David Guymer's Blog
July 11, 2017
Dwarf Gouger
While clearing out my drawers in preparation for leaving my day job for the final time (see last month's blog), I found something a little unexpected in amongst the usual junk. It was a commissioning form for a short story that I never actually wrote on account of being sorely pressed for time to deliver Thorgrim (Historical Note – this was itself originally meant to be a full-length novel). The story was called Dwarf Gouger and it was set to a follow on directly from Headtaker.
Finding the form reminded me that I had actually started writing before the story was pulled and so, as a gift to the readers of this blog, here are 2000 words of never-before-seen Queek Headtaker fan-fiction, the opening scene of Dwarf Gouger.
Enjoy.
Dwarf Gouger, by David Guymer
The red-furred man-thing twisted away from the warlord’s prodding claw and retreated to the length of its chain. There was a clank, the language of futility spoken as only rusted metal could say it, and the iron collar bit into its throat. A trickle of red, flakes of rust inching from its collar and down its chest in the most delicious of falls. Queek snickered and moved onto the next.
A hunched black-fur with a broken arm.
Next.
A cringing man-thing with claw-scratch marks all over its face and shredded finery ripe with its own soil.
Next.
Natural light streamed through cracks in the vaulted ceiling. The heaped rubble that had once stood between the halls of Karak Eight Peaks and the mountainside were now podiums for the biggest, richest, or bravest of slavemasters to hawk their wares. Crook-winged crows roosted amongst the high arches of a crumbling race, ruffled their feathers and cawed, depositing splatters of oily white onto the pathetic creatures below. Slave-meat of every age, breed and tone of hide were paraded for those with warptokens in their pouches, their status evidenced by the thickness of their armour and by the number and girth of their bodyguards. Accreting to these knots of wealth and power as if in accordance to some physical law of attraction, rat-men shrilled in barter, accusation, submission, threat, the sordid wealth of the skaven heart on loud display.
Queek moved on the next. This one was a child. That or a dwarf-thing.
Its smell is not dwarf-meat, mad-thing.
Queek masked his grin behind one paw as he looked up towards the half dozen skulls sat atop their bloodied thrones of wood and sinew. The gnawed skull of a skaven, fresher than some of the others that were beginning to yellow, followed his gaze. He snickered, watching the skull bounce as if nodding agreement of the warlord’s sublime cleverness. Dwarf-thing, child-meat; either way, good value. He snapped his claws.
‘The great warlord’s nose is as certain-sharp as his infamous weapon-maul,’ squeaked the slaver.
‘Take this one away. Place it with Queek’s things.’
The slaver preened, running his claws through the already sparse tuft of a goatee as he summoned an underling to carry out the warlord’s bidding. A gaggle of others took the opening to compete for their master’s attention, but the brisk wave of a beringed paw practically squealed ‘not now!’ He spread his arm down the coffle and offered an absurdly obsequious bow. ‘Lots-many equally fine slave-meats, wealthiest of warlords.’
Queek’s black lips withdrew from his gums, parting ranks for the charge of fangs. The slaver shut up and hurriedly took a step back lest the warlord consider him crowding. And yet the other slavers regarded this one with envy. Queek was the mightiest. His armour was thick as a skaven’s claw and, forged of a hellish alloy of warsptone steel, worth more than all the chattels in Scab Hollow.
Or was it Sump Hole?
Queek’s memory – never renowned for its permanence – wasn’t helped by the fact that he couldn’t care less. Nor was he particularly interested in the rumours that green-things had been buying and selling their own wares from its markets. This far from the City of Pillars territory changed hands daily. Too quick even for skaven minds to keep pace.
It would have a new name before the week was out.
But it was more diverting than picking dried blood from his fur and listening to his trophies’ prattle.
‘We are not here to buy, most vicious one.’
The blending of terror and respect made the voice soft, but Ska Bloodtail, even with shoulders stooped in a submissive hunch, was anything but. He was a boulder mossed with coarse black fur and clad in a motley of beaten gromril and lichen-encrusted mail. The lowest green-thing knew enough to dread the name ‘Headtaker’, but it never hurt to have a brute like Bloodtail around. Queek only had two paws. And always there were rats whose minds were soft and noses feeble. With a grin he glanced up to the now silent skull, then past the hulking fangleader to where – his tongue thunked dumb arithmetic against his palate – some clanrats watched the under-slavers that fussed about them.
Queek glared until his underling cast his eyes to his footpaws. Then, satisfied, he moved on to the next slave in line. A frightened murmur greeted his attention’s return and rippled down the coffle. This one was big and bruised with tawny fur sprouting from its face and arms. The musk of its fear sent a buzz through Queek’s nostrils like warpstone snuff. He stared hard, reached forward to stick a claw through the mewling wretch’s ribs, took a longer draw of its scent, then moved on.
Something didn’t smell right.
Behind him, Ska and the slavemaster had descended to squabbling, but Queek ignored them both, eyes only for the skaven’s wares as face after pale face passed by. ‘It looks like a man-thing,’ Queek breathed, moving on to the next, giving it a prod and listening to its moan. ‘It quacks like a man-thing.’ At the end of the row he paused. The last in line was slimmer than the others, but not through sickness for its scent was like springwater. Golden fur spilled over narrow shoulders garbed in satin banyan with amethyst brocade. The thick iron collar, as though in deference to its fine porcelain beauty, seemed lighter than that worn by its kith. As if in ambush, the slave waited his approach. Eyes like splinters of bluestone met his wandering gaze, and that of the half dozen pairs of unseeing sockets suspended above his shoulders.
‘The terrible-great Queek is insightful as he is feared,’ the slavemaster whispered from the level of the warlord’s navel. Queek ignored him, head cocked in fascination, long enough for the slaver’s spine to stiffen and force him from his subservient crouch. The rat adopted an uncertain fidget, tugging on its tawny goatee as a dwarf-thing might attend its beard. He glanced back, clearly wishing he had been less fastidious in demanding this customer to himself and then, each paw taking a firm grip upon the other, twitched forward. He offered an obsequious cringe, then repeated the maneuver until he had covered sufficient distance to reach out a caress down man-thing’s cheek. ‘One of my best-freshest breeder-things,’ he hissed. ‘Feel how soft-smooth. Smell how clean. Fifteen years in her, I squeak-say. Ten at lowest-least.’
‘Female?’ Queek whispered. The creature’s gaze had not left his. ‘How do you know-tell?’
The slavemaster puffed out his breast. Buttons migrated crazily across his buff jerkin. ‘Much-much experience in man-thing ways, great warlord.’
Queek’s smile grew deadlier still. ‘This is a black duck.’
The slavemaster’s eyes crossed, but he was thrown only a moment. ‘Yes-yes, great warlord. See how she-’
‘Where do you lair, black duck?’
The slave said nothing. The intensity of its needle stare was actually starting to make him squirm. He rather enjoyed the novelty.
