Adrian Collins's Blog, page 224

Real Wounds. Real Pain. Dark Fiction’s Role in Exposing the Realities of War

My father was a Prisoner of War (POW) in a Japanese prison camp during World War II. Though freed with the other surviving prisoners, I believe a part of him remained behind in his captivity. The stories he shared were seldom about ticker-tape parades or victory. Rather, they were raw accounts of the horror men commit against one another.

Most of us will experience loss sometime in our lives, but few will understand the sacrifices a person must endure in war. Great works of dark fiction offer a glimpse into the world of battle and the devastation wrought inside the mind of a soldier. The genre doesn’t shy away from the accounts of hapless victims caught in violent struggles. Their helplessness, anger, and sorrow cry out within the pages.

Three epic fantasies sagas are prime examples of literature capturing the essence of war. The authors have walked their characters into the hellish landscape of war. The courage it took to leave the safety of their home and enter a world of unknown danger is inspiring. We see the killing and cruelty through their eyes. I, as a reader, am still haunted by some of the scenes in these novels.

The Hobbit and Lord of The Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien

I’ve bunched these into one entry as they have a common theme. The naïve hobbits from the Shire lose their innocence as they march into battle. We can appreciate Tolkien’s point that even the smallest person can make a difference, but I also believe he is stating something else. War and violence change a person. Once altered, they can never go back to how they were.

Buy The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings

Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn series by Tad Williams

This book series was full of action and emotional turmoil as young Simon fights against evil. It is the characters left behind in his conquered homeland, however, that I find the most haunting. Williams is a master of character development. He makes us bleed for the unlucky residents held prisoner in the castle as the enemy tortures them.

Buy Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn

The Sword of Shannara series by Terry Brooks

I’ve saved one of the best for last. Shea Ohmsford, recognizing his duty as the last in the bloodline and true heir of Shannara, leaves his comfortable life and journeys toward danger to fight evil. We share his grief at the deaths of friends he loses along the way.

Buy The Sword of Shannara

I believe these stories intrigued me because I grew up with someone who’d lived through a dangerous journey. In my latest novel, Creed of the Guardian, some of the day-to-day life in the military comes from my father’s time as an Army Master Sergeant. Dad loved to tell stories about the fun and games he’d play with the unlucky privates under his instruction. Using a few of these games in my book, I have my character, Seth, experience the comradery of other soldiers and buck against the disciplined structure of life in the Legion.

Then evil attacks North Marsh Outpost. Danger has found Seth in the middle of land filled with swamps and death. He is forced to choose between his own life or that of his battalion. It is here I’ve drawn on my father’s accounts of brutality and unspeakable loss under the enemy’s heavy hand. These stories had a profound effect on my writing. The grit and determination of he and his fellow prisoners not only to survive, but to help others survive as well is inspiring.

Good stories evoke emotion – from happiness to fear, rage, and even sorrow. They should educate and inspire us to be better. I think Dark Fiction has a unique role in literature. It offers readers a release of harder emotions. Within the words upon the page, readers come to understand they are not alone.

Buy Creed of the Guardian by C.R. Richards

Protect the Innocent. Punish the Guilty.

Seth the Ice Lion, now an Apprentice in the Jalora Legion, reluctantly travels aboard ship with his new battalion. Western Beta’s mission seems a dull assignment. Guarding miles of bogs and old ruins should be a simple task, but Seth soon learns nothing is easy for the Bearer of the Lion Ring. The Jalora is the embodiment of Good and the source of Seth’s power. It commands he search North Marsh for a relic capable of saving his homeland from the ravenous appetite of the Jackal invaders. Surrounded by deadly bogs and savage beasts, he must find the relic before the Lion Spirit inside of him takes control of their shared body.

Invaders from across the sea hold a firm grip on Valdeon, but their thirst for blood remains unsated. They lust for the riches of Andara. Using fear and greed as weapons, the Jackal enlist aid from the continent’s unscrupulous mercenaries to prepare for a larger invasion. They build a stronghold – Stone Fang Fortress – in the Bloodtooth Mountains of the north. It is here they prepare to conquer the free world.

Will Seth find this powerful relic before the Jackal swarm invades Andara? Or will his people be enslaved under the iron fist of the Jackal Lord? Seth’s answers hide in the deadly bogs of North Marsh…

The post Real Wounds. Real Pain. Dark Fiction’s Role in Exposing the Realities of War appeared first on Grimdark Magazine.

REVIEW: Riot Baby by Tochi Onyebuchi

I received an uncorrected proof copy of Riot Baby in exchange for an honest review. I would like to thank Tochi Onyebuchi and Tor.com.

Riot Baby begins in Compton, USA, depicting topics that could have been straight out of an N.W.A song. Racism, police brutality, gang banging, etc… This chapter is presented by a young lady Ella who is one of the two point of view perspectives. At the culmination of the chapter Ella’s mother goes into labour in the midst of a brutal riot and gives birth to her little brother. Kev, the riot baby.

As mentioned, the first of the two point of view perspectives is that of Ella. She has special powers which she refers to as the Thing. She can look at a person and can see visions of their past and future sufferings. She can Travel which means she can disappear to other places, can Shield to make herself invisible, can appear as an astral phantom, can destroy items with her mind… she can even make rats heads explode without looking at them. It is as if she is taking all the anger and despair that she witnesses and is building the emotions up to something that could be cataclysmic. Her views are presented in the third-person perspective.

The second main player is Kev, the titular Riot Baby. His viewpoint is presented in the first-person. He’s an intelligent young black individual who spends a lot of time reading and fixing computers. He’s also street-wise and knows a simple bad decision can equate to death in the hood. His narrative arc is full of depth which is surprising for a tale this short. He ends up being incarcerated for little more than being a young black gentleman. His time in jail is horrendous featuring some notorious and harrowing scenes, it changes him completely, and it fucks up his mind. The only thing that keeps him sort of sane or focused are visits he receives from his sister that are “both mundane and supernatural.”

At 173 pages, this was an intense, occasionally challenging and utterly unique novella. It combines elements of science fiction, dystopian ideals, racism, supernatural powers, change, and oppression but it is ultimately about a close family and their love for each other. In these 173 pages the events that take place cover approximately 28 years. It goes from a nowadays Compton to a dystopian futuristic existence where emotions and choices are essentially taken away from black individuals. During this period Ella spends her whole time watching and drawing in the pain of reliving unjust deaths.

