Tag: Epic Fantasy

Book Review: “The Rage of Dragons” (by Evan Winter)

KC Winters

Warning: Some spoilers for the novel ahead.

When I saw The Rage of Dragons sitting on the front table at Barnes and Noble some time ago and read the description on the jacket, I knew at once that I had to read it. So, I checked it out from my local library, sat down to read it, and found myself totally entranced. From beginning to end, the book is a ruthless–and at times brutal–exploration of the destructive (and redemptive) power of vengeance set in a world that teeters on the brink of absolute destruction.

When his father is killed at the order of the one of a villainous and callous noble, Tau swears that he will overcome his common blood and upbringing and become the greatest swordsman who ever lived. After he devotes himself to a life of the sword, he finds his loyalties–both political and personal–tested as he unwittingly becomes part of a much grander, and more dangerous, plot than he ever imagined.

The Rage of Dragons is epic fantasy in the vein of Brandon Sanderson, with a complex magic system and a hero who must work through significant trauma. While there is, of course, some attention paid to politics and the doings of the great, for most of the novel we are immersed in Tau’s world, which largely revolves around his training and the brutality that it entails. It thus also fits squarely within that tradition of epic fantasy that emphasizes the gory and violent side of the hero’s journey, and there were a few times when I had to put the novel down to give myself a breather from the unrelenting violence. This is not to say that A Rage of Dragons totally ignores the higher, more noble aspects of the epic tradition, only that it tends to access them through an emphasis on the redemptive power of violent action.

Now, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that Tau is an unpleasant character, but he is definitely one that is sometimes difficult to like. I don’t think this would have been such a significant issue in the book if we’d been given some other characters’ point of view but, for better or worse, the vast majority of the novel is told from Tau’s perspective. This isn’t necessarily a problem, but it does mean that we don’t always get a macro-view of the events that are taking place in this fully-detailed world.

The novel is something of a slow burn, for while it reaches a crisis point quite quickly in the beginning, large swathes of the middle are dedicated to the grueling training that Tau undergoes as he attempts to exceed the limitations imposed by his lower-caste birth. These scenes are definitely not for the faint of heart, as Winter spares no detail his depiction of the brutality of this world. Sometimes, it’a a trifle difficult not to feel overwhelmed, both by the unrelenting depictions of violence in all of its forms and by the relentlessness of Tau’s suffering. That being said, by the time the novel really starts to heat up toward the end, you’ll find that you won’t be able to put it down. Indeed, the novel has one of the best-written climaxes that I’ve read in recent years.

For all of that, The Rage of Dragons does use Tau to show us the fundamental injustices of this world. For most men and women, Tau included (at first, at least), it is almost impossible to move beyond the limitations imposed by caste. While those in power insist that this is to help the Omehi people as a whole survive, Tau’s story reveals just how rotten and unjust the system has become and it leads one to wonder just how noble the Nobles truly are (the answer, I would venture to say, is not very much at all).

As with any great fantasy, The Rage of Dragons uses the hero’s journey to shine a light on issues that are significantly vaster and more complicated than one individual character. In this case, we are asked to think about one of the most uncomfortable (and, I daresay, intractable) issues facing the contemporary world: colonialism and its aftermath. The world of the novel is one in which the Omehi have, for centuries, sought to bring the hedeni (the “savages”) to heel, with increasingly limited results. This is a world that is confronted by a seemingly never-ending war, with a magic system–including a control of dragons–that is essentially dangerous and, quite possibly, destructive.

If I have one minor complaint, it’s that we don’t get the perspective of any of the absolutely fascinating and powerful female characters. While many of them–including Tau’s beloved, Zuri–do great things throughout the novel, we only rarely get their point of view. When we do, however, they crackle with intensity, and so I hope that Winter weaves in more female perspectives in sequel volumes.

By the end of the novel, things are in a state of unrest, and Tau has yet to recover from the wounds (both physical and psychological) that he has endured during the course of the novel. The entire realm has been plunged into chaos and bloodshed, a fragile peace between the hedeni and the Omehi has been shattered by the treachery of nobles. At this point, it remains to be seen whether Tau will be able to overcome his own limitations to become the savior of his country and his queen. There is definitely a lot of room for further plot and character development in the sequel volumes and I, for one, simply cannot wait to read them.

