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Post by Deleted on Nov 3, 2017 2:40:07 GMT -5
On this day in 1917 Harold Lamb's Khlit the Cossack made his first appearance in the Adventure pulp magazine. Happy 100th birthday to the Wolf of the Steppes. 1st issue with a Khlit the Cossack yarn. Bibliography of Harold Lamb's Adventure Fiction: www.zarthani.net/harold_lamb/hlamb_bibliography.htm
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Post by Deleted on Nov 20, 2017 13:26:26 GMT -5
Ilia Repin: The Zaporozhian Cossacks Write a Letter to the Turkish Sultan (1880-91).In the Historical Fiction section at Foyles (a great book shop on Charing Cross rd) I was delighted to see 3 volumes of Harold Lamb's Cossack books - it's nice to see Harold Lamb back on the shelves again.
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Post by Deleted on Dec 20, 2017 2:10:25 GMT -5
Here's a look at the yarns from Harold Lamb's Swords from the Desert. vintagepopfictions.blogspot.co.uk/2016/06/harold-lambs-swords-from-desert.htmlConcerning the heroes of Harold Lamb I found this excerpt from the above link very interesting: Lamb had a particular interest in the history of the region then known as the Near East. He was remarkably even-handed in his treatment of the various cultures this region encompassed. His heroes could be Christian Crusaders, or Arabs, or Mongols, or Cossacks. They could be Christian, or Muslim or pagan. To Lamb a hero was a man who possessed the qualities of courage, daring, loyalty and honour. Such a man could be found in any culture. Lamb’s villains could also be men from any of these cultures. What made Lamb’s fiction so striking and original (and it remains so today) was his ability to admire other cultures without turning against his own culture.
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Post by Deleted on Mar 28, 2018 15:19:05 GMT -5
Harold Lamb's Foreword from the Crusades: Iron Men And Saints. At the end of the night of the Dark Ages a multitude of our ancestors left their homes. They started out on what they called the voyage of God.
It was a migration, and a journey, and war. All kinds of people joined the marchers, lords and vagabonds, weapon men and peasants, proud ladies and tavern drabs. "A thing unheard of'" said a chronicler of the day, "that such divers people and so many distinguished princes, leaving their splendid possessions, their wives and their children, set forth with one accord and in scorn of death to seek the most unknown regions."
They were marching out of the familiar, known world into Asia to set free with their own hands the Sepulcher of Christ. They wanted to live there, in the promised land, ruled by no king but by the will of God. On the shoulders of their jackets they wore a cross, sewn out of cloth, and because of this they were called the cruciati, or cross-bearers. So we, to-day, call them the crusaders.
Most of them died on the way. But they went on, and after three years some of them reached their destination, Beyond the Sea. Here their journey ended, but other cross-bearers came out to join them. For the first time all the peoples of Christendom, speaking different languages and separated from each other until now, were united in a common enterprise. Christendom had taken up the sword against Islam, and the war went on for more than three centuries and some two million human beings perished in it.
Historians have picked out six of the crises of this conflict and have named them the six crusades. In reality it was all just the ebb and flow of the conflict begun by these crusaders.
In this volume is told the story of the first crusaders. It begins with their setting out, and it ends with the death of the last survivor. Eight hundred and thirty-five years have passed since then, and the lives of these men are known to us only by the chronicles of their day.
Several of these chronicles were written by men who marched with the crusaders by two chaplains and an unknown soldier. Two other narratives were finished in Beyond the Sea after the march, and we have the accounts of others who saw the crusaders pass, a princess of Byzantium, an Armenian patriarch. There is also the testimony of Arab travelers and historians of the period, and the notes of Genoese sea traders, and the saga of a Norse king.
Upon these original chronicles the story in this book is based. It does not deal with the legends that grew up after the crusades. It is not history rewritten.
It is the story of a dozen men, most of them leaders, who started out on that long journey — what they saw on the road, and what they did, and what befell them at the Sepulcher of Christ.
Link to the Crusades: Iron Men And Saints at the internet archive: archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.505384And the link to The Crusades: The Flame Of Islam: archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.206619
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Post by deuce on Mar 29, 2018 12:59:09 GMT -5
Below is the beginning of the first chapter of Lamb's The Grand Cham. Read it, then go and read the beginning of REH's Lord of Samarcand.
It was evening on the plain of Angora in the year of Our Lord 1394. The sun was a glimmering ball of red, peering through a haze of dust at the caravan of Bayezid the Great, surnamed the Thunder- bolt, Sultan of the Osmanli and Seljuk Turks, master of the Caliphate and overlord of the Mamelukes of Egypt.
Bayezid reined in his white stallion.
