Mr. Roark, I’ve read Robert E. Howard, I knew Robert E. Howard, Robert E. Howard was a friend of mine. Mr.
Roark, you are no Robert E. Howard.
– Old Ghilzai Proverb
In June of 1977, I unexpectedly ran into Byron Roark at Houstoncon. He and a friend had driven down from
Kansas for the event. It was a pretty big convention – mostly comic books, Star Trek and old movies. Roy
Thomas was one of the guests of honor and Glenn Lord was there as well, though just as a fan. Roark and I
hung out together for most of the three day event, talking Howard and fanzines. Shortly before we parted
company, Roark bragged to me that he had rewritten the ending of the previously unpublished short
version of “Three-Bladed Doom,” which appeared in REH: Lone Star Fictioneer #4. I was shocked and asked
him why he would do such a thing. He said the Howard ending was flat, with Gordon being unconscious at
the end of the story. Roark also said that it was not a proper “Howard ending” and so he rewrote it in order
to give it a stronger finish. I was none too pleased with him when we said our good-byes. Not long after
this transpired, Roark seemingly fell off the face of the earth. Then, out of the blue, Glenn Lord received a
phone call from Roark about fifteen years ago in which he gave no indication of his whereabouts. He then
pulled a Keyser Soze and disappeared again.
As soon as I got home from the convention, I closely re-read the ending of “Three-Bladed Doom” again and
got a whiff of something, but with nothing to compare it with, I couldn’t tell what was changed or added to
alter the ending. However, I knew something was off since the phrasing and the cadence of the writing just
didn’t ring true to Howard. Since that day, I’ve always wanted to compare Roark’s version to Howard’s.
Well, thirty years later I’ve finally done just that, having obtained a copy of Howard’s original manuscript.
Needless to say, I was astounded at the hatchet job done on this El Borak story by Roark. Not only was the
ending radically changed, but the beginning as well, with numerous changes made to the middle of the
story. This was much more than editing and constituted a near rewrite of the story. Roark added so many
words to the story (nearly 1100), he should have given himself credit as co-author. At least no one would
be bamboozled into thinking they were reading a true, previously unpublished Howard story. So, if you’ve
read this El Borak story, you’ve only read Roark’s version of it since Joe Marek used Roark’s text for his
reprinting of the story in The “New” Howard Reader #7 (June 2000).
The original Howard manuscript shows numerous editorial changes made in pencil by (presumably) L.
Sprague de Camp in preparation for converting this Gordon tale into the Conan story “The Flame Knife” for
Gnome’s Tales of Conan (1955). A good many of these are proper names that are circled – names that would
have to be changed later (Gordon to Conan, etc.). Three-quarters of the way through the manuscript, de
Camp’s editorial changes abruptly end. Since he adapted the long version into “The Flame Knife,” he may
have switched to the longer manuscript. However, this is pure speculation on my part.
So, without further adieu, here is Byron Roark’s opening as published in REH: Lone Star Fictioneer #4 and
The “New” Howard Review #7:
1. Silent Death
The slap of bare feet on worn stone alerted Gordon to another human presence in the shadowed side street.
Even as he whirled about, the squat figure of a man leaped from the arch of a darkened doorway. He whipped
his long-barreled Colt from its holster, as the assailant crashed into his chest – his lunge fouled by his prey’s
sudden movement.
As the blade plunged downward, Gordon blocked the stroke with a muscled forearm; then before the assassin
could regain his balance for another stroke, the American smashed his knee savagely into the man’s groin. As
the pain-wracked man failed wildly at the air, Gordon drew back his pistol. With a roundhouse swipe, he
whipped the barrel of the gun alongside the man’s temple – he crumpled with a soft groan. He lay on the rough
cobblestones at Gordon’s feet, clawing at the surface with his fingers in jerky reflex movements.
As he stood over the prone figure, Gordon’s ears heard the muffled scrape of sandaled feet on the roofs above,
listening with tense expectancy, the adventurer saw the movement of a shadow, blocking out the dim moonlight
from above. In a flash of motion, he lifted the muzzle of his colt to the rooftops; he fired once, and was rewarded
with a shrill scream – then the thump of a limp body onto the street a few paces from him.
The first attacker was stunned; his chest still rose and fell with the rhythm of his breathing. The other was a
shattered corpse – Gordon’s soft bullet had blown a gaping hole in the midst of his breastbone. Blood was
spattered in a pool a yard wide, making the surface underfoot sticky and unsure. Both men clutched in their
fists peculiarly-fashioned knives, with three razor-edged blades sprouting from a single hilt. Gordon pried the
dagger from the dead man’s fingers, and rolled it over in the palm of his hand. In all his years in the hills, he had
never seen such a weapon as this.
As he rose slowly from his crouch, still gazing at the knife, Gordon heard the whistle of a rapidly-exhaled breath
… he ducked to one side as yet another man leaped out of the shadows. Only his honed reflexes saved him from
a killing thrust; as it was, the assassin’s knife plunged into the loose garment gathered under the arm of his
tunic. The blades caught, fouled for a moment – and in that time, Gordon took the offensive. The thug flew over
Gordon’s dropped shoulder, and fell on his face on the rough stone surface of the street. Gordon’s Colt boomed
again, and the man pitched over backwards, clutching at his ruined face. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Gordon stood over him, his ears straining for any other sounds. He peered into the nearby doorways – up the
street, from around the next corner he heard the clamor of running feet and the muffled clink of steel. These
sinister sounds told him the nighted streets of Kabul were a deathtrap for Francis Xavier Gordon. He hesitated,
half lifting the big gun, then shrugged his shoulders and hurried down the street, swerving wide of the dark
arches that gaped in the walls which lined it. His shots had probably drawn more assistants than he could easily
handle by himself and the night-black alleys were no place to make a proper stand. He turned into another,
wider street, and a few moments later rapped softly on a door above which burned a brass lantern.
