The Witches of Appendix N: Michael Moorcock

Michael Moorcock is easily one of the biggest influences on Dungeons & Dragons. Certainly, his contributions rival those of Howard or Tolkien in shaping the structure of the D&D multiverse. Indeed, one can barely talk about the Multiverse of D&D without invoking Moorcock.

When people talk about Michael Moorcock in Appendix N, they usually go straight to Elric of Melniboné, Corum Jhaelen Irsei, Dorian Hawkmoon, and the eternal war between Law and Chaos. 

When I talk about Michael Moorcock and witches, I am not really talking about witches in the broom-riding, cottage-dwelling sense. I am talking about the pact-making sorts of witches. The ones who contact the beings from other planes (something that happens a lot in Moorcock's tales) and the ancient pacts that bind them.

Moorcock does not give us a village wise women. He gives us bloodlines that traffic with elementals, tribes that call heroes out of myth, and archetypes that echo across realities. His magic is not tidy. It is not academic. It is relational, dangerous, and deeply personal.

Which is why it works so well for me.

Elric the Prototype Warlock

Let’s be clear about something. Elric is not a wizard.

He does not memorize formulae in a tower and sling fire from careful study. His power comes from calling upon Arioch and other Lords of Chaos. He names them. He binds them. He bargains.

That is not arcane spellcasting in the later D&D sense.

That is a pact.

In the One Man's God post I wrote before on the Melnibonéan mythos, I pointed out that their religion and their magic are inseparable. The Lords of Chaos are not distant gods in shining heavens. They are immediate, responsive, volatile. They answer when called, but they always take something in return.

Elric’s magic is closer to a warlock than a magic-user.

Stormbringer itself is a kind of patron made steel. It feeds him power and keeps him alive, but it also owns him. That dynamic, that exchange of strength for service, is pure warlock logic.

And this is important when we talk about witches in Appendix N.

Because if Moorcock gives us a prototype warlock in Elric, he also gives us the larger framework that witches later inhabit in D&D. Magic is not a neutral force you manipulate. It is something you negotiate with.

That idea runs straight into warlocks, and through them, into witches who deal with dragons, animal lords, witch queens, and stranger patrons still.

Corum and the Old Religion

If Elric shows us the aristocratic pact, Corum shows us something closer to folk magic.

In the Corum stories, the human tribes are not sophisticated sorcerers. They do not maintain demon treaties stretching back millennia. They have rites. They have memory. They have belief.

And when the world is in peril, they summon Corum.

Not as a cleric would call upon a god for a spell. They call him as part of an older set of magical rules. A returning champion tied to the fate of their land, one who was prophesied.  This feels less like wizardry and more like the Old Religion made manifest. 

It is communal magic. It survives conquest and catastrophe because it is embedded in culture rather than codified in books. 

If I were looking for Appendix N roots of the Wicce or of the Craft of theWise, I would not find them in shining cathedrals. I would find them here, in tribal rites that blur the line between prayer and spell.

The magic works because the people believe in the pattern. That is witchcraft.

It doesn't hurt that Corum and his people are often thought of as "elves" and that much of his tales are based on a psuedo-Celtic past. 

Named Witches 

There are very few named witches, and fewer still that are called "witch." 

Myshella, the Sleeping Sorceress, is one. Though she is not called a witch, she certainly fills that role. 

Jerry Cornelius is not a witch. Not by any stretch, really, but he is fragmented. Self-aware. Reality bending around him. He shapes his reality as much as reality shapes him.  

Moorcock’s Eternal Champion is not a simple reincarnation. He is an archetype that keeps reasserting itself in different circumstances. And this is where I see the parallel to how I have played Larina over the years.  Different systems. Different worlds. Different rules. Same witch.  He is not a witch, but he and the other Eternal Champions have shaped my notions of my archetypal witches.

Moorcock’s Legacy for Witches and Warlocks

Moorcock’s influence on D&D is usually discussed in terms of Law and Chaos. Planes of exsistences and an eternal, if not Eternal (capital "E"), struggle.

But for witches, the more interesting legacy is this:  Magic is relational. Magic is cyclical. Elric shows us the warlock bound to his patron. Corum’s summoners show us the persistence of pagan rites.

That is fertile ground for witches.

Not because Moorcock hands us a cottage and a cauldron.

But because he gives us a universe where magic is negotiated, myth returns, and some souls are simply meant to walk the long road again and again.

Wasted Lands: The Dying Age

 In my rereading of many of the classic Appendix N titles, I have come around again to Jack Vance's Dying Earth. The Dying Earth genre is not one I spent much time with back in the heyday of my D&D/AD&D playing life in the 1980s, but one I came upon much later. 

Honestly, my first foray into this sub-genre of fantasy began with Clark Ashton Smith's Zothique tales. I later moved on to Vance and to other end-of-time works like the Dancers at the End of Time by Michael Moorcock, and even the ideas about it from the DC/Vertigo Comics Books of Magic. This also led me to Lin Carter's Gondwane tales and Gardner Fox's Kothar. Even the earliest story of all Dying Earth tales, H. G. Well's The Time Machine. 

What I find most fascinating about these works is that they are not just "post-apocalyptic." In fact, they are far more alien and mystical than that. We are not dealing with a world that is recovering from a disaster. We are dealing with a world that is simply old and run-down. Civilization has risen and fallen so many times that history itself is legend, and legend itself is rumor. Sorcerers are those who remember things that nobody else remembers, ruins are piled on top of even older ruins, and magic is something that nobody is quite sure how to stop.

These worlds are, in many ways, a mirror to many of the settings that we start with in our own works of fantasy. We love to start with a "fresh" setting. We love to start with a "fresh" kingdom. We love to start with a "fresh" magic. We love to start with a "fresh" hero. We don't start with a tired kingdom. We don't start with tired magic. We don't start with a tired hero.

Throughout my writing here, I've touched upon this genre a bit, sometimes intentionally and sometimes unintentionally, by circling around it. I've written about my time spent in Zothique, Vance's strange future Earth, and games like Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerers of Hyperborea, which draw upon that sense of weird future-antiquity. Indeed, even my writing about fantasy worlds and future lands touches upon this idea in some way. But what if fantasy isn't set in a distant past, but in a future beyond all human imagination?

This idea gave rise to a game idea that has been rattling around in my head for a bit now.

Wasted Lands: The Dying Age

The Wasted Lands: The Dreaming Age RPG already gives us a mythic prehistory. It is a world of early civilizations, rising gods, ancient magic, and heroes who will eventually become legend. It is a world before recorded history, a time in which the myths of humankind are still being written.

But what of the last in that series?

What does the last mythic age look like?

This question gave rise to Wasted Lands: The Dying Age.

While the Dreaming Age marks the beginning of history, the Dying Age marks its end. Not centuries, not thousands of years. millions of years. More time between the Dying Age and us than between the Dreaming Age and us. The Dying Age is set so far in the future that everything familiar to us in the present day has become legend. The continents have merged yet again, one last time, into one last supercontinent, perhaps Pangea Ultima or Novopangea. The seas have risen and fallen and risen and fallen and risen yet again. The mountains have been uplifted and worn down many, many times.

The sun is growing old. In the sky above, it shines larger and redder than it did before. The days are longer and hotter, the seasons are stranger, and in the night sky, there are wonders beyond what our ancestors could have seen. The Moon, a constant companion to humanity since the Dreaming Age, is gone. Its recession from Earth since the dawn of time has reached a critical point, and it has been thrown free of Earth's gravity. Out there in the dark, beyond all of our worlds, patient observers can see the first hint of light from the Andromeda galaxy growing brighter as it moves closer to our own Milky Way. The heavens themselves are changing now.

Yet still, human beings linger on in a barely perceptible way.

Perhaps there are only a few thousand of them left, scattered across the surface of the Last Continent. They live in scattered cities, in wandering tribes, in strange little cultures built around traditions nobody really understands anymore. They remember a few of the old things. They tell tales of empires that perhaps existed a million years ago. They dig in ruins older than their own language.

And here is magic in the world.

Perhaps there has always been magic in the world, waiting patiently in the ruins of forgotten cultures. Perhaps it is returning now that the world is growing thin with age. In the Dying Age, there are sorcerers. They are not scholars, but archaeologists of the magical arts. Every single spell they use is from some civilization that perhaps existed a million years ago, or a cult that nobody really understands anymore.

The world itself is changing, too. The great beasts that used to rule over Earth are gone now, victims of a million years of slow decline. In their place, other creatures have risen to assume their places, giant arthropods and stranger creatures.

