Adrian Collins's Blog, page 238
March 22, 2016
A Beer or Three with Michael R. Fletcher
A couple of months back I was lucky enough to grab Michael R. Fletcher for a chin wag and a beer from half the world away. We had a brilliant chat about Beyond Redemption, what happens when your book isn't a hit, what he's up to next and drank some marvellous beers.
Half a day later, in one of my most infuriating screw-ups to date, I surrendered to the undeniable fact that I had only recorded my voice and Mike was just lip synching to a muted sound track.
This video is our second attempt at A Beer or Three With Michael R. Fletcher. I made Mike laugh at my jokes to make me seem less awkward. I believe he's done an admirable job.
I hope you enjoy our chat. Keep en eye out for for more from the GdM team in our A Beer or Three With... interviews.
A huge thanks to Mike for his time (twice over), his patience and for being our first guest.
March 17, 2016
Cover Reveal: GdM Battle-Off winner Jo Hall claims her cover art prize!
A few more than a few months back the GdM Battle-Off wrapped up with Joanne Hall taking the top spot and cleaning out an absolute swag of prizes. One of those prizes was a cover from Jason Deem at Spiral Horizon Art--and man, has he delivered. Check out this piece for Joanne Hall's The Summer Goddess.
[image error]
To check out the battle scene that won Joanne this awesome prize, click here.
A Little Bit About The Summer Goddess
When Asta’s nephew is taken by slavers, she pledges to her brother that she will find him, or die trying. Her search takes her from the fading islands of the Scattering, a nation in thrall to a powerful enemy, to the port city of Naopolis. There she finds a people dominated by a sinister cult, thirsty for blood to feed their hungry god.
Haunted by the spirit of her brother, forced into an uncertain alliance with a pair of assassins, Asta faces a deadly choice – save the people of two nations, or save her brother’s only son.
A Coupl'a Minutes With Joanne Hall
1. Your battle scene was a fan and judge favourite. What influenced it?
Probably a combination of things, really, thinking back (it was a good five or six years ago I wrote it). I think I'd read a few battle scenes which seemed quite removed from the action, and I wanted to get right down in the thick of it, smell the mud and feel the blood raining down. I studied modern history, and I'd read accounts of WW1 battles that were absolutely horrific. I wanted to try and capture the spirit of that, using cavalry and medieval weaponry rather than tanks and rifles. A book I found really interesting and useful was On Killing- The Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society by Lt. Col. Dave Grossman. It really goes into the psychological impact that learning to kill in different ways has on a person. It's a great book, gives you a real insight - I'd recommend it for any fantasy writer who's writing about soldiers and warfare.
Beyond that it was just reading and watching great fight scenes that other people have written and smooshing them all together!
2. When and where do we get to see this cover and your book up for sale?
The Summer Goddess is due out in December 2016 from Kristell Ink and will be available in Forbidden Planet and from Amazon / Smashwords and all the usual outlets, and you'll be able to order it from bricks-and-mortar book stores as well. It'll be available as an ebook and in old-fashioned dead tree format. My editor and I have actually started working through it this week, so it's already a step closer!
It's up on Goodreads now if you want to add it to your TBR - https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/28955284-the-summer-goddess
In the meantime look out for updates on my blog - www.hierath.co.uk for more news and gossip!
About Joanne Hall
Joanne Hall lives in Bristol, England, with her partner. She has been writing since she was old enough to hold a pen, and gave up a sensible (boring) job in insurance to be a full time writer, to the despair of her mother. She dabbled in music journalism, and enjoys going to gigs and the cinema, and reading.
Her first three novels, which made up the New Kingdom Trilogy, were published by Epress Online. Since then she has had to move house to make more room for books. Her short stories have been published in several anthologies, including “Dark Spires” and “Future Bristol”, as well as a number of magazines. A collection of short stories, “The Feline Queen” was published by Wolfsinger Publications in April 2011, and her latest novel, “The Art of Forgetting” was published by Kristell Ink in two volumes in 2013 /14, and the first volume has been longlisted for the 2014 Tiptree Award. With Roz Clarke, she has coedited two anthologies, “Colinthology” and “Airship Shape and Bristol Fashion.”
She is also one of the founders of Bristolcon. Her blog can be found at www.hierath.co.uk, and her twitter is @hierath77. She’s always happy to hear from readers.
Jason Deem
Jason Deem is GdM's cover artist and has been delivering amazing R. Scott Bakker fan art for years. Head on over to the Grimdark Magazine Marketplace to check out his services.
February 22, 2016
Review: The Crimson Campaign by Brian McClellan
The Crimson Campaign
by Brian McClellan
Having not had the chance to read as many books as I wanted to in 2015, I feel like it's been ages since an author really grabbed me by the collar and dragged me through a sequel faster than my own feet could carry me. Don't get me wrong, there have been some excellent books that I rave about and recommend to random barflies wherever I find a pint in my hand, but of the very few I was lucky enough to read in 2015 none could match McClellan's sheer ferocious pace. In fact, very few in the last few years are it's equal.
