Adrian Collins's Blog, page 64

REVIEW: Grievar’s Blood by Alexander Darwin

Last Updated on January 10, 2024

Grievar’s Blood is the second installment in Alexander Darwin’s Combat Codes trilogy, following up on his debut novel, The Combat Codes. The Combat Codes trilogy takes place in a post-apocalyptic world where conventional warfare has been replaced by hand-to-hand combat between trained fighters known as Grievar Knights who spar on behalf of their nations. Given their critical importance to national interests, Grievar Knights receive the highest levels of training at special martial arts schools. However, some nefarious entities try to cheat the system by enhancing fighters through technology or other illicit means.

The main protagonist of the Combat Codes trilogy is Cego, a diamond-in-the-rough boy who demonstrated great promise as a fighter in underground arenas. In The Combat Codes, Cego is discovered by Murray Pearson, a retired Grievar Knight with a troubled past, who assumes personal mentorship of Cego, training him to become the next champion fighter for their nation of Ezo.

Much of the action of the series takes place in the Lyceum, a training school where students both native and foreign are taught to pursue excellence in martial arts, following the greater purpose of the Combat Codes, viz., avoiding war and helping their country. However, the Combat Codes might also serve as a means to control and suppress people.

The first book of the trilogy, The Combat Codes, was a case of mismatched expectations for me personally. Based on the book’s description and dragon image on the cover, I was expecting the novel to be similar to Mortal Kombat in terms of its storyline and action. However, I found The Combat Codes to be much closer in spirit to The Karate Kid, with Murray Pearson playing the role of sensei and Cego serving as his protégé. Much of the book was dedicated to the psychological and philosophical aspects of martial arts and the importance of never sacrificing one’s honor. The Combat Codes also embraced many of the standard training school tropes from young adult fantasy literature, such as making friends and dealing with bullies. As a grimdark reader, The Combat Codes left me wanting something darker and more intense.

I’m happy to report that Alexander Darwin gives a deeper and more mature spin on the story in Grievar’s Blood, which picks up a year or so after the events of The Combat Codes. In this second book of the series, Darwin divides point-of-view duties among three protagonists: Cego, Murray, and Cego’s good friend, Solara Halberd, or Sol for short. Sol’s storyline is a welcome addition to the book, both for improving female representation in the series and for all the raw excitement that she brings to the novel.

Alexander Darwin has also matured as a writer in his sophomore effort. The characters feel more fully formed in Grievar’s Blood, and the book definitely has a more nuanced tone. There are plenty of unexpected plot twists in Grievar’s Blood, and the last page had a revelation that left me hungry to find out what happens next.

The epic fight scenes are a thrill to read, with well-earned comparisons to Fonda Lee’s Jade City. Like Fonda Lee, Alexander Darwin is an accomplished martial arts master who leverages that personal experience to write very well-crafted, cinematic fight sequences. Another point of similarity is the inclusion of rocs in Grievar’s Blood, which are also the main focus of Fonda Lee’s recent novella, Untethered Sky.

Overall, Alexandar Darwin has given grimdark readers a lot more to enjoy in Grievar’s Blood, with higher stakes, darker action, and a more epic scope. The Combat Codes trilogy is certainly a must-read for martial arts enthusiasts.

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REVIEW: Tomorrow’s Children by Daniel Polansky

Daniel Polansky’s Tomorrow’s Children is as if Gangs of New York was taken from the screen and re-written into a post apocalyptic fantasy world Quentin Tarantino and Guy Ritchie but ghost written by Joe Abercrombie if he’d mainlined a bag of double strength coffee and had a three-week deadline. Tomorrow’s Children, is a hundred kilometres an hour thrill ride through a post apocalyptic future fantasy with a cast of characters so large I think George Martin would tip his glass to it.

In Tomorrow’s Children, the leaders of one of the premier gangs on the cut-off island of Manhattan are assassinated by a small crew of killers led by the Kid. The owners of the remaining largest gangs, lords of city block fiefdoms, come together and hire Gillian to find out who did it. And as the island goes to blood around them, the funk—a toxic pall of mist that cuts off the sky and escape from the island—is navigated by a tourist in for the first time in centuries.

The story makes me think of a Guy Ritchie gangster movie, with plenty of gangs plying for different things, characters gunning for each other as much bigger things happen around them in their blind spots, plenty of banter and randomness, and amongst the grit a good swathe of dark humour.

Tomorrow’s Children jumps from scene to scene with frenetic pace, using a range of very cool, and sometimes confusing approaches to make that happen. Chapters are broken down into subheading scenes, and often, in faster parts of the book, those scenes have little to no setting and just a few lines of dialogue between unnamed characters. Images replace names of places and things in some places. Seventy-something footnotes attached to character names help you try to understand who is who. The voice is thick with far future devolved English slang that you’re dropped into up to the elbows with little to no time to work it out. Manhattan Island references and locations that I feel would only make sense to locals are peppered throughout. And these things, collectively, actually makes the book really quite hard to get in to at the start. Also, for this reader at least, this meant that if I took a couple of days break from reading it, or read it when I was tired or even a little distracted, I became quickly lost and had to back track. This is definitely a book I recommend reading in big, sustained chunks when you are mentally switched on and paying attention, and not looking for a sleepy-eyed comfort read. Fortunately, when you can do that, it pays off.

That very large cast of characters has Polansky dropping really cool hints and insights all over the page. Within this cast are all the traits and betrayals and slivers of hope and moral greyness grimdark fans love. My favourites were Maryland Slim, who could force your body to do what your mind didn’t want to; Nelly, the spy who saw the island through the eyes of a network of cats; Swan the ageing best killer on the island who doesn’t really like killing and Ael the second best killer (and his hypebird, a hilarious addition to his character) who wants to kill Swan to become the best killer on the island. The Kid and Gillian also make a good pair of characters to build the story around, providing a foundation for the wild and varied cast to play around.

Tomorrow’s Children by Daniel Polansky is a story that rewards both your ability to push through its first quarter’s incredibly steep learning curve and your ability to read with hyper-attention for long periods of time. While the voice and size of cast can be confusing at times–and I think will mean a section of its readership may give up early on the read–there is a story worth sticking around for. Full of Polansky’s trademark snark and character bitterness and snappy dialogue, with excellent twists and turns and imagination in spades, Tomorrow’s Children is well worth the read.

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REVIEW: The Crown of Omens by E.J. Doble

The Crown of Omens is the exhilarating prequel novella to The Fangs of War, which kicks off E.J. Doble’s The Blood and Steel Saga with an absolute bang. Imagine Joe Abercrombie’s The Heroes, but just make it a bit shorter and a whole lot more brutal.

