Jones, Howard Andrew. Lord of a Shattered Land. Baen Books, 2023.
Words: 1951
Deep into Howard Andrew Jones’s latest novel, Lord of a Shattered Land, one of the characters reflects on Hanuvar, the work’s primary mover, and his seemingly limitless abilities, in this instance, the ability to recall the names of every soldier that served him. "How could Hanuvar retain these names after so many years [...] could he truly have kept tens of thousands of names at call from his memory? Or was it that these were the most prominent of his veterans?" (456-457). Antires, Hanuvar’s companion, chronicler, and friend, admits that "though it seemed impossible [...] [he] strongly suspected the former" (457). Mythologizing, notions of history and memory, and an unshakeable devotion to an ideal: these are the ingredients of Jones’s bold debut with Baen Books, a book that never failed in its desire tell a stirring story about a selfless hero. Jones swaps out the mercenary outlook of a Conan for the selfless patriotism of a Captain America while remaining tethered to the short story tradition of sword and sorcery fiction; it’s this tension between the genre’s past and its future that produce some of the novel’s innovations.
The summary: Hanuvar, leader of the Volani people, rules over a shattered culture at the hands of the imperial Dervans, and his mission is to rescue his scattered, enslaved, and oppressed people and restore them to a new home. Jones’s has made no secret that one of his chief inspirations for Hanuvar is the historical Hannibal of Carthage, but sword and sorcery readers might also notice a resonance with Robert E. Howard’s Hour of the Dragon (1935), the sole Conan novel that sees the barbarian king deposed and forced to reclaim his kingdom from the hands of the usurpers. However, Hanuvar’s motivations are decidedly more altruistic than the mercenary Cimmerian’s, and Jones is careful to keep Hanuvar’s motivations crystal clear and unspoiled: the liberation of his people, not out of revenge but obligation, responsibility, duty. It is this heroic quality of Hanuvar’s that sets him apart in the sword and sorcery scene, and, in a field that is often inundated with less-than-savory characters and opportunistic motivations, reading a character that is genuinely and earnestly compassionate is refreshing. I mentioned Captain America earlier as a referent, but Hanuvar is perhaps closer to a Superman figure: an irrefutable and unshakeable morality wedded to, quite literally, superhuman abilities. Hanuvar cannot fly, but he is rarely if ever outsmarted, and readers will quickly learn that Hanuvar is basically unstoppable.
The dramatic tension, then, resides not in questions of whether the hero will survive, but rather if our hero can save his friends. Longtime readers of Superman have often heard the criticism: "Superman is invincible and always does the right thing; he’s boring as a character, neither recognizable nor accessible to a reader." A similar critique might be lobbied at Hanuvar: he’s a brilliant tactician, well-read, adaptable and capable, a cunning warrior, a sincere friend, a noble leader that rises above petty concerns over power, and seems to instantly charm every woman around him. He makes plans and executes them flawlessly, and things always seem to go his way; he liberates his people. In this way, reading Lord of a Shattered Land provides the thrill we feel when encountering someone performing at their peak -- "competence porn," as the kids say. So where is the tension? What creates the suspense if we, the reader, know that Superman always saves the day, that James Bond never dies, that Hanuvar can’t be stopped?
In many ways, the story is less about Hanuvar than it is about the people around him. Not every Volani is worth saving, nor every Dervan a ruthless villain; Hanuvar must adapt his plans and build a network of allies, recognizing that he cannot rescue thousands by himself; for several chapters, Hanuvar joins a circus and hangs out with an elephant. We care about these people (especially the elephant), and we’re intrigued to discover how Hanuvar’s new friends will fare. In this way Jones has shifted and mapped our empathies away from the eponymous hero Hanuvar and onto the people he encounters; our affect, in other words, reflects Hanuvar’s own, reorienting the traditional hero spotlight onto a different, more compelling target.
But while I applaud Jones’s make-no-qualms approach to Hanuvar’s heroic characterization, I still wanted more pathos from our leading man. Make no mistake, I am also tired of the grim, the dark, and the angsty. And I get it; Hanuvar is older, more mature, and is beyond the angst. Not every character needs to go through a moral crisis. And one could easily argue: "Pathos? The man had his people slaughtered and just wants to save them. How much more pathos could you need?" I don’t know, but if I’m going to read about this guy for another four books, I would like him to feel more down-to-earth. Here at the end of Book 1, for me, Hanuvar needs greater depth, something beyond The Too Perfect General Who Will Save His People.. And I’m not suggesting that Hanuvar become vengeance-seeking or ethically compromised, but, to revise my own argument, maybe every character should, actually, go through a moral crisis. If the character cannot experience difference, crisis, and/or fundamental challenges to their identity, then they cannot grow; they remain static. No, I don’t want to read about an angst-ridden Hanuvar, but I do want to read about a good person who struggles with questions that move beyond material, utilitarian problem-solving. Without the struggle, without the interiority, the questioning, the doubt, heroes turn into idols, perhaps become unrecognizable. I opened with that quote because, when I read it, I thought to myself "Okay, are we supposed to read Hanuvar as, like, a human person, or some kind of god?" At times, I think the novel wants you to read Hanuvar as both, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.