"We will sleep the night here," he an- nounced, "for this is an auspicious spot."
At Angora a decade ago, as leader of the hard-fighting Osmanlis, Bayezid had won his first pitched battle. He had been ac- claimed sultan and straightway had slain his brother with his own hand. From that moment Fate had been kind to the man called the Thunderbolt.
"To hear is to obey," cried his followers. "Hail to the Mighty, the Merciful, the All- Dispensing One!"
Bayezid glanced around through the dust haze and saw the quivering shapes of silk pavilions rising from the baked clay floor of the plateau as his camp-followers scurried about. A line of grunting baggage-camels stalked into the nest of tents that marked the quarters of his grandees. Attended by negro slaves, the several litters of his women halted beside the khanates that separated his household from the small army that attended him.
A slow smile crossed his broad, swart face. A powerful hand caressed the pearls at the throat of his tunic. Fate had indeed exalted him. He had been called the spiritual effigy of the formerly great khalifs of Damascus and Baghdad. He knew himself to be the supreme monarch of Asia, and in that age the courts of Asia were the rendez- vous of the world.
True, on the outskirts of the sultan's empire, to the East, was Tamerlane the Tatar and his horde. But had not Tamer- lane said that Bayezid, given the men to follow him, was the wisest of living generals?
As for Europe, Bayezid had advanced the border of his empire into Hungary; Con- stantinople, glittering with the last splendor of the Byzantines, was tottering; Venice and Genoa paid tribute for permission to use the trade routes fnto the Orient.
Bayezid glanced curiously at the group of Frankish (European) slaves whose duty it was to run beside his horse. They were panting, and sweat streaked the sand that coated their blackened faces. Fragments of cloth were wrapped about their bleeding feet.
Five of the six captives bent their heads in the salaam that had been taught them. The sixth remained erect, meeting the sul- tan's eye.
Bayezid half frowned at this boldness which broke the thread of his thoughts. His hand rested on the gold trappings of his splendid horse. To the side of this horse slaves were dragging a cloth of silver carpet that stretched to the opening of the imperial khanates.
This done, the hawk-faced Sheikh of Rum, through whose territory mid-way in Asia Minor the sultan's caravan had been journeying from Constantinople to Aleppo —the lord of Rum approached his master respectfully.
"O Light of the Faith," the old man ob- served gravely. "It is the hour of the namaz gar, the evening prayer."
"True." Bayezid started and his glance went once more to the white man who stared at him. "I will dismount. Bid yonder Frank kneel by my horse that I may step upon his back."
All around Bayezid the grandees were kneeling in their heavy robes upon clean prayer carpets, washing their hands and faces in fresh water brought by slaves from the springs that marked the site of the camp. The sheikh bowed and gave a curt command to the master of the slaves, El-Ar Juk, a stalwart, white-capped Janissery, whip in hand.
"The body of the Frank will be honored by the foot of the Great, the Merciful."
At this the captive stepped forward before the Janissery could touch him. Bayezid reflected that the white man understood Turki, which was the case.
And then to the surprize of the onlookers, the captive folded his arms and shook his head.
"Kneel," hissed the sheikh. "Dog of a caphar — unbeliever "
"I hear," said the captive. "I will not obey."
The Janissery reached for his whip and the old Moslem for his simitar. The sul- tan checked them, springing easily from his peaked saddle to the cloth of silver carpet. From his six feet of muscular height he looked down at the white man. His beaked nose seemed to curl into his bearded mouth and his black eyes snapped.
Then the sultan knelt, facing toward the southern sky-line beyond which was Mecca, and repeated the allah akbar in his clear, deep voice. When the last of his followers had completed the evening worship Bayezid arose, his smile cold as the glitter of steel, his nervous fingers playing with the jew- eled sword-hilt at his girdle. He noted the wide brown eyes of the captive who still stood quietly at his side, and with the inter- est of a born leader of men he scrutinized the square high shoulders, the long chin and the wide, delicate mouth upturned in a half-smile.
The man's face was burned by the sun to the hue of leather; his ragged tunic fell away from a heavily thewed pair of arms. His body had the lines of youth, but his eyes and mouth were hard with fatigue.
"You know my speech," observed the deep voice of the Thunderbolt. "And your eyes tell me that you are not mad. What is your name and rank?"
"Michael Bearn," responded the Christian.
"Mishael Bi-orn. Your rank?"
"None, my lord." The man's smile broad- ened slowly.
"In what army did you serve?"
"None, my lord."