The Crimson Campaign is an absolutely barnstorming read, so fast that I completely forgot to take notes throughout the experience--hence this rather short review (I've got memory retention abilities similar to a sieve's ability to hold water).
In this kick-arse tome of fiction, Field Marshall Tamas for once oversteps the boundaries of his awesomeness. Trapped in the lands of the Kez, he and his footsoldiers must make a mad dash for a distant pass with the Kez cavalry in pursuit in order to swing back around to Adro and defend his homeland. In the meantime, Taniel Two-shot drags himself (with the help of Ka-Poel... actually, without her he'd be buggered) out of a drug binge that would make Maroto from A Crown for Cold Silver proud to feature in some of the best front line mass-battle scenes I've read since Joe Abercrombie's The Heroes and Dan Abnett's Gaunt's Ghosts. Finally, our man Inspector Adamat once again has himself wrapped up in intrigue and danger as he tries to stay true to his promises while saving what's left of his family.
McClellan's writing is so easy to read I sometimes forgot I was reading, or that I was supposed to be at work, or get off at that bus stop, or sleep. The plotting is intense enough to really pull you in and keep the grey matter working while not being so complicated or convoluted to lose the reader.
Some of my favourite parts of the book were:
Taniel and Ka-Poel's relationship grows more enjoyable as Taniel becomes a better person and survives because of Ka-Poel. She is the strength in their relationship, and his character is all the better for it.
Tamas's love for his son, at the forefront of his mind, really grows his character beyond the general without enough time for his son while he's off saving Adro.
Tamas's big reveal to his brother-in-law in a break during their flight from the Kez is one of my favourite pages of fiction I've read in a long time. It put a big grimdark smile on my face to see this side to the heroic Tamas.
The Crimson Campaign is a fantastic sequel that I unreservedly recommend to fantasy lovers, from grimdark to epic. I'm not a raging fanboy of too many authors, but for whatever it's worth, I'm now one of McClellan's.
I give The Crimson Campaign 5 out of 5 Grimdark Lords. Light in terms of the grit you might find in a book like beyond redemption, but enjoyable for the depth of character McClellan introduces and the sheer ferocity of the battle scenes.
Purchase The Crimson Campaign on Kindle, below.
Or purchase the paperback from Galaxy Bookstore right here in Sydney.
February 15, 2016
Excerpt: Michael R. Fletcher's 'At the Walls of Sinnlos' featured in GdM#6
After reading Michael R. Fletcher's Beyond Redemption, I immediately approached the author to see if we could nab a short story for you. We were lucky enough to grab a polished-up version of one of the original Manifest Delusions short stories Fletcher used to develop his story.
If you haven't grabbed Beyond Redemption[image error], do yourself an epic favour and go grab it. It'll be one of the best grimdark books you'll read all year. For now, enjoy this excerpt of At the Walls of Sinnlos. You can grab the rest in Grimdark Magazine issue #6, available in Kindle, ePub and PDF through our webstore, and through the Amazon Kindle Store[image error] .
At the Walls of Sinnlos
A Manifest Delusions short story
Michael R. Fletcher
I rode at the Captain's side, sweat pooling in the folds of my fat and soaking my shirt. I watched him from the corner of my eye. He sat slumped in the saddle, his once crisp, blue uniform crimson with the blood-red dust of the Sinnlos Desert. My heart broke and I had to look away. His parents had died the day we rode from Grauschloss, slain in the Theocrat's latest cull of the old-guard families. Their lands and holdings confiscated, the Captain's entire family were hung in the traitors' cages to starve and rot. We'd ridden past them as we left the city; he hadn't spared them a glance. He dared not. Had they not disowned him when he'd joined the ranks of the Theocrat's army, he would have shared their fate. But years of impeccable service did not lift him above suspicion. Trust is something the Theocrat commands and demands, not something he gives. I couldn't help but think the Captain had been sent to Sinnlos to die. I knew why I was here but dared not share that truth. My silence felt like betrayal.
I knew the Captain's sins as he knew my own. Sometimes I think our friendship was based on that knowledge more than anything else. How could either of us judge the other without condemning ourselves? Not that we didn't condemn ourselves. Far from it. Much as I loved him, I was contemptible. Beyond redemption.
Belief defines reality, and the beliefs of the deranged can be truly dangerous. We, the broken, could believe something so utterly it altered reality. The mental instability that was my source of power made me the ruin of a man I am today. The Theocrat found use in that ruin. He fed that ruin, reminding me of my crimes, fuelling my self-hatred, to make use of the manifestations rising from my insanity. In those moments when I was not in sway to his power, I loathed the man. I wanted to punish him for his casual manipulation of my emotions.
