Who Goes There?

Truth be told I feel almost the same way introducing Michael Moorcock as I did when I introduced H. P. Lovecraft, in that while my feelings on these men as writers is mixed, I have to admit their importance to genre writing (each in his own way) is immense. I get the irony is that Moorcock really dislikes Lovecraft (as both a writer and person) to the point of basically denying his influence on other writers, but… goddamnit, I couldn’t hold back on this for even a few more sentences. I would’ve read more Moorcock by now, especially since I’ve been getting more into heroic fantasy, but the first memory I have of reading Moorcock was not any of his fiction, but his essay “Starship Stormtroopers,” which is a no-good-very-bad piece of work that, among other things, argues Starship Troopers was hand-crafted to appeal to reactionary young men in the pages of Astounding (it was actually serialized in the left-leaning Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction but never mind) and that Heinlein and his ilk promoted fascist tendencies in their writing. And he also took pot shots at Lovecraft with points that simply have not aged well. (He does the annoying thing people still do to this day where he seems to think Lovecraft’s views never changed on anything.) So I was not keen on reading more Moorcock.

Still, it must be said that the field would look a fair bit different without Moorcock’s efforts, especially as an editor. Moorcock was a world-weary 25-year-old when he took over New Worlds, which in the ’60s threatened to become a bit stale but which gained new vitality under Moorcock, publishing works that would not have seen magazine publication in the US for being too sexually charged and/or too vulgar. Writers like J. G. Ballard and Thomas M. Disch really let their nuts hang in New Worlds, whereas elsewhere they had to contend with censorship. The result is that we owe the New Wave (both its successes and follies) at least partly to Moorcock, who after all wanted so desperately for science fiction to “come of age.” But before he became a revolutionary editor Moorcock was already a skilled writer, recognized for his Elric saga, being one of the more important heroic fantasy series in the genre’s history. Despite this, “The Dreaming City” marks my first encounter with Elric, although considering it’s the first Elric story (both published and I believe in internal chronology) I think it fits.

Placing Coordinates

First published in the June 1961 issue of Science Fantasy, which is on the Archive. “The Dreaming City” has been included in several Moorcock collections over the decades, but it did not get anthologized in English until very recently, in The Big Book of Modern Fantasy (ed. Ann and Jeff VanderMeer). Actually I’m sure it was that chunky anthology that made me aware of the Elric saga and this story in particular.

Enhancing Image

We’re introduced to a distant and yet alternate past, not unlike the worlds of Robert E. Howard and Clark Ashton Smith, wherein there was an ancient civilization, Melniboné, that lasted thousands of years and yet, at the start of “The Dreaming City,” is on its last leg. Warlords are conspiring around a campfire; there will be a raid on Imyrrir, the titular dreaming city, the last stronghold of Melniboné. Normally these shady characters would be the antagonissts, only they’re helped by Our Hero™, Elric, last of the rulers of Melniboné—and a king in exile. By his own choice, mind you. The opening pages give us something not dissimilar from Howard’s Hyborian Age, but soon we find there are a few major changes, mostly having to do with Elric himself, who is a darker shade of grey than Conan.

Whereas Conan is a beefcake, a tower of Irish muscle, Elric is “a pure albino” whose eyesight is bad and which will only get worse with age, whose physique is not exactly impressive, and who generally would be a weakling if not for his weapon of choice, Stormbringer, a cursed sword passsed down his line that will both make him and probably be the death of him. Can’t say I’m a fan of Elric. Then again, I don’t think we’re supposed to “like” him; he does not have the courage of Conan, nor the comradery of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. If Elric lived in the 21st century he would have most likely been a Jordan Peterson fan as a teenager. It’s hard to appreciate now (and I know because I also find it hard to appreciate from this vantage point), but in 1961 Moorcock gave us a sword-and-sorcery “hero” who was subversive in that he was not a model for power fantasies, but a quishy piece of shit who survives because he has the right tools for it. Okay, there still be a bit of power fantasy involved, which I’ll get to in a minute.