And here, for the first time in print, is Howard’s original opening sequence of the story:
Chapter 1
“The knife! Allah! The knife!”
It was the scruff of swift and deadly feet in the darkened doorway he had just passed that warned Gordon. He
wheeled just in time to see a tall figure lunging at him from that black arch. It was dark in the narrow, alley-like
street, but Gordon glimpsed a fierce bearded face, the gleam of steel in the uplifted hand, even as he avoided
the blow with a twist of his whole body. The knife ripped his shirt and before the assassin could recover his
balance, the American caught his arm and crashed the long barrel of his heavy pistol down on the fellow’s
head. The man crumpled to the earth without a sound.
Gordon stood over him, listening with tense expectancy. Up the street, from around the next corner, he caught
the shuffle of sandaled feet, the muffled clink of steel. These sinister sounds told him the nighted streets of
Kabul were a death-trap for Francis Xavier Gordon. He hesitated, half lifting the big gun, then shrugged his
shoulders and hurried down the street, swerving wide of the dark arches that gaped in the walls which lined it.
He turned into another, wider street, and a few moments later rapped softly on a door above which burned a
brass lantern.
Why did Roark feel the need to add the prolonged scuffle with the assassins when Howard opened the
story perfectly fine, without filling up the page with poorly written, unneeded wordage and hackneyed
phrases? Roark added a whopping 373 words to beginning of the story. Since he was getting paid by the
word, you would think Howard would be the one to ramble on and on. It appears young Roark wanted to
give the story an action-packed start (as if a Howard beginning was not action packed enough!). One of
Howard’s strengths as a writer was his ability to create a scene without being too wordy about it. He left
much to the reader’s imagination, allowing that reader to put himself into the action right along with the
hero. Since these assassins were so ferocious and deadly, could Gordon have taken on three of them?
Without a doubt, but the point is Howard didn’t write it that way.
Once we get past the opening sequence, Roark sticks fairly close to the manuscript, but he can’t seem to
resist changing a name, a word or phrase here and there. Sometimes he inserts de Camp’s editorial
changes, perhaps thinking they were Howard’s. At other times he plops in an unneeded sentence or
paragraph. All these smaller alterations are noted in the print version of this article (TGR #10) and will allow
you to see the changes made by Roark to Howard’s original manuscript. Don’t get me wrong, some minor
changes are necessary for clarity’s sake. The correction of a clearly misspelled word, the insertion of an
omitted word or a punctuation change make perfect sense, but the wholesale corruption of a Howard story
by a fanzine editor is inexcusable.
This re-imagining of “Three-Bladed Doom” is perplexing to me, giving Roark’s history of taking others to
task for doing the same thing. Here’s what he says about de Camp in his article “Vultures Over Cross
Plains” (LSF #3):
1. Mr. de Camp’s writing style is quite alien to Robert E. Howard’s, and as a consequence, their prose does
not click together properly;
2. Howard’s fiction was, or seemed to be injected with the facets of his own very individualistic personality,
and naturally, de Camp’s own personality is quite different from the man he was emulating (But that was a flaw
over which he had no control, blame it on heredity); and
3. De Camp, in my opinion, either does not have firm mental image of the character as written by Howard, or
he tries to change the character to fit his own needs and whims. (If the former statement is true, why in the
world is he writing Conan? If the latter is correct, why is he changing something created by another?)
Evidently his hubris got the better of him, by thinking he could improve the story despite the fact he wasn't
a professional writer and certainly was nowhere near in the same league as Howard. As the story comes to
an end, Roark decides it’s not a good “Howard ending” and creates his own ending – the exact opposite of
the one Howard had written! Here is Roark’s bloated, and ridiculous ending:
Slowly, through the soft darkness that surrounded him, Gordon groped his way back to consciousness. Hearing
returned before sight – before he could see anything but the blind, pulsing waves of emptiness, he could hear
voices, the creak of saddle leather, the loud clack of hoofs on flinty rock. A dim glow began to pierce the
darkness; from above, like a point of a star viewed from the depths of a black pit. It grew, expanded – became
the mellow light of a full moon, gleaming high above the mountain peaks. With a dull throb, his pain returned
and he began to recall something of what had transpired. As he shifted his body, he was painfully aware of a
sharp twinge in his head, and realized it was wrapped with bandages. He began to regain comprehension; he
sorted out the sounds, and recognized the wavering visions that passed before his eyes.
He was lying on a sling stretched between two horses, being carried by the cavalrymen of Baber Khan out of
Ghulistan. Dimly, he saw Azizun mounted behind one of the riders, leaning over from time to time to place a
fresh pad of damp cloth on his forehead. Even in the vague moonlight, her eyes seemed unnaturally wet and
dark in her pale face. Other faces floated around hers. Bearded stained faces. As through a fog, he recognized
them: Yusuf ben Suleiman – Lal Singh – Yar Ali Khan – Baber Khan.
Lal Singh was speaking. With a tremendous effort, Gordon made himself hear the Sikh’s words: “I still do not
understand how you arrived in Shalizahr as quickly as you did. El Borak said you could not possibly reach Khor
before night fall, and that dawn would see you still making your way back.”
“I met the Ghilzai about half-way between the Gorge of Ghosts and Khor,” answered the Afridi. “The men I sent
to guide El Borak returned to Khor before dawn. They told me they had heard the voice of the djinn, and that El
Borak intended on plunging inward into Ghulistan, said Baber Khan. First I beat them with an ox-goad for
allowing him to go on without them, then I mounted every able-bodied man in Khor and brought them in haste.