Winter joins a remarkable group of young writers of color who are broadening the parameters of epic fantasy. Given how racially problematic (and sometimes outright racist) the genre has historically been, these men and women are embarking on bold new journeys that challenge us to rethink our assumptions about what stories epic fantasy can and should be telling.

The Rage of Dragons marks an extraordinary debut from an extraordinarily talented new voice in fantasy.

Book Review: “A Time of Blood” (by John Gwynne)

KC Winters

Warning: Some spoilers follow.

It is a time of great darkness and unrest in the Banished Lands.

Bleda, the young warrior of the Sirak, struggles with his feelings for the half-Ben-Elim-half-human Riv, even as she contends with the consequences of her revealed heritage. The warrior Drem escapes from the horrors of the north, only to find that the battle has just begun. And, on the other side of the battle, the sorceress and priestess Fritha attempts to gain her vengeance against Drem and against those that betrayed her and cost her the life of her child.

As with its predecessor, the action here is non-stop. The novel picks up right where its predecessor leaves off, and we follow the characters as they all perform their parts in the forthcoming clash between the Ben-Elim and the Kadoshim. We witness their trials and their victories, watch men and women killed brutally in battle and, by the end of the novel, we feel as if we have endured all of this with the characters. Part of t his has to do with Gwynne’s impeccable eye for good pacing, but just as much stems from the fact that he manages to imbue each of his characters with their own individual traits and perspectives that make them worthy of our respect.

If anything, this installment in the series is even bleaker than its predecessor, with our heroes caught in terrible situations by the end, with hope nowhere in sight. More than that, though, the novel does at times stray into the horrific, particularly when we see the many experiments that Fritha conducts on those who have fallen into her clutches. Though the novel doesn’t go into too much detail about the actual process by which she creates new hybrid creatures from the dismembered parts of old ones, the results of such things are frightening enough.

Despite her barbaric experiments, A Time of Blood allows us inside Fritha’s head for large parts of the story. Through the novel, we learn a lot about her backstory, and it is finally explained why it is that she bears the Ben-Elim such a powerful grudge and why she remains so determined to see them destroyed. Given how we have already seen how unbending Ben-Elim justice can be, and how willing they are to sacrifice the lives of those humans who are supposedly under their protection, one can see why she would be so willing to turn her considerable military and magical talents against them. That being said, she still commits some truly heinous acts throughout the story, and though we may come closer to understanding her and her motives, but it is also true that we continue to regard her with horror and fascinated revulsion.

Given how ably A Time of Blood delves into the psychology and motivations of one of its main antagonists, I was also particularly struck by the ways in which the novel explores the themes of identity and loyalty. All of the characters, good and bad alike, contend with the demands placed upon them by their particular social situations. All of them bear the scars of their pasts, and each and every one–even, perhaps especially Fritha–has seen the sorts of loss that would have broken a lesser being.

And, of course, their identities tie in with their loyalties, and Riv in particular feels the bite of this as she has to decide whether her identity as a halfbreed means that she should identify more with the Ben-Elim or with her human counterparts. And given the fact that the Ben-Elim are either notoriously unbending and puritanical (as is the case with Lord Protector Israfil) or cunning and disloyal (as is the case with Kol), it’s easy to understand why she would feel so conflicted.

For there is thus no question that both the Kadoshim and the Ben-Elim are deeply flawed, the former because of their lust to destroy everything in their path, the latter because of their puritanical belief that theirs is the only way to gain an understanding of the workings of Elyon, the one who created all. Nothing illustrates this more than the way in which the two groups treat their half-human progeny. While the Ben-Elim almost unanimously regard such hybrids as an abomination, the Kadoshim regard them with something akin to love, even if they also see them as yet another piece in their eventual game to destroy their enemies. In the end, it’s hard to say which side has the right of it, and that is part of the novel’s sinister genius.

Having now finished two books in Of Blood and Bone, I’m struck again by the gritty darkness that is a hallmark of this world. Gwynne doesn’t shy away from the brutality and intensity of battle. There are numerous descriptions of violence (so this may not be suitable for you if that isn’t your thing), but they don’t feel gratuitous. Instead, they feel like the hallmarks of a grim world that always teeters on the brink of destruction. One has to be hard to live in these lands. As a result, A Time of Blood, like its predecessors, feels very akin to the epics of the ancient north.

