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New and Upcoming 2025 Horror Releases to Keep You Scared this Autumn

Last Updated on September 26, 2025

There always seems to be more horror releases at the tail end of the year than at any other time. Maybe it is good marketing to prepare for Halloween, or perhaps it is because, as the nights draw in and things start to make noises in the dark outside, we need a scarier sort of story to distract us. Whatever the reason, now is a great time to be a fan of horror stories. From the dread of a gothic tale of a spooky mansion or a spooky supernatural sensation to the paranoia of a psychological horror or the grotesque goings on of body horror, here are Grimdark Magazine’s favourite new and upcoming horror releases for Autumn 2025.

Teenage Girls Can Be Demons by Hailey Piper

A twisted take on just how sucky it can be to be a teenage girl, Bram Stoker Award-winning Hailey Piper brings us a short story collection of 13 coming of rage stories that take the frankly awful teenage years and morph them into her new, terrifying tales.

As a short story collection, Piper’s Teenage Girls Can Be Demons is excellent for when you don’t have time to commit but still want to devour a completed story and not dip in and out of a larger novel. Each of the stories is its own brand of unsettling, and if you wanted to save the longest in the collection, “Benny Rose the Cannibal King” would be a special treat for Halloween as a slasher horror story of a murderous ghost being let loose on the world.

Read Teenage Girls Can Be Demons on Amazon

It’s Not a Cult by Joey Batey

It’s just a bit unfair when people are ridiculously talented. Joey Batey, who you may recognise from his acting role as Jaskier in The Witcher, is also a scarily good author. His debut novel, It’s Not a Cult, is a folk horror story about three friends who play in a nameless band and sing the stories of fictional northern gods of small things, mishap, and mayhem. They start as losers, and their band grows beyond their wildest dreams. As each gig becomes larger and more lawless, everything around them gets pretty scary.

Our reviewer, Adrian, said: “It’s Not a Cult is a morose, cold, at-times darkly funny, brutal commentary on when fandom goes too far. It’s a story of losing control of the story, even when the story is one you came up with, of balancing fame with safety, of creating and the risk of creation. And with Batey at the helm–one of the few living authors who can write from this position of actual understanding of the fandom–it feels like a gleeful exploration of the worst possible scenario.”

Read It’s Not a Cult on Amazon

Body of Water by Adam Godfrey

Adam Godfey has already made us jump when we look in the mirror with his debut novella, Narcissus. Now, thanks to his first full-length novel, Body of Water, we can make that any reflective surface. The story follows an estranged father and teenage daughter, Glen and Lauren, who end up trapped in a diner by (as the title suggests) a sentient body of water. Yet again, the Appalachian Mountains provide a suitably sinister setting for this horror story, and Body of Water is a gripping story of grief, terror, and the hard choices people face.

Our reviewer Ed, who is by all accounts somewhat of a horror aficionado, called Body of Water “genuinely terrifying” and “drippingly tense”. If that doesn’t make you want to pick it up, maybe the rest of his review will.

Read Body of Water on Amazon

The Autumn Springs Retirement Home Massacre by Philip Farcassi

Another pick for the slasher horror fans is Philip Farcassi’s The Autumn Springs Retirement Home Massacre. This one is as darkly funny as it is violent and gives you a mystery plot that will keep you hooked until the final page. A bit like a Thursday Murder Club but for horror fans, The Autumn Springs Retirement Home Massacre is the story of Rose DuBois, a woman in her late 70s living out her golden years at Autumn Springs. At first, Rose isn’t unduly worried about one of her friends dropping dead. It is a hazard of their age after all. But as the bodies start to stack up, Rose begins to realise that these are not natural deaths and if she isn’t careful, she might be next.

As I was putting this list together, our reviewer was currently reading an early copy of The Autumn Springs Retirement Home Massacre. So watch this space for our full review!

Read The Autumn Springs Retirement Home Massacre on Amazon

The October Film Haunt by Michael Wehunt

We often imagine what it might be like to find ourselves in the world of a favourite book or film. But we don’t imagine it as much if our genre of choice is horror. What about the realisation that someone is turning you into the star of their most anticipated horror sequel? That’s where Jorie Stroud finds herself in Michael Wehunt’s The October Film Haunt.

Jorie used to love horror films – she’d camp out at their locations with her best friends and write blogs about their experiences. After one of their posts goes viral, creating hysteria, massive internet backlash, and resulting in a death, Josie leaves her love of horror behind and settles down for a quiet life. Until she gets a video in the post, and Josie appears to be being cast as the final girl in a new horror movie. The October Film Haunt is a horror thriller for the modern age, and horror masters Paul Tremblay and Stephen Graham Jones have both spoken highly of it in their reviews.

Read The October Film Haunt on Amazon

The Cold House by A.G. Slatter

Fans of Slatter probably already know her Sourdough Universe, but her novella The Cold House is a departure from that. A contemporary blend of thriller, horror, and an exploration of grief, The Cold House is a small but mighty story that will grip you from the get-go.

Everly lost everything when her husband and daughter died in a car accident. But her grief was compounded as her husband’s secrets started to be revealed after his death. With the help of his mysterious solicitor, Everly retreats to a country house in the hopes of escaping the memories haunting her in her family home. But this cold house is hiding something, and Everly keeps on hearing her dead daughter’s voice.

The Cold House is a perfect shorter read for spooky season.

Read The Cold House on Amazon

ITCH! by Gemma Amor

Don’t let the Barbie pink cover of ITCH! by Gemma Amor fool you. This feminist folk horror masterpiece will literally make your skin crawl. As the novel opens, Josie Jackson returns to her rural hometown following a bitter breakup. Already physically and emotionally broken, Josie is unlikely to find any comfort with her temperamental widower father. But things go from bad to worse when Josie stumbles across a putrid corpse, crawling with ants, while hiking. Whilst waiting for the authorities, Josie passes out, face-first into the swarming mess, and is left with an incessant itching sensation even after she is rescued.

John got his hands on a copy of ITCH! and said it was “masterful”. But he also said: “ITCH! is not for the squeamish, and certainly not for the dear readers among you who experience myrmecophobia”, which, it turns out, is an intense and irrational fear of ants. So be forewarned, and brace yourself, that after reading ITCH! you may well have acquired that new phobia.

Read ITCH! on Amazon

Futility by Nuzo Onoh

Futility is a bloody body swap story from horror queen Nuzo Onoh, boasting a cover that might make you feel a little queasy. It’s violent, funny, and full of revenge and murder, which Onoh deals with masterfully. But you should expect nothing less from the Bram Stoker Lifetime Achievement Award recipient.

Chia runs one of the best restaurants in Nigeria and is famous for her beauty and hot pepper soup. But the soup has a special secret ingredient, and her beauty is not what it seems. Claire, a middle-aged British woman living in Nigeria with her younger boyfriend and his cousin, is jealous and resentful of her lot in life. Both women are angry and bitter, so they leap at the chance to get revenge on those who have wronged them.

Read Futility on Amazon

The Works of Vermin by Hiron Ennes

Another creepy crawly related horror novel for your shelves is the upcoming The Works of Vermin by Hiron Ennes. In the decadent, deadly city of Tiliard, a metropolis carved from the stump of an ancient tree, we meet Guy Moulène. Guy will do anything to keep his sister out of debt, even work as an exterminator, hunting the uncanny creatures that prowl Tiliard. His current quarry? A venomous centipede, the size of a dragon. No one with a choice would pit themselves against such a thing. But Guy doesn’t have a choice.

Bugs might feature prominently in The Works of Vermin, but this is much more than a simple horror. Ennes has created a detailed, dark, gritty, complex fantasy worth reading.