I will admit that I didn’t fully understand a few sections when watching historic events or walking on different plains whilst the characters’ bodies were still alive in the real world. It also switches sporadically occasionally from past, current, future and even point of view perspectives. This isn’t really a negative, I just had to concentrate deeply to fully appreciate the full tale and it’s three-dimensional depth. For me, this was between 3-4 stars up until the final 10 pages which were phenomenal and pushes Riot Baby up to a solid 4-star read. Onyebuchi is a popular YA author but there is no denying that this novella, his first-time releasing adult fiction is extremely dark and graphic in its nature. Certain scenes were nail-biting in their intensity and other occasions were so brutal that if this was a film then they would be the look away from the screen moments.

Riot Baby is a thrilling, intense, nail-biting read that transcends genre and has an ending of biblical proportions. Adult, often extreme, but highly recommended.

Buy Riot Baby

The post REVIEW: Riot Baby by Tochi Onyebuchi appeared first on Grimdark Magazine.

Three Things I Wish I’d Known

Next/this month marks an occasion both amazing and terrifying: my Orbit debut, Legacy of Ash, is unleashed upon the world.

While I’ve been writing for decades now, accumulating a small library of self-published works, a back catalogue of credits with Games Workshop (and in this ‘ere Grimdark Magazine issue), this marks a huge step change for my career, and it’s set me thinking.

What advice would I go back and give a younger me, had I the opportunity to do so? What knowledge would I share, or at least try to impart to me of yesterday if he’d just stop arguing for a moment, and listen? What, in short, do I wish I’d known?

Turns out, it’s quite a long list, but I’ve narrowed it down to three points that might have made a difference. I can’t tell me (apparently the technology doesn’t exist, which is disappointing), but maybe – just maybe ­– it’ll be useful.

1) Beware of Advice

So far as I can tell, the internet suffocates under the weight of two things: cat photos, and advice for aspiring writers.

Some of the latter are easily dismissed, handily framed by phrases like ‘One Simple Trick to Land an Agent’ and all its horrific, malformed siblings. Others are more seductive, offering cautionary tales on everything from word counts to authorial voice, and from the number of point-of-view characters to how best to structure your writing process.

This second category promises answers, success and a way through the tangled, briary maze of publishing. It’s genuinely intended to be helpful rather than clickbait, and often can be, provided you approach it knowing what you’re getting into.

More What You’d Call Guidelines…

Truth is, there is no right or wrong way. Sure, there are ways to maximise your chances of success. There’s wisdom that can help you hone your craft. But ultimately it comes down to whether your writing can entertain the right person, at the right place and at the right time. Your voice and your ideas, polished to be the best they can be.

If the internet tells you there’s a rule… there probably isn’t, or it’s been so worn down that the spirit has been lost.

As an example, Legacy of Ash is the longest novel I’ve written. It’s a good 10% lengthier than a previous work that I was told, point blank, was too big.

Like most writing advice, this was both part right, and part wrong. Because context matters.

That book wasn’t too sprawling in absolute terms, but it wasn’t using all of its words properly. It didn’t need ‘em. It wasn’t too long for the market, it was too long for itself… as I found when I went back and edited away roughly a fifth of its word count. Too long, and yet not. Schrödinger’s novel.

The point is that even well-intentioned, accurate advice is subject to miscommunication, but even in distorted form it’s too often presented as mithril-clad truth.

This is further compounded because most authors offer advice based on what they did wrong, and what didn’t work for them, back when they were starting out. You’re not them, and then isn’t now. By all means listen and ingest, but use your judgement. Look for the deeper truths that you can learn from.

A Soul in Search of Answers?

Let me spread a safety net.

If you want gospel – or as close as you can get in an ever-changing publishing landscape – ask your agent. If you don’t have one, don’t despair. Literary agents are more active on social media than they were even five years ago, offering advice and sometimes answering specific questions (my agent, John Jarrold, hosts a publishing Q&A every month on Twitter, for example).

Hit them up, see what they have to say.

2) When You Hit a Wall, Stop

When you come from a background like mine – where employers are purchasing attendance in a particular place during particular hours at least as much as any actual work – it’s tempting to bring that approach to your writing.

Writing hours become 9 to-5 or 8 PM to the stroke of midnight, irrespective of how much progress you make. It’s a trap – one I spent months in.

Sure, a work ethic’s one of the strongest weapons in your writer’s arsenal. However, sometimes ideas, solutions and inspiration just won’t come when the keyboard’s gazing malevolently at you from beneath a page of nonsense.

Subconscious Competence

Get up. Move around. Go for a walk. Prank a neighbour. Do something that tricks your brain into releasing its death grip on plot and character dynamics. Something will click while the keyboard’s out of sight. You’ll come back fresher and fired-up.

Passion keeps odd hours. Doesn’t mean you have to do the same, but let go once in a while. Even if the deadline’s snorting down the back of your neck.

My personal solution? The various videogames in the Dark Souls/Bloodborne series have burned their way so deeply into my mind that I can play them on autopilot. Turning on the PS4 gets me away from my desk, and it tricks my conscious brain into believing that I’m not really thinking about my book at all while my subconscious attacks the problem that sent me fleeing to Anor Londo. Works every time.

Your solution will be different, but there’s one out there. Go find it.

3) Get It Started. Get It Done

Until your work’s down on paper (virtual or otherwise) you don’t have a novel. You might have great ideas that might make a great novel, but you’re not there yet.

Ideas aren’t worth much. They’re a starting point. It’s in the doing that makes them special. Something to be proud of. Something an agent might take on. Something a publisher might buy.

The transformation starts when you put the first words down on the page. It ends when the last one’s in place. Your book won’t be perfect. They never are. There’s always something more you can do. Another edit. Another idea. But until you have a beginning, a middle and an end on the page, you don’t have a book to edit, just a string of ideas, laid out in a line.

You’re going to hate your first draft. Everyone always does. But a first draft is still a book. It’s proof that you’ve done a thing, and a promise that you’ll get better and better. That it can get better and better. But only if you get it started, and get it done.

There’s a temptation to prevaricate, to get this scene just right, that character polished so that she springs right off the page. I’m not saying you shouldn’t listen to that temptation, but don’t let it distract you. You’ve started… so get it done.

Achievement Unlocked

Even if that first novel doesn’t hook an agent, if it doesn’t make waves when independently published, it’s still an achievement. You’ve attained something comparatively few can match. And you’ll have learnt loads in the process, good and bad (seriously, you learn so much from your first serious crack at writing a novel).

More than anything, you’re no longer wondering if you really can tell that story. You know. And you’ll know if you want to do it all over again.

