Adrian Collins's Blog, page 233

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.

•

Originally published in Grimdark Magazine #5.

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

The post Review: The Liar’s Key by Mark Lawrence appeared first on Grimdark Magazine.

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

The post REVIEW: Kings of Paradise by Richard Nell appeared first on Grimdark Magazine.

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.

[image error]

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.

[image error]

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.

[image error]

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.)

[image error]

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.

[image error]

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.”

[image error]

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.

•

Originally published in Grimdark Magazine #5.

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

The post Review: The Mechanical by Ian Tregillis appeared first on Grimdark Magazine.

REVIEW: Smoke in the Glass by Chris Humphreys

Who wants to live forever? Smoke in the Glass, historical fiction writer Chris Humphreys’ first foray into adult fantasy, is a tale of four worlds where a lucky few are blessed with immortality. While these immortals rule as gods or eternal noblemen in three of the four, none realize that their ‘worlds’ are a single land, separated only by towering mountains and fathomless seas. And for the first time since the dawn of history, someone is crossing these boundaries to hunt immortals and bring death to the deathless.

Smoke in the Glass is primarily told through a trio of third person narrators–each from a separate world–with occasional forays into the minds of side characters. In Corinthium, a land with a Greco-Roman feel, readers follow Ferros, a soldier deciding if his recent immortal rebirth is a gift or a curse. Across the sea, the mesoamerican-esque island of Ometepe is ruled by an immortal god-king who’s preserved power by slaughtering his fellow immortals (decapitation and fire causing permanent death) as well as his own sons. His favored (and newly, tragically pregnant) wife Atisha acts as the primary POV character in this land. On the other side of the map, frozen Midgarth is home to a Norse-inspired culture of warrior-god immortals and our third protagonist (and my favorite of the three), Luck. While Luck is afflicted by scoliosis and a clubbed foot, his keen mind and ready wit make him the first to catch onto the immortal-killing conspiracy and track the killers across worlds.

While this book almost feels like three separate novels at first, the author does a great job of gradually weaving their common threads together into an intricately cohesive narrative. Although the primary plots move a little slowly at first, intriguing worldbuilding (a little more on that in the next paragraph) and the trio of engaging characters was enough to keep me invested through the early chapters. While there is a fairly large cast beyond the primary POV characters, I never had any issues keeping them straight. Their distinct traits (and three separate settings) made them easy to distinguish, and the author included a helpful dramatis personae in the front of the book just in case. If there’s one thing Humphreys excels at, it’s dropping little mysteries to keep the pages turning. Who’s killing immortals and why? What do Ferros’s fellow eternals want from a simple soldier like him? Why are the mysterious black-eyed priests so interested in Atisha’s child? The author does a great job of building reader curiosity and then rewarding it with solid answers.

On the whole, one of the aspects I appreciate most about this book is the way Humphreys thinks through the implications of the more fantastical elements of his setting. Corinthium, for example, isn’t just a carbon copy of ancient Greece with a few immortals tossed into the mix—it’s a place that’s been fundamentally and convincingly altered by five hundred years of immortal rule. The undying make up an elite class, swiftly gaining military rank or ascending to the all-powerful Council of Lives. Desperate mortals, in an attempt to join them, form illegal suicide cults and worship a goddess of death and rebirth. It’s difficult enough for any author to craft a single world with a convincing culture, religion, people, and any of the other countless aspects that make up a secondary setting. One has to respect a writer who takes on and succeeds in the challenge of including four in a single novel.

If I had one major qualm about this book, it would concern the ending. While I enjoyed the en media res opening chapter with Ferros and a fellow soldier preparing to ambush a crew of Saphardi raiders, I was less keen on a closing that stopped smack in the middle of the action and introduced an entirely new mystery. There’s a difference between ending on a cliffhanger and dangling a reader over an open volcano until book two comes out.

Closing chapter aside, I really enjoyed this book. Smoke in the Glass isn’t pulp–Humphreys’ plot, prose, and characters give this book a sense of quality and gravity without skimping on fun and readability. If readers are in the mood for traditional fantasy with historical verisimilitude and a mythical twist, this is the novel for them. For grimdark readers in particular, certain aspects of the story (the suicide cults, a flaying or two, and a pulse-pounding duel reminiscent of Fenris the Feared and the Bloody Nine) will hold special appeal. I’d give this novel 4/5 stars, and I’ll be awaiting book two with the impatience of a man who is very much mortal.

