Adrian Collins's Blog, page 229

ANNOUNCEMENT: Grimdark Magazine Open Window

Grimdark Magazine’s 2019 open window for submissions between 1st of November and the 14th of November has begun.

I am looking for grimdark SFF fiction of up to 4,000 words for previously unpublished stories and up to 10,000 words for re-prints. I won’t be interested in anything over these word limits. I also won’t be interested in anything with grimdark “flavours” or “elements”. I’ll want your best grimdark stories in all their gritty  glory. Anything not meeting expectations here will get an auto-rejection–please don’t send stories that are outside our ballpark.

We are also now no longer taking serial submissions.

Our definition of “grimdark” is simply a grim story told in a dark world by a morally grey protagonist. Anti-heroes, antagonists turned protagonists, doing wrong for the right reasons or right for the wrong reasons, showing that evil is a matter of perspective—this is what I’ll be after to sell to our readers. As an SFF publication, we also prefer either medieval fantasy settings or near-to-far future SF settings. Urban fantasy is generally a hard sell.

I encourage submissions from authors from the underrepresented elements of human society. Yours, after all, are some of the most unique stories out there.

In previous open windows most submitters could expect feedback on their story from a GdM team member upon rejection. That will not be the case for this window. Only the stories shortlisted but not selected for publication will receive feedback on why they were not selected. This is to help GdM get through the submissions more efficiently than in previous years.

I hope to purchase between 4-6 original stories and 6-10 reprints. Stories that are purchased will likely be published in 2020.

For more in-depth detail on rights and submission, please refer to our submissions page.

Can’t wait to see what you lot come up with.

The post ANNOUNCEMENT: Grimdark Magazine Open Window appeared first on Grimdark Magazine.

REVIEW: Ship of Magic by Robin Hobb

The Liveship Traders is the second trilogy in Robin Hobb’s The Realm of the Elderlings saga. After a couple of false starts, I ended up loving The Farseer Trilogy. I adored the tale of The Fitz and the Fool so much that I carried on following their narrative, probably incorrectly as this chronologically is set before those events. I read The Tawny Man trilogy next and I don’t imagine that I am the only person who has followed this route. I was then ready to jump straight into the final The Fitz and the Fool trilogy but a top reviewer and friend, Petrik at Novel Notions told me that I’d be missing out on so much if I did. He is one of the only reviewers I truly trust so I took his advice and I haven’t been disappointed. It was actually truly interesting reading it in the order I chose. There is one main character from the first trilogy who is featured but under a different guise and we also visit the treasure beach that Fitz frequented with Prince Dutiful. That is one of the handful of times that the trilogies cross over in Ship of Magic.

Being used to the emotionally focused and truly dedicated “warts and all” first-person perspective of Fitz, the way this novel was presented was a major shift. Hobb’s writing is as elegant, poignant, and admirable as ever, yet having so much of my heart invested in FitzChivalry it did take a while to get on board (no pun intended) with these new players.

I analysed that there were three main characters here, however; Hobb presents the events so that we also get the views of the surrounding players also. My favourite character introduced here was Wintrow. If Fitz pulled at your heartstrings I think Wintrow will be a similar emotional burden on your mind for the drama and what fate has in store for him. He was a priest-in-making who was taken away from his monastery and tutors. His grandfather, a famous captain of the Liveship Vivcacia is close to death. Against his oath but forced by the will of his father he is sourced away from the calling of Sa, of which his life is dedicated to. He is needed on Vivacia as he is a blood family relative to the Vesrits. The Liveship, just quickened, should have been passed to Alethea, Wintrow’s Aunt, not her sisters husband, Kyle Haven. Kyle is the closest that readers will get to a Prince Regal here. Aletha travelled under her fathers flag from when she was a child and was always told and under the impression that the Livership would become her possession and friend. Her mother, and her father’s ailing illness and loss of wit aided to assign the living vessel to probably the worse possible person.

After Aletha and Wintrow, the other main player is Captain Kennit. A dark, charming, and handsome pirate that has a Wizardwood charm on his wrist that talks, and he also wants to be the King of all pirates. He also wishes to commandeer a Liveship. He decides to strike a deal with his first mate that that every time they try to take a Liveship they have to free the cargo from a slaver vessel.

