​​     Brother Gaven, the youngest acolyte of Lundarin's East Borough Mission, held four fingers up to the man behind the betting table. At least, he thought it was four. Gaven's vision was still a little blurry. That, and the blasted room was still spinning. He leaned heavily on the table for support, hearing it creak under his weight, and hoped the bookmaker wouldn't notice how horrendously drunk he was. 

     The bookmaker, a man Gaven had dealt with almost weekly, but whose name escaped him at the moment, pulled down his reading glasses and stared at him over the rims. 

     "Four royals? What, on yourself?"

     "That's right," Gaven said, reasonably sure he wasn't slurring. 

     Standing six feet, five inches tall, the young priest had wide shoulders and long, powerful limbs. These were paired with an almost too-lean physique, giving him the wiry build of a natural fighter. The flattened, many-times broken nose marked him as an experienced one.

     The bookmaker leaned forward, sniffing. He made a face. "Ugh. Are you even going to be standing up when the fight begins?"

     That was actually a good question. Gaven turned to look behind him, squinting to bring the scene into focus. The old slurry pit—this week's fighting ring—was no more than twenty paces away. As long as the abandoned factory didn't start pitching like a ship in a storm again, Gaven thought he'd probably make it.

     He turned back to the bookmaker and raised his lucky fist. Or one of them, anyway. He smiled wide. "The other guy's going to have to be the one who worries about me not standing." 

     The bookmaker shook his head. "That doesn't make any sense, boy."

     Gaven burped, clamping his mouth shut as he felt the sacramental wine coming back up. Once he was sure he wasn't going to vomit on the bookmaker's ledger, he repeated his bet. "Four royals. To win by knockout."

     The bookmaker started when Gaven said the second part. "Knockout? You're mad, boy. Jagget's never been knocked out."

     It took Gaven three tries to successfully get his hand into his pocket, eventually managing to wrap his meaty fingers around the four silver coins. He slapped them on top of the ledger.

     "Four royals," he repeated. "Win by knockout. Just you watch."

     "If you say so, boy." The bookmaker politely cleared his throat. He pointed at the collar Gaven wore. "You going to fight while wearing that?"

     Gaven reached up, feeling the black and white clerical collar. The bookmaker had a point. It wouldn't do for a servant of the Redeemer to be seen in the fighting pit. He reached behind his head to unfasten the hook. He did pretty good with that, managing it on the second try. He pulled it off and dropped it on top of the coins. 

     "Watch that for me. I'll be back for it. And don't touch it. It's sacre... It's sacre... It's holy."  

     The young priest turned, letting go of the table. The factory floor immediately lurched sideways. Gaven's big, wiry frame swayed to keep up. He wind milled his arms, somehow managing to keep his feet under him, and staggered his way to the small ladder propped at the edge of the slurry pit. 

     The factory had once been a textile mill, and the concrete slurry pit—one of seven sunken into the ground around the old production floor—was where the workers used to mix the dyes. Eight feet deep and ten feet across, it served as a perfect fighting ring for the bloody-minded spectators gathered around its rim. There was little room to maneuver and no room to run, especially for a man of Gaven’s size. Fights in the slurry pits were always short and brutal; but, with money to be won, there was never any shortage of challengers to fill the card.   

     Gaven carefully made his way down into the pit. The walls were permanently stained a dark blue, and the concrete still smelled of old ammonia. Gaven's stomach violently protested. He found a low stool along one edge of the pit, sat down heavily, grabbed the bucket nearby, and threw up into it. As soon as he did, his head felt clearer. He set the bucket aside and stared down at his hands. 

     Old, white scars crisscrossed the knuckles. Though he was barely twenty years old, the skin over them had already calloused and hardened. The last two knuckles on his right hand were enlarged and crooked, the result of going four extra rounds with a bad fracture two years earlier. He didn't win that fight. He prayed to the Redeemer he'd win this one.

​     Prayer. That probably wasn't a bad idea. He clumsily worked his way off the stool and down to a kneeling position, his head still spinning. He bowed his head and clasped his hands.

     "Oh, humble Redeemer, Father of us all. Hear me, your Great servant, as I lift my voice." Damn it. That's not how it goes.He started again. "Great Redeemer, Father of us all. I lift my voice so that you can hear me." Or, wait... Did I have it right the first time?

