged, but did not leave off trotting down the side of the dune toward the glow.

  I sighed inwardly and followed him. The light source did not prove to be as close as it first had seemed. Down we went, and up, and down and up again, and still the light remained mysterious and distant.

  “Is it a mirage?”

  “Mirages do not occur at night,” Dabir said.

  “Maybe they do here,” I replied. He grunted, which might have been a yield to my point.

  A half hour or more we walked before finally reaching the crest of a high, rippled dune and looking down upon a shining mystery.

  All the sand had been cleared from a vast swath of the desert that stretched on for miles, exposing black bedrock. Set into that bedrock were countless thousands of twinkling lights.

  “They look like the stars,” I said.

  “It is a map,” Dabir said softly. “Someone has made a map of the stars. But it is backwards. See, there is the Coffin, and the Mourners. But Alioth is to the left of Mizar.”

  While I do not know the names of all the stars, I know many of the constellations, and I saw that Dabir was right.

  “Who would go to all this trouble,” I asked, “and set it up the wrong way?”

  “And to what purpose?” Dabir asked. Doubtless he did not expect an answer from me. “Notice that some of the flickers burn more brightly than others, just as real stars.

  “Magic,” I said.

  Dabir crouched. “I would like a closer look.”

  “I do not recommend it. We cannot delay—we must find a way to stop Firouz.”

  “I thought you were the one who doubted there was a way out. If we are trapped, where lies the harm in looking?”

  “I thought you were the one who said we could escape from here.”

  “Well, here is a marvel on our journey. We should stop to investigate, or we shall ever regret it.”

  “You said something like that before we walked through those doors.”

  “Asim, you told me not an hour ago that you were glad for the sight of these heavens.”

  “That does not negate my point! It is possible for things to get worse.”

  “Man”—an immense voice rang out of the stillness behind us—“what do you here?”

  I whirled, hand to my sword, an oath on my lips.

  If you're working with a team of heroes, be it two or three or more, one way to show that they are stronger together than apart is to show how they function while separated. Fritz Leiber does this to great effect in one of the very best entries in the Fahfrd and Gray Mouser cycle, “Lean Times in Lankhmar.” In it, Fafhrd and the Mouser have a falling out, the former becoming acolyte to a priest of a minor god, the other a henchman for a local thug. Leiber doesn't bother showing us what temporarily ruins the relationship—indeed, he suggests several possibilities—but we see both characters acting in ways contrary to their more heroic standard until the inevitable, and hilarious, conclusion where they join forces once more.

  Yes, team heroes can function apart, but usually not as effectively. Together, they are a greater hero than the sum of their attributes. The magic happens when they stand side-to-side or back-to-back; that's when the dialogue crackles, the foes fall, and the wrongs are righted.

  I will end with one of my very favorite quotes about heroism, from Edison Marshall's foreword to his novel of Heracles, Earth Giant. Edison writes, “I feel mystically about heroes, whether Heracles, Arthur, Roland, Ragnar Lothbrok the great Viking, Siegfried, Captain John Smith, John Paul Jones, and some living in the last century or even alive today. It seems to me that the Gods love them, that Olympian lightning plays about their heads, that Chance suspends her dull laws when one of the breed comes nigh, that Fate will meet them more than halfway, that event in ratio to their own greatness is their daily fare as long as their heroism lives.”

  To that I would only add that, in the case of a pair of heroes, these things will be true so long as the two stand as one.

  Monsters—Giving the Devils

  their Due

  C. L. Werner

  What is it that really sets fantasy apart from mere historical fiction? Certainly you could argue it is the exotic lands and strange cultures, the arcane technology and mystic sorcery; however for me, the real magic in a fantasy story lies in its monsters. Strange beasts from the realm of nightmare, abhorrent creatures from the darkest pits of the psyche, demons drawn from the blackest reaches of the soul—these are the elements that tell the reader in no uncertain terms that he must leave his preconceptions at the door. The rules have changed. Anything can happen now. The monsters will make it so.

  A well conceived monster can propel any story from the mundane into the mysterious. Some of the best examples of monster stories are those that begin by masquerading as something else, deceiving the reader that they will encounter only a normal western yarn or pot-boiled detective chronicle until the fantastic rears its ghastly head (if it even has a head, that is). The very normalcy of the surroundings goes far in such stories to magnify the monster’s weird predilections and outré habits, increasing the menace it poses by heightening the wrongness of its very presence in a commonplace backdrop.

  Unfortunately for the writer of fantasy tales, he cannot use his setting as a commonplace backdrop to heighten the malignance of his monsters. Whether set upon some imaginary world or placed within some forgotten corner of our own past, the stage is already far from what most readers would consider normal. The backdrop itself is something fantastical and new, a place of eldritch cultures and strange customs, archaic technologies and ancient cities. In such surroundings, where almost everything has a hint of the exotic about it, the poor old monster runs the risk of getting lost in the shuffle, just one more bizarre trapping attached to the story’s background.

