Book Review | The Last Mortal Bond by Brian Staveley

The trilogy that began with The Emperor's Blades and continued in The Providence of Fire reaches its epic conclusion, as war engulfs the Annurian Empire in Brian Staveley's The Last Mortal Bond.

The ancient csestriim are back to finish their purge of humanity; armies march against the capital; leaches, solitary beings who draw power from the natural world to fuel their extraordinary abilities, maneuver on all sides to affect the outcome of the war; and capricious gods walk the earth in human guise with agendas of their own.

But the three imperial siblings at the heart of it all—Valyn, Adare, and Kaden—come to understand that even if they survive the holocaust unleashed on their world, there may be no reconciling their conflicting visions of the future.

One one thing is certain: the Chronicle of the Unhewn Throne will end as shockingly as it began.

***

The Chronicles of the Unhewn Throne has been a bunch of fun from word one, but just as the by-the-numbers beginning of the trilogy belied a book both longer and leaps and bounds more likeable than The Emperor's Blades, my problems with The Providence of Fire led me to believe that The Last Mortal Bond would be, at best, a good conclusion.

And it is that... for a start. The conflict between Annur and the Urghul, which has so long stalked the fringes of the fiction, finally takes centre stage, and it plays out exactly as impactfully as I had hoped; the setting, so boldly embiggened by Brian Staveley in book two, continues to sing; meanwhile most, if not all, of the central characters' arcs are resolved in reasonable and rewarding ways.

This much, and more, I expected from The Last Mortal Bond. What I didn't expect was that it would take my breath away. But it did.

This is the end, my friends, so spoilers about the previous novels are unavoidable.

Book Review | The Black Guard by A. J. Smith

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The Duke of Canarn is dead, executed by the King's decree. The city lies in chaos, its people starving, sickening, and tyrannized by the ongoing presence of the King's mercenary army. But still hope remains: the Duke's children, the Lord Bromvy and Lady Bronwyn, have escaped their father's fate.

Separated by enemy territory, hunted by the warrior clerics of the One God, Bromvy undertakes to win back the city with the help of the secretive outcasts of the Darkwald forest, the Dokkalfar. The Lady Bronwyn makes for the sanctuary of the Grass Sea and the warriors of Ranen with the mass of the King's forces at her heels. And in the mountainous region of Fjorlan, the High Thain Algenon Teardrop launches his Dragon Fleet against the Red Army. Brother wars against brother in this, the epic first volume of the long war.

***

Even the most fervent fantasy fans would admit, I think, that the genre sometimes tends towards the tedious. Too often, the term epic is misunderstood to mean massive. Length is mistaken for depth, development is traded for needless detail; an accumulation of confusion rules rather than a convincing attempt at complexity.

Authors great and small are guilty of this over-valuation of size as opposed to substance. To name a few of the most notable, I would argue that Brandon Sanderson and Brent Weeks could be — to put it politely — better edited. Certainly they seem to subscribe to the more is more school of thought... yet I'd gleefully read and in all likelihood relish anything either writes in a heartbeat, because both have the courage of their convictions.

I don't know if A. J. Smith does, or if he should be counted amongst such acclaimed company, but his first fantasy has a lot in common with the work of the aforementioned pair: it shares in the wealth of several of their strengths, as well as making, I'm afraid, many of the same mistakes as said. At points, The Black Guard is boring, boilerplate and overbearing. At its best, however, it's the equal of either author's archives: ambitious, engrossing and positively action-packed.

The Black Guard begins with the death of a drunk, Sir Leon Great Claw, over a simple slight by his squire. Lost in thought, young Randall of Darkwald accidentally empties a piss-pot on a priest of the order of the Purple. The priest comes a-calling for an apology, but the old knight is having none of it; he hates purples with a passion, and — uninhibited as he is — says as much. Brother Torian has no choice but to challenge the drunk to a duel, which he wins. In short order, Randall inherits Great Claw's longsword, and is hired, entirely to his surprise, by his late master's murderer.

The scene seems set for a fairly farcical coming of age tale, but though Randall remains on the periphery of chapter two, which is depicted from the perspective of Brother Utha — a chaplain of the Black church who accompanies Torian on his quest to capture a deposed Duke's surviving son — another 200 pages have passed before we hear from Randall again. And we can only count on his company once more over the course of the two parts of The Black Guard.

The decision, then, to begin with him, and the trifling narrative thread he represents, is a strange one: a problematic positioning of Randall over The Black Guard's other characters. But if the truth be told, we don't spend much longer with any of the many familiar fantasy figures which populate Smith's initially diffident debut. Several stand out in retrospect — specifically the honourable Northman, Magnus Forkbeard Ragnarson, and the Kirin assassin Rham Jas Rami, who "has given up on goodness" (p.134) — but at the outset, the only character I cared about was the world.

And what a world it is! There are the rebellious Freelands of Ranen, the pseudo-civilised sprawl of Ro below, and across the Kirin Ridge, bleak, mysterious Karesia. Representing the lattermost lands are seven insidious sisters, purportedly followers of the fire god, who set the overarching story in motion. Each "as beautiful and dangerous as a flame," they have installed themselves in positions of power in both Ro and Ranen in order to enact "the final stages of a long game [...] being played out in the lands of men." (p.213)

The enchantress Ameira has the ear of the lord of the former fiefdom, in fact. It will come no surprise that she played a part in the selfsame King's decision to invade Ro Canarn for its Duke's defiance.

"Ro Canarn had been a lively coastal city, full of activity and rarely quiet. Hasim had spent many happy nights here, drinking and laughing with Magnus before Duke Hector had made his fatal mistake and tried to break away from the king of Tor Funweir. He had been in the city when the warning horn sounded from the southern battlements and the Red battle fleet had appeared. And now, four days later, the city was like a tomb, deathly quiet and safe only for the knights of the Red and their allies." (pp.110-111)

The Red, incidentally, are the armed forces of Ro: "dour men who lived only to follow orders and to maintain the laws of the One," (p.74) which is to say the One God, though the One God is not the only God we encounter in The Black Guard. Far from it, in fact.