Buy Smoke in the Glass

 

The post REVIEW: Smoke in the Glass by Chris Humphreys appeared first on Grimdark Magazine.

Grimdark and Nihilism

‘Bleak’, ‘savage’, ‘nihilistic’, are words that tend to get flung around when discussing grimdark. It’s kind of in the name, really. A grimdark book ended ‘and they all lived happily ever after’ would quite possibly be in breach of the Trades Descriptions Act. I don’t think it will come as a huge spoiler to say that the Empires of Dust series doesn’t end with a group hug and the words ‘and they all lived happily ever after’. Grimdark worlds are generally bleak, savage, violent, filled with cruelty and pain and hate. ‘Life’s but a tale told by an idiot, filled with sound and fury, signifying nothing.’

But I never really think of it as ‘nihilism’. ‘Statement of the bleedin’ obvious’, more like it.

The great bleak brutal masterpieces of war literature, from The Trojan Women to War and Peace to Das Boot, are bleak because they are opposed to war. Their purpose, if I can I be so reductive, is to point out how terrible war is in the hope that someone might, you know, think a bit about that. ‘War is bad’ is hardly a radical statement – outside of heroic fantasy, when war is so often shown as morally necessary and good and without real consequence. If grimdark fantasy is particularly violent fantasy, getting down and dirty and bloodsoaked and vicious, it’s possible there’s a reason for that. Killing the evil dude might be morally necessary, even in grimdark – but it still doesn’t mean it’s anything other than awful and likely to damage everyone involved, and grimdark goes out of its way to show that.

Grim and dark is what life is. What life means. That passage in Bede when he compares a human life to a bird flying in the dark empty night, and it flies into a great feasting hall filled with noise and warmth and laughter, and then out into the empty dark again and it’s gone. People do terrible things to each other, people’s lives are blighted and broken, there is no hope for them. Children’s lives are blighted before they are even godsdamned born. Those who inflict these things triumph. Those who suffer them suffer on and on. All power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely, most people are basically horrid …. wait, what? Seriously? Who knew? The only think that shocks me when some terrible scandal breaks is that everyone seems so surprised to learn all isn’t for the best in not the best of all possible worlds.

As my mum once said: I’d like to believe in divine purpose, a benevolent god, an afterlife, yes.

A fantasy in which good endures and triumphs, the good guys are simply good is just that … a fantasy. We need morality, we need to scream out to universe that some things are an abomination against any basic notion of human decency, of course we do. But, as I’ve said before and I’m sure I’ll say again, believing in heroes is too easy. Dividing the world into good and evil and agreeing that we are on the side of good is both too easy and far, far too dangerous. A lot of very bad people have deeply and genuinely believed themselves to be on the side of the angels. It’s frighteningly easy to side into the age-old excuse that the end justify the means. And sometimes, sometimes, the terrible truth is that we’re too busy to condemn when ultimately perhaps the end did justify the horrifying means. The image of the hero striding into battle knowing that’s he’s justified in what he does, fighting for the light against the darkness, those he kills are simply evil, his sacrifices are worth the cost … it’s inspirational, yes, wonderfully so, rightly so. But read uncritically, it’s also profoundly dangerous. The truth is dirty and terrible, good people are arseholes, bad people do great noble thing. Sometimes an innocent child has to suffer and die for the greater good of the many. Sometimes there’s nothing anyone anywhere can do. In the end, deep down, we’re all walking on other’s suffering.

The world’s really not fair, no.

But understanding how brief life is, how easily all that one loves can be crushed out: with that understanding comes the desperate need to hold those things close. One fragile moment of happiness, of beauty … hold it tight to your heart and treasure it, for too soon it will be gone, all things die, all things fade, darkness comes and the light is so weak. The old lie, ‘Death or glory! Death! Death! Death!’ No: remember how fragile life is and how pointless, and cling on to life.

That thin pathetic line between rage and despair: that’s hope.

The voice screaming into the abyss: that’s hope.

Hold those you love close to you. Recognise that the world’s a cruel place.

Grimdark is that awareness. The reality of pain, the knife blade cutting in. And the determination to go on, keep on, fight on. There are no heroes, no certainty, there’s no bright shining prophecy of light. Just messed-up selfish wretched people trying to live their lives as best they can, trying to find something of love and happiness, trying to survive all the pain life brings. One single moment of beauty. One single glimpse of something good. A tiny perfect fragment in a damaged life.

Grimdark nihilism is hope, I think.

Check out The House of Sacrifice for more grimdark nihilism

Haven’t read the first two books? Crikey! Sort that out!