Before I get into the plot, which is deceptively simple (although it’s framed rather confusingly at first), let’s talk a bit more about Elric’s character in the context of fantasy heroes. I’ve already told you Elric is a sword wielder, with Stormbringer getting him out of sticky situations, but the kings of Melniboné also have a long tradition of sorcery. In RPG language we might call Elric a red mage or a combat mage, since on top of swordplay he’s also a skilled magic user—although his capacity to work spells is capped “since he did not have the reservoir of strength, either of soul or of body, to work them.” Moorcock, in so many words, calling the “hero” of his sword-and-sorcery epic a bitch baby is not something other authors were likely to do beforehand. Even C. L. Moore’s Jirel of Joiry, who psychologically might be as battered as Elric, is still a naturally strong warrior who earns her keep. It also turns out that Elric does not seem to feel loyal to anyone in particular, since it takes all of about twelve hours for him to bamboozle the warlords he’s conspired with and to follow his own path into the city—his city—where the real villain dwells. “He planned to leave the fighting to those he had led to Imrryr, for he had other things to do—and quickly.”

I’m about to escalate things here and say that the real dramatic hinge of the story is an incestuous love triangle between Elric, his tyrannical cousin Yrkoon, and Yrkoon’s sister Cymoril. Yrkoon is the current ruler of Imyrrir by virtue of Elric leaving his post, but also by force; there’s the strong implication that if not for most of the city’s people being perpetually stoned and sleepy (the city having degenerated into little more than a massive opium den at this point), Yrkoon would’ve been overthrown. Everybody knows Elric is the “rightful” ruler, but Elric sort of disagrees. Whereas in much fantasy the hero’s hometown is looked upon with a nostalgic fondness, Imyrrir is in such a state of disarray and given to such debauchery that like one of the cities of the plain it seems destined to get torched by the hand of God. Getting sacked by a fleet of despots might not actually be the worst thing that can happen to it. Unfortunately because this is a short story and because Moorcock’s descriptions are rather sparse, we get to know extremely little about the city and its people. Then again…

I normally don’t bring up the quality of the prose itself when reviewing stuff here because I’m one of those people who thinks that not everything need evoke Joseph Conrad in its delicate use of the English language. Different writers have different strengths when it comes to crafting narratives; you might have someone who is great at character psychology but who is average at best with constructing plots. Moorcock would’ve been all of twenty years old when he wrote “The Dreaming City,” and while it was not his first story published (he had been around for a few years at that point), “creaky” is a word that keeps coming to mind for me when I think of the prose here. There are turns of phrase here that I personally would not use. I didn’t think the word “frenziedly” would pop up, let alone more than once. There also seem to be a few times where Moorcock uses a word that sounds exactly like another word he intended to use but which is a different word with a different meaning. Not sure how Elric can “steal” himself. Pardon me, I know I’m picking on a story from towards the start of an author’s career and which itself is now older than most people.

Anyway, Elric takes his own boat and sneaks into the port city via a secret passage only he knowss, being intimate with the city’s layout. This move is less to save the city and more to rescue Cymoril from the gross incestuous claws of his cousin (as opposed to Elric’s benign incest). Little aside here, but when Elric finds Cymoril she’s in a druggy slumber, like most of Imyrrir’s populace, and kisses her on the lips while she’s unconscious. Interesting. It’s also never made clear if Cymoril actually reciprocates Elric’s feelings or if she just finds him preferrable to Yrkoon, who after all totally lacks redeeming qualities. We’re also introduced to Elric’s mentor, Tangleboness (what a quirky name), whose death is so telegraphed that if he said he had two more days until retirement it would not have been surprising. Oh, and a raid is about to start, but that’s easy to forget. It’s clever that Elric would help stage a raid so as to distract Yrkoon and his troops, but it’s also a subplot that mostly happens offscreen and whose conclusion is immaterial.