‘She was found in the upper burrows,’ said the slavemaster, eager to complete the sale and no doubt get this fearsome thing off his ledger. ‘Near the peaks where green-things scavenge-hunt for eagle eggs.’
Haughtily, the woman straightened, the pointed tip of an ear striking through the golden falls. ‘You are the one they call Headtaker,’ she said, her Khazalid stilted yet proud. It was difficult to tell if she had intended it as a question or an accusation.
Queek tittered, bringing paws to his muzzle as if he were a child presented with his first foal, only to then discover that it recited verse in the High Elven tongue. The slavemaster, who had been stealing himself to beat the woman of her impertinence, hastily hid his paw behind his back.
‘You know of mighty-great Queek, elf-thing?’
Like a windup doll that’s course was run, the slave looked away, tightlipped. Queek hissed irritation, but he was both delighted and intrigued. He had seen an elf-thing once, killed it naturally and mounted its skull on his wall, but he’d never before seen an elf-thing slave. Preening distractedly, he imagined the possibilities.
He’d be the envy of skavendom!
‘Queek wants,’ he snapped, surprising himself with the lust in his voice. The slavemaster certainly took note, eyes gleaming with the reflection of the warptokens he was mentally counting. The slave saw it too. For some reason it made its lips curl. ‘Ska! Cut this one loose.’
The fangleader nodded, threw the slaver a viperous glare, then unhitched his dwarf-made axe. The slavemaster squirmed, but didn’t stop him as, with a single two-handed stroke, Ska hacked through the chain shackling the elf-thing to the others. The giant stormvermin switched his axe to his off-paw, then reached down and hauled her up by the iron ring of her collar. To Ska’s clear annoyance, she neither cried out nor stumbled and remained effortlessly erect as he withdrew his paw from her throat, even when a growl rumbled from his throat. His claws tightened around the neck of his axe.
‘Upper burrows, you squeak-say?’ said Queek.
The slavemaster’s jaw hung open, paws clenched around his goatee as though pulling it wider. ‘T-twelve warptokens,’ he squeaked as Ska shoved the elf-thing in amongst Queek’s clanrats. ‘Nine.’ The clanrats closed ranks. ‘F-five? I mean four!’
Queek turned his mad gaze onto the simpering slaver. 'Tell him, Ska!'
'We are not here to buy,' the fangleader mumbled.
The slaver’s half-spirited protests already sinking into the squeaks and bluster of the crowd, Queek clawed his way towards the vaulted arch that marked the doorway to the upper burrows. From ten tails ahead, skaven scented his approach, yelped, and scurried from his path. The arch loomed large as he passed under it. There was something engraved upon its stone. Some dwarf-thing nonsense. The walls of the City of Pillars were covered with the stuff. He turned, impatient, dim eyes picking out Ska.
‘Hurry-scurry, slow-thing, while elf-meat still there.’
Ska Bloodtail gave the slave markets one last sniff, then lowered his snout to the Horned Rat’s earth and, with a resigned shrug, waved the warriors on after their warlord. He handed the elf’s chain to an underling, his glare leaving the clanrat in no uncertainty as to the fate that awaited should the precious thing fall to misfortune.
Finding the form reminded me that I had actually started writing before the story was pulled and so, as a gift to the readers of this blog, here are 2000 words of never-before-seen Queek Headtaker fan-fiction, the opening scene of Dwarf Gouger.
Enjoy.
Dwarf Gouger, by David Guymer
The red-furred man-thing twisted away from the warlord’s prodding claw and retreated to the length of its chain. There was a clank, the language of futility spoken as only rusted metal could say it, and the iron collar bit into its throat. A trickle of red, flakes of rust inching from its collar and down its chest in the most delicious of falls. Queek snickered and moved onto the next.
A hunched black-fur with a broken arm.
Next.
A cringing man-thing with claw-scratch marks all over its face and shredded finery ripe with its own soil.
Next.
Natural light streamed through cracks in the vaulted ceiling. The heaped rubble that had once stood between the halls of Karak Eight Peaks and the mountainside were now podiums for the biggest, richest, or bravest of slavemasters to hawk their wares. Crook-winged crows roosted amongst the high arches of a crumbling race, ruffled their feathers and cawed, depositing splatters of oily white onto the pathetic creatures below. Slave-meat of every age, breed and tone of hide were paraded for those with warptokens in their pouches, their status evidenced by the thickness of their armour and by the number and girth of their bodyguards. Accreting to these knots of wealth and power as if in accordance to some physical law of attraction, rat-men shrilled in barter, accusation, submission, threat, the sordid wealth of the skaven heart on loud display.
Queek moved on the next. This one was a child. That or a dwarf-thing.
Its smell is not dwarf-meat, mad-thing.
Queek masked his grin behind one paw as he looked up towards the half dozen skulls sat atop their bloodied thrones of wood and sinew. The gnawed skull of a skaven, fresher than some of the others that were beginning to yellow, followed his gaze. He snickered, watching the skull bounce as if nodding agreement of the warlord’s sublime cleverness. Dwarf-thing, child-meat; either way, good value. He snapped his claws.
‘The great warlord’s nose is as certain-sharp as his infamous weapon-maul,’ squeaked the slaver.
‘Take this one away. Place it with Queek’s things.’
The slaver preened, running his claws through the already sparse tuft of a goatee as he summoned an underling to carry out the warlord’s bidding. A gaggle of others took the opening to compete for their master’s attention, but the brisk wave of a beringed paw practically squealed ‘not now!’ He spread his arm down the coffle and offered an absurdly obsequious bow. ‘Lots-many equally fine slave-meats, wealthiest of warlords.’
Queek’s black lips withdrew from his gums, parting ranks for the charge of fangs. The slaver shut up and hurriedly took a step back lest the warlord consider him crowding. And yet the other slavers regarded this one with envy. Queek was the mightiest. His armour was thick as a skaven’s claw and, forged of a hellish alloy of warsptone steel, worth more than all the chattels in Scab Hollow.
Or was it Sump Hole?
Queek’s memory – never renowned for its permanence – wasn’t helped by the fact that he couldn’t care less. Nor was he particularly interested in the rumours that green-things had been buying and selling their own wares from its markets. This far from the City of Pillars territory changed hands daily. Too quick even for skaven minds to keep pace.
It would have a new name before the week was out.
But it was more diverting than picking dried blood from his fur and listening to his trophies’ prattle.
‘We are not here to buy, most vicious one.’
The blending of terror and respect made the voice soft, but Ska Bloodtail, even with shoulders stooped in a submissive hunch, was anything but. He was a boulder mossed with coarse black fur and clad in a motley of beaten gromril and lichen-encrusted mail. The lowest green-thing knew enough to dread the name ‘Headtaker’, but it never hurt to have a brute like Bloodtail around. Queek only had two paws. And always there were rats whose minds were soft and noses feeble. With a grin he glanced up to the now silent skull, then past the hulking fangleader to where – his tongue thunked dumb arithmetic against his palate – some clanrats watched the under-slavers that fussed about them.