     Gaven let out a heavy sigh. Maybe he should go informal. Just this once. "Listen. I need your help. The mission needs clothes. And food. And medicine. Help me get it. Please. Amen."  

     Gaven made a token attempt to get back on the stool. But, the slurry pit spun so violently he decided to stay where he was. 

     The plan was devilishly simple. Gaven had watched Jagget fight in previous weeks. He was smaller than Gaven. Then again, most men were. Size wasn't the issue, though. The issue was Jagget's skill. The man picked his shots, and he hit like a pile driver. He never went more than a single round against another fighter, and it was rare for him to go more than half a round. 

     But, it had occurred to Gaven that, if he could just take the beating Jagget delivered, he could wait for the man to get tired. Then he could go on the attack when he was too exhausted to defend himself. It was definitely possible, Gaven realized. All he needed to do was not feel it. With that in mind, the young priest had "borrowed" three bottles of the sacramental wine from the mission and headed for the old textile mill.

     Now, on his knees in the slurry pit and unable to climb back on the stool, Gaven was beginning to see some of the holes in his plan. He was still wondering what to do about it when he heard the barker's voice above the rim of the pit.

     "Well, well! Ladies and gentlemen, it appears we have a challenger!"

     A mix of cheers and jeers rose up from the gathered crowd. Someone threw something wet and slimy at him. Gaven ignored it, and focused on climbing to his feet. The slurry pit bobbed, shifted, and weaved. Gaven steadied himself against the side.

     "On this side of the arena, we have the defending champion. You know him! The Ripper! The Gripper! JAGGET!"   

     The jeers disappeared, leaving only the cheers. The crowd's applause and appreciation reached a rapid crescendo before falling off. 

     "And on this side, if you can believe it, we have a man of the cloth. If you spent any time watching the low stakes fights, you saw him smiting the big-talkers and the wannabes. Now he's taking a run at the big time. The holy roller, Brother Gaven!" 

     The jeers returned, with some shouting profane insults at him. A pair of ring attendants dropped into the slurry pit to gather up the stools, buckets, and rags. They handed them over the rim and quickly scrambled out, pulling the ladders after them. The barker leaned down, speaking directly to the fighters.

     "Try to give them their money's worth, eh?" Then he struck the old iron pipe that served as the bell.

     Gaven raised his fists, just in time to completely miss an incoming punch from Jagget. His head snapped back, bouncing off the concrete wall. He felt himself fold as Jagget drove two more punches into his mid-section. His head went down directly into a savage uppercut, and Gaven felt the skin split between his upper lip and his cheek.

     Gaven countered with a wild, looping haymaker that sailed over Jagget's head. The fighter bobbed up and cannoned a shot into the side of Gaven's face. He saw stars.

     Unsteady on his feet, Gaven felt the other man grab him in a front bear hug. Before Jagget could lift and throw him, the priest spread his legs and dropped his center of gravity. At the same time, he managed to catch Jagget with a head-butt that flattened his nose. Jagget grunted, letting go and backing off.

     Gaven followed, not so much "advancing" as stumbling and falling in the right direction. He drove a straight right at the other man with all of his considerable weight behind it. It connected somewhere on the bony part of Jagget's head.

     Jagget rolled with the impact, slipping around behind Gaven and hitting him in the kidney. Gaven spun to face him, but the slurry pit kept spinning. A moment later, everything tilted sideways. Gaven reached out to steady himself against the wall. 

     This is not going well, Gaven thought.

     Jagget shuffled in and threw a hard shot to Gaven's jaw. It was enough to drive him to his knees, and the crowd gathered around the rim let out a wild cheer.

     Gaven let go of the wall, raised both hands to cover his head, and ate four rapid-succession punches on his forearms, shoulders, and beneath the ribs. When the fifth one landed, he noticed there was less power behind it.

     Gaven risked lowering his arms just long enough to get a look. He took a solid punch above the eye for his trouble, but he saw what he'd been hoping for. Jagget was breathing heavily, his guard was sloppy, his fists hanging too low to protect his face.

​     Gaven planted both hands into the man's hips and shoved him away, buying just enough time to get to his feet. The next punch came in, and Gaven let it graze his cheek. Then he spun and caught Jagget under the sternum with a right hook. 

     The other man folded around the blow, and Gaven drove a knee up into his face. Gaven tried two more punches, both missed. He was in the process of launching his third when he stumbled over Jagget's prone body. Gaven fell forward, catching himself on the slurry pit wall. 

