Review of James Swallow, Fear to Tread (Horus Heresy: Book 21)

 

I've now read three James Swallow novels in the Horus Heresy series--The Flight of the Eisenstein, Nemesis, and now Fear to Tread--and this is without a doubt my favorite of the three. I loved The Flight of the Eisenstein and didn't care much for Nemesis, so this was a welcome return to form.

The standout is Sanguinius. Loyalist Warhammer 40k Primarchs are basically Lawful Good Superheroes, i.e. not very subtle. Sanguinius is different because he is sad. If Roboute Guilliman is Superman, Sanguinius is Batman. I appreciated the Gothic, emo atmosphere: Sanguinius being tortured by his legion's secret of the Red Thirst gives the novel a brooding interiority that some Horus Heresy books really do well.

A lot of the supporting characters blurred together for me--they merged into a single composite figure, the good Blood Angel who is fiercely loyal to his Primarch. Meros and Kano were standouts, but they were essentially the same personality. Meros is an Apothecary concerned with keeping things together; Kano, like his Primarch, is burdened by a secret: his prohibited psychic abilities and dark dreams that prophesy doom. Uninteresting, somewhat flat characters, but not unexpectedly so. I know what I'm in for when I read about Space Marines.

What made the novel work was its visual iconography. The bone cathedral, the horrible Ka'Bandha, the disturbing Kyriss, the strange daemons, the cosmic horror dread, the blood-soaked ships: it all landed. If this was a film, I would have been gripped and cramming popcorn into my maw from beginning to end. The whole tableau of daemons fighting Space Marines is so visually and conceptually appropriate: a secular techno-empire doing battle with horrors drawn straight from the human mythological unconscious. This is where Jung becomes useful. I'm sure I've written this elsewhere, but the Chaos Gods are essentially Jungian archetypes: Khorne as the Shadow, the reservoir of rage and violence that civilization suppresses but never destroys; Slaanesh as the unbound Id, the appetites; Tzeentch as the Trickster run amok, the Machiavellian Prince. The Warhammer setting understands, perhaps intuitively, that you don't ever finally defeat these forces, you manage them. Sanguinius's burden with the Red Thirst is exactly this: not conquering the darkness within but keeping it caged. Jung would recognize the situation immediately. The grand irony of the setting is that the Imperium, with its militant rationalism and rejection of the psychic and spiritual, is not the best civilizational structure for actually managing the Shadon. As anyone who has flipped out over somebody eating their hardboiled eggs will tell you (Arrested Development reference), repression never works, it only pressurizes.

I wish I could identify a single major theme, but it's hard with this one; at book 21 of the series, theme is dispersed across the whole Heresy rather than crystallized here, and I think the writers realize this. If anything, this novel is thematically about fighting the rage within, keeping brute strength in check, what we might be inclined to call part of toxic masculinity and/or failure to manage anger. But I don't think Fear to Tread is thematically ambitious so much as aesthetically ambitious. Swallow managed to write a kick-ass Warhammer novel that hit every note. Sometimes that's exactly what you want.

Sword and Sorcery Fandom: When Enthusiasm Becomes a Commodity

Fandom is a strange and volatile space, particularly when it involves niche interests. In recent years, I’ve witnessed significant upheaval in my own corner of fandom: sword and sorcery. What began as a quiet community of enthusiasts has been reshaped by ideological tensions, cultural shifts, and the rise of what I’ll call enthusiasm opportunists. These patterns, while unique in their details, reflect broader sociological forces at work in digital subcultures that I find academically fascinating.

Five years ago, I saw a similar schism emerge in the Robert E. Howard fandom. Robert E. Howard (1906-1936), best known for creating Conan the Cimmerian, wrote widely across genres, and some fans wanted to focus exclusively on consolidating his diverse literary output rather than the broader, derivative works inspired by him. These purists grew frustrated with fans who enjoyed Howard primarily through the lens of sword and sorcery, a genre Howard invented but--due to low quality imitations--has often carried the stigma of being lowbrow pulp. I found myself in an unusual position: both an academic admirer of Howard’s literary genius--an English professor who specializes in interwar working class literature and culture--and a nerd, a fan of the wider, unapologetically pulpy sword and sorcery tradition.