A farmer might hitch a wagon to a massive stag beetle instead of a mule. Herds of enormous cockroaches are raised for their surprisingly nutritious milk. Armored millipedes crawl through the forests like living trains of chitin. Some cities even keep domesticated mantises as guardians or war beasts. Giant ants and giant termite war with each other across the vast internal desert of the Last Continent. I have not figured out a replacement for horses yet. I am thinking of something akin to a smaller animal grown large, like a hare or jackrabbit. I do have giant riding bats, though. 

There are humans, now millions of years after us, who have evolved into other shapes, and some are only slightly recognizable as human. These will be my orc, goblin, and troll standins. 

It is strange, unsettling, and yet somehow perfectly natural in a world that has lasted for billions of years.

The Dying Age is not a despairing age, though it might seem that way to an outsider. No, it is something closer to quiet endurance. Humanity has survived ice ages, extinctions, and the rise and fall of countless civilizations. It may yet survive the long twilight of the sun itself. There is melancholy here and a general sense of ennui, but there are still humans fighting against the dying of the light.

The stories told in this age are not about building kingdoms that will last forever. Nothing lasts forever anymore. No, they are about what still matters when the world itself is nearing its final chapters. And perhaps the stubborn refusal to disappear quietly.

In many ways, the Dying Age is a completion of a circle that begins in the Dreaming Age. One is present at the birth of myth. The other is present at its final echo. Between them lies all of human history, from the first fires lit in a dark age to the last red sun setting over the last continent.

And yet, in that distant future, under that ancient red sun, there are still adventures waiting to be told.

The Dying Age: Mechanics

Here is where I get to cheat. Wasted Lands: The Dying Age is mechanically no different from Wasted Lands: The Dreaming Age. This is just a different campaign model. Though the idea of Divine/Heroic Touchstone should be addressed. In the Dreaming Age, these are gifts of power that bring the characters closer to their divine apotheosis. In Thirteen Parsecs, they are also used to help define heroic characters. 

In the Dying Age, heroes take on a different tone. At first, I wanted to avoid using them, but in truth, they are loved by the players and me. So if there is a pervasive, light feeling of melancholia here, then these are the rewards for the characters who say, "No. I am not dead yet."

Even though I stressed this setting is not Post-Apocalyptic, I can see using some ideas from Gamma World here in search of lost civilizations. 

There are no cosmic horrors here. There are old gods, but their worship is more akin to sacrifice and cults than organized religion. The world is far too decadent and too old for that. 

The reasonable question arises. Why use Wasted Lands when Hyperboria 3rd edition (or any edition) does exactly this? The answer is largely, I have grown to like Wasted Lands more. Plus, I love the rather perfect symmetry of using Wasted Lands for both the beginning and ending of the human saga.  

Larina: The Ash Witch

The Doctor: At the end of everything, we should expect the company of immortals, so I've been told.

- Doctor Who: Hell Bent

I could not help but notice a trend in the various "end of time" tales that have been featured in my re-exploration of Appendix N. We have Fox's Red Lori, Vance's Javanne, and Carter's Queen of Red magic. What do they all have in common? They are all powerful red-headed witches.

Yeah. I noticed.

One of the first things I did was create a version of Larina here at the end of time. Why her and not, say, a new witch? I liked the idea of a character who could remember bits of all her past lives, something of a Larina Ultima. If Larina of the Wasted Lands: The Dreaming Age is something of an Ur-Larina, then this is her ultimate form. In this world, she is a seeress and a prophetess, though she will admit that her sight is limited because there just isn't that much future actually left. 

In the far future of Wasted Lands: The Dying Age, Larina still exists, but she is no longer the vibrant witch of West Haven or the wandering occult scholar of earlier ages.

She is known simply as The Ash Witch. 

Like many of my GMPCs, she serves as a witness to the age. She appears to the PCs at strange moments, offering warnings, riddles, or fragments of half-remembered lore. Sometimes she seems to know them already. Sometimes she speaks as though she remembers lives that have not yet happened.

Unlike many of her other incarnations, this Larina is not trying to change the world. There is nothing left to change. 

Here, she also makes the last stand with The One Who Remains. 

She does know a truth. That when the last ember of this universe fades, something new will ignite. And witches have always been good at tending embers. She is the witness of the end and the midwife of the new beginning. 

Currently, I have a group playing NIGHT SHIFT. I might convince them of a Wasted Lands: The Dying Age one-shot. But it is a world I am certainly going back to. 

The Witches of Appendix N: Lord Dunsany

 In my coverage of the Witches of Appendix N, I have shown you Robert E. Howard’s decadent sorceresses, Lin Carter's dangerous enchantresses and Fritz Leiber’s suburban witches. They think of ambition, forbidden knowledge, demon bargains, and spell-casting as spectacle.

But Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, 18th Baron Dunsany, aka Lord Dunsany gives us something older.

Dunsany’s witches are not conquerors. They are not queens of abyssal realms. They do not hurl lightning from towers. They live in fields, beside willows, at the edges of villages. They speak quietly. And they are feared.

For this entry, I am looking at three works:

• The King of Elfland's Daughter (1924)
• The Witch of the Willows (in The Travel Tales of Mr. Joseph Jorkens) (1931)
• The Curse of the Wise Woman (1933)

You could almost describe these as “pre-Pulp.”

Ziroonderel - The Witch of Erl

In The King of Elfland’s Daughter, we meet Ziroonderel, a witch who lives on a thunder-haunted hill at the edge of Erl.

She is the most fully realized witch in Dunsany’s work.

Alveric seeks her out to make him a magic sword so that he may reach Elfland. She first reveals to him her “true, hideous form,” a withered shape. When he does not recoil, she grants him something rare: gratitude that “may not be bought, nor won by any charms that Christians know.”

That line matters.

Ziroonderel does not operate on commerce. She operates on dignity. Courtesy is repaid with loyalty. Magic here is personal, not transactional.

She occupies a liminal position:

• Outside the human community of Erl
• Outside Christian respectability
• Outside Elfland

She belongs fully to none of them.

Later, she becomes the infant Orion’s nursemaid. This is not incidental. Dunsany entrusts her with the child who bridges mortal and fairy worlds. The witch becomes caretaker of the future.

She is ancient, knowledgeable about both mortal and fairy realms, yet not omniscient. In one of the most fascinating moments of the novel, she speaks at length with Lirazel about matters beyond mortal knowledge, and it is the fairy princess who teaches her. For all her hundred years of wisdom, Ziroonderel can still learn.

She may even have feelings for Alveric. Yet she nonetheless aids him in his pursuit of Lirazel. Devotion does not curdle into spite.

When the Parliament of Erl later asks her for a “spell against magic,” she refuses flatly. She will not participate in a project of disenchantment.

Compared to the Christian friar who opposes her, Ziroonderel is morally richer and more generous. She is old, hideous in her true form, benevolent in her function, fiercely independent, and capable of loyalty.

For Appendix N, she is the hedge witch elevated to myth. Not a villain. Not a demon’s bride. A guardian of thresholds.

Mrs. Marlin, The Wise Woman of the Bog

In The Curse of the Wise Woman, Dunsany gives us Mrs. Marlin.

She is called a “wise woman,” but we eventually see the truth: she is a witch.

Unlike Ziroonderel, Mrs. Marlin exists in a recognizable, semi-autobiographical rural Ireland of the 1880s. She is not part of high fantasy. She is embedded in peasant life. Her nature is revealed gradually.

She is extraordinarily attuned to the workings of nature. She can foresee events. She is the self-appointed guardian of the bog.

And the bog matters.

When an English corporation arrives, intent on draining and industrializing the land, only one force stands in the way: the old witch whose curses the English workers do not believe in.

Their skepticism is central. Mrs. Marlin operates in a world that is trying to explain her away.

She communes with nature. When workmen tunnel for peat beneath the bog, she sets her arts to work. The climax pits ancient powers against industrial machinery.

Whether what happens is supernatural or natural is left deliberately ambiguous. Dunsany refuses to settle the matter cleanly.

Where Ziroonderel lives in a world where magic is acknowledged, Mrs. Marlin lives in a world that no longer wishes to acknowledge it. She is less a sorceress casting spells than a personification of the bog itself. Old Ireland embodied in a human form.

Magic here is not about power. It is about land. It is about memory. It is about resistance to modernity.

The Witch of the Willows

“The Witch of the Willows,” the 13th Chapter and final story in The Travel Tales of Mr. Joseph Jorkens, presents the most archetypal and yet the most devastating of Dunsany’s witches.

She is never named. But Dunsany makes sure we know exactly what she looks like.