I wanted to burn.
The rest of the time I loved and worshipped him. It made thoughts of treason difficult. Almost impossible.
The Captain's horse looked more depressed than its rider, who examined the blackened fingertips of his left hand as he rode through the blowing bloody dust. The once proud warhorse dragged hooves that seemed too heavy to lift. Its back sagged where it had previously been ramrod straight. Its saddle and skirt were caked red with sand and horse sweat and chafed the poor beast's sides raw.
Behind us strode a platoon of Dysmorphics, massive parodies of physical perfection. Muscular arms and legs, thicker than many trees, pumped in perfect unison as they kept pace with our exhausted horses. Watching their eyes dart as they measured themselves against their comrades, I imagined their thoughts: Are his arms bigger than mine? Is my left leg more muscled than my right? Do I look lopsided? I'll have to work on that when we break for camp tonight.
Small minds in big bodies. At least that's what I told myself. It was unfair that they might manage such bodies and intelligence while I fell well short of brilliance and was both fat and ugly.
These men weren't under the Captain's command; they merely followed us as we marched to meet with the army already surrounding Sinnlos. Unlike myself, the Captain had left Grauschloss with a distinct lack of orders. My own orders were twofold. I was to spy upon my only friend, watch for signs of disloyalty, and deal with him should the need arise. Finally, if all else failed, I was to turn my Hassebrand powers against the Empress of Sinnlos.
But I had plans of my own.
The Empress was the one person who could challenge the Theocrat's iron grip on the hearts and minds of his subjects. As long as she lived the Theocrat would know he wasn't untouchable and that fear would temper his choices and actions.
I think the Theocrat wanted the Captain to fail this test. Or was this a test of my own loyalty?
I ran a hand across my bald pate and through its greasy fringe, all that remained of my black hair. My hand came away dripping sweat and gritty with russet sand.
‘Captain?’
For a moment I thought he hadn't heard me as he continued to stare at his fingertips. Finally he looked up, turning lifeless grey eyes in my direction.
‘Yes?’
I nodded at the hand he held before him. ‘Is that...’ I couldn't finish the question. The Captain had been depressed for so long I could barely remember what he used to be like. I had long worried he might become suicidal.
‘I think so,’ he said, his voice devoid of emotion.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Is that...everything?’
‘So far.’ He rubbed fingertips with a greying thumb. ‘I'm numb.’ He twitched the hint of a smile. ‘It's numb,’ he corrected.
‘Oh.’ What else could I say? That I was sorry? What good would that do? Could I offer him my love and support?
I opened my mouth to extend what comfort I could and the Captain turned away. He gestured forward with blackened fingertips. ‘Sinnlos. We'll reach the wall by nightfall.’
I squinted through the swirling sands and made out the towering walls. Not surprising I hadn't noticed them; they were the same gods-awful red as the blowing sands.
I had been right, the Captain was suicidal. What I hadn't foreseen was how that desire would manifest. He didn't merely desire death—he craved the punishment implicit in a slow, rotting death. The Captain, whom I once would have sworn was a pillar of sanity, was a Cotardist. He'd surrendered all hope and was decaying before my very eyes. I swallowed my helpless anger.
I dared no unchecked emotion.
I had wondered if the Captain regretted abandoning his family to serve the Theocrat.
I had my answer.
Behind us the Dysmorphics sang songs of blood and plunder, stomping and clapping in time to their chants. They too had spotted the distant walls. Their songs failed to lift my spirit. Judging from the grim look on the Captain's face they didn't do much for him either. Behind those towering walls lurked the Empress of Sinnlos, a Delusionist of great power. How would her delusions manifest?
When all else failed, when armies lay shattered and dead, I would be called to face her, the Delusionist Empress of Sinnlos. Me. Gehirn Schlechtes, Hassebrand of the Theocrat's cadre of the dangerous and deranged. If my will held strong I would turn my back upon my Theocrat and do what I must to keep her alive. Then and only then would I allow myself emotion.
And I would burn the Theocrat's army.
END OF EXCERPT
Find out if the Theocrat's army burns at the hands of a madman in Grimdark Magazine issue #6, available in Kindle, ePub and PDF through our webstore, and through the Amazon Kindle Store
.
February 11, 2016
An Excerpt of Duncan Lay's 'The Bloody Quarrel'
When I found out an Aussie grimdark author that hails from the own back yard of my youth on the central coast of New South Wales, Australia, to say I was excited was an understatement. Through a quick reach-out over Facebook, I've been lucky enough to grab an excerpt from Duncan Lay's The Bloody Quarrel: The Complete Edition, a collection of all five episodes of his Bloody Quarrel series. Check it out below!