Set entirely during one fateful night 50 years before the start of The Fangs of War, The Crown of Omens focuses on the Tarazzi raid on the Casantri harbour which ends up launching these two nations into war. Each chapter switches back and forth between the Tarazzi invaders and the Provenci soldiers, and it quickly becomes clear that no one is safe and zero punches are being pulled.

The Crown of Omens has to be one of the most unique, experimental, and riveting novellas I have ever read. What makes it stand out from the crowd is its bold, unique, and unconventional storytelling set-up. Almost none of these extremely morally grey characters are named, instead being referred to by their positions/roles in the fight. But what’s even more interesting, is the fact that each new chapter launches you into a new POV; that being the killer of the last POV character you were only just reading from.

Why yes, this story is indeed relentlessly grim and filled with death and despair. Though while it might sound like this unconventional storytelling method would make for a very hectic and possibly detached reading experience, the opposite couldn’t be more true.

With The Crown of Omens, Doble proves that a skilled author doesn’t need a lot of words/pages to establish characters, world, and atmosphere of the highest quality. The imagery is incredibly vivid, every action scene is riveting, and all the emotional beats hit way harder than you could ever have anticipated.

Now, it almost feels cliché to compare a new grimdark author to Joe Abercrombie, but does that really matter when the comparison is so apt and well-earned? In fact, I would personally take Doble’s works over Abercrombie’s all day, every day. His visceral yet lyrical prose just grabs you by the throat and makes every single scene and character come to life before your eyes, for better or worse. And holy smokes, if he doesn’t know how to set a scene!

The Crown of Omens is the perfect introduction to Doble’s excellent skill as an author and storyteller, and while it works magnificently as a standalone, I can guarantee that it will leave you hungering for more in the best way possible. Lucky for you, there are already two main novels in The Blood and Steel Saga just waiting for you to devour them. I truly can’t recommend The Crown of Omens highly enough, this is just food for every grimdark lover’s (dark and empty) soul!

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Grimdark Magazine Issue #37 is here!

Last Updated on January 7, 2024

Let us all say goodbye to the insanity of 2023 and welcome the promise of 2024. This issue is a banger and the appropriate way to enter the new year.

First off, we have our cover story from Cameron Johnston. Among his many works, he wrote one of my favorite books, The Maleficent Seven. If that book isn’t grimdark, I don’t know what is. He has written an origin story for one of the book’s most beloved and feared characters. I am not giving it away; you must check it out.

Michael R. Fletcher, whom we have featured in the last few issues, is a madman who has brought us an original story about Wardogs. Laurell Hightower, known for her horror prowess, contributed a story about the phrase, “How badly do you want it?” Would you burn your world to warm yourself in the ashes? Would you burn down someone else world? It is a hell of a story. Lastly, we have three incredible reprints from Kameron Hurley, Gemma Amor, and Sunyi Dean.

Hurley’s My Oracles at the End of the World is a dark story written in clear, stark prose in the grim way that only Kameron, one of grimdark’s queens, can do. Sunyi Dean, of The Book Eaters fame, brings us a story about a relationship with the devil and the devouring of oneself both mentally and physiologically.

Finally, Gemma Amor, who has worked with GdM many times, has brought us the dark and unconventional story of three people and death on a wrecked ship. The story Adrift is a tribute to Edgar Allen Poe’s MS in a Bottle. While this may seem slightly outside the scope of GdM’s usual fare at first glance, the power of Amor’s writing, the grayness of the characters, and the supernatural elements make this story something you will remember.

Thank you, dear readers, for joining us in 2023. We have amazing things planned for 2024, and I can’t wait to tell you about them.

Cover for Grimdark Magazine Issue #37

Carlos Diaz has yet again (and I feel like I say this every quarter) hit this out of the park with his depiction of Cameron Johnston’s story, Birth of A Demonologist. I can’t stop looking at all the detail in the fire!

The lineup

Fiction:

The Last Wardog by Michael R. FletcherZero Sum by Laurell HightowerAdrift by Gemma AmorThe Long, Slow Courtship of Mr. Death and Famishista by Sunyi DeanMy Oracles at the End of the World by Kameron HurleyBirth of A Demonologist by Cameron Johnston

Non-fiction:

Review: The Principle of Moments by Esmie Jikiemi-PearsonAn Interview with Gemma AmorReview: The Book That Broke the World by Mark LawrenceAn Interview with Jay KristoffIt’s a Grim, Dark World by Deborah A. WolfGiving Life to the Walking Dead by Aaron S. JonesReview: The Woods All Black by Lee MandeloAn Interview with Lee MandeloRead Grimdark Magazine Issue #37

 

 

 

 

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REVIEW: Sawtooth by Steph Nelson

Sawtooth is Steph Nelson’s monstrously disquieting survival horror set in the Sawtooth Mountain Range of central Idaho. Named for the jagged shape of the range’s fifty-seven peaks, these remote mountains might also be home to a fabled beast of the same name.

The lead protagonist, Taryn, takes her first solo trek through the Sawtooth Range under unhappy circumstances, viz., scattering the ashes of her wife, Gemma, in a secluded lake. But honoring her late wife’s final wish proves to be more disconcerting than expected, as Taryn finds an assortment of bones—possibly human—in the otherwise beautifully clear lake.

Taryn’s journey in Sawtooth becomes increasingly perilous as she suffers injury and ultimately discovers the true nature of the novella’s eponymous beast. (It’s not what you think.)

The Sawtooth Range provides the perfect setting for this adventure. The natural beauty of the mountainous scenery is juxtaposed with the fear of what’s lurking in the great unknown.

Steph Nelson alternates Taryn’s present-day narrative with flashbacks of her relationship with Gemma, including both the happy times together as well as their struggles. While Gemma was always drawn toward a rural life in the mountains, Taryn preferred to pursue her career aspirations in the bustle of Boise.

The most touching scenes involved Gemma receiving her terminal diagnosis and Taryn’s subsequent struggle with setting her priorities right. Steph Nelson captured my heart with both of these characters. The ending of the novella is quite emotional, hitting extra hard because of the relationship drama in the flashback sequences.

Steph Nelson’s prose in Sawtooth is as incisive as the title would imply. Her writing is so polished that I was surprised to learn this is her debut novella. Nelson strikes the perfect balance between the tragedy faced by Taryn and Gemma in their personal relationship and then the physical manifestation of that horror. Nelson’s pacing is also spot-on, building up to a climax that I won’t soon forget.

Overall, Sawtooth will sink its teeth into you from the first page, taking you on a harrowing journey that is well worth the trip. Sawtooth is a stellar debut from a very talented new voice in the genre, and I look forward to reading more from Steph Nelson in the future.