A Time of Blood does an excellent job of avoiding the pitfalls of second book syndrome. The plot-lines established in the first novel have moved forward in ways that make sense, and the state has been set for the climactic battle that will, it can be hoped, decide the fate of the Banished Lands. Given how many of the characters that I loved from The Faithful and the Fallen met their deaths in the last book, I’m not terribly hopeful that many of the characters from this one will survive this climactic battle but, as the old saying goes, hope springs eternal.

There’s only one drawback to loving a book so much that you finish it in two days: you have to wait several months for the concluding volume to be released!

Book Review: “A Time of Dread” (by John Gwynne)

KC Winters

As soon as I began reading John Gwynne’s series The Faithful and the Fallen, I fell in love. This was epic fantasy in the finest old tradition, full of nobility and heroism, tragedy and sacrifice. As with all good books, I felt a little devastated at the end, knowing that a truly great fantasy saga had come to an end.

I was, needless to say, very excited indeed to see that he was at work on a sequel series, one that takes place roughly a hundred years later. So excited, in fact, that I was actually able to finish the book in just a few days after receiving it in the mail.

A Time of Dread focuses on four characters: the Bleda, a hostage taken to ensure his mother’s good behaviour; Riv, a hot-headed young woman struggling to become a warrior; Drem, a young man with a mysterious past who lives with his father; and Sig, a giantess and one of the few who can still remember the days of the first series of novels. Each of them finds themselves caught up in the dark times in which they live.

The Banished Lands have changed a great deal since the days when Corban was the Bright Star, struggling against the Black Sun and the forces of the demon lord Asroth. The Ben-Elim, seemingly humanity’s saviours, have turned into brutal dictators. Led by the Lord Protector Israfil and his faithful retainers, they enforce a puritanical rule on all who live under their dominion. Meanwhile, their sworn enemies the Kadoshim are decimated but far from defeated, and they have begun to scheme and plot for their return. Led by their chieftain Gulla, they plan to finish what Asroth began.

The novel is a little more tightly focused than its predecessors, due in part both to the more limited number of characters and the very different world they inhabit. The novel explores what happens after the ending of a traditional epic fantasy, in which the forces of good have managed to defeat those of evil. In Gwynne’s universe, the battle against the forces of darkness is never truly over, for it always tends to regroup, determined to launch a fresh assault. Throughout the novel, all four of the characters must contend with the fact that the stability and rules that have governed the world for over a century are coming to an end.

In many ways, A Time of Dread reminds me a bit of what Tolkien had envisioned as a sequel to The Lord of the Rings, in which men fell once more into dark and sinister designs, with cults rising up and children playing at Orcs. In this new, unsettling, and often quite terrifying world that Gwynne has crafted, men become beasts, humans and their angelic counterparts breed, and everything seems to teeter on a knife’s edge.

The characters are, of course, a little old-fashioned in their heroism. I say that not as a criticism but instead to highlight how refreshing it is to see women and men in a fantasy novel who aren’t completely idiots or shits (I’m looking at you, GRRM). Although there are elements of grimdark in Gwynne’s work–it is called A Time of Dread, after all–the novel never seems to lose sight of the fundamental humanity and nobility at the heart of its characters. These are people that you can actually cheer for and like, ones that you can suffer with, whose joys and sorrows that you can share.

One of the things that I’ve loved about Gwynne’s work is the fact that his heroines are as kickass as the heroes. These are women who know how to hold their own and who can fight just as well as any of the men (and often better). Sig the giantess was probably my favourite character in the entire book, but Riv is definitely a close second. Like any good epic heroine, she has her own journey to take, and there are things about her that set her apart from her fellows, though the most important of those remain unrevealed until almost the very end.

And, of course, no review of Gwynne’s book would be complete without mentioning the crows. Rab the albino is one of the novel’s more rascally characters, and it’s good to see that the wily crow from the original series is both still alive and has managed to produce a rather large and unruly flock of descendants. This particular character, while only tangential to the narrative, offers a moment of brightness and levity to an otherwise very dark setting.

