The winner is:
Alex Hoff, fromCalgary, Alberta, Canada
Many thanks to all the participants!
George R. R. Martin contest winner!
The winner is:
Alex Hoff, fromCalgary, Alberta, Canada
Many thanks to all the participants!
Extract from Ian Tregillis' THE COLDEST WAR
Ian Tregillis' The Coldest War is one of my most eagerly anticipated speculative fiction titles of 2012! I started reading it during my flight to Istanbul and it's very good thus far! And thanks to the folks at Tor Books and the author, here's an exclusive excerpt for you to enjoy! For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
Here's the blurb:
In Ian Tregillis' The Coldest War, a precarious balance of power maintains the peace between Britain and the USSR. For decades, Britain's warlocks have been all that stands between the British Empire and the Soviet Union—a vast domain stretching from the Pacific Ocean to the shores of the English Channel. Now each wizard's death is another blow to Britain's national security.
Meanwhile, a brother and sister escape from a top-secret facility deep behind the Iron Curtain. Once subjects of a twisted Nazi experiment to imbue ordinary people with superhuman abilities, then prisoners of war in the immense Soviet research effort to reverse-engineer the Nazi technology, they head for England.
Because that's where former spy Raybould Marsh lives. And Gretel, the mad seer, has plans for him.
As Marsh is once again drawn into the world of Milkweed, he discovers that Britain's darkest acts didn't end with the war. And while he strives to protect queen and country, he is forced to confront his own willingness to accept victory at any cost.
Enjoy!
-----------------
1 May 1963
Arzamas-16, Nizhny Novgorod Oblast, USSR
Gretel laid a fingertip on Klaus’s arm.
“Wait,” she whispered.
Several seconds passed while she consulted some private time line that existed only in her head. He recognized the look on her face: she was remembering the future, peering a few seconds ahead.
Then she said, “Now, brother.”
Klaus pulled the merest trickle of current from his stolen battery, just enough of the Götterelektron to dematerialize his hand. It was a gamble, one Gretel had assured him would work. But he’d practiced for weeks.
His hand ghosted through ferro-concrete. He wrapped his fingers around one of the bolts that sealed the vault. Klaus concentrated, focusing his Willenskräfte like a scalpel, and pulled a finger’s width of steel through the wall. Gretel caught the slug before it clattered to the floor and gave them away.
They repeated the process twice. Klaus severed all three bolts, and the alarm circuit, in fifteen seconds. But the damage to the door was strictly internal; a passing guard would see nothing but pristine, unblemished steel.
It would have been easier for Klaus to walk straight through the wall with his sister in tow. But that would have tripped sensors and triggered their captors’ fail-safes before he was halfway through. The entire facility, this secret city the locals called Sarov, bristled with antennae and circuitry attuned to the telltale whisper of the Götterelektron. Unauthorized expression of the Willenskräfte instantly triggered the electromagnetic equivalent of a shaped charge. The British had developed a crude precursor to this technology back during the war; they’d called their devices “pixies,” and they had a range of a few hundred meters. The Soviet fail-safes could knock out a battery at six kilometers. Klaus knew the specs because he’d helped them test the system. He’d had no choice.
Gretel never worried about the fail-safes. Klaus stood on the cusp of fifty (according to his best estimate; he and his sister had been war orphans) and yet he still didn’t know how or when Gretel called upon the Götterelektron to see the future. He suspected she relied upon batteries far less than she let their captors believe, and not when they thought she was using them. It had been that way back home in Germany, too.
They eased the vault door closed after slipping inside. Klaus groped for the light switch. Sickly yellow light cascaded from the naked bulb overhead, chasing shadows past rows of cabinets and shelves. A musty smell permeated the vault; their footsteps kicked up swirls of dust. The Soviets still referred to this place, almost reverently, as ALPHA. But they came here rarely these days.
The cabinets contained papers the Soviets had obtained during their lightning-fast occupation of the old REGP, the Reichsbehörde für die Erweiterung germanischen Potenzials; the shelves held physical artifacts from Doctor von Westarp’s farm, where the Reichsbehörde had lived and died.
Gretel and Klaus sought the batteries their captors had confiscated at the end of the war. He had managed, after months of preparation, to sneak a single battery past the Soviets’ stringent inventory controls. But if his sister had foreseen things correctly (of which, of course, he had no doubt), they would need every millivolt they could muster on their long trek to the Paris Wall.
The rechargeable lithium-ion packs had been cutting-edge technology, decades ahead of their time in 1939. But they were blocky, bulky things, and hopelessly outdated compared to the sleek modules the Soviets had developed. Gretel’s prescience aside, it was difficult to believe the Reichsbehörde batteries had retained any charge after twenty-two years. Klaus wiped away the layer of dust and grime coating the gauges. The batteries were degraded but still serviceable. If the gauges could be trusted.
Although Klaus had suffered tremendous misgivings about Doctor von Westarp’s research, and had lost his unswerving faith in the Götterelektrongruppe long before the Communists’ master stroke, he now felt a frisson of relief and pride. German engineering. A reminder of those golden days when the world had been so much simpler, their shared destiny so much grander. Even degraded, these old batteries represented a wealth of power and opportunity. More than Klaus had known in decades.
They also found a few of the old double harnesses. Klaus and Gretel stripped to the waist. It was awkward, but they both managed to don two harnesses, one in front and one in back. When they had finished, they both carried four batteries beneath their clothes. It was very uncomfortable.
“Let’s go,” he said, taking her hand.
But Gretel said, “Wait. We need something else, too.” She led him down one aisle and up another, to a shelf holding a pair of jars filled with sepia-colored solution. Beside them lay an empty rucksack.
“What are those for?”
The corner of Gretel’s mouth quirked up in a private little smile. “Don’t worry. I’ve packed for you, too.”
Something in the way she said it dislodged a forgotten moment from the recesses of Klaus’s memory. It was the day of their capture, minutes before. He’d been away, and had rushed back to the farm to retrieve Gretel before the Communists overran the facility. He’d taken her hand, preparing to pull her through the wall, desperate to get back to the truck and drive ahead of the advancing Red Army:
“Wait,” she said. She pointed at the rucksack. “We’ll need that.”
The sack clattered like ceramic or glass when he lifted it. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve packed for you, too.”
Klaus took one of the jars. A pallid, shriveled mass floated in the murk. The jar had a wide opening, and the lid had been sealed and re-sealed with wax. The yellowed label listed a set of dates and other annotations printed in Cyrillic, in a variety of hands and a variety of inks. The jar had last been studied six years ago. It was dusty.
He blew away some of the dust, then lifted the jar to the light, trying to peer inside. The contents settled against the glass like a dead fish.
Klaus frowned. “Is this . . . is this Heike’s brain?”
“Part of it.”
Heike. The invisible woman. Another of Doctor von Westarp’s children, one of that small handful to survive the procedures and learn how to embrace the Willenskräfte. They had grown up together, lived together, trained together back at the Reichsbehörde. Until poor, fragile Heike had spent a long afternoon in private conversation with Gretel, and killed herself the next day.
The doctor didn’t mourn his dead daughter. He dissected her. It was, after all, a perfect opportunity to study the physiological effects of channeling the Götterelektron. Since Heike had done that via the electrodes in her skull—like Klaus, Gretel, Reinhardt, and the others—the doctor had paid particular attention to her brain.
Gretel took the jar from his hands. She crumpled the label and tossed it aside, then picked at the wax with her fingernails. It flaked away in long clumps. Klaus caught a strong whiff of formaldehyde when she cracked the seal.
“Why . . .” Klaus trailed off. He tried again. “How will Heike’s brain help us to escape?”
“It won’t,” said Gretel, as though explaining something obvious. She dumped out the contents. Formaldehyde and brain matter splattered on the floor. And then she added: “But we need a jar.”
“What? I don’t—”
Comprehension dawned, and something icy slithered down Klaus’s spine. It became an oily nausea when it reached his gut. He put a hand over his mouth and swallowed. Oh my God.
