#swordandplanet

My Dear Cousin,

It is not of our custom to give each other orders and make demands, but I must beg your indulgence on this occasion – by the time this letter reaches you I will be nearly at home, and I insist that you take me out so I can tell you of the adventures I've had on this tour.

My Master advised me not to take up with the Temar Company, and his warnings were not unwarranted. These past two hundred days have been an education in the misery and confinement of life aboard a vessel, the drudgery of the work, and the pettiness and venality of those souls who make their trade thus. He said little of the danger I would encounter, and yet again old Simas proved wise – had I known of the thrills and elation Company life would allow, I should have downed my tools and quit his yard six seasons since.

So much has happened I can scarce put the least part of it in a letter! When I reach Mirsvr I will come directly to your house, so I can be taken right away to the nearest spot for some proper brandy. They don't keep you short of strong drink aboard – least of all in the Company vessels, and least of all on my vessel, the Aspire, haha! – but proper brandy I have missed.

To whet your appetite, I shall tell you of one story that gives a picture of the life I've led. Thirty days ago, we were somewhere beyond the Ussin Belt – don't fear I have learned no navigation, Cousin, I just had been assigned to gunnery for a few days – and we encountered a smaller vessel, low on the horizon, crossing our bow. Now there is no reason for an honest vessel to be travelling that terrain, so low to the ground, and certainly not at its heading! So our Captain – a more ill-tempered woman I have yet to meet in my life, a bully and a cheat, but a master navigator and an uncanny tactician – gave the order to chase. We had the advantage of great speed over our prey, though, they gave us some trouble in the night and pulled a neat manouevre into the rising sun as dawn broke, almost blinding us and disappearing into the haze. Being on gunnery duty, I took little part in these affairs. But at last, we got directly above them and after a warning shot from our lowest battery, the smugglers – for that is what they were – struck their colours and halted. The Captain did not descend, but instead sent the First Lieutenant – a miserable gambler and a cheerful brawler – and the vessel's Weird – less of an oddity than you might expect, though deeply inscrutable – and a selection of six crew – myself among them! - to sieze the vessel and deal with those aboard.

They were a wretched bunch, ragged and ill, and the pickings of their cargo were upsettingly slim. The Captain ordered the Lieutenant and the Weird to return to Aspire, and I was left to take the vessel to the Company Depot back on the civilized side of the Belt. I landed the prisoners – don't fret, kind Cousin, the Company always leaves such disenfranchised souls upon a high vantage point, with rations, where they may attend to their own welfare until such a time as one of their kin will rescue them . Once I was airborne again I learned that the smugglers had been navigating purely on natural skill and familiarity with the land. There was not a single navigational instrument or chart to be found in that mean vessel – and I who had been working in gunnery, was lost in this land! Well, the Aspire was gone too far for me to signal or call back without appearing a fine fool in the eyes of my fellows, and risking the Captain's wrath.

So I struck out, with nothing to guide me in this unfamiliar land but the Sun! For two days I set the course by the Sun, and by night I guided my vessel by the moon or Fasaath gleaming low in the sky, and sure enough by dawn of the second day I found myself crossing the Belt. By noon of the third day I reached the Depot, and sure enough, they had expected me only that morning. I consulted the charts there and found I had travelled by near the closest route possible. Do you think it may be the Captain, experienced in the ways of smugglers, expected them to have no maps? And was testing me or perhaps trying to have me punished for lateness? Ah but I made a good time and not even my brute of a captain can deny it! Two days only by the sun, the moon, and the inner four planets, and I arrive within mere hours of her reckoning!

Ah but dear Cousin that is only one story, and the one I can mostly safely commit to paper. When you see me you must not let me leave or get too drunk without I have told you of the Binni Trader in Poradh, or the battle above the Selin Lake, or the card game my first week in the Barracks. You will delight in all these, I promise you!

I trust all is well in Mirsvr? Has my brother quite recovered from his illness? Do kiss your mother and father for me, and my mother should you see her. If you see my father tell him he is a scoundrel.