     When the hell did he fall over? Gaven wondered. The priest managed to turn himself around, bring both hands in front of him, and assume something like a fighting stance. By then, he realized two things. 

     The first was that Jagget was unconscious. The second was that he hadn't heard the bell. He squinted up at the crowd above the slurry pit. No one was paying any attention to him. The screams and cheers he should have heard weren't happening. This was largely because of the pushing, the shoving, and the overall panic as the spectators tried to break away and run. Over the noise, he heard the shouts and the shrill, tin whistles of the Homeguardsmen. 

​     Two thoughts hit him simultaneously, with a third catching up on their heels a moment later. The first was that he needed to find the bookmaker—Stiles! That was his name. Redeemer's Mercy, that had been bothering him—and get his money. The second was that he needed to get out of the textile mill before he was arrested.

     The third thought, the one arriving late to the proceedings, was that he was still standing in the bottom of an eight foot deep pit, and none of those panicky fools had bothered to throw down the ladder. 

     Gaven gripped the ledge and tried to pull himself out, but a running spectator stepped on his fingers. He swore and fell back down, landing in a crooked heap. He made a second try, with similar results.

     If it happens again, he decided, I'm pulling the next one down with me. 
Gaven leaped to the rim a third time. Another passerby stepped on his hands, and Gaven seized the man's ankles. The man fell, and Gaven dragged him down into the pit. They both landed heavily on the concrete floor, the other accompanied by a strange clattering noise.

     Gaven sat, and saw the other man scrambling to his feet. He was also scrambling to draw a curved saber from its scabbard. It took Gaven an extra second to process the man's long, grey uniform coat, gold-colored epaulets, and wide leather belt.

     Oh, shit...  

     Gaven quickly stood, stumbling in close. He drove a massive fist into the corner of the guardsman's jaw before the man could finish drawing his weapon. The guardsman crumpled, and Gaven seized him by the collar of his uniform coat. He pivoted and threw the man against the wall of the slurry pit. The man went down; but, he immediately began to struggle to his feet, making it as far as his hands and knees.

     As soon as he did, Gaven planted a foot in the middle of the guardsman's back, using him as a step-stool to vault out of the pit. Gaven bowled into several running people, tripping them up and knocking them all over. He didn't waste time trying to sort friend from enemy. Most of them were enemy. And, at best, he figured anyone else was more "indifferent" than "friend."  

     Gaven spun around, looking for the table Stiles had set up. Naturally, the man was long gone, meaning he'd taken Gaven's money with him. He tried to think where he would have run to.

     "You there! Get down on the ground!"

     Gaven spun and hit a guardsman between the eyes. He pushed the flailing man away, and made for one of the exits. He'd made it four good strides—most of them in a straight line, even—before someone tackled him from behind. He collapsed to the concrete floor, feeling the weight of at least one man pinning his legs in place. He struggled to get up. Then he felt the edge of a cold steel saber press against his neck. He looked up.

     The guardsman from the pit was glaring down at him, sword in hand, and a murderous rage in his eyes. 

     One of the soldiers pinning his legs spoke up. "Shall we cuff him, Captain Kean, sir?"

     "No," said Kean. "No need to waste cuffs on an unconscious man."

     Then the bell-guard of the saber rose and fell, crashing down on the side of Gaven's head, and dropping him into darkness. 

If you travel in pulp sword and sorcery circles long enough, sooner or later you're going to run into the name Schuyler Hernstrom. And with good reason. Few writers working today have grasped the pulp S&S aesthetic as throughly as Hernstrom. The stories in this collection deliver old-school action, weird fantasy, and hard-hitting heroes. 

Originally appearing in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, "The Challenger's Garland" is the only reprint. The story follows Molok, a ringwraith-like servant of the Death God, on his journey to challenge yet another champion in his lord's name. The tale is short, and there aren't any real surprises here. Especially not after we're introduced to Lobon, the champion. Even so, Hernstrom's telling is immensely satisfying. Rather than feeling predictable, the linear nature of the story gives the events a sense of finality, and portrays the characters as slaves to an inescapable fate.

"Athan and the Priestess" is the story that gives this collection its title. Athan, warlord of the steppes, receives a vision from Thune, the tribe's dying wizard. Athan is tasked with crossing the magic wall separating the steppe from the lands to their ancient enemies, the Ullin. There, he is to lay with the Ullin High Priestess and father a mighty son. The following adventure is a fantasy in the classic Weird Tales mode, with strange sorcery, wicked goddesses, and ancient towers. 