Back during the war he had seen Gretel do strange things. Inexplicable things. Terrible things. Perhaps none more so than what she had done to Heike. Now he understood the why of it, but that only made things worse: Heike’s suicide was a tiny cog in a vast machine. Gretel had prepared their escape long before they were captured. She had caused an innocent woman to kill herself, just to ensure one perfectly normal jar would be there twenty years later, exactly when and where they needed it. The sheer callousness rivaled anything ever done at the Reichsbehörde or Arzamas. But the scope of Gretel’s machinations . . . It was a wonder Klaus’s blood didn’t crystallize in his veins. Gretel was weaving cause and effect across decades. The farm had fallen because Gretel wanted it to happen. Why? It had gnawed at him since before their arrival at Arzamas. He’d asked, of course, but Gretel never answered his questions. Just smiled as she weaved her plans.
And here he was. A ghost along for the ride.
Klaus sighed. He feared this insight into his sister, but he hated Arzamas more. “What now?”
“Now you go to the bathroom.”
Gott. This is getting worse and worse. “In the jar?”
Gretel frowned. Her braids—long raven-black locks streaked with gray—danced past her shoulders as she shook her head. She’d always worn her hair long, except in the early days here, when the Soviets had shaved their heads.
“No. You go,” she said, pushing him toward the vault door, “to the bathroom.” Another nudge toward the door, and this time she put the glassware in his hand. It was slippery. “Clean this. Leave it on the sink.”
He started to talk, to ensure he understood what she said, but she interrupted him. “Go. And don’t linger.”
Klaus ran the water as quietly as possible, so that he could listen for footsteps in the corridor. He half suspected that part of Gretel’s escape plan involved him getting caught outside the dormitory after curfew.
The jar made his hands stink, and a layer of gunk had accumulated around the rim. He scrubbed it away as best he could with a towel. Working quickly, he managed to get the jar looking like it was mostly clean. And then, because the incriminating towel stank of formaldehyde (like his hands), he hid it behind one of the toilets. He balanced the jar on the narrow ledge of the sink, where a water-stained wall joined rust-stained ceramic.
When he returned to the vault, Gretel was slipping something into her blouse. “All done, brother? Time to go.” She led him into the corridor.
Before it became a secret city, Arzamas-16 had been known as Sarov: a dozen churches built around the Sarova monastery, home of St. Seraphim. Everything was closed by order of the state when Sarov became a research facility. It grew quickly.
But inside and out, the architecture here was unlike most Soviet towns of comparable size: most of Arzamas-16 had been built by POW labor from Axis troops captured during the Red Army’s sweep across Europe in the final months of the war. Arzamas-16 had a distinctly European, distinctly German, feel. It could have been a Thuringian village. The early days had been profoundly disorienting, when Klaus had watched the buildings going up and felt he was witnessing the destruction of the Reichsbehörde in reverse.
Arzamas-16 was a large and heavily guarded facility, ringed with walls, fences, and aggressive perimeter defenses. Including the fail-safes. This building, number three, sat near the center of town. Klaus suppressed the urge to keep looking over his shoulder while his sister led him toward the guard station.
Gretel pulled him to a stop at the base of a stairwell. They backed up a few stairs, until they perched in the shadows around the corner from the guard desk.
Klaus whispered, “The patrols—”
“There won’t be any tonight.” Gretel put a finger to her lips.
As Klaus’s breathing slowed, he started to make out sounds from around the corner. He recognized the sound of liquid sloshing inside glass. It reminded him of poor Heike, and her ignominious end. Nothing happened for several minutes.
Then footsteps echoed up the corridor. Klaus braced for a fight he hoped to avoid. At best, he’d get a few seconds of complete insubstantiality before tripping the fail-safes, barely enough time for him and Gretel to escape through the wall.
A voice said, “What the hell are you doing?”
Another answered, “Drink with me, Sacha.”
“Are you drunk?”
“I am not drunk. I am celebrating! It is, as I say this to you, not twenty minutes after midnight. Do you know what that makes today?”
The sound of glass on metal, like a bottle pulled across a desk. “Where did you get this?” That was Sacha’s voice again. Klaus didn’t know the guards by name, but he might have recognized their faces.
“It makes today,” continued the first guard, “International Workers’ Day. And so I am celebrating my hardworking brothers and sisters. To them!” A moment later, the sound of smacked lips.
“You’re disgraceful, Kostya. Have you done the rounds, or must I do your job for you?”
Gretel patted Klaus on the knee when he tensed. Trust me, she mouthed.
“Disgraceful? I am a patriot, I’ll have you know.”
“You would drink jet fuel, if you could find it. What is that?”
“I distilled it myself.” Again, the sound of a bottle being pushed across the desk. “One drink. To the workers.”
A gasp. “I’m not putting that thing to my lips. Don’t you ever brush your teeth? Your breath smells like shit.”
“Suit yourself, Sacha.”
“Not getting shot for dereliction of duty, that’s what suits me.”
“They don’t shoot people here. They give them to the troops. Comrade Lysenko’s special troops. For practice.”
“I’d rather be shot.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
A minute passed. Then: “One of us has to do the rounds. I suppose that’s me, since you’re hell-bent on getting shit-faced.” “No, no, I’ll do the rounds. It’s my service to the great Soviet Union.”
A wooden chair squeaked across pitted concrete. “But first I must piss. Patriotism is the only drink that stays in your blood. Vodka comes back out again. Watch the boards while I’m out.”
The other guard—Sacha—sighed. “I’ll watch.”
Kostya’s unsteady footsteps sounded louder and louder until he appeared around the corner. Klaus held his breath because he and Gretel were sitting in shadow but still easily visible to anybody who looked in their direction. His sloe-eyed sister watched the guard with something akin to dark amusement playing across her face. The guard shuffled past them without a glance.
From the direction of the bathroom, Klaus heard banging, flushing, belching, and running water.
Kostya shuffled past them again a few minutes later, jar in hand. He waved it triumphantly overhead. “Good news, Sacha!” he announced, disappearing around the corner. “I found this in the bathroom. Now you can have a drink with me.”
Klaus turned to stare at his sister. She winked.
From the guard station, Sascha’s voice said, “You found a jar in the bathroom? It’s probably a sample jar. I’ll bet somebody pissed in it.”
“Nonsense. Look. Clean.”
“Did you piss in it?”
“One drink. On Workers’ Day.”
Glass clinked against glass as somebody, probably Kostya, poured into the jar.
“Not so much. I don’t want to go blind.”
All Klaus could think of was formaldehyde and poor Heike’s brain; the thought of imbibing from that jar nauseated him.
“To the Great Soviet.” More clinking of glass.
Several moments passed in silence. And then Sacha said, “This isn’t half bad.”
After that there was more pouring, more toasts, and more clinking. Time passed. Gretel nudged Klaus with her elbow at one point, jerking him back to alertness. “You were going to snore,” she whispered.
Klaus asked, “Do we rush them? They’re both drunk.”
Gretel rolled her eyes, but didn’t say anything.
Not long after that, Sacha said (sounding more relaxed than he had before), “You smell like a wet dog, but you make a fine drink.”
“Thank you.”
“Is this really your own?”
“Yes.” Kostya sounded blurry, subdued.
“How?”
Klaus understood the question. This was the most sensitive facility in the entire Soviet Union: an empire that stretched from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Even the guards were subject to scrutiny here. Klaus imagined the guards’ quarters were searched almost as frequently as his own. So how did Kostya manage to distill his own vodka?
“I do it where they never look.”
“They look everywhere.”
“No.” Kostya paused, possibly for another sip. He smacked his lips. “They never search the fail-safe chamber. Nobody likes to go down there . . .”
Klaus filled in the rest: . . . because it’s full of high explosives.
The Götterelektron was the key to the superhuman feats of Doctor von Westarp’s children, and their Soviet successors. But it was also their Achilles’ heel. The circuitry was susceptible to a suitably crafted electromagnetic pulse. The British had designed their pixies after reverse engineering Gretel’s battery, and used them with middling success during an ill-fated raid on the Reichsbehörde. Later, when the tide of war turned against the Reich, the Communists had unveiled a more potent version of the same technology.
