Adrian Collins's Blog, page 71

REVIEW: Her Little Reapers by Marjorie Liu and Sana Takeda

Her Little Reapers is the second volume of Marjorie Liu and Sana Takeda’s graphic novel trilogy, The Night Eaters. Coming from the super talented award-winning team behind Monstress, my expectations were high as this supernatural tale picked up from the end of volume 1 (She Eats the Night) and continues the struggles of Milly and Billy Ting, twins who have just discovered that there is more to their life than what they thought and they need to juggle the difficulties of living in pandemic hit world whilst coming to grips with their newly discovered demonic lineage.

Her Little Reapers has all the dark beauty you’d expect from Marjorie Liu and Sana Takeda. The artwork and lettering, just like in Monstress, are perfectly synced with the writing and the mood captured in the story. It is eerie, dark, and beautiful all at once and fans of the previous work will not be disappointed. Reading at night, I was genuinely creeped out by the possessed dolls and demons in the story. The demons and monsters portrayed here are suitably scary and wouldn’t go amiss in something like Guillermo Del Toro’s Pan’s Labyrinth and give of some serious Lovecraft vibes. The horror is always there, leaking through the pages even when Milly is trying her best to live a normal life and cope with the struggles that brings with it. Whilst the horror permeates throughout, the truly scary thing is that if you strip away the horror dressing, the villainy and evil would still be terrifying and all too real. The story has people abusing their position and influencing people, murdering those who stand against them. It is an all too human tale with the dark beauty of horror cloaking it and that makes it all the more brilliant.

Her Little Reapers also deals with the difficulties of growing up between two cultures. This is made even more difficult and pronounced by the fact Milly and Billy are having to deal with the uncomfortable truth that they are also part demon and their parents have kept things from them to, in their eyes, keep them safe and out of danger. In doing so, they have, in the twins’ eyes, made things worse by not giving them the tools to face the challenges of being caught between two worlds. This intergenerational dissonance is something that is beginning to be explored across all media (Everything, Everywhere, All at Once won the Oscar for Best Picture for its amazing work applying fantasy trappings to this story), and the conflict between the parents and their adult children who each feel they know best when caught between two cultures and generations. This adds a further layer to a brilliant story and Her Little Reapers brings in a bigger supporting cast with characters able to bring up some of these issues and get the audience thinking (Uncle Bee is a personal favourite of mine!).

A brilliant graphic novel that looks at the horrors both in our world and outside it, Her Little Reapers provides scares with a heart in a compelling story with beautiful and eerie imagery. It does what good horror does best and gets its audience to look at the issues in the world around us and shines a light on the darkness of humanity. Her Little Reapers opens the world up that was introduced in She Eats the Night and I cannot wait to see what happens in the final volume as the twins’ epic journey continues!

Read Her Little Reapers by Marjorie Liu and Sana Takeda

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REVIEW: Blade of Dream by Daniel Abraham

Daniel Abraham’s Blade of Dream pulls back the curtain on the city of Kithamar, simultaneously uncovering truths while cloaking mysteries yet to be revealed. The sequel layers the events from Age of Ash by deepening the reader’s knowledge and changing their perception.

Blade of Dream follows the existing timeline in Age of Ash, but the focus shifts to Garreth Left, the first-born son of an important merchant family. Trained from birth in trade, Garreth adheres to his family’s policy and understands what his future holds, but what’s the worth of a life without choice? A fated encounter with a mysterious stranger leads him down a path of love and secrets, altering the course of the great city of Kithamar and enflaming the ancient gods who dwell there.

In comparison to the way other sequels expand a standard narrative structure, Blade of Dream is irregular. Rather than building on top of Age of Ash to progress the story forward, the novel wraps around its predecessor, further fleshing out different areas of the city, the class system, and the society. This perspective shift is the book’s strongest element, casting light on darker areas of Kithamar and all those who call her home. Kithamar acts as a giant web: its threads are the connections for the dynamic character relationships Abraham excels at and the birthplace for the book’s main theme of love.

The choice to cover the same span of time within multiple books is a risky one. Once a reader thumbs through all of a book’s pages, the surprise is gone. However, Abraham’s command of the narrative, specifically the ability to keep the reader engaged over the course of the same timeline from new points of view, shows an intricate balance of supporting key plot points from Age of Ash while investing readers in new aspects solely belonging to Blade of Dream. Though you are amongst familiar places and known characters, the book does have a slow buildup. Your patience will be rewarded the further you venture down the multiple paths within Kithamar.

The element in Blade of Dream grimdark fans will appreciate comes in the form of the characters. Abraham establishes his characters as fully realized, complex individuals with difficult choices to make: “The things we can change, and things we have to live with. So interesting to see which ones are which” (201). Each of these choices comes with a hefty cost. Behind their actions, at each character’s core, lies the same motive: love in all its brilliant shades and styles.

I’m looking forward to Abraham’s final reveals in the last book of The Kithamar Trilogy.

Read Blade of Dream by Daniel Abraham

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REVIEW: The Fall of the House of Usher

The Fall of the House of Usher is horror master Mike Flanagan’s latest (and perhaps final) horror adaptation for Netflix and thankfully, it proves to be one of his best. Pulling together a coherent story from the many great works of the father of gothic horror, Edgar Allen Poe, he has created a dark warning tale of power and corruption that will satisfy horror fans during spooky season.

Mike Flanagan has proven himself as a set of sure hands when adapting works from some of horror’s greats. Whether it is the work of Stephen King (Doctor Sleep), Shirley Jackson (the incredible The Haunting of Hill House), or Henry James (The Haunting of Bly Manor), he has shown his flair for keeping parts of stories that work and making changes to suit a modern TV audience. The Fall of the House of Usher is no different and is perhaps his best work yet. The series opens with Roderick Usher attending a funeral for his adult children. A series of unfortunate accidents appears to have wiped out his family and Roderick moves with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He sits down in a house that is literally falling apart with Auguste Dupin (a character Poe created and is seen as the first detective in fiction) and he begins to tell his tale, one of guilt, horror, and a confession. We then jump back and forward in time to see Roderick’s life with his ambitious sister Madeline as he grows up and takes over a pharmaceutical company and has a number of children, all who get as much money as they desire. Flanagan takes the tales of Poe and twists them into a dark, fantastical version of Succession with Roderick’s Logan Roy-like actions turning his children on each other and becoming a man who is hated but almost untouchable.