Had they been devils or men – had I known that he would invade this damned country alone, I would have never
let him leave the city without the strength of all my swords.”
“We, as you now know, left our mounts in the Gorge of Ghosts – Yar Ali Khan led us through the secret door in
the cliff-wall. We rushed the single guard in the cleft, and slashed his head off before he detected our
presence. It was night before we reached the Stair, but it was unguarded. We scaled the cliffs and quietly
entered the city, directly behind a mob that was sieging the tower in which you and El Borak were holed up.
The sons-of-jackals did not see us until we loosed a volley into their backs. The foolish bastards dropped like
flies.”
At this point, Gordon, his voice a dry rattle, forced his lips apart and croaked: “Baber Khan – how went the
battle?”
“Sahib!” exclaimed Yar Ali Khan. “You know us – you can speak?”
The wounded adventurer swore mentally, and spat drily. “How did the fight end, damn you!
“There was no fight, El Borak. The dogs fled before us, and the halls are choked with their corpses! Those
who are yet alive, have fled, taking the body of their accursed Shaykh with them. The Cossack lies dead in an
upper level of the tower – his blood congealing in a pool about him. We hold the city.
“You are on a sling, for we take you to a Ferringhi doctor, even if we should have to go to Kabul! The Hidden
Ones are shattered, my friend. The few survivors have fled into the mountains – doubtless to die there!”
finished Yar Ali Khan, his teeth clenched in his beard.
Gordon threw the cloth from his forehead, and wiped it with the back of his sleeve. “And what became of the
prisoners – daughters of free men?”
“All is well. They are under protective guard, awaiting your word to return them to their homes,” grunted the
Ghilzai.
Francis Xavier Gordon gripped the edge of the sling in which he reposed, and rose to a precarious sitting
position. “Good. Now get me a mount, and put me on it. Don’t argue!”
Yar Ali Khan urged his horse forward alongside Gordon. “El Borak, you are too weak. Do not tempt Shaitan to
take what is due him!”
Laugher rolled from Gordon like the roar of a mountain stream, then abruptly ended with a rattling cough.
“There will be the wailing of a score of widows the day I enter Hell, old friend. And since I don’t hear them now,
get my horse.”
Yar Ali Khan clutched his beard in frustration, pulled a fistful of strands from his chin – then ordered a Ghilzai
to come forward with a mount. The file of warriors stopped as Gordon climbed out of the swinging conveyance.
Gordon flinched as two muscled-men-at arms gripped him under the arms, and hoisted him into the high-
backed saddle. Waveringly he sat in the seat as the men tied him into the saddle with strips of rawhide – passed
around his ankles, thighs and waist. The American leaned back, throwing his weigh into the stirrups as they
finished – the spurred his mount forward to ride in the front, next to Baber Khan.
Looking straight ahead, down the winding trail, Gordon began to speak in a hoarse, gravelly voice. “You have
saved your head this night, Baber Khan. As a result of this successful raid, the Amir will pardon you of all other
transgressions you have committed. The three-bladed dagger is broken … swept away into time. It will never
mend again, this side of Hell!” His voice sank into silence.
A dim, howling roar was evident as Baber Khan brought his horse to a stop on the brink of a precipice. The
group of riders had come to the edge of a chasm which fell steeply away, as the trail made a sharp turn to form a
steep path downward. The canyon had been carved over the centuries by a rushing waterfall to the north –
which caused the echoes to resound through the sheer rock walls. Gordon moved up next to Baber Khan, and
peered down into the depths of the chasm. The sides continued down for hundreds of yards, the bottom was
obscured by mist formed by the falls. For a long moment, both men gazed – seeming to find some message in
nature’s majesty.
Baber Khan twisted his head to look at his companion, only to find the Texan’s eyes waiting … squinting to
pierce the dim shadows or pre-dawn. The men of two different countries glared at one another, American and
Khorian … a smile began to curl the edges of Baber Khan’s lips as he returned his attention to the great
crevasse.
“You have made this country your own, El Borak – by blood, fire and steel. You have made many friends, but
even more enemies – in what class would you put me?" murmured the Khorian, as he straightened his khalat.
Gordon shifted in his saddle, and adjusted the blade that was slung over his left shoulder across his back.
“Where would you put yourself?”
“Perhaps a bit of both. But one day, our differences will be resolved in a final combat between us. I dread and
fear that day … friend.”
A grim smile fell across Gordon’s features, and his brows knit in thought. After a long pause, he replied: ‘It has
always been thus with men of ambition. One day, that fight will take place … but not today.”
With a final glance into the canyon, Gordon nudged his mount down the trail – craning his neck to see the trail
twist downward into the mists. As the sun rose over the peaks, Francis Xavier Gordon lead the file of mounted
warriors into the mists, until they were lost from sight in the billowing clouds.
This is Howard’s original ending, printed here for the first time:
Slowly, through the soft darkness that surrounded him, Gordon groped his way back to consciousness. Hearing
came before sight for before he could see anything but the blind, pulsing waves of darkness, he could hear
voices, mumbling, indistinct and meaningless. Then a dim glow began high up, like a point of a star seen from
the depths of a black pit. It grew, expanded, became the mellow light shed softly from a bronze lamp. Then he
knew who he was and remembered most of what had happened. He was aware of a dull and terrible hurt in his
head, and he knew it was bandaged. He began to understand the voices, to understand the blurred, wavering
visions that met his eyes.
He was lying on a couch, dimly, he saw Azizun crouching beside him. Her eyes looked unnaturally great and
dark in her pale face. From time to time she placed a fresh pad of damp cloth on his head. Other faces floated
behind hers. Bearded faces. He recognized them: Yusuf ben Suleiman; Lal Singh; Yar Ali Khan; Baber Khan.