Yours,

Yar te Yarllen, Probationary Officer 2nd Class, Temar Company Fleet.

By Simon Soltau

“ Poor Faker – so close and yet so far away. I am happy to reveal my latest "Masters Of The Universe" painting, just called "Faker's Mission." Once more I painted with oils on canvas at my preferred size of 80/120 cms (about 31,5 x 47,2 inches). The painting is an expanded recreation of the famous Faker Cardback drawing by the fabulous Errol McCarthy - you can see it here: https://www.planeteternia.de/…/classicrev…/FakerCardback.jpg I always loved that drawing of He-Man ambushing Faker, but I also wanted him to have a reason to do it. Here is the result. As always I used a lot of references referring to some great artists like the unforgettable William George. Enjoy! “

1966. The pulp racks still smell like Burroughs. John Carter swings his sword on Barsoom, saves princesses, and everything ends clean. Then a thin paperback drops — Tarnsman of Gor by John Norman — and it doesn’t sit quietly. It punches the old formula straight in the face.

Norman takes the classic “Earthman on an alien planet” setup and hardens it in fire. No smiles. No winks. No safety net. He builds a world that runs on raw power. Honor here is a heavy load. Slavery isn’t decoration — it’s the spine of the entire civilization. People are divided into castes. Cities stand on Home Stones. Armies die for those stones. Priest-Kings sit in the Sardar Mountains like cold gods and decide who lives and who burns. Tarns — massive predatory birds — carry warriors into battle. Men ride them. Men die on them.

Tarl Cabot is no chosen one. He’s a regular history lecturer from New Hampshire. One night a silver disk takes him from Earth. A blue metal box waits in the forest. Inside is a letter written in 1640 by his father, long thought dead. Tarl wakes up in a round room with a low ceiling. The sun looks bigger. The gravity feels wrong. He realizes he’s on another planet. This is Gor.

His father is already there. He explains the rules. Home Stones. Castes. Priest-Kings. Tarl listens. Tarl learns fast. Senior Tarl — a giant bearded warrior — teaches him to fight with both hands. Thorn the Scribe beats him with scrolls when he fucks up. Tarl trains hard. Then comes the first flight on a war tarn. The bird is huge. The bird is vicious. Tarl straps in, pulls the colored reins, and lifts into the sky. Wind slams his face. The ground drops away. In that moment he feels both free and terrified. He understands: on Gor, he’s no longer just a man. He’s a warrior.

Then comes the mission. Steal the Home Stone of Ar — the strongest city, the most sacred stone. Tarl flies to Ar. He takes a girl named Sana with him. He meets Talena, daughter of the Ubar. He meets Marlenus, the fallen ruler. He meets Pa-Kur, the Master of Assassins. Blood flows. People die. Every step costs dearly. Some steps break even the strongest.

Norman writes hard and straight. He shows how this world crushes people. He shows how power turns some into masters and others into slaves. He shows the truth. He shows everything.

That was bold as hell for 1966. Most writers back then hid from these themes. They wrapped everything in romance and heroism. Norman didn’t. He wrote a book that smells like sweat, blood, leather, and metal. A book where the hero either joins the system or dies. A book where adventure isn’t a game — it’s war.

This first book launched one of the longest and most controversial series in fantasy history. Over thirty volumes. A whole subculture grew around Gor. People still argue about it. Some call it genius. Others call it dangerous. But the fact remains: after Tarnsman of Gor, old-school sword-and-planet fantasy was never the same. Norman proved a world could be brutal. A hero could lose. Power wasn’t just a pretty word — it was the air you breathed.

The book still hits today. It demands respect. It gets it from readers who can handle the truth without filters. From people who understand that real fantasy isn’t comfort. It’s a mirror. And sometimes that mirror shows ugly shit.

1966. A thin paperback. The fantasy world after it was never the same. And it still remembers who changed it.