The post Grimdark and Nihilism appeared first on Grimdark Magazine.

EXCERPT: The God King’s Legacy by Richard Nell

Richard Nell is a hugely popular self-published dark fantasy author. His Ash and Sand series, which begins with the critically acclaimed Kings of Paradise, has been a huge hit and is currently approaching 700 ratings on Goodreads with an average score of 4.3/5. Richard kindly sent us a sample chapter from The God King’s Legacy, a contestant in this year’s Self Published Fantasy Blog Off contest. I hope you all enjoy.

The God King’s Legacy

Excerpt

Richard Nell

Celeste was gone when Lamorak kicked the door and growled.

“Get up, and wake the men.”

Johann grunted but stayed in bed long enough to smell her scent on his sheets, pillows and skin, then rose to the pre-dawn gloom. After brief hesitation he packed away his apprentice robes, setting aside the lighter and more comfortable uniform of a Fort Tyne Regular. He set his inks, quills and needles on top, wrapping them in the heavy fabric before finding space for books, drawings, and finally his pistol.

When he was finished he stopped and stared at the two dark outlines of Sazeal and Amondras, both demon’s marks now etched concisely on his shaved chest.

“Are you afraid?”

Celeste had trailed the ink and tender flesh with her finger as they lay in their first post-coital glow the night before.

“The creature I mean to capture is within my strength,” Johann said, as if unconcerned, but really thinking yes, I’m terrified.

He’d felt her eyes on him, so he’d smiled. “Anyway, I could die in battle, or to one of Lamorak’s rages, and then I need not worry at all.”

She’d smiled back and drawn closer, as if for protection and comfort. But as he draped an arm around her shoulders, he’d wondered who was comforting who.

“Hurry the hell up.”

Johann jumped as Lamorak kicked the door again. He pulled the tie to close his bag, tossed it onto his back, and grasped his gun.

He found the knight fully dressed in traveling clothes outside his room, already chewing old bread and greasy chicken at the dining table. He looked up, and winked his milky eye, and Johann saw the good one was red and bleary, as if he hadn’t slept.

“First, the men, then eat your fill. You’ll need the strength.”

With a nod Johann obeyed and walked through the empty hall and corridor, using a candle to light his path. He shouted into the barracks first, then walked through counting to make sure every man roused.

“Where is Hagan?”

He found one bed empty, and knew the men well enough now to know who was missing. Hagan’s bunkmates glanced and shrugged, seemingly not concerned or interested.

“Stow your gear and muster in the courtyard. We collect water and rations and then march. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

The verbal salute rose sleepily down the line, and Johann wondered in amazement again that suddenly he was a ‘sergeant’.

God damn Scribery. God damn Lamorak.

But he smiled a little as he walked back to the courtyard, which was now dimly lit by a rising dawn. His pace slowed as his mind wandered to logistics and the journey ahead. The carts can bear most of the water, powder and shot, but perhaps I should have the men carry extra ammo.

Also he didn’t really know if they would stick to roads, or if they had to cross fields or woods. Perhaps they couldn’t even bring the damn carts at a certain point, so the men should carry most of the ammo.

Dark shapes flickered and mixed with Johann’s shadow to disturb his thoughts. He squinted and idly glanced up, then stopped walking. He saw the feet, first. Soldier’s boots, dangling beneath the swaying corpse of a young man.

The soldier still wore the blue and silver of the king, the colors more vivid next to the paleness of his dead skin. He sagged from the fort’s rampart, nailed to a wooden beam, his purple neck signaling he’d been hung, first. It was Hagan.

Johann lowered his eyes and ran inside the fort. A few servants tried to greet him with polite bows, but soon leapt aside when he said nothing and stomped past.

“Lamorak!” He wasn’t sure if he meant to warn, or accuse. The main entrance flew by unnoticed, and Johann soon stood in the guest wing with fists at his side.

He found the knight still seated, belching loudly as he drank what Johann hoped was water. Something in the knight’s eyes brought a swift and sober dose of calm, and Johann’s feet slowed as he clacked the last few steps over the tile.

“Have you seen Private Hagan, Sir?”

Lamorak set down his cup and sniffed.

“I strung him up.”

“May I ask his crime?”

The knight’s face remained frighteningly impassive.

“Private Hagan was caught last night attempting to leave the fort. He was therefore either a deserter, or a spy.”

“Was either? You don’t know which? And for this he was killed and hung on a stake like a bloody scarecrow?”

