One of the key facets of a hero is their agency rather than
their response to adversity. Heroes are protagonists; they proceed toward agony
and conflict. But not all heroes fit this mold. Some heroes are less defined by
their agency and more by their adversities and challenges--by the events that
befall them. We recognize their heroic qualities in how they react to their
fates. One of the best examples of this is in film history, First Blood (1982),
a favorite growing up with me, my older and my younger brother (my parents
were very half-hearted censors). Fans of this movie know: John Rambo doesn’t
seek trouble. He just wants to find his friend, have a sandwich, and pass
through town. Unfortunately, he encounters an overzealous local sheriff, Will
Teasle, who mistakes him for a drifter, insults him, incarcerates him, and
ultimately abuses him. Rambo reacts to these instigations by blowing up the
entire town and maiming numerous public safety and security officers, pure
1980s action movie machismo distilled to a fine spirit. While Rambo shows
agency in the end (that suturing scene!), an important narratological
distinction needs to be made: in terms of inciting action, Rambo is the victim
of a brutal and unfair interference in his difficult life.
Matthew Arnold, the famous Victorian critic and poet, had
this to say about the most famous paragon of heroic victimhood, Odysseus (or
Ulysses, rather), and the poet who sings him to life, Homer:
"[Homer] he makes Ulysses the great type of the
enduring and laborious man, who, through patience, courage, sagacity, and
self-control, at last succeeds. The signal characteristic of the Homeric
poetry--the simplicity and self-sufficing wholeness of its heroes--is best seen
in Odysseus. He is never taken out of himself, never driven out of the limits
of his own character, never the prey of introspective broodings or the victim
of circumstance, but always the master of himself and of fortune."
Tossed and turned, incarcerated and abused, Odysseus is
definitely a heroic victim, but despite his many challenges, he is "never
driven out of the limits of his own character, never the prey of introspective
broodings or the victim of circumstance, but always the master of himself and
of fortune." Odysseus, qua Homer, sounds a lot like the sword and
sorcery hero as defined by Jason M Waltz in the introduction to his most recent
sword and sorcery anthology, Neither Beg Nor Yield (2024). For
Waltz, the sword and sorcery hero is defined by their heroic adversity, their
tenacity: "To ardently live, not merely survive, at any cost in
the face of all odds, unequal or unnatural. LIVE!-ism."
The main character of Steve Dilks’ new sword and sorcery
collection, Bohun: The Complete Savage Adventures, bears a striking
resemblance to the adversity-laden hero described above, epitomizes what Waltz
describes as "LIVE!-ism" and what Matthew Arnold
articulates as the hero being "master of himself and of
fortune": a hero who has horrible things happen to them and whose
character is revealed through their reactions. Of the seven stories in this
anthology, most begin with Bohun unjustly incarcerated, enslaved, or otherwise
placed in circumstances he did not seek out. In the first story, "Festival
of the Bull," Bohun arrives in the city-state of Tharyna having
escaped from a slave ship, manacles still on his arms. In the second
story, "Horror from the Stars," he soon finds himself
trapped in a pitfall chamber. In the third story, "By Darkness
Enthroned," he fights as a mercenary conscript in the armies of
Valentia. In the fourth story, "Intrigue in Aviene," he is
quickly thrown into the city jail. The fifth story, "Black Sunset in
the Valley of Death," offers an intriguing exception: while Bohun
starts out as a prisoner and intended blood sacrifice, he swiftly escapes and,
for once, acts rather than reacts, making his own decisions. In the penultimate
story, "Red Trail of Vengeance," Bohun is accosted by
bandits and thrown into a well. Finally, in "Harvest of the Blood
King," he is again in manacles but gains a conditional release to
fight in a Valentian military operation. In nearly every case, Bohun’s
character is revealed through his reactions to external forces.
This structure is not unique to sword and sorcery; numerous
pulp adventure stories rely on a "catch and release" narrative,
perhaps best exemplified by Edgar Rice Burroughs’ John Carter stories, where
the protagonist is repeatedly imprisoned and escapes and is imprisoned again.
However, Dilks’ use of this narrative structure is skillful and serves a
distinct thematic purpose: it introduces us to a character who, in his heart,
does not want to be a sword and sorcery hero. Despite his muscularity, his
warrior prowess, Bohun just wants his wife, his domestic peace, his
tranquility. He just wants to be left alone.
Over the course of these stories, we learn that Bohun’s
people, the Damzullah, were destroyed. In "Festival of the
Bull," he recounts his tragic past. A civil war in his homeland
weakened the Damzullah, allowing their enemies, the cowardly Razuli, to attack.
Later, as Bohun fled with his wife, Dana, she was captured by another group,
the Gharubah. Thus, Bohun’s wandering is not fueled by curiosity or boredom, as
it is for many sword and sorcery heroes. He is not a restless adventurer, but a
man forced into this life through tragedy. His stories is not about the thrill
of battle sought out but survival in a brutal world.