But back to the plot; there is, after all, an awful lot. Inevitably, the daring Duke is executed for crimes against the empire, however his son and daughter, Bromvy and Bronwyn, give the King the slip. Thereafter, a decree is passed, naming both to the Black Guard, which is a means of identifying "those whose family had betrayed the crown. It was a brand placed on the cheek to identify a man as belonging to a dishonourable house. Brom [and [Bronwyn] had been named to the Black Guard, but not yet captured and branded." (p.122-123)

Nor will they be, if either has any say in the matter. To that end, Bromvy enlists the assistance of Rham Jas Rami, who introduces him to the Dokkalfar: outcasts he hopes will help him win Canarn back. Bronwyn, meanwhile, seeks the sanctuary of the Grass Sea, with the Red army hot on her heels.

It's only once the pair have finally finished escaping that The Black Guard gets good, and I'm afraid that takes half of the tale to square away. The break between books one and two is also the point at which Algenon — Magnus' brother and Thane of the Northmen — launches his indomitable Dragon Fleet against the King of Ro's forces. Why? Because that's what his God wants. Rowanoco said so Himself, you see.

All the while, the dead are rising, and all that lives is in terrible peril, apparently.

"A. J. Smith has been devising the worlds, histories and characters of The Long War chronicles for over a decade," reads the press release that came with my copy of The Black Guard. The worlds and histories I can credit. The author may take an inordinate amount of time putting the pieces together, but once they're in place, the story's setting is superb. Smith imparts an impression that this world will go on even without us; that it has for many centuries already.

The characters, alas, are frankly forgettable. We've talked about the best of them already; the worst of them, however, lay this inaugural record of The Long War low. Most are painted in broad strokes only, and a not insignificant number are utterly redundant. In addition, there are so very many perspectives that few develop discernibly. Smith's mode of storytelling seems to be to move one cog an infinitesimal distance, then adjust several others incrementally. It takes so long for these workings to bear on one another in any meaningful manner that I began to wonder if the machine of our metaphor was in working order at all.

It is, ultimately... it just takes an age to warm up properly. But be assured that the second part of The Black Guard is markedly more absorbing than the first. Certain characters come together — characters which play better with one another than they do independently — and there's some fantastic action, finally. On the basis of book two, I'd heartily recommend this chronicle of The Long War; if not unreservedly, then with far fewer caveats than I have as it stands. Unfortunately, I can think of few more convincing illustrations of the argument I outlined at the outset of this article — that less is more rather than vice versa — than The Black Guard's bloated beginning.

***

The Black Guard
by A. J. Smith

UK Publication: August 2013, Head of Zeus

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Book Review | River of Stars by Guy Gavriel Kay

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Ren Daiyan was still just a boy when he took the lives of seven men while guarding an imperial magistrate of Kitai. That moment on a lonely road changed his life—in entirely unexpected ways, sending him into the forests of Kitai among the outlaws. From there he emerges years later—and his life changes again, dramatically, as he circles towards the court and emperor, while war approaches Kitai from the north.

Lin Shan is the daughter of a scholar, his beloved only child. Educated by him in ways young women never are, gifted as a songwriter and calligrapher, she finds herself living a life suspended between two worlds. Her intelligence captivates an emperor—and alienates women at the court. But when her father’s life is endangered by the savage politics of the day, Shan must act in ways no woman ever has.

In an empire divided by bitter factions circling an exquisitely cultured emperor who loves his gardens and his art far more than the burdens of governing, dramatic events on the northern steppe alter the balance of power in the world, leading to events no one could have foretold, under the river of stars.

***

Legends are not born, but made. Not fated, but carefully—or carelessly—shaped.

A lesson for the ages, there, but not one that every scholar takes to heart.

"Is it possible... can a man be born into the world to be something, for something?" 

"Yes," said the old man. "But even if he is, it doesn't always happen. Too much can intervene. The world does what it does, under heaven. Our dreams, our certainties, crash into each other." 

"Like swords?" Daiyan said. 

The old man shrugged. "Like swords, like ambitions at court." 

A silence. (pp.359-360)

Despite this oft-voiced thought, Ren Daiyan has felt possessed by something resembling destiny from an early age. As a boy of fifteen scant summers at the outset of Guy Gavriel Kay's sublime new novel, he is asked to help protect the sub-prefect on an investigative mission through treacherous territory. Thrilled by the prospect of "keeping order for the emperor" (p.16) in some small way, he accepts the request.

Bandits fall upon the caravan in short order. Surprising everyone except himself, Daiyan single-handedly slaughters them all. "What followed on that lonely path between forest and cliffs felt destined, necessary, not truly a matter of choosing. It was more as if the choice had been made for him, he was only the agency of its working." (p.23) Soon, he is revered as a local hero—and the legend of his life which River of Stars examines has begun.

It is a dark time for the empire under heaven, however, regardless of Daiyan's grand designs:

The Silk Roads through the deserts were lost, cut off by barbarians. 

No western treasures flowed to Kitai now, to the trading cities or the court in Hanjin. No legendary green-eyed, yellow-haired dancing girls bringing seductive music. No jade and ivory or exotic fruits, no wealth of silver coins brought by merchants to buy longed-for Kitan silk and carry it back west on camels through the sands. 

This Twelfth Dynasty of Kitai under their radiant and glorious emperor did not rule and define the known world. Not any more. (p.8)

Indeed, this is an empire diminished in every which way, which is to say from within its more modest borders as well as outwith. Unrest is on the rise: peasant rebellions and political protests are now par for the course. The great walls which once encompassed Kitai have crumbled. In turn, the glittering court has been humbled. And all the while, barbarians beat at the gates.

Though Daiyan is "serenely convinced" (p.246) that he will one day regain the fabled Fourteen—namely the outermost prefectures lost to the empire long ago—if Kitai is to survive, never mind thrive, its future will be fashioned by other hands than his.

Other hands... such as Lin Shan's. The only daughter of the court gentleman Lin Kuo, she has been educated, against all the guidance of the time, much as a male child might be:

She wasn't, of course, going to write any examinations, or wear robes with the belt of any rank at all, but her father had given her the learning to do so. And he had made her perfect her writing skills and the brush strokes of her calligraphy. 

