published 1995, Del Rey

A few pages into Allen Cole's The Warrior Returns the main character proclaims: "My words may not be pearls, but they aren't rodent droppings, either."

Well. This book is so damn boring that I caught myself skimming the dust-jacket blurb in a desperate attempt to encounter something of interest. Cole's world seems a mystical paradise in which magic, sword-fighting, steamy sex and a mighty Odyessian voyage get rendered down to sticky Techincolor pablum. Some places looked interesting, all right, but in an exotic, brightly colored, two-dimensional way, rather like the backdrop for a Warner Brothers cartoon. I kept flipping pages, waiting for something to happen.

As flawed as Cole's backdrop seems, his characterization is worse: his main character is everything a hero should be. She's strong, brave, ruthless yet honorable, well-spoken yet blunt, beloved, wise... this is how she is actually depicted, you understand, word by categorical word, and little action to show for it. And, while I must admit the thought of an ass-kicking, axe-bearing, magic-using, ship-commanding, lesbian sorceress warrior is a pleasant image, this image does not a well-defined character make. It is a mere listing of attributes.

Strong, beautiful, and competent at everything, this woman could have stepped out of a Boris Vallejo painting. What can't she do? Other than refrain from self-aggrandizement in that annoyingly false deprecatory tone, that is. I longed for the author to have this character admit that she has bad teeth and putrid breath. Or is terrible in bed. Or has seven children who call her a bad mother. Or even that she can't cook worth a damn, or anything that would prove I wasn't reading about some smooth-faced Barbie.

Sometimes books like this are worth reading for their historical information. A really bad book about swordfighting might have a good chapter or two on metalsmithing. This shows the author has an interest and did some research and eventually based a book around it. Again, sorry, not this book. For hideous example: the citizens of the pestilent city of Pisida used wet squirming maggots to strip hides of those annoying little gobbets of flesh that get in the way of the tanning process. Now, I'm not overly familiar with the process of tanning, but it occurred to me that maggots aren't terribly particular about what they consume. Sure, they eat dead flesh. All dead flesh. Anyone who attempted to use maggots in the tanning process would shortly end up with a pile of hair and a roomful of flies. It could be that I misinterpreted the point about the maggots. Perhaps they were merely for shock value. I can overlook the consequences of having lots of maggots near fresh hides-- very holey hides. I can try to go on.

Nothing amazed or surprised me through the first half of this book, but I found plenty to make me angry. Stand back. Here comes the full-force female empowerment rant.

Towards the end of the first half of this book, immediately preceding a tedious battle sequence, the main character is granted a vision by her patron goddess. It says that the unlovely, heavy-set woman who has tenderly cared for the warrior through her prison stay, fed her and bathed her through a lengthy convalescence, protected her even at the risk of extreme consequences, and who did all this for damned small thanks, I might add, is really (GASP) another beautiful warrior-priestess-princess. The ugly suit is just a disguise. Following this astounding revelation, the main character immediately becomes aware that her rescuer is her One True Love.

I am appalled. It isn't enough that the sexual orientation of most of these characters is Movie Lesbian. It isn't enough that every woman who catches the main character's eye is perfectly willing to fall into her bed. I suppose it would be far too daring for the main character to fall in love with a woman who was brave and strong and selfless and kind but who also happened to be stubby and squat. Of course it would be, because that would reveal the fatal flaw which motivates a terribly ancient fiction: a woman must be beautiful to be beloved. (In certain time periods, that's a fiction which applies to men too. It's not entirely true at present.)

The author actually has the gall to offer this particular romance as a paen to tolerance. I am ill. This book is about as woman-positive as a Penthouse spread; sexual empowerment is granted to women in precise proportion to their removal from reality. A love story between two people who happen to be imperfect must be far too threatening even for a novel that purports to be fantasy, I suppose. I can't give this book a recommendation on any grounds.

Review by Rebecca Parkhurst
Reviewed December 29, 1996

ISBN 0-345-39459-3

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