Scenes from the Fellowship

 

He lifted his heavy eyes and saw leaning over him a huge willow-tree, old and hoary. Enormous it looked, its sprawling branches going up  like reaching arms with many long-fingered hands, its knotted and twisted trunk gaping in wide fissures that creaked faintly as the boughs moved. The leaves fluttering against the bright sky dazzled him, and he toppled over, lying where he fell upon the grass.

He turned, and there in the cold glow he saw lying beside him Sam, Pippin, and Merry. They were on their backs, and their faces looked deathly pale; and they were clad in white. About them lay many treasures, of gold maybe, though in that light they looked cold and unlovely. On their heads were circlets, gold chains were about their waists, and on their fingers were many rings. Swords lay by their sides, and shields were at their feet. But across their necks lay one long naked sword.

The dark figure streaming with fire raced towards them. The orcs yelled and poured over the stone gangways. Then Boromir raised his horn and blew. Loud the challenge rang and bellowed, like the shout of many throats under the cavernous roof. For a moment the orcs quailed and the fiery shadow halted. Then the echoes died as suddenly as a flame blown out by a dark wind, and the enemy advanced again.

'Over the bridge!' cried Gandalf, recalling his strength. 'Fly! This is a foe beyond any of you. I must hold the narrow way. Fly!' Aragorn and Boromir did not heed the command, but still held their ground, side by side, behind Gandalf at the far end of the bridge.

'Behold the Argonath, the Pillars of the Kings!' cried Aragorn. 'We shall pass them soon. Keep the boats in line, and as far apart as you can! Hold the middle of the stream!'

   As Frodo was borne towards them the great pillars rose like towers to meet him. Giants they seemed to him, vast grey figures silent but threatening. Then he saw that they were indeed shaped and fashioned: the craft and power of old had wrought upon them, and still they preserved through the suns and rains of forgotten years the mighty likenesses in which they had been hewn. Upon great pedestals founded in the deep waters stood two great kinds of stone: still with blurred eyes and crannied brows they frowned upon the North. The left hand of each was raised palm outwards in gesture of warning; in each right hand there was an axe; upon each head there was a crumbling helm and crown. Great power and majesty they still wore, the silent wardens of a long-vanished kingdom. Awe and fear fell upon Frodo, and he cowered down, shutting his eyes and not daring to look up as the boat drew near. Even Boromir bowed his head as the boats whirled by, frail and fleeting as little leaves, under the enduring shadow of the sentinels of Númenor. So they passed into the dark chasm of the Gates.

   Then Boromir had come leaping through the trees. He had made them fight. He slew many of them and the rest fled. But they had not gone far on the way back when they were attacked again, by a hundred Orcs at least, some of them very large, and they shot a rain of arrows: always at Boromir. Boromir had blown his great horn till the woods rang, and at first the Orcs had been dismayed and had drawn back; but when no answer but the echoes came, they had attacked more fiercely than ever.

Howard Andrew Jones, RIP

I don't have anything significant to add to the eulogies for Howard Andrew Jones who passed away the other day. He was one of the best writers of swords & sorcery as well as one of its greatest historians. His editing and publishing of the stories of Harold Lamb remains an important recovery of some of the primary inspirational bodies of work for the field.

I've written, ad nauseam, before about how I started writing about and reviewing S&S. A decade and a half or more ago, there was a small explosion of new authors writing brand new stories. Black Gate seemed to foster the very best, including James Enge, John Fultz, and Howard Andrew Jones. 

As I started writing, I interacted with Howard on his website. He wrote lively pieces on hard-boiled crime stories about as often as he did about Fritz Leiber and C.L. Moore. Occasionally, there were posts about adventure fiction. Somehow it turned out we were both reading some of Rafael Sabatini's Captain Blood at the same time. He suggested we read them all and write about them for Black Gate. It was an exciting suggestion and I'm still pleased with the results. 

Over the years we corresponded several more times, usually at his initiation - I'm a poor correspondent and always feel like I'm overstepping my bounds with people I've only come to know electronically. When his Ring-Sworn trilogy came out, he asked if I would interview his son, Darian, who'd made a promotional video for the first volume, For the Killing of Kings - one of the great fantasy titles, in my opinion.

Later, when he became the editor of Tales from the Magician's Skull, he hooked me up with Bill Ward and for several years I wrote monthly book review the mag's site. It paid me a few dollars, but the real thing, was for the first time since I'd stopped my weekly column at Black Gate, I was reading S&S regularly again. 

And now, when his Hanuvar books had let him reach the place where the Dabir and Asim stories should have taken him a decade ago, Howard's gone. This is a blow for S&S, but more importantly, it's a blow for his family and friends. From the eulogies written by people who knew him well, he was clearly an incredibly supportive and kind man. He will be missed.