The songs, the ci, she had discovered on her own. (p.45)

Shan comes to consider her unique upbringing a boon, however I fear few others do. As she puts it, "men tend to be made uneasy, or sometimes amused, by [her intelligence]," (ibid) while women outright dislike her. Yet she is a self-sufficient girl at the outset, and her determination develops with each subsequent summer. She comes of age quickly, and is promptly married off. But she does not simply submit to her husband. Instead, they become friends... equals, even—at least until the emperor himself takes an interest in Shan and her songs.

These events certainly factor in to who she is, but their impact is underpinned by her unwavering sense of self. To wit, though she does not know what to make of the emperor's fascination in the first, she is certain not to become some pretty pet or accessory. In her way, if I may, Shan proves as pivotal to Kitai as Daiyan dreams of being—albeit in a roundabout manner returning readers are likely to find familiar.

No real poet would claim originality for an image of streams becoming rivers over distance and time: how even those that can destroy farmlands with their flooding, or thunder through gorges and over falls, begin as rivulets in the rocks of mountains, or underground waters that find the surface and being to flow across the land to find the sea. 

Nor could the idea that rivers come together to make a single force be asserted as distinctive. The test is always in the words—and the brush strokes shaping them. There are only so many ideas, so many patterns in the world. (p.147)

That Guy Gavriel Kay has the confidence to acknowledge this is testament to his inimitable vision and ability, I think. After all, River of Stars does describe a rather archetypal pattern, especially as regards the author's own body of work. Themes and thoughts he has explored before reappear with some frequency. His protagonists occasionally behave in unsurprising ways, recalling heroes and stories of yore.

But don't dare be dismayed, because these things are only as similar, in this iteration, as they are different. The quarter turn the author often talks about also returns, and in River of Stars it applies to narrative and character as well as questions of setting. Here, you see, some rivulets become rivers, but others simply trickle, or dry up entirely. Great tales in the making are regularly interrupted, whilst a number of dreams come to nothing. As Kay contends:

Small events can be important in the unfolding, like a pleated sail, of the world. The survival of an emissary, say, or his drowning on a ship in a sudden summer thunderstorm. 

But sometimes such moments do not signify in the sweep and flow of events, though obviously they will matter greatly to those who might have thought their lives were ending in rain and wins, and for those who love them dearly and would have grieved for their loss. (p.313)

This, too, is an idea the award-winning author has put in the past—in The Last Light of the Sun, for one—but here he voices it so often, and so powerfully, that it is more than an incidental omen. It is a warning that the reader cannot but take to heart; a statement instead of a suggestion. Therefore a sense of terrible dread demarcates the redoubtable delights we have come to expect from Kay's fantastic fiction, gathering in force and scope as it goes.

In short, certain elements must be expected in order for the unexpected to be effective, and in River of Stars, it is.

Or is it?

I'm sorry. Sometimes I can't help myself. River of Stars really does pack a punch, in large part because of the way Kay plays with our expectations, engineering difference and originality out of our expectations of his characters and narratives—and the same can be asserted of the text's refreshed setting.

If the truth be told, few things in life get me quite as excited as the prospect of a new novel from this master craftsman. Nevertheless, I know I was not alone in wishing—when we first heard that River of Stars would return to the empire investigated in Under Heaven—that the author had channelled his inimitable imagination into a wonderful new world rather than returning to Kitai.

To all those who worried with me: rest easy. Centuries have passed since the Tagurans gifted Shen Tai with two hundred and fifty gorgeous horses, cursing him with kindness in the process, and time has absolutely ravaged Kitai. What once shimmered like a jewel in moonlight has not utterly dulled, but must of its lustre is, alas, lost—its glory is gone, sacrificed alongside a large expanse of land. Here's how Daiyan's embittered instructor phrases this change:

The spring tea harvest had been dismal, desperate, and the fields for rice and vegetables were far too dry. This autumn's crops had been frighteningly sparse. There hadn't been any tax relief, either. The emperor needed money, there was a war. Teacher Tuan had things to say about that, too, sometimes reckless things. 

[...] 

He'd told them that Xinan, the capital of glorious dynasties, had held two million people once, and that only a hundred thousand or so lived there now, scattered among rubble. He'd said that Tagur, to the west of them here, across the passes, had been a rival empire long ago, fierce and dangerous, with magnificent horses, and that it was now only a cluster of scrabbling provinces and fortified religious retreats. (p.4)

Ultimaltey, Twelfth Dynasty Kitai is so very different from the empire Under Heaven's readers will remember that it proves almost as satisfying as an entirely new milieu—and what little we do lose in lieu of another culture in place of Kay's impeccable portrayal of ancient China, we gain elsewhere, given how resonant River of Stars is with affectionate connections to its predecessor.

To be completely clear: you most certainly don't have to have read Under Heaven to appreciate Kay's latest—in fact, I can't imagine anyone coming away from this dazzling display feeling less than elated—but poignant nods to the characters, concerns and consequences of his masterful last fantasy make the return trip to Kitai that much more fulfilling.

It may be that you think you know what River of Stars is. You don't, though. As samey as I can see it seeming in some ways, rest assured that its every dimension is distinct in some sense. I suppose it hones closer to the author's other novels than Under Heaven—an outright exception to the pattern he has established over the years, and a revelation in its quiet way—but River of Stars is no less enthralling for its passing familiarity... which Kay plays into marvellously in any event.

I got just what I wanted out of River of Stars, and I wanted an awful lot. I wanted fundamentally memorable and delicately developed characters, a massively ambitious narrative, an exquisitely rendered setting, and prose so finely honed that it has all the impact of fine art. These are just a few of the things I've come to expect from Guy Gavriel Kay over the years, and he does not disappoint here.

Far from it. Kay on a bad day remains many times more absorbing than the vast majority of other genre authors, and I dare say River of Stars chronicles him on a great day. This is stunning stuff from one of fantasy fiction's finest. From one of fiction's finest, frankly.

***

River of Stars

by Guy Gavriel Kay

UK Publication: July 2013, HarperFiction
US Publication: April 2013, Roc

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Book Review | Lupus Rex by John Carter Cash

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The crow king is dead, and in the field below all the creatures tremble as the Murder gathers to choose a new king from the rival sons Sintus, Milus and Nascus. 