Queek glared until his underling cast his eyes to his footpaws. Then, satisfied, he moved on to the next slave in line. A frightened murmur greeted his attention’s return and rippled down the coffle. This one was big and bruised with tawny fur sprouting from its face and arms. The musk of its fear sent a buzz through Queek’s nostrils like warpstone snuff. He stared hard, reached forward to stick a claw through the mewling wretch’s ribs, took a longer draw of its scent, then moved on.
Something didn’t smell right.
Behind him, Ska and the slavemaster had descended to squabbling, but Queek ignored them both, eyes only for the skaven’s wares as face after pale face passed by. ‘It looks like a man-thing,’ Queek breathed, moving on to the next, giving it a prod and listening to its moan. ‘It quacks like a man-thing.’ At the end of the row he paused. The last in line was slimmer than the others, but not through sickness for its scent was like springwater. Golden fur spilled over narrow shoulders garbed in satin banyan with amethyst brocade. The thick iron collar, as though in deference to its fine porcelain beauty, seemed lighter than that worn by its kith. As if in ambush, the slave waited his approach. Eyes like splinters of bluestone met his wandering gaze, and that of the half dozen pairs of unseeing sockets suspended above his shoulders.
‘The terrible-great Queek is insightful as he is feared,’ the slavemaster whispered from the level of the warlord’s navel. Queek ignored him, head cocked in fascination, long enough for the slaver’s spine to stiffen and force him from his subservient crouch. The rat adopted an uncertain fidget, tugging on its tawny goatee as a dwarf-thing might attend its beard. He glanced back, clearly wishing he had been less fastidious in demanding this customer to himself and then, each paw taking a firm grip upon the other, twitched forward. He offered an obsequious cringe, then repeated the maneuver until he had covered sufficient distance to reach out a caress down man-thing’s cheek. ‘One of my best-freshest breeder-things,’ he hissed. ‘Feel how soft-smooth. Smell how clean. Fifteen years in her, I squeak-say. Ten at lowest-least.’
‘Female?’ Queek whispered. The creature’s gaze had not left his. ‘How do you know-tell?’
The slavemaster puffed out his breast. Buttons migrated crazily across his buff jerkin. ‘Much-much experience in man-thing ways, great warlord.’
Queek’s smile grew deadlier still. ‘This is a black duck.’
The slavemaster’s eyes crossed, but he was thrown only a moment. ‘Yes-yes, great warlord. See how she-’
‘Where do you lair, black duck?’
The slave said nothing. The intensity of its needle stare was actually starting to make him squirm. He rather enjoyed the novelty.
‘She was found in the upper burrows,’ said the slavemaster, eager to complete the sale and no doubt get this fearsome thing off his ledger. ‘Near the peaks where green-things scavenge-hunt for eagle eggs.’
Haughtily, the woman straightened, the pointed tip of an ear striking through the golden falls. ‘You are the one they call Headtaker,’ she said, her Khazalid stilted yet proud. It was difficult to tell if she had intended it as a question or an accusation.
Queek tittered, bringing paws to his muzzle as if he were a child presented with his first foal, only to then discover that it recited verse in the High Elven tongue. The slavemaster, who had been stealing himself to beat the woman of her impertinence, hastily hid his paw behind his back.
‘You know of mighty-great Queek, elf-thing?’
Like a windup doll that’s course was run, the slave looked away, tightlipped. Queek hissed irritation, but he was both delighted and intrigued. He had seen an elf-thing once, killed it naturally and mounted its skull on his wall, but he’d never before seen an elf-thing slave. Preening distractedly, he imagined the possibilities.
He’d be the envy of skavendom!
‘Queek wants,’ he snapped, surprising himself with the lust in his voice. The slavemaster certainly took note, eyes gleaming with the reflection of the warptokens he was mentally counting. The slave saw it too. For some reason it made its lips curl. ‘Ska! Cut this one loose.’
The fangleader nodded, threw the slaver a viperous glare, then unhitched his dwarf-made axe. The slavemaster squirmed, but didn’t stop him as, with a single two-handed stroke, Ska hacked through the chain shackling the elf-thing to the others. The giant stormvermin switched his axe to his off-paw, then reached down and hauled her up by the iron ring of her collar. To Ska’s clear annoyance, she neither cried out nor stumbled and remained effortlessly erect as he withdrew his paw from her throat, even when a growl rumbled from his throat. His claws tightened around the neck of his axe.
‘Upper burrows, you squeak-say?’ said Queek.
The slavemaster’s jaw hung open, paws clenched around his goatee as though pulling it wider. ‘T-twelve warptokens,’ he squeaked as Ska shoved the elf-thing in amongst Queek’s clanrats. ‘Nine.’ The clanrats closed ranks. ‘F-five? I mean four!’
Queek turned his mad gaze onto the simpering slaver. 'Tell him, Ska!'
'We are not here to buy,' the fangleader mumbled.
The slaver’s half-spirited protests already sinking into the squeaks and bluster of the crowd, Queek clawed his way towards the vaulted arch that marked the doorway to the upper burrows. From ten tails ahead, skaven scented his approach, yelped, and scurried from his path. The arch loomed large as he passed under it. There was something engraved upon its stone. Some dwarf-thing nonsense. The walls of the City of Pillars were covered with the stuff. He turned, impatient, dim eyes picking out Ska.
‘Hurry-scurry, slow-thing, while elf-meat still there.’
Ska Bloodtail gave the slave markets one last sniff, then lowered his snout to the Horned Rat’s earth and, with a resigned shrug, waved the warriors on after their warlord. He handed the elf’s chain to an underling, his glare leaving the clanrat in no uncertainty as to the fate that awaited should the precious thing fall to misfortune.
July 10, 2017
The Seventh Serpent by Graham McNeil - Review
The Seventh Serpent by Graham McNeillMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
Nothing gets me turning the pages like the promise of hurt where hurt is long overdue, and no one is more overdue some hurt like the Alpha Legion! And boy does Seventh Serpent keep that promise dangling right up until the bitter, bitter end. My reading pace is languid to leisurely, but I devoured this over two nights.
A great little novella
View all my reviews
June 29, 2017
The Long War
It is 2013 and my first novel, Headtaker, has just been published by Black Library. I've written other stories. The Tilean’s Talisman and The Karag Durak Grudge are both out, and Curse of the Everliving is released at about the same time, but this is the moment, holding a real, beautiful book in my hands, seeing it in book shops, that I feel like a real writer. I attend Black Library Live that year, and the Weekender the next. Headtaker is shortlisted for the David Gemmell Morningstar Award and I get to put on a suit and take a trip to London at Black Library’s expense.
I didn't win.
By now it’s late 2014. City of the Damned is out and I’ve been given the honour of writing the conclusion to the Gotrek & Felix saga.
Written in precis like that, it looks as though everything’s going great, and it is, but I’m still working full-time, in a biology lab at Newcastle University. My dream visions of the rewards showered over the published author are quickly dashed. With the success of Fatherland Robert Harris bought a cottage. With the proceeds of The Tilean’s Talisman I bought a cupboard. I still have it.