[image error]
Excerpt from Chapter 18 of The Bloody Quarrel by Duncan Lay
Fallon watched as the hood was yanked off Kemal’s head and the bruised Kottermani Prince blinked at the sudden light. He let the Prince look around him, see the chair he was tied to was the only furniture in the room and it sat in the middle of a huge dried bloodstain. He grudgingly admired the way the Prince did not react to that, merely staring at Fallon coldly.
They had hooded him and then hustled him through the backstreets until they reached the Moneylenders’ Guildhouse. Most of the villagers had returned to the castle then, leaving just Fallon, his friends and a handful of others to keep a careful watch. Fallon had thought about killing the wounded Kottermani guards, so no word could reach Kemal’s people of what had happened but could not bring himself to slaughter helpless, wounded men.
Fallon said nothing, wanting Kemal to feel the tension and fear in the air, let his imagination go to work. After all, he had been a pampered Prince, used to his every whim being obeyed. This had to be making him uncomfortable. Finally, Kemal could obviously take it no longer.
“Release me, return me to my people immediately and I might be able to overlook what you have done,” he snarled.
Fallon smiled down at the Prince, his arms folded across his chest. There was no humour there. Even if this was not the man who had attacked Baltimore and carried off their families, he could get them back.
“Don’t you realise what you have done?” Kemal demanded. “You think this is clever? I know what you have done. Your Prince Cavan has been pretending to be with me against his father when all the time he was with King Aidan. But fooling my agents will avail you all nothing. Harm me and my father will take this country apart. We would have left one of your own to sit on the throne and able to make some decisions. But that chance is slipping away with every heartbeat you hold me.”
“You are the one who has been fooled, Prince Kemal,” Fallon said harshly. “Your men have been meeting with the agents of Prince Swane. Prince Cavan is dead.”
“You fool,” Kemal scoffed. “I know the evidence of my own eyes. I embraced Prince Cavan not a day ago!”
“That was Swane, made to look like his brother with the use of dark magic,” Fallon said. “You think you are in control of Gaelland? It is an even bigger trap than the one you walked in to with me.”
Kemal just sneered at him. “Why should I believe anything you say? You have already proved yourself to be a liar.”
Fallon whistled and Caley trotted in.
“This is my dog and she hates Kottermanis. You can be her dinner if you like,” he told Kemal.
The Prince watched Caley warily as the dog caught the smell of him and began to growl, thick, vicious noises that made the hair on the back of the neck rise.
“She’ll tear you into pieces,” Fallon warned. “Tell us what we want to know and I’ll call her off.”
“Let her do her worst,” Kemal invited.
Fallon brought Caley a little closer but she would not go within three paces of the Kottermani. She hated him, that was plain enough from the way she was growling and snarling, her lips pulled back and teeth bared. But she seemed to be more concerned with protecting Fallon from Kemal than attacking the Kottermani. He sighed. It had been worth a try but she was not the sort of dog to attack anyone.
“I wouldn’t want her to be poisoned by you,” he told the Prince, then whistled Caley away. She slunk out, still growling.
“What now? What else do you plan to threaten me with?” Kemal asked mockingly.
Fallon pulled the bloody quarrel out of his pouch and held it before Kemal’s wary eyes. “This is the quarrel I used to kill Prince Cavan,” he said. “He was not only my Prince, he was a friend. I was tricked into killing him by King Aidan. Now I pretend to stand by Swane in public because King Aidan has promised he will get our families back from you if we do.”
Fallon caught the flicker in Kemal’s eyes and stepped in closer, holding the bloody quarrel under Kemal’s nose.
You know all about that, don’t you?” he said softly. “You were the one who led the attack on Baltimore and carried our families away. Why?”
Kemal looked up at him, eyes glittering hatred. “This is about your families? You fools, they will die in the most terrible ways imaginable after what you have done to me.” Kemal raised his voice, shouting his next words out. “You think to use me as some counter to get their release? You will only buy their deaths. Rather than release your families in exchange for me, they will start to skin your children alive until you beg to hand me back. How long do you think you can defy my father while the screams of your sons and daughters echo in your ears? I will make sure they work on Bridgit first. Her screams will haunt you for the rest of—”
That was enough. Fallon felt a red mist descend.
He stepped in and began to punch Kemal, snapping the Kottermani’s head back with the force of the first blow and whipping the blows in from left and right, rocking the Prince from side to side, trying to beat away his own anger and the Prince’s arrogance.
“Stop it! You’ll bloody kill him!” Gallagher and Devlin grabbed him and dragged him backwards.
Fallon fought them for a few heartbeats then subsided, wincing at the pain in his knuckles. But, looking at Kemal, that was nothing.
The Prince raised his head slowly, blood oozing from his nose, from his mashed lip and from a cut on his left cheekbone. His left eye was already swelling shut and he spat again, a frothy mixture of blood that landed on the floor.
“Get control of yourself you stupid bogger! We need him alive!” Devlin growled.