The Fall of the House of Usher must be seen as more of a tribute to Poe’s work than anything else. There are drugs, sex, acid in nightclubs (not what you’re thinking) and many things that are not very much like what you would expect from an adaptation of Poe’s work, but Flanagan keeps the mood of his work and that seeps through in every scene. It is eerie, dark, and full of suspense as the tale of guilt and corruption unfolds with a few jump scares mixed in with genuine dread as the characters fall one by one. Poe’s poems are littered throughout the episodes, some feeling more forced than others, almost as a reminder to the audience of what is being adapted but I think most watching will not mind. Flanagan’s usual recurring cast members are a delight as the members of the Usher family and Mark Hamill is a welcome addition as the gravelly-voiced lawyer/enforcer for the family. The cast in general are on fine form although it did feel as if the better characters died too early and the ones left were not as engaging and powerful. In each of his shows, Flanagan has excelled in using powerful monologues at the right time (see Midnight Mass for a perfect example). In The Fall of the House of Usher, Bruce Greenwood’s speech about what to do with lemons as Roderick Usher is the standout moment. The series is worth a watch for that alone.

Whilst not a pure adaptation of Poe’s work, The Fall of the House of Usher captures the eerie mood and dread of the master storyteller. Scary, tense, and full of great writing and acting, it is one of Mike Flanagan’s finest series on Netflix and that is saying something. This is Mike Flanagan’s horror – a family drama wearing the black feathered Raven’s coat of Poe’s work that will bring a new audience to the gothic master. It is storytelling at its best and an entertaining modern update of Poe’s work that will delight fans of horror. The Fall of the House of Usher may be Flanagan’s last work on Netflix, and it is a great way to end what has been a stunning collection of horror on the streaming service.

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Anna Smith Spark and her 2023 return to the new release bookshelves

Long-term readers of Grimdark Magazine in print, ebook, and web content will know that I have a long standing love of Anna Smith Spark stories. Since The House of Sacrifice dropped in 2019, we’ve had a global pandemic with three years of lockdowns, restrictions, and deaths, multiple new wars on top of the old seemingly never-ending ones, wild increases in cost pressure on everything thanks to the aforementioned things, and amongst all this, a bit of a quiet book release period from one of my favourite authors. But thankfully, amongst all the anger and bitterness and hate this world sometimes cloaks itself in, books with Anna’s name on the spine are back on the new release bookshelves. Having read and loved both A Sword of Bronze and Ashes and A Woman of the Sword, I am certainly happier for this post-pandemic ray of sunshine, and I appreciate Anna joining us for a quick chinwag about her new releases, her reason for writing them, and some pretty damned exciting news about yet another upcoming release!

[GdM] Your latest book, A Sword of Bronze and Ashes steers away from grimdark fantasy and into what Peter McLean quite aptly labelled “heavy metal mythology”. What can your current fans, and fans-in-waiting, expect to see that’s different from your previous books?

[Anna] A Sword of Bronze and Ashes is more hopeful. It’s morally clearer than Empires of Dust, more in the tradition of high fantasy and indeed classic children’s fantasy like The Weirdstone of Brisingamen – much more good against evil, light against dark. But exploring the cost of taking that stance. It’s greatly inspired by the moment in Jackson’s film of The Fellowship where everyone is arguing over the Ring, and Frodo jumps up to say he’ll take it Mordor, and Gandalf’s face … the grief that someone so good and innocent and weak is the one offering and the only one who can do this terrible thing, Gandalf knows Frodo will be destroyed but there’s no other way. And the Leonard Cohen song The Partisan:

I have changed my name so often

I’ve lost my wife and children

[…]

An old woman gave us shelter

Kept us hidden in the garret

Then the soldiers came

She died without a whisper

There were three of us this morning

I’m the only one this evening

But I must go on

In Empires of Dust, the terrible inhumanity of that sentiment is explored. A Sword of Bronze and Ashes is about it’s necessity, that sometimes that terrible price must be paid and paid willingly, even proudly.

It’s also a book about my deep love of Celtic myth and British folklore and folksongs. The Mabinogion, the Cattle Raid of Cooley, the Welsh triads, mummers plays and sacred wells. Strange, beautiful, and sometimes very dark and terrifying stories that I loved even before the Greek myth and history that I poured into Empires of Dust and A Woman of the Sword.

[GdM] To me, your books are always hyper focussed on family—blood or found family—and the sweeping bloody wars of fire and iron create the colossal backdrop scenery to remind us all how small we are against the greater scene of humanity. In particular, your last two releases have focussed on the raw intensity of motherhood with all the layers of filtering we read about and see in contemporary life stripped away. What motivated this focus and why is it so important to you to portray it so vividly?

[Anna] I have two children; I’ve spoken in the past about my struggles with postnatal depression/psychosis, I’m a lot better now (my writing has helped me hugely) but it’s something that will always be inside me. So it’s very natural to write about it and try to explore it to myself in my writing.

My relationship with my children and with my own mother is absolutely central to my life, the core part of me, and was really the only part of me I had left during the covid lockdowns.  Relationships and love and trust between people are in the only the only thing that truly matters, that smallness is something I want to hold on to always, that in the end all that matters is that those around us thrive and live. The sick horror and pity I feel for people like Marith who in the end can’t see that … The ending I gave Darath and Orhan in Empires of Dust sums it up, they have each other, maybe it will all crumble and they’ll fail each other and the pain will consume them, but they’ll try to support each other despite everything. Marith could maybe have had that, but he turned away …  That deep unsexy entirely not tormented romantic sexual love but just people – friends, lovers, parent and child, whatever – just trying to just go on together day by day getting by and putting the bins out because otherwise there’s nothing.