Read The Works of Vermin on Amazon

The Sound of the Dark by Daniel Church

Our final recommendation is The Sound of the Dark by Daniel Church. Church’s latest novel caused a bit of a flurry in the review team, and plays on that age-old fear of the dark. Something sinister at an abandoned air force base caused artist Tony Mathias to murder his family, and then kill himself, after setting up an art installation in the disused space. Decades later, true crime podcaster Cally Darker gets the chance for the exclusive of a lifetime: listening to Daniel’s tapes and trying to solve the mystery surrounding those terrible events. But once she starts to listen, Cally realises older and fouler things lurk in the dark.

We have a full review of The Sound of the Dark and an interview with Daniel Church coming towards the end of October.

Read The Sound of the Dark on Amazon

The post New and Upcoming 2025 Horror Releases to Keep You Scared this Autumn appeared first on Grimdark Magazine.

EXCLUSIVE: Excerpt: Chapter 1 of Richard Swan’s new Vonvalt novella The Scour

With the release of The Scour by Richard Swan mere weeks away, we think it’s time we gave you a bit of a peek at the amazing dark fantasy novella that awaits you. Stuffed with Vonvalt’s trademark legal procedural overlay on the grim outer reaches of the Sovan Empire, a bit of dark fantasy buddy cop action, and a murderous mystery to be solved, I hope you enjoy Chapter 1 of The Scour.

IGdansburg

“However valid the resentments and antipathies of the Imperial subjugate, his ready obedience is yours by right. Be compassionate but robust, and take a firm hand to any obfuscation and noncompliance.”

– From Caterhauser’s The Sovan Criminal Code: Advice to Practitioners

 

“Some interesting morsels about Gdansburg,” Bressinger said as he sat down at the table with two charged tankards of marsh ale.

“Oh?”

“Mm. One thing for each of your legal and arcane sensibilities.”

“Who told you about my sensibilities?” Vonvalt said, and saw off several large swallows of the lukewarm ale. They were sitting in a crossroads inn twenty miles from Grozoda’s Meridian Ocean coast, and the place was hot and loud and lousy with traders.

“Which one would you like to hear first?”

“I will listen to anything except you complain about your urethra.”

“By Nema, it burns.”

“Dubine: I can’t have this conversation again.”

“I think it was that whore in Grallstein—”

“What were the two morsels?”

Bressinger leant forward conspiratorially, pausing briefly to rearrange the component parts of his groin. “Apparently the lighthouse in Gdansburg is haunted.”

Vonvalt groaned, waving him off. “Rot. What’s the other one?”

Bressinger sat back, only slightly put out. “I thought you’d find that interesting.”

“And I am happy to tell you that you were wrong. What was the second thing?”

“Talk is that the locals have arrested a Justice.”

Vonvalt’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Just that.”

“They have arrested a Justice? An Imperial Justice?”

“Is there any other kind?”

“Where? When?”

“Gdansburg,” Bressinger said patiently. “Recently. As recently as yesterday.”

“Who told you this?” Vonvalt asked, searching about the inn. The common room was a cramped space, filled with tables and traders. The beams of the ceiling were low and the air was thick with pipe smoke and body odour. Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the west-facing windows.

Bressinger looked around as well. “Can’t see him now. Just some bloke. He was hardly out to lead me on. I didn’t pay him anything.”

Vonvalt clacked his tongue. “Most troubling,” he said after a long while. “Most vexing.”

“Aye, well,” Bressinger said. “You can drink your fill of it tomorrow. And be troubled, and be vexed, then.”

“It is a long way still. We shall leave before dawn.”

Bressinger groaned. “I should not have said anything.”

“No. I’m glad you brought this to my attention. This is an extremely serious matter.”

Bressinger rolled his eyes. “Waking me before dawn is an extremely serious matter.”

“No whoring tonight.”

“I don’t think I should anyway. Not with my ur—”

“Yes, yes.”

In spite of the lingering autumnal warmth, it was chilly and damp in the predawn gloom. They paid the ostler double for the early start, and soon they were saddled up on their horses, with their donkey—upon whom Vonvalt had bestowed the name ‘the Duke of Brondsey’, on account of both man and beast being obstinate cunts—in tow. It was by virtue of the mule that they travelled slowly, obliged as they were to transport all of Vonvalt’s legal accoutrements.

The roads in this part of Grozoda were of poor quality and ill-maintained. Once the Sovan Legions had calcified their grip on the province’s abutting Venland and Denholtz—the latter territory absorbed five years previously, the former only one—the plan was to extend the Haugen High-Way all the way to the very tip of the continent. But for now, they were forced to navigate roads of compacted earth, and more often travel across open country.

“You know this area, do you?” Vonvalt asked Bressinger as the sun rose on the Grozodan countryside. This was an expansive, open place, little of it cultivated: huge empty wildflower meadows, scrubby, rocky outcrops, the odd hamlet of dusty, whitewashed adobe nestled in the crooks of streams and at the nexus of small farms. Further east, in the shadow of Annholt, there had been vineyards, too, miles and miles of them. But out here on the peninsula, the countryside and the people were a little rougher.

“Not really,” Bressinger said, looking around. “Annholt was big enough for us.”

Vonvalt wisely let the conversation rest; the provincial capital, and what it represented, was a source of profound grief for his taskman.

On they went. Vonvalt was troubled by the rumour of the arrest of an Imperial Justice, but could not bring himself to get as exercised about it as he felt he should. The day was warm and pleasant, there was no one about, and the meadows buzzed with bees and the sky trilled with black starlings. And even though he was travelling down the peninsula in his capacity as a Sovan lawkeeper, with the great burden of labour that entailed, there were colder, grimmer, more dangerous parts of the Empire in which to do it.

They rested the horses and mule at midday, and stretched their legs in the shade of a cypress tree. Bressinger fished out a bottle of cheap red from the Duke of Brondsey’s cart, and some food, and they enjoyed a ploughman’s lunch through the worst of the day’s heat. In fact, so unexpectedly pleasant was the journey, and so far did his thoughts wander, that by the time they smelt the ocean’s brine Vonvalt had forgotten about the matter of the arrested Justice entirely.

“By Nema,” Bressinger said as they approached the outer environs of Gdansburg. “Is there even anybody here?”

Vonvalt looked ahead. The town was spread along several miles of coastline, and had at its westernmost apex a low headland upon which was set the—allegedly haunted—lighthouse. That in itself was part of a broader fastness that had undoubtedly once been the seat of the local lord; but even from their distance, Vonvalt could see that the place had fallen into disrepair, and was clearly abandoned. In fact, the same could be said for much of the town. Gdansburg bore the five-year-old scars of the Reichskrieg, with the outermost parts reduced to overgrown rubble. There was a tangible quietness to the place.

Still, their arrival drew what little attention there was to be drawn.

“Something tells me they are not accustomed to receiving visitors,” Bressinger said.

“I daresay you are right.”

They had come upon what was the main thoroughfare, a surprisingly broad, paved road that Vonvalt would once have associated with trading towns. But there was no sign of any ships, even though the remains of a harbour lay to the north of the lighthouse. To the south, the headland slowly sloped down until it gave way to an enormous saltmarsh lousy with avocets and a single, lonely harrier.

“Excuse me,” Vonvalt said, casting an eye over the main street. It was fronted by a number of shops with no obvious guild closures, as well as sturdy brick and timber townhouses. There was no question that this had once been a place of wealth.

“Yeah?” one of the locals asked, a blonde headed, blonde bearded man who looked very out of place in Grozoda.

“I’d like to speak to the sheriff, please.”

“He’s dead.”

Vonvalt exchanged a brief glance with Bressinger. “Is there a mayor? Or alderman?”