“You heard the bastard! He took our families! And he bloody knows Bridgit’s name! How does he know her name, eh? He must have seen her. Maybe he’s already killed her!” Fallon snarled.
“They have to be still alive, or why else is he threatening us?” Gallagher said reasonably.
Kemal looked up at them. “Anything you do to me will be paid back on them ten-fold,” he said, his voice thick with blood. “I will tell you nothing. Release me.”
“He won’t talk eh? We’ll see about that,” Fallon said. “Brendan, give me your hammer.”
Kemal watched them as Fallon brandished the huge hammer, with its head still stained black with blood, and brown with other things none of them wanted to think about.
“You are just trying to scare me. You dare not hit me with that, for it would kill me,” Kemal said.
“He’s right,” Gallagher whispered. “He’s not like those thieves that you bluffed back in Killarney to get answers for Prince Cavan.”
“Who says I’m bluffing?” Fallon asked. “Brendan, take off his left boot.”
The big smith looked at him uncertainly but Fallon gave him a shove. “This is for Nola and the kids. This is for all of them,” he hissed.
Brendan pulled off Kemal’s left boot and held the Prince’s leg immobile, foot on the floor, just as he would do a horse for shoeing.
“Are you going to talk to us about our families?” Fallon demanded.
“Go and rut yourself,” Kemal told him furiously.
Fallon hefted the hammer and swung it down, crushing Kemal’s two smallest toes.
The Prince screamed and writhed on the chair, his eyes bulging and the tendons on his neck and arms standing out. A thin line of bloody spittle dribbled from his lips, landing in his lap. His chest heaved as if he had run for miles and it looked like he had bitten into his already cut lip.
“Are you ready to talk now?” Fallon asked him.
He locked eyes with Kemal and was astonished to see no give there. The Prince’s eyes were full of pain but all that was behind there was anger.
“I will give you nothing!” he spat.
Fallon swung the hammer up and crushed the other three toes.
Kemal shrieked with pain, eyes screwed shut, breathing in short, hard gasps. Fallon glanced down to see the ruin of the man’s toes. They were a mixture of blood and flesh, the skin torn away and pieces of bone poking through.
“Ready to talk now?” Fallon repeated.
Kemal’s eyes snapped open and Fallon saw the fury and the agony in there.
“I will never talk to you, bastard! Nothing will stop me peeling the skin from your body. The rest of you, I shall let you live if you deliver both Fallon and I to my ship right now!”
Fallon tapped Brendan on the shoulder. “Get his other boot off,” he said.
Kemal tried to fight but, tied to his chair and in the face of Brendan’s huge strength, he stood no chance.
“Do what you want to me. I will give you nothing!” Kemal raged.
“Let’s see if you still talk like that when we break every finger on your hand, burn your body and start cutting off your prick, one inch at a time,” Fallon said coldly.
“My answer will still be the same,” Kemal spat a mixture of blood onto Fallon’s boots.
“And I will keep hurting you until you beg to tell me everything!” Fallon swung the hammer up again. Kemal glared at him, nothing but anger and hatred in his gaze. Not even a scrap of fear.
Fallon let the hammer drop and stepped away.
“Maybe we can use Sister Rosaleen, the way she got into the mind of Swane’s servant that time?” Gallagher suggested.
Fallon shook his head. “We don’t just need what’s in his head. We need him to be ours, so he gives our families back. By the time he gives in to us, there’ll be nothing left of him. We need to try something else. Get Padraig.”
They waited while the old wizard was fetched from below, watching the Prince battle the agony of his crushed toes. Fallon felt nothing.
“Aroaril, what are you doing?” Padraig gasped. “Have you gone mad?”
“I am mad,” Fallon agreed. “And sick to death of every bastard tricking me and using me.”
“What do you want? I will not use magic to hurt this man,” Padraig warned.
“Even though he took Bridgit? Even though he threatened to make her screams last an eternity?”
“Even so,” Padraig drew himself up. “I will not sink to that.”
Fallon grabbed his shoulder. “Well, I will. But luckily we need you to do something different,” he said.
“He wants to use our families against us. Well, let us use his family against him. Let’s see if he is so brave if his wife and children are here, hot irons close to their eyes,” Fallon said viciously.
Kemal’s head snapped up and his voice took on a ragged edge.
“I invite you to try,” he said. “You will never get close to them. They will kill you.”
“Fallon, we are going to steal his wife and children?” Padraig asked in horror.
“This is the only way!” Fallon told them. “We won’t hurt them, unless he makes us. It is all down to him.” Yet even as he said that, he knew it was a lie. He would break this man and nothing was going to stop him. “I know what to do. They will be watching the land. We shall come from the sea. And this is how we shall do it—”
“Taking women and children from their beds? Fallon, are you truly sure of this?” Gallagher asked.