In 2020, I founded an amateur zine dedicated to celebrating sword and sorcery fiction, both classic and contemporary. For me, it was a way to bridge these worlds--acknowledging Howard’s literary artistry while embracing the creativity and energy of genre storytelling. (There has long been an effort in literary studies to rethink the stark distinction between literary interpretation and production, analysis and creation. Why shouldn't literary scholars also teach creative writing courses? Aren't reading and writing part of the same literary culture?).At the same time, I continued to contribute to Howard scholarship, editing an academic journal about his life and work, publishing essays in major venues, and even giving a TED Talk about his literary significance. 

Parallel to this, the sword and sorcery fandom began to evolve, influenced by larger cultural and political trends. Historically, the genre has been criticized for its hyper-masculine and violent tendencies. It attracts a certain type of writer and reader--sensitive yet combative, quick to take offense and eager to defend their creative space. Early on, I advocated for a more inclusive approach to the genre, particularly in the representation of women and minorities. My stance was seen as progressive within the community, and I often found myself at odds with reactionaries resistant to change.

Then came another shift: a new wave of fans, vocal and politically engaged, sought to redefine the genre entirely. They wanted sword and sorcery to reflect LGBTQ+ identities and progressive values. Personally, I welcomed this and saw my work and the work of several friends as already part of this. Expanding the genre’s appeal and making it more inclusive seemed like a natural and worthwhile evolution. However, tensions arose as other fans pushed back, uncomfortable with what they perceived as activism encroaching on their escapism.

Even more, what had once been a niche, low-profile fandom began to attract broader attention, thanks in part to podcasters and other media amplifying our discussions. A Discord server I started as a low-key space for fans quickly grew into a largish community, with hundreds of active daily users. This growth brought with it a new phenomenon: enthusiasm opportunists. These individuals, exploiting the community’s passion, began leveraging their fandom for personal gain through Kickstarter campaigns and other monetized ventures, such as low-investment anthologies. At one point, I observed there was becoming a glut of new sword and sorcery, with more books being printed than being read and discussed. 

Sociologically, this reflects a broader pattern in fandoms: the transformation of participatory culture into a marketplace. Scholar Henry Jenkins has explored how fan communities, initially spaces of DIY creativity and collaboration, can become sites of commodification. The ethical problem lies in how these opportunists blur the line between genuine participation and commercial exploitation, undermining the community’s trust and shared values. Jenkins' classic book, Fans, Bloggers, and Gamers: Exploring Participatory Culture (NYU Press, 2006), offers profound insight into the sociology of fandoms, their birth, growth, and declines.

Over time, this monetized culture eroded the DIY ethos that had made the fandom vibrant. The community shifted from being a space of mutual enthusiasm to one divided between producers and consumers. I voiced my discomfort with this shift, arguing that the commercialization of fandom was compromising its authenticity. However, my critique was poorly received, particularly by those who tied their monetized ventures to progressive activism. My reluctance to uncritically endorse these ventures was cast, inaccurately, as opposition to their broader causes, positioning me, ironically, as an insufficiently progressive figure.

At its core, this controversy boils down to the dynamics of power and capital within fan communities. The introduction of monetization creates new hierarchies, privileging those who boldly and shamelessly market themselves while effectively sidelining others (authors, small presses, and editors who emphasize artistic quality over social media visibility). This commodification also feeds into performative activism, where important causes are leveraged less out of genuine commitment and more as branding opportunities. These patterns mirror the broader neoliberal logic of turning every space, even fandom, into a marketplace.

Reflecting on these developments, I’m struck by how fandoms can serve as microcosms of larger societal tensions. What began as a shared passion for a genre has been fractured by ideological disputes, cultural anxieties, and the corrosive influence of commercialization. While I remain committed to the creative and scholarly aspects of sword and sorcery, I find myself questioning whether the communal spirit that once defined this fandom can withstand the pressures of our increasingly commodified culture.

Ultimately, the story of this schism is not just about sword and sorcery but about the ethical dilemmas that arise when enthusiasm becomes a commodity. Can fandom remain a space for genuine connection and creativity, or is it doomed to replicate the market-driven dynamics of the broader world? The answer, I suspect, lies in our ability to resist the allure of the enthusiasm opportunists and to prioritize the shared values that brought us together in the first place.

Six Principles for Old School Dungeon Masters

Art by Gilead

Six Principles for Old School Dungeon Masters

1) The most important thing a DM should ask the PCs, and repeatedly ask, is, “What do you do?” This question creates the atmosphere that makes D&D enjoyable for players, directing and redirecting the momentum toward their choices.