An old woman in a black cloak and high black hat. A black stick in her hand. Grey ringlets. A black cat at her side. A broomstick leaning against the wall of her cottage. Jorkens himself notes the completeness of the iconography with a wry comparison: she dresses like a witch and acts like one, so he calls her one.

Dunsany is playing the archetype, the stereotype even, completely straight and clearly enjoying it.

She lives deep in Merlinswood, at the end of a path so faint it resembles a rabbit track. Her cottage has thick bottle-glass windows. Earthenware jars of cowslip and briar rose line the interior. It is an utterly traditional witch’s dwelling.

But she is far more than folklore. She is a prophetess of decline.

Over the fire she speaks of humanity losing its hold, of machinery, of people becoming more fit for machines and less fit for men. She reads the future in the coals and refuses to tell Jorkens what she sees because such knowledge “is the affair of the witches.” She is not a distributor of secrets. She is their keeper.

More than that, she is the guardian of the old magic itself.

The mystery of the marsh and wood moves with her. It radiates from her presence and recedes when she withdraws. When Jorkens refuses her proposal and walks away, the disenchantment of the forest is immediate and total. The magic does not merely leave her cottage. It leaves the world around her.

She does not wield magic as a tool. She is magic.

The turning point of the story is her proposal. “I suppose you wouldn’t marry an old, old woman,” she says. Every fairy tale warns us what this means. The loathly lady who becomes radiant. The enchantress in disguise. The swan maiden. The enchanted bride motif is firmly in place.

And Jorkens fails.

He knows full well what the tradition promises. Yet he chooses antimacassars and convention over enchantment. The witch is not cruel. She is not predatory. She offers entry into wonder, and he declines.

There is a flash of anger in her eyes, but she does not curse him.

She simply leaves.

And with her departure, the magic of the wood goes too.

Thirty years later, Jorkens knows it was the mistake of his life.

This witch is melancholy rather than malevolent. She sighs over the fire. She offers tea. She speaks with sorrow about humanity’s direction. She wants companionship, not conquest.

In her, Dunsany crystallizes a theme that runs through his entire body of work: magic is not destroyed by force. It is lost by refusal.

Dunsany’s Witches

Seen together, Dunsany’s witches form a progression.

• Ziroonderel stands at the boundary between mortal and fairy, dignified and principled, neither villain nor saint.
• Mrs. Marlin stands against industrial modernity, rooted in land and old Ireland, her powers entangled with ambiguity and resistance.
• The Witch of the Willows stands at the brink of disenchantment itself. She is not fighting priests or corporations. She is confronting indifference.

What the three witches share is significant: none is evil in any simple sense. All three are forces connected to something old, natural, or otherworldly that exists in tension with a more mundane or rational order. Dunsany consistently treats his witch figures with sympathy and complexity.

But they differ greatly in register. Ziroonderel belongs to high, lyrical fantasy and is fully visible as a witch from the start. Mrs. Marlin belongs to a grounded, realistic Irish novel where her nature is hinted at and debated. The witch of the willows seems, from what can be confirmed, to belong to the more melancholy and ambiguous register of the Jorkens tales, where wonder is usually tinged with loss.

There is also a progression in how magic is challenged.

• In The King of Elfland’s Daughter, magic is challenged by Christian piety.
• In The Curse of the Wise Woman, it is challenged by industrial capitalism.
• In “The Witch of the Willows,” it is undone by personal choice and cultural gravity.

In many ways, Dunsany’s witches feel closer to the folklore that later informed Margaret Murray’s witch-cult hypothesis than to pulp sorcery. They are remnants of something ancient, local, and very pagan.

So, yes, Howard gives us the witch-queens, and Carter and Leiber gave us the dangerous enchantress. 

D&D inherited witches from pulp spectacle and demonic sorcery. But it also inherited them from Dunsany’s countryside, from the woman in the black cloak at the end of a rabbit path, from the old guardian of the bog, from the witch who offered enchantment and was turned away.

And for Appendix N, that matters. For me, it matters.

This shows the witch as a liminal figure. A figure on the hedge. These are the witches that most folks will know. 

The Witches of Appendix N: John Bellairs

There is only one entry for John Bellairs in Gygax's Appendix N; 1969's The Face in the Frost. I decided to read this to see what other titles he had prior to the 1977-1979 publication of AD&D. But I learned a couple of things. First his biggest publication before the AD&D generation age was "The House with a Clock in Its Walls" series for children, which is by all accounts a good book. Secondly, while it is in the Appendix N, it didn't really influence AD&D.  According to The Dragon issue #22. 

As I have not read the book until recently, there is likewise no question of it influencing the game. Nonetheless, THE FACE IN THE FROST could have been a prime mover of the underlying spirit of D&D.

So. With this in hand, I still opted to read this one based on Gary's recommendation. 

This slim novel follows two wizards, Prospero (no relation to Shakespeare’s) and his friend Roger Bacon (the real Roger Bacon), as they stumble into a creeping darkness spreading across their half-real world, a place somewhere between fairy tale and nightmare, where mirrors whisper, shadows move, and even the geometry of time bends. Bellairs’ world feels like a dream the Brothers Grimm might’ve had after reading The Necronomicon.

Prospero and Bacon go all over their world, which is and is not England, in search of an ancient, hard-to-translate book (I kept thinking of the Voynich manuscript, and the wizard who is close to unraveling its secrets.

It's a travling magical adventure that takes place in dream-like, and nightmare-like

That is great, but does it hit my central thesis? In other words, are there witches?

Well. No. There are rumors of witches and a couple of really eccentric wizards. But no proper witches.

If you like the idea of a wizards-only adventure (and who doesn't!) then this is a good choice.

Updates

Ok, I have been doing this for a bit, time to check in on who I have read so far. Well, I have read most, I have talked about all of them yet.

Anderson, Poul. Three Hearts and Three Lions; The High Crusade; The Broken Sword
Bellairs, John. The Face in the Frost
Brackett, Leigh.
Brown, Fredric.
Burroughs, Edgar Rice, Pellucidar series; Mars series; Venus series
Carter, Lin. "World's End" series
de Camp, L. Sprague. Lest Darkness Fall; Fallible Fiend; et al.
de Camp & Pratt. "Harold Shea" series; Carnelian Cube
Derleth, August.
Dunsany, Lord.
Farmer, P. J. "The World of the Tiers" series; et al.
Fox, Gardner. "Kothar" series; "Kyrik" series; et al.
Howard, R. E. "Conan" series [Part 2] [Part 3]
Lanier, Sterling. Hiero’s Journey
Leiber, Fritz. "Fafhrd & Gray Mouser" series; et al.
Lovecraft, H. P. (The Dreams in the Witch House)
Merritt, A. Creep, Shadow, Creep; Moon Pool; Dwellers in the Mirage; et al. (Burn, Witch, Burn!)
Moorcock, Michael. Stormbringer; Stealer of Souls; "Hawkmoon" series (esp. the first three books)
Norton, Andre. (Witch World)
Offutt, Andrew J., editor. Swords Against Darkness III.
Pratt, Fletcher. Blue Star; et al.
St. Clair, Margaret. The Shadow People; Sign of the Labrys
Tolkien, J. R. R. The Hobbit; "Ring Trilogy"
Vance, Jack. The Eyes of the Overworld; The Dying Earth; et al.
Weinbaum, Stanley.
Wellman, Manly Wade. (The Desrick on Yandro)
Williamson, Jack.
Zelazny, Roger. Jack of Shadows; "Amber" series; et al.

--

There's still a way to go! I have read many of these in the past. Some, like Lovecraft and Moorcock, I am ready to do now, I just want to reread some stories in particular. Others, like Vance and Zelazny, it has been so long I don't recall everything. 

I put some tales in parentheses because those are ones I want to pay particular attention to. I am sure I am missing some tales, so if you know of one, please let me know!

The Witches of Appendix N: Poul Anderson

 It is the start of October and time for another foundational author for D&D from Gary's Appendix N. As always with this feature I am focusing on the witches presented in these tales.

Poul Anderson (1926-2001) is much better known for his Science Fiction tales, but he does have three (well, 2.5) fantasy stories on the Appendix N list, and two of these feature witches rather prominently: "Three Hearts and Three Lions" and "The Broken Sword."

I will take each in turn and also expand a little from "just witches" with these.

Three Hearts and Three Lions (1953)

Anderson’s Three Hearts and Three Lions is already famous in D&D circles for giving us Law vs Chaos, the Swanmay, regenerating trolls, and even the proto-paladin in Holger Carlsen. But nestled amid the elves, trolls, and Moorcock-before-Moorcock cosmology is one of the first proper "witches" of Appendix N.