Fallon looked around at his friends. “They took our families that way. And with his wife and any children in our hands, he will do what we say.” He glared around at them and, one by one, they all nodded.
“Let’s do this,” Devlin said.
“Aye. I am in,” Brendan agreed.
They looked back at Kemal, who sneered at them. “You will be begging for mercy soon enough. Mercy that will not come if you go near my ships!” he cried.
“Let’s do it,” Gallagher said.
* * *
Duncan Lay is the fantasy author of the trilogy "The Dragon Sword Histories" — The Wounded Guardian, The Radiant Child, and The Risen Queen. He is also a layout designer and headline writer at the Sunday Telegraph. You can find Duncan over at http://www.duncanlay.com/.
You can check out the complete edition of The Bloody Quarrel on Kindle, below.
If you'd prefer hard copy, head on over to Galaxy Bookstore to pick up the first trilogy in one gritty volume. Click on Galaxy Bookstore's logo below to head straight over to their Sydney-based store!
For more information on Duncan's publisher, Momentum, or to purchase on iBooks, use the below links:
Momentum: http://www.momentumbooks.com.au/books/the-bloody-quarrel-the-arbalester-trilogy-2-complete-edition/
iBooks: http://itunes.apple.com/book/the-bloody-quarrel-arbalester/isbn9781760301644
February 6, 2016
Marc Turner's Devil Watching Competiton
[image error] [image error]
In Marc's short story, There's a Devil Watching Over You, a group of bandits picks the wrong man to rob. You can read the story, or listen to an audio version narrated by Emma Newman, at Marc’s website here. The two main characters, Luker and Safiya, part on less than amicable terms, but meet again later in The Chronicles of the Exile series.
In the comments below this post, in 100 words or less, what do you think will happen when they do?
Marc Turner's Devil Watching Competition opens here at Grimdark Magazine on the 6th of February and closes on the 13th of February. Marc will pick out his favourite two choices (which may or may not be the ones closest to reality!) on the 14th of February and we'll announce the winners immediately after that!
Get reading or listening to There's a Devil Watching Over You now to get your entry in!
February 1, 2016
Red Kent from Mark Lawrence's Bad Seed
Jason Deem has done it again with his new cover for Grimdark Magazine issue #1. In GdM #1 we were incredibly fortunate to secure a short story from one of the premier authors in the fantasy genre, but then incredibly bummed out when our cover artist for the issue unfortunately had to pull out of their commitment at the 11th hour. Fortunately our graphic designer came to the rescue with 30 minutes notice and created the original issue #1 cover.
With time, and a solid relationship built with Jason, we've been able to finally address that cover and bring it in to line with the kind of art you're now used to seeing on our ezine. Without any further ado, I give you Red Kent from Mark Lawrence's Bad Seed by Jason Deem.
[image error]
If you haven't checked out Red Kent in action in Bad Seed, go check it out over on our product page or on amazon.com.
If you'd like to check out more of Jason's artwork, head on over to his website, or you can buy his art for your own book or website through our marketplace.
January 28, 2016
Review: A Crown for Cold Silver
[image error]
A Crown for Cold Silver
by Alex Marshall
Review by Adrian Collins
A Crown for Cold Silver is a fantastic first dip of the toe into grimdark fantasy for for the author hidden behind the pseudonym Alex Marshall (best online theory I could find on who that is on Reddit, here). Book #1 in the The Crimson Empire is a tale so full of grit, dark humour, drugs, fuck-ups, and excellent writing that straight off the bat I'm not afraid to say it was one of my favourite reads for 2015.
The Villains are an ageing, broken-up crew of powerful women and men who conquered all under the leadership of Zoisa (Cold Cobalt) twenty years ago. With nobody left to beat, she "retired" into ignominy and left her Villains to find their own way.
Now a cheeky young general is gathering swords and bows under her banner, only... it's not her banner. It's Zoisa's.
A Crown for Cold Silver is a story of vengeance centred on Zoisa and her Villains, and the young General hoping to pull an unstoppable army under her by usurping Zoisa's legend.
Marshall presents A Crown for Cold Silver in an Abercrombie/Scull type of prose, which enables the narrator to present a certain amount of black humour in the story that had me chuckling on the bus on the way to work. The first quarter of the book kicks off in a slow manner. Marshall introduces us to plenty of characters, and also to two of the major factors of my enjoyment of this book: (a) complete and effortless equality of the sexes. It's not discussed, or pointed out, it just is, and (b) the involvement of drugs in society as no different to alcohol in terms of addictiveness and people who go too far on them to deal with things they feel they can't handle otherwise. Both of these, along with the Devils, the gateways, the different cultures to represent different factions, and a minimally-explained magical system made this a book I was engrossed in pretty quickly.
