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Review: Faithless by Graham Austin-King

Faithless, from Graham Austin-King (The Riven Wyrde Saga), is an intelligent, complex, exciting, dark, and somewhat transgressive story about a young man’s journey from poor son of a farmer to, well, you’ll have to read it to find out. It is an enjoyable, if not perfect, read that is chock full of clever ideas and resonant themes delivered passionately by its author. The e-tome we received at Grimdark Magazine, weighing in at a hefty 136,000+ words, is labeled as a draft, so I will not be directly quoting from the text in this review. It is the hope of this reviewer that the book that Austin-King ultimately publishes will be significantly shorter.

The story follows parallel narratives. First, we are introduced to the boy Wynn via the obligatory scene in which the child of a family too poor to nurture him is sold into a brutal life at a dreadful institution (Blood Song, Red Sister, etc). In this particular case, Wynn is sold into the service of the temple of the Forgefather and relegated to the work in the mines, breaking rocks and mining ore for the temple Forge. Wynn’s narrative takes turns with the narrative of Kharios, a young man, novice of the temple, caught between a rock and a not-so-hard place. (You’ll get the joke when you read it.) These two narratives are both told in very close, limited third-person and converge somewhat late in the novel, but the whole ploy is cleverly planned and deftly handled.

Neither Wynn nor Kharios is an exceptional character and both seem a bit like milquetoasts for most of the story until the final climactic challenge. Similarly both characters are do-gooders, for the most part, though they occasionally regret having to leave friends behind on their way up the temple’s political/religious ladder. Near the end Kharios develops a relationship with Leesha, a girl his own age, and some YA romance is implied (though this is, thankfully, not a YA story. Sorry, kids.) Wynn also has a few friends in the mines and eventually the temple, but no one of special interest to this reviewer, other than Brial, his partner at the forge, who is of limited interest in and of himself but is essential to the plot and the characterizations of the other characters. As such, the characters in Faithless would have been somewhat ho-hum were it not for the Priest, Ossan, who pretty much steals the show.

Austin-King keeps his cards close with Ossan, revealing him at times to be a kindly old Priest, supportive of the boys’ efforts to master the various chants and strokes required to earn their rings of mastery for forging special metalworks inscribed with questionably magical glyphs. At other times, Ossan is a brutal taskmaster, a mean and nasty paternal figure, and much, much worse.  Austin-King must have loved creating this character, and it shows. Ossan is deep and dark, yet fatherly and wise, and he speaks beautifully and ponderously, reminding me of old Ultan, the librarian in Gene Wolfe’s Book of the New Sun. It is a beautiful job of characterization, and almost had me rooting for the old Priest despite his numerous egregious faults.

The plot of Faithless takes a while to unfold, perhaps slightly too long. It revolves around Wynn’s episodes experiencing the extremely harsh life of the mines and his wondering what the hell he is doing there when he is supposed to be serving the temple. This is interwoven with Kharios’s search for artifacts related the Fall of the Forgefather and his religion from great mythical power to sniveling servants and peddlers of material goods, metalworks, etc. There has been a physical Fall as well, as we find out that the temple itself was a massive structure before the religion and the building imploded. It’s a clever backstory, and well developed, with a beautifully realized setting, but at times I felt I was reading a Scooby Doo novel in which Shaggy and Scooby are trapped in the mines with scary creatures while Fred and Velma search the library for clues to the mystery. Fortunately, Austin-King turns the action up to eleven as the story rolls toward its frantic, harrowing climax, and ferocious ending.

Adding depth to this overall intelligently constructed story is its main theme, which can be described in a nutshell as Do We Serve God or Does God Serve Us. The question is adeptly presented albeit conclusively answered without much room for speculation, but it does form a solid, thought-provoking glue that holds together the action, suspense, and delightful mayhem in the second half of the story.

The other main element that holds this story together is the very creative and vivid setting Austin-King has created, where most of the action takes place. It’s an underground dystopian city, Aspiration, built in a huge cavern with only a small crack at the top to let smoke out and occasionally a few drops of rain in. The characters must access the cavern through a series of ladders or a makeshift elevator, and from there they can access the mines below, and below that… who knows what lurks? It’s at times claustrophobic, but also gritty, dark, and exceedingly grim. Not only does it serve to set an appropriately hopeless, moody background setting, but it also serves to contain what is often a meandering story. If the old cliché is true that the setting should be a character in the story, then that job is done well here.

While there are many good (and some really good) things going on in Faithless, there are still some things that give me reservations about giving it an unqualified recommendation. I hope some of these things will be addressed before it is released. First of all, it’s way too long for what it is. There are elements that probably could be cut, perhaps even one whole narrative strain could have been folded into the other. It is also riddled with bloated narration in which the author reveals the characters thoughts excessively about things we already know from the action and dialogue. At times, lots of times, I found myself skimming the text in between patches of dialogue since much of it seemed excessive and self-indulgent. The dialogue, other than the speeches made by Ossan, is dull and lifeless and seems to exist only to dump information and plot clues. Some matters of craft also twisted my nipple, such as forced simultaneity, pronoun-antecedent ambiguity, and lack of sentence structure variation, among others—stuff you don’t see as much in fiction published by the big houses, I’m sorry to say. Hopefully, these few little things will be ironed out in the final edit, and even if they are not, only the most knit-picking of dickheads will probably notice them. Hey… wait… a… minute.

Anyhow, for those of us who press on to the end of Faithless, the payoff is big, and overall, it is an intelligently conceived, exciting, and passionately told story.

But is it grimdark? There is certainly no moral ambiguity in the main characters, with the possible exception of Ossan, but despite his split personality, I think it’s a stretch to say that even he is a morally grey character. Yep, there are good guys and bad guys here—and more morally right and wrong situations than you can even guess. So, despite its violence and its persistent and overwhelming grimness, I’m not sure it doesn’t fall more toward heroic fantasy than grimdark. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Nevertheless, I guess readers should decide for themselves whether this fits into their category of grimdark. For me, it doesn’t really matter. It’s a delightfully grim and dark story that, despite a few minor hiccups, should be a crowd pleaser. Check it out.

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Originally published in Grimdark Magazine #12.

Grimdark Magazine #12 is available for purchase from our catalogue.

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REVIEW: Bright Steel by Miles Cameron

Bright Steel. Wow. Masters and Mages is now a finished trilogy, and Bright Steel ramps up every aspect that made Cold Iron and Dark Forge utterly brilliant. Fearsome battles with swords and sorcery, emotional punches, back-alley dealings and one of the best coming-of-age heroes I have read, Bright Steel is a wonderful conclusion to Miles Cameron’s spy-thriller-fantasy Masters and Mages.

“Selfishness and tyranny do not make for stable allies.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

To begin with, I am a massive fan of Miles Cameron. His easy going writing style, authentic detail and memorable characters really create fantastic books. And each one is so different. Each book I read of Cameron highlights how he is changing as an author, writing new and unique material that is unexpected and totally welcome, as well as including all of his trademark elements. Bright Steel is the finale to the trilogy that Cold Iron and Dark Forge deserved. These books are so readable because of the incredible variety of scenes, set-pieces, politics and characters that are within them.

‘When trouble didn’t stay away, it was routinely punched in the head and thrown in the Great Canal.’

Cold Iron introduced us to Aranthur as he unwittingly began a journey as an Academy student who is on the path to greatness. Dark Forge followed Aranthur and the friends he made as he became someone important. Bright Steel continues with Aranthur, exploring the strange and brilliant arc that he has been through.  He is a young man who wants to be the best he can be, for himself and those he loves. And he is painfully aware of how the path he leads can easily turn him into an ill-hearted man. He wants to be loyal and generous, kind, to not kill, but he finds himself in scenarios that push his morality. I loved the scenes that explored his awareness of his actions, and the conversations he had with characters about these situations.

The cast behind Aranthur also make this one of my favourite fantasy books to date. Those who readers have grown to love since Book 1, such as Dahlia, Kallatronis and Drako, each have their individual impacts upon this book. As they assist Aranthur and work through betrayals, dire scenarios and joyful occasions as friends, they only added to the story. Cameron’s knack for dialogue in this book in particular was immensely strong, with witty conversations that had me laughing out loud, and serious moments, adding to the realism of their friendships.

‘What is life but the lust for power?’