The Arzamas fail-safe devices dwarfed the original pixies, but they worked on the same principle. They used chemical explosives to crush an electromagnet, blanketing the facility with a crippling EMP.
The bottom line being that nobody in his right mind willingly spent time near the fail-safes. An unannounced drill, a malfunction, even an escape attempt might come at any time. Death would be quick, and it would be certain.
Nobody searched the fail-safe chambers.
Sacha said, “Genius. To you.”
“To me.” Clink.
“Maintenance . . . they do that, time to time. What then? Pay them in vodka?”
“Some I could. Others would take my vodka and still sell me out. Pigs.” Kostya spat. “Come. I’ll show you.”
Sascha belched before responding. “Into the chamber? Not going down there.”
“It’s safe. I’ve done it many times.”
“You’re a drunken madman.” It sounded as though Sacha was making an effort not to slur his words. “I am smarter and more responsible.”
“Then we’ll disarm the fail-safe before we go down.”
“Yes. That’s a much better idea.”
And then, after some discussion of whether they’d take the remainder of the bottle with them, they stumbled off to visit Kostya’s still. Gretel stood, stretched. “Well,” she said. “Off we go.”
Incredible, thought Klaus.
After half an hour of sneaking, hiding, dodging, and sprinting—each move dictated by the time line in Gretel’s head—they stole a car. And, because the fail-safes had been disarmed, there was nothing to stop Klaus from dematerializing the car and everything in it when they reached the perimeter.
They escaped Arzamas-16 without incident, just two more ghosts in the gulag.
Spellbound
In 2010, Blake Charlton released an original debut titled Spellwright, a throwback book reminiscent of epic fantasy and sword & sorcery novels from the 80s. In a day and age in which genre authors attempt to subvert traditional fantasy tropes and clichés, Charlton embraced them, making Spellwright some kind of homage to a different era.
Although the author elevates his game in basically every aspect of his craft in this sequel, Spellbound remains the same in style and tone.
Here's the blurb:
In a world where one’s magical prowess is determined by one’s skill with words and ability to spell, Nicodemus is a wizardly apprentice afflicted by a curse that causes him to misspell magical texts. Now, the demon who cursed him has hatched a conspiracy to force Nicodemus to change language and ultimately use it to destroy all human life. As Nico tries to thwart the demon’s plan, he faces challenges from all sides. But his biggest challenge is his own disability, which causes him to create chaos wherever he goes. And the chaos surrounding Nico is affecting the world so profoundly that the kingdom to which he has fled to gather strength is on the brink of civil war, and he suspects that his closest allies—even Francesca, whom he loves more than life itself—may be subject to the demon’s vast powers. As Nico tries to forestall the apocalypse, he realizes that he doesn’t know if he can fully trust anyone, not even the woman he loves. And if he makes one wrong move, not only will his life be forfeit, he may end up destroying all mortal life as well.
Charlton is a world away from the "New Grit" movement spearheaded by authors such as George R. R. Martin, Richard Morgan, Joe Abercrombie, R. Scott Bakker, Steven Erikson, etc. In Spellwright, pretty much everything was black and white. The heroes were good, the villains were evil. The forces of good always beat the odds and somehow managed to come out on top, with secret knowledge or power falling into their lap in the nick of time. The good guys were all handsome and beautiful, while the bad guys weren't. In a nutshell, it was the whole good vs evil shebang. Even though it's more or less the same with Spellbound, the author added a few shades of gray to the plot. Yet in the end, the novel remains a work that will appeal more to fans of more traditional fantasy series written by the all-stars of the 80s and early 90s such as David Eddings, Terry Brooks, Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman, and Raymond E. Feist.
One facet in which Blake Charlton managed to up his game significantly is the worldbuilding. The structure of a debut is such that Charlton couldn't offer readers more than a glimpse of his universe in Spellwright. I was pleased to learn more about Language Prime, the Chthonic race, the Disjunction, the dragons, and so much more. Readers will also discover more about the world at large, as the action occurs in a variety of localities. Overall, the worldbuilding added quite a few layers to this work.
Once again, the imaginative magical system that Charlton created is a highlight of Spellbound. As was the case in the first book, it can take a while for you to understand how it works. But it remains fascinating and unique.
One aspect which leaves a lot to be desired, I felt, was the characterization. Ten years have passed since the events chronicled in Spellwright, a decade that hardened Nicodemus. The young dyslexic spellwright suffering from cacography wasn't always the sharpest tool in the shed, but the man he became commands respect. What nearly killed the book for me was Francesca DeVega, the novel's main protagonist. Oh my God. . . Where to begin? Think of a strange hybrid between Polgara the Sorceress and Dr. House with a dose of Faile. She is insufferable and I wanted to open my veins every time she appeared in the book. Another thing that readers will either love or despise, with all the bantering and back-and-forth between the characters (most of which often getting in the way of the plot), with Spellbound Blake Charlton firmly established himself as the David Eddings of the 21st century. The supporting cast doesn't play such an important role in the bigger scheme of things, which means that there is an uneven balance between Francesca and Nico's POVs.
You may or may not know that Black Charlton attends the Stanford University School of Medicine. Which explains why there are a few bits of medical porn here and there throughout the book. It's not off-putting in any way, not even the unexpected brain surgery, but it doesn't always have much to do with the storylines. There is also a love story that you can see coming from a mile away. . .
The pace can be a problem in certain portions of the book. Spellbound begins with a bang and the rhythm is fluid for about half of the novel. Then it becomes extremely sluggish at times, before resuming again for the finale. Charlton brings this one to a satisfying close, setting the stage for what should be an interesting final volume.
Spellwright seemed too have a lot of potential and Spellbound demonstrates that there is a lot more to Charlton's creation than meets the eye. If not for the intolerable Francesca, this book would get a much better score. As I mentioned, she nearly killed this one for me. Because in every aspect but the characterization, Spellbound is a much superior tale than Spellwright turned out to be. Which means that if you can put up with Francesca, you might love it.
The final verdict: 7/10
For more information about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
This week's New York Times Bestsellers (May 21st)
Charlaine Harris' Deadlocked is down one spot, finishing the week at number 2.
Stephen King's The Dark Tower: The Wind Through the Keyhole is down six positions, ending the week at number 8. For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
George R. R. Martin's A Dance With Dragons is down seven positions, ending the week at number 18. For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
Christopher Moore’s Sacré Bleu: A Comedy d'Art is down nine spots, finishing the week at number 21.
Stephen King's 11/22/63 is down nine positions, ending the week at number 31. For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
In paperback:
George R. R. Martin's A Game of Thrones is up two positions, ending the week at number 3.
George R. R. Martin's A Clash of Kings is up two positions, finishing the week at number 7.
Seth Grahame-Smith's Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter is down two positions, ending the week at number 8 (trade paperback).
Seth Grahame-Smith's Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter is up four positions, ending the week at number 8.
George R. R. Martin's A Storms of Swords is up five positions, ending the week at number 9.
George R. R. Martin's A Game of Thrones maintains its position at number 12 (trade paperback).
George R. R. Martin's A Feast for Crows is up three positions, ending the week at number 15.
Charlaine Harris' Dead Reckoning is up ten spots, finishing the week at number 16.
Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game returns at number 29.
Guy Gavriel Kay announces new novel!
Kay's newest title, River of Stars, should be published in early 2013.
Hell yeah!!
Cirque du Soleil: Amaluna
I saw Amaluna last night, the newest Cirque du Soleil creation which is premiering in Montréal.
Although the interludes are boring, every single act was special. With about 80% of the cast being female performers, it gives this show a much different vibe. Overall, it's a much better show than Totem was, and I daresay it's probably one of the very best Cirque du Soleil touring shows of the last decade or so.
Amaluna remains in Montréal till the end of June, after which the tour will continue in Québec City and Toronto. After that, starting this fall, Amaluna will begin its world tour.
Don't miss it!