Lal Singh was speaking and by a tremendous effort of will, Gordon made himself understand what the Sikh was
saying: “I still do not understand how you arrived here when you did. El Borak said you could not reach Khor
before nightfall, and that it would be dawn before you could return to Shalizahr – ”
“I met the Ghilzai about half-way between the Gorge of Ghosts and Khor,” answered Afridi.
“The men I sent to guide El Borak returned to Khor before dawn,” said Baber Khan. “They told me they had
heard the voice of the djinn, and that El Borak intended plunging on into Ghulistan. First I beat them with an ox-
goad for allowing him to go on without them. Then I mounted every able bodied man in Khor and brought them
in all haste. Devils or men, had I known he intended invading this country I would have never let him leave Khor
unless I accompanied him with all my swords.”
“We left our mounts in the Gorge of Ghosts – Yar Ali Khan led us through the secret door in the cliff-wall and
we rushed the guard in the cleft, and cut his head off before he knew we were near. It was night when we
reached the Stair. It was unguarded. We climbed the cliffs and came on quietly. The dogs did not see us until
we loosed a volley into their backs.”
Gordon forced his lips apart and murmured: “Baber Khan.”
“Sahib! You know us – you can speak!”
“How did the fight go?” Gordon whispered. Strange how hard it was to whisper.
“There was no fight, sahib. The dogs fled before us. The halls are choked with their bodies. Those who live,
have fled, taking the body of their accursed Shaykh with them. The Cossack lies dead in an upper hall. We hold
Shalizahr. You are lying in an inner chamber. I have sent men to get horses and ride for a hakim. We will have
a Ferringhi doctor for you, even if we have to bring one from Kabul! The cult of the Hidden Ones is shattered.
The few who yet live have fled into the mountains.”
“The women in the city – ” Gordon muttered. “They are slaves stolen from Persia and India – ”
“We have collected them under guard in the seraglio,” said Lal Singh. “Not one has been harmed. Later we
will arrange to send them back to their homes.”
“Good!” Gordon sank back, and the shadows began to close about him. “You have saved your head, Baber
Khan. The Amir will pardon you for this night’s work. The three-bladed dagger is broken – ”
His voice sank into silence, and Azizun cried out, throwing her arms about him.
Yar Ali Khan clutched his beard in agony.
“Allah! He is dying!”
Lal Singh, his hand on Gordon’s hard wrist, shook his head
“Nay, he sleeps. His skull is broken, but it is not written that the blow of a hilt should slay El Borak. He will live,
to fulfill the destiny the gods have given him.”
As you can see, there’s a BIG difference between the two endings
Roark’s prose is so purple, it’s practically black. I mean, “Laughter rolled from Gordon like the roar of a
mountain stream …” how corny is that? Not to mention Gordon and Baber Khan come damn close to making
goo-goo eyes at each other in the re-engineered ending. Roark’s Gordon also seems a bit testy in his
version, treating his comrades rather rudely, considering they were caring for his wounds.
The kicker in Roark’s version is Gordon’s miraculous recovery; one minute he’s nearly unconscious and
the next he’s on horseback, leading a group of warriors down a perilous narrow mountain pass. It’s
amazing how quickly his fractured skull mended! El Borak, like all of Howard’s heroes, is a mere man, not a
superhero. Granted, he possesses preternatural fighting skills, but he can be hurt or killed. You cut him,
he bleeds. You shoot him, a bullet rips through his body. You konk him on the head, you knock him out.
Young Roark sought to improve Howard’s ending and failed miserably. How can one improve Howard? By
far, Howard’s ending is much more realistic and satisfying. Less is more and Howard knew this.
This brings up the issue of the large amount of unpublished Howard material published by Roark and
Fenner. In addition to the short version of “Three Bladed-Doom,” five other previously unpublished
Howard stories appeared in Fenner/Roark publications. The stories are: “The Loser” (LSF #1), “Sword
Woman” (LSF #2), “Guns of Khartum” (LSF #3), “The Brazen Peacock” (LSF #3) and “Road of Azrael” (Chacal
#1). While all of these tales have since been reprinted, the question arises were those stories needlessly
“beefed up” well? And, if so, were the corrupted texts used for the republished versions, thus
perpetuating the altered versions? I posed this question to Glenn Lord, who informed me he always sent
copies of the manuscripts to the publishers rather than a copy of the story from a magazine or book that
contained the previously published story. I was curious to see if other stories were similarly altered by
Roark, so I checked a few of the LSF versions against later published texts and only found very minor
changes (chapter titles, punctuation, etc.). Still, I’d play it safe and go with the most recent textually correct
versions, when available.
One final bizarre item in this tale of defiled text is this excerpt from the introduction to “Three-Bladed
Doom,” in LSF #4:
Due to the tone of the ending of “Three-Bladed Doom,” we’d like to present what we believe is the “last” of the
series featuring El Borak, at least on this plane. Now if another Gordon story emerges from the vaults
transcribing events that occur after this tale, well … maybe our hero doesn’t go off to the happy hunting
grounds after all!
Apparently Roark, is alluding to the original Howard ending with Gordon near death and not the “happy
ending” he wrote with a quickly-recovered Gordon riding off into the sunrise. I should note here that the
ending of the long version has Gordon in somewhat better shape, hobbling around nursing a gunshot
wound.
Hopefully, someone will swiftly reprint the short version of “Three-Bladed Doom,” until then we are
doomed to be stuck with Roark’s corrupted version.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
Excerpts from “Three-Bladed Doom” (short version) are Copyright ©2006 Robert E. Howard Productions, Inc. All rights reserved.
Article Copyright ©2006 Damon C. Sasser.
Roark, you are no Robert E. Howard.