The story was engaging, fun and intense, with such a diversity of scenes, action pieces and city-politics that meant I was always on my toes. I have found myself each day longing to get back to reading this story. It captivated me so much that I actually missed my bus stop on TWO occasions. It was worth the extra walking (which I also did whilst reading). I believe I would have enjoyed a refreshment in the specific technical terminology. Maybe my brain had accidentally forgot some obvious terms but there are a lot of unique terms to these stories, all of which add to the detail of Cameron’s world-building! One thing that I am usually not a fan of is magic and magical lore. However, this story portrayed the magic in such a way that it felt authentic and real, and I loved the scenes where magic was explored.

Thank you so much to Gollancz for the opportunity to read this amazing story early, and be involved in the blog tour! If you’ve been waiting for a fantasy tale that is unique and fun, tense and bloody, with the famous Cameron battles and urgent stories, please read these books. You won’t regret it.

‘When you two are struggling to set the measure between you, you can step back all you want – back out of the window if you will. But once your blades touch, you must go forward until you conquer or die.’

5/5 – The cover quote (by my dad!) says that the Masters and Mages trilogy is a masterclass in modern fantasy, and I could not agree more. Bright Steel is a story of friendship, the complications of how simple choices affect your life in ways you could not imagine, and how swords in books will never ever get old or boring. Fantastic storytelling.

Buy a copy of Bright Steel by Miles Cameron

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Excerpt: Eye of the Beholder by Trudi Canavan

Trudi Canavan is an Aussie legend, and I’m very proud to be able to publish Eye of the Beholder in Grimdark Magazine Issue #19.  Trudi is such a big name in the fantasy genre, especially here in Australia, so go on, get stuck in and have a taste of her gripping short story.

Eye of the Beholder

Trudi Canavan

“You say you want my life story, young man. I know what you really want, and I’m not going to give it to you. We’re going to start at the second chapter. It’s a far more interesting chapter, in my opinion, to the one before.

All you need to know is I’d lost a great deal. Reputation. Station. Trust. My family had disowned me, as had most of my friends. But not all of my friends. Not the knowledge and skill I’d gained, either. What I lost led to an unexpected gain: I was free to turn what had been an interest and pastime into a source of income, with a little help from the friends I had kept.

No, not magic. Not yet.

For a time, I was the most popular miniature portraitist at court. Yes. Me. A woman artist, in those times. It was the size I worked at that made it possible. I made miniatures: small, insignificant portraits that could not compete with all those proud figures standing amid the splendour of their possessions, natural or otherwise, from the walls of the rich and important. My miniatures had more in common with the tiny pictures painted upon porcelain, more delicate and sentimental than grand and imposing. They were seen as decorations rather than art, therefore acceptable work for a woman—though I’d wager none of the portraitists could have done what I did, if they ever deigned to try.

If you needed a likeness to present when arranging a marriage, you came to me. If you wanted a keepsake to remind you of a loved one, or remind a loved one of you, you came to me. If you desired a portable image, not too expensive, to keep by your side, you came to me.

Of course, none of the people I had wronged in the past came to me. Some who knew of my reputation visited to gloat at my reduced circumstances. Some were drawn out of curiosity. Some expressed their support for my role in… that other business. Strange how the latter made me feel most like a failure.

I wasn’t the only one producing miniatures—or the first to do so—but I was the best. I had practiced the art for a long time before needing to make an income from it. I’d had good teachers, too. Women hired to encourage the improvement of young ladies with suitable leisure activities, who could be surprisingly exacting in their lessons for occupations that weren’t supposed to matter that much.

Miniatures had always fascinated me. I’d searched books and interrogated my teachers for information about them. They have a long history, filled with superstition and unlikely stories. Sorting the truth from the myth was an endlessly attractive puzzle for my young mind.

I did not attempt anything illegal, of course. Not before I was ordered to. I want to be perfectly clear about that. Write it down. Good.

Check out the rest of Eye of the Beholder

Read the rest of Eye of the Beholder by Trudi Canavan and much, much more in Grimdark Magazine Issue #19.

 

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VG Review: The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt

The Witcher series by Andrjez Sapkowski is one of the seminal works of grimdark literature in Europe. The video game adaptations of the series have since gone on to popularize the series globally. The premise of both the books and the games is a mutated monster-hunter named Geralt of Rivia exists in a low fantasy world of extra-dimensional creatures menacing an un-idealized medieval world. The monarchs are cruel and selfish, the peasantry superstitious and racist; nonhumans are brutally discriminated against but respond with terrorism against civilians; and our hero is never more than a few coins ahead of bankruptcy.

The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt is a direct sequel to The Witcher 2: Assassin of Kings, and culminates a trilogy which purports to wrap up not only Geralt’s story from the video games but his lingering threads from the novel series. Although not all of Sapkowski’s works have been translated into English at the time of this article’s writing, I strongly recommend readers check out the ones that have. Not only are they excellent grimdark fiction but they also serve as a good introduction to the nuanced relationships in the game. Newcomers to the game series won’t be completely lost, however, as the game generally gives you a decent enough introduction to all of the characters.

The gameplay starts as Geralt of Rivia has received a mysterious letter from his former lover, Yennefer of Vengerburg, a sorceress who has been missing for years. Geralt, travelling with his old friend Vesemir, sets out to reunite with her. Their journey is complicated by the brutal and authoritarian Nilfgaard Empire, who have invaded the kingdoms of the North.

Geralt, unlike virtually every other vanilla fantasy hero in fiction, knows the “Empire” isn’t necessarily worse than the local tyrants, and the majority of people who will suffer during the war are those caught between the two sides. The issue of Yennefer is resolved fairly early but only leads to a wider adventure with the discovery that Geralt’s long-lost adopted daughter, Ciri of Cintra, is still alive and in danger of being killed by the terrifying otherworldly Wild Hunt.

If this sounds complex, well, it is.

The developers at CD Projekt Red have done a magnificent job at realizing the world from Sapkowski’s novels and adding their own spin to things. This is quite possibly the most vividly realized fantasy world in gaming history, rivalled only by Dragon Age’s Thedas and the Elder Scrolls universe.

The world is also a great deal more “realistic” than any of these others: full of sex, lies, human weakness, betrayal, and sadness. It is an RPG, so the player can select Geralt’s reactions to almost every situation, but the game frames it so anything is potentially “in-character” for Geralt. There’s no “Good”, “Evil”, or “Indifferent” choices. Instead, they’re more like “Lesser Evil”, “Self-Interested”, and “Not my problem.”

One of the early side-quests in the game illustrates the kind of grey morality that pervades The Witcher. When a local blacksmith asks Geralt to investigate who burned down his forge. Geralt swiftly finds out that it was a nearby teenager who, while drunk, did so because the blacksmith is being forced to shoe horses for the invading Nilfgaard. The penalty for the young man’s “resistance” would be hanging, but he also thinks the largely-innocent blacksmith should die for his “collaboration.” There’s no magical third option that leaves everyone happy and alive.

My favorite plotline in the game is an extended storyline in the Second Act that deals with a local nobleman who has chosen to fully collaborate with the Nilfgaardian invasion and whose men are, by and large, complete scum. The nobleman, obviously inspired by Mark Addy’s portrayal of Robert Baratheon in the Game of Thrones TV series, is an alcoholic spouse-abuser, who also suffers severe mental scars from the horrors he witnessed in the king’s army as well as remorse for his actions while drunk. He’s one of the most nuanced, pathetic, and affecting characters in gaming.

This is when the game is at its best.

Sometimes the game isn’t so well developed: as the final third is rushed, lacking in side-quests, and contains rather generic, one-dimensional villains who lack the complexity of the ambiguous, three-dimensional antagonists Geralt faces in the first two-thirds of the game. There’s nothing, for example, quite as interesting in the main plot as in one of the later side-quests where you must decide whether to let three friends die in order to guarantee the North a victory against Nilfgaard.

But how does it play?

The combat is, generally, fast and fun. Geralt fights with a steel sword for humans and a silver sword for monsters, which he switches between as the circumstances dictate. He can also use a combination of minor magic spells, bombs, and potions to supplement his battle against a wide variety of creatures. The gore is visceral: Geralt possesses far greater strength than a normal man and is thus able to decapitate or maim his opponents with ease.

Travel is something of a pain in the ass as the wide-open sandbox world requires extensive travelling on horseback or foot to get anywhere of interest. While it’s the largest open world in the history of gaming, I’d much rather they reduce the size of the map so I could get everywhere without minutes of event-less travel.

The inventory system could use some tweaking: Geralt accumulates large amounts of junk like books, which, really, just clutter up the things he could be focusing on. I’ve heard this is going to be fixed in patches, but it was troublesome during my playthrough. You can spec Geralt to specialize in swordsmanship, sorcery, potions, or magic, each giving different options for completing the game.