Ship of Magic was slow going to begin with. I wanted to see more of Amber but, for very good reasons she was always on the fringes in this entry. That being mentioned, there were some extremely memorable scenes when she conversed with Paragon, “The Mad Ship”.

As a quick aside, I devoured 25% of this book via audible and I found the narrator excellent. The majority of what is presented here was as brutal as it was unpredictable yet I did predict the ending.

I enjoyed following the majority of the point of view perspectives. Except that of Malta, but I’m sure her character arc will become truly important. It was written well so I have no issues against Hobb going down that avenue, however; she is presented as a spoilt 12-13 year old brat. The happens here hint that she will have importance with the Rain Wild traders going forwards so I am interested to follow her events.

Next to me right now I have the second novel in this trilogy and also Mark Lawrence’s The Girl and the Stars both winking at me saying “read me next.” The fact that I’ve gone straight on to read The Mad Ship, over Lawrence–one of my favourite author’s unreleased books–speaks volumes.

The last 50% of this narrative is sublime. I’m not saying that I prefer it yet over The Farseer Trilogy as the Fool and the Fitz have a place in my heart. The ambitious change in style and direction, focusing entirely on an area that has only been briefly mentioned beforehand is a masterclass in itself. I’m not sure how all the pieces of the fantasy puzzle will fit together but I can’t wait to endure the adventures, heartache, love, and the also foreboding influence of fate with Fitz, the Fool, Wintrow, Alethea, and Kennit. Also, whoever Hobb throws into the mix in her next few tales. You could start reading Hobb’s world here and still have a stunning experience. I’m currently reading to find out every single thing her mind has envisioned throughout this excellent saga.

Buy Ship of Magic by Robin Hobb

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REVIEW: Blood Eye by Giles Kristian

Blood Eye is a grim and gritty tale of ferocious Norse raiders in the 9th century. It has bone-crunching action sequences and a Norse flavour that will leave you desperate to don your ring-maille and plunder the nearest monastery (I believe Giles Kristian is not responsible for any Viking urges you may have).

This is my first historical-fiction review, and I think it fits particularly well with Grimdark Magazine. History is immensely grim AND dark, with characters that are as real as you can get. This fine historical-fiction book is a perfect example of a morally grey world that takes you along for the ride. It’s fantastic.

Osric is a young apprentice to a mute carpenter in a Saxon village, life seems peaceful enough. Until…yes, you guessed it, fearsome Norse warriors appear from the mist in a dragon ship, warriors that have the best arms a ninth century marauder could ask for, warriors that want gold and riches and glory. For those that have read tales of Norse adventure, yes, this starts similarly to others, and it contains a lot that other Norse stories also contain.

“The Raven doesn’t need to fear of anything in the world, because he isn’t from this world”

But it is done so perfectly.

From the first page I was gripped, and by the second chapter I knew that I really loved this story. Everything about it sucked me in. The language, thick and heavy with dark-ages phrasing and feel, the characters, mean and women with relatable personalities, morally-grey characters.

It’s damn good. It really is.

“A strong hand kills, but a cunning mind will keep us alive”

Back to Osric, our only Point of View. He is a fantastic character, with enough heart and passion to send me into the shield-wall. He is young and we see the Norse characters from fresh eyes. I won’t spoil any of the story, but his arc is brilliant, and I can say book 2 is shaping up to have him as one of my favourite PoVs ever.

The supporting characters are just magnificent. With all manner of men, and women. Vikings who implore you to want to be on their ship rowing alongside them, saxons who want you to join them fighting the Welsh, and everyone in-between. I am so invested in this story, and I really urge you to read this book.

“They say that the darkest hour sets in just before the sunset”

This is the first Giles Kristian book that I have read and I am immensely impressed. His description is phenomenal, so that I can smell the dirt in the Norsemen’s beards, hear the call of the Gjallahorn, feel the whipping of the sea and wind against my face, taste the iron-blood after taking a wound to the face (well, I actually did take a wound to the face. After reading a particular fight scene I picked up a Viking sword we have mounted on the wall, gave it a swing, only to have a Saxon warrior aka the door-frame send the steel-weapon swinging back at my head. The nurses in A+E did laugh when I told them I was attempting to be a Norse-raider…).