2) Descriptions of situations, NPCs, and scenarios should be concise, brief, and to the point. Unless the DM is a talented actor, dialogue should be reported rather than directly acted out. As dialogue progresses, a sort of magic happens, and characters naturally seem to converse with NPCs without the awkwardness of falsetto voices or fake accents.

3) If players have a request or idea, no matter how outlandish, the DM should provide the possibility for it, but they can adjust the statistical likelihood to make it almost impossible. For example, let’s imagine a player asks if their familiar, a cat, can tear out the throat of an evil necromancer after the party has fallen. A 1 in 20, or even a 1 in 100 chance, is unlikely, but the benefit of the dramatic tension is worth it. The inverse, the discouragement associated with shutting down the idea, is not worth it.

4) Whether the DM is using a module or creating one, the DM needs an “objective” third party to mediate between their role as DM and the players’ choices. This third party could be a description of a town, an NPC, an encounter, or a social scenario. To an extent, this third element adds concreteness to the world, moderating the whimsy of the DM and the tendentious nature of the players, creating something approaching an even playing field.

5) The DM should strategically adopt an antagonistic stance toward the players. This makes the encounters feel as though the stakes are high. However, the DM should never cheat; the players should never suspect the DM of putting a finger on the scales, as this might incentivize them to cheat as well. Instead, the DM should make it clear that they will use their resources honestly, with integrity, and to the best of their abilities within the reasonable constraints of the enemies' abilities and potential.

6) Finally, the DM should not retcon any awarded treasure or magical items. If a campaign becomes unbalanced due to a mistake, it is better to end the campaign than to retcon. Retconning something that provided the players with a sense of joy risks making future DMing sessions feel unreliable.

Fire and Ice: Teegra: Society, Totalitarianism, and Freedom

I recently read Teegra, a new comic by Dynamite that supplements their ongoing Fire and Ice prequel series. The series explores the events leading up to Ralph Bakshi and Frank Frazetta's 1983 animated film of the same name, in which the evil Ice Kingdom and the sorcerer Nekron attempt to conquer the world.

Revisiting this world through the comics has sparked my interest in the deeper themes of Fire and Ice. When I first watched the film in the early 2000s, I was enthralled by the stunning visuals that combined Frazetta's dynamic art with Bakshi's rotoscope animation. However, the story and characters didn't resonate with me as strongly as the visuals.

Now, the prequel comics have illuminated what I believe to be a central allegory of Fire and Ice: the conflict between freedom and totalitarianism, a vivid reflection of the Cold War era in which the film was made. This theme was prevalent in popular culture during the 1980s, as seen in films like Red Dawn (1984) and Rocky IV (1985), which pitted rebellious American heroes against Soviet-style authoritarian regimes.

In the world of Fire and Ice, the Ice Kingdom represents a dehumanizing, authoritarian state ruled by a supreme leader (think Stalinist Russia). The Fire Kingdom, in contrast, symbolizes a passionate but unruly and disputatious democracy that values personal freedom above all else. This allegory is exemplified through characters like Teegra, who defies an arranged marriage in favor of her own autonomy, and her brother, whose forbidden love challenges societal norms.

Interestingly, this theme aligns with the values often espoused in sword and sorcery fiction. The genre's archetypal hero, Conan the Cimmerian, rejects the oppressive traditions of his homeland to pursue a life of freedom. However, while the Ice Kingdom is both technologically advanced and totalitarian, Cimmeria is depicted as a barbaric yet authoritarian society bound by tradition.

In sword and sorcery, sorcery often serves as a metaphor for technology and science. The Ice Kingdom's advanced sorcery parallels its totalitarian control, while the Cimmerians' lack of sorcery reflects their primitive yet oppressive society. 

This tension highlights how, surprisingly, both primitive and advanced societies can be antagonistic to personal freedom in the sword and sorcery genre. I am reminded of Elric's  Melniboné.