One area where The Witcher both shines and falls flat is the handling of its romances. In previous games, Geralt was able to have nearly unlimited amounts of casual sex with virtually every female character in the game. This time, there are only a couple of romance options available (as well as prostitutes). These are far more meaningful and interesting to me than previous versions, although some gamers may miss the option to play Geralt as a kind of chivalric James Bond. There is nudity in the game, but it is tastefully animated and avoids showing genitalia (as if that would scar the 18+ Mature audience this game is meant for—oh, the horror!).

One very interesting character is the grown-up Ciri of Cintra, who the player takes control of during several sections of the game. While the Targaryen-looking, bisexual Witcheress could have easily been a fanboy’s wet dream, she’s actually a nuanced character I swiftly bonded with. Idealistic but scarred, Ciri is a woman who reacts to the world around her in a fundamentally different way than Geralt and provides an interesting contrast when you step into her boots.

Finally, a comment on the game’s graphics: The Witcher 3 is a beautiful game; its various game areas are artistically designed and rendered. White Orchard is a stereotypically pastoral fantasy farmland which is punctuated by burned villages and weeping women; Velen is a hellish No Man’s Land where hundreds of bodies hang from trees next to empty battlefields; Novigrad is a rich but decadent city kept in line by the tyranny of a corrupt church: and while Skellige is a primitive Viking-ruled Ireland analogue that hangs a couple of centuries behind the rest of the continent. The characters are gorgeous, too, including some truly breathtaking ladies (my wife comments that the men aren’t too shabby either).

I heartily recommend The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt. It is not a perfect game, but there is a massive-massive amount of content available, most of which is very good. It’s really like purchasing three, previous generation RPGs merged together. I got almost 120 hours of gaming out of my first playthrough, and I may go back for more. It’s also some of the grimmest, grittiest, and most maturely-written fantasy gaming I’ve seen which bodes well for grimdark in gaming.

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Originally published in Grimdark Magazine #5.

Grimdark Magazine #5 is available for purchase from our catalogue.

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REVIEW: We are the Dead by Mike Shackle

I received a review copy of We Are The Dead in exchange for an honest review.  Thank you to Mike Shackle and Gollancz for the opportunity.

Tinnstra is the daughter of the legion’s and the nation’s finest Shulka warrior, Grim Dagon. Although an extremely extraordinary fighter herself, she is training as an initiate and always holds thoughts of doubt, fear, and incompetence in her mind regarding her potential actions. Putting it simply and abruptly, she is a coward. The Shulka are the elite soldiers. They haven’t lost a war or even a quick skirmish in 700-years. The Egril attackers that the wall and fortress of the Gundan have been erected to keep away decide to try an attack and destroy all who would oppose them in Jia, under the watchful aid and guidance of Emperor Raaku, the son of a God, apparently. In their minds, the only real God.

The Shulka lose. Quite promptly and emphatically as the Shulka had underestimated their opponents’ martial qualities. They didn’t expect magic, or for armies to appear behind the defensive lines through magical wards, or the grotesque Paradise Lost-esque flying demons – the Daijuka – who wield six feet spears, with another 2 feet of swords on the end for good measure to slaughter all. They are terrifying. The Egril, on porpose, always wore shitty armour and showcased easily destructible defenses as a ploy. Not this time. The Shulka lose as they grossly overexaggerated how weak they thought their opponents were. The ‘Skulls’ as the Egril are known due to their facial attire as can be seen on the cover, win, and occupy the whole of Jia within a few days. It’s not very nice for anybody who was/were there before. Of course, they never wished to welcome random murders, hangings, and totalitarianism. Alas.

Mike Shackle seems like an excellent writer. He’s a truly talented wordsmith and composer of exquisite fantasy fiction. However, at certain points, this wasn’t perfect. There are a few issues that griped me whilst reading but I acknowledge and understand why Shackle did it. It didn’t always work for me, however, I will talk about these before going back to the many many positives. A lot of times the chapters ended up too abruptly to try and heighten or instill drama and intrigue. The words imploded and exploded were featured frequently in the last stage of a chapter. BOOM. End chapter. Often. Explodes. Too many witty, compulsive, oh-wow-where-did-that-come-from twists happened too frequently for me.

I really liked the majority of the Point of View perspectives, by the end. So, we have Tinnstra who I’ve mentioned, Jax – the one prominent remaining Shulka officer who is aiding the resistance against the Skulls, Yas, the loving mother and family orientated individual who has to work behind enemy lines to keep her young child alive, Drem, the young riled-up anarchist. The only real view we get from the opposite/dark side is that from Darus. He’s a Chosen. An exquisitely infamous mage who is a torturer who manipulates and torments similar scenes to those of Glotka in The First Law, but when he knows he isn’t getting the answers he wants, he can grow the limbs or heal the wounds of the afflicted… pain can go on forever. Dark.

Some of the characters didn’t appeal to me straight away. Drem was an angry little cunt. Tinnstra is a coward who has the italic emotion thoughts flaunting through her scenes about how pathetic she is. Yas seems like an idiot too to begin with. I know in some stories you begin with a farmboy or unknowing fool who becomes a hero, somehow. Here, there were a lot of them. With all that being said, their progression was enjoyable to read about after I acknowledged it wasn’t going to occur in a chapter or two.

This narrative is mid to high on the grimdark scale.

“A cruel joke by the four Gods – the tale of the coward, the queen and the mage and how they died.”

Mike’s enthusiasm for being so excited for being able to release a story for Gollancz really shines. He is an enthusiastic, elegant and excellent writer. However, I don’t think this is completely showcased until the last half of the book. My friend, Michael at The Fantasy Hive, had similar views as we read this concurrently. I’m not saying this as a negative, I’m just trying to present that if you think it isn’t for you then give it a bit more time. This is a stunning debut. I’m not sure of the exact history it may be based on but it reminded me of Japan vs. China and the control Japan had when I watched Ip Man. So, I’m not well-sourced or knowledgeable enough to write about legitimate parallels.

We are the Dead is a staggering, marvelous, and gripping fantasy debut that should be acknowledged alongside recent-ish excellent Grimdark debuts such as Ed McDonald, Peter McLean, Anna Smith-Spark, and Dyrk Ashton. We are the Dead isn’t perfect but what it does well, it does really well. Very highly recommended. We are the Dead will feature on many a best-debut of the year list.

Buy We are the Dead by Mike Shackle

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Review: The Liar’s Key by Mark Lawrence

Reading The Broken Empire trilogy really changed the way I view fantasy. It was after reading this trilogy that I discovered and began to define for myself what grimdark is. As a kid I always rooted for the bad guys. I especially liked the villains or antiheroes who seemed pretty decent but made some bad decisions. I always loved the movies with a twist. The good guy wins but dies; the movie ends unresolved in some way. Lawrence has a way of creating likeable bad guys as heroes that I find extremely appealing.

After reading the description to The Red Queen’s War series, I confess to being disappointed. Mark Lawrence went from showcasing Prince Jorg, the ruthless rogue, to featuring Prince Jalan, the fop of the Red March? What on earth was he thinking?

Jalan surprised me in Prince of Fools, so much that I eagerly anticipated the release of The Liar’s Key, the second book in the Red Queen’s War, in a way I hadn’t looked forward to a book in a long, long time. And as much as I grew to hate Jalan sometimes for his lazy, cowardly ways, I also began to admire his cleverness and ingenuity.

Snorri ver Snagason is the straight foil to Jalan and his conniving ways, forming a very unlikely pairing. Snorri, a Northman, is a man’s man of deep honour and unrivalled fighting skills, a man of single-minded determination who wants to open death’s door and bring back his dead family. It’s a true tribute to Lawrence’s writing skill that this unlikely pairing makes believable companions.

One thing that the two characters have in common is the celestial spirits that have been attached to them in Prince of Fools by Jalan’s invisible great aunt, the Silent Sister. I say invisible because very few people seem to be able to see her or know of her existence. Using a spell of great power she attaches the two spirits (one good, one evil) to Jalan and Snorri to bind them together and send them on a mission.

[image error]The Liar’s Key opens with Loki, a trickster god from Snorri’s homeland, hatching an underhanded scheme. First, he creates an object of great power–the Liar’s key. The key can open pretty much any lock, portal or door no matter who made it. It’s called the ‘Liar’s key’ because it was created by Loki, the greatest liar in the pantheon of Northern deities. Then, he launches his scheme by finding Kelem, the Door Mage. Who better to tempt with a key to open any lock? Kelem, having spent way too many years alone with all of his secret doors, proves to be an easy target to manipulate as he is already half insane. Kelem then goes missing in action for a large part of the story, long enough for you to wonder why he was in the introduction, but comes back in a major way at the end.