Win a copy of Daniel Abraham's THE KING'S BLOOD
I have two copies of Daniel Abraham's The King's Blood up for grabs, compliments of the folks at Orbit! For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
Here's the blurb:
War casts its shadow over the lands that the dragons once ruled.
When an act of harrowing betrayal threatens to set the cities afire, all certainties are called into question. Only the courage of a young woman with the mind of a gambler and loyalty to no one stands between hope and universal darkness.
The high and powerful will fall, the despised and broken shall rise up, and everything will be remade. And quietly, almost beneath the notice of anyone, an old, broken-hearted warrior and an apostate priest will begin a terrible journey with an impossible goal: destroy a Goddess before she eats the world.
THE KING'S BLOOD is the second chapter in the thrilling fantasy series The Dagger and the Coin.
The rules are the same as usual. You need to send an email at reviews@(no-spam)gryphonwood.net with the header "KING." Remember to remove the "no spam" thingy.
Second, your email must contain your full mailing address (that's snail mail!), otherwise your message will be deleted.
Lastly, multiple entries will disqualify whoever sends them. And please include your screen name and the message boards that you frequent using it, if you do hang out on a particular MB.
Good luck to all the participants!
New cover art for Steven Erikson's FORGE OF DARKNESS
Looks like Bantam decided to go for a different look!
Here's the blurb:
Forge of Darkness: Now is the time to tell the story of an ancient realm, a tragic tale that sets the stage for all the tales yet to come and all those already told...
It's a conflicted time in Kurald Galain, the realm of Darkness, where Mother Dark reigns. But this ancient land was once home to many a power… and even death is not quite eternal. The commoners' great hero, Vatha Urusander, is being promoted by his followers to take Mother Dark's hand in marriage, but her Consort, Lord Draconus, stands in the way of such ambitions. The impending clash sends fissures throughout the realm, and as the rumors of civil war burn through the masses, an ancient power emerges from the long dead seas. Caught in the middle of it all are the First Sons of Darkness, Anomander, Andarist, and Silchas Ruin of the Purake Hold...
Steven Erikson entered the pantheon of great fantasy writers with his debut Gardens of the Moon. Now he returns with the first novel in a trilogy that takes place millennia before the events of the Malazan Book of the Fallen and introduces readers to Kurald Galain, the warren of Darkness. It is the epic story of a realm whose fate plays a crucial role in shaping the world of the Malazan Empire.
For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
More inexpensive ebook goodies!
You can now download Robert McCammon's Mystery Walk for only 1.99$ here.
Here's the blurb:
Two young psychics do battle with an ancient evil.
Billy Creekmore was born to be a psychic. His mother, a Choctaw Indian schooled in her tribe’s ancient mysticism, understood that the barrier between life and death is permeable. She knew how to cross it, and used that knowledge to help the dead rest easier. She passed that power on to her son, and he has spent his whole life learning how to communicate with the dead to prevent them from meddling with the living.
Though his powers are the same, Wayne Falconer’s background could not be more different. The son of a prominent preacher, he would be disowned if his father learned he was using supernatural powers in service of the church. Though they don’t know each other, Billy and Wayne share a recurring dream—and a common enemy. When a nightmarish monster descends on their community in Alabama, mankind’s fate will rest in their hands.
UK cover art for Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson's A MEMORY OF LIGHT
Nothing special, but it follows the same style as the rest of the series.
Excerpt from Ian Tregillis' THE COLDEST WAR
Tor.com has posted the prologue from Ian Tregillis' sequel to the excellent Bitter Seeds, The Coldest War (Canada, USA, Europe).
Here's the blurb:
In Ian Tregillis' The Coldest War, a precarious balance of power maintains the peace between Britain and the USSR. For decades, Britain's warlocks have been all that stands between the British Empire and the Soviet Union—a vast domain stretching from the Pacific Ocean to the shores of the English Channel. Now each wizard's death is another blow to Britain's national security.
Meanwhile, a brother and sister escape from a top-secret facility deep behind the Iron Curtain. Once subjects of a twisted Nazi experiment to imbue ordinary people with superhuman abilities, then prisoners of war in the immense Soviet research effort to reverse-engineer the Nazi technology, they head for England.
Because that's where former spy Raybould Marsh lives. And Gretel, the mad seer, has plans for him.
As Marsh is once again drawn into the world of Milkweed, he discovers that Britain's darkest acts didn't end with the war. And while he strives to protect queen and country, he is forced to confront his own willingness to accept victory at any cost.
Follow this link to read the extract.
More inexpensive ebook goodies!
You can now download The Mongoliad, a collaborative effort from Neal Stephenson, Greg Bear, Mark Teppo, and a few other authors, for only 0.99$ here.
Here's the blurb:
The first novel to be released in The Foreworld Saga, The Mongoliad: Book One, is an epic-within-an-epic, taking place in 13th century. In it, a small band of warriors and mystics raise their swords to save Europe from a bloodthirsty Mongol invasion. Inspired by their leader (an elder of an order of warrior monks), they embark on a perilous journey and uncover the history of hidden knowledge and conflict among powerful secret societies that had been shaping world events for millennia.
But the saga reaches the modern world via a circuitous route. In the late 19th century, Sir Richard F. Burton, an expert on exotic languages and historical swordsmanship, is approached by a mysterious group of English martial arts aficionados about translating a collection of long-lost manuscripts. Burton dies before his work is finished, and his efforts were thought lost until recently rediscovered by a team of amateur archaeologists in the ruins of a mansion in Trieste, Italy. From this collection of arcana, the incredible tale of The Mongoliad was recreated.
Full of high adventure, unforgettable characters, and unflinching battle scenes, The Mongoliad ignites a dangerous quest where willpower and blades are tested and the scope of world-building is redefined.
More inexpensive ebook goodies!
You can now download Gail Carriger's Soulless for only 0.99$ here.
Here's the blurb:
Alexia Tarabotti is laboring under a great many social tribulations. First, she has no soul. Second, she's a spinster whose father is both Italian and dead. Third, she was rudely attacked by a vampire, breaking all standards of social etiquette.
Where to go from there? From bad to worse apparently, for Alexia accidentally kills the vampire -- and then the appalling Lord Maccon (loud, messy, gorgeous, and werewolf) is sent by Queen Victoria to investigate.
With unexpected vampires appearing and expected vampires disappearing, everyone seems to believe Alexia responsible. Can she figure out what is actually happening to London's high society? Will her soulless ability to negate supernatural powers prove useful or just plain embarrassing? Finally, who is the real enemy, and do they have treacle tart?
SOULLESS is a comedy of manners set in Victorian London: full of werewolves, vampires, dirigibles, and tea-drinking.
Win a copy of the limited edition of Glen Cook's WINTER'S DREAM
Thanks to the cool folks at Subterranean Press, I have a copy of the limited edition of Glen Cook's Winter's Dream for you to win! For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe, and Subpress.
Here's the blurb:
Glen Cook is, of course, best known for his enormously popular series fiction, which includes the Garrett P.I. and Dread Empire sequences, as well as the internationally acclaimed Chronicles of the Black Company. Readers familiar only with this aspect of Cook’s career will find a great many pleasures—and an equal number of surprises—in his vibrant new collection, Winter’s Dreams.
The fourteen standalone stories in Winter’s Dreams range in length from vignettes (“Appointment in Samarkand”) to novellas (“In the Wind”). Together, they encompass an astonishing variety of themes, tones, styles, and settings. Not one of these stories bears the slightest resemblance to the others. Each one manages to enchant, illuminate, and entertain in its own distinctive fashion.
In the near future America of “Song from a Forgotten Hill,” the nations’ tragic racial history replays itself in an all too familiar form.
“The Seventh Fool” recounts the comic misadventures of a charming con man who outsmarts both his gullible target—and himself.
“The Waiting Sea” encapsulates the entire life history of a navy veteran haunted by the sea -- and by the faceless voices only he can hear.
In “Ponce,” a poverty stricken St. Louis family encounters a mysterious blue-eyed dog—a dog that serves as a conduit to the undisclosed secrets of the universe.
“The Recruiter” presents a powerfully disturbing portrait of an ultra-violent future and asks the question: How far will a man go in order to survive?