There’s a tiny bit in The Court of Broken Knives where Tobias sees Marith’s father’s face when he and Marith meet and Marith’s father realises it’s too late for them, and it’s his fault … that for me is one of the most agonising moments in the series.  So much of the historical and fantasy fiction I love (and real history of course) is about siblings, parents and children, in-laws, people who have known each other from childhood and whose families socialise and intermarry – scheming and killing and betraying each other for power. The Wars of the Roses was referred to at the time as the Cousins’ War because everyone was so interconnected. What it must feel like somewhere deep inside to have lived like that, betraying people you’d known all your life, your own family …

But equally the romanticisation of the family unit in fantasy, the wholesome ma and pa and Rosy Cotton ‘If I hadn’t been the Chosen One I could have married the girl next door and lived a quiet wholesome life like  my pa’ / ‘if the only woman I ever loved hadn’t tragically died in my backstory I would have been a happily family man not the grimdark bastard I am today’ tropes really needed interrogating and pulling apart a bit – and looking at from the woman and children’s point of view.

Achilles in the Iliad has to chose between eternal fame as a warrior and a long, normal family-man life and being forgotten. What people forget is that he chooses the latter. It’s only Patroclus’ death that drives him to embrace Marith levels of slaughter and lust for (his own) death.

Or maybe he’s lying to Odysseus, or to himself. That’s the point, I think.

[GdM] Something that I always feel when I read your books is that as a 38-year-old childless man with very few (if any) life-or-death pressures on my shoulders, that there are multiple layers of your books that I can never appreciate to the full extent. I love your books, but I will never experience the scraping of my soul these books provide as much as, say, a single struggling mother reading about Lidae and her children from A Woman of the Sword. Have you purposefully written for multiple audiences?

[Anna] I just write what seems true and necessary to me. But we all have people we love and fear we’re failing, we all have mistakes we’ve made that affect others.

That said, A Woman of the Sword is an intensely personal book written coming out of the horrors of the ending of Empires of Dust (Dion, Bil and Orhan’s son, was heavily based on my children, as was the child Emperor and the child High Priestess; Marith and Thalia’s experiences of pregnancy and wanting children were very personal to me; I think those things between them fucked me up even more than I’d realised writing The House of Sacrifice) and out of my experiences of lockdown. It was a raw outpouring of my feelings about motherhood in a way I hadn’t intended. A Sword of Bronze and Ashes (book one in a series literally called The Remaking of This World Ruined) is directly a way of trying to heal and come back from the pain I poured into The House of Sacrifice and A Woman of the Sword.  I have an idea in the cupboard for another series that’s also less raw and soul-scraping once I finish The Remaking of This World Ruined.

[GdM] Reading your prose is an absolute experience. Your stories are visceral and raw and beautiful, and the way you write stands out quite clearly from the wider SFF market. How has your unique approach to delivering stories benefitted or impacted your ability to work and sell to publishers, and your interactions with fans?

[Anna] Ah ha ha ha! My prose is just getting better and better, I can see that. Bu I’m with smaller publishers now because as my writing gets more literary and complex it gets ever less commercial…  Which is kind of fine, in Flame Tree and Luna (and GdM!) I’ve found publishers who value what I’m doing as literature not as a commercial product, who know what I write is never going to be a best-seller because it’s complex and literary and weird but value that. I’m very happy now where I am. I feel like I can really stretch myself to create beauty and ferocity without having to think about ‘what sells’ and that I have a core of readers who love what I do and get it. My prose is the core of everything in my writing, it’s why I write and love fantasy. It’s wonderful to have readers and publishers such as yourself who understand that.

[GdM] What books are you working on right now, and when can your fans expect to have their hands on something new?

[Anna] I’m writing away to finish the second book in the Remaking of This World Ruined series, the equal to A Sword of Bronze and Ashes. Then after that I have a significant change of tone that I’m so excited and a bit scared about – I’ll be writing in a franchise for the first time, writing …. Judge Anderson versus Judge Death for 2000AD. I’ve loved both characters since childhood, I’ve loved 2000AD since I was tiny and stared at a friend’s older brother’s drawings of DJ on his rucksack every day in the car on the way to school. Seeing my name next to the 2000AD logo will be a childhood dream made real.

And Judge Death! I mean … me and Judge Death … it’s perfect.

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REVIEW: The Darkness Before Them by Matthew Ward

Matthew Ward follows up his utterly magnificent Legacy trilogy (Legacy of Ash, Legacy of Steel, Legacy of Light) with a completely new dark fantasy world in The Darkness Before Them. Kat is a thief who has inherited her father’s towering debt. She takes a risk with her partner Azra to steal the ultimate big score from the family in control of their city. When the heist goes wrong and a mysterious warrior attacks her, Kay’s world is thrown upside down as she is tossed behind bars and shipped to the capital to become a koilos–an animated skeleton protecting the rich–as punishment.

On the other side of the social divide, Damant is the shrewd advisor to the matriarch of the city’s ruling family, constantly reminded of his dark past of bloody failure as the brigand Vallant, once his protege, wreaks havoc with his terrorist attacks.

As the story takes us on dark adventures of discovery and danger both Kat and Damant face the dangers of a collapsing ruling family in a brutal society where the few fight back against the faceless many to scrape a survival, and they do this while the veil creeps ever closer, the spirits of the dead just waiting to absorb them into nothingness. I especially enjoyed Kat’s perception of the cast of characters around her, she’s a window to the varied and interesting cast that make up her side of the story tinted by her distrust of those around her. They have to win her over and gain her trust, and I think that’s very human and relatable.

I also love it when authors take an aspect of an underrepresented part of society and seamlessly weave it into their books in a way that feels like an entirely natural part of that world. In my reading experience, Alex Marshall did this really well when he wrote the LGBTQIA+ community and drug culture into A Crown for Cold Silver, for example. Ward stands out for me here with his treatment of sign language for the hearing impaired. It’s a second language many are taught, and it’s odd when people don’t know it, and it also works handily as a sneaky kind of stealth / battle language.

Ward’s Black Library roots shine through in the world building for The Darkness Before Them, with layers of cities built upon the crumbling ruin of those before, criminals and political outcasts being turned into walking machinations to serve the wealthy, and the souls of people being turned into to power systems (eg. lights, propulsion, door guard alarm systems, etc). I especially enjoyed the way those souls retain their grumpiness, or laziness, and get tired or bored over time, and that impacts how well the spirit does its job. The magic system is awesome for the layperson, but also, I think, a really short leap for the Warhammer 40k fan to get into dark fantasy.