The unnamed witch of the forest hut is classic fairy-tale witchcraft: ugly, corrupt, but wielding real power. She brews potions, dabbles in deviltry, and represents the Chaos side of Anderson’s moral spectrum. Anderson clearly has one foot in the folkloric hag tradition; this witch could have walked right out of the Brothers Grimm, but her function in the story is thematic as much as narrative. She exists as a living symbol of the Chaos that Holger is pitted against, an incarnation of superstition and malice. While her interactions with Holger are not long, she is his first clue that magic, chaos, and evil are real, tangible things in the world/time.

Then there is Morgan Le Fey. She is Holger's former lover in a past life, and she is the main antagonist. She is a representative of the "Old Ways," the paganism of Europe, dying out in the face of rising Christianity. She is also representative of chaos, evil, and magic. Where the old hag is evil and ugly, Morgan Le Fey is evil and beautiful. Representing that evil does come in many guises and our hero needs to recognize that.

The battle is a parallel of the one Holger left in his time, World War II.

Both witches represent the two types of witches most often seen: the old Satanic Hag and the beautiful Pagan. Both, however, represent evil and mostly Chaos. 

The notion of Paganism/Old Ways versus Christianity is a recurring theme in Anderson's other significant Appendix N book.

The Broken Sword (1954/1971)

The Broken Sword gives us a much darker, more primal vision of witchcraft. 

Here we get another hag-witch who is close enough to the elves and trolls to have dealings with them, but is also very explicitly Satanic. She lives in a run-down cottage/hut, deals with the dark forces of evil, and has a talking rat familiar. Honestly, she could even be the same witch if so many years were not between them.

She also tempts our main antagonist, the Changeling Valgard, by glamouring herself into a beautiful woman. It is her desire for vengeance that sets the plot into motion. 

Like Three Hearts, the Witch, and she never is given a proper name, is a force of evil and chaos. Also like Three Hearts, the story centers around the battle between Pagans and Christianity, which Anderson casts here as Evil/Chaos vs Good/Law, respectively.

The elves and trolls of The Broken Sword are more similar to each other; both are forces of Chaos, for example, and an elf/troll child is a Changeling. Their magic is also described as akin to witchcraft ("witchsight" allows humans to see the world of faerie) and to the witchcraft the old hag employs. Many elves and trolls have "Warlocks" in their ranks.

Here, also, the big Pagans vs. Christians war takes a back seat to two warring factions of Pagans, the Elves/Faerie and the Trolls/Giants. The interaction our protagonist Valgard has with the displaced Faun is very telling. This area of England/British Isles is one of the last holdouts of the Pagan ways. 

The mixing of the various mythologies, Norse, Irish, Welsh, British, and Greek, is very D&D. 

That Last Half

I joked above, 2.5 books in Appendix N. The ".5" is "The High Crusade" which is more appropriately a Science Fiction or Science Fantasy novel. I didn't include it here because, simply, I have not read it. 

A Note About Trolls

Three Hearts and Three Lions is notable for giving us the "D&D Troll," but the ones in The Broken Sword are much more interesting. Yes, they are ugly and brutish, but they are also smarter, and while they have enough similarities to elves to produce offspring (with the help of magic), they are explicitly related to the Jotun of Norse myth. 

Closing Thoughts

Anderson gives us some compelling stories. While not explicitly set in the same world, they are also not not the same world. His epic war of Good vs. Evil, Law vs. Chaos, is something that rings loudly even today in all editions of D&D. His wars of Christians vs. Pagans ring loudly to me.

His witches are less characters and more caricatures at times, but this fits into the world view these books have: the witches are just pawns and tools. Even when they have agency, their fate is already predetermined.

The entire time I was reading The Broken Sword, I could not help but wonder why witches didn't play a more prominent role in the game. Of course, the reason is simple. I was reading this looking for witches and not the larger themes. Gary, I assume, read these and saw the cosmic battle of Law vs. Chaos.  

None of the witches in these two tales would make for good Player Characters. They would, however, make for great NPCs using the Dragon Magazine witch class. 

In the AD&D Player's Handbook, it is mentioned that the Druid class is the same as the pre-Christian (not Gary's words) druid that has survived to Medieval times. If this is the case then certainly other "pagans" have survived. The witches of Poul Anderson certainly could be among those numbers.  

The Witches of Appendix N: Fritz Leiber

When we talk about the foundations of Dungeons & Dragons, the names that come up most often are the obvious ones: Robert E. Howard, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Jack Vance, among others. But alongside Conan and hobbits stands another set of icons, the roguish duo of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, born from the imagination of Fritz Leiber.

In Appendix N, Leiber's entry is "Leiber, Fritz. 'Fafhrd & Gray Mouser' series; et al." So that leaves me a lot of room to explore his works. 

Leiber’s tales of Lankhmar gave us thieves’ guilds, a decadent city, and sword-and-sorcery camaraderie that would become staples of the game. And a couple of tales where witchcraft plays an important role.

The Snow Women (1970)

Before he became a hero of Lankhmar, Fafhrd was a youth of the cold North, raised among the Snow Women. This community of women was led by Mor, Fafhrd’s mother, who dominates both him and the other men of their tribe through will, manipulation, and a kind of communal witchcraft.

The Snow Women are not cackling hags with bubbling cauldrons; their magic is subtler. It lies in the power of custom, ritual, and fear. Their witchcraft is not just spellwork but social control, and it casts a frost over every relationship in the story. For young Fafhrd, escaping their grip is as much an act of rebellion against sorcery as it is against his mother’s authority.

This tale shows witchcraft not as something learned in a grimoire, but as an inheritance and an atmospher a cold wind that shapes destinies.  In many ways they remind me of tales of Finnish witchcraft. I have a hard time reading about these women and not think of Louhi, the Crone (and Maiden too) of Pohjola. This leads us to Iggwilv, the "spiritual daughter" of Louhi and Mor.

In the Witch’s Tent (1968)

Later, in the story In the Witch’s Tent (collected in "Swords Against Wizardry"), Leiber presents us with another kind of witch. Here, Fafhrd and the Mouser find themselves consulting a prophetess. The scene is thick with atmosphere: the tent filled with smoke, the seeress exhaling her visions like opium haze, the sense that knowledge comes at a cost.

This witch is less about domination and more about liminality. She occupies that familiar role of the oracle, standing at the threshold between worlds. But in true Leiber fashion, she is not a benign guide. Her words are dangerous, her presence uncanny, and the tent itself feels like a trap. The scene could be dropped whole into any RPG session as the archetypal fortune-teller who reveals just enough truth to get the characters into trouble.

Conjure Wife (1943)

If Leiber’s Fafhrd and Mouser stories gave us witches in the context of sword-and-sorcery, it was his first novel, Conjure Wife, that put witchcraft at the center of the narrative.

Or as I have said in the past, “Between Bewitched and Rosemary’s Baby lies Leiber’s Tansy.”

Norman Saylor, a rational-minded professor, discovers that his wife, Tansy, has been secretly practicing protective magic. When he convinces her to stop, he learns the hard way that witchcraft is not merely superstition, and that rival witches have been circling all along.

As I wrote in my earlier review:

Conjure Wife has been held up as sort of a prototype of the modern American Witch tale.  Seemingly normal wives in a small East Coast town married to normal, rational men of science and academia turn out to be powerful witches engaged in a silent secret war of magic.

... They were intelligent (more so than their husbands), clever and some down right evil and all were powerful. By the end of the book, you are left feeling that the men in this tale are really no more than children, a bit dim ones at that.

This is what makes Conjure Wife powerful: the way it sets witchcraft not in ancient forests or ruined temples, but in the kitchens and parlors of mid-century America. The witches here are faculty wives, the battleground is tenure politics, and the weapons are hexes whispered between cocktail parties. It is both psychological horror and social commentary, and it remains one of the most influential witchcraft novels of the 20th century.

It has also been made into three different movies, Weird Woman (1944), Burn, Witch, Burn aka "Night of the Eagle" (1962), and Witches' Brew (1980).

Our Lady of Darkness (1977)

Decades later, Leiber returned to occult horror with Our Lady of Darkness, a novel steeped in the landscapes of San Francisco and the esoteric science of “megapolisomancy,” a fictional occult science that focuses on harnessing the supernatural forces present in large cities. There is even a connection to Clark Aston Smith.

This isn’t a witch story in the conventional sense, but it resonates with the same archetypal power. Its date allows me to make a claim for it as "sliding into home" just barely.