When the crows drive everyone from the field to keep the reckoning secret, the quail Ysil, Cormo and Harlequin believe they must simply follow their elders to safety. But when the crows turn against each other, the forest becomes full of danger.

In the confusion the last wolf, Asmod, shucks off his isolation and begins to raise an army to claim the kingdom for his own. As hidden truths are brought to light and enormous sacrifices are made, Ysil and his friends must make an epic journey and an unthinkable alliance if the lesser animals are to survive.

***

In the animal kingdom, order is everything.

Absent order, chaos would surely consume the many and various creatures who live in and around Murder's Field, for instance. Imagine the madness of the grain harvest without someone to make sure the quails wait their turn! Consider those small souls who would go hungry because of the gluttony of others!

Luckily, that's where the crow king comes in. For generations — ever since the war of the wolves — he and his black-feathered forefathers have upheld a system of sharing, and to a certain extent caring. Under his watchful eye, an order of sorts is imposed. Rabbits, badgers, rats and mice alike are all subject to his commands from on high, in an ornate nest in a great tree at the centre of this field.

But now, the crow king is dead.

And at the outset of Lupus Rex, there is a very real reckoning ahead...

The order states that the crowning of a new king — by way of the reckoning aforementioned — must not be observed by any other animal. The penalty for observing this invite-only rite is death, no less, so when the process begins, the other creatures who call Murder's Field home venture through the woods to give the crows their privacy.

Later that same day, Monroth and Ysil — a pair of plucky young quail in constant competition for the heart of Harlequin — imperil everyone else by sneaking back to watch the sacred ceremony in secret. When their absence is discovered, a band of older animals is dispatched to bring them back before their mischief paves the way for their unmaking. Reunited and rightly chided, they find themselves with no choice but to wait out the rest of the Reckoning.

Or rather, that's the plan. But the Reckoning goes wrong: rather than surrendering to the rook's rule, one of the overlooked heirs to the crow king's bone throne rebels. Finding himself overmatched, if only momentarily, Sintus makes for the forest with his most loyal followers, promising to return with an entire army.

And with that, the ancient order collapses. Chaos takes the reins, and soon, a bloody battle ensues, in the aftermath of which the petrified quail are caught. Exiled after a tragic sacrifice and a mighty bribe, they set out in search of a fabled bird of prey who could turn the tide of the coming conflict, because as Cotur Ada insists, "The wolf will come [...] and its order will be one of blood and darkness. The crows will be its servants, and in the end, all animals — crows, quails, rabbits, every one — its prey. I beg you hear me. The wolf will come if the hawk does not return."

So begins Lupus Rex, the endearing debut of a new genre fiction imprint — Rebellion's Ravenstone  — and indeed an author, namely John Carter Cash. The only son of Johnny and June Carter Cash, John Carter Cash is a singer and a songwriter in his own right, and the producer of other artists' award-winning records in the interim. He's had a number of picture books for children published in the past, but Lupus Rex is his first novel proper — and like Joe Hill's Heart-Shaped Box, it should be judged as such, as opposed to the next phase of some magnetic genetic legacy.

That said, it's fantastic. Delightful and insightful. Almost as good as The Animals of Farthing Wood, if markedly darker. Cash is unafraid to kill off his most charming characters — indisputably brutally too. At points, heads roll and gizzards are liberally spilled, such that Lupus Rex sometimes feels like grimdark anthropomorphic fantasy; picture Joe Abercrombie with added animals. Yet though there is no dearth of death — and though this sense of peril is ever-present — Lupus Rex is largely a light ride.

And, admittedly, quite slight. It's so short that I read it in a single night. So short, in fact, that the abundance of set-up Cash imparts early on seems in service of a greater quest than the abbreviated adventure the exiled animals eventually go on. Another chapter or three in the company of these quails and their lone rabbit companion would have been a great way to develop more substantial characters. As is, they're sweet but somewhat simple creatures.

Another niggle: it can be hard to tell all the damned animals apart. Sulari counts "twenty-nine quail, fifty-five mice, twenty-two rabbits, fourteen squirrels, five badgers, and one slow, grumbling golden rat [...] And I the only hare." That's not to mention the crow kingdom, or the legendary outliers who come to Murder's Field for the climactic clash. If the truth be told, this was a touch too much for me; I can only imagine how challenging the younger readers Lupus Rex is actually aimed at are likely to find it.

Aside these issues, Lupus Rex is lovely. Atypically thrilling and lyrically written. In places, John Carter Cash's prose is truly beautifully put, whilst his depiction of the animal kingdom is particularly magnificent. The concept of the order is a wonderful one, and the resolution of this thread proves massively satisfying.

Certainly it is small, and short of perfectly formed, but Lupus Rex is still a darling of a debut, at the end of the day. A fine way, I dare say, to kickstart the career of a promising new novelist in addition to an exciting new imprint specialising in speculative fiction for children of all ages — up to and including us oldyins!

***

Lupus Rex
by John Carter Cash

UK & US Publication: June 2013, Ravenstone

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Book Review | Mage's Blood by David Hair

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The Moontide is coming, and the world stands on the brink of war...

Every twelve years the tides sink to their absolute lowest and the Leviathan Bridge rises above the waves, linking the Eastern and Western continents for twenty-four short months.

The Rondian Emperor, the overlord of the West, is hell-bent on ruling both continents, and for the last two Moontides, his crusading armies have crossed the bridge and raped and pillaged their way across the Antiopia.

Now the next Moontide is almost here. As the battle-mages of the Third Crusade gather in the West, holy shihad is declared in the East. This time the two civilisations will clash as never before.  

And three ordinary people - a failed mage, a jaded mercenary and a lowly market girl - are about to discover that their actions may determine the fate of nations.

***

With the end of The Wheel of Time still a ways away, book two of The Stormlight Archive barely begun, and who knows how long to go before we see hide or hair of what's next from Messrs. Martin and Rothfuss - not to mention when - epic fantasy fans looked to be at a loose end this winter.

Enter David Hair.