All in all, I really quite enjoyed this new outing from Gwynne. I do feel it is worth noting, though, that this is an incredibly violent and visceral world. While this may not be to everyone’s taste, I do think that it is true to the world-building that he established in his previous series. The Banished Lands are not a place for the weak, and it takes a great deal of strength and violence just to stay alive for another day.

Generically, Of Blood and Bone feels a bit more like a rousing adventure yarn than a sprawling epic, and to me that’s just fine. Gwynne is someone who has a firm grasp of his story and the best way in which to tell it. Reading this, you almost get the sense that you are living in the midst of one of the great tales of the ancient north, full of monster and bitter ice, blood and steel and dark magic, with just a bit of Christian lore (there are angels and demons, after all) thrown into the mix to make things interesting. I can guarantee you that there is not one moment in this novel that is at all boring. It keeps you riveted from the first page to the last, and it leaves you panting for more.

I’m already hard at work reading the follow-up, A Time of Blood, and I love it already. Stay tuned for my review!

Fantasy Classics: Kushiel’s Dart (by Jacqueline Carey)

KC Winters

Continuing on with my reviews of classics of fantasy literature, I’m turning my attention to the Kushiel series of books by Jacqueline Carey. The books, which were published throughout the 2000s and 2010s, have a (well-earned) reputation for managing to really do something new and exciting within the genre of epic fantasy. Combining elements of historical fiction, epic fantasy, and erotica, the series of books explores various issues related to politics, power, and desire.

Young woman Phédre is marked by a red mote in her eye known as Kushiel’s Dart, a sign that she is blessed (or cursed) to feel pain as pleasure. Sold into a form of indentured servitude by her impoverished parents, she eventually enters the sevice of the noble Delaunay, she quickly becomes adept in the art of politics and the bedchamber. Betrayed by the clever and cruel noblewoman Melisande, Phedre finds herself among the barbarian Skaldi and must use all of her resources–emotional, sexual, intellectual–to save her homeland and everything she holds dear from the relentless tide of invasion.

The world that Carey has created is as rich and textured as our own, and this often gives the novel the feeling of a historical novel as much as it is a fantasy one. This world has a history similar to ours, with a powerful empire that once ruled much of this world’s Europe, though here it is called Tiberium rather than Rome. Phèdre and her friends and loved ones live in a France-esque country called Terre ‘Dange, a land populated by the descendants of the demigod Elua and his companion angels. As our heroine journeys to various spots on the map, Carey immerses us in these worlds; even the barbarian Skaldi, who want to conquer the land of Terre d’Ange are painted in thoroughly human colours.

The plot is also very textured, sometimes to such an extent that it can be difficult to tell exactly what’s going on. To some degree, of course, this is a reflection of the Machiavellian intentions of the various characters, particularly Delaunay and Melisande; while the former wants to preserve the rule of the current royal house, the latter wants to seize the throne for herself. Each plays a

For all of its texture and length (this is epic fantasy, after all), the plot still moves at a lightning pace, moving us through the various pieces of the puzzle at top speed while also periodically slowing down to focus on the human aspect of the story. This allows Carey to explore the heights of triumph and the absolute depths of despair, and there are no characters in the book that are either completely evil or completely good. Even Melisande, the books ruthless villainess, is not entirely evil, and it is the magnificent complexity of her character (and Phèdre’s fraught relationship with her) that stands as one of the novel’s most important threads and, I would argue, its thematic and emotional center.

In terms of style, Jacqueline Carey has a tremendous command of language. There are only a handful of writers I can think of who manage to capture the sensuous and the erotic in a way that doesn’t come across as trite and cliche. The closest comparison I can think of is Anne Rice, who was also able to combine the historical and the fantastical through rich prose and imaginative world-building. And, like Rice, this book manages to straddle the line between hardcore and narrative fiction, and this gives the book a sensuous frisson that is unlike almost anything else that I’ve read. Thus, while there are very (sometimes very graphic) descriptions of sex, they are key to the plot rather than titillating in and of themselves.

Kushiel’s Dart is one of those very few novels that I’ve actually read more than once. It’s truly intoxicating in all of the best ways, immersing us in a world that lives and breathes, filled with all of the complexity and ambiguity of everyday life. Indeed, it stands as one of the primary inspirations for our own series, and while we cannot hope to achieve the heights of Carey’s own magnificent books, we hope we can at least come close.