"Movements of the Ige" is almost a science fantasy. The story details a ritualistic battle between the primitive, lizard-like denizens of an unnamed planet. The proceedings are interrupted when an otherworldly "egg" drops from the sky, bringing with it some alien explorers. Once again, there are few surprises here. But Hernstrom paints an exceptionally vivid and well-realized culture among the lizard-like Ige in this short tale. 

"The Ecology of the Unicorn" is more-or-less a Vance pastiche. While not explicitly set on Vance's Dying Earth, Hernstrom's work here recalls the earlier, loosely-linked shorts that made up the first Dying Earth collection, especially "Turjan of Miir" and "Mazirian the Magician." The plot is simple enough: the wizard Malathiksos seeks immortality, demanding the help of a captive fae creature named Rutu. The flourishes are what make this story stand out, and the flourishes are pure Vance. In other hands, this one would be a complete misfire, but Hernstrom pulls it off admirably. The ironic twist ending is a hat-tip the master himself would have probably enjoyed. 

The longest story in the collection, and probably my favorite, is "Adalwolf's Saga." In a pseudo-Norse/Germanic culture, Adalwolf must avenge his father's death against a rival warlord. The initial battle goes poorly, with only Adalwolf and his brother, Gasto, escaping the field. At first believing himself cursed, Adalwolf soon gains the favor of the All-Father. But his righteous quest for vengeance gradually twists into self-serving ambition, and Gasto questions whether or not the All-Father will be pleased.

It's incredibly rare for me to buy a single-author collection and enjoy every story. Thune's Vision was an exception. 

If you enjoy reading the pulp greats of yesteryear, particularly Robert E. Howard or Jack Vance, then I highly recommend this collection. It might not be up to the lofty standards of those two masters, but it scratches that old-school itch in a way that most modern fantasy doesn't.

Thune's Vision is available on Kindle for $2.99. There's also a paperback edition available for $5.00.  

So I wasn't planning to beat my Last Jedi drum any more than I already have. Bottom line, I disliked the movie. Plenty of other people loved it. Their opinions are just as valid as mine. Live and let live, etc.

But my last post on the subject, detailing my feelings on Luke's character arc, led to a thought-provoking Twitter debate with a random stranger. While defending the movie, that stranger posed an interesting question:  

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​You can read the original thread here if you want, but below I'm going to organize and expand on my original response. 

As a side note, I want to say thanks to dvader518, whoever they are. They brought up some excellent points, and were never less than 100% respectful. We ended up agreeing to disagree, but the conversation did force me to think about my own position a little more. 

That's the kind of honest debate I can always appreciate, regardless of the outcome. As for my answer to the above question: 


Yoda is kind of an asshole

I don't consider Yoda cowardly for hiding on Dagobah, because he was never especially heroic in the first place. In fact, upon closer examination, he's really close to being one of the bad guys. 

Bear with me a second while I explain.

Yoda's exile on Dagobah can be summed up in five words: "The ends justify the means."

When we meet him in The Empire Strikes Back, he's the very last holdout of the old Jedi ways. He's also playing a long game against the Emperor and Vader. Yoda's plan (which Obi-Wan has aided every step of the way) is to train Luke specifically for the task of fighting and killing Darth Vader. 

Yoda doesn't care about Vader's redemption. He also doesn't want Luke to make up his own mind about the subject, which is why he keeps the fact that Vader is Luke's father a secret. In fact, he insists that Luke needs to "complete his training" before he sets out for the final confrontation. 

This is an important detail. Why? 

Because among other things, fully-trained Jedi are expected to shun all personal attachments. 

In other words, Yoda knows damned well that the truth about Luke's parentage will come out when he fights Vader. He just wants Luke to be so thoroughly indoctrinated into the Jedi ways by that point that he won't care, and he'll complete the mission anyway.

All of this is justified in Yoda's mind, because killing Vader will help restore balance to the Force. He's a character that cares more about his chosen ideal (balance) than than the actual people around him. He's basically training Luke to be an assassin, while hiding information that might cause Luke to question his target. 

And no, this isn't some weird, alternate character interpretation I'm pulling out of my ass. 