  Reading fantasy fiction, it is quite easy to find examples where the author has squandered his opportunities and employed his monsters in just such a fashion. He takes no pains to make the beast stand out, treating it as casually as he would an old Paint standing beside a hitching post in Tombstone or a milk wagon trundling its way down a murky Chicago street. No special effort is made to breathe life—or menace—into the monster. Often such ill-treated beasts are introduced on one page and dispatched by the hero before the bottom of the next page.

  The four orcs came rushing out from the trees, snarling harsh war cries, brandishing their swords overhead. Charging toward Ormgrim’s mercenaries, the monsters were soon thrusting their blades at the armored men.

  “Hold fast!” the hulking barbarian roared to his men. He parried the blade of one orc with his buckler, then drove his axe into the skull of a second.

  “These beasts bleed!” Ormgrim bellowed. “And if they bleed, then they can die!”

  The poor orcs assaulting Ormgrim’s sellswords don’t have much going for them. They rush out of the trees, howling and shouting, waving their swords overhead, but nothing is really done to evoke any sense of the horrific. Our hero Ormgrim certainly reacts to them, but he doesn’t seem particularly frightened. Indeed, it is just another day of carnage for the barbarian, of no more importance, consequence
or uniqueness than an ordinary tavern brawl.

  Such a casual approach to your monsters can work if they are not meant to be anything but a momentary, inconsequential blip on the hero’s quest (though you should at least take a moment to describe in what way an orc is different from a perfectly normal human bandit or what separates your reptilian stalk-hound from a common wolf). However it is often the case where an author will unveil a swiftly executed combat such as the one above with little emotional involvement on the part of its participants and certainly not enough information to engage the reader’s sensibilities, yet in the next paragraph he has the supporting cast toasting the hero on some grand accomplishment, feting him like the new lord of the land. Perhaps your preferences are different, but if a hero doesn’t have any trouble (or at least some emotional misgivings) when he confronts the monster, then there’s hardly anything there to celebrate.

  As Lord Iskander approached the ruins, a dark shape loomed out of the shadows. The gleam of metal was in its hand, a broad-bladed curved sword, its cutting edge notched and serrated like the fangs of a wolf. Iskander caught the gleam of red eyes in the firelight reflecting from the blade, the suggestion of a broad ape-like snout squashed into a black-skinned face above a massive fanged jaw. The shape before him snarled.

  “Tell your master I am here,” Iskander demanded, his words conveying more courage than he felt. The creature before him snarled again, but turned, loping back into the ruins and toward the firelight. Iskander waited a moment, taking a deep breath, steeling his nerves, then followed in the path of the retreating orc.

  In this second example, the perfidious Lord Iskander, obviously up to no good, has a slightly less hostile encounter with his orc than Ormgrim. However, the effect is much more dramatic and menacing. Through the prism of Iskander’s eyes, we experience the intimidating presence of this slavering brute. The orc is described in his feral, savage appearance and nature, presenting the reader with a bit more vivid image of exactly how this creature is different from a man. In those differences, there lies the uncertainty of the unknown. We don’t know exactly what is going on in this creature’s primitive mind, and so we are compelled to rely upon Iskander’s reactions as we form our own.

  The menace of a monster lies as much in how the characters react to it as the amount of murder and havoc it can commit. Even the boldest hero should feel a twinge of doubt, perhaps even fear, when he faces the inhuman and otherworldly. He might not express it outwardly, but if we are given the impression that the hero himself is concerned about coming up against the monster, then we will be too. Like any good gunfighter in the Old West, a monster is only as intimidating as its reputation and the fear it provokes in those who confront it.

  On the subject of reputation and fear, there is always the risk of selling your beast short when it comes to the inevitable battle with the hero. A great deal of well-crafted build-up can be simply wasted if your hero defeats the monster too easily or too quickly (unless, of course, that is the entire point). The struggle should be an epic contest between man and monster, don’t squander the drama with a few sword swings and a quick one-liner. Play out the fight, choreograph it carefully and above all, push the hero to his limits. You should almost approach such scenes with a cinematic eye, relishing every moment of tension and drama, for what can be more dramatic than the destruction of some great and mighty monster?

  Wolf steadied himself and advanced upon the sleeping god, his sword tensed to cleave the ophidian head from the scaly body. The German was certain that here was the very embodiment of the Enemy. Could a Christian encounter the Archfiend and fly from his presence, betraying the faith he espoused? For the knight there could be but one course of action.

  As Wolf's blade of Rhineland steel sang through the air, the great serpent's yellow eyes rolled back into life, immediately seeing the arc of gleaming death descending upon its neck. With a loud hiss, the serpent darted backward. In doing so, though it avoided the German's death blow, the sword bit into the side of the monster's head, cleaving its left eye in twain and passing through the serpent's scaly lips. Black blood spurted from the wyrm's wound and sizzled as it struck the hot floor of the cavern.