Stay tuned for our review of the sequel, Kushiel’s Chosen!

Reading Tad Williams: “Empire of Grass”

KC Winters

Warning: Some spoilers for the novel follow.

It’s finally here!

That was my first thought upon hearing that the second installment of his new trilogy, entitled “The Last King of Osten Ard” was soon to be published. I’d loved The Witchwood Crown so much, and I’d become very impatient of the release of the continuation of the story. It takes a truly great author to take a well-established (and well-loved) fantasy world and do something new and exciting (and even, sometimes, devastating) with it, and I don’t think that anyone but Tad Williams could really pull it off. Luckily for us, there’s still a lot of the old magic in the splendid kingdoms of Osten Ard.

Empire of Grass finds our various characters scattered to the many corners in Osten Ard. Morgan struggles along in Aldheorte, Simon and Miriamele try to keep their fragmenting kingdom together, Tiamak discovers new and unsettling secrets about the monarchs’ deceased son, Unver solidifies his hold on the Thrithing, the Norns Viyeki and his daughter Nezeru, as well as his mortal mistress Tzoja, pursue Queen Utuk’ku’s dreams of destroying mortals, and the Hernystirmen Eolair, Aelin confront dark realities in both the north and the south of Osten Ard, the Sitha Tanahaya does her best to help the mortals, and the enigmatic Jarnulf sets out to kill the Norn queen herself.

As this brief (and very incomplete) summary suggests, Empire of Grass is truly kaleidoscopic, providing us multiple perspectives on the chaos that threatens Osten Ard (and perhaps existence itself). Furthermore, we also get a far more robust cast of characters than in “Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn.” For one thing, we get the perspectives of not one but two Norns, Viyeki (the High Magister of the Builders) and his half-Norn/half-mortal daughter Nezeru, and this allows us a glimpse into not only Norn society, but also how the Norns make sense of their world. As alien as they are, however, Williams does a great job making them seem at least a little relatable.

One of the things that I have always loved about Tad Williams is his sheer command of language. He’s one of the best actual writers out there, and I’ve always thought it’s a shame that he doesn’t get more recognition. His prose is almost poetic in its power to truly paint a scene, and his characters are as rich as and layered as his language. Though they may be frustrating at times, you can’t help but find yourself utterly bound up with their struggles to contend with the world around them.

Though this trilogy takes place in the same world as its predecessor, it definitely feels very different. There is a certain existential angst here, a sense that all of being itself is possibly under threat. Though it isn’t spelled out, I get the distinct impression that Utuk’ku will be quite satisfied in bringing about the destruction of reality itself if that means that it will rid the world of the mortals that she hates so deeply. The repeated references to Unbeing, the fell darkness that swept away the long-lost homeland of both the Sithi and the Norns, hints at a new dark age to come. One got a little of this existential dread, I think, in Williams’s last epic fantasy outing, “Shadowmarch,” but it’s a little jarring to see it in the context of this world. The thing is, though, is that it feels very tonally consonant with the world that we, outside the novels, are living in. As he did with “Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn,” Williams is able to capture moments of genuine horror, as when Utuk’ku sets out to resurrect a long-dead relative in an effort to bring about the apocalypse. It’s unsettling, but it also feels very much in keeping with her past behaviour and motives.

This new series also raises the perplexing question of history. In most epic fantasy, once the end arrives we’re usually fairly certain that things will get better going forward from that endpoint. Certainly that was the case when we came to the end of To Green Angel Tower, with Simon and Miriamele safely enthroned and both the Storm King and his mortal puppet Pyrates fully vanquished. Now, however, that doesn’t seem to be the case. Whether it’s the fall of Naglimund to the nefarious Norns (again) or the relentless malice of their queen (who still seems determined to bring about the end of mortals, no matter how much damage it might cause to her own people), or even the possible existence of Pyrates’ shade haunting the Hayholt, history’s relentless drive toward chaos puts pressure on the concept of the fantasy happy ending. By the end of the book, we’ve had to see each of the characters, major and minor alike, put through the wringer as they’re forced to watch chaos loom. The fact that so much of this chaos has been fomented by bad actors with their own agenda just makes it that much more excruciating, both for the characters and for us.