The man spat on to the cobbles. “No.”

“Hey!” Bressinger snapped, placing his hand on the hilt of his side sword. “We’re obviously looking for the person in fucking charge, so turn your mind to it!”

Even then, the fellow could not be roused to answer quickly. He turned, and pointed to what looked like a Neman abbey that lay on another, lesser headland bookending the old harbour.

“Matria Klement,” he said. “She has taken the reins of local government.”

“And what is this I hear about a Justice being arrested?” Vonvalt asked, struggling to keep the anger from his voice, for the man’s intractability was irritating him greatly.

He shook his head, and latterly his hands. “Oh no. I’m not getting involved in that,” he said, and bustled off.

They watched him go.

“What accent was that?” Vonvalt asked after a while.

“Honestly, I’m not sure.”

Vonvalt sighed, and looked out across the vast grey ocean. It was getting late in the afternoon, and the clouds were drawing in.

“Come on then,” he said eventually. “Let’s see what this matria has to say for herself.”

Vonvalt, as an Imperial Justice, was rarely a welcome sight anywhere, but this was especially true in recently subjugated provinces. Justices, after all, were the embodiment of Sovan legal authority, able to arrest, trial, imprison, and execute anyone within the bounds of the Empire. And whilst that in itself was reason enough to be fearful of anybody, he also had several magickal powers with which to enforce those laws—powers which invited mistrust and superstition.

Nowhere was this mistrust more evident than in the Empire’s temples and klosters. It was from the Nemans, after all, that the magicks had been taken.

“Plucked from their hands like a toy from a child,” Vonvalt murmured as they were reluctantly bade entry into the abbey.

“What?” Bressinger asked, scratching his balls.

“Never mind.”

They were led to the matria’s office, a well-appointed chamber which overlooked the Meridian Ocean through a bay window of glass and lead lattice. She looked up, her expression curdling as she recognised Vonvalt from his finery and medallion of office.

“Come to take the Justice away have you?” she rasped. She was a tough, rangy woman, sixty if she was a day, with a tangled bird’s nest of grey hair and pale, wrinkled skin. She was the kind of person whom Nema would have to physically drag off the mortal coil, kicking and screaming.

“Come to see that justice is done,” Vonvalt corrected mildly.

“Oh, he’ll be done all right. What is it that you want? News can’t have travelled that quickly.”

“May we sit?”

“If you must.”

They sat.

“And who exactly are you two?”

“My name is Justice Sir Konrad Vonvalt, of the Imperial Magistratum. This is my taskman, Dubine Bressinger.”

“Uh huh.”

There was a pause.

“And who are you, madam?”

“The matria.”

“I’d got that far.”

She sighed, and folded her arms. “Radmila Klement.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“I am not pleased to make yours. What do you want?”

“I am on my circuit, madam. I am here to speak to the townsfolk. Hear their legal complaints. Adjudge, fine, and punish accordingly.”

“Well. There’s nothing that needs doing here. So why don’t you fuck off up the coast?”

Bressinger brandished his finger. “Now see here you miserable old hag—”

“It’s all right, Dubine,” Vonvalt said, holding out a hand. “Why don’t you see if you can find a physician.”

Bressinger shrugged, and left.

“You got him well-trained,” Klement said.

“Mister Bressinger is a loyal and highly competent lawkeeper and officer of the Crown, and the finest swordsman this side of Sova.”

“How lovely for him.”

Vonvalt reclined in his chair, and examined the woman in front of him. “You are exceptionally rude.”

“And you are taking up my time.”

“I am entitled to as much of it as I like,” Vonvalt replied. She gave him a venomous look, but did not rejoin. “I heard a rumour on the way here.”

“Is that so?”

“That you have detained a Justice.”

“We have.”

“On what charge?”

“Murder.”

Vonvalt’s eyes widened slightly. “Indeed?”

“Indeed.”

“You have evidence?”

“We have all the evidence we need.”

“I have been a Justice for nearly fifteen years now, Matria. Do you know what I have learned in that time?”

“A great many things, I should imagine.”

“People who claim to have ‘all the evidence they need’ tend to have no evidence whatever.”

Her expression curdled further. “The matter is out of your hands.”

“Nothing could be further from the truth.”

She huffed about her desk, unused, no doubt, to having her authority challenged in this place.

“Where is he being kept?”

“That’s none of your—”

“Where is he being kept?” Vonvalt asked again, this time using the Emperor’s Voice.

The room darkened, and the matria jolted as though she had been punched in the nose. Her throat and mouth worked against her brain, until eventually she gasped out, “…town… gaol.”

Vonvalt regarded her as she clutched her habit where her heart squirmed arrhythmically. The Voice—the arcane ability of a Justice to compel a person to speak the truth—worked on almost everybody. But it had taken her a little too long to yield up the answer for his liking, which meant she was somewhat familiar with the power. Those anticipating it, even laypeople, could go some way to frustrating it.

“You know of the Voice,” he remarked.

“I know of your witchcraft, aye,” she spat. “Justice Havener used it on us enough times.”

“Sir Bronislav Havener, is it?” Vonvalt mused. He knew the man only by name. They had occupied the Grand Lodge—the headquarters of the Magistratum in Sova—concurrently, but briefly, and had never spoken except to exchange professional pleasantries. “You are holding him in the town gaol.”

Klement grumbled something which he did not catch.

“Who is he supposed to have murdered?”

“A young boy.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“How young?”

“Why does that matter?”

“There is killing a helpless infant, and there is, exempli gratia, killing a belligerent lad.”

“What difference does it make?”

“Entire cases hinge on these details.”

Klement sniffed, and sat back. “About six years old. Just shy of it.”

“Where is his body?”

“At sea. Per custom.”

“What custom is that?” Vonvalt asked, thinking of the man with the strange accent he had heard on their arrival. Before she could reply, he continued, “this is a strange place. Why is it half empty? And why does no one look Grozodan?”

In so referring to Grozodans—like Bressinger—he was referring to the traditionally dark-haired, olive-skinned natives of the province. But it seemed to him that the majority of the townsfolk in Gdansburg were pale, their hair blonde or red. It was an uncommon lineage on the peninsula.

Klement turned and looked out of the window. She continued to look out of the window as she spoke. “This place was settled by Brigalanders decades ago. Raided, and then settled. They mixed with the locals, put down roots.”

“I see,” Vonvalt said, nodding. Brigaland lay two hundred nautical miles north of the northernmost part of the contiguous Empire. Every summer, its inhabitants sailed across the Seolhyþa Straits and raided the Imperial coastline, usually at will. Sometimes, as had evidently happened here in Gdansburg, they settled. “Does that explain why the place is half empty?”

“Oh no,” Klement said, waving him off. “That happened much more recently. Two years ago, I’d say.”

“Oh?”

“It was the lighthouse,” she said. “Used to be that Gdansburg was the largest trading port on the Meridian coast. And then one day…” She looked at him briefly. Vonvalt read in her expression anger, but also a second, deeper emotion. She was resentful. Not at his presence, but rather, that he might just have the authority and ability to assist her. “One day…”

“It became infested with something supernatural?”

“Haunted.” She gave him another malicious glare, daring him to make fun of her. When he didn’t, she said, “you think it risible.”

“Few are better acquainted with the arcane than me,” Vonvalt said, thinking about the times he had practised necromancy. “But in my experience, the creatures and spirits and other inhabitants of the holy dimensions tend to remain confined to the holy dimensions.”

“Tend to?”

He gave her a small smile. “Invariably.”

She turned away from him again. “I have heard it with my own ears. A dreadful screaming, coming from the lighthouse at night. No one will go near it. No one will light it.”

“I see. There were wrecks.”