The Darkness Before Them is an epic dark fantasy written in Ward’s clean, easy to digest style that I have enjoyed so much for so long. Full of action, heart, betrayal, and set in a dark, engaging world, this book continues Ward’s ability to deliver doorstopper dark fantasy that you just can’t put down. I can’t wait for book two.

Read The Darkness Before Them by Matthew Ward

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REVIEW: RoboCop: Rogue City

RoboCop: Rogue City is a first-person shooter developed by Teyon and published by Nacon. It also stars Peter Weller, the original Robocop, as the titular character. As the resident cyberpunk junkie of the site as well as a longtime fan of the franchise, this was obviously going to be a day one purchase for me. However, it came with the sweeping sense of dread that can only come from the fact that Robocop has a history of truly awful sequels and bad adaptations.

There’s just not that many people able to soak up the original’s anti-capitalist mixture of comedy as well as brutal violence. The fact the game takes place between Robocop 2 and 3 (or outright takes place in an alternate continuity) is the biggest argument for the developer’s receiving a chance from me. Robocop 2 wasn’t nearly as good a movie as the first and took a ridiculous stance on the War on Drugs but was still the last genuinely good product from the franchise unless you count the Frank Miller comic book version.

Anyway, the premise for Rogue City is that there’s a mysterious new player in Detroit’s underworld called “The New Guy.” I admit, not the best start for establishing a villain and the game does kind of suck at naming it villains as well find with murderous gang called the Torch Heads. The Torch Heads have seized a TV station as part of their attempt to reach out to this new crime boss and Robocop must do what Robocop does best: kill a bunch of baddies before unraveling a mystery that undoubtedly somehow ties to OCP.

Generally, the gameplay is “fine”, which is not really ringing endorsement but not a condemnation either. You walk slowly through the game killing people with your pistol and other guns. If you get close to them, you can lethally throw them around. It feels very much like a rail shooter with slightly more freedom of movement. Robocop is slow and even moving quickly is more like, “normal walk” instead of “slow serial killer walk.” This is true to the Eighties Robocop but not necessarily the best gameplay.

The storytelling is better than I was expecting even if it doesn’t reinvent the wheel. In addition to the slaughter of criminals, Robocop can and should do investigations into various crimes around the city. This ranges from the usual, “There’s been a hooker murdered by one of her Johns” to “busting up a ring of car thieves.” You can also ticket drunks, graffiti artists, and guys who have leaking oil from their car. If you enforce the law vigorously, you get “Uphold the Law” points and if you enforce the law mercifully, you guy “Serve the Public Trust” points.

Really, the best part of the game is when they stop to do some actual character development of Alex J. Murphy. Murphy is suffering a horrific fate as an enslaved super-soldier with very little of his body left, driven only by his desire to help others while OCP wants to use him as a weapon. Too many installments of the franchise act like being Robocop is just a kind of superpowered upgrade versus a dreadful curse.

I give massive points to the game for including Lewis when so many other adaptations consider her optional or use a Lewis substitute. I’ve always felt Nancy Allen’s Lewis was a vital part of what made the first two movies work (and why I hate the third). She provides a lot of emotional support that allows Murphy to survive from night to night.

Still, this game suffers from the fact that it feels like it is a generation or so behind the current generation if not two generations. The graphics aren’t great, the gameplay is fine, and the storytelling is okay. Still, I’m going to say this is probably a 3.5/5 rather than a 4/5 let alone a 5 out of 5. If you’re a big Robocop fan, this is a great buy but it’s absolutely not a must buy. Nine to twelve hours of gameplay is probably best waiting for a sale or a trade-in.

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REVIEW: Bloodrik #1 by Andrew Krahnke

A first issue of a comic has a lot of heavy lifting to do, should the writer choose.  One option some writers take is to get the backstory out of the way, leaving room for the actual story to flourish in future issues.  The risk here is that of overloading a new reader with information, to the point they’re put off from continuing with the title.  The second option is that chosen by Andrew Krahnke, writer and artist of Bloodrik #1, wherein there is basically no backstory at all.  To call it minimal would be to say a skeleton is fat.  And, after some thought, I think the issue is all the better for it.

Bloodrik #1 features the eponymous barbarian in all his magnificent glory – bestriding a snow blanketed wasteland, clad in a minimum amount of furs to expose colossally bulging muscles and an attitude of defiance to match.  Bloodrik is basically a ball of hormonal rage, howling his defiance at an uncaring world.  For the entirety of this opening issue, Bloodrik is in search of food, seemingly having stripped bare the forest he resides in of every living thing to sate his never ending thirst for violence and food.

In lots of ways, Bloodrik #1could be regarded as something of a satire on the genre.  There’s nothing here of Conan’s brooding, thoughtful, even philosophical Cimmerian – indeed, Krahnke seems deliberately have taken all the tropes of the fur clad barbarian in sword and sorcery fiction – your Thongor, or your Brak the Barbarian, and turned it up to eleven.  A crueller reviewer might say it’s a lot of blood and thunder, signifying…nothing?

Possibly.  Regardless, it is a lot of fun, especially the balls out bear fight that ends the first story in Bloodrik #1, which is where Krahnke’s other talent, that of artist, comes to the fore.  The artwork is extremely solid and dare I say, evocative.  Evocative of the barbarian trope, and evocative of the landscape Bloodrik bestrides.  If Tolken had a pastoral vision of fantasy, then Krahnke’s vision is one of man against nature, red in tooth and claw.  The line work is bold and striking.  The attention to detail – all those trees and renditions of animals – are lifelike and fill the panels pleasingly.   He presents the reader with a stark landscape against which Bloodrik has to fight to survive.  The colour palette is muted, as suits a wintry world waiting to emerge into the full bloom of spring.  But Bloodrik will not be denied!  The battle with the bear warps the page, escapes the confines of the panel and pits man against beast in some of the finest art you will see this year.