Equally suitable both for newcomers and for long-time Glen Cook fans, Winter’s Dreams is something special, a consistently enthralling volume that claims new imaginative territory at every turn.
The rules are the same as usual. You need to send an email at reviews@(no-spam)gryphonwood.net with the header "DREAM." Remember to remove the "no spam" thingy.
Second, your email must contain your full mailing address (that's snail mail!), otherwise your message will be deleted.
Lastly, multiple entries will disqualify whoever sends them. And please include your screen name and the message boards that you frequent using it, if you do hang out on a particular MB.
Good luck to all the participants!
The Pat's Fantasy Hotlist World Tour hits the road again!!!
That's right, folks!
Next Sunday, I'll be flying away overseas to spend a month in Turkey, Georgia, and Armenia! Can't wait!!! =)
This time, my traveling reading list will look like this:
- The Coldest War by Ian Tregillis (Canada, USA, Europe)
Here's the blurb:
In Ian Tregillis' The Coldest War, a precarious balance of power maintains the peace between Britain and the USSR. For decades, Britain's warlocks have been all that stands between the British Empire and the Soviet Union—a vast domain stretching from the Pacific Ocean to the shores of the English Channel. Now each wizard's death is another blow to Britain's national security.
Meanwhile, a brother and sister escape from a top-secret facility deep behind the Iron Curtain. Once subjects of a twisted Nazi experiment to imbue ordinary people with superhuman abilities, then prisoners of war in the immense Soviet research effort to reverse-engineer the Nazi technology, they head for England.
Because that's where former spy Raybould Marsh lives. And Gretel, the mad seer, has plans for him.
As Marsh is once again drawn into the world of Milkweed, he discovers that Britain's darkest acts didn't end with the war. And while he strives to protect queen and country, he is forced to confront his own willingness to accept victory at any cost.
- Shogun by James Clavell (Canada, USA, Europe)
Here's the blurb:
A bold English adventurer. An invincible Japanese warlord. A beautiful woman torn between two ways of life, two ways of love. All brought together in an extraordinary saga of a time and a place aflame with conflict, passion, ambition, lust, and the struggle for power...
- Fevre Dream by George R. R. Martin (Canada, USA, Europe)
Here's the blurb:
Abner Marsh, a struggling riverboat captain, suspects that something’s amiss when he is approached by a wealthy aristocrat with a lucrative offer. The hauntingly pale, steely-eyed Joshua York doesn’t care that the icy winter of 1857 has wiped out all but one of Marsh’s dilapidated fleet; nor does he care that he won’t earn back his investment in a decade. York’s reasons for traversing the powerful Mississippi are to be none of Marsh’s concern—no matter how bizarre, arbitrary, or capricious York’s actions may prove. Not until the maiden voyage of Fevre Dream does Marsh realize that he has joined a mission both more sinister, and perhaps more noble, than his most fantastic nightmare—and humankind’s most impossible dream.
- Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson (Canada, USA, Europe)
Here's the blurb:
One of Time magazine's 100 all-time best English-language novels.
Only once in a great while does a writer come along who defies comparison—a writer so original he redefines the way we look at the world. Neal Stephenson is such a writer and Snow Crash is such a novel, weaving virtual reality, Sumerian myth, and just about everything in between with a cool, hip cybersensibility to bring us the gigathriller of the information age.
In reality, Hiro Protagonist delivers pizza for Uncle Enzo’s CosoNostra Pizza Inc., but in the Metaverse he’s a warrior prince. Plunging headlong into the enigma of a new computer virus that’s striking down hackers everywhere, he races along the neon-lit streets on a search-and-destroy mission for the shadowy virtual villain threatening to bring about infocalypse. Snow Crash is a mind-altering romp through a future America so bizarre, so outrageous…you’ll recognize it immediately.
- One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez (Canada, USA, Europe)
Here's the blurb:
One of the 20th century's enduring works, One Hundred Years of Solitude is a widely beloved and acclaimed novel known throughout the world, and the ultimate achievement in a Nobel Prize–winning career.
The novel tells the story of the rise and fall of the mythical town of Macondo through the history of the Buendía family. It is a rich and brilliant chronicle of life and death, and the tragicomedy of humankind. In the noble, ridiculous, beautiful, and tawdry story of the Buendía family, one sees all of humanity, just as in the history, myths, growth, and decay of Macondo, one sees all of Latin America.
Love and lust, war and revolution, riches and poverty, youth and senility -- the variety of life, the endlessness of death, the search for peace and truth -- these universal themes dominate the novel. Whether he is describing an affair of passion or the voracity of capitalism and the corruption of government, Gabriel García Márquez always writes with the simplicity, ease, and purity that are the mark of a master.
Alternately reverential and comical, One Hundred Years of Solitude weaves the political, personal, and spiritual to bring a new consciousness to storytelling. Translated into dozens of languages, this stunning work is no less than an accounting of the history of the human race.
New R. Scott Bakker forums
So if Bakker's blog, Three Pound Brain, is not enough, you can now discuss the author and his books at The Second Apocalypse.
Bakker fans should follow this link. . .
The Night Sessions
It's more than a little deplorable that such a quality and thought-provoking read took so many years to become available on this side of the Atlantic. Indeed, Ken MacLeod's The Night Sessions originally came out in 2008 in the UK. I'm aware that science fiction doesn't quite sell the way it used to. But considering the amount of genre crap on the market today, one would think that a novel as good as this one would get an American publisher more rapidly.
I wonder if it has anything to do with the fact that the more devout American Christians are portrayed in a negative light. . .
Here's the blurb:
A bishop is dead. As Detective Inspector Adam Ferguson picks through the rubble of the tiny church, he discovers that it was deliberately bombed. That it’s a terrorist act is soon beyond doubt. It’s been a long time since anyone saw anything like this. Terrorism is history.
After the Middle East wars and the rising sea levels, after Armageddon and the Flood, came the Great Rejection. The first Enlightenment separated church from state. The Second Enlightenment has separated religion from politics. In this enlightened age there’s no persecution, but the millions who still believe and worship are a marginal and mistrusted minority. Now someone is killing them.
At first, suspicion falls on atheists more militant than the secular authorities. But when the target list expands to include the godless, it becomes evident that something very old has risen from the ashes. Old and very, very dangerous. . .
I found the premise of the work to be fascinating. In a future in which the Faith Wars resolved the Middle East problem and rid the world of the fundamentalist islamic issue, if at a terrible price, and which led to the First and Second Enlightenment that separated religion from everything else, I feel that Ken MacLeod created a very believable post-war world. The worldbuilding is intelligent, thoughtful, and daring. Add to that a storyline in which self-aware robots find God and you end up with a book that's impossible to put down!
There are no lies in religion. There are apparent facts that are illusions. There are words to be taken figuratively. There are ideas that are symbols of deeper truths. There are no lies. The people who sent me to the Middle East told us we would destroy an evil empire. They didn't lie, either.
For the most part, the characterization is pretty solid. Detective Inspector Adam Ferguson and his robot partner Skulk are at the heart of this investigation, yet the supporting cast of disparate characters gives this work many more layers. One thing that I found off-putting, however, is the author's habit to jump from one POV to the next without any apparent break in the narrative. Still, the plot captures you in such a way that the POV shifts don't take anything away from the overall reading experience.
The pace is great and there is never a dull moment from beginning to end. The Night Sessions is as smart as it is entertaining. MacLeod challenges readers with thought-provoking ideas and never takes the path of least resistance. My only complaint would be that we don't learn enough about the Faith Wars and their aftermath. And yet, that would probably have required a number of info-dumps that would have killed the rhythm of the novel. As things stand, this book is a page-turner.
Considering the social, political, and religious issues the West is currently dealing with, Ken MacLeod offers a look at a potential near future in which mankind realized how different belief systems can corrupt societies.
Highly recommended!
The final verdict: 8.25/10
For more information about this title: Canada, USA, Europe
More inexpensive ebook goodies!
You can now download Robin Hobb's novella "Words Like Coins" for 3.99$ here.