Because here’s the thing. I’ve been writing novels for… oh, about six years and change at this point, but I’ve had ideas for upwards of twenty. I’d even write the odd chapter, now and then. But I never finished anything. Some efforts barely count as having started.

I couldn’t tell you why, exactly. Probably it looked like a mammoth undertaking – when you’re a teenager, so many things seem impossibly far off. A lack of confidence surely played its part. So instead, the years slipped by, and all the while I never knew whether or not I could write a novel… only that I wanted to.

Granted, those embryonic efforts probably wouldn’t have been any good. (I actually have some files for one attempt, and it’s not pretty.) But I look at everything I’ve done since, and I can’t help but wonder what I’d have learned if I’d finished at least one.

I don’t know what the future holds. If fortune smiles, this might the first of many wonderful opportunities, the first step up the mountain. Or it might be the top of the mountain, and it’s too misty for me to see that. Either way, could I have been where I am now ten, fifteen years ago? Who knows? No one.

And that’s kinda the point.

Like everything else we’ve covered, I can’t tell me, so I’m telling you. Get it started, get it done.

I’ll be rooting for you.

Yes, I know I’m doing exactly that. This whole article’s about my mistakes and my misconceptions. That’s the point. No pretence. No rules. Just food for thought.

And crisp packets. And Lego. And enough moulted cat hair to weave a new cat of acceptable size. Yes, I contribute my share of cat photos to the internet. They’re adorable. Mostly.

Except for when the frame rate stutters and Micolash, Host of the Nightmare, repeatedly one-shots me into apoplexy so severe you could power a small city off my frustration, but I digress.

Let’s just say I’ve learned a lot about acceptable paragraph length over the years, and we shall never speak of the matter again.

Except the Shadow. The Shadow knows.

‘A hugely entertaining debut’ John Gwynne

A shadow has fallen over the Tressian Republic.

Ruling families – once protectors of justice and democracy – now plot against one another with sharp words and sharper knives. Blinded by ambition, they remain heedless of the threat posed by the invading armies of the Hadari Empire.

Yet as Tressia falls, heroes rise.

Viktor Akadra is the Republic’s champion. A warrior without equal, he hides a secret that would see him burned as a heretic.

Josiri Trelan is Viktor’s sworn enemy. A political prisoner, he dreams of reigniting his mother’s failed rebellion.

And yet Calenne, Josiri’s sister, seeks only to break free of their tarnished legacy; to escape the expectation and prejudice that haunts the Trelan name.

As war spreads across the Republic, these three must set aside their differences in order to save their homeland. However, decades of bad blood are not easily forgotten – victory will demand a darker price than any of them could have imagined.

Buy Legacy of Ash now

The post Three Things I Wish I’d Known appeared first on Grimdark Magazine.

EXCLUSIVE: Excerpt of Smoke and Stone by Michael R. Fletcher

The release of Michael R. Fletcher’s Smoke and Stone is something we have been absolutely frothing over for a while now. Fletcher’s ability to invent such magnificent worlds, characters, and stories to piece them together in an engaging grimdark story is up there with the best authors in the business. But don’t let me talk your ear off about it, jump in and check out the latest and greatest from one of my favourite authors (and then take a look at that enticing cover!).

Akachi – Unbreakable Intent
A City of Sacrifice Novel
by Michael R. Fletcher

The entire city of Bastion is comprised of a single stone, two hundred and fifty miles in diameter, some seven hundred and eighty-five miles in circumference. In all Bastion, from colossal Sand Wall to the Wall of Gods at the centre, from the simplest Grower’s tenement, to the columns of the Senate, to the mighty vaults of the Banks, to the towering spires of the central churches, there is no seam to be found.

Bastion is a manifestation of perfection.

—The Book of Bastion

You can’t put this off any longer.

Standing outside Bishop Zalika’s chambers, Akachi lifted a hand to knock and hesitated.

Why had she summoned him? He’d done a passable job of leading yesterday’s sermon and there was no way she knew about last night’s attempt to sneak into the wing housing Precious Feather’s acolytes with Nafari. In spite of his friend’s claim to know a secret route, they’d been wholly unsuccessful. After spending three hours wandering, lost in one of the Northern Cathedral’s sub-basements, they eventually found their way back to their own room. They hadn’t actually managed to get into trouble.

Much as they’d wanted to.

More likely Zalika had invented some imagined trespass and was now going to punish Akachi for whatever it was she’d dreamed up. Luckily these things were rarely as bad as the real trouble he and Nafari found.

Bishop Zalika hated him. Well, she hated his father, the High Priest of Cloud Serpent. Her loathing of Akachi was incidental. He was an innocent victim of whatever past she and his father shared.

Mostly innocent.

He hadn’t known about their enmity until arriving in the Growers’ Ring.

For those born in the Priests’ Ring there were two paths: work as support staff to the people who shepherded the souls of all Bastion, or join one of the priesthoods and really become someone of consequence. All Akachi’s life, his father talked about how he’d someday follow in his footsteps. He’d make the journey to the outer ring, become an acolyte of Cloud Serpent in the Northern Cathedral, and earn his way back to the heart of the city.

Why didn’t he warn me about Zalika?

There was no point in stalling. He’d have to face her eventually and receive punishment for his crimes, real or imagined. Reaching up, he rapped on the oak door.

“Enter.” She sounded angry.

Breathing deep, he pushed the heavy door open and strode into the room. As Bishop of the Northern Cathedral, her quarters were palatial. The finest furniture and art crowded the space. Oak and leather sofas. Silk pillows. Thick rugs. Lustrous oil paintings depicting scenes from Bastion’s past hung on the walls. One showed a beautiful woman with skin dark as the space between the stars and the body of a terrible spider being thrown from the wall by a giant skeleton with a necklace of eyeballs. A colossal tapestry, twice the height of a man and as wide as six lying head to toe, showed the Last Pilgrimage, the shattered remnants of humanity fleeing their dying world, escaping to Bastion. He hadn’t seen anything like it since leaving his home in the Priest’s Ring. So much rich colour.

The big woman stood waiting, arms crossed. A cloak of owl feathers hung from her shoulders and swept the floor, sighing with resigned disappointment each time she moved.

She looked him over with a show of distaste. “You’re late.”

He wasn’t. “Sorry, Bishop.”

“What do you know of the Wheat District?”

“I heard it’s pretty rough, Bishop.”

“So, nothing.” She sighed in annoyance. “What do you know of the Loa?”

“Heretics. Worshippers of Mother Death.” He glanced at the tapestry. “They seek to end her banishment, return her to Bastion and overthrow Father Death.”