Fast forward in time and we catch up with Jalan and Snorri in the North, where Jalan seems to think he is on a vacation, bedding every local woman he can, while Snorri continues the single-minded pursuit of his goal of getting his family back now that he has come into possession of the Liar’s key. He searches for a Völva (a witch of sorts) who can show him a door to Hel, whereby he can use the key to retrieve his long dead wife and children.

Although Snorri seems hell-bent on his own destruction, Lawrence makes the reader believe that if anyone can challenge Hel and win, it’s the massive northern warrior. He and Jalan are assisted by Tuttugu, the last remaining survivor of Snorri’s clan, the Undoreth. Tutt (as he is frequently called) is a fisherman by trade, but he is also a stout warrior who is fiercely loyal to Snorri.

On a visit to see a Völva, the crew picks up an unlikely traveling companion, a Völva-in-training by the name of Kara. Kara is a mixed bag. While they all know that she has her own ulterior motives and those of her master as well, having a little magic and knowledge on their side doesn’t hurt either.

With plenty of challenges to face already, including a God of Mischief dogging their heels, the team encounters the Dead King who further plagues them by sending undead assassins after them. Readers of the Broken Empire books will well remember the Dead King as Jorg’s primary antagonist. The Dead King, though no god like Loki, is still a very powerful adversary whose motives are not entirely clear.

The big question is can Snorri open the door to Hel and rescue his family? You won’t find the answer to that question here sadly. What you will find here, though, is my strong recommendation that you read the series and find out for yourself.

I will proudly admit to being a fan of Mark Lawrence’s work, but I really feel that he outdid himself on this one. This is far and away my favorite novel of the year. I had trouble putting it down, even at midnight with work early the next day.

One thing I love about Mark Lawrence’s storytelling is his versatility. The Broken Empire Trilogy I love for the tone and creative, dark storytelling. However, The Liar’s Key (as a part of The Red Queen’s War series) I love for the prose and creative turns of phrase Lawrence sprinkles throughout the tale.

There’s something strangely organic about the way Lawrence brings the characters to life, making me develop relationships with them in my mind by playing one against the other, much like Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser of Lankhmar fame. Also, the way that he sucked me into the story made me not want to put it down, perhaps due to the intimate first-person narrative from Jalan’s point of view. Reading The Liar’s Key made me feel present in the story’s world.

That is why I read books. To escape to that far away impossibility. The highest praise I can give to a writer is that they helped me do that with their book. Mark Lawrence has done that with The Liar’s Key.

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Originally published in Grimdark Magazine #5.

Grimdark Magazine #5 is available for purchase from our catalogue.

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REVIEW: Kings of Paradise by Richard Nell

Kings of Paradise (Ash and Sand #1) by Richard Nell is probably my favorite grimdark novel of 2018, so if you expect this review to be anything other than gushing then you have come to the wrong place.

The books follow the perspective of three protagonists with Ruka, Kale, and Dala. Ruka is a deformed son of a witch that watches his mother be killed and swears revenge on the society that did it. Willing to do whatever it takes to survive; he becomes a cannibal early on and yet remains one of the most sympathetic characters. Kale is a prince of an island paradise and a spoiled brat like Jezal of The First Law Trilogy but has potential to be more. Dala is a rare female grimdark protagonist that is born a poor victim but decides to do whatever it takes to escape the life she’s leaving behind.

Part of why I like the novel is that it is both authentic as well as far more multi-cultural in its world. This is not just a set in your typical faux-Medieval European landscape but a volcanic Iceland, a Polynesian set of tropical islands, and a pseudo-Chinese Empire. The contrast between the societies, their taboos, and cultures provides a genuine sense that this is a real place with its own history.

Ruka’s story arc is harsh, bitter, and full of cynicism from beginning to end. He’s the perfect grimdark protagonist because he’s a monster yet faced against a society of hypocrites. Ruka wants to be a person who gives back to his people but the only thing he’s known from birth has been brutality. He loved his mother and vice versa but that was about his only healthy human relationship. He reminds me a bit of both Caliban from The Tempest as well as, of al people, Sabertooth from the X-men. Specifically, the comic book version who is a wild animal but smarter than he appears.

I was most fond of the Dala sections despite the fact they are the least to deal with the overarching main plots of Ruka’s people planning to invade Kale’s homeland. A young woman learning to master politics and being every bit as ruthless as a man in her position is not normally how these stories go. Dala becomes a truly vicious and still sympathetic character that would be a villain in most other stories.

I’m a bit iffier on the Kale sections because they’re such a huge contrast to the Ruka and Dala ones. Kale grew up in immense privilege and his primary problem is that he’s in love with his brother’s fiance. He’s such a starry eyed romantic, you get annoyed whenever he manages to coast by the majority of problems that face him. I mention the comparison to Jezal but I was much more into that character’s romantic relationship(s) than I am with Kale. Even so, there’s a lot of interesting politics going on behind-the-scenes in Kale’s sections that our protagonist is only dimly aware of.

The morality on display by our heroes is one of brutal pragmatism. Ruka is someone who has higher goals but is willing to do anything to achieve them. Dala is the same. The former wishes to “break the wheel” as Daenerys does in Game of Thrones while Dala wants to reform her religion to live to its stated principles. Kale is someone who has never bothered to question how his world works until it turns against him. Then Kale is forced to learn about other cultures and question if anything he grew up believing is right.

The world of Ash and Sand is an incredibly well-developed one with intricate cultures, supporting characters, as well as allusions to a wider world we only touch upon. I was fascinated by all the stories within and eagerly bought the sequel the moment I finished it. It is a cynical, dark, and yet fully realized world that I believe fans of other grimdark series will love.

9/10

Buy Kings of Paradise

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EXCLUSIVE: Excerpt of Dyrk Ashton’s War of Gods

Good greetings, Grimdarklings! I’m absolutely thrilled and honored to have been selected for a feature in Grimdark Magazine. Many thanks to Lord Adrian Collins and Sir James Tivendale for allowing this excerpt of War of Gods to happen.

I had never considered that my books would be thought of as “grimdark.” In fact, I have to admit I hadn’t heard of that sub-genre of fantasy when I started writing. I did know, however, that I wasn’t going to shy away from the darker, more violent, and shocking aspects of fantasy storytelling (and life, in general). I only found out about grimdark after several early reviewers classified it that way, at least for certain elements. All I can say is, “I’ll take it!” and happy to do so.

What you’re about to read is a chapter from my upcoming novel, Paternus: War of Gods, the third and final book of The Paternus Trilogy, to be released by the end of this year if all goes as planned. Book one, Paternus: Rise of Gods, was a finalist in Mark Lawrence’s SPFBO (Self-Published Fantasy Blog-Off) 2016, and placed third out of three hundred books, barely edging out Brian O’Sullivan, and well behind Phil Tucker and that Grey Bastard, Jonathan French. Book two, Paternus: Wrath of Gods, won Best Self-Published Book in the Booknest Fantasy Awards 2018, in the mighty fine company of Nicholas Eames, who took Best Traditionally Published Book for Kings of the Wyld, one of my favorite reads in many years.

What follows is currently chapter six in War of Gods, and tentatively titled, “Africa 6: Wendigo.” WARNING: This could be considered to contain spoilers. Information is revealed about a certain character that is simply not known until book three, though it may have been suspected. For folks who have read books one and two (my peeps!), it involves Zeke and The Prathamaja Nandana (Pratha), and their mission to Angola to seek out The Twins of legend. There’s a big fight with monsters, Zeke does some shit, and The Twins are like, “wtf?!” And that’s all I’ll say for now. So there, you have been warned. Don’t @ me with angry memes. Or do, that’s part of the fun ;). Should you choose to continue, I hope you enjoy this little selection.

 

Chapter 6

of

Paternus: War of Gods
Book 3 in The Paternus Trilogy

by Dyrk Ashton

 

Unedited. Subject to Change.

Warning: This chapter contains spoilers for those who haven’t read the first two books in The Paternus Trilogy—and possibly for those who have.

AFRICA 6

Wendigo

The moon stutter-steps over the sun until it’s a black hole rimmed in crimson flame, and there it stops. The Firstborn watch without blinking, but Zeke knows better than to look into an eclipse—especially one as unnatural as this. What remains of daylight casts the camp and village in macabre incarnadine.

Kleron says, “That’s my cue.” He scans the group. “Last chance.”

Cain lays his club on his shoulder. Abel leans on his spear, and yawns.