The patrician sheikh, whose fathers had been warriors, spat upon the ground and assured his master the sultan that this dog and the other Franks had been taken when a Christian galley was shipwrecked on the Anatolian shore a year ago. The Turks who took them had said that this dog was khan of the galley, that he was a caphar
magician who steered his craft by a be- deviled needle that pointed always to the north.
"What is your country?" demanded Bayezid.
"I have no country. The sea is my home."
Michael Bearn had been born on the cliffs of Brittany. His mother, an Irish gentlewoman, had landed from his father's ship for the birth of the boy. When his father, a taciturn Breton, had died Michael had left his mother in a tower on the Brit- tany coast and had taken to the sea.
There had been talk of a crusade against the Turk who was master of the Holy Land. Michael's mother had pleaded with the boy to wait and join one of the bands of warrior-pilgrims to Rome. But Michael had no yearning for the cassocked priests. The sea called him and his father's blood urged him to strange coasts.
It was the way of women, he had told the Irish mother, in his young intolerance of belief, to seek comfort of priests and to covet the insignia of the cross. His mother had hid her tears and Michael did not know how he had hurt her.
Following the bent of that time, a few years had brought him to the Levant and the glamor of trade with the Orient. He had been master mariner of the galley wrecked on the Anatolian coast while it was being pursued by Turkish pirates.
"And so," mused Bayezid, "a slave without rank, without race and an unbe- liever dares to disobey a command of mine? So be it. You have strength in your arms and pride. It pleases me to put both to the test."
It was part of the secret of the Thunder- bolt's achievement that, he enforced cruel discipline among his followers. Michael Beam's eye lighted and he lifted his head.
"Set a simitar in my hand," he said quickly. "My lord, choose one of your skilled swordsmen and let him wear his mail. With a simitar — his weapon, not mine — I will stand against him in my shirt."
The stubborn pride of the Breton that had not let him prostrate himself under the foot of a Turk flared at the chance to strike a blow -with a weapon. He had en- dured captivity doggedly, seeking for a chance to escape to the hills to the east where were tribesmen who did not owe alle- giance to the sultan.
But he had not been willing to demean himself, to gain time for a further chance at liberty with his five comrades. Like all seamen of the age, he was experienced in the use of sword and mace.
A swift death was better than months of running beside the horse or litter of a Turkish master.
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Post by deuce on Apr 9, 2018 11:21:13 GMT -5
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Post by deuce on Apr 11, 2018 10:48:26 GMT -5
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Post by Deleted on Apr 11, 2018 11:42:35 GMT -5
Great stuff, Deuce. Thanks for the link.
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Post by thedarkman on Apr 11, 2018 16:14:23 GMT -5
I’m really hoping for the complete Durandal seeing print one day soon. Maybe HAJ has some news...
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Post by Deleted on Aug 10, 2018 15:48:32 GMT -5
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Post by deuce on Dec 15, 2018 1:39:03 GMT -5
Here's a look at the yarns from Harold Lamb's Swords from the Desert. vintagepopfictions.blogspot.co.uk/2016/06/harold-lambs-swords-from-desert.htmlConcerning the heroes of Harold Lamb I found this excerpt from the above link very interesting: Lamb had a particular interest in the history of the region then known as the Near East. He was remarkably even-handed in his treatment of the various cultures this region encompassed. His heroes could be Christian Crusaders, or Arabs, or Mongols, or Cossacks. They could be Christian, or Muslim or pagan. To Lamb a hero was a man who possessed the qualities of courage, daring, loyalty and honour. Such a man could be found in any culture. Lamb’s villains could also be men from any of these cultures. What made Lamb’s fiction so striking and original (and it remains so today) was his ability to admire other cultures without turning against his own culture.That is a good review. The guy over at VPF does a good job.
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Post by Deleted on Jul 16, 2019 15:48:50 GMT -5
Here's a link to an issue of Adventure magazine from the Internet Archive featuring the Keeper of the Gate by Harold Lamb. Here's a description of the yarn from the contents page: Nial O'Gordon brings Damascus steel and a Scotchman's oath down the lost road to Cathay and the Golden Horde of Khubilai Khan. And, of course the link: archive.org/details/AdventureV095N04193608/page/n3
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Post by ChrisLAdams on Jul 17, 2019 8:21:44 GMT -5
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Post by Deleted on Jul 20, 2019 1:00:18 GMT -5
Yeah, he's pretty good. I read his historical stuff years ago, mainly concerning the Turko-Mongol peoples. Those days you could find Harold Lamb books in almost every second-hand book store - they're a lot more difficult to find these days, but as you say there's quite a selection online. I think the Tide of Terror book listed by Cold Tonnage Books above is edited by Hugh Lamb.
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Post by Deleted on Apr 12, 2022 0:21:41 GMT -5
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