“Two,” Klement said, nodding. “That was enough for word to spread. The merchants stopped coming here. They went to Grallstein instead.”

“And the town’s population followed the coin.”

“Leaving us with the dregs. The old, the young, the infirm. We do what we can, here in the abbey. But Gdansburg is a year or two from abandonment. I’m certain of it.”

Vonvalt felt some sympathy for the woman then, in spite of her prickliness.

“I was told the sheriff is dead.”

“Aye. He died around the same time actually.”

“Oh?”

“It is not what you think. He was old. Unwell.”

“It is not his spirit which lingers in the lighthouse?”

She shook her head. “The screaming is that of a woman.”

“I see.” He paused. “You will tell me nothing further about Justice Havener?”

“Why? Are you going to drag it out of me with sorcery?”

“If I must.”

“Do as you please.”

He sighed. He did briefly think about using the Voice on her again, but he decided that it would be better to try and make an ally of her—if he could.

“Very well,” he said eventually. “We shall speak again soon.”

She snorted, but did not reply.

Vonvalt nodded to himself, and left.

Bressinger was talking to a pretty young nun outside the abbey’s main door when Vonvalt swept past him.

“Come on, Dubine,” he said, and his taskman fell into step beside him.

“Well? Where are they holding him?”

“The town gaol.”

“I daresay we could have deduced that without an interrogation.”

“I daresay you are right.”

“Who is it?”

“Bronislav Havener.”

Bressinger shook his head. “I don’t know him.”

“There’s not much to know.”

They made their way back into the town, though not far; the gaol was located on a sizeable distributary from the main thoroughfare. Vonvalt found that the placement of town gaols and stockades tended to depend on whether they also contained the sheriff’s office. If they did, they were situated on relatively pleasant streets. If they did not, they were lumped in with the town’s unsociable trades closure—the butchers, tanneries, and so on.

Here the former seemed to be the case, for the road was cobbled and quite agreeable, lined with cypress trees and planters filled with indigenous wildflowers. Indeed, a little further on, Vonvalt spotted a blue star, the Imperial mark of a licensed physician.

“There you are, Dubine; he could have your… issue examined.”

“I’d rather be having my issue examined by that nun,” he growled, and Vonvalt chuckled despite himself.

The smile quickly faded from his lips as they drew level with the gaol door. Attached to it was a note, which read:

 

Witch inside!

He has the power to compel you against your will!

For your own safety, do not enter!

 

Next to it was a crude diagram for the illiterate, which in other circumstances would have been amusing.

“Bloody hell,” Bressinger said. “They really do have him in there.”

“Apparently,” Vonvalt replied, turning the handle. “Come on.”

Inside it was dingy. The cheap tallow candles had all long ago burnt out, and there was a strong smell of urine. Vonvalt reached into his pocket and pulled out a small kerchief filled with lavender, harvested locally, and held it to his nose.

“Who’s there?” a powerful voice demanded.

“Justice Sir Konrad Vonvalt.”

“Oh thank Nema. Thank the gods and all the saints.”

“Don’t thank them just yet,” Bressinger said quietly.

They drew level with the far cell. Another notice was posted there, this one reading:

 

Cover your ears!

 

“Justice Sir Bronislav Havener,” Vonvalt said, peering through the barred square hole cut into the door.

“Konrad, by Nema it is good to see you.”

Vonvalt appraised the man. He looked to be in good health, though there was no evidence of victuals having been provided. He was about fifteen years older than Vonvalt, putting him in his mid-forties. He had thinning, greying hair, was bearded, and was not overweight so much as bullish, possessed of a naturally large, muscular frame.

“Get me some ale, would you? I’m about to expire.”

Bressinger turned and headed to the nearest public house. Once the main door was closed, Vonvalt turned back to Havener.

“What’s going on? Why have these people detained you?”

“Certainly on no legal authority. Release me, Sir Konrad, and I shall be on my way.”

Vonvalt paused. “I will release you, in due course,” he replied carefully. “But I should like to hear what has happened before I do.”

“You bloody idiot, fetch the keys immediately! I’ll not explain myself!”

“As you wish,” Vonvalt said, and immediately turned on his heel.

“For Nema’s—wait, damn you. Are you fetching the keys, or are you leaving?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Just—bloody—just wait there a moment. Come back here, for the gods’ sakes.” Vonvalt returned. “You always had a reputation for being such a stickler.”

“My reputation, I hope, is one of prudence.”

“Your reputation, Justice, is for being the Emperor’s favoured whelp.”

Vonvalt accepted this, as he had to. To deny it would have been to deny the objective truth. “I have had His Excellency’s ear these past few years,” he said. “I’ll make no bones about it.”

“A Jägelander, too. A man whose father took the Highmark. Not even a trueborn Sovan.”

“I fought and bled in the Legions. I have done more than most for the Empire,” Vonvalt growled, bristling. There was nothing in the world that got under his skin more than pompous old Sovans reminding him of his heritage. As though it were a failing.

As though it were a weakness.

“I take my leave,” he said, before he lost his temper.

“Wait!” Havener blurted out. “I am sorry. Sir Konrad, wait, please. I am sorry. Look at me.” He gestured to the urine-soaked floor of his cell. “Look at where they are keeping me.”

“Why are they keeping you at all?”

Havener looked at him sidelong. “What have they told you?”

“That you killed a boy. A young one.”

“Killed a boy,” Havener muttered bitterly. “Preposterous.”

“Whether or not it is preposterous, they certainly believe you to have done it. Believe it most assuredly.”

“Oh assuredly? Assuredly! A bunch of bloody Brigalander mongrels, accusing me of murder! Infanticide?! I mean really, Sir Konrad, really!”

“I take it that you deny the charge.”

“Oh for Nema’s sake. You are not indulging this nonsense, are you? You are not actually entertaining that I might have done it?”

Vonvalt shook his head. “Sir Bronislav, I find it very difficult to believe that a Justice is capable of murder, given the rigours of our training and our ethics.”

Havener nodded. “Precisely. Precisely!”

“But you of all people will know that that same training and code of ethics binds me very strictly to the proper investigative procedures.”

It took Havener three heartbeats to realise what Vonvalt was saying. When he did, he sighed angrily, and rolled his eyes. “Terrific. I’m going to be investigated like a base criminal.”

“The common law demands nothing less.”

“I would expect nothing less from you,” Havener sneered. “I said, did I not: your reputation is that of a stickler.”

Vonvalt took this in his stride. “Do you know what your reputation is, Sir Bronislav?”

He glowered. “No.”

“Neither do I,” Vonvalt replied, and left.

Want more? The Scour by Richard Swan releases on October 20, 2025. Grab your copy using the link below. Read on Amazon

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REVIEW: Demon in White by Christopher Ruocchio

Shining as bright as brilliant stars and as deep as the blackness between them, Christopher Ruocchio’s Demon in White is one of—if not the—best sci-fi I’ve ever read. Part political scheming, part military sci-fi, all electrifying work, Demon in White subverts expectations, asks challenging questions, and leaves jaws dropped. 

“One has rank because one deserves it, and if one does not deserve it, he will lose his rank. Or his life. A man would do well to become worthy of his honors, else he will be deposed as a tyrant.”

Following Howling Dark, Hadrian’s reputation has begun to expand into something neither he nor the emperor can control. Soldiers call him Halfmortal and worship his exploits; rivals scheme to eliminate the growing threat of a lesser noble rising further and further as his prestige and legend cast a shadow that threatens to blot out their glory. Demon in White is a title in more ways than one. 