– Old Ghilzai Proverb
In June of 1977, I unexpectedly ran into Byron Roark at Houstoncon. He and a friend had driven down from
Kansas for the event. It was a pretty big convention – mostly comic books, Star Trek and old movies. Roy
Thomas was one of the guests of honor and Glenn Lord was there as well, though just as a fan. Roark and I
hung out together for most of the three day event, talking Howard and fanzines. Shortly before we parted
company, Roark bragged to me that he had rewritten the ending of the previously unpublished short
version of “Three-Bladed Doom,” which appeared in REH: Lone Star Fictioneer #4. I was shocked and asked
him why he would do such a thing. He said the Howard ending was flat, with Gordon being unconscious at
the end of the story. Roark also said that it was not a proper “Howard ending” and so he rewrote it in order
to give it a stronger finish. I was none too pleased with him when we said our good-byes. Not long after
this transpired, Roark seemingly fell off the face of the earth. Then, out of the blue, Glenn Lord received a
phone call from Roark about fifteen years ago in which he gave no indication of his whereabouts. He then
pulled a Keyser Soze and disappeared again.
As soon as I got home from the convention, I closely re-read the ending of “Three-Bladed Doom” again and
got a whiff of something, but with nothing to compare it with, I couldn’t tell what was changed or added to
alter the ending. However, I knew something was off since the phrasing and the cadence of the writing just
didn’t ring true to Howard. Since that day, I’ve always wanted to compare Roark’s version to Howard’s.
Well, thirty years later I’ve finally done just that, having obtained a copy of Howard’s original manuscript.
Needless to say, I was astounded at the hatchet job done on this El Borak story by Roark. Not only was the
ending radically changed, but the beginning as well, with numerous changes made to the middle of the
story. This was much more than editing and constituted a near rewrite of the story. Roark added so many
words to the story (nearly 1100), he should have given himself credit as co-author. At least no one would
be bamboozled into thinking they were reading a true, previously unpublished Howard story. So, if you’ve
read this El Borak story, you’ve only read Roark’s version of it since Joe Marek used Roark’s text for his
reprinting of the story in The “New” Howard Reader #7 (June 2000).
The original Howard manuscript shows numerous editorial changes made in pencil by (presumably) L.
Sprague de Camp in preparation for converting this Gordon tale into the Conan story “The Flame Knife” for
Gnome’s Tales of Conan (1955). A good many of these are proper names that are circled – names that would
have to be changed later (Gordon to Conan, etc.). Three-quarters of the way through the manuscript, de
Camp’s editorial changes abruptly end. Since he adapted the long version into “The Flame Knife,” he may
have switched to the longer manuscript. However, this is pure speculation on my part.
So, without further adieu, here is Byron Roark’s opening as published in REH: Lone Star Fictioneer #4 and
The “New” Howard Review #7:
1. Silent Death
The slap of bare feet on worn stone alerted Gordon to another human presence in the shadowed side street.
Even as he whirled about, the squat figure of a man leaped from the arch of a darkened doorway. He whipped
his long-barreled Colt from its holster, as the assailant crashed into his chest – his lunge fouled by his prey’s
sudden movement.
As the blade plunged downward, Gordon blocked the stroke with a muscled forearm; then before the assassin
could regain his balance for another stroke, the American smashed his knee savagely into the man’s groin. As
the pain-wracked man failed wildly at the air, Gordon drew back his pistol. With a roundhouse swipe, he
whipped the barrel of the gun alongside the man’s temple – he crumpled with a soft groan. He lay on the rough
cobblestones at Gordon’s feet, clawing at the surface with his fingers in jerky reflex movements.
As he stood over the prone figure, Gordon’s ears heard the muffled scrape of sandaled feet on the roofs above,
listening with tense expectancy, the adventurer saw the movement of a shadow, blocking out the dim moonlight
from above. In a flash of motion, he lifted the muzzle of his colt to the rooftops; he fired once, and was rewarded
with a shrill scream – then the thump of a limp body onto the street a few paces from him.
The first attacker was stunned; his chest still rose and fell with the rhythm of his breathing. The other was a
shattered corpse – Gordon’s soft bullet had blown a gaping hole in the midst of his breastbone. Blood was
spattered in a pool a yard wide, making the surface underfoot sticky and unsure. Both men clutched in their
fists peculiarly-fashioned knives, with three razor-edged blades sprouting from a single hilt. Gordon pried the
dagger from the dead man’s fingers, and rolled it over in the palm of his hand. In all his years in the hills, he had
never seen such a weapon as this.
As he rose slowly from his crouch, still gazing at the knife, Gordon heard the whistle of a rapidly-exhaled breath
… he ducked to one side as yet another man leaped out of the shadows. Only his honed reflexes saved him from
a killing thrust; as it was, the assassin’s knife plunged into the loose garment gathered under the arm of his
tunic. The blades caught, fouled for a moment – and in that time, Gordon took the offensive. The thug flew over
Gordon’s dropped shoulder, and fell on his face on the rough stone surface of the street. Gordon’s Colt boomed
again, and the man pitched over backwards, clutching at his ruined face. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Gordon stood over him, his ears straining for any other sounds. He peered into the nearby doorways – up the
street, from around the next corner he heard the clamor of running feet and the muffled clink of steel. These
sinister sounds told him the nighted streets of Kabul were a deathtrap for Francis Xavier Gordon. He hesitated,
half lifting the big gun, then shrugged his shoulders and hurried down the street, swerving wide of the dark
arches that gaped in the walls which lined it. His shots had probably drawn more assistants than he could easily
handle by himself and the night-black alleys were no place to make a proper stand. He turned into another,
wider street, and a few moments later rapped softly on a door above which burned a brass lantern.