I do have a brief spell as a, notionally, full-time author while writing City of the Damned, but only because I don’t have a job at the time. There are loads of great jobs in science, but only if you’re able to move around the world to where the projects and money are. But now I have a house and a little girl coming, so I can’t be upping and going to Edinburgh or Calgary or wherever (I sense there will be a blog about why I left academia at some point), so I trade down to a part-time technical position in York University. The idea is to devote that extra time to doing more writing.
Things get harder after Rosie is born, but looking back I probably wrote some of my best stuff around then. Both Thorgrim and Kinslayer are inspired by impending parenthood and themes associated with that, while Slayer is written in a kind sleepless postnatal daze, bouncing from cold to cold, somehow arriving on schedule as (in my editor’s words) the best thing he’s read all year. It also gets me my second trip to an award ceremony, for the 2016 David Gemmell Legend Award.
I didn’t win that one either. But apparently it pushed The Liar's Key all the way. You just don't beat Mark Lawrence or Brandon Sanderson for the Gemmell Award!
And now it’s 2017. I’ve taken the leap. I’m a full time author.
So why now?
There are lots of reasons. My job in York came to a natural end. I’ve written my first novel for the Horus Heresy in Ferrus Manus: The Gorgon of Medusa. The royalties for my three Gotrek and Felix books are bumping up my basic income from advances nicely. I’ve got lots of books coming out and lots more in the pipe: my first Age of Sigmar novel, an Iron Hand trilogy, I’m pitching for a second Primarch novel (start making your guesses now…), and an Age of Sigmar audio series featuring a set of characters that will make a lot of people very excited, I'm talking with another publisher of tie-in about doing some work for them.
But mostly it’s because it’s time. I’ve been putting it off out of fear for at least the last couple of years, and now I’ve been pushed it’s time to see if I sink or swim.
Wish me luck (i.e. buy loads of my books!)
March 27, 2017
A Last Sniff of Glory
My first ever Blood Bowl story, and my first skaven tale in too too long is out today and is called, of course (see blog header), A Last Sniff of Glory.
When I was asked to write this I was just closing down Eye of Medusa, running a little over deadline, but I said 'yes please!' before I'd even thought about it.
It's Blood Bowl.
I've often said that writing Gotrek & Felix: Kinslayer felt to me like a farewell tour of the Old World. Writing this felt like coming home again. Visiting Skavenblight, Sylvania, seeing all my stuff still there, it was a blast, and that's without even getting started on the rare chance to be a little bit more tounge-in-cheek than the average Warhammer story will let you get away with.
I haven't enjoyed writing a story this much since my debut novel, Headtaker. And it didn't even make me miss my deadline (Total War: Warhammer did that, but that's another story...). I think I wrote the whole thing in about a day and a half, and I can't remember any other time I've been able to convince words to come out without so little fight.
READ IT BECAUSE
"David Guymer returns to the skaven (his first Warhammer love) – but in Blood Bowl! Just how is an ageing Star Player going to keep himself at his peak with all the newcomers snapping at his heels?"
Damn it. Even blacklibrary.com know I love my skaven. Their spies are everywhere...
And if you enjoy this, then why not check out another story of fantastical sporting mayhem that I wrote for Mantic Games' Dreadball Xtreme last year. The anthology, Drainpipes for Strike Posts, also features Guy Haley and Greg Smith and a host of other great stories by top authors. You can get it here https://www.manticdigital.com/product.... I don't get any royalties for that one, so go buy it happy in the knowledge that I'm pushing it on the pure altruism of wanting people to enjoy good stories.
When I was asked to write this I was just closing down Eye of Medusa, running a little over deadline, but I said 'yes please!' before I'd even thought about it.
It's Blood Bowl.
I've often said that writing Gotrek & Felix: Kinslayer felt to me like a farewell tour of the Old World. Writing this felt like coming home again. Visiting Skavenblight, Sylvania, seeing all my stuff still there, it was a blast, and that's without even getting started on the rare chance to be a little bit more tounge-in-cheek than the average Warhammer story will let you get away with.
I haven't enjoyed writing a story this much since my debut novel, Headtaker. And it didn't even make me miss my deadline (Total War: Warhammer did that, but that's another story...). I think I wrote the whole thing in about a day and a half, and I can't remember any other time I've been able to convince words to come out without so little fight.
READ IT BECAUSE
"David Guymer returns to the skaven (his first Warhammer love) – but in Blood Bowl! Just how is an ageing Star Player going to keep himself at his peak with all the newcomers snapping at his heels?"
Damn it. Even blacklibrary.com know I love my skaven. Their spies are everywhere...
And if you enjoy this, then why not check out another story of fantastical sporting mayhem that I wrote for Mantic Games' Dreadball Xtreme last year. The anthology, Drainpipes for Strike Posts, also features Guy Haley and Greg Smith and a host of other great stories by top authors. You can get it here https://www.manticdigital.com/product.... I don't get any royalties for that one, so go buy it happy in the knowledge that I'm pushing it on the pure altruism of wanting people to enjoy good stories.
February 9, 2017
Total War Warhammer - REVIEW
I remember the moment. I was reading the old Age of Legend anthology, The Last Charge by Andy Hoare I think, my imagination alive with images of Dark Elf war-hydra’s smashing up Brettonian castles, when I realised how awesome a Total War adaptation of Warhammer would be. It’s safe to say then that not since Birth of the Federation last gave me exactly what I wanted in a game have I been as excited as I was by Total War: Warhammer.
All that remained was for my PC to finally died
And then it died.
Could anything match those expectations?
I’d enjoyed a preview glimpse of the campaign map at the 2016 Warhammer Fest, but even on the best-performing machine that a B-list novelist can afford the game is a thing of beauty.
There were a few issues with the camera not always being able to go where I wanted it, but this was a small thing, and neatly solved some time later by a camera mod (more on mods later).
The battle maps were equally impressive and every units performs as you know it should. Charging Reiksguard knight plough through enemy infantry in appropriately pleasing fashion. Cannons recoil and belch out smoke while their crew set about reloading. Giants stomp across the battlefield like they own it. I remain somewhat unconvinced by the weird missile effects. And I do miss the pre-battle speeches that I loved from the Medieval series, but even those do still occur in the special quest missions that can be unlocked by your faction’s Legendary Lords. And even after 30+ hours of play there are features like first-person control that I still haven’t figured out what to do with.
But those are small niggles on something which is otherwise perfect.
To the actual game.
I’ll begin by pining for the days when games came in a box with a manual, because even for a veteran of the Total War series such as myself it took me a few dozen turns of trial and error to figure out *exactly* what ‘Heroes’ were and how to use them, how to manage provinces etc. There is a help feature but I found it a bit clunky to use and it wasn’t always helpful. The game’s fairly intuitive though, and playing with all the buttons to see what happens is probably a sound policy. If it’s worked out so far for the skaven race, it’ll work for you.