There Be Spoilers Here

Elric, in trying to save Cymoril and then to avenge his mentor’s death (as was all but foretold), kills an impresssive number of mooks—at least partly without even trying. If you’re looking for bloodlust in your fantasy then the central action sequence here will satiate your appetite somewhat. Of course this is only buildup for the duel with Yrkoon, wherein the traiterous cousin pulls out a magical sword of his own and the two combatants are rendered nigh immortal from their sorcery. Elric defeats his cousin, naturally, but tragedy unfolds as a result, for Cymoril has all of two or three lines before getting caught in the crossfire and dying on Elric’s sword. In his dying moments Yrkoon throws Cymoril onto Stormbringer and she dies basically instantly and without saying anything in reaction; it’s such an abrupt death scene that I had to do a double take.

So Yrkoon is dead, Cymoril has done a good job of getting fridged (I do find it funny that Moorcock, an outspoken supporter of Women’s Lib, would kill off the sole female character in the first Elric story so unceremoniously and without granting her actual character), and Imyrrir is basically in ruins. A good day’s work, I think! Not that Elric feels good about it. At the time Elric killing his own love interest by accident might’ve hit differently, but now it reads as almost inevitable—like a job requirement. Truth be told the last quarter of the story could’ve been shortened extensively, since we’ve already hit the climax, both of the action that matters to Elric and the trauma that will probably define future series entries; it’s rather overlong. We do, however, get a meaty passage at the end that could be thought of as the flashpoint of Elric’s superhero (or -villain) origin story, as he contemplates his lopsided relationship with Stormbringer.

Elric brooded, and he held the black runesword in his two hands. Stormbringer was more than an ordinary battle-blade, this he had known for years, but now he realised that it was possessed of more sentience than he had imagined. The frightful thing had used its wielder and had made Elric destroy Cymoril. Yet he was horribly dependant upon it; he realised this with soul-rending certainty. He was an albino—a type rare among animals and rarer still among men. He was an albino, owning no natural reserves of vitality. Normally, he would be slothful, his reactions sluggish, his mind hazed. His eyesight would grow steadily worse as he grew older and he would probably die prematurely. His life would be dependent upon the grace of others; he knew this—he would become this if he lost the runesword’s alien aid. But he feared and resented the sword’s power—hated it bitterly for the chaos it had wrought in his brain and spirit. In an agony of uncertainty he held the blade in his hands and forced himself to weigh the factors involved. Without the sinister sword, he would lose pride—perhaps even life—but he might know the soothing tranquility of pure rest; with it he would have power and strength—but the sword would guide him on to evil paths and into a doom-racked future. He would savour power—but never peace. Never calm, sad peacefulness.

To give Moorcock credit this is certainly a foreboding ending, especially for the time, as Elric has accomplished his goal but ultimately has gained nothing from it. Things probably would have turned out better for certain parties had he not intervened, and Moorcock wants to make it very clear (maybe a little too clear, given how much he harps on Elric’s disability) that Elric is both a weakling and probably a bad person. Still, he’s a more powerful magic user than 99% of humanity and his sword is so good that it literally does the heavy lifting, making sure that for all his personal failures Elric is likely to always win encounters so long as he has Stormbringer. I wouldn’t call him a tragic figure, because true tragedy requires that people fail nobly and despite his royal bloodline I would not call Elric “noble,” but his success and failure being so closely intertwined serves as a fine blueprint for a real anti-hero, as opposed to a tough-but-means-well figure like Conan. That’s right, we have our prototypical incel fantasy hero with Elric.

A Step Farther

I feel like I’m being a little unfair with this, but then am I really? Moorcock would’ve been all of twenty when he wrote “The Dreaming City” and it shows, but at the same time it serves as the beginning of what would become an immense sprawling series that Moorcock would work on, albeit sporadically, up to the present day. A lot can change in 62 years, including (especially) an author’s skill and how they feel towards the series that has defined their career more than anything else. No doubt I’ll be covering more Elric stories in the future, but since the only way is forward I’m comforted knowing I’ll be coming across a more mature Moorcock. On its own I can’t really recommend it. I know it’s not fair to compare a very young Moorcock with mid-career Fritz Leiber, but there’s a creakiness to the wording in “The Dreaming City” that gives the strong impression of someone who was only just starting to hone their writing chops.

See you next time.