And here, for the first time in print, is Howard’s original opening sequence of the story:
Chapter 1
“The knife! Allah! The knife!”
It was the scruff of swift and deadly feet in the darkened doorway he had just passed that warned Gordon. He
wheeled just in time to see a tall figure lunging at him from that black arch. It was dark in the narrow, alley-like
street, but Gordon glimpsed a fierce bearded face, the gleam of steel in the uplifted hand, even as he avoided
the blow with a twist of his whole body. The knife ripped his shirt and before the assassin could recover his
balance, the American caught his arm and crashed the long barrel of his heavy pistol down on the fellow’s
head. The man crumpled to the earth without a sound.
Gordon stood over him, listening with tense expectancy. Up the street, from around the next corner, he caught
the shuffle of sandaled feet, the muffled clink of steel. These sinister sounds told him the nighted streets of
Kabul were a death-trap for Francis Xavier Gordon. He hesitated, half lifting the big gun, then shrugged his
shoulders and hurried down the street, swerving wide of the dark arches that gaped in the walls which lined it.
He turned into another, wider street, and a few moments later rapped softly on a door above which burned a
brass lantern.
Why did Roark feel the need to add the prolonged scuffle with the assassins when Howard opened the
story perfectly fine, without filling up the page with poorly written, unneeded wordage and hackneyed
phrases? Roark added a whopping 373 words to beginning of the story. Since he was getting paid by the
word, you would think Howard would be the one to ramble on and on. It appears young Roark wanted to
give the story an action-packed start (as if a Howard beginning was not action packed enough!). One of
Howard’s strengths as a writer was his ability to create a scene without being too wordy about it. He left
much to the reader’s imagination, allowing that reader to put himself into the action right along with the
hero. Since these assassins were so ferocious and deadly, could Gordon have taken on three of them?
Without a doubt, but the point is Howard didn’t write it that way.
Once we get past the opening sequence, Roark sticks fairly close to the manuscript, but he can’t seem to
resist changing a name, a word or phrase here and there. Sometimes he inserts de Camp’s editorial
changes, perhaps thinking they were Howard’s. At other times he plops in an unneeded sentence or
paragraph. All these smaller alterations are noted in the print version of this article (TGR #10) and will allow
you to see the changes made by Roark to Howard’s original manuscript. Don’t get me wrong, some minor
changes are necessary for clarity’s sake. The correction of a clearly misspelled word, the insertion of an
omitted word or a punctuation change make perfect sense, but the wholesale corruption of a Howard story
by a fanzine editor is inexcusable.
This re-imagining of “Three-Bladed Doom” is perplexing to me, giving Roark’s history of taking others to
task for doing the same thing. Here’s what he says about de Camp in his article “Vultures Over Cross
Plains” (LSF #3):
1. Mr. de Camp’s writing style is quite alien to Robert E. Howard’s, and as a consequence, their prose does
not click together properly;
2. Howard’s fiction was, or seemed to be injected with the facets of his own very individualistic personality,
and naturally, de Camp’s own personality is quite different from the man he was emulating (But that was a flaw
over which he had no control, blame it on heredity); and
3. De Camp, in my opinion, either does not have firm mental image of the character as written by Howard, or
he tries to change the character to fit his own needs and whims. (If the former statement is true, why in the
world is he writing Conan? If the latter is correct, why is he changing something created by another?)
Evidently his hubris got the better of him, by thinking he could improve the story despite the fact he wasn't
a professional writer and certainly was nowhere near in the same league as Howard. As the story comes to
an end, Roark decides it’s not a good “Howard ending” and creates his own ending – the exact opposite of
the one Howard had written! Here is Roark’s bloated, and ridiculous ending:
Slowly, through the soft darkness that surrounded him, Gordon groped his way back to consciousness. Hearing
returned before sight – before he could see anything but the blind, pulsing waves of emptiness, he could hear
voices, the creak of saddle leather, the loud clack of hoofs on flinty rock. A dim glow began to pierce the
darkness; from above, like a point of a star viewed from the depths of a black pit. It grew, expanded – became
the mellow light of a full moon, gleaming high above the mountain peaks. With a dull throb, his pain returned
and he began to recall something of what had transpired. As he shifted his body, he was painfully aware of a
sharp twinge in his head, and realized it was wrapped with bandages. He began to regain comprehension; he
sorted out the sounds, and recognized the wavering visions that passed before his eyes.
He was lying on a sling stretched between two horses, being carried by the cavalrymen of Baber Khan out of
Ghulistan. Dimly, he saw Azizun mounted behind one of the riders, leaning over from time to time to place a
fresh pad of damp cloth on his forehead. Even in the vague moonlight, her eyes seemed unnaturally wet and
dark in her pale face. Other faces floated around hers. Bearded stained faces. As through a fog, he recognized
them: Yusuf ben Suleiman – Lal Singh – Yar Ali Khan – Baber Khan.
Lal Singh was speaking. With a tremendous effort, Gordon made himself hear the Sikh’s words: “I still do not
understand how you arrived in Shalizahr as quickly as you did. El Borak said you could not possibly reach Khor
before night fall, and that dawn would see you still making your way back.”
“I met the Ghilzai about half-way between the Gorge of Ghosts and Khor,” answered the Afridi. “The men I sent
to guide El Borak returned to Khor before dawn. They told me they had heard the voice of the djinn, and that El
Borak intended on plunging inward into Ghulistan, said Baber Khan. First I beat them with an ox-goad for
allowing him to go on without them, then I mounted every able-bodied man in Khor and brought them in haste.
Had they been devils or men – had I known that he would invade this damned country alone, I would have never
let him leave the city without the strength of all my swords.”