We start off with Hadrian with more power and less control than he has ever had. While he’s seated next to the emperor, both men are handcuffed by the chains of protocol and status. The more they learn, the lesson they understand. Worse, still, is the changing threat of the Cielcin. Before they were savage and brutal combatants, but they operated on instinct and took what they saw; now they employ strategy and tactics that confound the human armies. Time is running out and gambits must be made. Hadrian must take to the front of space to prove his value and do the impossible. 

Demon in White is the most action-packed of The Sun Eater books so far, and Ruocchio deserves credit for stepping up his game once more. The combat in the previous books was by no means bad or un-intense, but the increase in skill in Demon in White is mystifying. Lasers feel scintillating and scorching, swords and machines claustrophobically violent. Towards the end of the book shows military sci-fi heights that feel directly out of Mass Effect, which is a high compliment. 

Perhaps what seals Demon in White as having all time great action is the desperation and intensity that jumps off the page. Characters fight and die running red hot in cold metal hallways; noble sacrifices are made in the muck and shit of a bloodstained battlefield. It’s almost like you can imagine yourself standing next to sweating soldiers, while contemplating with them what’s more likely to keep people alive. 

The prose, as ever, is razor sharp. Hadrian’s monologues and vision cut like a knife but also provide an insightful yet smooth journey throughout this tome of a novel. At this point I think I’d read a cookbook if Ruocchio made a narrative of it. 

Demon in White has the same dialogue and world-building we’ve grown accustomed too, but we see different sides of it. As we creep closer and closer to the seats of power, we see the world from a high tower instead of boots on the ground, we hear the dialogue with a fine timbre of practiced accents instead of the rough talk of soldiers. 

While the leap in the action is impressive, I think the plot might be the most impressive feat of this novel. The politicking is wonderfully done, especially in the middle, and the twists in this book are fantastic. Demon in White gets weird in the best possible way. Finally, the ending… such a ballsy ending that a lesser talented author simply could not have pulled off. There’s a moment in the middle and a moment in the end that have not left my mind since reading it. There’s a large pantheon of legendary scenes across the fantasy and sci-fi world, but I’ll be damned if Ruocchio didn’t add two in this novel alone. 

“I am not certain what I did to deserve those years. I had been given an island in time, a haven and refuge from all that had passed before and what must follow.”

My only critique of Demon in White is that the philosophical discussions slow down between characters after the first third. Hadrian instead asks himself the questions, but I did miss the back and forth debates where no one is truly wrong or truly right. 

Ultimately, Demon in White may be the finest sci-fi novel I’ve ever read. I’m rather upset at Ruocchio right now as I had Hyperion as my book of the year, but I believe he’s carved a way through it and secured that throne. He’s presented a book that will go down with the likes of Storm of Swords and Memories of Ice as an all-time great book three and secured himself in the sci-fi hall of fame. 

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REVIEW: Body of Water by Adam Godfrey

Adam Godfrey likes to make the ordinary dangerous. In his debut novella Narcissus, not just mirrors but any reflective surface could be fatal. Now, in his debut novel Body of Water, out from Sourcebooks on September 23, he’s turned his attentions to something somehow even more ubiquitous: water. But this story, which combines the “group of people holed up against the horrors outside” vibe of Stephen King’s The Mist with the “natural world gone crazy” feel of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds, has an ace in the hole separate from its audacious liquid high concept: a genuinely compelling father–daughter relationship and the attempts to repair it in the face of lingering grief.

The story begins with Glen on the road with his teenage daughter Lauren, hoping for a vacation that will help them bond again after years of drifting apart following the tragic death of his wife. They stop at a diner on the way, and that’s when things quickly go south, as a pair of armed men arrive, rambling about people getting attacked by water, and soon after the deadly water itself arrives. As Glen and Lauren find themselves under siege, they must work out the exact nature of the threat while struggling with their fellow prisoners and their own family demons.

The first thing to say is that in Body of Water the water itself, or whatever might be in it, is genuinely terrifying. The idea of something so ubiquitous being deadly is inherently unsettling and unlike many “under-siege” horrors where all you’ve got to worry about is individual creatures getting in, water, as anyone who’s suffered from a roof leak knows, is a resourceful son of a gun who will always find a way in. I was left in a constant state of nerve-shredding tension.

Not only that, but, without giving anything away, Godfrey gives some very interesting characteristics to this horrifyingly bloodthirsty water, so this isn’t just a flood disaster movie hiding within a horror, it’s a very specific kind of attack-minded water that feels distinctly alive. The way it kills is genuinely appalling, and lingered over with gruesome detail every time. Plus, Godfrey has put great effort into making this scientifically plausible, and the concepts at work here are fascinating and (kind of) based on real biology.

But as drippingly tense as the water action in Body of Water is, there is a strong human story running through this too, which is Glen’s relationship with his daughter Lauren. The often fraught father–daughter dynamic, especially when the mother figure has been removed, is a horror classic that Godfrey weaponizes with great emotional effect here. Glen is grieving for his wife, and that grief and guilt for how she died has blinded him to the emotional connection to his daughter, and their struggles to get over that lead to some genuinely poignant scenes, and I know it worked because the ultimate emotional catharsis really moved me. 

It should also be mentioned that Godfrey takes a choice with the ending that’s bolder than a nudist in a snowstorm which reconfigures the entire book and, I suspect, will divide many readers. It worked for me, even though it’s a bit out there, and I admired its bravery. And it’s certainly a doubling down on the strong, beating, human heart of this story and the intriguing ideas contained within.

Overall, Body of Water is a genuinely moving father–daughter re-bonding tale submerged in a terrifying story of living bloodthirsty water, not so much a creature feature as a water feature, and a nail-bitingly tense and inventive one at that.

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REVIEW: Old Gods and Other Tales by Scott Oden

There is a breed of fantasy writer who, no matter how talented, haven’t received the attention they, and by extension their work, deserve.  Writers like Paul Kearney, whose Monarchies of God series should’ve thrust him higher in the consciousness of fantasy writers, is one such author.  Another is Michael Woodring Stover, whose Caine books, a skilful and thrilling blend of cyberpunk and high fantasy, came out twenty years ago, yet has managed to somehow undeservedly stay under the radar.

Add to the collection Scott Oden, an American author who burst on to the scene with a series of historical novels set in Ancient Greece and Egypt.  Works like 2005s Men of Bronze and The Lion of Cairo married historical action with the best of the 1930s inspired pulp writings of authors such as Robert E. Howard.

After The Doom of Odin, the last in a trilogy of Norse inspired historical fantasy, Oden released a collection of cosy fantasies, before returning to his original love, pulp infused historical sword and sorcery, in his latest collection, Old Gods and Other Tales.

In his introduction, Oden pays homage to his literary hero, Robert E. Howard.  And reading the stories in Old Gods, Howard’s presence looms large.  Like Howard, Oden makes fascinating use of historical settings.  Like Howard, Oden’s lead characters are indomitable, facing great odds with a grim, unwavering purpose.  And most importantly, like Howard, Oden knows how to write a propulsive, action packed story with vibrant characters who leap off the page as their story unfolds.

I’m a big fan of this collection.  Oden has used a wide variety of historical locations – Elizabethan England (where, winningly, the protagonist is a playwright, who uses his intuitive understanding of narrative to overcome seemingly overwhelming occult odds), the Crusader Kingdoms, the Byzantine Empire and the time of Alexander – to tell an even wider variety of fantasy stories.  My personal preferences lean more towards the action/heroic, so stories such as The Unburied (returning soldiers serving under Alexander the Great find their home village overrun by the spoilers) or The Purple Shroud(an assassin seeks the Imperial Byzantine throne) an excellent example of pulp story telling informed by history) found a very appreciative audience.