Lamorak smirked, which did not help.

“Yes, a scarecrow for traitors. Very good.”

“And you think this will be good for morale, do you? On the first morning of our march?”

“Let me worry on morale. It needn’t concern you.”

“You’re the one who made me their defacto quartermaster, their defacto sergeant. Isn’t that my bloody job?”

“Yes fine and you’re doing admirably. In fact I’d say you’re a natural, which I fully intend to say in my report. Now shut your God damn mouth, and go do your job.”

Johann straightened, feeling slapped. “I fully intend to.” He paused to regain control over his emotions, and wondered when and why the hell he’d considered anything except capturing Sazeal his job. “In future, if you’re going to hang my men without trial, I would at least like to be informed.”

“It happened quickly.” The knight rose and wiped grease from his face with a sleeve. “Besides,” he showed his yellow teeth as he met Johann’s eyes, “I came to tell you. You were…busy. I chose to let you sleep, undisturbed. Was I wrong?”

Johann swallowed as his face burned. He shook his head weakly.

“Good. Now sit and eat something, and put a big stupid grin on your face for the men. Then we march.”

* * *

Before they’d left the fort, a small wagon train with two carts and four horses had arrived and waited at the gate. Lamorak stepped out and spoke to the old, haggard looking driver with a toothpick dangling from his dry lip.

“This is Mr. Whitworth,” he’d said, after shaking the man’s hand and returning. “He’s concerned about an ambush from the Militia, so we’ll escort him and his sons on our way.’

Johann hadn’t bothered to ask any questions. He was still sore over Hagan, and in any case didn’t expect a straight answer. Now he marched in line with the men carrying his heavy arquebus on a sling, fifty pounds of gear slowly bending his back like a stalk of wheat in the wind. He squinted a glare at the unseasonally blistering spring sun, then back towards the small caravan.

Lamorak rode beside it speaking with the driver. The two men laughed like old friends, which for whatever reason wore on Johann’s nerves.

“Some kind of side deal, you figure?” The always-nosy Private Taylor had apparently noticed the direction of Johann’s eyes. “A little of the ‘king’s protection’, eh? For a few crowns?”

Johann knew he should immediately reject this. But he stared hard at the knight and decided it entirely feasible. In fact, Lamorak seemed perfectly capable of anything—whether some utterly selfless and noble deed, or something entirely base and vile.

He’s a wolf garbed in chivalry, he thought. And yet he seems loyal, and mostly on the balance good, and retains the king’s colors and trust.

How strange life was.

After a few hours of marching Johann glanced longingly at his horse, which he’d offered up to help tug supplies. The move hadn’t been entirely selfless, if he was honest, since his hatred for riding remained as strong as ever. But his hatred of marching grew by the moment.

Finished at last with his fits of coughing and laughing next to his new merchant friend, Lamorak clicked his warhorse forward to walk near Johann at the front of the men. He spoke loudly.

“So can the wench still walk this morning? Or will she need the day to recover?”

The men glanced at each other, a few smirks forming on confused faces. Johann’s mind seemed to blank entirely, his legs only marching from sheer, monotonous practice.

He makes it public? Now? And dares to call her ladyship wench?

He felt his hand twitch, as if in some madness seeking his gun.

“Oh leave off, brother. The serving wench, whoever she was. You can tell us.”

Lamorak raised a conspiratorial brow, and seemed to mistake Johann’s blinding rage for something coy. He raised his voice so more men could hear.

“Twenty years of untapped lust in a tower. Last night I expect our scribe here broke the poor girl in half.”

The men raised a general roar of approval, and Johann bore the few backslaps and shoulder shakes because he had no choice. He said nothing, and when the men silenced as if waiting for a speech, he cleared his throat.

They howled again, louder and longer, as if they’d heard some bawdy punchline. He walked on in silence.

* * *

By dusk the men had set up barricades with wood and sandbags, camping as ordered on the slight curve of the road-side hill. They’d kept their fires low and mostly hidden by a ring of men’s backs, but still the party wasn’t exactly quiet. Their voices murmured and their knives and spoons clattered on bowls, but as night drew and no threat appeared, they grew less concerned in the gloom.

“Johann, Williams, scouts, with me.”

Lamorak had said little as the men went to their rest, but now he leaned like a dog on the hunt, and pointed at the trees.

Johann followed with his eyes and saw three figures had emerged from the near-by woods. They had clearly come forward a ways before noticing the camp. Now they were frozen like scared rabbits with a predator in sight.