Any book that pulls me away from my medieval obsession is a good one, and Blood Eye, Book 1 of Raven well and truly took me to a place I had been to before, only giving me 1st class VIP treatment through the journey. Hats off to Giles Kristian, one of my new favourite authors!

5/5 – A ripping, roaring, red tale of Norse warriors in a foreign land. The skeleton might be the same as other books you’ve read, but Blood Eye is filled with authenticity and realism that is hard to imitate.

Buy Blood Eye by Giles Kristian

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REVIEW: Konrad Curze The Night Haunter

Whether you’ve been reading Warhammer 40,000 fiction for years, or are a relative tyro, you are familiar with the Space Marines. These legendary, genetically-enhanced super-soldiers turn the battle in their favor just by showing up; cutting swathes through their enemies with martial and strategic prowess. All Space Marines; Loyalist or Traitor/Chaos, can trace their roots to a Founding Chapter. Each Founding Chapter, in turn, was comprised of Astartes who were the gene-children of a Primarch; that Primarch being a son of the God Emperor of Mankind. Recently, The Black Library began a novella series dedicated to these demigods; hence, The Horus Heresy Primarchs series was born. Today, I review Konrad Curze: The Night Haunter by Guy Haley. This is the story of the Primarch of the VIII Legion, the Night Lords. Note: this is Book 12 in the Primarchs series (each book, of course, is a standalone tome, allowing you to pick and choose as interests you).

Before we start reviewing the book itself, let’s talk a bit about Primarchs, Founding Chapters, and old 40K lore. Suffice to say, over the past few decades, the lore has grown, been fleshed out, and developed a lot. Looking back on the original concepts for the Founding Chapters, you basically have “Historical Military Faction X….in Space”. Substitute any famous faction for X – Romans, Vikings, Mongols, etc. It was cool at the time; it’s near comedic in retrospect, and it’s a testimonial to the work that’s been done to create the rich, canonic lore we have today.

But what about the Night Lords? Well, you know that extra quiet kid from High School, who wore all black and sat in the back? Remember his doodles in his notebooks? All lightning, skulls, curved, talon-edged bat-wings? Wicked claws and swords? Yeah, the Night Lords were his contribution to the lore. They are the epitome of all those drawings. They are the terror in the night, they are badder than bad.

All jokes aside, the Night Lords are a faction which rules, fights, and subjugates via terror. Their Primarch, Konrad Curze, embodies all of the tenets in spades. Named for Joseph Conrad, as well as legendary antagonist Kurtz, he possesses a true heart of darkness. He is also conflicted, self-loathing, and absolutely mad. In harnessing all of these myriad personality traits (disorders?), Haley has presented us with an utterly fascinating, and overall excellent character study of the madman, his last moments, and some snapshots of what made him who he was.

First, the blurb

Of all the Emperor’s immortal sons, the primarchs, it is Konrad Curze whose legend is the darkest. Born in the shadows of Nostramo, a world of murderers, thieves and worse, is it any surprise that he became the figure of dread known only as the Night Haunter? Heed now the tragic story of the creature Konrad Curze, master of the Night Lords Legion, of how he became a monster and a weapon of terror. He who once served the Imperium saw the truth in a maddening universe and the hypocrisy of a loveless father, and embraced the only thing that made any sense – darkness. From the blood-soaked gutters of his hiveworld upbringing, to the last days of his ill-fated existence, Curze is a primarch like no other and his tale is one to chill the very bone…

Quick note: The Primarchs novellas don’t follow strict structural guidelines; hence, they are not all ‘histories’ of the Primarchs. Different authors have chosen to focus on battles, histories, etc., stressing instances which they felt best illustrate the character of the Primarch in question.