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REVIEW: The Wolfe at the Door by Gene Wolfe

Full disclosure: I have been a Gene Wolfe (1931 – 2019) fanboy for more than thirty years. Specifically, I think Wolfe’s The Book of the New Sun, which has won numerous World Fantasy, Locus, and British Fantasy awards, as well as a Nebula, is the greatest piece of literature ever written, and I think his Book of the Long Sun, Book of the Short Sun, and Soldier series, winner of a World Fantasy Award and a Locus Award, are almost as good. Wolfe is a SFWA Science Fiction Grand Master, has won the World Fantasy Lifetime Achievement Award in 2007, and was inducted into the Science Fiction Hall of Fame. That said, his latest and likely final posthumous short story collection, The Wolfe at the Door (Tor – 31 October 2023) is a bit of a mixed bag.

The Wolfe at the Door covers Wolfe’s entire career, and though it is billed as “an all new collection,” only one of the pieces, “Archangel Gabriel,” a religious poem, has not been released before. The stories range from fantasy and dark fantasy to science fiction and even a couple of very engaging detective stories, which I didn’t expect. One of Wolfe’s few acknowledged influences, Science Fiction Grand Master Jack Vance, also wrote mysteries under different pen names including as Ellery Queen. In its best stories, The Wolfe at the Door captures the genius intellect and visionary imagination of Wolfe at the height of his powers. Some of the other stories are merely interesting and some others are just puzzling. Nevertheless, all the stories contain deep personal conflicts nested in strange and vivid situations.

Perhaps my favorite story in The Wolfe at the Door is the novella “Memorare,” which I first read in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction in 2007 and which was nominated for the Nebula Award for best novella that year. (Nancy Kress won the award that year as she has several times.) The story follows a filmmaker, March Wildspring, and his reporter girlfriend to the atmosphere of Jupiter, where it has become fashionable for rich people to create floating memorials to themselves after they die. However, his girlfriend has brought a friend with her who is fleeing an abusive relationship. When the friend’s abusive spouse shows up, things get very tense since they must leave her alone in the ship or take her with them into a reportedly very dangerous tomb.

Other engaging science fictions stories include “The Sea of Memory,” in which travelers on a space ship find themselves dying in their pods on the way to their destination, “Leif in the Wind” in which travelers looking for life on a faraway planet become haunted by strange birds, and “Thou Spark of Blood,” in which a murder takes place on a space ship, and an ending twist turns the story on its head.

Although most of the stories are based in science fiction, some grim fantasy, which may be particularly interesting to readers of Grimdark Magazine, include “The Hour of the Sheep” in which a famous swordsman, Tiero, is finagled into a protecting a rich aristocratic woman, “Easter Sunday,” in which a reverend and an exiled aristocrat engage in a conversation about religion and politics that takes a strange twist, and “The Gunner’s Mate,” in which a woman finds herself vacationing and then wanting to stay on a remote island that may be haunted by pirates.

And as I have said above, there are some unexpected and surprisingly good mystery/detective stories in The Wolfe at the Door, including “Volksweapon,” about a murder in the woods, and “The Largest Luger,” a thoroughly engaging and detailed tale about the provenance of a rare pistol that may have been used in a murder.

On the other hand, there are some old clunkers like “The Grave Secret” that I didn’t enjoy as much. Originally published in 1951 and updated for the collection The Young Wolfe in 1992, it tells the story of a man who murders his wife. The story is a short mystery/horror tale, but instead of Wolfe’s more mature style of leaving the reader guessing, Wolfe tells the ‘secret’ in the last line of the otherwise opaque story. Another is “The On-Deck Circle,” a totally befuddling tale about boat baseball. (Yes, you read that right.) But to each their own.

What ties all these diverse stories together is the deep human conflict in all of them, even the ones with robots. Wolfe is a master at pitting characters against one another in ways that put readers on edge. And all the stories packed into this 500+ page tome do that. Wolfe is truly master storyteller, but whether these diverse and often bizarre tales satisfy the casual reader might be a question of taste. However, for Gene Wolfe completists, it is a must have.

I would not, however, recommend this collection to readers who are new to Wolfe. Do yourselves a favor and check out The Book of the New Sun (Shadow & Claw, Sword & Citadel), which has been called “a masterpiece of science fantasy comparable in importance to the major works of Tolkien and Lewis” by Publishers Weekly, and “one of the most ambitious works of speculative fiction in the twentieth century” by The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction.  For Wolfe’s best short work, I recommend the collection The Island of Doctor Death and Other Stories and Other Stories.

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REVIEW: Redsight by Meredith Mooring

All Korinna wants to do is stay alive. And live in peace. But she’s a Redseer, a blind priestess with the power to manipulate space and time. In the hostile world of Meredith Mooring’s debut, Redsight, that may be more difficult than expected. We define grimdark as a morally grey protagonist in a world stacked against them – and Redsight checks those boxes well. Redsight is a sapphic science fantasy with space nuns, space pirates, revolutionaries – and some very very angry women (and goddesses). It will appeal especially to lovers of Gideon the Ninth, Sisters of the Vast Black and The First Sister.

When we meet Korinna she is convinced she is the weakest novice in her Order. She struggles to use her Redsight, struggles to fit into the group and seems in a constant battle with herself. But as the novices undergo the final trials, someone sees her potential. She gets a position as navigator on an Imperium ship, intended to develop her into a pawn of the Imperium. Until the ship gets attacked by notorious pirate Aster Haran – a woman with a vendetta against the Imperium and a dark power all her own -and Korinna’s world shatters.

Redsight has many strengths. I loved the narration, the writing drawing me deep into the story. The world is fascinating and leaves scope for many other stories in it. Not in the sense that Redsight needs a sequel – it is a standalone, but more as a richly developed world that has a sense of history. It is full of details and references to earlier events, making it feel very real and peaking the reader’s curiosity. There are three orders, each following a chained goddess. Furia, Radiosa and Korinna’s own Vermicula. Out of their memory the present-day cults developed, each bringing their own flavour of dark magic into the mix.  The three main proponents of each in the story, Aster, Sahar and Korinna, have to navigate both the personal and the broader aims of their respective communities. None of them are good people. They are each more than willing to sacrifice to reach their aims, with little regard for others. The story twists and turns rapidly, with betrayal (or seeming betrayal) a red thread throughout the plot.