The knight turned and leapt to his charger’s back. Johann and what few scouts they had scrambled for the nearest horses, which were unhooked from their burdens but as yet unsaddled.

A panicked burst of strength let Johann leap easily to the beast’s back, and without thinking he yanked on its mane and kicked its side, steering to follow the red dust rising behind Lamorak’s charge.

“Planck, right, Williams left,” Lamorak called. “There’s three of them. None escape until we know who they are.”

“Yes, sir!”

Johann had to turn his mount only with his thighs, but the animal seemed to understand, and seemed also to feel the urgent panic of its rider. As the now cool night wind rushed like a gale over Johann’s ears and hair, for a moment he thought the horse grew wings.

He clung desperately with clenched hands and squeezed legs as it snorted and raced down the slope towards the trees. He felt a thrill of fear, and in the last moments before it rushed into the woods, he prayed it could see the trunks clearer than he.

“Stop, or die, in the name of the king!”

The sound of Lamorak’s call and warhorse echoed like voices in an empty hall, reverberating through the trees. Johann meant to join his voice to it, and tried, then nearly flew from his mount.

A tree branch lashed across his face, the pain sharp against his cheek and half-open lips. He kept from calling out then focused every ounce of will to secure his hold, daring a glance up only after.

In a frozen moment, he looked and observed the wide, panicked eyes of a man-shaped figure, its arms raised. Then it slammed against the flank of his mount.

The man cried out and bounced away with a terrible thud, and Johann’s mount slid across the moist dirt and leaves. It nearly fell, then reared, promptly tossing Johann from its back.

Stars swirled above him in the red streaked blackness, and he rose slowly, and cautiously, testing each limb. When he found his feet and thanked God his body hadn’t been shattered, he staggered to the fallen silhouette of a cloak-wrapped body laying prone in the dirt.

“Are you alright? Who are you?”

Johann reached to his belt for a weapon, realizing now he hadn’t taken so much as a knife. He stood still and panted as he clutched his aching side, still debating what to do as Lamorak and the scouts dragged two more figures into the tiny clearing.

The knight dismounted, glancing briefly at Johann and around the trees.

“You’ve lost your horse.”

He didn’t smile, but Johann knew him well enough now to see the amusement in his eyes.

“We had a minor disagreement.”

Lamorak nodded and threw back his prisoner’s hood before tossing him to the ground, the scouts instantly doing the same.

“We ain’t doing no ‘arm, sir, please, don’t kill us.”

The almost feminine voice held a pitiful whine, and Johann blinked and stared at the total lack of whiskers on either face. He soon realized they were only boys of maybe eleven, or twelve.

Lamorak didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps care. He drew his sword and stepped forward, laying the naked steel on the boy’s shoulder.

“Kill you? Why should I kill you? What are you doing out in these trees in the middle of the night?”

“Please, please.” The boy’s face paled, his wide eyes reflecting the moon. “We won’t tell no one you were ‘ere, we swears it.”

At this the knight glanced at Johann, his jaw clenched, his eyes hard.

“Tell? And who would you tell, boy?”

While he spoke he knelt and checked the child Johann’s horse had rammed, flipping him to his back.

Even in the dark Johann saw blood smeared across the young face. He could hear the slight wheezing as the unconscious boy drew difficult breath.

“Nobody, sir, ‘ain’t nobody to tell, I mean, and I wouldn’t.”

Lamorak propped the unconscious boy against a tree, then without a word or a pause, he ran him through. A gurgled last choke escaped the boy’s lungs, and Johann jerked involuntarily, staring as the boy died. He felt a sudden numbness.

“I know you serve the militia. It’s alright. Are there more of you? More of you out in these trees?”

The boy stared at the corpse of his companion. “N-no, sir. I mean we don’t, sir, and ain’t no more of us. I swear.”

Lamorak nodded, then smiled sadly, like a father punishing his rebellious son. “Good lad. It’s alright. Look away now, or close your eyes.”

He seized the prisoner firmly, but gently, and the boy nodded and cried out as Lamorak pierced his chest with the bloody blade. They stayed there, almost embracing, as the child died.

“And you?” Lamorak looked to the last boy, who trembled and clutched the corpse beside him like driftwood in the sea. “Anything to add?”

The survivor swallowed, then spit in the dirt. “Long live the patriots.”

Lamorak nodded, then in one swift motion drove his blade through the boy’s chest.

All the while, Johann and the scouts stood perfectly still. Finished now, the knight paused and breathed the night air, and for a moment it seemed as if time froze in the clearing.