Kleron sighs. With one last look at Zeke, he says, “Sweet dreams,” and slips away.

Cain says, “Still an ugly bastard.”

“Always with the deals,” says Abel.

“Looks like he got too close to the grill, too.”

They look to Zeke and Pratha for an explanation, but get none.

Abel says, “Don’t listen to him, Zeke, and don’t you worry.”

“Whatever the Lord of Lies is selling,” says Cain, “we’re not buying.”

“You’re safe with us, come what may.”

Seeing the absolute sincerity in their eyes, armed with their Astra weapons and unafraid, Zeke almost believes them. Cain and Abel, fraternal twins, misunderstood brothers of myth and legend from around the world. The other Firstborn call them The Twins. The Giant Killers.

But deep down, Zeke knows he’s not safe in the Between of The Wendigo. None of them are.

Wind ruffles his hair. Hot, wet, reeking of rotting flesh, touching his skin like fingers of the invisible dead. A sickly green fog oozes from the inner wall of the cyclonic sandstorm that surrounds them. With it comes a feeling of uncanny dread. It tightens its grip on Zeke’s scalp, curdles cold in his gut.

The Twins keep their eyes on the circling wall of sandstorm, alert to movement in every direction.

Pratha turns in place, calm as ever, but intent on the storm, as if she can see into it.

Zeke’s voice shakes as he says, “What can we do?”

Abel answers, “There’s no stopping The Wendigo.”

Cain adds, “All have tried.”

“Even Father.”

“And Pratha.”

“It gets its fill and goes away.”

“Fill of what?” Zeke asks.

“Fear, and pain,” says Cain.

Zeke gulps.

Seeing the look on Zeke’s face, Abel says, “Don’t give in to it. That’s the worst thing you can do.”

“What if I can’t?”

“You can,” Cain says with conviction, but Zeke isn’t feeling it.

The aid workers, villagers, and Angolan rangers remain frozen in place. The silence and stillness, the waiting, is nearly intolerable. It’s almost a relief when the creatures in the sandstorm stir, moaning and shrieking, malformed figures in the gloom.

Abel says, “Quite the company Wendigo keeps these days.”

“What are they?” Zeke asks, as much to keep the terror at bay as out of curiosity.

Cain narrows his eyes, his Firstborn sight far better than Zeke’s will ever be. “I see Blues, wampyr, and… other things.”

“Mostly, a menagerie collected and kept by Wendigo,” say Abel. “Creatures half-in, half-out of this reality. Most I’d thought eradicated long ago.” He points his spear to where floating points of yellow light blink like fireflies. “Especially those.”

“Adze,” says Cain. “A particularly nasty species of what you might call Fae.”

Ripples of silver followed by trails of red smoke weave through the darkness behind the surface of the storm wall. Abel’s voice is grim. “Nanabolele dragons. Very hard to kill.”

The sound of the beasts and wind become softer, like the volume has been turned down. In the relative silence, Zeke hears a hollow rattling of bone and chattering of teeth, then a single word, an unearthly whisper. “Wendigo.” Goosebumps rise as his skin goes icy cold.

Suddenly the aid workers, villagers and rangers are moving again, running and shouting as they were before Kleron arrived, released from whatever spell The Wendigo cast upon them.

Some fall to their knees at the sight of the bloody eye of the eclipse. Panic seizes the rest. They bolt, wail, tear at their hair. Village dogs yelp, goats bleat in fright. The creatures in the storm screech and roar as more of them crowd behind the invisible barrier that holds them.

Having completely lost their nerve, the rangers pile into a truck, tossing people out as need be. They gun the engine and speed into the storm. Just visible in the whirling sand, a massive thorny form rams the truck from the side, toppling it.

“That was an Obia, if I’m not mistaken,” says Abel.

Other creatures pounce, tearing the truck and the rangers apart. Brief gunfire and screams, then nothing.

People run in mindless dread. Some fall to the ground and vomit, others drop to scoop it into their mouths. They attack each other with fingernails and teeth. A couple, sitting on the ground, hungrily eat each other’s hands. A woman staggers by, gnawing off her own lower lip. A dog attacks a young boy, then falls prey to a man with a machete, who snatches it up and bites into its throat.

Pratha, who has remained watchful and silent, says, “Wendigo has never had power like this. To steer the Between and control its contours with such precision. And never has he carried this variety of demons with it. This is Khagan’s doing.”

She scans the wall of the storm. “Wendigo has grown bold,” she hisses, peering into one area of the murk. “Perhaps, too bold.” She sprints, knocking a man out of the way, revealing her lizard-like Trueface just before she plunges into the storm, and fades from view.

She moved so quickly, Zeke didn’t have a chance to call out after her.

Cain hefts his club. “Looks like it’s just us, boys.”

Abel adjusts his shield and lifts his spear. “We don’t leave Zeke.”

Cain squeezes the back of Zeke’s neck and gives him a friendly shake. “Never.”

Zeke asks, “What are we going to do?”

“The only thing we can,” says Abel.

Cain adds, “Survive.”

The roar of the storm alters and the inner wall of the cyclone collapses, flowing into the clearing as a dusty fog. And with it come the shrieking horrors.

#

The horde charges from every direction. Speeding demons and shambling fiends of all shapes and sizes. Pouncing on aid workers and villagers, shredding them, feeding on flesh, cracking bones with their teeth.

There are Blues, similar to the variety of Jinn faced by Fi and Zeke at Freyja’s, but darker, more twisted and hunched, their heads more elongated, eyes small and black, with mouths and teeth like piranhas.

And before them come patches of blackness on the ground, like creeping puddles of oil.

Cain shouts, “Shadow Blues!”

Abel plunges his spear into a dark spot in the dirt. A Shadow Blue springs into form, wriggling on the ground and shrieking, the spearhead stuck in its gut. Abel withdraws his spear, swipes through its neck, and kicks the head to tumble away.

Cain cracks the skull of a second, sweeps the legs out from under a third, then beats its head into the ground. Its skull begins to reform, so he hits it a few more times. Cain and Abel stalk around Zeke, keeping him between them.

The firefly lights of the Adze surround them. The lights grow, then fade, leaving humanoid beings with glowing yellow eyes and translucent yellow fangs. Their bones and throbbing organs can be seen through skin that is almost clear. They hiss and attack.

All Zeke can do is crouch and cover his head while Abel and Cain skewer, slice, and smash the beasts. He’s splashed with bodily effluent, clear and slimy, and an Adze falls in front of him, split from groin to neck. It squeals, turns back into blinking light on the ground. Zeke grabs a rock and smashes it until the fluorescent smear goes dim.

Strong hands haul him to his feet. “I think you got it,” says Cain.

Nearby, what look like stocky little men, only three feet tall and covered in long filthy hair, have a woman surrounded. “Tikoloshe,” Abel spits through gritted teeth. They dance around the woman, taunting her. Zeke recognizes her as the nurse he and Pratha had seen in the medical tent earlier.

Cain strikes an attacking Blue out of the way, and shouts, “Sandra!”

She spins toward them, feral madness in her eyes and blood on her lips. Her expression sobers. “Doctor—” but a Tikoloshe darts in and scratches her leg with its ragged fingernails. She gags as black veins of pestilence shoot through the skin of her bare arms, neck, and face. Blood pours from her mouth and nose. Her eyes rupture with black and yellow pus.

Zeke’s mouth hangs open in horror, but he clamps it shut in an attempt to quell his rising gorge.

There’s a flash of silver above. A Nanabolele dragon, the air rippling over its shining reptilian head like water as it swoops from the sky, a billowing trail of red smoke trailing where it’s body and tail should be. It snatches off Sandra’s head with its teeth.

The nurse’s headless body wavers, a fountain of blood at her neck, then topples.

Abel slams the snout of another attacking Nanabolele with his shield, sending it roaring away, then runs a gibbering Tikoloshe through with his spear. Blues crumple and burst under Cain’s swinging club.

While Abel and Cain defend around him, panic threatens to devour Zeke’s rational mind. He wants to slip—and he could take The Twins with him. He’s fully aware of the dangers that await on other worlds, but anything would be better than this. He feels out to other worlds, but there’s nothing there. He can’t slip at all. Caught in The Wendigo’s Between, there’s nowhere to go.

Zeke’s stomach lurches with nausea—and hunger. The scent of blood all around him. It smells good. Disgusted with himself, he grunts to drive away the thought, the desire, the need.

The sounds around him dim as if an invisible bell has been lowered over his head, and again he hears rattling, then chattering, and the ghastly voice. “Wendigo.”

