by Leigh Brackett (1953)
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Imagine hurtling through a shimmering veil of time, the Sword of Rhiannon burning in your grip like a live coal, as the bone-dry canals of modern Mars explode into a world of crashing oceans, jagged canals choked with weed, and hulking sea-kings in dragon-prowed ships ready to gut you for sport. That’s the gut-punch opening of The Sword of Rhiannon, Leigh Brackett’s 1953 rocket of a novel, and it never lets up.
You’re Matt Carse, a cynical Earthman turned Martian canal-rat, framed for a theft that drags you into this ancient hell. Brackett thrusts you into his boots from the first page—dodging the corrupt Coven’s enforcers in the shadowy alleys of Jekkara, then tumbling into the past where Lady Ywain, fierce and flame-haired, binds you to her quest with a kiss that tastes of salt and betrayal. There’s Boghaz the bloated Venusian rogue, scheming for his cut amid the Dhuvians’ slave galleys, and the brooding Esa, whose eyes hold the weight of drowned empires. Every scene pulses: the desperate swordfight on the blood-slick deck of the Sea Hawk, the eerie glow of the Quiru ruins whispering forbidden tech-magic, the thunder of waves against black basalt cliffs as Carse races to unleash a cataclysm that could remake worlds.
What hits hardest is the raw velocity—Brackett writes like a comet trail, her prose lean and electric, fusing sword & sorcery brawn with planetary romance wonder. No bloated worldbuilding; it’s all motion, myth crashing into pulp grit. Mars feels alive, dying yet defiant, its red dust in your throat, its ghosts clawing at your sanity. You feel the dread of ancient curses uncoiling, the rush of outwitting cutthroat allies, the sheer joy of a hero who punches first and questions the gods later. This isn’t your staid epic fantasy; it’s Conan exiled to Barsoom, Brackett’s signature brew of rogue adventure and cosmic melancholy that makes every page hum.
Fans of Robert E. Howard’s raw barbarism or Edgar Rice Burroughs’ swashbuckling Mars will devour this, especially if you crave heroines who wield blades as sharp as their tongues and villains who make your blood run cold. Brackett’s fingerprints are all over The Empire Strikes Back—those vast, doomed worlds and outlaw vibes—but here, she owns the throne.
Crack it open tonight, and you’ll swear you smell the salt wind of Low-Canal Mars calling your name.
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