On my first run through I decided to play as Dwarfs. Because skaven aren’t in the game yet (more on that later too…), and the Dwarfs are my second favourite race. This is where I did the bulk of my fiddling, but even there I found the game to be a bit too forgiving. The Dwarfs do have their starting difficulty listed as ‘easy’, and I am a player who likes to be worked, so I ditched that after a couple of hours and re-started as Vampire Counts. Now the battles featuring the Vampire Counts are amazing, eerie and beautifully dark, but after about 2-3 attempts I just couldn’t seem to get a foothold. A bit too much like hard work, perhaps. And maybe I miss archers. It was about this time that I went to GW: Leeds to sign some copies of The Last Son of Dorn when the store manager impishly suggested that perhaps computer games weren’t for me – but not to be deterred I plunged in again.
This time with Karl Franz’ Empire.
And after a few more false starts I enjoyed the most epic, gripping, painfully addictive Total War experience of my life.
The starting objective for the Empire are relatively: evict the rebels from your home province and then set about unifying the peoples of the Empire.
I’ve already talked about the battles, so a special mention should go towards diplomacy. Diplomacy exists for the Vampire Counts and the Dwarfs (and even the Greenskins!) too, but its central to how the Empire expands and it’s tricky to get right. Agreeing to one friendly nation’s request to go to war with another can hammer your reputation, meaning you can forget about that alliance with Ostland you’d been slowly pushing towards. It’s full of characterful touches too. Never go back on an agreement with a Dwarf faction – they’ll remember FOREVER.
So with all that in mind, I started out by bending the (cough) free city of Marienburg to my will, before slowly bringing the other Imperial States into my faction through more peaceable means. However even the opportunity to bring another State into your faction has to be thought through carefully. I was in the latter stages of the game with Avrland, Stirland, and Middenland all under my banner when I confederated with Nordland and then watched my bankrupt Empire collapse. Because when you absorb another faction you have to pay for the upkeep of all their armies and their heroes, and the additional armies also increases the upkeep premium on your existing forces. I had to reload an old save and go again.
And I loved it!
And it was definitely towards the latter stages that the campaign really sucked me in. I was getting up at 5 am just so I could play for an hour before I had to start working. Chaos had crushed Kislev and was well on the way to burning through Ostland, Ostermark, and Hochland. Nordland held on by the skin of its teeth and the mighty Todbringer permanently garrisoned up in Middenheim. The effects of Chaos corruption were starting to show up on the campaign map even over Reikland itself. By this point the faction screen had my as the greatest power in the world but my forces were split between fending off Chaos in the north, desperately trying to finish off the last bastion of the Vampire Counts (the undead can rebuild an army FAST) while keeping the Greenskins from nipping in behind my southern armies, and completing Karl Franz’ quest missions. I’ve never been so happy while sat at a computer.
Ultimately what won the day was a good use of diplomacy.
In so many games alliances are just another way of saying that X won’t attack Y and vice versa, but Total War: Warhammer is the first I’ve seen that lets you co-ordinate military targets with your allies. There’s a Beastman horde rampaging through Middenland, but my nearest army is heading off to relieve the besieged city of Salzenburg? No problem, I’ll tag it for my Marienburger and Brettonian allies who are in the area. It would be nice for it to work both ways as it sometimes feel like I’m throwing orders about to my allies and waiting for them to intone ‘THY WILL BE DONE’, but it still felt more realistic than anything I’ve played to date.
And so by coordinating my southern armies with the Dwarfs I was able to finally put down the Vampire Counts and contain the Greenskins south of Black Fire Pass. And by patching together a coherent resistance from what was left of the Empire, the forces of Archaon Everchosen were at last put to rout in an epic battle on the plains of Hochland.
The Old World could breath again, and by Sigmar it felt as though I’d earned it.
DLC
No review of Total War: Warhammer would be complete without mentioning DLC.
There was a bit of a ruckus amongst the fandom that Chaos Warriors would be a DLC faction (free to pre-orders) and not integral to the game, but this is just the way games are nowadays. Personally I find the DLC and the Free-LC (the Brettonia faction coming February 28th!) to be enjoyable, with the steady release helping to keep the game fresh. Are they fun add-ons to the game? They certainly are. Are they cheap? They certainly are not. But then the game is just fine without them and you can cherry pick what additions you want. I had no interested in playing as Beastmen, for instance, but I leapt on the Skarsnik and Belegar DLC (because I wrote Belegar in Thorgrim, obviously), and actually sat and watched Steam refresh itself waiting for the Wood Elves to appear for download.
And I would pay almost any price to play as my beloved skaven
Or Chaos Dwarfs.
Or Tomb Kings.
Sigh.
I’ll settle with free Brettonians for now.
a teasing gap where the capital of a certain Under-Empire should be...
I also mentioned the fan-made mods at Steam Forged. There are thousands of these things, ranging from putting more gold on Dwarf shields or making Chaos steeds bigger, to altering the AI of certain factions or unlocking factions like Kraka Drakk or Mousillon as playable races. I’ve downloaded about a dozen and there’s a couple in particular I love.
- The mod that put Empire troops trained in different provinces in the proper State colours gives a nice varied, lore-appropriate feel to Empire armies.
- Cataph’s: The Southern Realms. It introduces unique units to Tilea, Estalian and the Border Princes rather than being essentially versions of the Empire.
The question is – if its possible for a fan to create a whole new army for three human factions, why has no-one yet introduced a building tree to train Halflings in the Moot?
VERDICT
No game is perfect, and my main issue with Total War: Warhammer was that it made me finish my last book late. But that aside there are a few minor points. Firstly, the AI never attacks my castles. Ever. An entire playthrough and I’ve not once played defender in a siege battle. A few lore gripes like the lack of Halflings and that one time I got a message saying that Zhufbar had brought their allies, the Greenskins, into their war with me. Naval units are also glaringly absent, particular when you’re trying to defend Nordland from wave after wave of Norscan raiders
But there can be only one verdict.
10/10.
Make the time. Cut down on luxuries like sleep, switch to eating meals that can be consumed over a keyboard (I recommend pizza) and buy it.
All that remained was for my PC to finally died
And then it died.
Could anything match those expectations?
I’d enjoyed a preview glimpse of the campaign map at the 2016 Warhammer Fest, but even on the best-performing machine that a B-list novelist can afford the game is a thing of beauty.
There were a few issues with the camera not always being able to go where I wanted it, but this was a small thing, and neatly solved some time later by a camera mod (more on mods later).
The battle maps were equally impressive and every units performs as you know it should. Charging Reiksguard knight plough through enemy infantry in appropriately pleasing fashion. Cannons recoil and belch out smoke while their crew set about reloading. Giants stomp across the battlefield like they own it. I remain somewhat unconvinced by the weird missile effects. And I do miss the pre-battle speeches that I loved from the Medieval series, but even those do still occur in the special quest missions that can be unlocked by your faction’s Legendary Lords. And even after 30+ hours of play there are features like first-person control that I still haven’t figured out what to do with.