At its heart, Our Lady of Darkness is about the anima, that Jungian figure of the feminine that exists within the male psyche. She is muse and terror, desire and destruction, and in Leiber’s hands, she becomes a literal haunting presence. The Lady of the title is both a psychological construct and a supernatural force, a liminal witch of the soul.

This is a theme I’ve explored myself in the character of Larina Nix. Larina, too, is not just a witch but an embodiment of anima at once familiar, archetypal, and unsettling. She represents how the witch figure can exist in both myth and the inner landscape of the imagination.

While Our Lady of Drakness may not have influenced D&D at all, there are a lot of things here you can find in the RPG Kult. Sadly, this book is nowhere near as good as Leiber's other works, especially Conjure Wife. 

Closing Thoughts

When it comes to witches, Leiber made one significant contribution: Conjure Wife. The Snow Women and the prophetess of In the Witch’s Tent add atmosphere to Fafhrd’s world, but they are more color than core. Our Lady of Darkness circles the same archetypal ground from a Jungian angle, but it isn’t witchcraft in the usual sense.

Yet even if these stories didn’t leave much of a mark on D&D, they left a mark on me. Conjure Wife remains one of the best examples of modern witchcraft horror, and its faculty wives locked in a secret magical war still resonate. The others, Mor’s cold grip, the seeress in her smoky tent, and the anima-haunted towers of San Francisco, add layers to Leiber’s legacy and to my own sense of how witches live in story: sometimes social, sometimes symbolic, sometimes spectral, but always there. 

Fantasy Fridays: Kull, Conan, and Kane for Daggerheart

Something a touch different today for Fantasy Friday. 

I was chatting with some Daggerheart fans, and they liked the Sonja build I had done. They suggested I should do Conan as well, but I got to thinking about my earlier statement of a connection between Kull, Conan, and Kane, and thought it might be fun to stat them all up in Daggerheart to see how I could represent the pinnacle of the Howardian "fighting men" in this new system. 

Joe Kubert's Connecting Covers Featuring Conan, Kull, and Solomon Kane

Caveat and Full Disclosure. I have read all of the Kull and Conan stories by Howard and most of the Kane ones. I have read some of his letters to others about these characters, but I know there is still an absolute ton I have not read. TL;DR I only marginally qualified to write them up as characters. Yeah I know what I would do with them, but there are people out there, people I am friends with, who are far more knowledgeable than I am about this. I apologize in advance for any mistakes I might make.

Kull of Atlantis

Kull spends most of the tales I read as King of Valusia and an exile of Atlantis. We know he has been a hunter, a gladiator, a soldier, a general, and finally a king. He is philosophical and brooding. He cares for his people even if he sometimes despises their civilized ways and the "masks" (though that turns out to be true later on) they wear. According to Wikipedia, his lifetime was some 100,000 years ago, or near the end of the Old Stone Age. The tales, of course, read more like Bronze Age. 

For this reason I am choosing Guardian for him. The Domains are Valor and Blade, the two competing aspects of his personality.

Level 3
Class & Subclass: Guardian (Stalwart)
Ancestry & Heritage: Wildborne Human
Pronouns: He/Him

Agility: 2
Strength: 2
Finesse: 0
Instinct: 2
Presence: -1
Knowledge: 0

Evasion: 9
Armor: 5 

HP: 9
Minor Damage: 15 Major Damage: 28
Stress: 7

Hope: 2

Weapons: Battleaxe, Strength Melee, +2 2d10+3 Physical

Armor: None

Experience
Fighting Man for Life +2
The Brooding King +2
Enemy of the Serpent Men +2

Class Features
Bare Bones (add STR to Armor), Not Good Enough (reroll 1 & 2 on damage), Bold Presence, Versitle Fighter, Soldier's Bond

Ok. I like this one. This is a soldier's soldier. This would be a fun character to play. Granted, he should be a bit higher level, but I wanted him lower than Conan.

Conan the Cimmerian

Howard's better known creation and maybe the Godfather of all D&D fighters. Now I feel better about doing Conan than Kull. 

Conan is the archetypical barbarian. Yes he has been a soldier, general, thief, sailor, pirate, and eventually King, he is at his heart a barbarian.

Like Red Sonja, he would be a warrior with his Domains Bone and Blade, but he is a little different. I am giving him the sub-class Call of the Brave, because if nothing else Conan knows no fear.

Level 7

Class & Subclass: Warriror (Call of the Brave)
Ancestry & Heritage: Wildborne Human
Pronouns: He/Him

Agility: 2
Strength: 3
Finesse: 0
Instinct: 2
Presence: -1
Knowledge: 1

Evasion: 12
Armor: 4

HP: 10
Minor Damage: 14 Major Damage: 22
Stress: 7

Hope: 2

Weapons: Longsword, Agility Melee, +3 3d10+10 Physical
Broadsword, Agility Melee, +3 3d8+7 Physical

Armor: Chainmail

Experience
I have been everywhere +3
I will LIVE by Crom! +3
I live, I burn with life, I love, I slay, and am content +2
Polyglot +2

Class Features
Get Back Up, Not Good Enough, Ferocity, Brace, Scramble, Deadly Focus, Know Thy Enemy, Battle Hardened, Recovery, Rage Up

Again, this is a good character and a fun one to play. I tried to capture Conan's multi-lingual ability here in Experiences. This covers that fact that he knows a lot of languages, but no formal education in them. I spent the extra point to bump up his knowledge to 1 (from 0) to also show that he isn't a dumb barbarian.

I gave him chainmail, which he sometimes wears, but he is just as often in just a loincloth or even the garb of a sailor.  Still, this is a good version of him I think.

Solomon Kane

Next is our dour puritan Solomon Kane.

For Kane, I also picked the Guardian class as I did with Kull. But where Kull is a Stalwart, Kane is dedicated to Vengeance. I mean, look at his single-mindedness in pursuing Le Loup. Kane sees himself as the instrument of God's will and often God's vengeance. He is more similar to Batman in this respect than he is say Conan or Kull.

With Kane, I went in a different direction. While I did what I could to increase Kull's and Conan's HP, I spent more time increasing Kane's Stress. Most of Kane's adversaries are a little more supernatural in nature and seem to be more taxing on his mind and soul than on his body.

To respect his Puritan background, I gave him the heritage of "Orderborne."

Level 6
Class & Subclass: Guardian (Vengeance)
Ancestry & Heritage: Orderborne Human
Pronouns: He/Him

Agility: 2
Strength: 1
Finesse: 1
Instinct: 1
Presence: 0
Knowledge: 0

Evasion: 11
Armor: 4

HP: 9
Minor Damage: 12 Major Damage: 19
Stress: 10

Hope: 2

Weapons: Rapier, Presence Melee, +0 3d8 Physical
Flintlock Pistols, Agility Ranged, +1 3d10+3 Physical

Armor: None

Experience
I am God's Instrument +3
Avenge the Weak and Defenseless +2
Wanderer of Africa +2
Scholar of the Occult +2 (this also covers his connections with N'longa)

Orderborne Dedications
Evil Must be Destroyed.
I am the instrument of God's vengeance.
Chivalry and Honor are not dead, not while I breathe.

Class Features
Bare Bones (add STR to Armor), Get Back Up, I Am Your Shield, Critical Inspiration, Deadly Focus, Rousing Strike, Champion's Edge

I like this version as well. Very solid.

Even among "Fighting Men" (to use the old term), there is a lot of variety and versatility in Daggerheart and I like that. Though each has their connections with the other. You could make a group of all "fighters" and still have plenty of differences between them to keep the game interesting. 

The Witches of Appendix N: Robert E. Howard, Part 3: Kull, Kane and "Accidental Feminism"

 Today I conclude this "mini-series" on the pivotal works of Robert E. Howard, one of the most influential authors in Appendix N, shaping the Dungeons & Dragons experience. 

I have already covered Conan in Part 1, and his horror stories in Part 2. Today I am going to talk two of his other characters, King Kull of Atlantis and Solomon Kane.

Kull of Atlantis: Silence Where a Witch (or even Women) Might Be

Kull’s stories are dreamlike, almost mythic, often more about philosophy than plot. Women of any kind are scarce, and witches are entirely absent. When sorcery intrudes, it comes from male figures: Thulsa Doom, the snake-men, necromancers, shadowy priests.

Is Kull even interested in women? Howard never shows him with lovers, nor does he pit him against the temptations or sorceries of an enchantress. Kull broods on law, on identity, on the shifting unreality of his throne, but not on witches, or even women for that matter. Their absence says much: the philosopher-king is concerned with metaphysical threats, not the seductions or mysteries that witches (and sorcerers) often embody in Howard’s other tales. 