“We, as you now know, left our mounts in the Gorge of Ghosts – Yar Ali Khan led us through the secret door in
the cliff-wall. We rushed the single guard in the cleft, and slashed his head off before he detected our
presence. It was night before we reached the Stair, but it was unguarded. We scaled the cliffs and quietly
entered the city, directly behind a mob that was sieging the tower in which you and El Borak were holed up.
The sons-of-jackals did not see us until we loosed a volley into their backs. The foolish bastards dropped like
flies.”
At this point, Gordon, his voice a dry rattle, forced his lips apart and croaked: “Baber Khan – how went the
battle?”
“Sahib!” exclaimed Yar Ali Khan. “You know us – you can speak?”
The wounded adventurer swore mentally, and spat drily. “How did the fight end, damn you!
“There was no fight, El Borak. The dogs fled before us, and the halls are choked with their corpses! Those
who are yet alive, have fled, taking the body of their accursed Shaykh with them. The Cossack lies dead in an
upper level of the tower – his blood congealing in a pool about him. We hold the city.
“You are on a sling, for we take you to a Ferringhi doctor, even if we should have to go to Kabul! The Hidden
Ones are shattered, my friend. The few survivors have fled into the mountains – doubtless to die there!”
finished Yar Ali Khan, his teeth clenched in his beard.
Gordon threw the cloth from his forehead, and wiped it with the back of his sleeve. “And what became of the
prisoners – daughters of free men?”
“All is well. They are under protective guard, awaiting your word to return them to their homes,” grunted the
Ghilzai.
Francis Xavier Gordon gripped the edge of the sling in which he reposed, and rose to a precarious sitting
position. “Good. Now get me a mount, and put me on it. Don’t argue!”
Yar Ali Khan urged his horse forward alongside Gordon. “El Borak, you are too weak. Do not tempt Shaitan to
take what is due him!”
Laugher rolled from Gordon like the roar of a mountain stream, then abruptly ended with a rattling cough.
“There will be the wailing of a score of widows the day I enter Hell, old friend. And since I don’t hear them now,
get my horse.”
Yar Ali Khan clutched his beard in frustration, pulled a fistful of strands from his chin – then ordered a Ghilzai
to come forward with a mount. The file of warriors stopped as Gordon climbed out of the swinging conveyance.
Gordon flinched as two muscled-men-at arms gripped him under the arms, and hoisted him into the high-
backed saddle. Waveringly he sat in the seat as the men tied him into the saddle with strips of rawhide – passed
around his ankles, thighs and waist. The American leaned back, throwing his weigh into the stirrups as they
finished – the spurred his mount forward to ride in the front, next to Baber Khan.
Looking straight ahead, down the winding trail, Gordon began to speak in a hoarse, gravelly voice. “You have
saved your head this night, Baber Khan. As a result of this successful raid, the Amir will pardon you of all other
transgressions you have committed. The three-bladed dagger is broken … swept away into time. It will never
mend again, this side of Hell!” His voice sank into silence.
A dim, howling roar was evident as Baber Khan brought his horse to a stop on the brink of a precipice. The
group of riders had come to the edge of a chasm which fell steeply away, as the trail made a sharp turn to form a
steep path downward. The canyon had been carved over the centuries by a rushing waterfall to the north –
which caused the echoes to resound through the sheer rock walls. Gordon moved up next to Baber Khan, and
peered down into the depths of the chasm. The sides continued down for hundreds of yards, the bottom was
obscured by mist formed by the falls. For a long moment, both men gazed – seeming to find some message in
nature’s majesty.
Baber Khan twisted his head to look at his companion, only to find the Texan’s eyes waiting … squinting to
pierce the dim shadows or pre-dawn. The men of two different countries glared at one another, American and
Khorian … a smile began to curl the edges of Baber Khan’s lips as he returned his attention to the great
crevasse.
“You have made this country your own, El Borak – by blood, fire and steel. You have made many friends, but
even more enemies – in what class would you put me?" murmured the Khorian, as he straightened his khalat.
Gordon shifted in his saddle, and adjusted the blade that was slung over his left shoulder across his back.
“Where would you put yourself?”
“Perhaps a bit of both. But one day, our differences will be resolved in a final combat between us. I dread and
fear that day … friend.”
A grim smile fell across Gordon’s features, and his brows knit in thought. After a long pause, he replied: ‘It has
always been thus with men of ambition. One day, that fight will take place … but not today.”
With a final glance into the canyon, Gordon nudged his mount down the trail – craning his neck to see the trail
twist downward into the mists. As the sun rose over the peaks, Francis Xavier Gordon lead the file of mounted
warriors into the mists, until they were lost from sight in the billowing clouds.
This is Howard’s original ending, printed here for the first time:
Slowly, through the soft darkness that surrounded him, Gordon groped his way back to consciousness. Hearing
came before sight for before he could see anything but the blind, pulsing waves of darkness, he could hear
voices, mumbling, indistinct and meaningless. Then a dim glow began high up, like a point of a star seen from
the depths of a black pit. It grew, expanded, became the mellow light shed softly from a bronze lamp. Then he
knew who he was and remembered most of what had happened. He was aware of a dull and terrible hurt in his
head, and he knew it was bandaged. He began to understand the voices, to understand the blurred, wavering
visions that met his eyes.
He was lying on a couch, dimly, he saw Azizun crouching beside him. Her eyes looked unnaturally great and
dark in her pale face. From time to time she placed a fresh pad of damp cloth on his head. Other faces floated
behind hers. Bearded faces. He recognized them: Yusuf ben Suleiman; Lal Singh; Yar Ali Khan; Baber Khan.