Bloodrik #1 comes with a back up story, told from the perspective of a sailor hanging on for dear life on a sinking ship, as sharks circle.  This story is about Bloodrik’s singular vision, and again, it is demonstrated while he hunts.  A lowly grouse becomes his target, and Bloodrik refuses to let it escape his arrow.  Krahnke definitely is hitting the satire button here very hard, as a whole menagerie of animals proceeds to march past a stubborn Bloodrik as he endlessly waits for the grouse to emerge from behind a nearby tree.  The artwork here is just as strong as the first story and the intent to be playful with the tropes of the heroic barbarian taking down a tiny bird is played to the hilt.  The final page, where our soon to be food for the sharks sailor makes a wry comment, is definitely a fun moment in the issue.

If you’re serious about your sword and sorcery, or heroic fantasy, then perhaps Bloodrik #1 is a touch too playful.  If you’re interested in a fun take on the genre, with some really strong artwork, and a premise that is getting ready to rock and roll, then Bloodrik #1 might be your (blood-drenched) cup of tea.

3/5 stars

Read Bloodrik by Andrew Krahnke here.

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REVIEW: Deity by Matt Wesolowski

After reading and being blown away by Matt Wesolowski’s Demon in 2021, I am slightly embarrassed that it has taken me this long to return to the Six Stories world. To make matters worse, I am reading the books in the opposite order that they were published. Even with that being the case, I have had an absolute blast devouring Deity, racing through it in a couple of days. Fortunately, each of these novels stands alone and follow a steady and ingenious structure. There are six stories. Six interviews with the enigmatic fictional podcaster Scott King.

“Welcome to Six Stories. I’m Scott King. Over these strange six weeks, we’re delving into something that at its heart, I guess, is a cold case. A fire. Four tragic deaths. Allegations. Rumours, whispers. Like always, we’re raking up old graves.”

Deity, Six Stories’ 5th entry, is about Zach Crystal. A legendary pop star, who skyrocketed to fame, first as a member of a pop duo, and then as a solo star, arguably becoming the most influential celebrity on the planet. He was a troubled yet charismatic soul, wearing veils and deer antlers to obscure his face whilst having an overall elfish quality. He died in a mysterious fire in his giant tree house, which was part of his secluded forest mansion property. He was fascinated with a mythological Scottish monster called a Frithghast which was a portent of doom. He was adored by legions of loyal fans who worshipped him and were extremely protective of his kooky and can-do-no-wrong persona. He was accused by at least five ladies of sexual assault that occurred when they were children, and there was a horrifying video, footage of which shows two young women before they died in the forest, trying to get closer to their hero. Or, perhaps escape from…

“COMMENTS: Mayfly776: Ew creepy ForzaRadish: Zach Crystal fans are fuckin psychos. TLDR: Stanning Zach Crystal = BAD DEATH Butwhytho: Surely someone has to have looked into this? I mean rly?

B0NN13: Has anyone asked Scott King yet lol?”

The majority of Deity is the back-and-forth podcast interviews. Each discussion is a witness or influential person’s take on a crime, event, phenomenon, or mystery that surrounds Zach Crystal. As I heard/read more regarding the events, I was trying to unravel the puzzles and predict the outcomes, engrossed, wearing my amateur sleuth’s hat again. One of the interviewees is a loyal Zach Crystal fandom influencer and YouTuber, another is a pedophile hunter who thought he had trapped the popstar, and a further point of view is a member of staff who worked at Zach Crystal’s forest mansion. All the viewpoints have different agendas and reasons for showcasing their take on these events to Scott King. Each chapter takes about thirty minutes to read, and there are other mediums peppered throughout, in addition to the podcast introductions and conversations, such as the text of the elusive celebrity’s extremely rare interview with the BBC, comment sections on fictional news sites, and descriptions of important video footage.

“I wonder, though, if Zach Crystal himself knew about what had happened, or knew of the rumours that abounded later about Jessica Morton eating her friend’s flesh. We also cannot ignore the horrific parallels between this and the old story of the Frithghast.”

The subject matter of Deity is often uncomfortable to read. A mix of spooky and chilling for the horror, mystery, and supernatural elements, as well as disgusting and powerfully dark and dread-inducing in the presentation of the potential for depravity. Deity is thrilling, thought-provoking, and stomach-turning and had me gripped until the end, hoping King was able to find concrete answers about whether or not Zach Crystal was a deity, monster, troubled star, or misunderstood enigma. Events especially heat up by the time the last two stories are divulged. The final exchange, in particular, was phenomenal and revealed just how talented a writer Wesolowski is and how every moment that came prior was designed to add an emotional punch to the novel’s superb finale. This is a tale that will linger with me for a while, as only the finest horror stories can.

Read Deity by Matt Wesolowski

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REVIEW: Shadows of Nyn’Dira by H.C. Newell

H.C. Newell mines new emotional depths in Shadows of Nyn’Dira, the third entry in her dark epic fantasy series, Fallen Light. Shadows of Nyn’Dira builds upon her already strong worldbuilding and character development from the first two books of the series, Curse of the Fallen and The Forbidden Realms, as well as her masterfully written novella, The Banished. I will keep this review completely spoiler-free for readers who have not yet started the series.

The lead protagonist of the Fallen Light series is Nerana Leithor, or Neer for short, a young woman who possesses forbidden magical powers. Neer is relentlessly pursued by the religious rulers of the human-controlled territories, who vilify her for her magical abilities.

As Shadows of Nyn’Dira opens, Neer finds herself in the titular elven forest, her body tired and broken following the events of The Forbidden Realms. H.C. Newell skillfully juxtaposes the awe-inspiring beauty of the Nyn’Dira forest with Neer’s feelings of dread and desolation.

Shadows of Nyn’Dira expands upon H.C. Newell’s world in every way, with increasingly powerful magic, deeper lore, and more extensive worldbuilding revealing a rich history and complex culture. Newell’s land of Laeroth feels truly “lived in,” much like J.R.R. Tolkien’s Middle-earth or George R.R. Martin’s Westeros. H.C. Newell earns bonus points for direwolf representation, which is fully worthy of comparison to Martin’s A Game of Thrones.