Kull's most significant interaction with a woman comes from one of his earliest tales. A girl in his village is being burned at the stake for taking a lover from the wrong tribe. Kull, not seeing the justice in this, uses his own flint dagger to give her a merciful, quick death. For which he is hunted. 

Speaking of flint daggers. Kull is supposed to be taking place around 100,000 BCE. So really pre-history, but it feels more like 100 BCE in terms of "technology." Granted it is "lost age" the same sort you see working in Wasted Lands: The Dreaming Age. Credit where it is due, Howard does do a great job of making it feel like Kull predates Conan by centuries. 

If Kull, and Conan, are covered well by Wasted Lands and other Fantasy RPGs, then Kane is dipping right into horror.

Solomon Kane: A Puritan Without Witches

If Kull’s Atlantean dreamtime excludes witches entirely, Solomon Kane’s early modern setting seems tailor-made for them. The 16th and 17th centuries were rife with witch trials and burnings, and Kane is a zealous Puritan avenger. You’d expect him to clash with witches by the dozen. But he never does.

Instead, Kane’s foes are vampires, demons, revenants, and African sorcerers. Women in his stories are usually victims or innocents caught in evil’s path, never witches themselves. Was this deliberate on Howard’s part? Perhaps he didn’t want women as Kane’s outright antagonists, preferring instead to cast him against inhuman horrors or exotic magics.

One exception worth noting is Nakari from The Moon of Skulls. She is cruel, manipulative, and queenly, with many of the trappings of a witch, save for actual sorcery. She does have a coven of sorts, her "Starmaidens" and she knows some Atlantean rituals.  She rules through charisma and cruelty, not spells. And despite her names she is neither demon nor vampire. Kane’s crusade against her feels witch-hunter-like, yet Howard stops short of giving her magic. Again, we see the absence: Kane fights monsters, not witches.

Kane is adventure fiction, but it dips into horror and horror themes more often than not. 

Kull, Conan, and Kane make up an interesting trinity of Howard protagonists. All are cut from the same cloth and each could be a reincarnation of the previous.

Accidental Feminism?

Now, I do want to say upfront that Howard considered himself a feminist. He had some very progressive views for his time, but also some fairly typical ones. People are complicated. 

If Conan’s world has some witches and Kane’s and Kull’s are completely barren of them, what does that say about Howard? His female characters are sometimes villains (Salome, Tascela, Nakari), but they are also commanding presences, equal to or greater than the men who face them. When Howard leaves witches out, women almost vanish. But that absence makes it striking when he does put women at the forefront, because when he does, they are unforgettable.

Think of Bêlit, the Queen of the Black Coast, who is as fierce and ambitious as Conan himself. Or Valeria of the Red Brotherhood, a woman who makes her own choices and follows her own path. Red Sonya of Rogatino and Dark Agnes de Chastillon are not sorceresses at all, but warrior women who seize the agency the world denies them. These characters aren’t “witches” in the pulpy sense, but they are Howard’s women: strong, willful, larger than life, and often overshadowing the men around them. Red Sonya appears in one tale, yet "Red Sonja" has hundreds, including comics, novels, and a new movie out. Bêlit & Valeria have also appeared in plenty of comics together, often sans Conan, to prove they are interesting enough characters in their own right. Even if I am getting a bit of a Betty & Veronica vibe from them sometimes. Though Red Sonja has teamed up with Betty & Veronica in the past.

Bêlit, Red Sonja, (and Conan) and Valeria by Geof Isherwood

That duality shows up outside the stories too. In a famous letter to Harold Preece, Howard rattled off a litany of great women, from Sappho and Aspasia to Joan of Arc, Emma Goldman, and Edna St. Vincent Millay, defending their genius, passion, and rightful place in history. “Women have always been the inspiration for men,” he wrote, “and… there have been countless women whose names have never been blazoned across the stars, but who have inspired men on to glory.”  

Howard’s pulp tales are not feminist manifestos, but they carry a paradox I’d call his “accidental feminism.” In his fiction, women may be cast as temptresses, pirates, or witches, but they are never weak. And in his private words, he saw women as philosophers, poets, and warriors equal to any man. It may be accidental, but it left us with heroines and enchantresses who still burn as brightly on the page today as they did nearly a century ago.

Conclusion

There are more Robert E. Howard tales. Lots more, and many that could be fundamental to what the D&D experience was going to become. But here is where I part ways with the author. I found his sword & sorcery tales to be captivating, his horror stories fascinating, and his heroes equally as wonderful in their own imperfect ways. There is a reason why we all know of Conan and Kane, and to a lesser degree, Kull. Even his forgotten "step-daughter," Red Sonja.

When it comes to witches, Howard doesn't give me enough, though what he does give is wonderful. Salome and Tascela are fantastic characters who I would have loved to see more of, or more to the point, more like them. Too bad that they died in their respective tales; they would have made great antagonists for Bêlit, Red Sonja, and Valeria.

The Witches of Appendix N: Robert E. Howard, Part 2: Horror Stories

 I am continuing on my journey through the titles of Appendix N, looking for the Witches that haunted those pages. This week, I have Part 2 of my overview of the Witches of Robert E. Howard, this time focusing on his horror tales.  As I covered in Part 1 of Howard, his DNA is deeply woven into the core of D&D. This is easy to see in Conan, the wandering mercenary (in many tales) having adventure after adventure. what I didn't expect was see so much, maybe even more, from his tales of horror.

Howard's horror runs all over the place.  He was obviously significantly influenced by Celtic history, especially with his Bran Mak Morn character, and a lot of these feed into his horror tales. There is a Conan-like character in his "The House of Arabu" doing battle with none other than Lilith herself and other demons. He even dips into Lovecraftian tales. Now, some people have called these "pastiches," but to me, they are nothing of the sort; they are original contributions to the mythos that are every bit as valid as Lovecraft's own and on par with Clark Ashton Smith. Where Howard shined, though, was "Southern Gothic"; he was to the south and south-west (esp. Texas) what Lovecraft was to New England. Many of tales are interlinked and there is some good opportunities for deep scholarship on how his tales link to each other and to his contemporaries (like Lovecraft) and even how his stories influenced others. I can't say for certainty, but his tale "The Haunter of the Ring" (already steeped in his own mythos connected to Conan) feels like it could have influenced Fritz Leiber's "Conjure Wife."  

What really surprised me was not that Howard was a good writer; he is full stop. But how great his horror stories are. Lovecraft himself sang Howard's praises, and he was worthy of them.

So who are the witches of Howard's Horror tales? Let's take a look.  Instead of going by witch, I am going to go by tale. Each witch is very much situated in each tale.

"Sea Curse" (1928)

Moll Farrell is an archetypical "Sea Witch." She lives in an old hut near the sea, where the tide almost comes to her doorstep, with her daughter. She collects shells and mussels and everyone thinks she is a witch. She proves it by laying a deadly curse on the two men who raped and killed her daughter. The men die, more or less, at each other's hands.

The tale drips with old-world superstition, the inevitability of doom, and the slow, creeping vengeance of the sea. Moll is an agent of vengeance and could have been found on a different coast on the Atlantic in some Celtic dream-hidden past.

The best part of the tale is the Ghost Ship filled with sailors who have committed foul crimes coming up from Hell to take the souls of the men. The image is fantastic. 

"Rattle of Bones" (1929)

A short Solomon Kane tale involving a haunted inn, a skeleton that rises from its resting place, and hints of ancient sorcery. Our "witch" here is an ancient necromancer from Russia who comes back from the dead for his vengeance. Not explicitly a witch, but the tale feels like it was ripped right out of a D&D adventure. 

"The Hills of the Dead" (1930)

Another pivotal Solomon Kane story where Kane teams up with N’Longa, a powerful African shaman and necromancer. N’Longa gifts Kane the magical Staff of Solomon, a potent artifact used to destroy vampires. N’Longa’s magic includes spirit possession and resurrection.

N'Longa's magic is called "voodoo" but that word wasn't used in Kane's time. The religious practices that went into voodoo (Vodún) did exist. 

Again, no explicit witch, though N'Longa is a great character, this tale is great for the abandoned city of vampires.

"Dig Me No Grave" (1937)

What would you get if Howard decided to write about the death Aleister Crowley 10 years before he died? You might get something very much like "Dig Me No Grave."