She stared at him, waiting.

“They…uh…use crystal magic, channel sorcery through stone. But their powers are limited with Mother Death’s influence unable to breach the Sand Wall—”

“I didn’t ask for a lecture.”

He rather thought she had.

“There’s a Cloud Serpent church in the Wheat District. It has been empty for years. Centuries.”

Was she going to send him out there to clean it? Would she punish him by having him mop abandoned churches? There were a lot of empty parishes in the Growers’ Ring. He could spend the rest of his life out there. No one would ever hear from him again.

Head bowed, he said nothing, waiting.

“The parish is yours.”

Mine? His own parish at nineteen? That was even younger than his father! “Thank you, Bish—”

“At least until I can find a real pastor.”

Ah. There it is. He should have known. “I’m honoured, Bishop,” he answered, keeping the hurt from his face.

“Don’t be. The nahual originally assigned this posting was assassinated on his way out from the Priests’ Ring.”

“I—”

“As was his replacement.”

“Oh.”

“As was her replacement.”

“Ah.”

She examined him with pebble eyes, wet and angry. “As was his replacement.”

“I see.”

“Doubtful,” Bishop Zalika said, fat earlobes swinging like greasy pendulums. “Try not to die before your replacement arrives.” She held out a sacrificial dagger.

“I shall,” he said, accepting the knife. “Try not to.”

He examined the obsidian blade. The smoke is the souls. That’s what the Book of Bastion said. He felt its death creep up his arm, a bone-shattering cold, and seep into his heart. It poisoned him.

Swallowing sour bile, he said, “Bishop, judging from the colour, this dagger has killed thousands.” He wanted to retch, to hurl this vile thing away. Can’t show weakness. “Should it not make the trip to the Gods’ Ring to be cleansed?” The gods would drain the souls from the blade so they might be reborn.

She sniffed at him and shook her head in disappointment. “It’s the only one available.”

Liar. He wanted to refuse, but a pastor without a sacrificial dagger was unheard of. The stench of death wafting from the knife twisted his stomach. As a pastor, it would fall to Akachi to punish those who broke the laws laid out in the Book of Bastion. Minor offences were punishable by whipping and could be carried out by the local Hummingbird Guard. Serious offences, however, were punishable by sacrifice on the altar. The act was, his teachers told him, a beautiful thing to send a man to the gods. Critical to the survival of Bastion, no duty was more sacred. Damaged souls, those who strayed from the Book, needed to be cleansed so they might be reborn.

Could he do it? Could he open a man and bleed him for the gods? He knew how, had attended countless lectures on anatomy. He’d even sat in on several sacrifices.

I can if I have to, he decided. I won’t let my father down.

But this foul and soul-polluted dagger… Zalika did this on purpose, no doubt.

“When do I leave?” he asked.

“A squad of Hummingbird Guard await you in the courtyard. Due to your tardiness, they’ve been in the sun for hours.”

He opened his mouth to protest and she waved him to silence.

“That reprobate, Nafari, will join you as will Jumoke. He’s an acolyte. Totally useless.”

“Thank you,” said Akachi with real gratitude. Nafari was his only friend. They grew up together in the Priests’ Ring. Jumoke, he didn’t know. Just another faceless acolyte.

“This is a punishment detail for both the acolyte and the Hummingbirds.”

And not for me? He wanted to ask what they’d done, but her expression suggested that might be a bad idea. Her expression suggests everything is a bad idea.

“Have you not kept them waiting long enough?” she asked, returning to her desk and shuffling papers as though he’d already left.

Exiting her Chambers, Akachi found Nafari, tall and handsome in a way that most women seemed to like, waiting in the hall.

“She called you a reprobate,” Akachi told him.

“I am. You ready?”

“No. You?”

“Nope. Let’s do this.”

They found Jumoke awaiting them in the Northern Cathedral’s great hall. Seeing Akachi, the skinny boy dipped a quick bow, coal-black hair falling in his face, and followed along a few steps behind. The acolyte carried a large pack, likely loaded with whatever supplies a new pastor would need. He dripped with sweat and blinked often, looking pale and gritting his teeth as if in pain.

Had he been recently lashed?

“You all right?” Akachi asked.

“We’re leaving the North Cathedral, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I am fantastic.”

“Need help carrying that?”

Jumoke flashed a pained grin. “Nah. I earned this.”

A colossus of stone, not a seam or a crack anywhere to mar its perfection, this church was the religious centre of northern quarter of the Growers’ Ring. Sweeping arches, towering spires, impossible bridges suspended upon nothing but the will of the gods, all part of the single stone that formed Bastion. So different than the utilitarian solidity of the rest of the Growers’ tenements, the cathedral reminded Akachi of a giant spider’s web. And home. All the Priests’ Ring was as beautiful as this grand church.

The work of the gods humbled him to the core of his soul. They made this for us. Humanity brought itself to the brink of utter destruction and the gods built this bastion, took in the few survivors, and sheltered them from the world they’d killed.

He spent so much time dreaming of escaping the cathedral, but now that he was doing just that, it felt unreal.

A pastor. Well, kind of.

A grand adventure like the stories Mom used to read to him at bedtime. Tales of dark alleys, evil street sorcerers, and gangs of thieves defeated by heroic nahual and sorcerous nahualli. Life as an acolyte, and then later as a newly anointed priest, had been nothing like that.

Though when I dreamed of escape, I did think I’d be beginning my journey inward, back to the Priests’ Ring.

Priests of every denomination bustled about the cathedral’s great courtyard, intent on the daily business of maintaining and running Bastion. Here, in the Growers’ Ring, where grey seemed to define the world, the priests were an explosion of colour. Nahual of Snake Woman, vestments blood red, ceremonial shields worn over their backs, strode past, spears of ebony used as walking sticks. Father Death’s priests sweated under their multi-coloured cloaks of owl feathers. The nahual of Skirt of Vipers, robes mimicking the colouration of one deadly snake or another, went about the business of running the crèches and raising Grower children. Akachi even spotted the occasional banded red, white, and black of his fellow nahual of Cloud Serpent.

Seven Hummingbird Guard—three women, and four men—all wearing crimson armour of hardened leather in spite of the heat, awaited Akachi, Nafari, and Jumoke at the main entrance. The squad watched his approach through narrowed eyes.

The woman in charge nodded greeting. “I’m Captain Yejide. We’ve been assigned to you.” She exuded coiled strength, unbreakable intent.