But those are small niggles on something which is otherwise perfect.
To the actual game.
I’ll begin by pining for the days when games came in a box with a manual, because even for a veteran of the Total War series such as myself it took me a few dozen turns of trial and error to figure out *exactly* what ‘Heroes’ were and how to use them, how to manage provinces etc. There is a help feature but I found it a bit clunky to use and it wasn’t always helpful. The game’s fairly intuitive though, and playing with all the buttons to see what happens is probably a sound policy. If it’s worked out so far for the skaven race, it’ll work for you.
On my first run through I decided to play as Dwarfs. Because skaven aren’t in the game yet (more on that later too…), and the Dwarfs are my second favourite race. This is where I did the bulk of my fiddling, but even there I found the game to be a bit too forgiving. The Dwarfs do have their starting difficulty listed as ‘easy’, and I am a player who likes to be worked, so I ditched that after a couple of hours and re-started as Vampire Counts. Now the battles featuring the Vampire Counts are amazing, eerie and beautifully dark, but after about 2-3 attempts I just couldn’t seem to get a foothold. A bit too much like hard work, perhaps. And maybe I miss archers. It was about this time that I went to GW: Leeds to sign some copies of The Last Son of Dorn when the store manager impishly suggested that perhaps computer games weren’t for me – but not to be deterred I plunged in again.
This time with Karl Franz’ Empire.
And after a few more false starts I enjoyed the most epic, gripping, painfully addictive Total War experience of my life.
The starting objective for the Empire are relatively: evict the rebels from your home province and then set about unifying the peoples of the Empire.
I’ve already talked about the battles, so a special mention should go towards diplomacy. Diplomacy exists for the Vampire Counts and the Dwarfs (and even the Greenskins!) too, but its central to how the Empire expands and it’s tricky to get right. Agreeing to one friendly nation’s request to go to war with another can hammer your reputation, meaning you can forget about that alliance with Ostland you’d been slowly pushing towards. It’s full of characterful touches too. Never go back on an agreement with a Dwarf faction – they’ll remember FOREVER.
So with all that in mind, I started out by bending the (cough) free city of Marienburg to my will, before slowly bringing the other Imperial States into my faction through more peaceable means. However even the opportunity to bring another State into your faction has to be thought through carefully. I was in the latter stages of the game with Avrland, Stirland, and Middenland all under my banner when I confederated with Nordland and then watched my bankrupt Empire collapse. Because when you absorb another faction you have to pay for the upkeep of all their armies and their heroes, and the additional armies also increases the upkeep premium on your existing forces. I had to reload an old save and go again.
And I loved it!
And it was definitely towards the latter stages that the campaign really sucked me in. I was getting up at 5 am just so I could play for an hour before I had to start working. Chaos had crushed Kislev and was well on the way to burning through Ostland, Ostermark, and Hochland. Nordland held on by the skin of its teeth and the mighty Todbringer permanently garrisoned up in Middenheim. The effects of Chaos corruption were starting to show up on the campaign map even over Reikland itself. By this point the faction screen had my as the greatest power in the world but my forces were split between fending off Chaos in the north, desperately trying to finish off the last bastion of the Vampire Counts (the undead can rebuild an army FAST) while keeping the Greenskins from nipping in behind my southern armies, and completing Karl Franz’ quest missions. I’ve never been so happy while sat at a computer.
Ultimately what won the day was a good use of diplomacy.
In so many games alliances are just another way of saying that X won’t attack Y and vice versa, but Total War: Warhammer is the first I’ve seen that lets you co-ordinate military targets with your allies. There’s a Beastman horde rampaging through Middenland, but my nearest army is heading off to relieve the besieged city of Salzenburg? No problem, I’ll tag it for my Marienburger and Brettonian allies who are in the area. It would be nice for it to work both ways as it sometimes feel like I’m throwing orders about to my allies and waiting for them to intone ‘THY WILL BE DONE’, but it still felt more realistic than anything I’ve played to date.
And so by coordinating my southern armies with the Dwarfs I was able to finally put down the Vampire Counts and contain the Greenskins south of Black Fire Pass. And by patching together a coherent resistance from what was left of the Empire, the forces of Archaon Everchosen were at last put to rout in an epic battle on the plains of Hochland.
The Old World could breath again, and by Sigmar it felt as though I’d earned it.
DLC
No review of Total War: Warhammer would be complete without mentioning DLC.
There was a bit of a ruckus amongst the fandom that Chaos Warriors would be a DLC faction (free to pre-orders) and not integral to the game, but this is just the way games are nowadays. Personally I find the DLC and the Free-LC (the Brettonia faction coming February 28th!) to be enjoyable, with the steady release helping to keep the game fresh. Are they fun add-ons to the game? They certainly are. Are they cheap? They certainly are not. But then the game is just fine without them and you can cherry pick what additions you want. I had no interested in playing as Beastmen, for instance, but I leapt on the Skarsnik and Belegar DLC (because I wrote Belegar in Thorgrim, obviously), and actually sat and watched Steam refresh itself waiting for the Wood Elves to appear for download.
And I would pay almost any price to play as my beloved skaven
Or Chaos Dwarfs.
Or Tomb Kings.
Sigh.
I’ll settle with free Brettonians for now.
a teasing gap where the capital of a certain Under-Empire should be...
I also mentioned the fan-made mods at Steam Forged. There are thousands of these things, ranging from putting more gold on Dwarf shields or making Chaos steeds bigger, to altering the AI of certain factions or unlocking factions like Kraka Drakk or Mousillon as playable races. I’ve downloaded about a dozen and there’s a couple in particular I love.
- The mod that put Empire troops trained in different provinces in the proper State colours gives a nice varied, lore-appropriate feel to Empire armies.
- Cataph’s: The Southern Realms. It introduces unique units to Tilea, Estalian and the Border Princes rather than being essentially versions of the Empire.
The question is – if its possible for a fan to create a whole new army for three human factions, why has no-one yet introduced a building tree to train Halflings in the Moot?
VERDICT
No game is perfect, and my main issue with Total War: Warhammer was that it made me finish my last book late. But that aside there are a few minor points. Firstly, the AI never attacks my castles. Ever. An entire playthrough and I’ve not once played defender in a siege battle. A few lore gripes like the lack of Halflings and that one time I got a message saying that Zhufbar had brought their allies, the Greenskins, into their war with me. Naval units are also glaringly absent, particular when you’re trying to defend Nordland from wave after wave of Norscan raiders
But there can be only one verdict.
10/10.
Make the time. Cut down on luxuries like sleep, switch to eating meals that can be consumed over a keyboard (I recommend pizza) and buy it.
January 28, 2017
Sharkpunk 2 - Coming soon!
SHARKPUNK 2, a second anthology of killer shark stories, (to quote the Facebook page) is coming to Kickstarter today, to be published in 2017 by Snowbooks.