The overarching storyline for Haley’s Curze story focuses on Curze’s last days; living in an emotional exile of sorts on the planet Tsagualsa, awaiting the arrival of the Callidus assassin M’Shen (if you are new to 40K, this is not a spoiler: Curze’s assassination is common knowledge). During this period of waiting, he delivers a testimonial of sorts; recounting his life, absolving himself of the atrocities committed by his own hands, and laying the blame for his ails and miseries squarely at the feet of his father, the Emperor of Mankind. These scenes are brilliant, and showcase Haley having a great time writing for this twisted demigod. The motif of “Daddy issues” often comes up when dealing with Primarchs; instead of trying to buck the trend, Haley gleefully picks up the ball and runs like Hell with it. In this scenes, Haley paints Curze as a nightmarish Hamlet; who, instead of regaling a skull with his self-pitying soliloquies, has crafted an effigy of his own father to voice his complaints to. An effigy of his father, comprised entirely of parts cobbled from collected bodies. A literal Corpse-Emperor.

Over the course of decrying his absentee father, and attempting to validate his past actions as righteous, we are treated to a series of vignettes which showcase the real Curze (Spoiler: he’s not righteous; he’s a sadistic madman). Among these are the final days of the crew of the ship which discovered the stasis coffin that Sanguinius had placed Curze in (this, in the end, provided Curze with a ride to Tsagualsa, and his rendezvous with destiny). Other vignettes show glimpses of Curze on Nostramo, his acts in punishing Legion members guilty of acting outside of acceptable parameters of terror, and the rise of a gang-led governmental coup on Nostramo; which would have grave ramifications for the Night Haunter’s adoptive world. Finally, as these storylines play out; we also witness another trend playing out; the degradation of the overall quality of Night Lords Legion stock; exacerbated by the withering quality of aspirants provided for elevation to the level of Astartes.

Let’s look at the elements bit by bit:

Characters

Haley maintains a tight dramatis personae here. This is almost entirely a one-man show, as it should be.

And, I simply cannot emphasize enough how well Haley ‘gets’ Curze, and delivers in his presentation. Haley captures the look, the physicality, the motions, the madness, the tenuous sanity, the rage, the sorrow, even the fear, of this most troubled Primarch. He sets up the plausible argument that yes, perhaps Curze was truly a victim of being a creature of pre-ordained design; and then, we will see an example reminding us of the natural, gleeful malice upon which his cruelties are predicated. Curze’s ‘punishments’ are meted out in the name of a justice, which by his own admission, omits the critical aspect of mercy. Of humanity. And that is because neither are present in his emotional palette.

Konrad Curze is a lethal madman living at the intersection of petulance and depravity, and Haley delivered this with a ribbon on top.

There are cameo appearances by key Night Lords, including fan-favorite Talos. Some decent page time is meted out to First Captain Sevatar, as well as Chapter Equerry Shang. Sevatar makes for a great, stalwart servant of his Primarch, and there is some well-orchestrated friction between him and Shang.

In each of the vignettes, we are treated to memorable human characters. This is a specialty of Haley’s; to flesh out these characters, even though they might only serve insignificant parts in the overall narrative. The best example of this is Elver, serving on the Sheldroon, the freighter which discovers Curze’s drifting sarcophagus. His presence in the novel is bolstered by a detailed backstory, and fully realized character arc. There are primary players in full length novels that do not get this level of authorial investment. But this has always been one of Haley’s strengths; a vivid imagination and the skill to realize it on paper.

Plus, I’m sure he’s aware of the importance of fleshing the characters out quickly. Any human who crosses paths with Curze tends to have their lifespan truncate drastically as a result.

World building

Here we arrive at Haley’s other great strength; worldbuilding. See, Haley is not just a great tie-in fiction author, he’s a sharp, savvy sci-fi author in general. You can really see this in effect when he’s discussing the mechanics of space travel. Most authors treat it as either seafaring vessels, or fighter planes, but in space. Haley truly delves into the physics, theoretics, and all that other scientific stuff which just whizzes over my head.