But enough about our enigmatic (or not) hero; let’s talk form. Jones’s novel echoes a long tradition in sword and sorcery in its composition: interrelated yet standalone short stories, all threaded together with interstitial material that provides smooth transitions from one tale to the next. In several interviews, Jones has likened this approach to a series of television; each story comprises an episode that introduces new characters, new locations, while still maintaining an internal continuity with recurring motifs and peoples, all coming to a thrilling climax with the season finale, plus cliffhanger. And that’s more or less how things play out.
The real achievement here is Jones’s ability to render each story its own unique adventure. We have heists, the s&s version of The Cube, creepy rituals, gladiatorial games, and more. Each of these tales clips along with just the right balance of worldbuilding, character revelation, and action. Just like serialized television, the stories interweave at times, characters overlapping, plots beats combing back around, all anchored by Hanuvar’s presence. And sometimes Hanuvar is just a presence more than he is an acting character in that story, Jones doing a great job in selling Hanuvar’s effect on the world around him through his strategic absences and appearances. Overall this book is one of the more enjoyable reading experiences I’ve had in awhile, much of which is owed to the satisfying, cohesive feel of each of these tales. As well, often I was reading while my wife played Assassin's Creed: Odyssey in the background, which provided the perfect sword-and-sandal soundtrack. I recommend everyone else do the same.
If there is a drawback to this form, it’s that I did not feel the story really excelled into a climax. There’s a recurring villain, but he was offscreen for so long that his presence didn’t feel particularly menacing or earned. While the short story structure does provide Jones the opportunity to demonstrate his worldbuilding, to show off more fictional cultures, and offer a greater variety of narrative types, the book felt more like a short story collection than a cohesive novel. I’m not sure if this is necessarily a bad thing, but I do think it hindered the book's final sequences.
(Okay, one final critique, and I’m setting this off in parentheticals because it has nothing to do with Jones or the writing or the story: this book deserves a better cover. Dave Seeley is a great artist, but in this mode he’s basically doing a copy-and-paste layering job in Photoshop. What’s more, the cover does not at all feel indicative of the book’s contents. Arguments could be made that this is a subjective thing, but I think covers with photographs of models are objectively bad, and they do not inspire me to pick up the book. The opposite, in fact. Baen [and Jones, I would imagine, as well as myself] want to position this book as the crest of an s&s surge, but, frankly, you’re fighting an uphill battle with this art direction, particularly when your genre of choice has a venerated history of beautifully hand-painted, illustrated covers. Again, I know authors have little control over the covers, so I’ll lay this one at the feet of the publishers. Baen Books: do better.)
To end on things I loved: the weird, the horror, the creepy crawlies. Sword and sorcery was born of eldritch mud and dangerous magics, and my favorite moments in Lord of a Shattered Land were those moments where Jones leaned fully into the supernatural. There are dark, fell beings at work in the background of Hanuvar’s quest, occasionally rupturing through to wreak havoc and absolutely enthrall me and any reader that loves their horror-flavored s&s. In particular, the final story features grotesque, supernatural body horror of Cronenbergian levels, and it’s brilliant..
Another thing I loved were two moments of subtle critiques of imperialist practices. In general, I would not describe Lord of a Shattered Land as political, but Jones includes scenes of water boarding and military use of drugs to stimulate an army, which read to me as clear referents to the United State’s post-9/11 practices of torture and Vietnam, respectively. And in a larger context, Hanuvar’s entire ethos is anti-imperialist. Hanuvar is perhaps technically not a king, but he’s basically a king, and it’s a lot easier to cheer him on when he’s actively dismantling systems of oppression. Going forward, I look forward to seeing more of those moments, as well as instances where Jones can sharpen the bite.
So while I experienced some frustration as a reader, those moments were minimal, and on the whole I loved this, and I cannot wait for the next one. This is conventional sword and sorcery through and through, but it feels fresh and exciting, with a character type that we can root for and want to see succeed. Despite its length, I flew through this once I got going, and I’m thrilled that I’ll get to read more Hanuvar stories in the future. Jones has been flying the s&s flag for decades now, and he deserves the readership. Go read the book and see what the fuss is about.