The Hummingbird squad stank of leather and sweat, and for the first time Akachi found it a comforting scent. They’d keep him safe from the gangs of the Wheat District. A priest of Cloud Serpent, he wasn’t trained in violence or the arts of war. At least not in physical violence. As a nahualli he had sorcerous means of finding and defeating foes.

He wanted to ask what they’d done to earn this posting as punishment, but instead said, “How long are you staying?”

“Until assigned elsewhere, Pastor.”

“He’s not really a pastor,” said Nafari, winking at Akachi.

Akachi ignored his friend, who’d clearly been listening at the Bishop’s door. “Have you ever been in the Wheat District?” he asked Captain Yejide.

“Yes.”

When she didn’t elaborate, he said, “I’ve spent all of my time here in the Northern Cathedral. This is my first time out among the Growers. Is it really that bad?”

“Last week, two Guards were found bound to the district whipping post. Throats cut.”

“But Growers are forbidden weapons and tools! What could they use to cut a throat?”

She looked at him like he was an idiot and he decided she might be right.

“The whipping post is in the central square,” she said. “Yet somehow no one saw anything.” She wiped beaded sweat from her forehead. “Most of the time they just kill each other. Every street corner has a gang of Dirts claiming it as turf.”

“Dirts?”

“Growers. Most Dirts are too stupid to be dangerous, but there are so many of them…” She shook her head, mystified. “It’s a hotspot for the Loa as well. The heretics have their own secret churches hidden in the basements of Grower tenements.”

Dirts. The derogatory term left Akachi uncomfortable. As long as he was an acting pastor, his purpose was to educate them, to teach them the Book, and to protect them from their own ignorance. They were what they were. Hating them for being stupid was like hating a cow for being dull. He would do better. He would accept them for the flawed people they were and do what he could to improve their lives. He would bring them the Book and the Word as was his calling.

How long was he supposed to remain in the Wheat District? If his replacement left the Priests’ Ring now, they could be in the Growers’ Ring in eight or nine days. Less, if they rushed. No matter what Zalika said, even a temporary posting as acting pastor was a rise in rank and status. Would this be enough to begin his journey to the heart of Bastion?

A little over a week and I might be headed home!

Father would have to be impressed.

Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself. Priests were to serve in each ring as they earned their way inward, back to the gods. This posting, temporary and trivial as it might be, was the first step on the journey home. Even so, it would be years before he returned to the Priests’ Ring and saw his parents again.

“How long will it take to get to the Wheat District?” he asked.

Captain Yejide glanced at the sun, squinting. “If we set a hard pace, we might make it before night.”

“Let’s move, then.”

The Captain nodded, whistled a sharp blast, and the Hummingbirds formed a loose guard around Akachi, Nafari, and Jumoke.

Leaving the Northern Cathedral felt like leaving his home in the Priests’ Ring all over again. Everything he knew lay behind him.

‘It’s time to leave your childhood behind.’ Akachi’s father said that as Akachi left their home in the Priests’ Ring.

They were his last words before sending Akachi away.

Not ‘I love you.’

Not ‘I’m proud.’

But rather an admonishment not to disappoint.

Akachi had been twelve. Now, at nineteen, after seven years in the Growers’ Ring training as an acolyte, he was an anointed nahualli of Cloud Serpent, Lord of the Hunt, and following in his father’s footsteps.

It’s time to leave your childhood behind.

I think I have, Father. He considered last night’s attempt to sneak into the wing housing the acolytes of Precious Feather and winced. At least I’ve started, he amended.

Akachi slowed as they stepped into the street. Standing shadowed in the doorway of a tenement, a young woman caught his eye. She was beautiful, skin flawless, the whites of her eyes impossibly bright, almost as though she was lit from within. The woman stared at him, unflinching appraisal, face devoid of expression. Where the other Growers were filthy, bent with years of labour, she stood tall and proud, back straight.

Too clean. She looked like she’d be more comfortable in a priest’s robes, yet there she was, wearing a grey thobe like all the other Growers. He imagined her in the revealing robes of a nahual of Precious Feather.

Turning a corner, Akachi and his Hummingbird retinue left her behind.

The group walked south, following the Grey Wall separating the Growers and the Crafters. So huge was Bastion, the wall’s gentle curve was undetectable. It went on forever, disappearing in the wavering haze of heat, like it split the world in half.

It kind of does.

The Growers were roughly half of Bastion’s population. The other half, the Crafters, the Senate, the Bankers, and the Priests, all lived on the other side of that wall.

“The Grey Wall,” said Nafari, “separates everything interesting from everything not.”

“We’re on this side,” said Jumoke.

The sun crawled higher, murdering the last hints of shade.

Some time later, when Akachi’s stomach grumbled in complaint, he realized the priests and acolytes back in the Northern Cathedral would now be sitting down to lunch. The Hummingbird Guard showed no sign of slowing or stopping to eat.

Though all the districts along the Grey Wall were in theory identical, all lined with repeating patterns of streets, tenements, central squares, and churches, each was, in some way, distinct. Every district came with its own scents and sights. The Growers also changed. The men and women of the Bovine District stank of manure. In the Potato District, Growers wore the dirt they spent the day toiling in. Some districts smelled like horses or pigs, and some reeked of fish or rotting vegetables. Everywhere he looked he saw the products of the Growers’ labours carted out behind teams of oxen, overseen by squads of Hummingbird Guard. Everything grown in this ring was taken to the Crafters’ Ring where it would be turned into the food, tools, and materials, that kept Bastion alive.

Akachi’s hunger became a background distraction, replaced by a more demanding thirst. And still the Guard showed no sign of stopping. His feet hurt, unaccustomed to such abuse.

They walked, following the wall.

Slitted eyes tracked the group’s progress. Sometimes clumps of ragged Growers would follow a dozen strides behind them for a few blocks before breaking off. Captain Yejide noted them but did nothing.

Am I going to be assassinated before I make it to the church?

That would certainly please Bishop Zalika.

“Are we there yet?” asked Jumoke, grinning when the nearest Hummingbird shot him an annoyed glance.

Glares of hate followed Akachi and his retinue everywhere. Whether it was due to the presence of the Guard, or his own robes of Cloud Serpent, he couldn’t tell.

Or do they hate all priests?

None of the lectures in the Northern Cathedral prepared Akachi for the seething anger, the obsidian edge of discontent surrounding him.

After hours of walking, Captain Yejide said, “We’re in the Wheat District now.”