And that is where Redsight falters a bit. I really enjoyed reading it but felt that it didn’t quite reach the potential of setting and characters. Knowing what the story could have been makes it all the more obvious when elements don’t quite fit together. The plot might have benefitted from another round of edits, streamlining some elements and making the character arcs clearer. Still, this is criticism on a high level, as I thoroughly enjoyed reading Redsight. Readers of Grimdark Magazine might want to know that while this is a clearly sapphic story, the romantic elements are few and far between. This is not a romantasy, this is a story of revolution and feminine rage first and foremost. Redsight merges a fun story with pensive elements and cements Meredith Mooring as a writer to watch out for.

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REVIEW: Watcher of the Dead by J.V. Jones

In Watcher of the Dead, we join clansman Raif Sevrance as he contemplates what to do next now that he possesses the legendary sword Loss. With Raif’s talents at being able to heart kill and the weapon’s God-influenced nature, he can stand as a challenge against the upper-tier monstrosities of the unmade and the Endlords. Raif has endured brutal hardships, has broken oaths, and has seen many people close to him perish. The fact that he has the destined sword does not mean that he goes without burdens, battles, and torture in Watcher of the Dead. If anything, his luck seems to have gotten worse, and although Raif is my favourite character, it is not an easy read to follow his tortuous journey.

“I’ve seen what close combat with live steel can do to an army. It’s seldom pretty. The guts. The shit. The blood. Never seen anything like the Red Ice, though. Thirty thousand bodies reduced to parts. Parts. And maybe, just maybe, this sword and the man who wielded it turned certain annihilation into a draw.”

Watcher of the Dead commences fantastically with every single point of view perspective being impactful from the start, utterly gripping, and adding to this already deep fantasy world. Standout viewpoints, again, include the Blackhail chief’s wife Raina as she continues with her dedication to return her clan to its former glory, even if that means taking it over from within. As with A Sword from Red Ice, Bram Cormac’s adventures are great to witness following the choice he made at the end of the previous book, which linked him up with the Phage ranger, Hew Mallin. The Reach Ash Marsh’s storyline felt as if it was filler in the last book, with her travelling from point A to B, yet I have no such complaints here. It was thoroughly enjoyable to share more page time with Ash concerning her integration with the Sull, especially after feeling like she had been relegated to a side character since A Fortress of Grey Ice.

“In many ways his life had been arranged like the checkerboard pattern of the courtyard: black and white, black and white. Stealth, weapons-training, secrets and surveillance were part of the black, part of the life that he’d once believed was his calling. His missions and travels were all in the black. The white . . . The white was gone. Over. Even a child knew that if you burned something to a cinder the only thing left was black.”

There is a new point of view perspective that is one of the main threads in Watcher of the Dead, following a character initially acknowledged as Watcher. It transpires that they are a main character who readers are familiar with, presenting the details as they pursue a task that they believe will damn them. This viewpoint is introduced early, is one of the most intense and shows new angles of this fantasy world, its history and mysteries.

With sublime characters such as those mentioned previously, Watcher of the Dead is an absolute gem of a dark fantasy read. At this stage of the Sword of Shadows series, I am invested in a manner that may even surpass how engaged I was with some of my favourite series such as The Realm of the Elderlings and Malazan. The world is brimming to the edge with intrigue, civil wars, dread regarding the threat of the unmade, and puzzles and possibilities. Throughout, my mind is trying to answer questions that are beyond what is revealed on the page. For example, where is Angus Lok’s daughter? What has become of Drey Sevrance who has not been seen for almost two books? It is worth noting too that Watcher of the Dead features a fantasy trope that is brilliantly executed. That of “warging” or bonding with an animal companion. This direction was something I did not envisage yet was expertly handled.

Watcher of the Dead takes all of the great qualities and potential that the Sword of Shadows has showcased thus far and hones it masterfully. The novel is thoroughly fantastic with concluding set-pieces being some of the finest in fantasy that I can remember reading. The only viewpoint that drops the stellar standard slightly is that of Ellie Sevrance however even her perspective offers well-presented information about clans, curses, lore, and what could happen next when the Endlords break through the barrier. This is the last of the released novels that J.V. Jones has penned, yet, looking at her Patreon and other articles, I am hoping the wait is almost over for the next entry in this stunning fantasy series.

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Anna Smith Spark reads Iananr’s The Bound One’s first chapter from In the Shadow of their Dying

If you’ve been keeping an eye on Tor.com or Daniel Green’s YouTube channel, or any of our social media, you’ll know that our grimdark fantasy horror novella, In the Shadow of their Dying by Anna Smith Spark and Michael R. Fletcher is releasing on the 19th of March, 2024. And since then, I have been harping on about my love of this novella, and how amazed I was by one character in particular: Iananr The Bound One, a demon enslaved to protect a king. As I said on last week’s interview with The Beard of Darkness, reading Iananr’s perspective is an experience. And, thanks to Anna’s narration, it’s an experience that you can share a little of today!

Before you get stuck in to Iananr’s chapter, you can check out the first chapter over on Track of Words, featuring Sharaam’s third best assassin, Tash.

In the Shadow of their Dying: Chapter Two – Iananr The Bound One

Iananr The Bound One is a special character delivered by an incredibly unique author. In the below video, Anna brings her character even more to life with her narration of chapter two of In the Shadow of their Dying.

Pre-order In the Shadow of their Dying by Anna Smith Spark and Michael R. Fletcher

With release day on the 19th of March, there are currently two formats available for pre-order over on Amazon: Kindle and paperback. There will also be a hardcover with the art laminated onto the hardcase being uploaded closer to the release date.

Support our release and pre-order In the Shadow of their Dying, below:

US: https://amzn.to/3S08HePUK: https://amzn.to/3TKdbrwPrefer to read this chapter? Here you go!

Find it.

Kill it.

It ran. It ran from me. Filth thing, with its filth purge perfume scent, white face thing like a fish belly, maggot eyes thing vile thing, it ran away. Nothing gets away.

I am a hunter. I am bound to my duty. With smoke and chains and words my master bound me, I lay in sleep, warm in warm soft blood-fire dozing dreaming, the old times when we were all that lived to walk the earth, I dreamed of that time, the yearning for it growing, hot pulse in my crotch. My master gathered smoke and chains in the darkness, spoke words of power, summoned me, chained me, bound me, and I am bound to hunt and kill. Weak disease thing my master. Bound me. Trapped me.

It ran. It cannot escape me.

I slide down into the darkness of the streets of Sharaam, unpronounceable name in their ugly babbling tongue. It means ‘City of the Great’, my master told me proudly, as though that might mean something to me. Pitiful buildings of crude stone crouched on rot-mud. They shit into the filth, they bury their dead in the filth, they need the rot-mud to live. They raise their buildings, think them beautiful, and now they die here fighting over them. They are pathetic things. They deserve butchery and slaughter, in the times long past they ran to our call, we controlled them. If I was free of these word-chains, I would kill them.

