The Mad Dream Dies: Karl Edward Wagner’s Bloodstone by Bill Ward Aliens, lost civilizations, superscience vs. sorcery, perilous expeditions, a warrior maid, sentient crystalline entities, virgin sacrificing witches, bandits, ambushes, teleportation, a magic ring, cosmic visions, possession, a conjured tsunami, desperate battles, a jungle-shrouded city, cross and double-cross, devolved frogmen, a field tracheotomy, wall-leveling green lightning bolts, a world-threatening power, amphibian-crewed hydrofoils, lost tomes brimming with secret knowledge, a reconfigured semi-solid army of the elder dead, and an immortal juggernaut of a man at the lonely center of it all – it’s Bloodstone! Karl Edward Wagner’s everything-but-the-kitchen-sink gonzo romp through the grim old days of an earth that never was contains all of the essential ingredients of a healthy fantasy, along with everything else in the spice rack. And just like any highly-seasoned, oddly juxtaposed fusion cuisine, Bloodstone is not for the unadventurous palate; rather it’s a dish for those who don’t mind a dollop of sci-fi in their fantasy, a jolt of pungent prose in their sword-and-sorcery, and an extra-strong dose of amorality in their protagonist. One could argue, and many have, over whether or not Kane – the scheming dark fantasy analog to the biblical Caine, god-cursed to an eternal life of bloodshed and woe – is actually a protagonist. Wagner himself disliked the term anti-hero for Kane, labeling his brutal genius as a straight-up Gothic villain, or even ‘villain-hero,’ but the sheer variety of Kane stories allows for a wide range of latitude for his role within them. In a short story like “Undertow” (Night Winds) for example, Kane is a black-hearted sorcerer keeping his lover ensnared with bonds of dark magic, whereas in others he seems little different from the ruthlessly expedient characters peopling much of modern fantasy, such as one might find in the works of George R.R. Martin, R. Scott Bakker, or Joe Abercrombie. Regardless, there is something compelling in the character, at times almost sympathetic, and the inherent tragedy of his lonely doom is justification enough, if not for his actions, then for our fascination with his plight. The ultimate in masculine power fantasy – a deathless, brilliant, “three hundred pounds of bone, sinew, and muscle” loner that spends his immortal days completely on his own terms and is beholden to no one and no thing – is also existing in an...