“They were children,” Johann finally whispered. He couldn’t seem to stop himself from shaking.

“Yes, children, and soldiers, and traitors.” Lamorak planted his bloody sword tip in the earth as he looked at the scouts. “Well done, gentlemen. Find the sergeant’s horse and return to camp. Tell the others the enemy scouts are slain. They can rest easy tonight.”

“Sir.” The scout blinked and tore his eyes from the bodies with a brief salute, then moved into the trees. When he’d gone, Johann met the knight’s eyes.

“You call this the king’s justice? This?” He pointed. “The slaughter of children?”

Lamorak surged instantly forward, face twisting with sudden rage. He seized Johann’s tunic and shook him, painfully tugging the fabric before he held him tight.

“I didn’t make him a soldier, did I? You’re all children. All of you. You’ve no idea how your world was forged, no understanding of loyalty, or honor, or knowledge of what your king gives you, what he bears for you. And I would murder ten thousand, a hundred thousand, to preserve this kingdom, this paradise, now rejected by those living like spoiled brats within. Do you understand me? Can you possibly?”

The knight gasped and released him, wild eyes blinking as they regained focus. Johann said nothing and stood perfectly still. He felt as if the knight could truly kill him. But when Lamorak spoke again, his voice had calmed.

“This is not a story in one of your books, Johann. In this world the strong gnash at one another with bared teeth. They twist and use and devour the weak, and justice is an endless war that can’t be won.” He sighed. “Tomorrow you and I will take our host of young men to slaughter another, and the old lords who roused them will sit in their castles and plot again. That is the truth.”

He took a deep breath and stepped away.

“Now get back on your fucking horse. Ride back to our men, and say we got the bastards trying to kill them. Show them their officers are keen-eyed killers, and all is well, and maybe a few will find their rest tonight. Understood, Sergeant?”

Johann stiffened, unable to quite wipe the sneer from his face, though deep down he wished he could. He raised his hand to his chest and clicked his boots in the formal salute of a Keevish soldier.

“Yes sir, perfectly, sir.”

Purchase The God King’s Legacy

The post EXCERPT: The God King’s Legacy by Richard Nell appeared first on Grimdark Magazine.

REVIEW: The Light Brigate by Kameron Hurley

“When you drop, you burst apart like…Well, first your whole body shakes. Then every muscle gets taut and contracts, like you’re experiencing a full-body muscle spasm centered in your core. The CO says it’s like a contraction when you’re having a kid, and if that’s true, if just one is like that, then I don’t know how everybody who has a kid isn’t dead already, because that’s bullshit.

Then you vibrate, you really vibrate, because every atom in your body is being ripped apart. It’s breaking you up like in those old sci-fi shows, but it’s not quick, it’s not painless, and you’re aware of every minute of it. You don’t have a body anymore, you’re locked in.

You’re a beam of light.”

I’ve been following Kameron Hurley on Twitter for way too long to not have read any of her work, especially since I own many of her books. I think she is ridiculously intelligent and constantly makes me think with what she says. I’m happy to report that it’s not just her tweets that tickle my brain, because goddamn. I dug the hell out of this!

I’m admittedly a rabid fan of military SFF. Besides books, obviously, other media that focuses on this sub-genre are some of my absolute favorite franchises! Aliens, Battlestar Galactica, Mass Effect… there’s just something about this genre that I can’t help but devour. Most recently, I’ve been diving into Myke Cole’s Reawakening series, which is military fantasy with sci-fi elements. When The Light Brigade was described as a successor to the classics like Starship Troopers and The Forever War (one of my all-time favorites), I knew I needed this to be my first Hurley. I mean… diverse military sci-fi time travel?!? Sign me the fuck up for all that!

Also, how fucking gorgeous is that cover by Eve Ventrue? I hadn’t heard of her until this, but you better believe I will be keeping up with her work from now on! Oof.

“It’s tough to understand a thing just by hearing about it or looking at it. It’s like having sex or getting into a fight. You don’t get it until you do it.”

The Light Brigade follows Dietz, who is an infantry recruit (a grunt) when we first meet her. She has joined the military in the war against Mars after an intensely traumatic event wipes out millions of people. Earth is run mostly by corporations, rather than the government. Because of this feud with Mars, they have developed a highly advanced, yet experimental, technology to travel quickly to combat zones.