An award-winning writer born and raised and returned to roost in New Zealand after living for a time in Britain and India, Hair has eight books behind him already - four each across two discrete series known as The Aotearoa and The Return of Ravana - but you'd be forgiven, I think, for never having heard of 'em. I hadn't, and I'm all for YA fantasy.

Hair's ninth novel, however, is his first aimed at an adult audience, and Mage's Blood is likely to find legions of receptive readers. Those who had imagined spending the coming season counting down the days till the arrival of A Memory of Light may take heart in the fact that there's at least one epic worth investing in this winter. The Moontide Quartet isn't as yet the equal of any of the aforementioned sagas, but like The Way of Kings before it, it lays the foundation for a commanding fantasy narrative that is at once familiar and ambitious.

Welcome, one and all, to Urte!

"When Kore made this land, he made two great continents, separated by vast oceans, and he commanded his sister Luna to make those waters impassable, so that East should never meet West. Learned, noble, enlightened West and base, depraved, idolatrous East should never meet, under Sun or Moon — so it was written.

"But Meiros, an Ascendant too craven to join the liberation of Yuros from the Rimoni yoke, left the fellowship of the Three Hundred and built that cursed Bridge, and from that Bridge do all of our woes come." (p18) 

So proclaimeth the living saint Lucia Fasterius, with whose elevation Mage's Blood begins. The mother of the Emperor in the West seems "intelligent, learned — kindly, even. But in her eyes something fanatic lurked, like a venomous snake." (p.19) This idea in particular proves pivotal to the narrative elements ahead, though the Mater-Imperia does a bang-up job of preparing readers in a more general sense, speaking as she does to what is clearly the quartet's core conflict - between opposing beliefs and competing creeds, and the people caught in the crossfire - as well as introducing us to one of the opening act's most fascinating characters.

The very man, Anton Meiros - an infamous mage - has lived a long, long life. Circa 927, which year this novel chronicles, he recalls the part he played in the rise of magic several centuries ago, when three hundred mere mortals ascended via a sacred ceremony that has since become the stuff of legend. More recently, Meiros sat on the sidelines of an ongoing holy war between the continents he himself connected when creating the Leviathan Bridge: a tidal gateway that opens for a brief period every twelve years.

This he did to facilitate trade. To encourage the commingling of cultures. Naive, no? Because of course, in the words of the Sultan of the city Kesh, "Some enemies come bearing weapons and uttering blasphemies and so you know them [but] worse are enemies who come with gifts and gracious deeds. You know them not as foes, until too late." (p.320) So it was that instead of swapping silks and spices and stories, the West waged a crusade, in response to which the East declared shihad. Already millions of lives have been lost to this conflict, and when the Leviathan Bridge opens again, millions more will be in the balance.

But after decades of regret, Meiros has finally divined a potential path to peace. His time is short, yet he foresees a way forward: he must father twins to an Antiopian bride. Monied beyond imagining, Meiros does what any rich idiot would: he buys one. Thus Ramita Ankesharan, all dutiful daughter, is spirited away to become an initially unwilling wife, leaving her childhood sweetheart Kazim Makani broken, and open to insidious suggestion:

"Look around you, Kazim: this is a Hebb city, under the thumb of drunken whiteskins with less wit than the camel pulling this cart. How did this happen? Because Anton Meiros and his Ordo Costruo allowed it to happen. Because he refused to do what decency and righteousness demanded and drown the emperor's legions. He continues to compound this treachery by not reversing that decision, not aiding the shihad. This evil, lecherous creature is rolling in the mountain of golf the emperor paid him for that betrayal." (p.352)

In this way, Kazim is fashioned into an assassin, with sights set on his former lover's hated husband.

Between them, these three make up our primary perspectives, but there are others on the periphery. There's Alaron Mercer, a would-be mage in training; Elena Anborn, a sleeper agent who has fallen for the family she was installed to destroy; and Elena's manipulative spymaster Gurvon Gyle.

Mage's Blood is unquestionably at its most affecting in the company of Meiros, Ramita and Kazim, but these others are yet purposeful perspectives. Gurvon gives us a glimpse of the Emperor's affairs, whilst Elena allows similar insight into the upper echelons on the other side of the great divide, as well as starring in the book's most thrilling set-piece. Last but not least, Alaron's chapters outline The Moontide Quartet's many-faceted magic system, in addition to illustrating another aspect of the fanaticism the living saint Lucia alludes to at the outset: the purity of one's blood. Disappointingly, this boils down to conspiracy and discrimination against "half-bloods" and "mudskins." (p.327)

Harry Potter says hey!

As do an array of other stories. Indeed, seasoned fantasy readers will be hard-pressed to identify a single section that does not evoke some separate series. I fear Mage's Blood is a far cry from original, but that isn't the slight it might be given how neatly these threads interweave... how naturally these disparate narratives sit side by side.

In its execution rather than its conception, then, Mage's Blood impresses. Hair's prose proves potent, and despite featuring some occasionally wearisome worldbuilding, a fair few awkward infodumps and simplistic depictions of several sensitive subjects, he pulls off a complex plot, and paces it perfectly, such that some 700 pages later you'll be rearing to keep reading.

For all that, though, what I most adored about Mage's Blood was its unflinching focus on character, particularly as regards Meiros and Ramita, and Ramita and Kazim. The incremental evolution of these strained relationships over the course of the first of The Moontide's four volumes is as emotional as it is surprising. By the conclusion, these three are completely different people, and in the interim, Hair handles their development very well.

There's a lot to Mage's Blood: a whole lot to like about it, and a little, admittedly, that seems derivative, or simply ill-fitting, but overall, it makes for an outstanding start to a series which already recalls epic fantasy's finest. In more ways than one, this book could be huge — an honour I dare say David Hair deserves.

...

This review was originally published, in a slightly altered form, on tor.com.

***

Mage's Blood
by David Hair

UK Publication: October 2012, Jo Fletcher Books

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Book Review | Forge of Darkness by Steven Erikson

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Now is the time to tell a tragic tale that sets the stage for all the tales yet to come... and all those already told.

It is the Age of Darkness and the realm called Kuruld Galain - home of the Tiste Andii and ruled over by Mother Dark from her citadel in Kharkanas - is in a perilous state. The commoners' great warrior hero, Vatha Urusander, is being championed by his followers to take Mother Dark's hand in marriage, but her Consort, Lord Draconus, stands in the way of such arrogant ambition.