A lumbering goliath pounds toward them. Twelve feet tall, it looks like it’s made of twisted tree trunks, covered with wicked thorns, wearing a tattered cape or cloak.

“Obia!” Abel shouts, leaping between Zeke and the charging monster. The Obia swings a spiky club-like fist into Abel’s shield, knocking him aside. Cain cracks it in the knee with his club, but it keeps its feet and spins on Cain with a roar. Abel’s spearhead thunks into its side. The Obia swats it away and continues its assault.

It takes Zeke a moment to comprehend the nature of the Obia’s garment. Skins of young women, including scalps with hair, and faces. Dozens of them, pierced through with the thorns on the Obia’s back and shoulders, limbs flapping.

Zeke back-peddles, and space shifts oddly in front of him. The Twins and the Obia are off at a different angle, as if refracted by an angled plate of glass slid between Zeke and them.

Zeke says, “Cain?” but the world shears again and Zeke is suddenly much farther away. It happens again, like the world is made of mirrors that keep flipping, changing angles, carrying him deeper into the storm.

* * *

The Obia swings, but Abel dodges and drives his spear deep into one of its beady eyes, then yanks it out. The monster trips forward with a groan. Cain brings his club down on the back of its neck, breaking thorns, and again, until the neck cracks, and their enemy drops to the dirt.

Abel and Cain spin, searching for Zeke. They see him, fifty feet away. Cain shouts, but Zeke can’t hear or see them, as if he’s on the other side of a sound-proof, two-way mirror. They fight toward him. Something catches Zeke’s attention. He turns and runs off into the darkness.

Together, The Twins cry out. “Zeke!”

* * *

Zeke skids to a halt as he comes across the elder Mbundu woman Pratha had spoken to when they arrived. A Kimbanda shamaness, Pratha had said, the leader of the village. The woman who had seen Pratha’s Trueface, knew who she was, and was not afraid.

Her children and grandchildren are crouched on the ground around her, clutching the hem of her batik pano, faces buried against her. Arms raised, eyes closed, she chants forcefully in her native language of Kimbundu, calling on the spirits of her ancestors to protect her family. And they have come.

She and the others are encircled by tall phantoms with spears, curved clubs, and long painted shields. The monsters snort and stamp and claw at the dirt, but won’t come near.

A familiar voice calls out to Zeke. He’s nearly paralyzed at the sight of Fi running toward him. “Thank God we found you,” she says. Peter joins her, a smile on his face. “Let’s go, your work here is done.”

Zeke is elated, the terror nearly shed, but a voice cries out in his mind. “No!” It’s his voice, though not his common sense or his conscience. Shrill and unhinged, the voice of his violent and dangerous doppel. The other Zeke, spawned in a splitting of worlds, now trapped in Zeke’s own mind. Other Zeke shouts again, “Run!”

Zeke backs away. The fake Fi and Peter transform back into leering Shadow Blues. No sooner do they bolt toward Zeke than a charging monster crushes them both in its enormous toothy maw. Zeke recognizes the beast from paintings and etchings from ancient Egypt. An Ammit. Hippopotamus-like body and legs, a head like a crocodile, with mane and clawed feet of a lion. It bites and shakes. Blood sprays. A severed arm flies, a foot bounces to the ground. The rest, the Ammit swallows in two gulps. It snuffs in Zeke’s direction, but the speedy movement of other monsters and frantic people catch its attention. It screeches, loud as an elephant, and gives chase.

The clearing where the camp had been is in pandemonium. Death and blood, fire and insanity, all refracted at impossible angles. The monsters attack each other with as much reckless abandon as they do the humans—and as the humans do to themselves—all defenseless against The Wendigo’s mad magic.

Zeke’s perspective shifts again and he’s entirely alone. Nothing but bush and dirt and howling wind. Blowing sand stings his skin, crusts at his eyes. Again he tries to slip—and it works—but he’s only a few feet away from where he was—and himself. He sees himself slip, another him appear, until there are multiples of him everywhere.

They vanish at the sound of Cain and Abel calling for him. He runs toward their voices, but then they’re calling behind him. He changes course, but soon realizes the folly of his pursuit when their voices come from one side, then the other, and behind him once again. He’s caught in a hall of mirrors, in the least fun funhouse he can imagine. He laughs a crazy laugh, then growls to get himself under control. You’re losing it, Zeke. Hang in there. Hang in there.

A horrific apparition appears before him. Emaciated, on twisted, back-bending legs. Its thorny skin the color of sun-bleached bone, stretched tight on it’s skeleton, as if it’s been naturally mummified in the desert sun. Protruding ribcage, and long, scrawny arms. Its cadaverous face, half-man, half… something else entirely. Seven feet tall, not counting its rack of crooked antlers, from which small bones hang on roughly woven strands of human hair. They make hollow rattling sounds as they clack together in the wind. The creature stares down at him with lidless, empty eyes.

The apparition shudders and is suddenly leaning closer. With a wet seething sound, it sucks air between its cervide teeth, because it has no lips. It shakes its head, setting the bone-chimes on its antlers rattling, chatters its teeth together, and whispers, “Wendigo.”

* * *

Running heedless through the wind-blown wastes, the floating specter a menace on all sides. The Wendigo is everywhere, and inescapable.

Rattling its antlers. Chattering its teeth. Whispering, “Wendigo.”

Gripped by terror, Zeke runs and runs, nearing exhaustion, and gets nowhere. About to collapse, he stops and leans with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath, tears caked with sand. His muscles and lungs burn, face and hands blasted raw by the sand, eyes stinging, mouth dry. And he’s thirsty. So thirsty.

Then Pratha is there. He croaks her name, his throat sore, and reaches for her. His hands pass through her. She looks around, as if hearing something, then she’s gone.

A human figure appears in the distance. He shoves to his feet and forces his way toward it in a lurching stagger.

What he approaches is a greasy mirror, smeared in blood. In the reflection is him, but not him. The other Zeke. Shaved head, tattoos on his neck, gaunt and pale, eyes sunken in his skull. They stare at each other.

The other Zeke shouts, “I can help,” but his voice is faint. Over the doppel’s shoulder, Zeke spies Abel and Cain, fighting off monsters, the butchered and broken bodies of nightmarish beasts all around them, the sand black with blood. Zeke turns, but there’s nothing behind him. Turning back, the other Zeke is gone, and so are The Twins.

* * *

Zeke drops to his knees in a delirium of fatigue, anguish, and despair.

The nightmarish master of the Between shudders into being before him. The Wendigo moves in fits and jerks, like a ghastly doll on strings.

Rattle. Chatter. “Wendigo.”

Zeke realizes he’s ravenous beyond anything he’s ever experienced. He hears his own heartbeat. Smells his own blood.

Rattle. Chatter. “Wendigo.”

Zeke bites his tongue. Delicious blood flows in his mouth. He bites again and chews in ecstasy. He rips the sleeve of his shirt, raises his arm to his mouth and bites deep, nipping bone. He chews hungrily, then gnaws out another chunk, this time splintering bone with his teeth. Skin peels back and tears away as he yanks at the flesh.

The pain is exquisite, as glorious as the taste of his own blood, meat, and sweet marrow. He swallows, stares at his hand. Relishing the pleasure to come, he slides the pinky finger of his left hand deep between his teeth, savoring the sweat and dirt, and nips it off with a crunch and snap.

“Stop!” the other Zeke screams in his head. “STOP!”

Zeke hunches forward, vomiting hunks and fluids of his own body in the dirt. Shaking, freezing cold. The pain hits. He sobs, clutching his wounded arm to his chest, and wails at the sky.

The sun, eclipsed by the moon. Looking at him, an eye of flame, searing his mind. A female voice he’s never heard says, “Where is Zeke Prisco?”

Zeke gasps, looks around feverishly, his mind grasping at the shredding straws of his sanity. Thinking to himself, Where is Pratha? Where are The Twins? And Peter? Where’s Fi?

He’s all alone. I’m going to die.

The other Zeke shrieks, “No, we are not!” The voice is frantic, but soft and far away.

Zeke’s mind is barely able to follow a thread of thought. He’s been alone before. After his step-mother died. Before he met Fi. Now, all by himself, again. Always alone. But it’s not that bad, really. He learned self-reliance. How to think of it not as loneliness, but solitude. Contenting himself with his studies, his books, and his guitar. There’s comfort in having nothing, and no one, to lose.

But he does have someone to lose, and there’s a greater strength in that. If he can just find it…

Wendigo makes a chortling sound. Zeke works up the courage to look at its horrific face. Its jaw works beneath skin like dirty white leather. “Prisco.”