This tale deals with the temptation of forbidden knowledge. A scholar inherits an occult tome linked to a demon-worshipping cult. The story is Lovecraftian in tone, but the ritual magic and descent into damnation echo the witch-pact trope.

"The Children of the Night" (1931)

This tale is filled with ideas that Howard would come back to many times. 

First, there is the dream/reincarnation story that ties modern characters to ancient, savage rites. In later tales he even he explicitly links Conan and Bran Mak Morn to modern day people. 

Secondly, it features the Serpent People and hints at sorcerous cults and blood sacrifice. The Serpent People are the literary creature from whence a lot of D&D monsters spring. The Yuan-ti and Ophidians are the obvious ones, but in truth, these creatures bear more than a little resemblance to the class D&D Troglodytes. It might be that these were the root of those creatures. 

Third, and this one is big, it contributes to the Lovecraftian mythos by introducing the "Unaussprechlichen Kulten" of von Junzt. This is it's first appearance in print. This is one of the reasons why I say that Howard is not an imitator of the Lovecraftian mythos, he is a bona fide contributor. 

Lastly, the infamous "Black Stone," which will feature in many of his tales in one form or another.

"The Black Stone" (1931)

Speaking of which. This tale also features the Black Stone and "Unaussprechlichen Kulten." 

Arguably Howard’s most Lovecraftian tale. A monolithic stone and the rites performed there by a degenerate cult speak to primal, prehistoric sorcery. There’s an implied witch-queen who led the rites.  The monolith is now located in a village in Hungary called "Stregoicavar," meaning something like "Witch Town."  

Howard gives us a lot of history with ancient rites and even connects this to Margaret Murray's work on the Witch Cult of Europe. The toad-god the witches are worshiping is likely CAS;s Tsathoggua, a creature who would appear again in "The Thing on the Roof."

The Necronomicon gets name checked here as well.

"The Thing on the Roof" (1932)

This tale features forbidden books (Unaussprechlichen Kulten) , temple ruins, and an occultist who ignores all warnings. 

There is even a pre-Aztec Lich worshiping evil gods (likely Tsathoggua, but only described as a toad-like thing), and evil rituals.

I included this tale and the previous two not so much for their witches, but for their cults and their connection to the Mythos. 

"People of the Dark" (1932)

A man relives a past life where he was involved in betrayal and murder. This tale our narrator, John O'Brien, is the reincarnated Conan, and he enters Dagon's Cave to kill a rival for the hand of a woman. This one features almost everything. Conan, Lovecraftian connections, and even the Little People/Children of the Night. 

"Worms of the Earth" (1932)

Bran Mak Morn allies with a banished witch named Atla to awaken the Worms, ancient subterranean horrors, to take vengeance on the Romans. The story is primal, grim, and unrelenting. 

The worms appear to be another name for the quasi-human Children of the Night. The more and more I read about them the more I am convinced this where the D&D interpretation of the Troglodytes came from. 

Alta, the witch-woman of Dagon-moor, is one of our very few named witches. She is half-human and "half-worm" or Children of the Night. The implication here is that the Children were human or at least akin to humans.  She is human enough that her price to help Bran is that he must spend the night with her. Likely meaning there is some new half-human descendant of Bran out there now. 

This also features the Black Stone. Are these pieces all part of the monolith of ancient times? Hard to say. The piece that Bran uses is small enough for him to carry. 

Dagon's Moor, Dagon's Meer, and Dagon's Barrow are all mentioned here as further connections to the Mythos.

"The House of Arabu" (1952)

This tale was also published as "Witch From Hell’s Kitchen" though that title doesn't do it any justice. 

This tale features Pyrrhas, who is Conan in all but name really. Our main antagonist (well...) is Lilitu (really summoned by one of Conan's, I mean Pyrrhas's enemies), she appears very much as does the Lilitu of ancient myth with her mate Ardat-Lili. Of course Ardat-lilî is also a female demon (like the same sources as Lilitu) so imagine my humor when Howard describes Ardat-Lili as male. I guess somethings were still a bridge to far when he wrote this.

There are spells and the most interesting thing to me is the Lilith - Tiamat connection. Something I have explored more on these pages. 

"Black Canaan" (1936)

Southern gothic horror meets voodoo-style witchcraft. The antagonist is Zekura, a beautiful and deadly sorceress who wields spiritual power and commands zombies. She’s both feared and revered.

Normally I don't comment on the racism of some of these tales, but this one seem a bit much even for the time. Or maybe I just know how bad it actually was. Apropos of nothing, Lovecraft thought this was one of Howard's best tales. 

"The Haunter of the Ring" (1934)

A ghostly avenger stalks the land after being wronged in life. The haunting is linked to curses and violated oaths. No witches, but damn, this feels like it could have influenced "Conjure Wife."

It does feature the Ring of Thoth-Amon, a magical artifact possessed by a spirit that can possess its wearer. A form of sympathetic magic, where the curse leaps through the ages. This ring has appeared in Conan tales before. 

"Pigeons from Hell" (1938)

Howard’s most famous horror story. Southern gothic with heavy voodoo and ghost-witch elements. A woman in the Blassenville family turned to witchcraft and exacts revenge from beyond the grave as a zuvembie. Features zombified servants and spectral appearances.

Stephen King called this Howard's finest tale.

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So there is a lot to dig into here. Howard obviously had heard of or read Murray's Witch Cult Hypothesis, since so many of tales embrace the central themes. Where Murray saw a continuous line of ancient fertility cults in a positive light, Howard saw an ancient pre-Christian and degenerate religion honoring dark, forgotten gods. In reality both points of view are as real as the other, and both suit my purposes well.

Moll Farrell and Atla are his main "named" witches, and each serves her role well. Moll feels like a solid Sea Witch, whereas Atla is something else. I have been exploring the concept of "Dragon Witches" within a tradition I've coined the Scaled Sisterhood. I could include ideas from ancient serpent cults too. 

Again, no "Conclusion." I want to venture deeper into the tales of Kull, Solomon Kane, and Bran Mak Morn for Part 3.

The Witches of Appendix N: Robert E. Howard, Part 1: Conan

Cover by Margaret Brundage

 Of all the authors listed in Appendix N, few loom larger than Robert E. Howard, creator of Conan the Cimmerian and father of sword & sorcery as we know it. Howard’s blend of grim heroism, lost civilizations, black magic, and fierce women has shaped the DNA of Dungeons & Dragons more than most give credit for.

So much so that I need to split his contributions into two posts. There may be three by the time I am done. That is how much of a footprint Howard and Conan left in D&D and other RPGs.

Witches were very much part of Conan's Hyborian world. Witches are mentioned and alluded too, but rarely seen, save for the ones mentioned below. 

So today, for the Witches of Appendix N, let’s journey into the Hyborian Age and meet some of the women who wielded magical power in the world of Conan.

Salome: A Witch Shall Be Born

Howard’s most explicitly witch character is Salome, the titular witch of A Witch Shall Be Born (Weird Tales, 1934). A sorceress and twin sister of the noble Queen Taramis, Salome is the archetype of the evil twin usurper. She commands dark forces, imprisons and tortures her sister, and rules in her place through cruelty and bloodshed.

Salome is described as consorting with demons and sorcerers in her youth, and her magical power is seen in how she influences, manipulates, and brings ruin to a kingdom. She is every inch the pulp sorceress, beautiful, deadly, and corrupted by ancient evil. She was promiscuous where her sister Taramis was chaste, moral, and innocent. In the 1930s, this was akin to evil.

Sarah Douglas (who I'll be talking more about tonight) played the movie version of her, now named Taramis, in Conan the Destroyer. Did all that torture finally break poor Taramis, and she became more like her twin sister? (No, I know the producers didn't want her to be named Salome.)

Salome (and Taramis) have sparked a lot of imaginations, not just the Sarah Douglas movie, but also comics. These two images show the evolving look of Conan from the pulp days to modern comics. 

Honestly, that John Buscema art might be one of the most famous pieces of Conan art ever produced. 

I have even used Salome in my own games, after a fashion, when developing a few of my Witch Queens. 

Tascela: Red Nails

In one of Howard’s best Conan stories, Red Nails (Weird Tales, 1936), we meet Tascela, a woman of ancient Stygian blood, still alive centuries after her time. Like Salome, she is both queen (well...called a "Princess of Tecuhltli") and enchantress. Tascela’s sorcery is tied to life-draining rituals and forbidden rites. She maintains her youth and beauty by absorbing the life force of others, literally sacrificing maidens and children to keep herself young. Valeria is a lot of things, but I never got "maiden" vibes off of her. 