Throughout Shadows of Nyn’Dira, H.C. Newell explores themes of individual, family, and cultural identity. Neer struggles to find her place, as she is rejected by her own people but can never fully integrate into the culture of a different race. At the same time, Neer must also confront her inner anger and decide whether to pursue a path of vengeance or one of forgiveness.

H.C. Newell adopts a slower pace in Shadows of Nyn’Dira compared to Curse of the Fallen and especially its breakneck sequel, The Forbidden Realms. The more measured pacing of Shadows of Nyn’Dira works effectively to develop the emotional depth of Neer and her inner circle of companions. Much of the world views Neer as a monster, and she is beginning to feel like one.

The story of Shadows of Nyn’Dira is engrossing from the first page and never lets up till the very end. The Fallen Light series is full of twists and turns, and H.C. Newell saves some of her biggest reveals for this third novel.

Shadows of Nyn’Dira is H.C. Newell’s finest work to date, a dark emotional masterpiece that delivers high-stakes fantasy action with intricate, immersive worldbuilding and plenty of unexpected twists that kept me glued to the pages. I eagerly await the fourth volume of her Fallen Light series.

5/5

Read Shadows of Nyn’Dira by H.C. Newell

 

 

 

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EXCULSIVE: Excerpt from The Queen of Days by Greta Kelly

From The Gentlemen Bastards to Silver Queendom, the Grimdark team loves a good heist story. Which is why we are incredibly excited to present an exclusive excerpt from Greta Kelly’s new epic fantasy heist novel, The Queen of Days. A high-stakes heist fantasy novel featuring reality shattering magic, found families, and powerful deities.

Let the city be damned. It’s time to kill a god.

The Queen of Days

Excerpt

3

Balthazar

I woke to the feeling of fingers drawing circles in my hair and smiled. The room was bathed in soft red light as the morning sun filtered in through Shasheba’s gauzy curtains. Her high windows revealed a day that dawned cloudy and gray. The sort of day that demanded stillness. I sent my thanks to the heavens, planning on staying in this very bed for as long as its owner allowed.

“Good morning,” Shasheba purred from behind me.

“Morning,” I said through a jaw-cracking yawn. Her hand paused its drawings on my scalp. “No, don’t stop. That feels good.”

“Greedy boy,” she teased, but I could hear a smile in her voice.

We lay still and silent in the comfort of her room for a few perfect moments. I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the sense of duty sniffing at the door. I knew I should go out. Talk to Zee and Edik, introduce them to Tass, and go over the plan again. Should. But somehow none of it seemed all that important right now.

“Bal,” Shasheba said, her fingers lingering at the base of my skull. “When did you get this tattoo?”

“Which one?”

“This one,” she said, scraping one long nail down the nape of my neck.

My eyes peeled open as cold air slithered beneath the sheets. Adrenaline poured into my limbs, but dread held me fast. “What does it look like?”

“You’re your  tattoo.”

“Indulge me.”

Shasheba tutted, oblivious to the way my tightening throat turned the words into a strangled plea. “It’s a sigil of some kind. I can’t read it though. It looks like it’s written in ancient Sorien.”

Ancient Sorien. The words rattled around in my skull, shaking loose a memory. A memory of me striking a deal with Tass; of a mosquito biting the back of my neck as we shook hands.

Shit.

I threw the covers off and lunged for my trousers, yanking them on.

“What are you doing?” Shasheba demanded.

I didn’t reply. Couldn’t. My mind was too frenzied to form a response. Shasheba was as well educated as I was, as well educated as any noble in the kingdom. But not even the nobility thought it worthwhile to teach their children a language that had died out over two millennia ago. The only people who could read it were scholars, and . . . “Zeelaya.”

“What?”

“I have to find Zee. Now. She can read Sorien.”

Shasheba rose, every hint of softness leaving her frame. “Why is your tattoo suddenly so important?”

“Because I never got a tattoo.”

Shasheba crossed her arms, pulling her robe closed as confusion and suspicion chased through her eyes. Damn it, I was ruining things between us. Again.

I seized her hand, willing her to listen to me even as my heart

screamed to find the others. “I don’t have a tattoo on my neck, Shash. Or I didn’t until I met Tass last night. When . . . we struck a deal.”

Blood rushed out of Shasheba’s face, leaving her skin ashen. “Bal . . . What did you give her?”

Nothing. Just a stupid promise that couldn’t mean anything.

Except . . .

My hand went to my neck. I opened my mouth but couldn’t get any of the words out. Time. I’d given her time. Mine and Kai’s and . . .

I dropped Shasheba’s arms and sprinted out the door.

“Mira!” My bellow echoed off the temple’s wooden halls, shaking the dust off the doorframes. Panic tunneled my vision as I sprinted up the stairs to the attic. Tass said she wouldn’t take any time from Mira, but . . .

But how could she take time from anyone?

I took the attic stairs three at a time and shouldered through the door. I registered Zee and Edik’s surprised faces before my gaze raked across the dim and cluttered room to Mira. She was still sprawled and drooling on her cot in the corner. I sprinted, banging my knees as I dropped to the floor beside her. She yelped when I flipped her over and immediately bucked. I managed to hold her squirming body with one hand, pulling up her corkscrew curls with the other. Clear.

“All Father, thank you.” I sagged to the floor, Mira’s spitting anger filled my ears, but I’d never been so happy to hear it.

“Bal, what the hell is going on with you?”

I stood, turning toward Zee’s annoyed voice. She and Edik were on the other end of the rectangular room, their breakfasts forgotten on the warped table Zee had commandeered to lay out our plans. Her eyes were narrowed over her hawkish nose. Wearing one of Edik’s shirts, her dark hair still mussed from sleep, Zee glared impatiently from me to Shasheba, who had ghosted into the room behind me. She stood only a few feet away looking flushed and oddly glassy-eyed.

Kai took up the doorway, watching me with bug-eyed amazement. He held his shirt in one hand, his trousers still undone like he’d dressed at top speed and ran when he heard me shout. His latest pair of lovers were peeking over his shoulder, eyes bright with curiosity. A curiosity that withered and died when they spotted Shasheba and received a look so dark it made the young woman bow and retreat.