Here's the blurb:
Robin Hobb revisits her Farseer world in the 10,000 word tale, “Words Like Coins,” featuring five new illustrations by Tom Kidd.
Mirrifen, a failed hedge-witch's apprentice who has married to find security finds that threatened by a severe drought and the appearance of a pregnant female pecksie.
Quote of the Day
- GEORGE R. R. MARTIN, in Chelsea Monroe-Cassel and Sariann Lehrer's A Feast of Ice and Fire (Canada, USA, Europe)
This week's New York Times Bestsellers (May 7th)
Stephen King's The Dark Tower: The Wind Through the Keyhole debuts at number 1. For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
Christopher Moore’s Sacré Bleu: A Comedy d'Art is down one spot, finishing the week at number 10.
George R. R. Martin's A Dance With Dragons is up three positions, ending the week at number 11. For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
Stephen King's 11/22/63 is up five positions, ending the week at number 18. For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
Seth Grahame-Smith’s Unholy Night is down one spot, finishing the week at number 28.
In paperback:
George R. R. Martin's A Game of Thrones is up one position, ending the week at number 3.
Seth Grahame-Smith's Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter is up two positions, ending the week at number 5 (trade paperback).
Seth Grahame-Smith's Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter is down two positions, ending the week at number 8.
George R. R. Martin's A Clash of Kings is down one position, finishing the week at number 9.
George R. R. Martin's A Game of Thrones is down one position, ending the week at number 11 (trade paperback).
Kevin Hearne's Tricked debuts at number 11.
George R. R. Martin's A Storms of Swords is down two positions, ending the week at number 12.
George R. R. Martin's A Feast for Crows is down two positions, ending the week at number 16.
Charlaine Harris' Dead Reckoning is down nine spots, finishing the week at number 25.
Jeff Grubb's Star Wars: Scourge debuts at number 33.
Max Brooks' World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War is up six spots, finishing the week at number 35 (trade paperback).
Win a copy of the limited edition of Tad Williams' A STARK AND WORMY KNIGHT
Thanks to the generosity of the folks at Subterranean Press, I have a copy of the limited edition of Tad Williams' A Stark and Wormy Knight for you to win! For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe, and Subpress.
A Stark and Wormy Knight is already available in ebook format here.
Here's the blurb:
Tad Williams is an acknowledged master of the multi-volume epic. Through such popular series as Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn and Otherland, he has acquired a huge and devoted body of readers who eagerly await each new publication. A Stark and Wormy Knight offers those readers something both special and surprising: a virtuoso demonstration of Williams’s mastery of a variety of shorter forms.
The range of tone, theme, style, and content reflected in this generous volume is nothing short of amazing. The title story is a tale within a tale of dragons and knights and is notable for its wit and verbal inventiveness. “The Storm Door” uses The Tibetan Book of the Dead to forge a singular new approach to the traditional zombie story. “The Terrible Conflagration at the Quiller’s Mint” offers a brief, independent glimpse into the background of Williams’s Shadowmarch series. “Ants” provides an ironic account of what can happen when a marriage goes irrevocably wrong.
Two of the longer entries show Williams working, with great facility, within the fictional creations of other writers. “The Thursday Men” is a hugely entertaining foray into the world of Mike Mignolla’s Hellboy comics. The wonderfully titled “The Lamentably Comical Tragedy (or the Laughably Tragic Comedy) of Lixal Laqavee” is both a first-rate fantasy and a deeply felt homage to Jack Vance’s immortal Dying Earth. Two other pieces offer rare and hard-to-find glimpses into other facets of Williams’s talent. “Bad Guy Factory” is the script for a proposed series of DC Comics that never came to fruition. “Black Sunshine” is the immensely readable screenplay for a movie that remains, at least for the moment, unproduced. One can only hope.
These and other stories and novellas comprise a stellar collection that really does contain something for everyone. For longtime Williams readers, and for anyone with a taste for literate imaginative fiction, A Stark and Wormy Knight is a welcome—and indispensable—volume.
The rules are the same as usual. You need to send an email at reviews@(no-spam)gryphonwood.net with the header "WORMY." Remember to remove the "no spam" thingy.
Second, your email must contain your full mailing address (that's snail mail!), otherwise your message will be deleted.
Lastly, multiple entries will disqualify whoever sends them. And please include your screen name and the message boards that you frequent using it, if you do hang out on a particular MB.
Good luck to all the participants!
Cover art and blurb for Kameron Hurley's RAPTURE
After loving Kameron Hurley's God's War to such a degree, I simply can't wait to sink my teeth into the sequel, Infidel (Canada, USA, Europe). And I was pleased to discover that the final volume, Rapture, will be published this fall!
Here's the blurb:
After years in exile, Nyxnissa so Dasheem is once more a bel dame, part of a sisterhood of elite government assassins trained to a cut a target's head off without remorse. But the end of a centuries-long war has thrown her native land of Nasheen into turmoil. A huge influx of unemployed--and unemployable--young soldiers have brought Nasheen to the brink of civil war, even as an alien spaceship stations itself in orbit above the capital.
With aliens in the sky and revolution on the ground, Nyx figures it's a good time to get the hell out of Nasheen, so she assembles a team of renegades, shape-shifters, magicians, and mercenaries to rescue a missing political leader who may be the difference between peace and bloodshed.
Just one problem: the politician is an old enemy whom Nyx once left to die in a ditch . . .
Win a copy of the limited edition of George R. R. Martin's DYING OF THE LIGHT
I have a copy of the limited edition of George R. R. Martin's Dying of the Light up for grabs, courtesy of the nice folks at Subterranean Press. It's GRRM’s first novel, illustrated with full-color end sheets, three full-color plates, and fifteen pen-and-ink illustrations by Tom Kidd, and worth a cool 125$. For more info about this title, check out the Subpress website.
Here's the blurb:
For countless millennia, the planet Worlorn has been “creation’s castaway,” a cold, barren world drifting aimlessly through the darkness between the stars. When it wanders near the constellation called The Wheel of Fire, Worlorn experiences a brief, bright period of light and life and becomes the setting for an extravagant, multi-cultural celebration: the Festival of the Fringe. A few short years later, when the planet has moved on and the festival has ended, the light begins to die once again.
Into this realm of eternal twilight comes Dirk t’Larien, a rootless interstellar traveler. Dirk has come to Worlorn in response to a summons from Gwen Delvano, the woman who deserted him years before, the woman he has never stopped loving. Desperate to reconnect with Gwen, his “mistress of abandoned dreams,” he finds himself enmeshed in the unforeseen complexities of a world marked by alien sexual and domestic arrangements, unbridgeable cultural barriers, and rigid codes of conduct that can have lethal consequences. It is a world in which words carry extraordinary weight and names have the power to shape—and destroy—a life.
First published in 1977, Dying of the Light was George R.R. Martin’s first novel, and it immediately announced the presence of an extraordinary storyteller. More than thirty years later, it continues to stand as a singular accomplishment: an intimate epic in which the pleasures of grand-scale world building and the subtleties of human relationships stand seamlessly side-by-side.
The rules are the same as usual. You need to send an email at reviews@(no-spam)gryphonwood.net with the header "DYING." Remember to remove the "no spam" thingy.
Second, your email must contain your full mailing address (that's snail mail!), otherwise your message will be deleted.
Lastly, multiple entries will disqualify whoever sends them. And please include your screen name and the message boards that you frequent using it, if you do hang out on a particular MB.
Good luck to all the participants!
Game of Thrones Drinking Game
So funny!
We'd all be totally wasted before the end of any given episode if we did that. . . :P
Extract from Jeff Salyards' SCOURGE OF THE BETRAYER
Compared to Glen Cook's the Black Company series, Jeff Salyards' Scourge of the Betrayer piqued my curiosity. So I invited the author and the folks at Night Shade Books to post an excerpt here on the Hotlist. For more info about this title: Canada, USA, Europe.
Here's the blurb:
A gritty new fantasy saga begins . . .