Lal Singh was speaking and by a tremendous effort of will, Gordon made himself understand what the Sikh was
saying: “I still do not understand how you arrived here when you did. El Borak said you could not reach Khor
before nightfall, and that it would be dawn before you could return to Shalizahr – ”
“I met the Ghilzai about half-way between the Gorge of Ghosts and Khor,” answered Afridi.
“The men I sent to guide El Borak returned to Khor before dawn,” said Baber Khan. “They told me they had
heard the voice of the djinn, and that El Borak intended plunging on into Ghulistan. First I beat them with an ox-
goad for allowing him to go on without them. Then I mounted every able bodied man in Khor and brought them
in all haste. Devils or men, had I known he intended invading this country I would have never let him leave Khor
unless I accompanied him with all my swords.”
“We left our mounts in the Gorge of Ghosts – Yar Ali Khan led us through the secret door in the cliff-wall and
we rushed the guard in the cleft, and cut his head off before he knew we were near. It was night when we
reached the Stair. It was unguarded. We climbed the cliffs and came on quietly. The dogs did not see us until
we loosed a volley into their backs.”
Gordon forced his lips apart and murmured: “Baber Khan.”
“Sahib! You know us – you can speak!”
“How did the fight go?” Gordon whispered. Strange how hard it was to whisper.
“There was no fight, sahib. The dogs fled before us. The halls are choked with their bodies. Those who live,
have fled, taking the body of their accursed Shaykh with them. The Cossack lies dead in an upper hall. We hold
Shalizahr. You are lying in an inner chamber. I have sent men to get horses and ride for a hakim. We will have
a Ferringhi doctor for you, even if we have to bring one from Kabul! The cult of the Hidden Ones is shattered.
The few who yet live have fled into the mountains.”
“The women in the city – ” Gordon muttered. “They are slaves stolen from Persia and India – ”
“We have collected them under guard in the seraglio,” said Lal Singh. “Not one has been harmed. Later we
will arrange to send them back to their homes.”
“Good!” Gordon sank back, and the shadows began to close about him. “You have saved your head, Baber
Khan. The Amir will pardon you for this night’s work. The three-bladed dagger is broken – ”
His voice sank into silence, and Azizun cried out, throwing her arms about him.
Yar Ali Khan clutched his beard in agony.
“Allah! He is dying!”
Lal Singh, his hand on Gordon’s hard wrist, shook his head
“Nay, he sleeps. His skull is broken, but it is not written that the blow of a hilt should slay El Borak. He will live,
to fulfill the destiny the gods have given him.”
As you can see, there’s a BIG difference between the two endings
Roark’s prose is so purple, it’s practically black. I mean, “Laughter rolled from Gordon like the roar of a
mountain stream …” how corny is that? Not to mention Gordon and Baber Khan come damn close to making
goo-goo eyes at each other in the re-engineered ending. Roark’s Gordon also seems a bit testy in his
version, treating his comrades rather rudely, considering they were caring for his wounds.
The kicker in Roark’s version is Gordon’s miraculous recovery; one minute he’s nearly unconscious and
the next he’s on horseback, leading a group of warriors down a perilous narrow mountain pass. It’s
amazing how quickly his fractured skull mended! El Borak, like all of Howard’s heroes, is a mere man, not a
superhero. Granted, he possesses preternatural fighting skills, but he can be hurt or killed. You cut him,
he bleeds. You shoot him, a bullet rips through his body. You konk him on the head, you knock him out.
Young Roark sought to improve Howard’s ending and failed miserably. How can one improve Howard? By
far, Howard’s ending is much more realistic and satisfying. Less is more and Howard knew this.
This brings up the issue of the large amount of unpublished Howard material published by Roark and
Fenner. In addition to the short version of “Three Bladed-Doom,” five other previously unpublished
Howard stories appeared in Fenner/Roark publications. The stories are: “The Loser” (LSF #1), “Sword
Woman” (LSF #2), “Guns of Khartum” (LSF #3), “The Brazen Peacock” (LSF #3) and “Road of Azrael” (Chacal
#1). While all of these tales have since been reprinted, the question arises were those stories needlessly
“beefed up” well? And, if so, were the corrupted texts used for the republished versions, thus
perpetuating the altered versions? I posed this question to Glenn Lord, who informed me he always sent
copies of the manuscripts to the publishers rather than a copy of the story from a magazine or book that
contained the previously published story. I was curious to see if other stories were similarly altered by
Roark, so I checked a few of the LSF versions against later published texts and only found very minor
changes (chapter titles, punctuation, etc.). Still, I’d play it safe and go with the most recent textually correct
versions, when available.
One final bizarre item in this tale of defiled text is this excerpt from the introduction to “Three-Bladed
Doom,” in LSF #4:
Due to the tone of the ending of “Three-Bladed Doom,” we’d like to present what we believe is the “last” of the
series featuring El Borak, at least on this plane. Now if another Gordon story emerges from the vaults
transcribing events that occur after this tale, well … maybe our hero doesn’t go off to the happy hunting
grounds after all!
Apparently Roark, is alluding to the original Howard ending with Gordon near death and not the “happy
ending” he wrote with a quickly-recovered Gordon riding off into the sunrise. I should note here that the
ending of the long version has Gordon in somewhat better shape, hobbling around nursing a gunshot
wound.
Hopefully, someone will swiftly reprint the short version of “Three-Bladed Doom,” until then we are
doomed to be stuck with Roark’s corrupted version.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
Excerpts from “Three-Bladed Doom” (short version) are Copyright ©2006 Robert E. Howard Productions, Inc. All rights reserved.
Article Copyright ©2006 Damon C. Sasser.
| The Swift and the Doomed The Corruption of the Short Version of “Three-Bladed Doom” by Damon C. Sasser |
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REH: Two-Gun Raconteur
The Definitive Howard Journal
The Definitive Howard Journal