The time travel in this is just fucking bananas! The soldiers are broken down into light particles and jarringly transported to their destination, where they are then reassembled. Seems safe, yeah? UM, NOPE. Things don’t always work out. Because of course not! I’m a fan of body horror, so I just ATE THIS UP!

The title refers to a nickname that is used for the soldiers in the Corporate Corps who have a bad reaction to the drop, which is when they teleport. Dietz is someone that experiences bad drops, but unlike anyone else. She is going through strange things, which often leaves her disoriented and questioning her mental stability. Eventually she begins to realize that she is experiencing the war throughout various time periods, which gives her a different view on the war and who the enemy truly is.

The most interesting thing for me in these types of books is what actually happens in combat and delving into how it affects a person’s mind. That’s what differentiates this particular sub-genre from other science fiction. Rather than have the primary focus on grim environments and alien species and space battles… the integral part of the stories are the soldiers. Hurley nails this. She’s exploiting the horrors of war, without ever glorifying or promoting it. And these characters completely captured my heart. Their chemistry, banter, comradeship, how authentic they felt… just ALL THE THINGS!

The Light Brigade is a mind-fuck. In fact, I’m finding it hard to gather my thoughts about it because it’s just… it’s a lot. ::insert reactionary gif of a brain exploding:: It’s brilliant and weird and just fucking brutal as hell. I adored all of the references that were sprinkled throughout, although I’m sure I missed even more. GAH!! I loved this book so goddamn much!

This is All You Need Is Kill (highly recommended – it’s the book that The Edge of Tomorrow is based on) meets The Forever War meets Battlestar Galactica, but far more aware of issues involving the real world and our present-day situation. Hurley is such an engaging writer. This is truly a masterful piece of military science fiction. Visceral, evocative, gritty, emotional and written with so much heart.

It has that old-school feel, but it’s a game changer. For real.

ALL THE BLOODSHED STARS IN THE GALAXY!!

(Massive thanks to the rad folks over at  Saga Press  for sending me a copy!)

Buy a copy of The Light Brigade

The post REVIEW: The Light Brigate by Kameron Hurley appeared first on Grimdark Magazine.

An Interview with Geoff Brown

Geoff Brown is the award-winning Australian writer and Australian Shadows Award finalist-editor owner of Cohesion Press.

Cohesion Press is best known for its flagship military horror anthology series SNAFU, stories from which recently made up a decent percentage of the fiction used to create the Netflix series Love, Death + Robots helmed by Deadpool’s Tim Miller.

[AC] The biggest news for Cohesion Press this year was the release of its stories in Love, Death + Robots. How does a small publisher from regional Victoria in Australia end up with their stories in a Netflix series?

[GB] Hard work combined with the best product possible. That is all. The Internet made it possible for us to reach anyone if we tried, so we tried, and we reached Hollywood.

I knew right from the get-go what I wanted in SNAFU, which is the book that caught Tim Miller’s eye in the first place.

Tim has since told me he read the first SNAFU when it came out in 2014, and he went ahead and read every anthology we released after that. Tim loves the short story format.

My advice to get the right attention? Just do a proper job. No cutting corners. No ‘near enough is good enough’. Just do it as it should be done.

So many publishers these days do a half-arsed job with every aspect of their output.

Crappy cover art and design, editing done by a friend who teaches high-school English (editing is a skill in itself, and being good at English and/or a heavy reader is NOT enough), layout done by Amazon when they upload a Word document.

That was never enough for me. If I couldn’t master a skill required, I would find an industry professional to do that aspect.

Hell, some of the presses these days are started by people who are barely authors themselves, let alone professionals, but suddenly (thanks to the ease of publication as a result of Kindle Direct and print-on-demand services) anyone can call themselves a publisher and release piles of crap on unsuspecting readers. No training, no industry awareness, and no care to gain any experience or knowledge.

We worked hard to reach the audience we have with SNAFU.

I’ve read my whole life, and then I worked in the publishing industry first as a beta reader, and after that I went on to study full-time for two years to gain the skills necessary to edit and perform layout for our work. I then opened as a freelance editor with the skills from study, as well as studying for a Bachelor of Arts in Writing and Publishing, online through a university. You can’t just put half-assed crap out and then feel entitled to success.

[AC] Not to make you pick from your babies, but which was your favourite adaptation and why?

[GB] I loved them all, for different reasons.

I thought Kirsten Cross’ short, Sucker of Souls, was brilliant, both as a story and as adapted into the animation. The characters, the humour, the dialogue, all made it across the process and were adapted beautifully.