Many tales are told of the Syldoon Empire and its fearsome soldiers, who are known throughout the world for their treachery and atrocities. Some say that the Syldoon eat virgins and babies–or perhaps their own mothers. Arkamondos, a bookish young scribe, suspects that the Syldoon’s dire reputation may have grown in the retelling, but he’s about to find out for himself.
Hired to chronicle the exploits of a band of rugged Syldoon warriors, Arki finds himself both frightened and fascinated by the men’s enigmatic leader, Captain Braylar Killcoin. A secretive, mercurial figure haunted by the memories of those he’s killed with his deadly flail, Braylar has already disposed of at least one impertinent scribe . . . and Arki might be next.
Archiving the mundane doings of millers and merchants was tedious, but at least it was safe. As Arki heads off on a mysterious mission into parts unknown, in the company of the coarse, bloody-minded Syldoon, he is promised a chance to finally record an historic adventure well worth the telling, but first he must survive the experience!
A gripping military fantasy in the tradition of Glen Cook, Scourge of the Betrayer explores the brutal politics of Empire–and the searing impact of violence and dark magic on a man’s soul.
To learn more about Jeff Salyards and his work, check out his official website.
Enjoy!
----------------------
Braylar ordered me to remove the body from the wagon. I balked, but he insisted, claiming I was lucky that was the full extent of my punishment, given my incompetence during the battle and foolishness after. There wasn’t much I could say to that.
After steeling myself to the task, I unlatched the back gate of the wagon. The dead soldier was slumped in a pile, the floorboards stained a dark red all around, nearly black. I took hold of his belt and the one ankle I could reach, closed my eyes and tried unsuccessfully to pretend I was moving something other than a body, and pulled until I felt the weight slide free of the gate and fall in the grass. Forcing myself not to look at the body or its awful wounds, I quickly walked to the front. Braylar was standing next to the horses. He moved from one to the next, rubbing their necks, wiping them down with handfuls of grass, and though it was difficult to reconcile coming from a man who’d shot two men today and struck down two more, he was apologizing to the horses for having to endure such an ordeal.
I stood there, looking at the spear that was still lodged in the seat. My eyes traveled up to the canvas flap, and the small spray of blood, the handiwork of Braylar’s buckler. Looking away, I noticed he was walking into the grass. His back was stiff, arms at his sides, feet heavy and halting as if his balance were off.
Wondering if he was hurt, I called after him, but he didn’t respond. I started after him.
His eyes were closed, face pale in the fading light. He braced one arm on his knee and turned his back to me. His shoulders shook, and for a mo- ment I thought he might be weeping, but then he suddenly turned to the side and vomited, doubled over. He wiped his mouth with his forearm, started to straighten, and then took several steps forward before heaving violently again, almost falling to his knees with the force of it.
Staring, I wondering at this oddity, when he compounded it further. Hands on his knees, he cursed and muttered something to himself. Al- though it was still little more than a rough whisper, I heard him say, “Are you not appeased? Have I not sacrificed enough? Leave me.” And then he trailed off, repeating himself, “Leave me be.”
I walked back to the wagon. Not long after, he returned. He grabbed the spear with both hands, pulled it free from the seat, and threw it in the covered section. “Get in.”
I said, “You drove our attackers off. They’re gone. We’re safe.”
“Safety is an illusion for imbeciles. Get in.”
He waited a moment, and when I didn’t reply, flicked the reins and the wagon creaked into motion. I stumbled alongside awkwardly, trying and failing to get a good handhold to pull myself up.
He stopped the horses, looked down, and said, “I tell you to load, you load, I tell you to get in, you get in, I tell you to shit, you shit. This is our arrangement. As you’ve seen already, our lives, mine and yours, may depend on you doing what I say when I say it. Do you understand? This is our arrangement.”
I nodded and he allowed me to climb on. I didn’t want to sit next to him and made my way inside the wagon again. The sight of the large bloodstain on the floor sent my stomach fluttering, so I sat down, leaned against the side panel, and positioned a barrel to block the view as much as possible. And recorded these events to the best of my abilities, which admittedly, was somewhat suspect, given that my hands were still shaking and mind racing from the battle and its aftermath. That said, it was the best that I could muster.
* * *
We traveled some miles from the site of the attack in the dark before mak- ing camp with only the dimmest of moonlight to light our work.
When I finally crawled back in the wagon and tried to sleep, careful to stay far from the stain at the rear, my mind kept revisiting moments of the battle, a chaotic jumble… the spearhead coming at me like a striking serpent, or that same soldier’s body pumping his last lifeblood onto the wagon floor after Braylar had struck him repeatedly with the vicious flail; the Hornman captain gently stroking the fletching of the bolt that barely protruded from his chest, as if touching the wing of an injured bird; the soldier with the ruined mouth pleading for his life, bubbles of spit and blood dancing on his torn lips.
Sleep was elusive, to say the least.
I woke in the morning when the wagon lurched into motion. There was some jerky by my side, a hard heel of bread, and a flask of water. I hadn’t heard him harness the horses, or move inside the wagon, but he’d obviously done them.
After eating what I could, I rejoined Braylar on the bench. We sat in silence. I wondered if this was a normal reaction among the soldiering kind—did they need time to put their violent deeds in order or to forget them? Was he filled with thoughts of guilt? Triumph? Regret? I couldn’t say, and doubted my companion would if I asked, so I didn’t.
Instead, I said, “You don’t seem to have an especially good relationship with these Hornmen, do you?”
“I don’t have a good relationship with anyone, Arki. I would’ve thought that much obvious by now.”
“What were they doing out here in the Green Sea?”
He looked at me and shook his head, “I would’ve thought that obvious as well. Road tolls only go so far. Hornmen are opportunists like anyone else. Only with swords.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, you quivering dullard, there’s profit to be had in the grass. Smugglers, sly merchants attempting to slide past the toll stations, pil- grims, anyone else who can be bullied and—”
He broke off suddenly, closing his eyes. After a moment, his head snapped forward. He pulled the scarf loose and touched the back of his neck, and his hand came away bright with blood. He dabbed at his neck a few more times, looked at his hand again, swore quietly, and then casually wiped the blood on my pants. I jumped and attempted to move away, but it was too late.
I looked at his neck. “You’re wounded?”
He nodded slowly, voice strangely flat, like he’d woken from a deep slumber and wasn’t sure of his whereabouts. “A wound, yes.”
“From the attack?” I asked.
“From the attack?” he said, suddenly far away. “You could say that. Yes.”
“Do you need… that is, do you need any help? Assistance cleaning it maybe?”
He paused a long time before answering. “No need to clean it. I wouldn’t trust you to do so if there were. But it will bleed no more. The wound has closed.”
Having seen how much blood coated his hands, I didn’t believe him. Realizing it was impudent and possibly dangerous but unable to restrain myself, I leaned over and looked at his neck. There was no wound at all. Only a scar. An old, white, long-healed scar.
He saw me inspecting and pulled the scarf up higher, covering his neck. “Begone, nurse-mother.”
I looked at the blood he’d smeared on me and said, “But scars don’t bleed.”
“You’re correct. The wound isn’t mine.” He mistook my confused silence for skepticism and added, “I’m many things, but charlatan isn’t one of them. The wound isn’t my own. It was inflicted on another, by my hand.” He closed his eyes and ignored my slew of questions. Receiving no an- swers, I relented and waited. Braylar rubbed his temple with the knuckle of his thumb, eyes still closed, scowling. Unsure if I wanted to truly know the answer, I asked if he was well.
He didn’t respond, didn’t even move.
I waited and waited, uncertain what to do, when he finally opened his eyes again and blinked several times, like a man coming out of a darkened room into bright sunlight. “No conversation. We’re done. Go inside the wagon. Walk alongside. I don’t care what you do, so long as you’re silent.” I started to say something, but he said, “Don’t make me tell you again. If I must silence you myself, I will.”
That’s all it took. I returned to the interior of the wagon. The bleeding scar would’ve been strange enough on its own, but Braylar’s behavior only compounded it. Every time I started to think I’d seen the oddest thing on this journey, I was proven wrong.