And speaking of endings…whew, lads. The fact that Simon believes his beloved Miri is dead when she isn’t (or, at least, I don’t think so), fills this scene with such pathos that it is truly wrenching to read, all the more so because we have already been to love and care for these characters. It’s hard to say what Simon will do now that he thinks the love of his life is dead, but I daresay that it isn’t going to be good for the well-being of either his reign or for the kingdom at large.

All in all, I was very pleased with Empire of Grass. Tad Williams continues to be one of those authors you can rely on to tell you a story that is both heartbreaking and beautiful. And, best of all, you know that it’s going to be wrapped up in three (more likely four) volumes at the most. Given how long some of us have been waiting for a certain fantasy author to finish up his sprawling epic, that’s a breath of fresh air.

The real question now is: will Williams really be able to wrap up this sprawling story in just one more book? My guess, based on past experience, would be no. But you know what, if it means that I’ll get one more Osten Ard book, I’m totally fine with that. I just hope I don’t have to wait another two years!

John Gwynne’s The Faithful and the Fallen and the Pleasures of Genre

KC Winters

I recently had the pleasure of reading John Gwynne’s epic fantasy quartet (or tetralogy) The Faithful and the Fallen. I’d been intending to read it for a while, and when I did, I was blown away by how effectively Gwynne managed to marshal all of the requisite epic fantasy elements into a story that kept me up past my bedtime for several nights running.

The series’ central protagonist is Corban, a young man who (of course), finds out that he is the one destined to become the savior of his world. He is joined by the requisite band of epic heroes, including a renegade angel, his sister, a wolven (basically a giant, wolf-like creature), as well as sundry others. He is opposed by all the traditional types of villains, including another renegade angel, a brutal pirate captain, and a god of destruction bent on bringing the entire world under his dominion.

Narratively, The Faithful and the Fallen hits all the right notes: the epic quest narrative (there are actually several), the titanic clash between good and evil, deeds of villainy and heroism, soaring triumphs and dark moments of despair. There are the various fantasy archetypes already mentioned. And it’s solidly told, with each character coming to inhabit their own space; even the villains get a few chapters of their own. As a result, we are drawn inexorably into this world, caught up in the sweep of the great and terrible events that are unfolding right before our eyes.

What really struck me as I read the series was how much it was able to accomplish within the confines of the genre of epic fantasy. Indeed, in many ways the series is a textbook epic, hitting all of the right notes in all the right places. There were a few key places where The Faithful and the Fallen colors outside of the expected lines, but for the most part there weren’t too many surprises in terms of either plot or character. There was a bit of a plot twist toward the end of the series, but nothing on the scale that we have seen in other epic series of late. All in all, The Faithful and the Fallen is exactly what it sets out to be: a thoroughly entertaining fantasy epic.

That is not in any way an insult. Quite the opposite. Sometimes it seems to me that we valourize works of fantasy that somehow transcend the perceived “limits” or “shortcomings” of fantasy as a whole. Those who praise A Song of Ice and Fire, for example, frequently do so in terms that emphasize its iconoclastic tendencies, its willingness to focus on the blood and gore and drudgery of the medieval fantasy setting and on the foibles and shortsightedness of humanity. This line of praise (and criticism) has extended to its television adaptation, and it has, I would argue, reshaped the expectations that many people have about what constitutes successful (or at least “interesting”) epic fantasy.

What series like Gwynne’s show us, however, is that it is okay if you want to write, or read, works of fantasy that don’t really break the rules. It’s okay if you want a story about a young person who sets out to save the world from a dark and pressing evil and has to journey through all of the parts of his world to do so. It’s okay if you want to have a fair amount of certainty that most of your main characters won’t die (though a few major ones do in The Faithful and the Fallen). It really is okay if you want to read an old-fashioned epic fantasy that is a celebration of the essential nobility of the human spirit rather than an exposure of the darker, more cynical parts of the human condition. It’s okay to take pleasure in the conventions of genre.

Indeed, that’s precisely the point of a designation like genre in the first place. Working within its confines lets us know what we’re in for. And, in a case like The Faithful and the Fallen, or for that matter any number of other epics (Terry Brooks’ Shannara series comes to mind), part of the pleasure is in feeling those familiar beats. To my mind, it’s about time we stopped feeling ashamed of the pleasures of genre and instead embraced them as a key part of why we read fantasy.

Who’s with me?