My story here, The Taste of Blood, is only my second to find a home outside of Black Library (after Plan B, which I wrote for Mantic Games' Drainpipes for Strike Posts last year) and the first that isn't part of someone else's universe.
Unless someone has IP rights to 1st Millennium Northern Europe...
Here's an excerpt.
"Oddi’s chicken bones rattled across the deck, the tilt and yaw of the longship causing them to skitter apart, tumbling and sliding towards the gunwale until they lost momentum and stopped. I watched the old seer crouch over them, prodding at a bone here and there, his lips creaking wordlessly as if to describe for his own mind what his fingers saw. His frosted-white eyes groped upwards for the sun, squinting in vexation.
“What do the gods tell you?” I asked.
Oddi had been seer to my father and before his blindness karl to my grandfather. Never in all those years had he given me or anyone else cause to doubt the strength of the gods or his skill at interpreting their words.
He shifted one of the bones a thumb’s width across the deck, then frowned over the new arrangement. “They don’t speak clearly. We are a long way from their home.”
The men that had joined me at the stern of the ship for the casting murmured their unease. Dann, Asbjorne, Hari the Finn; even my son, Thorvald Thorvaldsson, reached up to touch the silver hammer that Oddi had made for him when he had been a boy and that he now wore on a cord around his neck. I hissed at them all to be quiet, but as much for Oddi himself: the seer should know better than to talk of gods so carelessly.
“Bring me the Christian,” he said after a moment’s frowning thought.
The karls looked at each other, mentally drawing lots, then Hari gave a grunt and turned away, stomping between the rows of heaving oarsmen.
The sea here was said to be endless; the winds were cold and harsh and the waves high. Some of the rowers persevered with a rowing song, singing out the rhythm of the oars. On the ends of the benches where it was driest men took their moment’s rest, heads hanging, hair and beards bedraggling over their thighs. No one bothered Hari with a welcome. He was called ‘the Finn’ for obvious reasons, but my karls had plenty of names for him that they wisely kept for themselves. Hari the Beast, Hari the Mad, and Hari Redbeard were just three of the less insulting I’d overheard.
His forked beard was not even red, but that wasn’t how he’d earned the name.
A cross-spar had been set across the mast at about chest height. Hari stopped there, grunted for a moment with the knotted ropes wrapped around it, and then returned shortly afterwards with a thin, naked man lumped over one shoulder.
He was an Irishman, from a village several days sail further north along the west coast mainland. Over that time, he’d been sunburnt and salt-lashed until there was little left but a mange of hair that wasn’t red, crusted, and weeping.
“Where is the monastery?” I asked in Irish as he curled up into a ball at my feet. I held up my hand to prevent Asbjorne from thumping a boot into his kidney. The Irishman didn’t answer, but then I hadn’t expected him to. The question had already been put to him in more unfriendly conditions than this.
“Lift him,” said Oddi. Asbjorne and Dann each took an arm and hauled him up to his knees. “His arm.” The seer gestured with an open hand into the sea mist that sprayed in from the crash of waves against the side. With the other he drew a knife. The Irishman stiffened and tried to fight, but five days bound naked to a mast had a way of drawing the fight from a man. He moaned as Dann slowly drew out his arm over the rushing water.
“Please. I don’t know. I don’t know where it is. I swear I don’t. I don’t. Argh –”
He squawked like a startled hen as Oddi cut the knife into his wrist, gave a sharp twist, and then withdrew the blade. Blood slicked the Irishman’s wrist almost as soon as the blade was out. It trickled into the water and immediately began to disperse. The seer peered over, and despite his blindness appeared to be studying the spilt blood as the ocean and its hidden demons drank it all. I felt a prickle at the sides of my face as I watched it disappear, transfixed by it.
To this day I remember how my heart seemed to pause as I waited for it to give the seer the water’s answer. It’s clear to me in hindsight that the ocean gained a taste for blood that day.
The Irishman wept and prayed to his Christ as my karls let him retreat back into his curl on the deck.
“The Christian’s blood flees that way.” Oddi pointed confidently with his knife in a direction that was just a hand’s span to the left of our current heading.
“To our silver,” I smiled.
“You will find no joy in Sceilig Mhór’s meagre wealth,” said the Irishman. “It is easier to pass a camel through a needle’s eye than for a rich man to enter Heaven.”
“What’s a camel?” grunted Hari, to which the others laughed.
I laughed too, although not because I knew what a camel was or cared. I laughed because I had a sword in my hand, two longships full of sworn karls, and wore ten years of stolen silver on my arm. I laughed because I didn’t know then what fear was.
Hari looked at us all, nonplussed.
“The Devil will have you!” the Christian hissed Asbjorne and Dann bent to pick him back up. “Go to the monastery of Sceilig Mhór and He will have you!”
“Give him another day on his cross,” I laughed.
“You will find the Christ’s people there,” said Oddi as the man was dragged away, as certain as sky above a man’s head. “And their silver.”
And I didn’t doubt it."
The anthology features tales from fellow Black Library stalwarts Gav Thorpe, David Annandale, Josh Reynolds, and Guy Haley, as well as many others.
Check out the Facebook page or follow Sharkpunk on Twitter at @Sharkpunked and @Snowbooks.
Or go one better and support the anthology on Kickstarter
My story here, The Taste of Blood, is only my second to find a home outside of Black Library (after Plan B, which I wrote for Mantic Games' Drainpipes for Strike Posts last year) and the first that isn't part of someone else's universe.
Unless someone has IP rights to 1st Millennium Northern Europe...
Here's an excerpt.
"Oddi’s chicken bones rattled across the deck, the tilt and yaw of the longship causing them to skitter apart, tumbling and sliding towards the gunwale until they lost momentum and stopped. I watched the old seer crouch over them, prodding at a bone here and there, his lips creaking wordlessly as if to describe for his own mind what his fingers saw. His frosted-white eyes groped upwards for the sun, squinting in vexation.
“What do the gods tell you?” I asked.
Oddi had been seer to my father and before his blindness karl to my grandfather. Never in all those years had he given me or anyone else cause to doubt the strength of the gods or his skill at interpreting their words.
He shifted one of the bones a thumb’s width across the deck, then frowned over the new arrangement. “They don’t speak clearly. We are a long way from their home.”
The men that had joined me at the stern of the ship for the casting murmured their unease. Dann, Asbjorne, Hari the Finn; even my son, Thorvald Thorvaldsson, reached up to touch the silver hammer that Oddi had made for him when he had been a boy and that he now wore on a cord around his neck. I hissed at them all to be quiet, but as much for Oddi himself: the seer should know better than to talk of gods so carelessly.
“Bring me the Christian,” he said after a moment’s frowning thought.
The karls looked at each other, mentally drawing lots, then Hari gave a grunt and turned away, stomping between the rows of heaving oarsmen.