As the impending clash between these two rival powers sends fissures rippling across the land and rumours of civil war flare and take hold amongst the people, an ancient power emerges from seas once thought to be long dead. None can fathom its true purpose, nor comprehend its potential. Caught in the middle of this seemingly inevitable conflagration are the First Sons of Darkness - Anomander, Andarist and Silchas Ruin of the Purake Hold - and they are about reshape the world...

Here begins Steven Erikson's epic tale of bitter family rivalries, of jealousies and betrayals, of wild magic and unfettered power... and of the forging of a sword.

***

As outlined in yesterday's introduction to the celebrated canon, Forge of Darkness marks a new beginning for The Malazan Book of the Fallen — a fresh start, at that, for the empire entire. Steven Erikson has himself stressed that his latest could and should be viewed as a jumping-on point for readers unfamiliar with the series. Readers like... me!

I should explain, before we descend any deeper into this rather labyrinthine quagmire, that I'm not a complete newcomer. I read Gardens of the Moon, albeit some time ago, and yours truly has had occasion - occasions aplenty, as a matter of fact - to gaze longingly at the various other volumes of The Malazan Book of the Fallen, all of which I own because I recall the first so fondly. That said, I did not come away from Erikson's darkly sparkling debut with terribly many questions, and a ten volume epic asks a lot more than does a single standalone fantasy. To wit, Deadhouse Gates and its successors have languished, as yet unloved, on my shelves ever since.

A trilogy, on the other hand - even if it is a trilogy of tomes, and I can't imagine The Kharkanas Saga is apt to take any alternate shape - should be rather more manageable.

Well... it is. And it isn't. It is, insofar as it has reignited my interest in the shelf I have dedicated to this series and the untold others that share its epic setting, including co-creator Ian Cameron Esslemont's eventual efforts — although I am less certain of the strength of said.

At the same time, however, it isn't - rather more manageable, I mean - to the point that it would be folly for me to attempt, even over the course of this gargantuan review, a serviceable synopsis of the ensemble of characters and narratives arranged (if not contained) within the tightly-packed pages of Forge of Darkness. Instead, suffice it to say that the first part of this prequel series takes place not years or decades or centuries, but many millennia before the events of The Malazan Book of the Fallen.

Old gods are awakening; new resentments take shape with every passing season; a civil war between the peoples of the Tiste Andii appears inevitable — and all this will converge in Kharkanas, the broken and abandoned citadel which I gather features in the final volume of that vast saga, though for the moment it is a seat of power in full force:

"Think of Kharkanas as a beast crawled up from the river. Perhaps to the sun itself, or perhaps only to glower at the world. Think of the long-tailed, beaked turtles — the ones the river foll bring to the markets. Gnarled and jagged shells, a savage bite and thick muscles upon the long neck. Claws at the ends of strong limbs. Skin tough as armour. An ugly beast [...] foul of temper and voracious. Hear its hiss as you draw close!" (p.239)

Forge of Darkness' Kharkanas is home to the ungodly goddess Mother Dark, who has only just begun to realise her boundless power; to the court historian Rise Herat; and to his young student, Legyl Behurst. Furthermore, it is church to the competing High Priestesses, Emral and Syntara; to the priest Cedorpul; and to his baby-faced acolyte, Endest Silann.

Then there are those characters who do not come from, but come to the titular citadel in the first volume of The Kharkanas Saga. Foremost amongst these pilgrims: returning favourite Anomander Rake, known to all as the First Son of Darkness, and accompanied, as ever, by his brothers Silchas Ruin and Andarist. Then there's T'riss, an Azathanai who emerges - impossibly - from the Vitr sea. Also Caplo Dreem and the Warlock Resh of The Shake, and the frustrated captain of Urusander's legion, Hunn Raal, who will prove pivotal in the layered affairs Forge of Darkness chronicles. Last, though very far from least, we have Mother Dark's current consort, Draconus of Dracons Hold... admittedly, however, he's a little late to the party.

Already we have quite the cast, but know that I'm neglecting to mention at least as many others. And while Kharkahas is key, we spend as much time, and meet as many new characters, in five or six other Holds. Not counting those folks who have no home: nomads who wander the wide world in service of one master or another, whose own stories intersect with and ultimately bring together otherwise separate threads.

You begin, I think, to see how incredibly ambitious this book is — and why, in turn, I must abstain from a complete account of its characters and narratives. I warrant we'd be here all day otherwise!

And be we newcomers or old hands, it follows - like dawn after a night long drawn - that Forge of Darkness demands a great deal of its readers. Even now, on the eve of a new beginning, there can be no dipping of toes into the elaborate Malazan canon. This novel demands your all, and if you cannot give it, whatever efforts you may make, you make in vain.

Luckily, I went all in on Forge of Darkness, yet even then I found the first few chapters rather a hardship. The rapid-fire panoply of perspectives introduced in each came in such succession that I began to wish I had graph paper handy, or even better: a copy of the long-promised Encyclopedia Malaz.

"It was a conceit to imagine that they knew the world; that they knew its every detail. Forces ever worked unseen, in elusive patterns no mortal mind could comprehend. She saw life as little more than the crossing of unknown trails, one after another. What made them could only be known by following one, but this meaning surrendering one's own path: that blazing charge to the place of endings. Instead, a person pushed on, wondering, often frightened. If she glanced to her left she could see the wall of black grasses, shivering and rippling and blurry in the heat; and she knew there were countless paths through Glimmer Fate. Perhaps, if she could become winged as a bird, she might fly high overhead and see each and every trail, and perhaps even discern something of a pattern, a map of answers. Would this offer relief?" (p.100)

With only my memory, and mayhap my imagination to aid me - but alas, no wings - I made painfully slow progress through the first third of Forge of Darkness. Just as I had begun to grasp a single, solitary thread, there was the next to contend with, then the next. Upon the first repetition of these perspectives, however, things began to come together. Come the second, I couldn't have stopped reading if I'd wanted to — and I most definitely did not.