They passed a church of Sin Eater. The nahual, dressed in countless layers of painfully bright white, face hidden beneath a voluminous cowl, stood in the centre of the street. The priest’s head swung back and forth as if seeking sin by smell alone. Sin Eater’s nahual wielded their power to cure or spread disease with a righteous fury. Even Akachi would be expected to attend service in that church at least once a month for confession.

Can’t imagine I’ll get up to much sinning out here.

Nafari, on the other hand, would no doubt find a way. He was already chatting up one of the Hummingbird women.

Captain Yejide led them through winding streets, eyes sharp. Turning a corner, she slowed, and held up a hand. The Hummingbirds, always alert, took up positions as if expecting attack.

“What is it, Captain?” asked Akachi. He scanned the alley. Piled garbage littered the street. Red sand dusted everything.

Nostrils flared, Yejide tested the air. “Going around will add an hour.”

Around what? Akachi only saw more of the same. “An hour?” His feet hurt from walking and he felt like he’d sweat out his last drop of water two hours ago. I’m going to sweat dust. He saw nothing amiss. “It looks quiet.”

“Your decision,” she said, waiting.

Akachi shot Nafari a questioning look and his friend shrugged, abdicating responsibility.

“On the one hand,” said Jumoke, “the alley does look more like an adventure than the main road.”

Akachi ignored the acolyte. Though the Hummingbirds had their backs to him, studying the streets and alleys, he felt their expectation, their impatience for a decision. He’d never been in charge of anything before. He hesitated, unsure. What if I choose wrong? But it was just another filthy alley. Could this be some Hummingbird hazing ritual, or were they testing to see if he took the longer, more cowardly route?

He glanced at the Captain. Her utter lack of expression told him nothing.

“We cut through,” he said. “If this district is to be my home, I need to see it. And the Growers need to see me.” He wanted to add something about how showing fear would reduce the respect of the locals, but in truth he was just tired and wanted to get to his new home so he could lie down.

Captain Yejide led the way.

The first clod of ox shit hit Akachi in the chest, staggering him. The second, still moist and heavier for it, connected with the side of his head. Sparks arced across his vision.

Blinking, he found himself on his knees.

Get the rest of Smoke Stone

Your brain needs this. Do it.

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REVIEW: Fool’s Errand by Robin Hobb

Fool’s Errand is set 15-years after the finale of Assassin’s Quest (spoilers included in this review). Once again we follow FitzChivalry Farseer — the assumed dead royal bastard. In song, he is acknowledged by many as being the Witted Bastard ghost that rose from the dead to aid his uncle Verity who was the rightful heir to the throne and he helped him raise the Elderlings and save the Six Duchees.

History is no more fixed and dead than the future. The past is no further away than the last breath you took.

In the years since the Farseer trilogy, Fitz, or Tom Badgelock as he is now currently known has been living in isolation. Well, not exactly. He is accompanied by his adopted son Hap and his wolf companion, Nighteyes. They look after chickens, tend to a handful of horses, and produce herbs they can sell at the local markets.

One evening Chade, the former assassin for the King and Fitz’s former mentor arrives at his abode. They discuss past times and also current dramas. Chade presents Fitz with a proposition which he politely refuses. A day or so afterwards, his other best friend, known as the Fool arrives also and after reminiscing, he refers to the dire times and grave tidings that Chade had already mentioned. The future king-in-waiting, Fitz’s Skill-formed/created son who he has never known has been kidnapped. It takes a while to convince him but after consideration, Fitz decides to assist, although the consequences when he has aided the Farseer line before have not always been the most sought after. Losing your one love, torture, death, children you can never know… etc. Approximately four people know his true identity so he takes on the guise as acting as the manservant of the Fool’s new character, Lord Golden. The Fool is a frivolous and eccentric noble that all wish to impress, flirt with, or have the attention of.

I am aware that this series should really be read after the Liveship Traders. I jumped straight back into the story of Fitz as I love him as a character. He’s a hero, honourable, has the worst luck and does all for the monarchy and what is true even if he loses because of his choices. He is the Changer after all. In this novel, I can’t say 100%, but I don’t think you are missing much from not reading the other trilogy. The next book, when the entourage from Bingtown arrive and we are told about another of the Fool’s characters, Amber, is when I believe prior knowledge of their related pasts would be beneficial but it isn’t absolutely necessary as I loved this trilogy, but I can’t deny my enjoyment may have been heightened if I had read the Liveship Traders first.

Buy Fool’s Errand

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REVIEW: Roots by Matthew Ward

Roots is an enjoyable Coldharbour novella story by Matthew Ward, who you’ll likely know from Grimdark Magazine #4, Evil is a Matter of Perspective, and the hotly anticipated Legacy of Ash.

In Roots, Isra’s business partner is off on another payless errand, and their office is falling apart around them. A job walks through the door in the form of a lawyer named Cole, and he’s asking her to confront her fear of the London Underground… and something else she thought left in her past.

Told in a not-quite-noir detective / private eye style with Ward’s excellent ability to build a world around you through his characters (the author is obviously very comfortable in his London-esque urban fantasy world Coldharbour) this story is an engaging read. I have always especially liked Ward’s verbal fencing between his characters, and that shines through here.

Roots is an excellent little novella well worth your time. It doesn’t have the grimdark themes our fans love, but I highly recommend throwing a few bob and an hour’s reading time at it when maybe you need a bit of a break to brush the grit from your teeth.

Buy Roots

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REVIEW: Knight’s Shadow by Sebastien de Castell

Fun, dark, witty, brutal. Knight’s Shadow is a masterpiece in fantasy writing that will put Sebastien de Castell on your favourite writers shelf. Knight’s Shadow, book two of The Greatcoats series continued from the unrelenting pace of Traitor’s Blade, but somehow manages to shift a few gears up. There is rarely a chance to pause for breath within this story, where Falcio, Kest and Brasti carry on with their adventure.

“Happiness is a series of grains of sand spread out in a desert of violence and anguish.”

These three characters have some of the best dialogue in fantasy that I have read. Sebastien is as consistent at writing fun, witty and thought provoking dialogue as Brasti is at making an un-modest but hilarious remark about anything and everything. Each page containing these three was a pleasure to read (or listen to, this was an audible listen, Joe Jameson did a superb job).

We follow the changing band of Greatcoats as they are thrown (or seemingly run, walk, shuffle and even amble) into danger, political intrigue, swashbuckling and breath-taking action sequences, duels, immense torture, philosophical conversations and hopeless moments of frustration. There have been references through book one and two of The Greatcoat’s Lament, and the scene in this book is one of the darkest and most disturbing scenes I’ve read in fantasy. It made me feel sadness and sorrow that I really had not expected to feel from a Greatcoat instalment.