The sea here was said to be endless; the winds were cold and harsh and the waves high. Some of the rowers persevered with a rowing song, singing out the rhythm of the oars. On the ends of the benches where it was driest men took their moment’s rest, heads hanging, hair and beards bedraggling over their thighs. No one bothered Hari with a welcome. He was called ‘the Finn’ for obvious reasons, but my karls had plenty of names for him that they wisely kept for themselves. Hari the Beast, Hari the Mad, and Hari Redbeard were just three of the less insulting I’d overheard.
His forked beard was not even red, but that wasn’t how he’d earned the name.
A cross-spar had been set across the mast at about chest height. Hari stopped there, grunted for a moment with the knotted ropes wrapped around it, and then returned shortly afterwards with a thin, naked man lumped over one shoulder.
He was an Irishman, from a village several days sail further north along the west coast mainland. Over that time, he’d been sunburnt and salt-lashed until there was little left but a mange of hair that wasn’t red, crusted, and weeping.
“Where is the monastery?” I asked in Irish as he curled up into a ball at my feet. I held up my hand to prevent Asbjorne from thumping a boot into his kidney. The Irishman didn’t answer, but then I hadn’t expected him to. The question had already been put to him in more unfriendly conditions than this.
“Lift him,” said Oddi. Asbjorne and Dann each took an arm and hauled him up to his knees. “His arm.” The seer gestured with an open hand into the sea mist that sprayed in from the crash of waves against the side. With the other he drew a knife. The Irishman stiffened and tried to fight, but five days bound naked to a mast had a way of drawing the fight from a man. He moaned as Dann slowly drew out his arm over the rushing water.
“Please. I don’t know. I don’t know where it is. I swear I don’t. I don’t. Argh –”
He squawked like a startled hen as Oddi cut the knife into his wrist, gave a sharp twist, and then withdrew the blade. Blood slicked the Irishman’s wrist almost as soon as the blade was out. It trickled into the water and immediately began to disperse. The seer peered over, and despite his blindness appeared to be studying the spilt blood as the ocean and its hidden demons drank it all. I felt a prickle at the sides of my face as I watched it disappear, transfixed by it.
To this day I remember how my heart seemed to pause as I waited for it to give the seer the water’s answer. It’s clear to me in hindsight that the ocean gained a taste for blood that day.
The Irishman wept and prayed to his Christ as my karls let him retreat back into his curl on the deck.
“The Christian’s blood flees that way.” Oddi pointed confidently with his knife in a direction that was just a hand’s span to the left of our current heading.
“To our silver,” I smiled.
“You will find no joy in Sceilig Mhór’s meagre wealth,” said the Irishman. “It is easier to pass a camel through a needle’s eye than for a rich man to enter Heaven.”
“What’s a camel?” grunted Hari, to which the others laughed.
I laughed too, although not because I knew what a camel was or cared. I laughed because I had a sword in my hand, two longships full of sworn karls, and wore ten years of stolen silver on my arm. I laughed because I didn’t know then what fear was.
Hari looked at us all, nonplussed.
“The Devil will have you!” the Christian hissed Asbjorne and Dann bent to pick him back up. “Go to the monastery of Sceilig Mhór and He will have you!”
“Give him another day on his cross,” I laughed.
“You will find the Christ’s people there,” said Oddi as the man was dragged away, as certain as sky above a man’s head. “And their silver.”
And I didn’t doubt it."
The anthology features tales from fellow Black Library stalwarts Gav Thorpe, David Annandale, Josh Reynolds, and Guy Haley, as well as many others.
Check out the Facebook page or follow Sharkpunk on Twitter at @Sharkpunked and @Snowbooks.
Or go one better and support the anthology on Kickstarter
January 13, 2017
Best Served Cold by Joe Abercrombie - REVIEW
Best Served Cold by Joe AbercrombieMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
How to review a book that's simply brilliant? If all you're interested in is if it's brilliant or not then read no further - it's brilliant.
A lot of friends insisted that this was Abercrombie's best book. Praise doesn't get much higher than that. Personally, I wouldn't go that far, but only because I'd give the First Law Trilogy 7 stars and Best Served Cold 6. Unfortunately, 5 is as high as it goes. Them's the rules.
I've actually already read The Heroes, way back, and enjoyed it, but I'm looking forward to the re-read now I know the back stories to Shivers, Dow, dan Gorst et al
View all my reviews
January 1, 2017
Gods of Mars by Graham McNeill - REVIEW
Gods of Mars by Graham McNeillMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
An exceptional end to an exceptional series. I think the word might be 'explosive'. The finale to the OF MARS series is, after some opening moves, essentially all combat and after the slow cranking up of tension of the first two novels it's predictably breathtaking stuff. It's easy to suffer from battle fatigue, but there's no worry of that here as every battle means something to someone and I don't think I could name a single character I didn't care about by the end. Plus there's revelations aplenty to keep the pages and then the chapters turning.
There's been several stand-out characters as the series has gone on. Surcouff was my favourite in PRIESTS, overtaken by Abrehem Locke in LORDS, but to my the character that I think is going to stick with me for longest is Tarkis Blaylock. Oh Tarkis. So complicated, so layered. The ending wasn't kind to him, but he's survived worse. I have hope for him. Speranza does mean Hope, after all.
View all my reviews
Injustice: Gods Among Us - REVIEW
Injustice: Gods Among Us - Year One by Tom TaylorMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
I'd never read a Superman comic before this, I'd never read a DC comic before this, and like an idiot I'd carried the ignorant misconception that Superman was obviously a dull protagonist because nothing could ever hurt him. How wrong I was. There's plenty that can hurt him. Superman's steady slip towards global tyranny had me gripped as no comic ever has before, with the quality of the writing (something that comics rarely get enough recognition for) especially good. For all the neat plotting and characters however my favourite bit - MINOR SPOILER - was the bust up between Superman and Captain Atom. I want to see a whole lot more of Captain Atom. Thanks to my sister for a well thought birthday present, and hurry up Year Two
View all my reviews
December 14, 2016
Lords of Mars by Graham McNeill - REVIEW
Lords of Mars by Graham McNeillMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
A splendid follow-up to Priests of Mars, doing things and going places that no 40K series has dared go before. Everything that was great about the first instalment still holds, though I would have loved to have seen more of Abrehem and his workers' revolt (the most interesting bit for me, but sidelined for the most part) and of Galatea. The last scene with 'it' was anticipated, but still a masterclass of horror the equal of those brilliantly tense scenes aboard the abandoned station in Priests when the machine hybrid was first encountered. It left me biting my nails for Gods of Mars. Archmagos Kotov and the Rogue Trader, Roboute, continue to develop and Archmagos Blaylock is unexpectedly turning into an incredibly interesting character. The Titan princeps' feel a bit like decoration at times, but are an interesting viewpoint regardless, as are the Cadians, Black Templars and others here on Kotov's quest.
Gods of Mars has a lot of threads to pick up, but there's a definite sense of direction and momentum leading into the final chapter. Somehow I don't see it all ending happily.
View all my reviews