In the Curze novella, there are a lot of rich backgrounds which are brought to robust life courtesy of his deft keystrokes. The dark, hateful, crime-ridden avenues of Nostramo, where life is less than cheap and taken without a second thought. The filthy, poorly maintained Sheldroon; whose filthy sump tanks have become festering biomes. Desolate Tsagualsa, and the gruesome fortress in which Curze verbally meanders through his last days; decorated with the deft touch of an artisanal sadist. Floors festooned with mosaics of tooth, walls of living, moaning victims, stretched out and stitched together, wailing for an eternity.

The lore of the Night Lords is filled with such macabre window-dressing. Instead of trying to downplay it; Haley again embraces the visceral decor, treating readers to the sights and smells, reminding us that some organs have those stubborn, crunchy-chewy bits.

Action

So, if there’s one complaint that I have about Haley, in general, it’s that I’m not a huge fan of his action scenes. Luckily, there are not many action scenes in this book. The few that are present are done fairly well. However, if you need a little more bolter action in your Warhammer offerings, consider this a fair warning. The crux of this novella is charting Curze’s descent into absolute madness, not mulching xenos.

Overall Writing

Again, stellar. This is a short work, but Haley makes his words count. He lays down a bunch of threads, and makes sure to tie them all up by close. He employs a rich, vibrant, intelligent vocabulary, which is something I’ve always appreciated from him.

Pacing is great; no slow, stalling bits. Nothing rushed, either.

Final Thoughts

This is one of the most enjoyable, satisfying books I’ve read from The Black Library in a while. You can tell that Guy Haley was having a lot of fun writing this book; and that’s good, because when the author’s having fun then usually the readers will too.

Instead of reducing Konrad Curze to a moustache-twirling, cartoon villain; or, potentially worse, a too-cool-for-school misunderstood anti-hero, Haley embraced and explored the madness eating the man. The Primarch of the VIII Legion was a natural dichotomy; both a victim of circumstances (of birth, etc.) beyond his control, and a complicit perpetrator of the atrocities for which he was so rightfully loathed.

Thus was the legacy of Konrad Curze, Primarch of the VIII Legion, and, also, The Night Haunter.

Buy Konrad Curze: The Night Haunter by Guy Haley

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Getting excited for Stormblood by Jeremy Szal

One of the books I’m absolutely pumped about being released in 2020 is Jeremy Szal’s Stormblood from Gollancz. Jeremy’s been a mate for a long time, and having known him since Grimdark Magazine’s early days, and known the sheer grit, determination, and passion he’s shown to get himself into a spot where he could get John Jarrold to represent him and his first choice publisher Gollancz to pick up his book in an exclusive worldwide rights deal has been brilliant to witness.

I’m just stoked to see him succeed.

Anyhow, enough of me riding Jeremy’s coattails, let’s take a look at this book.

Cover

I remember Jeremy showing me this cover at the pub when it was ready and just being blown away. It’s gritty and foreboding, noir-AF, with the blue hues cold and brutal and the white lights great visual cues to draw the eye up from the character at the bottom and to all the SF on offer in this crushing world.

Blurb

Vakov Fukasawa used to be a Reaper: a bio-enhanced soldier fighting for the Harmony, against a brutal invading empire. He’s still fighting now, on a different battlefield: taking on stormtech. To make him a perfect soldier, Harmony injected him with the DNA of an extinct alien race, altering his body chemistry and leaving him permanently addicted to adrenaline and aggression. But although they meant to create soldiers, at the same time Harmony created a new drug market that has millions hopelessly addicted to their own body chemistry.

Vakov may have walked away from Harmony, but they still know where to find him, and his former Reaper colleagues are being murdered by someone, or something – and Vakov is appalled to learn his estranged brother is involved. Suddenly it’s an investigation he can’t turn down . . . but the closer he comes to the truth, the more addicted to stormtech he becomes.

And it’s possible the war isn’t over, after all . . .

Pre-order Stormblood by Jeremy Szal

If that didn’t get you salivating for some pretty epic noir SF, then I don’t know what will. Get yourself a pre-order!

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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…

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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.

The post EXCLUSIVE: Excerpt of Smoke and Stone by Michael R. Fletcher appeared first on Grimdark Magazine.

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.

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