Given the staggering breadth and depth of this author's vision, I suppose it's unsurprising that the occasional critics who do discuss his work tend to steer clear of the little things. As above, so below: a bird's eye view is usually the most you can hope for, and though some superficial exposure is certainly better than none at all, this remains an issue, because Erikson shines on the sentence level as well. There is a precision to the construction of each and every paragraph in Forge of Darkness - a sense that attention has been paid to the look and the sound and the significance of the language used - that feels as typical of poetry as prose.

At the risk of knocking a genre I hold near and dear to my heart, let me simply say that one rarely sees such careful composition in vast volumes of fantasy, and when we do, especially when it is so sustained, in my view we are beholden to make it known. To wit, Steven Erikson should be raised up as a standard bearer, representing the best of the best of those books we would love to be more loved — those that are intellectually nutritious as well as delicious.

I came away from Forge of Darkness in awe of this author's ambition, moved as much by the miniscule as I was astonished by the massive, but while it won me over, I was willing, and its spell still took some time to take effect. Erikson's incremental development of character and narrative stymied me in the beginning, and though he eventually relents, at least to an extent, even then this novel is a far cry from accessible. Thus, I wonder whether it is truly as suitable a starting point for new readers as the author has asserted.

Be that as it may, if you come to the first volume of The Kharhanas Saga prepared to do more than a little lifting, the rewards it offers are vastly more satisfying than the pretty baubles of most novels. And as this early excerpt suggests, ultimately:

"Things should make sense. From one end to the other, no matter from which direction one elected to begin the journey, everything should fit. Fitting neatly was the gift of order, proof of control, and from control, mastery. He would not accept an unknowable world. Mysteries needed hunting down. Like the fierce wrashan that had once roamed the Blackwood: all their dark roosts were discovered until there were no places left for the beasts to hide, the slaughter was made complete, and now at last one could walk in safety in the great forest, and no howls ever broke the benign silence. Blackwood Forest had become knowable. Safe." (p.14)

Unfortunately, while the majority of the narratives it initiates are left to dangle, Forge of Darkness itself does end eventually. Given the almighty investment the entire requires of readers, for the multifarious plot to pause when it is finally in full swing is... a pain. Once you've gone and gotten into it, I assure you: you truly won't want this book to be over.

Of course, the finiteness of the form is no fault of the author's — though I would allow that too much of the first volume of The Kharkanas Saga is reserved for set-up. For slaughter in the forest, so that we may travel, one day, in some semblance of safety, to its deepest, darkest reaches.

Well, the sooner, the better.

For a new beginning from a phenomenal fantasy author, Forge of Darkness is surprisingly difficult to wholeheartedly recommend to readers unfamiliar with the series it aims to lay the foundation for. But cast your minds back. Recall that I was such a one, once upon a time. And know now that this twisted fairytale has a happy ending, because I plum loved this book, such that I expect to be first in line for the following volume.

Indeed, all I can think is that in the interim between Forge of Darkness and Fall of Light, however long that lasts, I have at least nine more Malazan novels to help keep my mind off the acute pain of anticipation.

See you in a few years!

...

This review (as well as its accompanying introduction) was originally published, in a slightly altered form, on Tor.com.

***

Forge of Darkness
by Steven Erikson

UK Publication: July 2012, Bantam Press
US Publication: September 2012, Tor

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Book Review | Range of Ghosts by Elizabeth Bear

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Once, one hundred moons rose every evening with Mother Night across the Eternal Sky. Once, there were one hundred sons and grandsons of the Great Haghan who ruled the steppes from one edge of the world to the other. Now, the flame of civil war is burning, and Temur's iron moon is one of only a handful remaining in the Eternal Sky.

Temur is walking away from a battlefield where he was left for dead. All around lie the fallen armies of his cousin and his brother, who fought each other to rule the Khaganate. Temur is now the legitimate heir by blood to his grandfather's throne, but he is not the strongest. Going into exile is the only way to survive his ruthless cousin.

Once-Princess Samarkar is climbing the thousand steps of the Citadel of the Wizards of Tsarepheth. She was heir to the Rasan Empire until her father got a son on a new wife. Then she was sent to be the wife of a Prince in Song, but that marriage ended in battle and blood. Now she has renounced her worldly power to seek the magical power of the wizards.

These two will come together to stand against the hidden cult that has so carefully brought all the empires of the Celadon Highway to strife and civil war through guile and deceit and sorcerous power.

***

"For a few hours, as he rode the bay and led the rose-grey into wooded glades now, he allowed himself to dream that he would rescue Edene and make her his wife and that they would live to an untroubled old age with all their children and her cousins and her cousins' children.

"It was a fantasy and he knew it. But he was soldier enough to know that such fantasies were all that carried men through the supposed glory of war." (p.91)

So muses Temur, not the sole survivor but one of a very few to live through a bloody battle between brothers at the outset of the latest novel by two-time Hugo award-winning author Elizabeth Bear.

But it's not always so easy to tell the difference between fantasy and reality, is it? Between memory and invention, I mean. To differentiate what we have ourselves experienced from what we have only imagined. It sounds simple, sure enough, but bear in mind that the mind is a minefield of deceiving appearances, of fanciful facts and factual fantasy.

At times, Range of Ghosts is a lot like that.

Let me explain what I'm bumbling on about.

I have a few folks out in South Africa: grandparents and aunts and an almost-uncle, all on my mother's side. The first time your Scotsman went abroad, in the literal rather than the literary sense, it was to meet this extension of my immediate family. The year after that - I must have been about 14 by this point - I went back to Johannesburg on my lonesome ownsome. It was that or bible camp. That said, I'd had an awesome time with my aunt and almost-uncle before, and methinks more of a good thing is good.

That summer was a formative one for me in many senses. That summer I started reading Dan Simmons, China Mieville and Arthur C. Clarke. That summer I learned, at length, about nanotechnology, genetically engineered supersoldiers and the trouble with faster-than-light travel. My almost-uncle was a complete geek, but a genuinely good guy - which is not to say the two are usually exclusive - and in retrospect, I took an awful lot from the time I spent in his company, under South Africa's scorching summer sun.