The man flat-out ran.

Kai watched them go with a growl of annoyance. “What in Ruekigal’s four tits is the matter with you?”

Shasheba hissed. “Do not speak that name in this house. Not now.”

Kai rolled his eyes at Shasheba’s outrage. He’d never paid atten- tion to religion unless it resulted in a good swear. I wasn’t even sure he knew why Shasheba didn’t want the death goddess’s name spoken in Nananthe’s temple.

“What do you mean, ‘not now’?” Zee asked. As usual, she’d cut to the important part with frightening accuracy.

I walked toward my cousin, ignoring the kick Mira aimed at my shins, and braced my hands on the edge of the worktable, readying for a fight.

“When I woke up this morning, Shasheba saw a tattoo on the back of my neck. I need you to read it.”

Zee’s gaze narrowed. “Bal, you did not give me a heart attack over some drunken nonsense you and Kai got yourselves into.”

“Zee, please,” I cut in before she could work herself up to a real rant. “It’s in ancient Sorien. You’re the only one I know who can read it.” Well, that probably wasn’t true. Somehow I was positive that Tass was fluent in the dead tongue. Not that there was a chance in hell of me asking her.

Zee straightened when she heard Sorien and bustled over without further comment. Spinning me around, she brushed the hair off my neck. “Interesting,” she murmured, her annoyance completely forgotten in the wake of the tattoo’s puzzle. Zee leaned past me, grabbing a slip of parchment and a charcoal stick. She scribbled something down and shoved the drawing my way.

Shasheba had said it was a sigil, and I was inclined to agree. It was rectangular, with two rows of cramped text drawn in sharp gash-like lines. “It’s definitely ancient Sorien,” Zee said, as the others crowded around the table to get a look.

“Why is that important?” Kai asked, pulling his shirt over his head.

“Knowing you two idiots, it probably isn’t. It’s unusual though,” Zee allowed as she gathered her hair into a knot on the crown of her head and jabbed the charcoal stick through it to hold it in place—a sure sign she’d sensed a problem to solve. “The Soriens were the first civilization to use any kind of written language and it started with these tag-like markings.”

“Tags?” I asked.

“Yes, at least that’s what the scholars on Kisan assume they are,” Zee replied. Kisan was home to the only university in Ashaar. If any- one knew the mystery of the marks, it would be them. “They’re often found at archeological sites affixed to goods. They seem to denote place names or ownerships, or even to mark a debt.”

My heart fell. “What does this one say?”

Zee shrugged. “It will take me a while to decipher this part,” she said, gesturing to the top line of text. “I think it’s a name, but this bottom part is a number. Sixty.”

I closed my eyes against the word but found no comfort in the darkness there.

“Sixty what, Bal?” Shasheba’s voice was whip sharp. Her nails dug into my arm hard enough to draw blood. “What did you give her?” she asked as I opened my eyes, her face only inches from mine.

“Time.”

Shasheba’s hand dropped. She stepped back.

“Time?” Kai repeated, obviously confused.

Mira was looking at me like I’d lost it. At the moment I was inclined to agree. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“No,” Zee said, cutting me off before I could open my mouth. “We’re missing something. Start at the beginning.”

I raked a hand through my hair, then shook my head at the stupidity of the gesture. Not like it would help me organize my thoughts. “Yesterday, Kai and I arranged to get arrested so we could make contact with the fixer—”

“Yes, the ‘Queen of Days,’ I know,” Zee said, making impatient air quotes with her fingers around Tass’s title. “Did you make contact?”

“I did more than that. I secured her services. Thing is, she didn’t want money in payment for her help.” I hesitated, saw Zee shoot Edik a look.

Edik gave his wife a quelling smile. The ice to Zee’s fire, Edik was usually the only voice of reason among us, like age had given him wisdom. My eyes narrowed in on his hair, black and wiry and flecked with gray at both temples. Grayer than yesterday? I wondered, feeling slightly sick.

“What did she want, Bal?” Edik asked. “Time,” Shasheba whispered.

I nodded. “Thirty days. She wanted thirty days of our lives.”

Kai scoffed. “What does that even mean?”

“It means we’re all going to die thirty days sooner than we’re supposed to.”

The silence that met my words was like a great intake of breath, like the dead space between two heartbeats.

Kai laughed. The great booming sound was filled with too much bravado to break the mood. “Great Below, she’s even nuttier than I thought. How does she expect to collect something like that? It’s impossible.”

“That was my thinking too,” I said, well aware of the defensive note in my voice.

“So you agreed? For all of us? Without even asking?” Zee’s questions

peppered my face like the first stones of an avalanche.

“Yes.”

She paused a moment, letting it sink in. And letting me feel how annoyed she was that I’d made yet another choice on her behalf. “And then your mysterious tattoo appeared?”

I forced myself to meet Zee’s stare and nodded. Her lips disappeared into a thin line. She spun to Edik, putting her hands on his shoulders, and forcing him to crouch. Her eyes narrowed on the nape of his dark neck.

Zee swore. “There is a sigil,” she said in a brittle voice. “Same as yours, but the number is thirty.”

Zee released her husband, her face a distinct shade of green. Her hands dropped to her belly like she was going to be sick.

Edik’s face fell, one hand twitching toward the medal of Janus hanging from his neck. He brushed the hair away from Zee’s neck instead, dread lining his every move. “You have one too, love,” Edik said, and drew Zee under one of his massive arms. His eyes rose to mine. Demanding answers.

I winced at what I saw in Edik’s face. He was always our ballast, the one calm point in our crew’s mess of difficult personalities. He wasn’t calm now. No one was. Kai rubbed the back of his neck, his lips moving in a wordless prayer. Shasheba hugged herself, looking at the table like she was at a complete loss for words.

Mira bit her cheek; I could practically hear the gears of her mind spinning. “Theirs say thirty,” she said, looking up at me. “Why does yours say sixty?”

Shasheba inhaled sharply. “You took on Miraveena’s debt, didn’t you?”

Mira’s eyes went wide, for once she was too preoccupied to snap at Shasheba and insist on being called Mira. Her lower lip trembled as she watched me, her silence a demand.