It says much about Oden’s skill as a writer that any of these stories (yes, even Three Tabbed Doom – no I won’t spoil it for you) could be spun out into a novel, or even a series of novels.  What Oden has realised, just as Howard realised, that no matter how inventive an author might be in worldbuilding a fictional world, there is no beating the endless variety and indeed, strangeness, of our own history.  Of fascination for Oden (and myself) is the history of the Crusader Kingdoms – those Christian realms carved out of Palestine by crusaders from the West in the 11th and 12th centuries.  Here, Oden has found a thick vein of inspiration – the story The Lion of Montgisard features the famed Leper King, Baldwin, facing down a huge host of Moslems led by the famed Saladin.

Oden expertly weaves tales of high adventure out of historical backgrounds that are endlessly fantastical to the modern reader.  The prose is often muscular and forthright, though Oden is no blood and thunder author.  There is a modern sensibility to his writing, and he is certainly capable of writing from a female perspective in a confident manner.  No matter how strange the setting, Oden crafts characters that are instantly recognisable – men and women of action, who do not shirk their duty, and even though they might die, do so with their honour intact.

I highly, and I mean highly, recommend Old Gods Old Gods and Other Tales.  In many ways, Oden is heir to Howard – an author whose work is gripping, occasionally appealingly doom-laden, making expert use of history to infuse stories of high adventure with an added, addictive frisson.  One hopes that with this collection, Oden begins to earn the attention he so richly deserves.

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REVIEW: Red Country by Joe Abercrombie

Best Served Cold took us to the revenge genre, The Heroes took us to war, and now Red Country takes us to the west. Rife with the fantastic character development and intense action that only Joe Abercrombie can deliver, Red Country adds grit, a rescue mission, wide, open terrains, brutal standoffs, prospectors, and the questions & struggles of individualism against the inevitable churning will of civilization. With blood on its knuckles and a keen look in its eyes, Red Country is a dream come true for fans of westerns and grimdarks. 

“The trouble with running is wherever you run to, there you are.”

We start off with Shy South and Lamb, a young woman and her step father, who return to their farm after visiting the town to find it burned to the ground, a friend hung, and Shy’s brother and sister kidnapped. The pair takes off in pursuit, where they come across cheating speculators, roving gangs, and desperate men doing desperate deeds. 

The main strength of Red County—as expected in an Abercrombie novel—is the character development. Shy and Lamb are both fascinating characters who have their own buried pasts of violence, but as they race to save the kidnapped children, they have to dig up the tools and come face to face with who they truly are. There’s something so compelling about Abercrombie’s skill of bringing characters to live by showing them struggle to be better while denying what they are. The result of the clashing desires, dialogues, and decisions is a cast of rich, nuanced characters, and Red Country’s biggest success is its cast. 

The side characters also burst off the page with nuance and firm humanity. There’s a lot of tropes at play in Red Country between the hard businesswoman, the scheming speculators, the desperate prospectors, the gang members, and so on, but they don’t feel like simple tropes. They fit into a role surely, but not in a way that feels stale. 

One last character who deserves a shout out is Temple. Temple is a lawyer for one of the characters making a return to the page in Red Country, and Temple has about as good a time as a lawyer can have in an Abercrombie western fusion. He gets his shit rocked more than once, as well as bullied and underestimated frequently. He persists, growing a backbone as the story goes, and should be a favorite for fans of stories like Senlin Ascends. 

From an action perspective, Red Country rivals The Heroes as Abercrombie’s best yet. Instead of the epic battles and widespread death and chaos in the previous novel, Red Country is almost intimate in its proximity to violence. The fights and duels are far more centered on one death at a time, and the result is a bone-crunching, close-up delight.

There’s a duel about halfway through Red Country which is still widely talked about to this day (and for good reason, it’s obscenely hype and one of the most memorable scenes in First Law), but there’s one scene in the first quarter of the book that lives rent free in my mind. Lamb embraces his old ways in a bar fight, and the build up, the dialogue, and the ending is perfection. In the best way, it’s eerily reminiscent in tone, setting, and rising tension of the Hound’s “chicken scene” from Game of Thrones. 

“Evil turned out not to be a grand thing. Not sneering Emperors with their world-conquering designs. Not cackling demons plotting in the darkness beyond the world. It was small men with their small acts and their small reasons. It was selfishness and carelessness and waste. It was bad luck, incompetence, and stupidity. It was violence divorced from conscience or consequence. It was high ideals, even, and low methods.”

This is a western through and through, which means the pacing is slow, the violence can be random and unfair, and everyone is rugged and sweaty. Additionally, Abercrombie has stated that this was a hard novel to write, and you can feel it in instances. There are certain portions where the quality of the novel dips, particularly when Shy and Temple are the main characters on the page. At the end of the day, Red County is a divisive novel. While it’s my personal favorite of the standalones, an objective review would be incomplete without offering fair warning that it’s not for everyone. 

For fans of the western genre though, Red Country is a delight. The reunion with some fan-favorites, the action, the dialogue, and the character building is wonderful, and the subversion of expectations of what it means to “ride into the sunset” is something I think about all the time. Red Country is a rugged, but marvelous, work, and I can’t recommend it enough for fans of the western genre.

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REVIEW: The Savage Sword of Conan #6

Issue #6 of The Savage Sword of Conan features the conclusion of the lengthy King Conan comic “The Ensorcelled,” a short Conan story by Matthew John, and a new self-contained comic starring Dark Agnes de Chastillon.

Once again penned by Jason Aaron and illustrated by Geof Isherwood, the second half of “The Ensorcelled” takes up the lion’s share of the issue. When we last left King Conan, he was far from home, in Aquilonia’s neighboring kingdom of Brythunia. Despite taking a direct role in the capture of Xyleena, the infamous Witch of Graskaal, Conan finds himself disgusted by the way she was railroaded through a sham trial by his host, King Fabiano. Conan rescues the witch from her impending execution, a bold act that makes him an enemy of the ruthless witchfinders known as the Brethren of the Briar. Despite his distrust of sorcery, Conan throws in his lot with Xyleena, taking up arms against the hateful zealot Father Flail. He soon learns that the Brethren possess body-warping magic of their own, however. Spanning a combined length of 103 pages across two magazine issues, “The Ensorcelled” still feels a little on the long side—as a Savage Sword reader I would rather have multiple self-contained stories and leave serialized adventures to the monthly Conan the Barbarian title—but the second half is stronger than the first. It features some gnarly body horror, exciting combat, and an amusing epilogue. Geof Isherwood’s artwork impresses, and it’s clearly legible in monochrome, which can’t always be said for contributions by artists more accustomed to working in color. With their tangled, thorny masks Isherwood gives the Brethren of the Briar a cool and distinctive appearance, and he’s no slouch when it comes to rendering the gory bits of the tale as well.

Written by occasional Grimdark Magazine contributor Matthew John, “Madness on the Mound” is the first prose story to be included in The Savage Sword of Conan since issue #3’s excerpt from Conan and the Living Plague, published as part of John C. Hocking’s Conan: City of the Dead omnibus. This story takes place in the frozen north, shortly after Conan’s encounter with the demigoddess Atali, the Frost Giant’s Daughter (an episode recounted in Conan the Barbarian #15). Conan and the exhausted remnants of the Æsir war band led by Niord stop by an isolated village hoping for a brief respite. Conan is instantly on edge when he finds the hamlet left undefended, the bulk of the menfolk having left to search for a missing hunting party. A terrified boy rushes back to the village to report an attack by Vanir warriors, and Conan and his comrades set out to meet their foes. Instead of an enemy encampment, however, the men are confronted by a still-glowing fallen star. Fleshy roots have burst from the massive rock, and Conan soon discovers that the tendrils terminate in the bodies of the dead Vanir, wending through them and animating them like grotesque puppets. What follows is a bloody and grim little tale that emphasizes the horror aspect commonly found in Sword & Sorcery. It feels very much a companion to the creepy fantasy-horror stories collected by John in To Walk on Worlds and his contribution to Old Moon Quarterly, Vol. 7. The editing could have been a little tighter—“spore” is used when the word “spoor” is intended, and “below” instead of “bellow”—but John packs quite a bit of adventure in two short pages. John’s portrayal of Conan feels authentic, and supporting character Niord also has some good character moments.