Something unseen gets Wendigo’s attention. It jerks its head about like a bird, then spies something. Its hand shoots out to disappear into nothingness. The air changes, like the clearing of a smoked mirror, and Wendigo has Pratha by the neck.

It speaks unholy and terrible words, and its fingers lengthen to wrap Pratha’s throat like bony vines. Pratha beats at its unnaturally long, gangling arm, tears at its dried flesh with her claws, but it forces her to her knees. She tugs at its fingers, twists at its wrist, tries to break its arm with blows that could smash stone and dent solid steal.

The beast continues to throttle her, dry chuckles crackling in its throat. “My. Domain.”

To Zeke’s horror and amazement, Pratha ceases struggling. Her eyes roll to him. Not pleading or afraid, but calm, and knowing. It’s up to you.

But Zeke’s so weak and wracked with pain he can barely move. Even if he was perfectly fit, what could he possibly do against this—thing? This eldritch horror, this evil god of death and madness. A creature over whom even The Prathamaja Nandana has no power.

Seeing her helpless, at the whim of this monster, a fury rises from deep within. The pain of his self-inflicted wounds is excruciating, but instead of letting it sap his strength, he focuses on it, uses it to clear his mind—and make room for the rage. All of it. A wrath like he’s never known.

He’s struck by lucid determination. Beyond the instinct to survive. An urge to kill. The other Zeke encourages it, pleads for Zeke to let him help. Zeke shuts out the voice, but at the core of it, in the cell in which the other Zeke is locked away, the wrath still burns. Zeke focuses on it, lets it build, until it nearly consumes him.

The symbol Pratha etched on his forehead appears in his mind’s eye. A galaxy swirls behind it. At the center of it all, a kernel of blistering rage. Brighter it grows, until his vision burns red, and his mind expands to take in all around him.

With a new perception made possible by the symbol, he sees the world as it is, not as humanly perceived. The earth beneath his knees, sand-filled air, water of a nearby well, the flaming contents of a tipped barrel. All connected, all vibrating with consciousness, and whispering his name.

But this place, it’s all wrong. He groans through gritted teeth. The ragged edges of the warped and perverse Between begin to knit back together, reality remade by the force of his will, as he accepts the call of the elements.

The Wendigo cocks its hideous face about, clacking its teeth, sensing a drastic change in its world.

The rage and pain of the other Zeke builds as Zeke channels it into his own. Together, they roar a howling roar. The earth is the first to answer, and together, they rise.

* * *

Abel drives his spear through the gut of a bronze-scaled Mbulu. The demon’s tail, ending in a dog-like mouth of jagged teeth, yowls and thrashes, then whips around to snap at Abel’s face. Before it can bite, Cain’s club bats it away. Abel drags the blade of his spear upward, splitting the beast through its chest, neck, and face, then spins and slashes the single bird-leg of a white-faced Chemosit. Red light beams from its freakish, beakish mouth as it screams, hopping to stay upright while it grasps at Abel. Cain’s club sends it flying, broken and flopping, into the storm.

Covered in blood, their weapons dripping gore, the Twins position back-to-back, circling each other, seeking their next opponent. But there’s nothing left. The few demons that remain are fleeing into the bush.

The area is a gruesome killing field, lit red beneath the bloody eclipse. Vehicles wrecked and burning. Smaller fires of trash. Strewn with bodies, and body parts. Beasts of lore and legend. And what once were living people, now just so much mutilated meat, entrails, and shattered bone.

They wind stops. Dust, sand and smoke hang motionless in the air. Only the crackling, hissing fires make a sound. Then they hear rasping breath, rattling of bones, clacking of teeth, and a single hacking cough.

They cast about, looking for its source. Abel says softly, “Cain.”

Cain looks to where Abel points through the murk. They stalk closer, then halt, gazing in disbelief.

Pratha, on her knees. The Wendigo with one hand wrapped around her throat. And Zeke. At least, they think it’s Zeke.

His legs and the right half of his body, including his right arm, are made of stone. In his hand is Wendigo’s scrawny neck.

Abel says, “You seeing what I’m seeing, Brother?”

“I am, though I can hardly believe it.”

The stone spreads through Zeke’s torso and down his left arm. He grasps the wrist of The Wendigo’s hand that holds Pratha. His voice is his own, but deeper, more primal. “Let. Her. Go.”

Wendigo jabbers in defiance. Zeke crushes its arm in his grip, snapping its hand clean off. Pratha falls back, crab-crawls away, and claws the hand from her neck. Cain and Abel run to her and drag her further away. The three of them watch, incredulous.

Wendigo struggles, clacking its teeth in aggravation. It beats on Zeke with the stump of its arm, claws at him with the other, but Zeke’s head and face have become stone as well. But not just stone. Harder than stone could ever be.

Zeke’s clothes rip from his body as he grows. His backpack tumbles away, the straps broken. Dirt flows from the ground through his feet and up his legs. The sand in the air is drawn to him, like metal shavings to a magnet, all combining with his flesh and hardening. Wendigo thrashes and kicks as its feet leave the ground. With his free hand, Zeke reaches toward a burning truck. The flames streak to his outstretched fingers and flow up his arm. Cracks in his body of rock glow orange. His head blooms with fire, and his eyes flare like the sun. Wendigo bursts into flame. Zeke beckons and the air responds with a whirlwind, feeding the flames.

Engulfed in an inferno of unnatural intensity, antlers ablaze, Wendigo thrashes and wails. Fire shoots out of its eyes and mouth. The Twins are forced further back by the heat of The Wendigo’s immolation.

Pratha watches with fascination, the fire dancing in her golden eyes.

“Abel…” Cain says.

“Yes, Brother?” Abel replies, wide eyes glued to Zeke.

Zeke grimaces, increasing the heat. The creature shrieks as its face melts. With a grunt, Zeke snaps its charred neck. The Wendigo hangs limp, and silent.

“Our boy is a fucking ‘Mental.”

Quick! Catch up on the series!

War of Gods is on the way (Add it to your Goodreads profile here). Now’s the time to catch up on books one and two.

 

The post EXCLUSIVE: Excerpt of Dyrk Ashton’s War of Gods appeared first on Grimdark Magazine.

Casting the characters of Ed McDonald’s Blackwing

Ed McDonald’s Blackwing threw itself into the fray in 2017. With its gritty mixture of frontier brutality, despair and dread it solidified itself as one of the best releases of the past few years. To get the ball rolling and get half of Netflix’s job out of the way for them, Ed and I have pulled together a cast ready to hit the Range running.

Galharrow

Our hero. A Blackwing Captain and former military officer, turned alcoholic bounty hunter. Who didn’t love getting into his headspace and seeing the Range and Misery through his eyes? Ed’s picks are Mike Colter (Luke Cage) and Joel Kinnaman (Altered Carbon) Ed wrote “Galharrow’s main traits are the depression that lurks within him, the shattered sense of self and pride that he has lost, but he’s also supposed to be 6’6 and 300lbs. He needs to look like a guy you would never, ever follow down a dark alley. Mike and Joel both fulfil all of those criteria for me – they have both shown great talent portraying lonely, broken, conflicted characters in great shows.” Both options embody aspects of Galharrow well. I picked Nikolaj Coster-Waldau for his grit and after his lackluster farewell on Game of Thrones I feel many of us could agree this would be a good redemption.

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Ezabeth

The most powerful Spinner of the Range. I had the hardest time finding anyone to fit this pivotal Blackwing character, Ed however had one lined up immediately and she could master the role like no other. Ed’s choice for the role which I firmly agree with is Martha Higareda. “There was a picture that I saw of Martha and Joel together in Altered Carbon, and I immediately thought “woah, that’s Galharrow and Ezabeth!” She’s a great actor and brings real feeling to her roles, and just as Galharrow is 6’6, Ezabeth is about 5’ tall and so she fulfils the required height disparity.” After watching Altered Carbon for myself I immediately understood and strongly backed Ed’s pick for our master Spinner.

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Nenn

Loveable crazy Nenn, who doesn’t care if you’re cream or common; to her you’re all the same—shit. Ed’s choice is Wonder Woman’s Gal Gadot. “Nenn is such a fun character to write, and I think she ended up closely rivalling Ryhalt for fan’s affections. Whoever plays her needs to really capture her die-hard spirit, but also her sense of fun. I follow Gal Gadot on Instagram and Twitter and she comes across there as someone who could pull it off.” Ed also continued with “[She is] fierce, looks like she’d spit in the eye of death but grin while she did it.” For me Zoe Saldana (Guardians of the Galaxy) is a contender. Her work as Gamora showed me she had the combat skills, but her personality from a small role as Anamaria in Pirates of the Caribbean showed the kind of attitude we’d want from Nenn.