In that sort of weather, however, even the geeks come out of their caves occasionally. So it was, shall we say somewhat incongruously, that that summer also marked the first time in my life I'd ever ridden a horse, and a decade and change later, I've never experienced anything else quite like it. Somewhere in the savannah, you see - I no longer recall where, but it took days of driving to get there - I was installed without prior warning upon a palomino mare, and accompanied by a cadre of adults all across the desert plains at midday, to gape at the stark, red-rock outcrops that stretched beyond the barren horizon every which way.

At one point our company split into groups, and I assume I ended up with the advanced band of riders because my aunt and almost-uncle numbered amongst them - that would seem sensible; on my own I was hopeless - but somehow the day only got more mind-blowing. Beneath me a gentle animal became a beast, galloping to keep up with its own kind and mine as they raced on ahead. Shortcuts were taken... fences were flown over... heart-rates, on the whole, were dangerously raised. I have rarely in my life been so thrilled, and at the same time so very afraid for my life, as I was by that afternoon's antics.

I remember telling people about that day later in my life, and thinking, as the unlikely story unfolded from my baby-fat face, how surreal the experience had been. How terrifying and breathless. It seemed so absurd that for a fair while, I'd all but convinced myself it had been a fever dream, rather than something real.

Range of Ghosts is a lot like that, then. Hence the lengthy digression. Also: it has horses. Horses!

In fact, the first meeting in the narrative entire is between our main character, Temur - the son of the Great Khagan and heir apparent to the Qersnyk kingdom - and the gorgeous horse which in effect saves him from certain death. Bansh and Temur are two of the few survivors of an awful slaughter, wherein one brother warred against another for the very throne our man stands to inherit.

Blood followed on all sides, obviously, and lest his luck run out, Temur takes up with a broken but not beaten family of fellow refugees on the road "through the mountains called the Range of Ghosts to Celadon Highway city of Qeshqer. Away from the dead." (p.16) He seeks shelter with these decent people, and receives respite: a brief reprieve from the intolerable horrors of war, the comfort of kindly strangers, and perhaps the promise of love with one woman, Edene.

Alas, a happy ending is not to be had so simply for him, or her, or anyone in truth — not in this bleakly beautiful book. Because in Range of Ghosts, the fantastic first act of the Eternal Sky trilogy - and I suppose I should stress that it is only that: an opening act that does not even attempt to appear standalone - in Range of Ghosts, the dead do not rest until they have been blessed, and an army of these seething specters has been set on Temur by someone with dark designs on his hide. To wit, one night, under a many moons - for there is one for each of the living heirs to the Great Kaghan's kingdom - Temur's idyll ends with the same violence that presaged it. And though they maim or murder everyone else they touch, the ghosts - unable as they are to best our man, with salt on his sword - take Edene alive.

So we come full circle, back to Temur with the horses in wooded glades, confusing happy fantasy with harsh reality. In fairness he knows how unlikely it is that he will ever see Edene again, in one piece at least, but short of going back to the battlefield for vengeance - and he would have to raise an army of his own to do that - Temur's options are few, and ugly to a one... excepting the prospect of saving a damsel in distress.

However misguided his intentions, Temur's hopes are mostly noble, and ultimately it is this meandering rescue attempt - meandering because he has no idea where Edene's been taken - that leads Temur into Samarkar's path. And it is the character of Samarkar, I think, that elevates Range of Ghosts into a space shared with the genre's greatest rather than merely its latest.

There are a lot of interesting observations to be made about Samarkar, but - my bad - this review's gone long already, so suffice it to say that she's every bit as imperative to Range of Ghosts' sweeping narrative as Temur, if not more so, for he is a more traditional fantasy protagonist by far. Samarkar, on the other hand, is a woman so sickened by being manipulated by powerful men all her life - being a dutiful daughter, a dear sister and a willing wife has only brought down disgrace - that she has opted to give up her child-bearing capabilities in exchange for a chance to harbour magic. When Bear introduces us, she's recovering from said sorcerous surgery, waiting to see if her life can take on this meaning, in want of any other.

Samarkar is a fantastic character from the offing - beautifully put though the others are, hers were the chapters I looked forward to for the first hundred pages - and when she meets a feverish Temur, she becomes even greater. "He knew her because she lifted him up and set him on Bansh's back when he could no longer cling there by himself [...] and he knew her because after she had led him and the mares out of danger, she girded herself in her coat of night and her collar of stars and went back into the cold valley to seek Edene." (p.143)

In addition to illustrating Samarkar's strength of mind and body both, this enmeshing of narrative perspectives allows Bear to welcome several other POV characters into the fray, and it's as well that this width exists, because the least interesting act of Range of Ghosts is yet ahead. Temur and Samarkar's time in the city of Qeshqer has its moments, but I dare say they are waylaid there too long by preening and politics when Range of Ghosts is at its best exploring the glorious freedom of the road, and the ride. One senses this section has a vital part to play in the series' grander narrative, but in contrast with the sheer exuberance on either side of it, it becomes a bore. Nor is it particularly pleasant for our imperiled prince:

"The weight of the palace itself seemed to press down on Temur's chest, shortening his breathing and closing his vision to a tunnel. His people believed it ill luck to spill blood at an execution, and so they sewed criminals into leather bags and heaped stones upon them until they died. He knew this was not the same [...] but for the moment he imagined that each breath grew shallower than the last, his lungs exhausted with pushing out against all that stone." (p.221)

If Range of Ghosts ends at all, it ends with an exhalation: with a great gasp drawn quickly in, then pushed slowly out. Which is to say, Bear's latest earns the To Be Continued with which it concludes, and though some in this age of pseudo-standalone installments of ongoing series will find its lack of resolution positively abhorrent, I did not, and I expect that's suggestive of how winning this thing is. Certainly, I was left wishing I could read The Shattered Pillars immediately, but the wait won't kill me; indeed, its absence may make my heart grow still fonder, and I am awfully fond of Range of Ghosts as is. It's this year's Under Heaven, and from a dyed-in-the-wool Guy Gavriel Kay devotee like me, that's saying something.

A magnificent start, then, to a trilogy that could and should cement Elizabeth Bear's place amongst the greats. Miss it at your own risk.

***

Range of Ghosts
by Elizabeth Bear

US Publication: April 2012, Tor

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