Indeed, brutality, both in war and social hierarchies,
becomes a theme in the collection. One of its most striking moments of intellectual
frisson comes near the end of the collection. After Bohun fights as a mercenary
for the Empire of Valentia, his supposed victory leaves him disillusioned. His
friend, Tiberius, a Valentian, mockingly tells him:
"'You’re heroes now […]. Freedom and gold are yours
now. Let this be an end to war for all of us.'"
Bohun’s response, as he surveys the carnage, is telling:
"'Bohun glanced around at the slain children and the
ravaged corpses of young mothers strewn throughout the compound. Through the
smoke and burning ashes, he saw King Varak looming on his warhorse and Lucian
Flava covered in white ash, looking like a specter of death.
"'As long as there are generals and kings, there
will never be an end to war.'"
This is a defining moment for Bohun, an epiphany, a psychological event that brings about a change to his character. Just a few
beats later, Bohun admits, "'I was not born for war.'" These
words are remarkable for a sword and sorcery hero who has left a pile of bodies
in his wake. Many contemporary figures in the genre--such as Willard Black’s
Redgar, Matt John’s Maxus, D.M. Ritzlin’s Vran the Chaos-Warped, and Howie K.
Bentley’s Eldol--are defined by agency, desire, momentum, their wild-card like
ability to actually make things happen in and of themselves. But characters
like Howard Andrew Jones’ Hanuvar, David C. Smith’s Hanlin, Chase A. Folmar’s
Uralant and Emrasarie, and Bohun are different. They are not always reactive,
but they find themselves in adventures due to circumstance rather than choice.
If one major theme of sword and sorcery is the path of the self-driven
adventurer dropped into an equilibrium to bring about creative disharmony,
another is the reluctant warrior--the powerful quasi-martyr who responds to the
brutal world's hammer falls of fate, and in ways that reveals their undeniable
humanity.
Each of Bohun’s stories merits individual consideration.
Without giving too much away, here are some highlights. "Festival of
the Bull" features a gladiatorial battle gone awry, rich in the "dark
of night" atmosphere characteristic of sword and sorcery. "Horror
from the Stars" is one of the creepiest entries in the genre in
recent years, featuring a monstrous transformation that lingers in the
mind. "By Darkness Enthroned" is the most epic in scope,
involving large-scale military conflict and compelling sorcery. "Intrigue
in Aviene" is more focused on skullduggery, plotting, and
assassination. "Red Trail of Vengeance," possibly my
favorite, evokes the classic Western revenge film Unforgiven (1992) in its
structure and themes. "Harvest of the Blood-King" feels
like a final statement from Dilks on Bohun, leaving me wondering whether he is
moving on from the character. But "Black Sunset in the Valley of
Death" is the most enigmatic of the collection. Here, Bohun briefly
integrates into a community and fights for them. In his moment of peace, the
reader encounters a beautiful piece of writing that allegorizes an inherent
tension in sword and sorcery: a violent, action-packed, often brutal genre that
paradoxically offers relaxation, reflection, and quietude. Consider this
passage, in which a wise woman tells the story of her tribe:
"'Ylarrna gave pause, and the listeners sighed, a
lament that ripped through the glade. There, under the silvered moon, Bohun
squatted before her on the ground. She sat high up between the two trunks of
the towering trees that formed a natural throne--a throne of earth. Her stick
lay across her knees, and as she looked down on the ring of listeners, her eyes
were glazed with the memory of far sight. The pale stars were strewn across the
heavens, and the jeweled eye in her brow radiated a soft glow. It seemed as if
the listeners were dragged hypnotically into that eye now. Ylarrna’s voice
began to intone again. As she did, windows of the past opened, and Bohun gazed
on marvels both alien and strange.'"
This is powerful writing, and I cannot help but see it as a
symbol of reading sword and sorcery itself: a moment of tranquility amid chaos,
where the audience is drawn into a world of alien and strange marvels.
Steve Dilks’ Bohun stories are an
impressive contribution to the genre, the collection a true accomplishment,
standing alongside recent contemporary masterpieces such as David C.
Smith’s Sometimes Lofty Towers (2021), Schuyler Hernstrom’s The
Eye of Sounnu (2020) , and Howard Andrew Jones’ Lord of a Shattered
Land (2024). In essence, Bohun's tales pay homage to the tradition of sword
and sorcery while exploring the reluctant hero archetype whose advertsities reveal
their worth and forge them into tempered steel. In other words, heroic power is
not about control or dominance of others, the brutal tinsel crowns of status-threatened
kings and generals. It's about answering that most pointed of questions posed
by fate: Who are you? Bohun: "Do I look like a slave to you, dog? By
T'agulla, the last man who thought as much is now holding counsel in hell!"
About the Reviewer: Jason Ray Carney is the Managing Editor of Spiral Tower and a Senior Lecturer in the Department of English of Christopher Newport University.
CNU Faculty Page. jrcarney52.bsky.social.