I looked at the red smear on my leg and then glanced at the much larger bloody stain near the gate. So much blood. Front to rear, the wagon was marked with it.
I rolled a barrel over the stain, nearly covering it, but not quite. I pushed a box over the remainder, and resolved not to think on the things that happened in the wagon yesterday. It was a hollow resolution.
We traveled the rest of the day in silence. Like a hound that had been kicked but couldn’t help itself, I kept one ear perked, waiting for Braylar to call me back to his side, but that never happened, and I was reluctant to approach.
He pinched his nose or knuckled his temple on more than one occasion, and if his face was any indication, he was sorely grieved by something.
I wondered if this was the result of the blow he received from the haft of the soldier’s axe, but while I’m no expert in judging such things, the helm seemed to absorb the brunt of it, and he had only a mild abrasion on his scalp and no apparent swelling. Still, this was all exceedingly peculiar, even for him.
The second day after the attack began much as the previous day ended, with Braylar uninterested in anything, even mundane conversation. A few directives to be silent, some clipped orders, and a handful of threats, though lacking the usual venom or verve.
I was riding inside when he quietly announced, “The boy is dead. I felt it coming since yesterday, but… he’s dead now.”
I immediately moved to the front, sat next to him, and asked, “Who? What boy?”
He looked at me like I was the one behaving strangely. “The soldier boy. I struck him across the neck as he passed, do you recall? The back of the head. The neck. Do you see?” He locked eyes with me, waiting. I glanced at his neck and the dried blood on his scarf. He nodded. “There you go. Now you have it.”
I was absolutely positive I didn’t. And almost as sure I didn’t want it.
“He lingered for a time,” he said. “But now he’s dead for a certainty.” With a shiver crossing my shoulders, I asked, whispering without mean- ing to, “How do you know?”
He pulled the flail off his hip again, and I reflexively scanned the ho- rizon for approaching horses. Seeing nothing, I looked back to him. He held one of the Deserters on a level with his own, rubbing the edge of his thumb across a spike as he stared into the small contorted face.
“Bloodsounder.” He twisted the head quickly and the chain jingled.
I was awash in confusion. “The boy’s name was Bloodsounder?”
“No, you idiot. The flail.” Eyes narrowing when I still didn’t comprehend, he added, “You asked how I know, yes? His death? Well, I’m telling you. Bloodsounder. Bloodsounder; the flail. The flail; Bloodsounder. It isn’t so very complicated.”
Sure the question would come out wrong no matter how I phrased it, I asked, “How does Bloodsounder… tell you these things?”
His lip twitched, and the twin scars with it. “I wouldn’t use that word. Tell. That implies voices, where there are none. Unless you mean in the sense of signs. Tracks in the earth can tell you what made them, how many travel, what direction they go, if you know how to read them. If that’s your meaning, then yes, Bloodsounder tells me he’s dead. In so many signs.” He closed his eyes and said, “I now know several things about the man-child I struck down. Things I’d much sooner not know.”
He inhaled deeply through his nose, nostrils flaring, and closed his eyes. “He loved pears. The smell of their blossoms in the spring, an invisible cloud. The texture of their skin, when perfectly ripe. But especially the taste. And the fact that he first bedded a lass in no bed at all, but underneath the pear tree on his farm. In their rutting, they rolled over the overripe pears that had fallen, soiled their clothes in the juice as the bees buzzed around them.”
I watched his face, eyes still pressed shut, and he looked pained as he spoke. “That same girl whose purity he stole among the pears, he married. Under the very same tree. And they had some small life together, happy, as far as small lives go. But it didn’t last long. He was recruited by the Hornmen and quartered in a castle, far from the farm, the pears, and his new ripe wife. His duties kept him on the road for most of the next year. When he was finally allowed to return, he discovered she’d been struck a mortal blow defending the farm from bandits. An arrow… ” His forehead wrinkled. “No… not an arrow, a spear, a spear thrust. Spear or sword, but most likely spear—the wound was too large to be made by an arrow. But by the time our boy had returned a Hornman, it was too late. She was alive, but there was no forestalling the end, as the wound had festered.
“He sat by her side, three days, four, wiping her brow as the wound worked its greasy green magic, burrowing deeper into her flesh, filling her with a raging heat no damp cloth would absolve. It would’ve been awful enough if she’d been screaming. But she whimpered mostly, waiting for the end, which was somehow worse. Whimpered and mewed and called out nonsensical things while the fever burned the life out of her. But one thing she kept repeating wasn’t gibberish. He prayed he heard wrong, but after the tenth repetition, he could no longer pretend he had. A name. His brother’s name. His brother who had stayed behind while he trained as a Hornling.
“While I don’t know if he murdered his brother, I do know he remained with his faithless wife in her last moments as she tossed and turned in the fester dream. I think he hated her, but still he stayed. I would have aban- doned her to murder the brother, but he stayed. And would remember those last days and hours with horrible vividness. Her lying there, sweat- slicked hair plastered to the mattress, face blanched, all the color having gone to the wound and the sick, hot flesh around it. And the choking stench rising off her. Like a thousand rotting pears.”
He opened his eyes, blinking quickly. “And now I remember it as well. As if I’d been standing in that very sickroom with the dying slattern and the heart-wounded soldier. This, Bloodsounder does. Bombards me with memories such as these. Random, horrible, stolen memories. And these signs, this telling? That’s how I know the final thing. That young Horn- man, who stood by his faithless wife and watched her die, and later rode out into the grass with his greedy fat captain… he’s now dead himself. Because the stolen memories only come to me after a man I’ve struck with the flail dies.”
He stared at the flail head with equal parts hate and disgust. After a long pause, he added, “The other I killed with this grotesque little monster and its twin, in the wagon, his stolen memories have been flooding into mine already. Yesterday. Last night. This morning. But the boy’s have just begun.” He dropped the flail head and it clinked off the other. “And if previous experience is any measure, they won’t stop. At least, not until I’m cleansed.”
“Cleansed? What… how—”
He turned and regarded me, “I will either be cleansed or I won’t. If it happens, it will be explained, and if not… not.”
I pressed on, “And if you can’t be… cleansed?”
He rattled the chains. “Difficult to say. Each time is a little different. But one thing is the same—the onslaught of stolen memories will continue. They begin to blot out my own already. How much more, I can’t say. I only killed two men with the flail. It could be worse. But even two…? It will be nothing good, I tell you that. Better to be tormented by ghosts, I think. That must be easier to endure. But these memories… the most heinous grave robbing imaginable. It’s as if I’d killed someone I knew intimately. I learn things about the dead their closest comrades weren’t privy to, secrets and fears and dreams that should’ve died with them and yet live in me. And it fills me with corrosive grief.”
I sat in stunned silence, completely out of questions.
He let out a long sigh and leaned forward, his usual rigid posture broken. “I can see you’re struggling with this. But struggle somewhere else just now.”
I didn’t move right away and he shouted, “I said enough! Leave me!”
When I finally started to rise, he grabbed my wrist and squeezed tighter than a shackle. “One last thing. I’ve revealed something to you few enough know. Reveal it to anyone else, and I won’t need Bloodsounder to tell me you’re dead. Your spattered brains will be proof enough. Do you understand?”
I nodded quickly and he released me. I climbed inside, sweat coming fast, mind drowning in too many thoughts to name. Stealing memories from the dead? The stuff of dark fairy tales. What else could it be but madness? And yet… what of the bleeding scar? His foreknowledge of the approach of the Hornmen? I saw those. Didn’t I? If not madness, what was it? Was he hounded by demons? Spirits? Something else?
All I knew was, an inanimate object couldn’t do these things.
Could it?
I began to wonder if the endless steppe sapped a man of his wits. Maybe it was me who was going mad. Perhaps we were losing our minds in tandem.
Nearly getting impaled by a spear had been the most frightening thing I’d ever experienced. And yet, his revelation filled me with a dread far more gripping. And far less temporary.
The wind picked up again, buffeting the wagon, and I sat and listened to it howl. I’d entered the wild with a haunted, cursed, or blighted man, and I prayed I’d find my way back out again.