“Do you always run headlong into certain death?” “Sometimes he walks,” Dariana said. “Occasionally he shuffles. Once I’m pretty sure I saw him amble into certain death.”

After having met Sebastien several times, I can see where his witty dialogue stems from. This story is full of moments that had me laughing out loud, much to the odd looks from people around me as I listened to Knight’s Shadow. I really love our three protagonists, and cannot wait to continue reading their journey. Also, a massive shoutout to characters who don’t have as much page time as Falcio, Kest and Brasti, but are equally as enjoyable and unique in their own rights. Valiana’s arc is a breath of fresh air, and Dariana is a force that matches Brasti in his amusing ways. Even a surprise appearance from my favourite torturer turned forgetful law-sayer.

Also, there had to be characters I hated in this story. In the words of Nigel Benn, I actually do hate them. De Castell did a fantastic job in making betrayals feel heart wrenchingly brutal, and made the baddies just an even darker shade of bad. It is rare to find a book that really explores the ‘bad’ characters, their motives and own personalities. Knight’s Shadow did this brilliantly and really made me feel anger and sorrow.

“It’s stories that inspire people to change. It’s stories that make them believe things can be better.”

There was a lot of to and fro and this story, travelling and a lot happened. But it was done in a fantastic way and I really am sold on this story. I’m also sat here wondering, can Falcio (or even Kest) have ANY MORE BAD LUCK?

The answer, presumably is yes. Yes they can.

Time for Saint’s Blood.

5/5 – a swashbuckling adventure that will have you laughing, punching the air, squirming and pondering all of the ‘good’ and ‘bad’ in the world. Scenes that will shock people, and others that will make them root forever for the Greatcoats. Sebastien de Castell is brilliant.

Buy Knight’s Shadow

Originally published in Grimdark Magazine #20

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REVIEW: The Bard’s Blade by Brian D Anderson

I received an advanced review copy of The Bard’s Blade in exchange for an honest review. I would like to thank Brian D. Anderson and TOR for the opportunity.

Vylari is hospitable and picturesque although quite mundane environment where we are introduced to the two point of view characters that we follow throughout the narrative. Lem is an extremely talented musician, arguably the greatest in Vylari despite his relatively young age, and he plays a balisar. Anytime he plays he takes audiences through a whole plethora of emotions with his exquisite musicianship and will always be the reason that town squares are filled to the brim everywhere he frequents. The second main character is Mariyah, Lem’s betrothed and the daughter of a winemaker. She’s strong-willed, extremely good with numbers and her’s and Lem’s relationship seems perfect. Lem travels as a musician so they aren’t together that often but when they are with each other they fall back to place together comfortably and in perfect harmony.

All seems pleasant. That is until one evening a stranger crosses the barrier. The barrier is constructed by magical powers that are beyond the capabilities and understanding of anyone currently alive. It was constructed to keep the fabled magic, evils, and monsters from the land of Lamoria away. The stranger prophecises that an envisioned shadowy character could lead the whole world, and all that Lem holds dear, to utter annihilation. After being advised of the part he must play to withstand and confront the predicted and foretold destruction, Lem crosses the barrier alone with very little other than a few coins and his trusty musical instrument to try and save those he cares about.

The majority of the story takes place in the mysterious Lomaria. As it transpires Lem and Mariyah both cross the barrier but not together. They both have intriguing, unpredictable and very different escapades in this world that they know nothing about. They are both extremely likable characters. It was never going to be as simple as the good guys get what they want and get married though. Many of the ensemble members are schemers, betrayers, brutes, and at the same time extremely religious. I’d hate to know what would happen to people who didn’t know/understand/follow their religion! (I’m joking, I know and the punishments aren’t nice.) If we add the religious sect with the monarchy, assassin orders, an obscure magic cult and touring theatre groups… There is a lot going on for our young heroes this side of the barrier. It’s going to be difficult enough for them to survive a single day. Let alone save the world from some shadowy being who’s looking to escape from his prison and wreck havoc.

Anderson’s prose flows effortlessly and the world-building is of picture-perfect top quality. To learn more about the history, religions, and laws of Lamoria, we are introduced to them as the characters are for the first time which accentuates the affinity we feel for the main players. In addition to the main characters, the narrative is littered with colourful and well-crafted individuals throughout. Personal favourites were the psychotic pub-owner Zara, mysterious troupe-leader Farley, and good ol’ hundred plus year old uncle Shemi. The latter is one of the only people either Lem or Mariyah truly trust.

The Bard’s Blade is an engrossing and stimulating modern fantasy epic that features magic, music, assassinations and betrayal every step of the way. It’s the first step in what I predict will be an incredibly impressive fantasy trilogy. This narrative seemed to be a successful mix of some of the finest elements of James Islington’s The Shadow of What Was Lost, Patrick Rothfuss’ The Name of the Wind, and Anderson’s own The Vale: Behind the Vale. Like the majority of The Bard’s Blade, the ending is unpredictable and it truly pulls at the heartstrings. (No music pun intended.) I read the last couple of scenes numerous times as I thought they were outstanding. This tale works expertly as a standalone which is always good news when potential readers are considering their next big fantasy undertaking. That being said, it sets up more than enough intrigue and drama of what could occur next in Lem and Mariyah’s stories. I’ll definitely be picking up the next entry as soon as it’s available. The Bard’s Blade has everything fans of epic fantasy will be looking for on their next big adventure. Highly recommended.

Buy The Bard’s Blade

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Top five Warhammer 40K fan videos

Having recently posted about the magnificent Astartes series being the pinnacle of animation for the Warhammer 40K universe, a few people pointed out other fan efforts have been right up there in quality as well. So, while we wait for the next episode of Astartes to drop in all its hotly anticipated glory, here are another few fan efforts for you to check out.

The Lord Inquisitor

This fan project held so much hope for us fans, but the grand scale of the project seems to have gotten the better of the creator. Unfortunately cancelled as of 2019, the detail and promise in the first scenes created was exceptional. Here’s a couple of really neat bits from it.

Helsreach

The story of Armageddon written by the awesome Aaron Demski-Bowden and featuring a stylistic and really damned cool animation style to bring this episodical story to life. Grab a whiskey and check out a collected version below.

Death of Hope

The Word Bearers hit the 500 worlds during the Horus Heresy. This trailer hits it right on the nose with one of the moment (s) of betrayal we love to see as part of the most pivotal part of the history of our favourite universe.