I loved reading from the POV of Zoisa, Maroto, Ji-hyeon, Sullen, and checking out Hoartrap, Ruthless, and the rest of the more secondary/tertiary characters. There was plenty to get your teeth into. Zoisa was hands down my favourite character. Her story brought her so far back to where she'd tried to escape from two decades ago. She was driven, brutal, violent, and truly enjoyable. Her stories of past glories, odd pipe obsessions, and her obsession with sleeping with just about anybody she wants as--I think--a way to back-fill the hole left in her life by the death of her husband by reverting to youthful craziness, was an enjoyably flawed backdrop to her development. As I'm a sucker for a run-down, screw-up, useless but violent barbarian, Maroto had my vote for the second most enjoyable character. He was funny, sad, loyal (in his fashion), messed up, and I so wanted him to get up and put his life back together. Ji-Hyeon felt like a pretty standard brat in charge of an army, while Sullen took about 2/3rds of the book to hit his straps and become interesting.
There are a couple of POV chapters I felt a bit unneccessary, such as Baron Hjortt, who, while somewhat furthering the story, also slowed it down and pulled me away from the POVs I was invested in. The chapters are well written, but they diluted the overall product. There were also a few surprising editorial mistakes, such as "Zoisa" being misspelled "Zoiba" that felt a bit out of character for the quality I'm used to seeing from the publisher.
One final thing I really enjoyed were--and the future potential of--the Devils. They are pulled from the gates by their owners/masters and are bound to animals. Zoisa's Devil, Choplicker, a dog, is bound to her and will go to some sort of special hell if he fails to protect her. The way he bloats as more death occurs around him, disobeys Zoisa at every possible turn, but then--in his way--protects her is really interesting. The use of Ji-hyeon's devil Fellwing to show that there is a limit to their power, and that they aren't all inherently nasty, further adds to their interest. The devil's world--theoretically inside the gates--is something I also want to know more about. Who are these epic creatures who can't get through the gate. Will we get to meet more of them?
This is, overall, an absolutely cracking read. It's a slow burn start, a well developed middle with plenty of POV cross interactions and pre-book world building hints, laughs, and then a barnstorming ending with plenty of vicious, bleak and anticipation-building finishes.
A Crown for Cold Silver gets 4.5 Grimdark Lords from me.
[image error] [image error] [image error] [image error] [image error]
Purchase A Crown for Cold Silver over at the Amazon Kindle store:
Purchase A Crown for Cold Silver from Galaxy Bookstore:
January 22, 2016
Excerpt: Peter Orullian's 'A Fair Man' featured in GdM#6
As a part of GdM#6 we were lucky enough to publish The Vault of Heaven series author Peter Orullian. If you haven't checked out Peter's books, make sure to head over to amazon and grab The Unremembered[image error]. For now, enjoy this excerpt of A Fair Man. You can grab the rest in Grimdark Magazine issue #6, available in Kindle, ePub and PDF through our webstore, and through the Amazon Kindle Store[image error][image error].
A Fair Man
A story from The Vault of Heaven
Peter Orullian
Pit Row reeked of sweat. And fear.
Heavy sun fell across the necks of those who waited their turn in the pit. Some sat in silence, weapons like afterthoughts in their laps. Others trembled and chattered to anyone who’d spare a moment to listen. Fallow dust lazed around them all. The smell of old earth newly turned. Graves being dug constantly for those who died fighting in the pit. Mikel walked the row, one hand on his blade, the other holding the day’s list.
He passed a big man sitting in a spray of straw. The fellow wore several brands across his chest. A prisoner. More than forty fights. Each win burned into his flesh with a simple hash. He’d die in chains. Or die in the pit. Blood caked his left foot below an iron manacle that had torn up the flesh of his ankle. Dust clung to his sweaty skin. The prisoner didn’t look up at Mikel, any more than he blinked away the fly drinking at the corner of his eye. But there was something foreign about the man. And something menacing. Indifference?
Further down, a young man practiced thrust and parry combinations, his boots lifting more dust into the hot haze. The fellow narrated each movement, the tone of his voice like a man trying to convince himself he’d survive the pit. Mikel hated this type. Not because they sought glory. No one was that stupid. It was desperation. The pup had a bit of training and had almost certainly wagered on his own victory, hoping to turn a few thin plugs. The young man’s sad, nicked sword told the story of his need.
Across from the pup came a hissing laugh. Mikel turned to see an old pit survivor. Jackman. An incomplete fellow. One arm. Wood stump beneath his left knee. A face that whitened around scars when he smiled. The bastard kept a list of his own. Odds for bettors. He limped up beside Mikel to watch the pup dance.
He said nothing for a long moment, then took a deep breath through his nose. ‘Smell it?’
‘Just you.’ Mikel turned to finish his round.
Jackman caught him with his one good hand. ‘Pup’s already dead. He just doesn’t have the sense to lay down in the grave yet.’ The hissing laugh followed. ‘Ten seconds for ten coins.’