My master bound me with word-chains to its weak vile will. I am a hunter. Kill.

“They will try to harm the king. You will not allow them to harm the king. You will stop them.” Words like wounds opening. Itching burning scoring across this body until it is done.

“If the king dies, Iananr…”

Bound. Kill it. Now. Hunt. Go.

* * *

Iananr moved through the city of Sharaam. Wandering. Walking. Frail on heavy legs. The awkwardness of this body. Unpleasant to move. Unpleasant to see. Not been out in the city before, beyond the walls of the castle they bound her in. Staring and strange. Looking for the colour trail her prey had left behind it, running. The narrow city streets in the rain-shadow, the stones of the buildings glistening with rain, the buildings and the sky and the city walls all blurring. The red light of fires, the city burning, making the world darker, making her vision flicker. Patterns like blood clots where alchemical workings poured and splashed. Over that, the other world that was easier to see, but in which the city itself could not be seen. She had to hold her eyes open to see all of it. There: traces, ebbing colours, ink-in-water, the prey, running. Down a narrow street, all rubble and garbage. Round a corner, scramble over a broken-down wall, down a wide street with the wind blowing rain full in her face. A troop of soldiers went past her, heading for the walls. Rain dripping down their armour. Death clawing beating at them. A roar from off to the east, a missile hitting the walls or the gates. In her other eyes she saw it flash like spark light. Green and silver. Taste of magic. She saw the stone of the walls shriek.

“The more of our lot the Tsarii kill now, the more glory there’ll be for us that’s left when we take them down,” the soldier that would die first said to its comrades. “Doing us that survive to kill them a fucking favour, yeah? Rewards and promotions all round.”

“Yeah!” shouted the one that was longing to die.

They walked faster when they saw Iananr. Sensed something. She turned her head to watch them splashing away through the rain.

Voices. Strain to hear them. Understand them.

“When this is over… when this is over, I’m going to sleep for a bloody week.”

“When this is over… when this is over, I’m going to stay indoors by a fire for a fucking month.”

“Remember last summer, when we were all worried about a sodding drought?”

Iananr thought: They are… afraid. Of dying.

Strange.

Tumbled buildings, houses with barred windows, everywhere the smell of smoke. A white face stared down at her from a hole like the hole in a skull, disappeared back. Another face, beside it, staring up at the sky. There were leaves around the window they looked from. Plants growing there. And a shopfront below, boarded up, full of shining gold all scattered. A faint ghost hint of a man’s blood. There had been joy here. The women up above had been weeping. Things had been done.

Iananr smiled a pleasure smile a hunger smile. Enjoy it. Feel. Things hungered here. This place was how our whole world was.

Word-chains. Find it. Hunt it. Follow the trail. Go on. She walked through streets where the people of the city had been dying. Through streets where they crouched alive in fear. Soldiers in the walls, staring out, coughing, searching, “When will they come? Oh gods, oh gods, when?” Barricades in the streets, broken by the army outside’s bombardment. Pools of petty magic, alchemical sweetness, stop and taste it, drink. Everything shattered up.

Green fire and blue fire and great lumps of stonework. Killing things and hurting things. The army outside the walls hurled them at the city and the city howled on and on. She almost understood it. The fear in the people of the city, in the army outside, the shame, the horror, the desire. Iananr thought: They enjoy it.

A man came up to her. Not a soldier. Came close to her. Looked at her with bared teeth. There was violence in it. Wet hunger. It wanted. Like the hands that had pawed over the scattered bloodied gold in the boarded-up ransacked shop.

Strain to hear it. Understand it. “Hey, girl,” it said. “What you got?”

It moved itself at her and she reached out at it. Unloosed herself. Clawed at it. It was so weak.

Iananr thought: It wants to hurt this body. Why should it want that?

She felt the last of it at her feet dying. It had hurt as it died, and that as always surprised her. Why should it feel? She squatted next to its body, reached out plump fingers, touched it. The eyes staring up towards her. The mouth open. Red skin visible inside the mouth. She placed her face very close to it. Breathed it in. Warm inside her. Sweet and fresh and good. Lapped the blood carefully. Sweet. Opened her mouth, her real mouth, opened up rows and rows and rows of teeth. She sighed with almost-pleasure when she had finished. A little dry patch of colour, vivid, on the bare ground. She breathed out with a hiss and the colour was gone. All gone. Nothing left of the dead thing. Never been.

Iananr went on.

The prey’s trail went off to the west, away from the walls. Sadly, she turned to follow it. Down a smaller street, lined with houses piled in together; she could feel people and rats and lice, see the walls of the buildings itching with life. The street opened into a courtyard, a well at the centre. Iananr snorted in disgust at the feel of the water. Pain worse than the itch of the word-chains. Cold pain. Felt her mouth writhe, could almost taste the water. The prey’s trail went up to the well, hung around the well bucket. Iananr edged around the walls of the courtyard, keeping away. There was a tree growing in the courtyard and that also confused her, confused her vision. Not good to try to look at, even now with the life running out of it. It was very bright, like a tower of fire, it confused her, cast shadows in the city world and the real world. She went past it quickly, holding her breath to stop herself having to breathe the feel of it. It would be good if the war machines could hit it, splinter and burn it.

On the other side of the courtyard a building was burning, was broken open, it must have been hit by one of the missiles thrown by the army outside the walls. There was a child’s body on the ground in front of it. A girl child, the thing like a face all burned. Broke up the colour lines of her true seeing. Her prey had stepped over the child and had felt pain then. The child had perhaps come from the house.

Her prey had gone down a narrow alley. She could not see the sky at all here, the buildings bent over towards each other, falling into each other. Her feet slipped on the wet ground. Everything here was rot and filth. People had died in this alley, many of them, once. There were bones there beneath the ground. Coming loose as the rain fell and the earth turned to black mud; they would float upwards in the mire, be revealed. Dry bones that yearned to feel rain and sun and air.

The city would fall before that. Other deaths would choke the alley. The buildings would fall over all of it.

Something stopped her moving. A crawling shrieking burning pain in her arm. Revulsion. Her mind and her vision white with disgust. A man, burned like the child, a wound on it, clutching at her arm.

“Help me.” Slurred speech. “Please.”