The issue is rounded out by “The Head of St. Denis,” written by Michael Downs and illustrated by Piotr Kowalski. It focuses on 16th century French swordswoman Agnes de Chastillon. Dark Agnes hasn’t had the best track record in Titan Comics; a modified version of her origin story appeared in The Savage Sword of Conan #4 with the baffling choice of anime style artwork, and she also had a fairly unsatisfying role in the Conan the Barbarian: Battle of the Black Stone crossover event miniseries. This brief comic is almost a character study for Dark Agnes. Separated from her companion Etienne and pursued by enemies, she stumbles through a wooden marsh until she encounters an apparition of the decapitated martyr St. Denis of Paris. The episode feels a bit like a scene from a Hellboy comic (indeed, Kowalski’s artwork looks like a blend of Mike Mignola and woodcut prints) and not much happens beyond the reader getting a sense of Agnes’ fierce determination, but this is the best depiction the character has gotten in Titan Comics to date. I don’t envy modern day creators trying to work with Dark Agnes. She only appeared in two unpublished Robert E. Howard stories and a fragment, and there isn’t much substance to the character beyond “talented swordswoman who rejects patriarchy.” Maybe this episode will launch better stories for Dark Agnes in the future, but if the intent is to promote a Howardian heroine I think Conan’s former companions Valeria or Bêlit would make more interesting protagonists.

While it feels like creators continue to struggle with Dark Agnes and I would’ve preferred the page count be devoted to shorter standalone stories rather than sprawling multi-issue epics, The Savage Sword of Conan #6 marks a strong conclusion to the black and white magazine’s first year at Titan Comics. The artwork was excellent throughout and action scenes abundant. I appreciate seeing prose stories appear alongside the comics, and despite its impressive brevity Matthew John’s “Madness on the Mound” was the highlight of the issue.

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REVIEW: The Will of the Many by James Islington

Ambitious & insightful, James Islington’s The Will of the Many is a dark academia book with a lot of heart and a lot of rage. Cutthroat characters, an intense setting, and a very cool magic system, The Will of the Many is the best school setting since Name of the Wind and threatens to be a classic series. 

“There comes a point in every man’s life where he can rail against the unfairness of the world until he loses, or he can do his best in it. Remain a victim, or become a survivor.”

The primary plot of the novel is about Vis, our main character who is an ousted prince of one of the empire’s takeovers, and the mission his adoptive father gives him. He’s to go to the country’s most prestigious school and pretend to be one of them, but really he’s there to investigate the murder of his adoptive father’s brother. To do that, he’ll need to rise in the ranks of the school and secure allies, but he can never let the mask slip.

The Will of the Many takes place in a setting where people participate in pyramid structures of “will ceding”, a system where lower ranked people give their “will” to people above them. It comes with numerous physical benefits to those who receive their payments, but it places a large strain on the population and a critical vulnerability on the society. 

What I find most delightful about The Will of the Many is the sheer ambition that Islington has in telling this. Topics range from colonialism, capitalism, ambition, loyalty, nepotism, utilitarianism, and revenge. Islington covers these with a deft, natural touch, never outright preaching but instead showing and having honest dialogues. If a weaker author had tried this, it would have fallen flat on its face. Instead, The Will of the Many is a book that delivers on its promise of having a lot to say. 

Another thing that I love from The Will of the Many is that every single character in the novel has agency, and none more so than Vis. Vis is a fantastic protagonist: a bitter past, well-defined traits, and a moral complexity. He’s angry at the world and the empire, he’s carrying scars, and he’s trying to do the right thing despite it all. As mentioned, the side characters have their own goals, moral lines, and plans as well. In a society as cutthroat as the one Islington has made, these characters frequently backstab—or demand Vis to backstab—each other. The tension is palpable throughout the entire length of the novel and the pages fly by, but what I found most impressive is just how real everyone felt. When one character fucks over another, you understand why. There’s a certain moral grayness that colors the world and makes you question whether the characters are vicious because of the setting or if it’s simply their nature. 

The school setting is both familiar and unique. We see a lot of the expected tropes like the pedantic/aggressive teacher, the bullies, the cliques, the misunderstood victim, the training montages, the love interest, so on and so on. Despite that, there’s a breath of fresh air in the novel. Maybe it’s just Islington’s talent—combined with a few absolutely great and gut-wrenching expectation subversions—but the tropes in The Will of the Many just work in an excellent way. 

Islington’s prose and dialogue are significantly improved from his earlier works. The Will of the Many was a book I was clearing through hundreds of pages at a time, and that’s because Islington’s prose is clean and Vis’ discussions sing.

Finally, I have to shout out the ending. It’s batshit insane and if I had the sequel in-front of me upon finishing I would have dove right into it. Islington’s greatest strength used to be his plotting, and assuming that skill hasn’t diminished since Licanius, this series is going to be bonkers in the best way. 

“They know the system is wrong, but they choose not to think or speak up or act because they ultimately hope that in their silence, they will gain. Or at the very least not have to give more than they have already given.”

Honestly, I don’t really have any complaints about this book, but I do have a few warnings. If you’re someone who doesn’t like school settings, this is not the book for you. If you’re someone who doesn’t like training montages, this is not the book for you. If you’re someone who doesn’t like philosophizing in their stories, this is not the book for you. 

However, if you’re someone who does like school settings, someone who wants a cutthroat society with a lot of twists, someone who wants to go into deeper themes of life, then pick up The Will of the Many.

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REVIEW: The Buffalo Hunter Hunter by Stephen Graham Jones

As The Buffalo Hunter Hunter begins, Etsy Beaucarne is struggling with an undistinguished academic career. A surprising opportunity falls in her lap, however, after a distant relative’s crumbling journal is discovered hidden in the walls of a decrepit parsonage. Penned in 1912 by her great-great-grandfather Arthur, a Lutheran pastor posted in Montana, Etsy hopes to use the manuscript as the springboard for a new research project, ideally leading to publications and tenure. But as transcriptions of the brittle and faded pages are delivered, she discovers a much darker and more troubling narrative than expected.

The premise established, Etsy’s story fades into the background. The Beaucarne Manuscript makes up the bulk of The Buffalo Hunter Hunter. Arthur Beaucarne’s religious ministrations to the small town of Miles City are disrupted when an ominous stranger begins attending his sermons. Invariably seated in the rearmost pew, the visitor is a Native American man dressed incongruously in a black Jesuit robe, battered cavalry boots, and dark glasses. Disturbed by the man’s intense scrutiny, Arthur nevertheless finds himself fascinated by the visitor. Eventually the Indian approaches Arthur after a Sunday service, introducing himself as Good Stab of the Pikuni (Piegan Blackfeet tribe), and says that he has come to the church to confess his sins. Over a series of weekly visits—the chapel dimmed so as not to aggravate his unusual sensitivity to light—Good Stab unburdens his soul, and Arthur dutifully recounts the man’s anecdotes in his journal.

During his first visit, Good Stab describes encountering the scene of a bizarre massacre, with dead white men surrounding a wagon containing a caged and hissing chalk-white man with fangs. After a series of catastrophes, the so-called “Cat Man” escapes from his prison and Good Stab undergoes a traumatic metamorphosis.