While not explicitly called a witch (except as an exclamation), her power is subtle. She appears regal, composed, but with an air of the perverse and profane. She leers at Valeria throughout the tale. Obviously, in the way a cat does a mouse, but there is a not-so-subtle sexual dimension to it all. Like Salome, Tascela is a witch and morally corrupt. Also, not a very subtle message. 

Tascela’s magic has an Aztec flavor, marked by blood, sacrifice, death, and timeless horror. While "witch" is good, she is more likely some sort of profane necromancer. 

From the unfinished "Red Nails" animation, designs by Jim Stenstrum

Special Mentions

Witches and Wizards: Black Colossus

We meet the wizard Natohk, and "Vampires were abroad that night, witches rode naked on the wind, and werewolves howled across the wilderness."

Zelata and Akivasha: The Hour of the Dragon

Old Zelata admits she is a witch when she first meets King-in-exile Conan.  Unlike many of the other witches, sorceresses, and spellcasters, Zelata actually helps Conan out. She is also helpful in uncovering the Heart of Ahriman. 

Though not called a witch by name, Akivasha, the Stygian princess turned vampire from The Hour of the Dragon (1935–36), is one of the most enduring witch-like figures in Howard’s canon.

Akivasha is undead, beautiful, and incredibly dangerous. Her vampirism is not accidental or cursed; it is the result of necromantic sorcery meant to preserve her youth and power. She resides in the depths of an ancient dungeon and attempts to seduce Conan, not just with charm but with supernatural influence.

“I was a princess in Stygia... more than a thousand years ago... I was beautiful, and I would not fade. So I went into the shadows to cheat age with dark magic. I became... what I am.”

Howard describes her as cold and radiant, her beauty somehow terrible. She evokes the kind of ancient magical evil that remains alluring even as it damns. Or as I always say, "Evil always looks sexy."

An aside. There are lots of Stygian witches here.

Conan's Long Shadow

Without a doubt the Conan stories of Robert E. Howard are fundamental to the foundations of D&D and RPGs in general. Conan is the quintessential adventurer. Penniless one day, rich beyond dreams the next, penniless again. He ranges far and wide, he battles monsters, sorcerers, and entire armies.  He is as much a part of D&D as Gandalf and Bilbo.

It is no shock that there have been so many Conan and Hyborian/Hyperborian RPGs out there. I could talk about them all here, but that is a better topic for my Fantasy Fridays.

Given this, I do find it a little odd that witches were not a more prominent part of D&D. I suppose it has been up to me to fill this gap.

No "Conclusion" today, I have Kull and Solomon Kane to deal with next, and maybe a third post on Howard's contributions to the world of RPGs beyond just witches. 

The Witches of Appendix N: Lin Carter

 In today's Witches of Appendix N, I want to dive into an author I have not read since my early college days. Back in 1987, I stumbled on a rare (for me at the time) treasure, a used bookstore! I began to hunt down all the books I had wanted to read that my home library did not have. I had not yet discovered that my new university library was the most extensive open-shelf library in the state of Illinois. So armed with my handwritten Appendix N list, and some others, I went on my first adventure. 

I found a Thongor book by Lin Carter and another one edited by him, Flashing Swords #4. I paid something like $2 for both. I read the Thongor book and I wasn't exactly impressed. Ok sure it was pulpy fun, but I think after nearly a decade of hype, I expected more. I don't know what happened to that book, but Flashing Swords #4 I kept and still have. It featured an introduction by Carter, which I found more interesting than his prose, as well as stories by Jack Vance, Poul Anderson, Katherine Kurtz, and Michael Moorcock.

The experience soured me on Carter for a long time. Which is too bad, really, because I was always a fan of Lemuria and tales about it. 

I recently decided to revisit Lin Carter and Lemuria (among other places) to see if his worlds feature any witches. I knew he had evil wizards galore, but I could remember any witches per se.

I am not going to focus on all his works; there is too much, and some of it falls outside of the "Appendix N" definition. So, for me, this means no sci-fi and only fantasy published before 1977. With one notable exception. Well...that and the cover above. But that is the only Lin Carter book I still have. 

Thongor and Lemurian Magic

When we turn to Lin Carter’s Thongor of Lemuria novels, we find a world absolutely steeped in magic, though, interestingly, witches themselves are mostly absent.

The lost continent of Lemuria is filled with sorcerers, necromancers, and cults devoted to dark gods. We have cities like Zaar, ruled by black magicians; the Priests of Yamath, calling upon the Dark Gods with forbidden rites; and the ancient Dragon Kings, reptilian overlords who wield both sorcery and advanced science. There are even the evil druids of Lemuria. Black Druids who try to emulate the Dragon Kings, Yellow Druids, the magician-priests who worship Yamath, and the Red Druids, magician-priests of the God, Slidith.

What’s striking, however, is that named witches or sorceresses are virtually nonexistent in Carter’s original Thongor novels. While plenty of pulp sorcerers fill the landscape, female magic-users are conspicuously rare. The closest we get comes much later, in Thongor and the Witch-Queen of Lemuria by Robert M. Price, written after Carter’s death. My notable exception.

Most of the wizards and other magic-users are evil. One exception is Sharajsha the Great. A mighty wizard of Lemuria and a friend of Thongor. His exploits with Thongor could be where I got the idea for my own "Starsword." 

In short, Lemuria is rich in dark sorcery, but witches, as we think of them, never truly walk its jungles and haunted cities.

Gondwane and Magic

When we move from Lemuria to the last continent of Gondwane, Lin Carter’s World's End series, we enter a far richer landscape for magic and witchcraft. The Thongor books were light on witches, but Gondwane is filled with decadent magicians, ancient traditions, and powerful sorcerers.

In The Enchantress of World's End (1975), we meet Zelmarine, Queen of Red Magic. While Carter never calls her a witch outright, she fully embodies the pulp sorceress archetype: beautiful, dangerous, and wielding real magical power. Zelmarine easily fits the "witch-equivalent" role I’ve seen in many other Appendix N works.

Zelmarine is not just a sorceress; she is also a temptress. So fairly typical of the genre. I do find her interesting in the sense that she is entirely red, skin, hair, eyes, teeth, the lot. She would make for a great witch. But, sadly, that is about all she has to offer us. Like many of Carter's characters, she is not much more than this. 

Gondwane itself teems with magicians, enchanters, and warlocks, far more than Thongor’s Lemuria ever did. Even some that are not 100% evil in nature, our Red Enchantress here. Carter blends elements of Jack Vance’s Dying Earth and Clark Ashton Smith's Zothique with his own brand of pulp world-building, creating a setting where elaborate magical schools and rivalries dominate a decaying world.

It's also worth noting that Carter introduces The Illusionist of Narelon, in The Warrior of World's End (1974), one book earlier. The Illusionist's presence may have contributed to Gygax's inclusion of the Illusionist class in the AD&D Player’s Handbook. At the very least, he reflects the kind of specialist magician that AD&D codifies soon after. Illusion magic was rarely featured in the pulps before this.

The Warrior of World's End (1974) also gave us the Vorpal Blade's use in an Appendix N source, obviously from its previous introduction in  Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky. This is not the only thing Carter borrows from Carroll. Some of the names of lands and people seem to come right out of same font of nonsense words as does Jabberwocky. 

The Gondwane books are light and never seem to take themselves very seriously. The characters are less characters and more caricatures. Plus, after a bit, I grew tired of the exceptionally silly names. But hey, kudos to Carter for making his end-of-time world sound alien. 

I *can* see a lot of what is in these books making its way into AD&D and other writings. It could be the recency effect in his reading and writing. 

A good example is Deirdre, the cavalier of "Artifact of Evil," is more or less a grown-up version of Xarda, the "knightrix" of Jemmerdy. Deirdre is likely Gygax's homage to Xarda, either consciously or not. Or maybe both are homages to Red Sonja.

According the experts, Hoi and Jeff at the Appendix N Book Club, Lin Carter was a friend of Gygax's and it is very, very likely there was a lot of cross-pollination between his tales and D&D. 

Conclusion

Revisiting Lin Carter has been a mixed bag, a blend of nostalgia and reevaluation. While I came in search of witches, I found instead a patchwork of pulp sorcery, weird magic, and the unmistakable fingerprints of an author who, despite his flaws, helped shape the genre that shaped my youth. There may not be witches by name in Lemuria or Gondwane, not in the way I hoped, but Carter’s worlds still crackle with the kind of raw, chaotic magic that feels just a few pages away from something I’d drop into a campaign. In the end, it’s not always about what’s printed on the page; sometimes it’s about what might have been, or what could still be, with a little creative license.