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Tnota

Master Navigator of the Mister and longtime friend of Ryhalt, Tnota is an interesting man who seems to be twice as much of a drunk as Ryhalt throughout Blackwing. Ed’s pick for Tnota is Paterson Joseph (Timeless). “Tnota is a hard role to cast. He’s a much more subtle character than either Ryhalt or Nenn, but he completes the triangle. He’s at once both a little bit cowardly, but bound loyally to his friends, and often a reluctant hero. He is funny with it, though, and Paterson Joseph has done some great comedy too.” My pick is Sir Ben Kingsley namely for his voice. I read Tnota in a voice similar to his voice for Sabine from Fable III. (or for me Daniel Radcliffe (Miracle Worker) is more than crazy enough to masterfully navigate in the Misery.)

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Dantry

Count Dantry Tanza needs a young actor who has an air of class, dignity and intelligence. Yet for Ed it was never left up for debate. His choice is Zac Efron. “Getting Zac to play Dantry, who is a more minor role compared to those above, would probably be a bit of a challenge – but I enjoy his acting and he looks right for the part. Dantry has to catch the eye, and Efron also has that vigorous youthfulness about him. I saw him in Baywatch recently and my gosh that guy got ripped.” I went with Zachary Quinto best known for playing Spock in the reboot Star Trek movies.

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Herono

Prince Herono, rich beyond belief with connections everywhere in the world of Blackwing. She is able to find and rout out brides and conspiracies as if it were child’s play. This mysterious and interesting old woman is the one-eyed former leader of the Blue Brigade and the current Prince in charge on the Range. For the ruler of the Range Ed picked Dame Helen Mirren while I picked Dame Maggie Smith. Ed and I had an awesome chat about Herono who is one of my favourite characters, “Maggie Smith is actually a really good choice as well. I picked Helen Mirren because Herono has to ooze authority and power at all times, and Mirren pulls that off so well in so many roles. I also think she’d get a kick out of playing her. [Mirren] has such a great sense of power and authority behind her acting.”

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How do our choices look? I think we have quite the cast lined up for Netflix to start writing the script and getting the auditions underway! With Ryhalt, Ezabeth, Nenn, Tnota, Dantry and Herono already covered there are only a few roles left to cast. Who would you feel would be perfect for the roles and for those we have not covered? Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments.

The post Casting the characters of Ed McDonald’s Blackwing appeared first on Grimdark Magazine.

Review: The Mechanical by Ian Tregillis

There I was, looking for a break from the usual sword-and-slashery that we all love so much, when I took to Amazon to find my next read. I had just finished reading Sebastien de Castell’s very entertaining Traitor’s Blade, my tenth medieval-style grimdark fantasy novel in row. While browsing, I remembered seeing some high praise for Ian Tregillis on one of the many good Facebook groups covering fantasy and grimdark. In checking out the description for his latest novel, The Mechanical, I saw that it also received accolades from Publisher’s Weekly, Booklist, and Library Journal. So I decided to give it a go. Man oh man, am I glad I did, because it’s pretty fucking brilliant.

The Mechanical takes place in an alternate history in which the Dutch have created a massive, Europe-spanning empire, thanks to the ingenious alchemical work of scientist and mathematician Christiaan Huygens (1629-1695). Huygens’s fantastic discovery has enabled the Dutch to forge an army of nearly indestructible, sentient clockwork soldiers as well as a host of somewhat pricey clockwork servants to suit nearly every need. It is now 1926, and the Dutch’s utter domination of Europe has forced the French monarchy and officials to flee to Marseilles-in the-West, near the St. Lawrence River in the New World. The only thing that keeps the French from complete obliteration is their work with chemical compounds that enable them to hold off the Dutch soldiers just enough to survive. However, a recent discovery in the work of philosopher Baruch Spinoza (1632-1677) might hold the key to turning the tide of the Alchemy Wars.

The story follows three main characters. Berenice Charlotte de Mornay-Périgord is spy chief (Talleyrand) of the French intelligence agency. She is charged with uncovering the heavily guarded secrets of Huygens’s alchemy that gives life and compulsion to the Dutch Clakkers, their sentient soldiers and servants. Luuk Visser is a French Catholic priest and spy working undercover as a pastor in the Dutch capital at The Hague. Visser is entrusted with passing Spinoza’s discovery to French headquarters in the New World and ultimately to Talleyrand. He hopes to use the unwitting mechanical servant Jax to carry the discovery across the ocean to Marseilles-in-the-West. Jax is a Clakker, servant to the Schoonraad banking family who are moving west to the New World. His adventure forms the central thread of the three narratives, which converge when he reaches the New World and discovers what he is carrying.

The alternate historical setup and the fantastical lives of the clockwork people form an extremely fascinating and compelling story world, and the main characters, as well as a few secondary characters, have vivid psychological lives. But it is the tense, frightening, and astoundingly imaginative action sequences that drive the story, capturing the reader’s imagination and never letting go. Tregillis takes us riding on an impossible sentient airship, throws us into a battle between a clockwork soldier and three dozen terrified humans, and tosses us around on the giant, blazing mechanical fireball that forms the central apparatus of the forge for bestowing life and geas (orders/obligations) on the Clakkers. The result is the type of mind-blowingly creative tour-de-force that makes The Mechanical stand out from the crowded field of speculative fiction novels.

As if that weren’t enough, questions of self-knowledge and, most of all, free will run throughout the story, imbuing it with thought-provoking thematic substance. Are machines capable of self-knowledge? Can freewill be taken from a presumably free human being? Where does freewill lie—in the body? the mind? the soul?  What constitutes free will and can it exist in a pre-programmed being? Tregillis presents these questions and more throughout the story, occasionally touching on the philosophy of Descartes and others. Best of all, he does so without interfering with the story. Although I consider myself well read, the depth of philosophical questioning threaded through The Mechanical is decidedly over my head. Nevertheless, I found the theme extremely compelling as it is situated in the story and in the internal and external conflicts of its characters. Readers can choose to stop and contemplate or merely consider the theme with regard to how it affects and motivates the characters.

You’re probably thinking I’ve already gushed over The Mechanical enough for one review, but I would be remiss if I did not mention Tregillis’s beautifully literary use of language throughout the novel. His descriptions of settings, action, and character, combined with his astute implementation of theme, qualify this novel (in the mind of this over-educated, literature-geek reviewer) as a work of contemporary literature of the kind rarely found in genre fiction. Early in the novel he describes the execution of a cadre of French spies: ‘Next up the stairs—and wheezing like a bullet-riddled accordion—came Minister General Hendriks…’ When Pastor Visser accidentally spills some poison, ‘The deadly crystals pattered like sleet into the hidden ambry. They tinkled across the finely feathered gold inlay etched into the pyx, dusted the filigree of the tabernacle, skittered along the shallow curve of the paten, and settled like dandruff upon the yellowing linen corporal.’ The imagery Tregillis creates through his precise and deeply considered language draws the reader into the very fabric of the story world.

That’s all fine, right? But where’s the fighting? The blood? The morally grimdark? Do not worry: It is here. The alternative world of 1926 is dark and brutal, crude and decadent. Of the main characters, only the Clakker, ironically, is human enough to be mostly good. The others, including Talleyrand and the undercover pastor, are fraught with moral dilemmas, causing them to make some difficult, murderous, and occasionally terrible decisions. Nevertheless, you will find yourself rooting for them, and then wondering if you should be. As if that’s not entertaining enough, imagine someone trying to tie a tourniquet on a slippery, blood-gushing stump of a shoulder from which the arm has just been severed. How about having a piece of shrapnel stuck so far into your eyeball that it scrapes your skull every time you blink? Torture? Hangings? Filthy quid pro quo sex? Explosions? Yes, The Mechanical is delightfully twisted and wicked fun.

By now you’ve probably figured out that I frigging loved The Mechanical, and I can hardly wait for the next volume of The Alchemy Wars. For me, The Mechanical is not only a refreshing diversion from the medieval-style fantasy novels I have been enjoying lately, but it is also beautifully captured piece of grimdark sensibility that I think all fans of good, dark writing will enjoy, be they fans of science fiction, steampunk, alternate history, contemporary literature, new weird, or, yes, grimdark fantasy. Read it.

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Originally published in Grimdark Magazine #5.

Grimdark Magazine #5 is available for purchase from our catalogue.

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