  Wolf stood his ground, roaring his defiance at the great wyrm as it reared back and rose to the very height of the cavern, its head dozens of feet above the knight. But Wolf had been emboldened by the sight of the wyrm's blood and the knowledge that what he thought a devil was in truth a beast of flesh and bone.

  Quetzalcoatl hissed loudly, its sound like that of a red-hot blade being plunged into icy water. The great serpent spread its wings in a gesture of anger, the tips of the massive pinions striking either wall of the cathedral-like cavern. Wolf shuddered at the sight, rethinking the beast's mortality. Lit by the lava pools and highlighted by the shadows, it seemed as though the serpent had reared up from the Pit itself.

  Like one of Jove's thunderbolts, the serpent's head plunged downward from its great height, the monster folding its wings against its sides once more as it hurtled at the little man who stood before it. But luck was with the knight and the serpent's fangs missed him, the reptile unable to compensate for its impaired vision. Before the wyrm could retreat from its attack, Wolf's sword bit deeply into its neck.

  Blood slopped from Quetzalcoatl's neck in a gory waterfall as the monster reared upward. The hissing of the reptile had ceased and in its place there came a ghastly gurgle. Again Quetzalcoatl bared its scimitar-like fangs and dropped upon the knight. So swift was the assault that no creature could have avoided it. The fangs struck Wolf's chest, piercing his mail but sinking no deeper. The serpent found its curved fangs caught in the interlocking rings of steel, trapped fast by the unyielding metal.

  The White Wyrm raised its head once more, taking with it the armored warrior hanging from its fangs. Even as the wyrm thrashed its head fiercely from side to side in a savage attempt to free itself, even as Wolf found himself bashed against wall and ceiling, the German's blade struck again and again at the monster's head, drinking deeply of the reptile's blood.

  Will Wolf prevail against the serpentine monstrosity the people of Culuacan call Quetzalcoatl? Well, he’s certainly making a good fight of it at least. Success and failure can take a back seat to a truly heroic struggle. If the obstacle to overcome is awesome enough, the reader won’t feel cheated if the hero falls before it and such a bittersweet ending can leave a real impact when done properly, much more so than the comfortable satisfaction of having Perseus behead Medusa or Beowulf visit the death-blow upon Grendel’s mother. Above all, win or lose, the encounter with this ferocious monstrosity should be something the reader will remember.

  Something worth considering when writing about different monsters is getting inside their heads. Feel out what makes them tick. If your vampire acts like a normal person with normal thoughts, he’ll lose a lot of his horrific potency. Distance him from rational thought, give him strange and inhuman desires (beyond the obvious lust for blood) and you’ll have a much more frightening character. If you write about intelligent rodents, don’t have the rats simply mirror the way we think. Take a cue from the instincts and habits of real rats and incorporate them into the mindset of your monster. This is a tact that has made my interpretation of the skaven in my Warhammer novels for the Black Library immensely popular, if a bit slimy and foul. If you are writing about a reptilian abomination from the dawn of time, then take a little extra effort to make it act like a reptile. Make it sensitive to heat and cold, play upon its primitive biology to create something that isn’t simply an everyday domestic animal with a skin problem.

  A lot of times, it is the small details that can really make your monsters stand out. Have a little extra thought about their habits and the mind which gives them motivation (however small and unreasoning that mind might be). If you can give the creature just a few extra details that set it beyond the norm, the effect can be profound. Often the more low-key and minor the detail, the more impressive its impact upon the reade
r.

  The Taliosian and the remaining Isicarite, a hulking brute named Kormaz, were watching one of the snake-creatures which had not fled with its comrades. The monster was striking at a fallen torch, hacking at the flame with its copper sword. Grenulf looked at the hacked and mutilated bodies of the fallen Isicarites and understood. The creatures were blind, born into a world of eternal darkness. Blind, yet they could sense heat and warmth, sense it and strike at it, attacking dead flesh time and again until all warmth had bled from the corpse.

  Even when presenting a monster that is benevolent, exploiting similar tactics can create a disturbing, eerie atmosphere of wrongness about the creature. When the hero treats with any fantastic being, there should be at least some element of anxiety present, a hint that all is not quite right in the world. In my short story “Bodyguard of the Dead” (Demons, Rogue Blades Entertainment, 2010), the mummified priest Kambei-kai, while a force of good in the story, is still presented as a thing of horror. A shriveled sokushinbutsu, the priest is unable to speak and communicates by writing messages which his monkish attendant reads aloud for him. Unable to drink or eat, the mummy indulges in a cup of tea by inhaling the steam. All in all, he’s a sinister sort of character, yet one who is sided with the powers of good against the forces of darkness. All of the horrific trappings add to the mystery and mysticism of Kambei-kai and help to set him in stark contrast to the far cruder, more physical malevolence of his adversary, the oni Ushitora.