Mikel gave the pup another look. The young man would never best a pit fighter. He’d die wearing the surprised look of a man who’d thought too much of his own skill. Mikel stared into the milky eyes of the odds maker, anger burning at the truth of it.
‘Maybe,’ he finally said. He pushed two thin plugs into Jackman’s dirty palm, taking the odds, and crossed to the pup. ‘Your sword arm is slow. Don’t use it to attack, only defend. Then jab with your knife hand. You’re faster there. Be patient. Winning is more important than looking heroic.’
The boy stared, confused, but nodded. Mikel clapped his shoulder and returned to the row. And the list. Jackman called after him, ‘Don’t go frustrating my odds, you whoreson! Leave the row alone.’
Toward the end of Pit Row, he found a man with thin shoulders seated on a tree stump. List said he was a debtor. In front of the man knelt a woman beside two children. The young ones stood quietly, around them all the feeling of goodbye.
The man had calloused hands, but no weapon. The list shared no further details.
Mikel approached. ‘I don’t see a blade. Do you have one?’
‘Was told they’d give me something,’ the man said, his eyes still fixed on the ground.
‘What are you good with?’ Mikel asked.
He finally looked up. ‘I’m a cobbler.’
‘A debtor,’ Mikel added.
‘Money was for a roll of boot leather and some mink oil. And they took me in the morning on my day of payment.’
The cobbler didn’t need to say more. It was a common practice. Take a borrower before he can pay all. Especially one with an interesting story for the pit. Makes better theatre. Spectators root louder, bet emotionally. And what better story than a simple boot maker fighting against impossible odds for his wife and children. Would love prove stronger than an opponent long acquainted with this theatre court? And when the cobbler died, his death would stir a moment’s regret in its witnesses. And all would feel blessed not to be in the pit. All would feel a moment’s humanity.
Keeps the pit fights from becoming routine. Keeps its patrons from disinterest.
And it wasn’t fair. None of it.
‘You ever handle a weapon? Ever fight?’ Mikel asked, surveying the man’s family.
‘I make shoes,’ he replied.
These children would be fatherless by dusk. For the price of a hide and some bootseal. Deafened gods. Mikel stood silent and shared a knowing look with the man. The cobbler knew it, too. Only the little ones might be unaware.
This fellow was not a gambler. Not a whore-monger. Not a spender beyond his means. He was a cobbler who’d bought material enough to earn a week’s keep. And fallen behind.
Sent to Pit Row for sport. For good measure. For the law. For the entertainment of those who walked on marble floors and drank water chilled.
Deafened gods.
Mikel stared at the cobbler’s little girl and thought of his own daughter. Soon to reach her cycle. Soon to visit one of those homes with marble floors and chilled water . . .
. . . Mikel let that alone for now.
He took out his writing lead and scratched out the man’s name.
‘What are you doing?’ the cobbler asked. ‘It’ll go worse for me if I don’t—‘
Mikel raised a hand to silence him. ‘Go home.’
The cobbler stood, looking Mikel in the eyes for a long time. Then he proffered his hand in thanks. The surprise of it almost caused Mikel to smile. Almost. The man had a grip every bit as tight as Mikel’s own. He then gathered his family and left Pit Row.
Mikel looked back at the list and wrote his own name into the blank.
END OF EXCERPT
Check out what happens to Mikel when he enters the pits, sword and shield in hand, in Grimdark Magazine issue #6, available in Kindle, ePub and PDF through our webstore, and through the Amazon Kindle Store.
January 7, 2016
Line up for GdM issue #6
Issue # 6 has an absolutely cracking line up of fiction and non-fiction, covered with a beautiful piece of artwork based on one of Michael R. Fletcher's hassebrands, by Jason Deem. Issue #6 will be available on the 15th of January, 2016 via our webstore and Amazon.
[image error]
Fiction:
At the Walls of Sinnlos by Michael R. Fletcher (a Manifest Delusions short story)
A Fair Man by Peter Orullian (a Vault of Heaven short story)
Twelve Minutes to Vinh Quang by T. R. Napper
Excerpt: Blood of Innocents by Mitchell Hogan
Non-Fiction:
The Grimdark Villain by C. T. Phipps
A review of Larry Correia's Son of the Black Sword (review by Malrubius)
An Interview with Aliette de Bodard
Publisher Roundtable with Tim Marquitz, Geoff Brown, Katie Cord, and Shawn Speakman
A Review of Dishonoured by C. T. Phipps
Addendum: James A. Moore has had his piece (which we committed to publishing in this issue at the end of his interview in issue #5) moved to issue #7 due to a scheduling conflict on our behalf. We're really looking forward to getting to publish such an awesome author in the next quarter's issue!
Issue #6 is dedicated to our colleague, friend, and fellow grimdark enthusiast Kennet Rowan Gencks, who unexpectedly passed away on the 6th of November, 2015.