She shouted, “Get away from me.” Hard to speak in this word-language. Too crude and too complex. The man was pulling at her arm, shouting, blood pouring out of it. Stopping her from following her prey. It stank of dying: stop and watch it stop and watch it, this whole filth city, everywhere she went there was dying, it drummed in her. Be loose here, wander, stand on the walls, watch and feel the dying. Taste it, sense it. Pleasure heat building up in her, spread herself out over the city feel it take it taste it wallow in it. Hot pain of the man’s hand gripping her. Disgusting.

“Help me. Please.” The other hand flapping towards the well. “Water. Please.”

Word-chains closing on her. The prey. Kill it. Find it. The prey’s scent trail fading now. Caught up in the dying around her, the burning house, the well and the tree that sickened her. Too many smells and senses. Getting blurred. I’m tired, master. I was sleeping. Eternities passed and I slept. This place is no longer a world for me. Too much. Too different. I crouch as a guardian, I am a watcher in the night; implacable I watch over my charge, protecting it, shielding it. I am like a shield I am like armour, I do not need to rest. I sit beside it to protect. If the word-chains break I will… Oh, my master, oh my charge, I watch for a flaw in the word-chain, if the word-chain breaks I will glut myself on you, I will have such pleasures with you. Feel it. Clutch it. Rub at it. Wet in my body, spreading. This false body. My real body. Sweet pain filth. But it’s not real. Pretending. Wet pleasuring fades to shame. Protect. Guard it. I am bound I cannot kill them. Find the prey. Kill the prey.

“Help me.”

Iananr shook its flesh hand off her body. “Get away.” She said in the word-language voice, “Where is it? Where is it?”

It drew back from her. Seemed to see her. It was oozing with fear now. White fear running down its face and hands. “Oh gods… gods… mercy.” The last word a scream.

It sees me.

The scream was beautiful music. The idiot thing her prey had not understood her, wrapped up in its dreams, blind to everywhere that was not itself. This man saw and understood. She had trampled a world filled with screams once, when all was younger. Human voices pleading, and she had danced over them, filled herself with them, soaked them into her skin. Garbed herself in human screams.

The word-chains bit into her. The trail. Follow the prey’s trail. She twisted back and forth, searching. Smell and sight and feel. The smell of it, the traces of it, colour-taste in the air. This world and the real world. These eyes and her real eyes. Where is it gone? It cannot escape me. Flickerings in the air, faint scent-memories: it was here, the last time the sun was risen, or the night before that, or the night before that again. She could see the shadow of it, where it had walked in the past, where it might walk in the future. The trail it left now was lost.

My master will be angry. Will punish me.

Filth shame ruin rage wet pleasure, that she was reduced to fear of punishment.

“Your duty is to protect King Inshiil, Iananr. Your one duty. Whatever comes, a lone man or the whole Tsarii army, you will protect him. I bind you to him. Do you understand? If you understand, Iananr, nod your head.”

Humiliation. Rage. I scream and roar, thrash against the word-chains, spill myself in fire at it. It stands over me and it is afraid, I know it is afraid, it is shocked by my power, how close I am to shattering the bindings it has wrapped around me. I scream curses, I tell it what I shall do to it. What it will suffer, when the word-chains break.

“Your duty, Iananr. I command you.” Its voice is shaking. “I command you, Iananr.”

The word-chains lash at me. Burn me. They are too strong.

“My duty,” I whisper. “Master.”

It croons with pleasure. It is enjoying its fear of me, my rage-fear of it.

* * *

It must be here! The trail! The prey cannot escape! Iananr got down on her knees, awkward in this awkward flesh-rot disease body, sniffing the ground, staring, searching. The rainwater cold and vile, burning her real skin. Pain-flesh. Blind and haltered. No trace.

She went back to the dying man. Took it apart to sate herself. Calm a little of her anger. Bury her shame at failing. Layers and layers of blood and pain and dying. Sinking down into them. Such a weak thing, and dying; she stood in the filthy alley, on the bones of others long-dead, did not feel calmed or less ashamed.

The feel of the air was changing. The rain slacking. She felt less solid in the light. More confused. The city world was more real, her own world fainter. Harder to see and think. Go back to the palace, she thought. Guard the king. But her master would be angry.

“It’s lost, it’s gone, it won’t come back,” she said aloud in her own language in her own mouth. The tree in the courtyard snapped and shuddered at her voice, the branches rattled like bones, dead leaves falling, the water in the well hissed in steam.

She said aloud, “I have killed two of them already. This one is a coward, it will not come back to trouble the king again.” The child’s dead body and the man’s dead body jerked at her voice. Decay spreading over them, their faces crumbling away green and black. Perfume: half-unaware of what she was doing, she breathed deep, filled herself with the scent. Grave worms hatching and dying in the dead flesh. It called itself “the third best assassin”. She had heard it call itself that, loud in its head; it was proud-ashamed of the name. Both the pride and the shame she had tasted, smelled on it. It knew she had killed the others, “first best” and “second best”, “Qwneera” and “Geln” they had called themselves in their hearts as she killed them. It was afraid because she had killed better things than it. It was afraid of her.

The child’s body and the man’s body decaying at her voice. Writhing puddles of filth and grave worms. The worms sang of the pleasure of corpse-flesh. Their colour trails fading, every trace of them in this world eaten away by her voice.

The word-chains bit into her. Tight pain. Tried to enjoy it. Tried and tried, since her master had bound her. Hurt too deep, too much. Trapped.

Kill it.

* * *

A long walk, trailing through the streets. The rain became lighter. Felt like the breath of the woman Qwneera gasping out on her face warm and soft and hateful, as Iananr killed and consumed it. Made her skin itch. The things camped beyond the walls slacked off their killing games a brief while. People out on the streets, white-faced, wide-eyed, creeping out from their attempts at shelter now the bombardment was briefly at an end. Examining the damage done. Mourning the dead. They still tried to live, some of them, tried to buy and sell, visit their friends, prepare food to celebrate things. As if the city would survive. It delighted her. The sense of their hope. The beating dark beyond it of their knowledge they were lying to themselves. The certainty, beyond the despair, that they could not die even if every other man, woman and child in the city died, because…

A child stopped to stare at her from a doorway. She was going too fast. Moving out of step with the body that she wore. The child saw something wrong in her. She stared back at the child and smiled at it. Its eyes opened wide. Iananr beckoned it over. Another little girl, very thin.

“Where are your parents?” Iananr asked it carefully. Get the words right. Speak in the right tongue.

“Dead,” the child said. “A clay pot came down, really small thing, hit the house and they’re dead. Spare a coin? It won’t matter if you give me a coin, will it? In a few days when you’re dead and I’m dead.” It knew that. Young as it was. But it believed, also, young as it was, that if it said the city would fall, that it would die—it believed like so many of them that saying that truth could make it untrue.