Robert E. Howard, the creator of Conan, drew inspiration from theosophical concepts when crafting the world in which his stories were set. Theosophy, a spiritual and philosophical movement established by Helena Blavatsky in the late 19th century, sought to synthesize ideas from various Eastern and Western religious and occult traditions. Jeffrey Shanks, in his article "Theosophy and the Thurian Age: Robert E. Howard and the Works of William Scott-Elliot," argues that Howard's fictional Hyborian Age can be interpreted as a reimagining of theosophical prehistory, particularly in its depiction of the rise and fall of civilizations. The Thurian Age, a period in Howard's fictional timeline, mirrors the cyclical nature of Blavatsky's (i.e. Theosophy's founder's) "Root Race" theory, which proposes that human evolution progresses through stages of savagery, barbarism, and civilization before inevitably descending back into savagery. This cyclical model of societal development in Howard's works bears a striking similarity to the ideas put forth by Blavatsky in her theosophical teachings. 

The Fire Kingdom in Fire and Ice doesn't quite fit into Howard's savagery, barbarism, and civilization model. It is a kingdom, a state, and a society, but one that is unruly and seemingly respects individual freedom. This concept of a society that values personal liberty might have resonated with how some Americans utopically imagined their democracy during the 1980s (through the lens of popular culture), particularly in contrast to the perceived oppression of the Soviet Union.

As I delve deeper into the world of Fire and Ice, I find myself increasingly fascinated by how it mirrors the political landscape of the 1980s while also drawing upon the tradition of sword and sorcery fiction and its underlying philosophical influences. The Dynamite Fire and Ice comics have not only rekindled my appreciation for Bakshi and Frazetta's creation but also revealed the thought-provoking allegory at its core, inviting us to consider the relationship between society and freedom.

Weird Tales of Modernity: A Very Personal Retrospective

In July of 2019, I published an academic book titled Weird Tales of Modernity: The Ephemerality of the Ordinary in the Stories of Robert E. Howard, Clark Ashton Smith, and H.P. Lovecraft. Academic books typically don't attract a large readership, with sales of 100 to 200 copies considered successful in the humanities. However, the true measure of an academic book's success lies in its influence, often gauged by reviews in academic journals.

My book received two significant reviews. The first, in The Journal of the Fantastic in the Arts, a leading journal for literary studies scholars who focus on fantasy, stated: "Carney’s book is a valuable addition to the literature on its topic. It deserves a wide readership, and a prominent place in the scholarship of American fantastic literature in the early twentieth century." This recognition was encouraging, affirming my book's contribution to 20th-century fantastic literature scholarship. The second review, from American Literature, a flagship journal in literary studies, noted that my book "plac[es] pulp fiction in a broader historical and literary context." This suggested that my work could help traditional American literature scholars link interwar pulp fiction with the broader saga of American literary tradition.

2019 was shaping up to be a promising year, especially as I anticipated the academic year 2019-2020. Publishing an academic book in the summer typically leads to opportunities to share work, respond to rebuttals, and clarify contributions at academic conferences. I was looking forward to attending events like the National Conference of the Popular Culture Association and the International Conference of the Society for the Study of the Fantastic in the Arts, expecting to disseminate my unique perspective on pulp fiction.

However, the unforeseen events of March 2020, just 8 months post-publication, disrupted these plans. The pandemic led to the cancellation of most academic conferences. The shift to online classes consumed my focus, leaving little room to consider the potential impact on my book's influence.

Nearly three years later, I realize the unfortunate timing of my book's release. It's disappointing because I believe my study is important. Traditionally, scholars have separated the histories of canonical literature and genre fiction. My book aimed to bridge this gap, illustrating how both must be understood in response to the same social, economic, and aesthetic developments.

Despite the setbacks, my book did begin to make waves in the academic world, with positive reviews in The Journal of the Fantastic in the Arts and American Literature. Additionally, genre fiction enthusiasts also reviewed it. Dave C. Smith, a celebrated sword and sorcery writer, wrote a thoughtful review for Black Gate. Bobby Derie, a Lovecraft scholar, also reviewed it positively but noted its challenging appeal: Would scholars find its focus on pulp fiction (i.e. noncanonical literature) a barrier? Would genre fiction fans find it too theoretical, dense, and granular? Derie concluded, "Weird Tales of Modernity sits comfortably on a shelf next to The Unique Legacy of Weird Tales (2015), Conan Meets the Academy (2013), and New Critical Essays on Lovecraft (2013). Whether it will find an audience only the future can tell, but it certainly deserves one."

Reflecting on the years spent working on the book and its modest impact thus far, I feel a tinge of sadness. But academic books are often slow burns. I remain hopeful that in time, people will discover it and engage with my ideas.