“Yeah. I did.”

“But not for the rest of us? You just let that—that thing take part of our lives without bothering to ask us first?”

Shasheba’s face was flushed with a rage my brain was too slow to understand. Then I realized. She thought Tass had taken her days too. “Relax, Shasheba. You aren’t affected by this.”

Like a candle being snuffed out, her eyes went flat. “Why not?”

In the time it took me to scrabble for a response, another voice provided the answer.

“Because you are not part of the crew.”

Shasheba’s eyes flashed, and she spun toward the door. Tass stood on the threshold, one shoulder leaning against the frame, arms crossed. She’d removed her hooded jacket, but her hair was still covered by a black veil worked with silver chains and several dozen tiny silver bells. There was a slightly amused air to the way she lounged against the wall and listened to the crew’s outrage. I couldn’t help but be grudgingly impressed by her stealth. Despite all those little bells and both Zee and Edik facing the door, she’d managed to sneak in unnoticed.

“Who said I’m not part of the crew?” Shasheba demanded, nostrils flaring.

Tass didn’t bother to answer. Then again, she didn’t really need to. Shasheba rounded on me.

“Am I not putting myself—and my people—at risk for your fool of a mission?”

“And snaking a huge chunk of Bal’s cut out of the deal,” Kai drawled.

“Kai.”

“What?” he said, as I shot him a repressive look. “Not like she’s doing it out of the goodness of her heart.”

“She’s getting us in,” I said quickly, feeling the way Shasheba’s anger rose off her in waves but not knowing how to defuse it.

Unlike us, Shasheba and the men and women of the Low Temple had been invited to the ceremony. Though the idol was being dedicated to Karanis, it was the acolytes of Nananthe who would perform the consecration. The ceremony was meant to usher Karanis into our world, after all. And the acolytes of Nananthe were mid- wives before anything else. It’s what made her the perfect plant in Governor Paasch’s operation.

Kai knew it. The damn fool just didn’t like Shasheba.

“Look, Shash,” I began, trying for a smile, “you’re not upset that I didn’t give away part of your life.”

“No, Balthazar,” she said, livid splotches breaking out on her neck. “I am not upset about that.” She cast a disdain-filled glare about the cramped room. “You will excuse me, I have responsibilities to attend to.”

She turned on her heel and marched toward the door. To her credit, she only faltered slightly when she passed an unmoving Tass, who turned her head to observe Shasheba storm down the hall. Watching in profile, I could swear that Tass’s black painted lips deepened into a smile.

The impression broke when she turned back to me. “Are your mornings always so eventful?”

I opened my mouth to say no, but truthfully . . . “More often than not.”

She huffed a slight chuckle and pushed off the wall, swinging the door shut behind her with one hand. She took two steps toward the table. Stopped. Her head tilted to one side, attention entirely on Edik. One of his hands had dropped below the edge of the table. I could just see the handle of an army-issue revolver grasped in his meaty fist. Aimed at Tass. Edik’s face gave nothing away—it never did, but he’d shouldered Zee slightly behind him. And Zee had allowed it. I wasn’t sure what was more telling.

“Edik.” I waited for him to look at me. At first he refused to take his eyes off Tass, but then I said his name again and he finally glanced my way. I shook my head. He didn’t relax, and I knew why.

There was something undeniably other about Tass that put people immediately on edge. It wasn’t just the pistols strapped to her thighs, or the swords on her back. It was the way she moved. Despite the weapons and the dozen or so straps and buckles that seemed to hold her together, she walked with a kind of fluid grace that hovered on the edge of violence.

Shash had seen it right away. Mira, too. And now Edik.

Was I so blinded by this job that I had failed to recognize the wolf in our midst?

I grit my teeth, feeling that threat begin to boil over. Though Edik was the one holding the gun, I was afraid for him. I planted myself between Tass and the barrel.

“Edik, Zee, this is Tass. She has agreed to help us.” I placed a not-so-subtle emphasis on the last two words, praying it would get Edik to put the fucking gun down.

“Are you magic?” Mira leaned against the table beside Kai. She looked up at Tass, oblivious to the tension that hummed between the adults.

Tass’s face tilted to Mira, clearly considering the question. “Define ‘magic.’”

Mira crossed her arms, brow furrowed in thought. “I dunno. Can you do things I can’t?”

“Yes.”

The hint of laughter in Tass’s voice made Mira scowl. “All right, but that’s not really an answer. You took time. How is that not magic?” Mira asked.

Tass’s head cocked to the left. “I do not understand the question.

The time was offered to me. I received it.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Mira argued. “Time isn’t a coin. I can’t pull it out of my pocket and chuck it at you.”

I glanced around the room and found that, by some miracle, Mira’s curiosity had made the rest of the crew—not relax, but pause.

Zee had returned to the table, watching the discussion with rapt interest. And though Edik still clutched the revolver, he no longer had it aimed at Tass. Kai was still frowning, but he’d leaned his elbow against the table, letting it take most of his weight.

“Ah. I believe I understand the source of your confusion,” Tass said. “You see time as an abstract, something vague and undefined. It is not. It is something you come into the world owning and leave the world having spent your share. You think I am magical because I was able to receive some of your family’s time. This is an imprecise conclusion. Time may not be tangible in the way your coin is, but it is still a commodity.”

Mira looked up at me, shaking her head in mute confusion. I shrugged.

“Just because a thing is intangible, does not mean it cannot be given,” Tass continued, but when Mira still looked lost, paused, considering. “How do you give a person your trust? How do you give someone love?”

The questions hung in the air, but Mira had no answers. Neither did anyone else apparently, though perhaps we were the wrong group to ask about such fragile things as trust and love.

“So you can’t do magic?”

“No, of course I can,” was Tass’s tart reply. She pivoted away from the exasperation on Mira’s face. “Perhaps now would be a good time to tell me your plan?”

“Yeah, all right.”

“No.” Edik’s voice cracked across the room, thunder-sharp.

“Edik—”

“No, Bal. Now is the time for you to explain why the fuck you agreed to this without consulting us first.”

Read The Queen of Days by Greta Kelly

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