A coin appeared in Iananr’s hand. Gold. She dropped the coin into the child’s palm and its eyes widened.

Iananr touched the child’s face. The child’s eyes closed. Opened again.

Red gleam in its eyes. It smiled at Iananr. Licked its dirty, thin lips. Walked away down the street.

I should not have done that.

But…

Pleasing.

And the bombardment of the city was starting again. The army outside grinding them down. For… something. Bright light, green and blue fire. A shriek, a scream, from far off beyond the walls she felt a shout and a cheer of triumph. Iananr walked carefully on.

* * *

In an alleyway, Iananr stopped walking. Voices and shouting, food smells, sweat. A gathering place. A woman asleep in the gutter, grey hair in a pool of piss.

Here!

Faint. Rippling. Scent-trails, colour-trails, tracing out. Unspooling. Faint as whispers. Almost lost in all the rest. Here! It was. It will be. It knows this place.

Two men talking, around the corner. Strain to hear them. Piss stink of them. The ghost of the scent trail on them. Hope! Pitiful, in one such as her kind. We did not have to hope once, we did not have to search, we were everything. They were talking, plotting, pissing out into the dirt. “We’ll meet back here.” And they had the scent, the colours, faint on them. Kill them. Make them tell. In her shame she wavered. Make them tell! They can’t know, they won’t know, the prey has escaped her. She’s failed. Wading through the world unmatched and now she has failed in it. She spat and tore and pleasured herself, running liquid shame in the blind weight of her false masker’s body. It crushed at her, shamed her, how little and nothing it felt. The men went off, the ghost of the scent trail, her delusion that they knew her failure.

They knew. They knew.

Ran. Fled after it. One of them. It knew. Traces in it, scent-trails. It knew. She came up on it and it wheeled round at her, big thing like a wall, all pounded meat.

“What? What do you want?” Ugly sneer look on its face.

It had killed things. Iananr thought: Blood and death. Killing. Oh, it enjoys it.

Iananr thought: Axe.

It said, “What?” in its ugly tongue.

Say it in this word-language. Hard. Too complex, too simple. She said, “I am… looking… for a… a man.”

“Aren’t we bloody all, woman? Now get out.”

She said, “Tell me.” Looked at it. There, in its mind. It knew the prey. The prey’s colour trail, coiling, touch it, smell it, taste it.

The man swayed. “Tash,” it said. Slow fearful voice. Didn’t say. Thought it. These creatures’ thoughts were so loud like speaking in their crude ugly word-language. “Tash.”

She saw the thing’s face in its mind. The third-best assassin. The prey.

Tash.

“Where? I’m looking for it. Lost it. Where is it?”

“I don’t… don’t know.”

“Where is it?”

Colour traces in its head. Its bowels opened. It came down its leg with a gasp and a grunt and a stink. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Kill it. She stripped her claws to gut it, flay it, take it inside her and make it tell. The trail traces over it. It knows the prey. It can tell. It can tell.

Its head moved. Looking.

Lips moving. Telling her. Cum shit piss dripping down it.

“The Bucket.”

What?

I don’t understand. These things, their world, anything. We moved and curled through our eternities. We raised palaces of our flesh, our filth, our love. We did not need cities, buildings, we were all the world, everything in the world was of us, the world was our need our glory of ourselves we did not have these walls these things. We did not need almost to speak. Its head jerked, its arms flailing. “The Bucket… Tash… I don’t know…”

It was pointing back the way it had come. Jerking. Dead arm bones flapping dead skin. Kill it. Enjoy it.

She let it go, dropped it. It fell and flapped, croaking. Gasped for breath.

“Nothing,” she hissed in her own voice. “Nothing happened here.” Shimmer around it. The air cold and hot. It staggered up on legs as heavy as her own. Reeled and stumbled, blinked. Straightened. Stared around it. Not seeing her. Its head twisted back and forth. Set strong. It walked out away from her with the city shuddering ruin. Strong and steady, confident of itself, swinging the weapon at its hip.

Nothing.

Iananr turned the way it had been pointing. The alley she had found it in. And beside that… Windows. Lights. A doorway. Bustling, buzzing, talking, laughter, singing. The door opened, light showed, a smell of meat cooking, a voice shouted for more drink. A party of people in the street approached:  two women arguing, a man with a third woman on its arm, pawing at it, it giggled and wriggled back.

An inn.

Another doorway, in the alleyway. Just near where the two men she had followed had stood to piss. The confusion of their trails, and its trail, the prey’s trail, and the piss-stink, and the women still lying there, its grey head in the men’s trickling piss. Iananr watched.

There. The man had pointed there. She took a few steps towards it. The walls and the doors of the inn shook, the army outside loosing something that made the city walls tremble. She could feel the dust of it. Taste the dust. Taste the soldiers up there shaking. In her real eyes she saw the soldiers swimming in petty magics, thrashing, shrieking.

The alley door opened, a man stared out into the street wiping its hands on its clothes. Big and heavy. Greasy grey smears on its hands. Dead flesh beneath its fingernails. Looked out towards the city walls and sighed.

“Gods, gods, help us,” it muttered to itself.

“We’re running out of lamp oil,” a voice shouted to it.

“Then they’ll have to drink in the dark,” it shouted back. “If we’re any of us still alive by then.”

Calm, on the surface. Thrashing terror beneath, choked down. But calm, on the surface, in both of them. Almost becoming used to this. Unreal. Just another normal thing.

“Do you know?” it shouted back to the other voice, “we’ve made more money in the weeks since the Tsarii came than we have in the last three months?”

Two soldiers went past her towards the city walls filthy with sweat and ashes, grey with fatigue. One’s arm was bandaged. Iananr stood waiting. The wounded man reeked of grief and bitterness. Wanted to go back to being a soldier. The other man reeked of grief and bitterness. Wanted to go back to being a man of peace. Pleasure hate drifted warm over her. Taste of their rage at dying. Sweet. Heat in her crotch, mounting in her. Writhe in it. Sink into it. Maggot pleasure burrowing into their death-grief. Once her kind ruled all this world, breathed in these agonies, we bent these filth-creatures to us. For eternities, we sank into their pain and their shame and their sorrow, opened ourselves into them. We swam in their deaths. Taste it. Smell it. The army outside the walls. The people gathered here waiting. All the shadows of their dying. Such pleasure she has not felt for so long.

Her master: “When the Tsarii come, Iananr, if you are good, I might let you wander. Loosen the chain a little while. Yes?”

