Robert E. Howard in Scots: "A Song of the Race"

A Sang o’ the Ilk

Screivit by Rabert E. Howard

Heich oan his throne sat Bran Mak Morn
Whan the sun-god sank an the wast wis reid;
He waggit a girl wi’ his wauchtin-horn,
An, "Sing me a sang o’ the ilk," he said.

Her een waur as derk as the seas o’ nicht,
Her lips waur as reid as the settin sun,
As a duskit rose in the dwynin licht,
She let her fingers dreamily rin

Owur the gowden-whispert strings,
Seekin the sowel o’ her auncient lyre;
Bran sate still oan the throne o’ kings,
Bronze face limnit in the dayset's fire

"First o’ the ilk o’ men," she sang,
"Far frae an unco laund we cam,
Frae the rim o’ the waurld whaur muntains hing
An the seas burn reid wi’ the dayset flam."

"First an the lest o’ the ilk are we,
Gane is the auld waurld's gilt an pride,
Mu is a stoil o’ the wastern sea,
Throu haws o’ Atlantis the white shairks glide."

An eemage o’ bronze, the king sate still,
Javelings o’ cramasie shot the wast,
She brushit the strings an curmurt thrill
Soopit up the chords tae the heichest creest.

"Hear ye the yairn that the auncients tell,
Hechtit o’ yore by the god o’ the muin,
Chuckit oan the shuir a deep sea shell,
Cairvit oan the surface a meestic rune:"

" ' As ye war first in the meestic past
Oot o’ the smochs o’ the blee o’ Time,
Sae sall the men o’ yer ilk be lest
Whan the waurld sall crummle,' sae ran the rhyme."

" ' A maun o’ yer ilk, oan kips that clash,
Sall leuk oan the reelin waurld ablo;
Tae spewing smeuk sall he see it crash,
A fleetin smoch o’ the winds that blaw.' "

" 'Starn-dust fawin for aye throu space.
Dirlin aboot in the winds that birl;
Ye that waur first, be the lest-most ilk,
For ane o’ yer men sall be the lest o’ men.' "

Intae the seelence her vyse trailit aff,
Yet it echaed athort the huim,
Owur the heather the nicht-wind saft
Buir the scent o’ the forest's moust.

Reid lips liftit, an derk een dreamit,
Bauchens cam wheelin oan theftie weengs;
But the muin ris gowd an the far starns glimmit,
An the king still sate oan the throne o’ kings.

Requiescat in Pace, Howard Andrew Jones

I wish I could've started the new year on a happier tone.

Howard Andrew Jones was an author whose work exemplified everything this blog was made to extoll: adventure fiction with an eye for historical resonance, eldritch menace, and weird mystery, evoking the works of classic late 19th & early 20th Century ripping yarns, while also bringing his own sensibilities and qualities to the prose. He wrote tales in Pathfinder's world of Golarion, undertook the enormous project to collect Harold Lamb's historical adventures into the Bison Books collection, and created three fantasy cycles of his own.

It was through Robert E. Howard fandom that I first encountered him, and he regularly wrote on that author and the worlds of historic & fantastic adventures on Tor, Black Gate (of which he was managing editor), and on his own website, with an essay in Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures being one of the highlights of the Del Rey Howard collection.

So when Andrew sent out an email enquiring if I would be interested in helping spread the word for his debut fantasy novel, well, I was only too happy to do so.

This is Charles Keegan's magnificent illustration for the UK edition of The Bones of the Old Ones. Andrew told me I would love it: he knew my tastes very well.

Of all Howard's works, it was The Desert of Souls and The Bones of the Old Ones which I loved the most. The "Sword and Sand" stories of stolid guardman Asim & wily rogue Dabir swashbuckling their way through a fantastical veil of the Islamic Golden Age of Persia. Much like the deeply missed fellow Sword-and-Sorcery boundary-breaking aficionado Charles R. Saunders, it is the shift in setting & focus of the Sword and Sand Chronicles which appealed to me the most - Arabian Nights with an earthy grounding to complement the dreamlike magicks and uncanny mysteries, with historical sensibilities supporting it all, like the roots of a tree holding up a cliff-face.

He was always generous, encouraging, and inspirational to me in my all-too-few dealings with him. I was always amazed to see him grace the blog with his presence, and I'm so glad for the correspondences we shared with one another. We cannot know what the future will bring, but if there's any justice in it, then Howard Andrew Jones' books will be on library shelves for many years to come: for just as his appreciation for Lamb brought that author's work to a new generation, I'm certain fans of that Indiana farmboy will make sure his work will live on.