Between Good Stab’s visits, mutilated and exsanguinated human bodies begin appearing outside Miles City, partially skinned in apparent imitation of the wasteful fashion of white hunters of buffalo. Arthur quickly draws a connection between the corpses and his unusual guest and begins to investigate. Over time he begins to suspect an ulterior motive underlying Good Stab’s visits.

As it makes clear surprisingly early on, this book is a vampire novel. The Buffalo Hunter Hunter shares some superficial elements with Anne Rice’s 1976 Interview with the Vampire, and fans of the latter are likely to enjoy Stephen Graham Jones’ novel. But it’s also simultaneously a compelling revenge tale that deals unflinchingly with the Native Americans’ genocide at the hands of white colonizers. Rage, guilt, and regret feature prominently, and Good Stab’s anguish is powerfully rendered. Jones is himself of Blackfeet heritage, and it felt like the historical setting gave the author license to write about his ancestors’ plight in a more unfiltered and immediate way than his works set in the modern day.

Literary weightiness aside, The Buffalo Hunter Hunter is a particularly original vampire story. The Old West setting is fresh, as is the fact that—in Jones’ world—vampires literally are what they eat. Vampires begin to take on characteristics of the creatures they habitually consume. Too much deer blood and stubby antlers begin to sprout, for example. The same principle extends to human prey; when Good Stab subsists on white victims, he grows to resemble them, gaining a pale skin tone and scraggly beard. If he is to maintain his original form, he’s forced to devour his own people. It could be argued that this is a metaphor for cultural assimilation: associate too much with the white man and Good Stab begins to become one, but isolating himself among his fellow Pikuni is likewise harmful and unsustainable in the long term.

Beyond this novel depiction of vampirism, the book also boasts an abundance of chilling moments. With unlimited time at their disposal, The Buffalo Hunter Hunter repeatedly demonstrates that a sufficiently patient and motivated vampire can concoct tortures of breathtaking malice. Fates literally worse than death.

The Buffalo Hunter Hunter benefits from the strong and distinct voices of its two primary narrators, Good Stab and Arthur Beaucarne. Both are unreliable narrators in their own way. Good Stab is fond of using colorfully literal translations of his people’s words for animals (big mouth, blackhorn, real-bear, prairie-runner, etc.), but he occasionally slips and betrays a more fluent command of American English than the disarming Indian stereotype he playacts as. Arthur, on the other hand, reveals a tendency to dance around sensitive topics, to avoid examining or grappling with the uncomfortable until it’s too late.

Unfortunately, the robust characterization on display with Good Stab and Arthur ends up making the novel’s primary flaw more visible. When the Beaucarne Manuscript concludes, the narrative returns to the present day, with Etsy left to deal with her great-great-grandfather’s disturbing legacy. But because readers have spent so little time with Etsy, she feels much less satisfying as a viewpoint character. Good Stab and Arthur’s words are given heft by a lightly archaic style and the weight of history, while Etsy is just a modern gal with modern job frustrations and a cute cat. Relatable, but underequipped for the task of carrying such a heavy story’s ending. Perhaps this issue could have been ameliorated by having Etsy resurface periodically during the middle portion of the book to share her reactions and own investigative footwork, rather than showing up for a few brief pages in the beginning and then reappearing only to shoulder the last tenth of the book. The violence depicted in the finale also felt tonally different than what readers had been presented with previously. Less gritty, more gonzo.

Despite the comparatively weak finish, The Buffalo Hunter Hunter remains the most original and exciting vampire novel in years. Stephen Graham Jones has released many strong books in a short span of time, but this one is particularly passionate and multidimensional. While I suspect Jones’ best work is still ahead of him, The Buffalo Hunter Hunter stands out even among an already robust catalog of work.

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REVIEW: Molten Flux by Jonathan Weiss

Molten Flux by Jonathan Weiss, the opening chapter in his Flux Catastrophe series, is a high-octane thrill ride full of grit, violence and some truly mind-bending worldbuilding. Think Mad Max and Red Faction with magic. 

We follow Ryza, a young man whose wandering trade caravan is captured at the novel’s opening by smelters, death-dealers of a different kind. His hands are cuffed, his life is forfeit and about his neck an explosive collar is strapped. And just like that, one of the most exhilarating science-fantasy novels of modern times begins. 

Weiss wastes no time in this novel, throwing the reader headfirst into events. With quick, succinct explanations, Weiss is able to reveal the world and magic in vivid ways. As is true of all good worldbuilding, the novel hints at greater depths but never burdens the reader with their explanation. Weiss’ worldbuilding is full of smoke and mirrors and rusty guns. It is deep but never overbearing; there is a glossary at the back of the book, but Weiss’ descriptions and depictions of magic and the world are always enough. This is a world with mist at its edges and rust in its heart.

The story takes place in a world known only as The Droughtlands. Imagine sprawling, unending deserts, sporadically populated with human settlements constructed from refuse and debris. It is a truly fallen world. A post-post-apocalyptic one. Among the debris, people scrounge for survival and dominance. 

And for molten flux.

A self-replicating liquid metal, molten flux can be injected into corpses (known as Autominds) to be reanimated and controlled by Kretatics (those capable of metal magic). Despite the punishments for possession of even a drop of the lethal liquid, there is a roaring trade across the Droughtlands and it is over this precious and deadly commodity that the novel’s central conflicts are fought. 

A large portion of the novel takes place upon Revance: a colossal, walking fortress composed of scrap metal and held together and controlled by magic unseen. Think Howl’s Moving Castle but more rusty, dilapidated and with a gargantuan cannon strapped to it. It is a hulking beast of a fortress whose purpose and ownership is unknown. It simply roams from city to city, endlessly. Within Revance live hundreds of conscripts of various factions whose duty it is to search for scrap metal to add to its composition. It is part cargo hauler and part mercenary outfit, and at the novel’s outset, there is tension brewing on-board and mutiny is in the air.

At the oil-slicked heart of this novel are the characters. Weiss presents us with a rag-tag band of conscripts on-board Revance who feel honest, deep and real. He has spent time considering their beliefs and opinions, and each of these differences plays out on the page.

Although Molten Flux is often compared to Mad Max, I felt that when it came to characters, Point Break came closest. The relationship between Ryza and some of his enemies reminded me of Keanu’s Johnny Utah and Swayze’s Bodhi: in another life, in another world, they would’ve been the greatest of friends, but here, in the Droughtlands, their beliefs and actions have sent them down irreversible paths. So often the chasms between the characters are unaddressed flaws within themselves. This tension between the characters is tight, biting and above all, realistic, and creates a complex web of interactions. 

Chief among my praises for Molten Flux, however, is Weiss’ sheer originality. Sure we’ve had walking castles and scrambles in the desert over precious resources. But never like this. Weiss approaches every obstacle and conflict with a methodical mind and applies his originality to everything he touches. The high-energy is maintained throughout the novel, and the stakes are always clear.

A central theme of the story is the value of human life, and how humans can be reduced to little more than machines; a topic Weiss has further expanded upon in his discussions around social media. 

I can’t think of many weaknesses or holes in the plot. I enjoyed this book so much, even the only lingering question I have—how do people survive in such a water-scarce world?—I am choosing to overlook.

Molten Flux blends the raw energy of Mad Max, the tension of Point Break, while sprinkling in shades of Red Faction.

Genuinely one of the most original pieces of fiction I have ever read, Molten Flux perfectly marries science fiction with fantasy. The novel presents over-the-top concepts with such believability I only hope the popularity of this series grows and finds a wider audience. If you are looking for a high-energy, brutal and original bit of fiction, there are few better places to start than The Droughtlands.

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