People coming in and out of the inn doorway. Talking. Laughing. Sighing. Hopeful terrified resigned to their deaths. Sweetness of murderers, killers, fighters, liars; desperate broken bodies; hearts running with hate and fear and love. Soar on wings of their pain. Crawl in mounds of their decay. Hot pleasure, rippling over her. Glut herself. Gorge herself. Sink herself into their deaths. It reeked of dying. It sang of dying. It shimmered with putrid death rot. Let me love you, let me touch you, let me be you. Whole landscapes of pain in their hot dying breath. A woman praying with every breath for its lover’s life. A man longing to die fighting, after things it has done it tried not to accept about itself.

But not the prey. It won’t come here. It’s fleeing you. It’s escaped. Stab of self-loathing. It escaped me. Such shame.

Find it.

Soldiers up there on the walls, dying. Soldiers in the lines beyond, the besiegers, dying of boredom and disease. She hid herself in the dirt, screamed in her own tongue in her own mind with frustration and need and rage.

Find it. Word-chains making her ache with grief. Find it. Kill it.

Scent trails. Something moving. Footsteps.

Hope. Pitiful, in one such as her kind.

A name in the air, a word, a knowing.

Tash.

The inn door opening. Warm and noise. A voice shouting for another drink. A woman’s loud laugh.

It’s here. It’s gone inside.

The prey.

Find it. Kill it.

Iananr pushed the door open and went in.

The post Anna Smith Spark reads Iananr’s The Bound One’s first chapter from In the Shadow of their Dying appeared first on Grimdark Magazine.

Most anticipated games of 2024

2023 saw a glutton of amazing games released with fans of SFF sinking numerous hours into titles such as Baldur’s Gate 3, God of War: Ragnarök (and it’s incredible free DLC), Diablo IV, Starfield, Alan Wake 2, Spiderman 2, Star Wars: Jedi Survivor, Final Fantasy XVI and many more. 2024 looks like it’s going to be another stellar year and whether you have a Switch, Playstation, Xbox, PC, or any other gaming device, I’m sure you’ll find something you’re going to devour on this list. Here are Grimdark Magazine’s most anticipated games of 2024.

Hellblade II: Senua’s Saga

Top of my list is one of the most grimdark games you could wish for. The first title in the series Hellblade: Senua’s Sacrifice, is one of the best games I’ve played. Based in 8th Century Orkney, it follows a Pict warrior called Senua as she enters Helheim to rescue the soul of her dead lover from Hela. It is one of the darkest games I’ve ever played and the developers spent time researching mental illnesses to get a true feel of how to disorient the player whilst giving a realistic reflection of the difficulties faced by Senua on her journey. It is a difficult game to play but one where the player is rewarded for their resilience by a truly wonderful story. This sequel takes place over hundreds of miles across Iceland as Senua once again battles terrifying creatures from Norse mythology in this dark fantasy world. Prepare to be blown away.

Final Fantasy VII: Rebirth

This one is a personal favourite of mine. A sequel to a remake of a game that pulled away from the hugely popular original game to tell its own story and plant seeds of intrigue for this follow up. Players thought they knew where this story was heading but with the writers playing on themes of fate and destiny, this tale could go any number of ways. Cloud and his friends now have a whole world to traverse as they seek to stop Sephiroth and Shinra destroying the planet in this second of a planned trilogy. Final Fantasy XVI proved that the series can keep with tradition whilst using fresh ideas and this game looks to build on that foundation. Prepare to have your heart broken in this one.

Warhammer 40K: Space Marine II

Captain Titus has been investigated by the Inquisition and arrested on suspicion of heresy. Although allowed to return to the Ultramarine chapter, he has been demoted to Lieutenant just as the Hive Fleet Leviathan have invaded the Imperial worlds of Avarax and Kadaku. This third-person hack and slash should be a lot of fun, especially on multiplayer and with the Forces of Chaos returning along with the new addition of The Thousand Sons, this will be a load of grimdark fun for fans of Warhammer in what should be a very interesting year.

Hades II

Another sequel to a popular game, Hades II sees protagonist Zagreus hanging up his shade-slashing boots and passing the torch to his sister, the Princess of Hell, Melinoe. Tasked with a rescue mission and an assassination, Hades II looks to follow in the bloody footsteps of the original and deliver another unique game set in the Greek Mythology.

Rise of the Ronin

Set during one of the darkest periods in Japanese history, Rise of the Ronin allows players to create a character during the Boshin War as there is unrest between those who wish Japan to open to Western influence and those who do not. Rise of the Ronin will have players travelling across the Japanese countryside as well as the cities of Yokohama, Kyoto, and Edo. The Ghist of Tsushima showed that there is an audience waiting for more from this Japanese setting and Blue Eye Samurai proved that there is so much that can be done around this period. I can’t wait to play this when it is released in 2024.

Star Wars: Outlaws

It’s not often I’ll pop a Star Wars title in a grimdark article but I’m excited about this one. Andor proved that dark Star Wars tales can be the best when done well and I’m hoping that Outlaws is able to focus on the underbelly of the Star Wars world in this game that has the feeling of Mass Effect. Set between The Empire Strikes Back and The Return of the Jedi, this story has two outlaws attempted the biggest heist in the history of the Outer Rim. Recent Star Wars games have delivered stories better than their big screen counterparts, let’s hope this effort continues on that path.

Vampire: The Masquerade Bloodlines 2

This sequel to 2004’s game is being developed by the creators of Everybody’s gone to the Rapture and that’s the main reason I have high hopes for this effort to be released late 2024. Just read the official description for the story and you’ll see why 2024 can’t come quick enough! Bloodlines 2 takes players to the dark underbelly of Seattle, where vampires struggle for survival and supremacy. As an Elder vampire, players meet compelling characters, manoeuvre complex political relationships, stalk the city streets for prey, and engage in intense combat while balancing the need for blood. Throughout the game, players must always be mindful of their surroundings or risk breaking the Masquerade – the absolute law of secrecy that keeps vampire society hidden from humanity.

Elden Ring: Shadow of the Erdtree

Not much is known about the expansion for one of the best and most grimdark games of all time. A short trailer shows bleak, grey skies, ghostly shapes, and a haunting blonde figure on a horse. Expect brutally difficult enemies, a stunningly dark world, and music to stay in your head for years after. Our team here loved the main game, we’re sure this will be just as good!

Honourable mentions go to The Last of Us Part II remaster (not sure I will be able to survive another playthrough emotionally), Silent Hill 2 remake, Alone in the Dark, Slitterhead, Avowed, and an unnamed Hideo Kojima game. There’s a mountain of great looking games coming out in 2024 and this is just my personal tip of the iceberg.

What are you most looking forward to?

The post Most anticipated games of 2024 appeared first on Grimdark Magazine.