Guardsman

I’ve always really enjoyed the thought of the Angels and the Guard fighting together–of what it must mean for even the physical peak of humanity to be as children compared to the adamantium-clad demi-gods who stride amongst them.

Eternal War

A really enjoyable project that focusses on the insidiousness of Chaos on the common Guard grunt.

Astartes

Well, because, bugger it, why not. This is easily the coolest thing to come out of 40K since Horus Rising dropped. Come check out our write up on it here and our interview with the animator here. Episode 1, below.

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Review: Foreign Devils by John Hornor Jacobs

Foreign Devils by John Hornor Jacobs is the recent follow-up to his 2014 novel The Incorruptibles. It is a beautifully written, ambitious, and refreshing work even if it fails to deliver a satisfying ending to the story contained within its elegant cover art by Patrick Knowles. The story follows two main threads—mercenaries Fisk and Shoe travel the country of Ruma (vaguely Rome in the early 19th century) hunting the rogue daemonic military engineer Beleth, who is trying to start a war with Medeira (Spain), while Fisk’s wife, the daughter of an elite Ruman political functionary, and her retinue travel to Tchinee (China) as emissaries of the Ruman Empire in an attempt to assuage the Autumn Lords, rulers of Tchinee, after an unfortunate naval accident has caused the destruction of two Tchineese merchant ships by the Ruman navy. They must convince the highly offended Tchineese rulers not to join forces with Medeira in an impending war on Ruma. Yes, it’s a fairly complex situation to begin with, and it gains even more complexity as secrets and mysteries unfold. It never gets beyond comprehension, though, even for this reviewer, who was given this highly enjoyable novel to review without having read or known about its predecessor, The Incorruptibles.

The first thing that captures the attention in Foreign Devils is the narrative technique. Eschewing the grandiose sterility of the usual multi-threaded, multi-point-of-view overarching narrative, Foreign Devils is an epistolary novel comprising letters and diary entries from three of its main characters. The effect is delightful and refreshing and provides an intimacy with the characters that is rarely achieved in the usual third-person multi-POV style. Letters are sent between Livia, Fisk, and Fisk’s sidekick, the kickass half-dwarf Shoestring, via a Quotidian, a magical transcribing device that requires the blood of both the sender and recipient to communicate instantly over vast distances. It’s part of the magical world-building of Jacobs’s setting, and though its skeleton shows through some times—the characters info-dump on some rare occasions—it is a welcome change from the default fantasy narrative technique. The epistolary style also showcases Jacobs’s masterly ability to voice the female narrator through her letters, no easy task for a male writer, when he writes from the pregnant, gun-toting heroine Livia’s perspective: “Tamburlaine [Emperor of Rume] might be able to threaten and intimidate, but …. I am of Rume. This man would not cow me. Also, I wanted a bath.” The epistolary style works great even if it is heavily dependent on the convenience of the Quotidian to make it work.

The Quotidian is part of an interesting world that Jacobs has built, combining magic and faux history. The world itself seems to be a mix of Ancient Rome, Ancient China, and the Wild West of the US. The beginning of train transportation and Hellfire shotguns locates this tale somewhere in the early 19th century but it is cleverly combined with the seedy grandeur of imperial Rome and the secret mysteries of Ancient China to give the story a unique and entertaining setting. Every mechanical contraption or explosive in this world must be imbued with a daemon or daemons to work, the job of the engineers like the antagonist Beleth. Most entertaining are the creatures of pure fantasy that populate this world including the Autumn Lords, ancient gods; vaettir, giant winged, taloned monster humanoids; and lóng, weird puppy-sized dragons that linger in the air right above the villagers and townspeople and blithely and relentlessly crap on them. The plethora of strange creatures, diverse characters from disparate imaginary nations, and the wide scope of lands and travel, all vividly rendered, make this novel a fascinating escapist experience.

The novel’s plot is perhaps slightly less original and inspiring than its setting or delivery. On the one hand there is the fairly traditional meeting of the two opposing geographical powers in an attempt to stave off a war, and on the other is the fairly common “The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed” [Stephen King’s The Gunslinger, obviously] type of hunt for a nefarious and rarely seen villain. However, there is enough complexity in the character interactions to make these conventional plotlines compelling. For example, Livia’s brother, Secundus, travels with her to Tchinee accompanied by his lover, Tenebrae, a Ruman imperial functionary, who might or might not be setting them up for an expedition to their deaths or capture in a foreign land with nothing to protect them but the mighty reputation of Rume thousands of miles of ocean away. Then there are the vaettir, terrifying and vicious beasts, who all of a sudden start acting with strange restraint toward Shoe and Fisk in their quest to find Beleth. There are also the “Monkey Boys,” thieves and rogues lurking in the seedier sections of Jiang, the major city of Tchinee. Who are they and what do they want? And what the hell is in the ornate chest that Livia must present to the Autumn Lords? These and many other schemes make their way into this seemingly conventional story, all of which help keep it complex, fresh, and intriguing.

Overall, Foreign Devils is a wonderful read, very well written, and completely engaging. For this reviewer, though, the ending kind of felt as if I rode a rollercoaster to the highest point with my close friends; the car starts heading down, gaining speed; we’re halfway down, screaming with joy; and then someone in the car who I barely know, who we just kind of picked up on the way, stands up and says, “That’s all, folks. Hope you enjoyed the ride. Come again next year,” and the ride stops. Well, I think to myself, I guess it was fun while it lasted. Even in the longest series, each book should have a satisfying conclusion. On its own, I found the conclusion to Foreign Devils to be somewhat unsatisfying, but the time I spent reading it was so enjoyable that I will probably go back and read The Uncorruptibles and then continue the series.

Lastly, for the purpose of our particular audience here at GdM, I wouldn’t necessarily call Foreign Devils a grimdark novel. There are definitely good and bad guys and gals, and the reader can pretty much tell who they are. The novel probably has enough fighting, gore, double-dealing, gritty scenes and settings, the obligatory torture, and shit blowing up to satisfy open-minded and diehard grimdarkers, but it does not indulge in the moral shades of grey that are the hallmark of grimdark as we like to define it (should it require defining). I strongly suggest, however, that you do not let that stop you from reading this very enjoyable novel. Although I love the ambiguity of grimdark fiction, I love precise, inventive, and entertaining writing first, and I found no shortage of that in Foreign Devils. If I had a do-over, though, I would read The Incorruptibles first, and you probably should, too.

•

Originally published in Grimdark Magazine #9.

Grimdark Magazine #9 is available for purchase from our catalogue.

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