Steve Lewis’ short story Suits had a real poignant humanity about it, how family and friends will do anything for each other, no matter the cost, and that was also brought perfectly into the short film.

David Amendola’s short, The Secret War, was just brutal in nature, and again, the animation sourced by Tim (Miller) and David (Fincher) was just right to convey this brutality in all its glory. Digic Pictures managed to make the short with almost photo-realism, capturing every spray of blood and head ripped from shoulders. Loved it, but I loved them all.

[AC] SNAFU is Cohesion’s flagship series. What is it all about and what can grimdark fans find in there to like?

[GB] SNAFU is the dark horror of war, short and simple. So much horror is creeping, subtle and gothic… ours is violent, brutal, and desperate. We ask for action, violence, tension, and blood, all as a result of warriors pitting themselves against monsters. Think Aliens (the sequel with the Colonial Marines), Dog Soldiers, Predator, all that cool shit. Violence, betrayal, intestines… who could ask for more?

[AC] You’re also Tim Miller’s senior story consultant. What does that role include?

[GB] I’m one of the senior story consultants for Love, Death + Robots. There are a few of us. What we did, and still do, is read. A lot.

After contacting Cohesion and buying rights to some of our shorts, Blur (Tim’s studio) was still hunting for more stories for season one. Tim’s taste was decisive for many of the final choices, and because he believed I had a similar taste in action/horror as he did, he wanted me to read widely in my narrow area of the genre and let him know when I found a short that I would have included in a SNAFU if it had been sent in for consideration.

All the story consultants were basically sending in the best stories we found. There was a spreadsheet Blur Studios had put together on Google Docs, a list of anthologies (hundreds and hundreds of them) that potentially may have something that could be used, so we slowly read through that list, but the beauty of having so many different readers in so many different genres was that we would likely come across stuff that wouldn’t be on that list.

[AC] What’s it like working with a famous Hollywood director?

[GB] Just like working with anyone else, really. Tim is a decent, focused, driven, down-to-earth guy.

He’s not up himself, he’s not pretentious or arrogant. He’s just another guy. He and his wife, Jennifer, are both just nice people.

They do hope one day to bring their family out to Australia to see the haunted asylum I own. That would be a very cool day, I have to say.

[AC] What is the next year looking like for Cohesion Press?

[GB] With SNAFU: Last Stand coming out at the end of 2019, and with a great selection of SNAFU stories in the process of being bought for season two of Love, Death + Robots, we’re looking at a great year for Cohesion. We plan to continue the yearly SNAFU release, and leave our focus on that.

AJ (Spedding) and Matt (Summers) are the two hardworking folk who keep the vision of SNAFU alive, and with their dedication to putting together the very best SNAFU release every year, Cohesion will keep chugging along, putting out books and watching them come to life on the screen with Netflix.

[AC] Running a small press is hard. What do you see as the biggest challenges facing Cohesion in the short and long terms?

[GB] As always, marketing and reach are the challenges faced by small and mid-sized presses across the board. With Amazon levelling the playing field with Kindle, we all have to plough through the swamp of mundanity to attract the attention of readers. With thousands of books published every week, at least, there are a lot of things out there saying “Hey, buy me, read me!” And most of them are shit.

We’re lucky in that regard. You can’t get much better marketing than Tim and Netflix.

All we have to do is stay current. Adapt to the market, yet stay true to our core concept and to the faithful readers who buy every issue.

[AC] What’s your favourite part of running Cohesion?

[GB] I have to say I love seeing authors we’ve put out there doing really well in all aspects of their career.

Some of our SNAFU writers, due to attracting Tim’s attention, ended up working on Love, Death + Robots in some other aspect as well.

These are people who never would have thought they’d be working with Hollywood, yet there they are.

I love seeing these writers feel positive and uplifted rather than constantly struggling to believe they are any good.

[AC] For people wanting to check out Cohesion Press’ productions, where should they start and what’s the best way for them to support you?

[GB] Buy a SNAFU. Review a SNAFU. We sell exclusively on Amazon for now.

We have eight SNAFUs out in ebook, and the latest one, SNAFU: Resurrection, is also in print.

We’ll be bringing more and more of the previous volumes back in print over the next year, as well.

If you enjoy what you read, leave a review and/or talk about it. Word-of-mouth is still the best marketing.

[Editor’s note: this interview is also available in Grimdark Magazine Issue #19]

Purchase SNAFU: Resurrection

The post An Interview with Geoff Brown appeared first on Grimdark Magazine.