Luke's rejection of Yoda and the old Jedi ways is the entire point of his arc in the original trilogy. Yoda refuses to see any possibility that Vader can be redeemed, to the point where he even urges Luke to kill him on his own deathbed. Luke only wins because he embraces his personal attachments in direct defiance of Yoda's teachings.

Sure, Yoda is wise and powerful. But one of the major plot points of the original trilogy is that Yoda's adherence to the old Jedi dogma is wrong. In fact, Luke's first clash with him is one of the most important character moments in the series. 

Which leads me to another important storytelling principle.


Two Wrongs Don't Make a Right (But They Do Make For Dramatic Character Moments)

In his screenwriting book Story, Robert McKee points out that characters are defined by their choices. He also points out that the most powerful choices aren't between right and wrong, because that's really no choice at all. It doesn't reveal anything deep or important about the character, because any right-thinking person would obviously make the same choice.

The truly powerful choices, the ones that really show us a character's moral core, occur when they are forced to decide between two wrongs, or between two irreconcilable goods.

An example of two wrongs is the classic "Sophie's choice" dilemma, where a mother is forced to decide which of her children will live and which one will die. 

In The Empire Strikes Back, Luke faces the second kind of choice, between two mutually exclusive good outcomes.

Towards the end of Act II, Luke is training on Dagobah. He closes his eyes, reaches out into the Force, and senses great danger. He has a vision. Han, Leia, and the others are going to die unless he drops everything and tries to save them.

In that moment, his choices are:

1. Stay on Dagobah, complete the training, and help restore balance to the Force. 

 

1. Go to Bespin, abandon his training, and have a shot at rescuing the people he cares about. 

It's important to note that, in universe, from the characters' perspective, neither of these choices are wrong. 

Completing the training will help to restore the Jedi Order, creating an opposition to the Dark Side's near total domination of the galaxy. With Vader dead, the Emperor's power will be weakened, giving the Rebel Alliance a chance to overthrow the Empire, restore the Republic, and usher a in new era of peace.

And it makes total sense for Luke to want that, and for him to be torn about his decision. After all, he and his friends have fought and suffered for that exact outcome.

But here's the thing. 

All of that stuff up there, about balance and the Dark Side? From the audience's perspective, it's abstract. Viewers don't care about it.

Viewers DO care about Han, Leia, Chewie, and 3PO.  

That's why Luke's decision is such an important character moment, one that cements him as a hero in the audience's eyes. When given the choice between an abstract ideal and the people he cares about, he chose people.  

There may have been no "right" answer from the character's perspective. But from the audience's perspective, there was. Luke made the choice we identified with, and a generation of viewers loved his character for it.


Luke's Karma Ran Over Yoda's Dogma

So why did so many people (myself included) have a hard time seeing that same hero in Rian Johnson's take on the character?

It goes back to the importance of character choices, and how the powerful choices show us their moral center. 

In The Last Jedi, Luke faces the exact same choice he did in Empire. Rey, R2, and Chewie land on Ach-to, where Luke lives in self-imposed exile. They tell him the Resistance needs him, that Han is dead, and Leia is leading a desperate fight against the First Order. 
 
Luke's choices in that moment are:

1. Stay on Ach-to, recuse himself from the fight, and let the Jedi's harmful dogma die with him, which will return balance to the Force.

 

1. Leave Ach-to, join the fight, and have a shot at rescuing his twin sister.

Once again, an argument can be made that, in universe, neither of these answers is wrong. I actually disagree, but that's a tangent that distracts from the point.

For the second time, Luke is given the choice between an abstract ideal and the people he cares about. This time, Luke chooses the abstract ideal. 

But where his choice in Empire painted him as a selfless hero in the minds of the audience, this one painted him as the opposite. Most of the audience doesn't care about Luke's need to see the Jedi Order end, and its teachings disappear. We certainly don't care more than we do about Leia, a character we've been following for over 40 years. 

Just like with The Empire Strikes Back, in the audience's mind there was only one right answer to this dilemma, and it was the one Luke didn't take. He made the choice we can't identify with. 

The results are evident in the divided reaction to the film. Audience scores on Rotten Tomatoes are below 50%, the lowest for any film in the series. 

So as a writer, what's the takeaway here?
 
For me, it's a sort of caveat to keep in mind while applying McKee's principle about powerful character choices. You can give a character a dilemma with no "right" answer from his or her own perspective. Just remember that audiences might disagree. They might see only one right choice. 

And like your character, you'll have to choose wisely.