Grimdark Magazine Issue #7 ePub Read online

  Another wave of magic slammed into the building above her. Chunks of brick started to fall away, accompanied by more screams. A piece of wall the size of a cart tumbled past, bouncing and spraying fragments, and missed Alex's head by inches. The rippling blade lashed out a third time, and she felt her line snap. She clawed desperately at the wall, but before she could get a hold something punched her hard from behind, knocking the wind out of her.

  The ground. She was on the ground, watching the building come apart and tumble toward her in huge, skull-crushing pieces. Alex scrambled to her feet, whimpering when she accidentally tried to brace herself on her shattered wrist, and ran for it. Around her, the street was full of the roused population of Newtown, who were doing the same thing. None of them had any idea what was happening, of course, but they were smart enough to know that they wanted no part of it. Alex slipped gratefully into the crowd, and went to work putting as many buildings as she could between herself and the grim form of the ignahta.

  Her hand was agony, her legs and back ached, and she hadn't gotten what she came for. But she was alive, and her legs had gone rubbery with relief. She felt giddy.

  I won't even mind letting the Old Man say “I told you so.”

  * * *

  It took all the composure Alex could muster to walk casually along the riverfront street, rather than sprint directly to her destination. It was practically deserted, with only the occasional pedestrian hurrying about some private errand. Alex guessed that the sound of the building falling to pieces a few blocks away had sent the usual night-time pimps and purveyors scurrying back to their holes.

  A good thief always had an escape route ready—that was another lesson the Old Man had taught her, and she'd never been more glad to have listened. You never knew when a job was going to go bad, although admittedly they rarely went as spectacularly bad as this one had. Nevertheless, Alex had kept her head, walking a random pattern through the grid of Newtown's streets before heading for the spot where the Old Man would be waiting. He'd procured a boat the day before, a simple flat-bottomed skiff, more than adequate to float them downstream past the water batteries and away from this hellish city.

  And the next time he says it’s a bad idea to go somewhere, I'm going to take him seriously, Alex vowed, as she scanned the rows of tied-up watercraft. She found what she was looking for halfway down a lonely pier. The Old Man, huddled in his wool coat with the collar up, sat in the shadow of a larger boat tied up just beside theirs.

  Alex paused, a pistol-shot away, and waved with her good hand. She squinted as her mentor waved back, an odd gesture with thumb and little finger folded in. That signalled that he was in the clear, and no Concordat thug was lurking in the shadows with a pistol trained on him. Alex couldn't help quickening her steps a little as she crossed the exposed space of the pier and vaulted into the little boat, but no shouts followed her. As best she could tell, she'd gotten away clean, but her imagination equipped every rooftop with watchers and riflemen. She wanted to be away from this city, this country, as quickly as she could.

  ‘Go,’ she snapped at the Old Man, to forestall any questioning. ‘Let's get out on the river.’

  He nodded, silently, and reached for the long pole at the back of the skiff. Alex untied the rope, and kept her eyes on the pier as they pushed off. The dark water of the Vor sucked and slapped at the hull.

  A trio of men had turned the corner from a side street, heading for the pier. Alex crouched as low as she could in the boat and watched as they began to inspect the remaining craft. Her breath rasped in my throat.

  Not as clean as I thought. She smiled tightly. The Last Duke's boys are good, I have to admit. But not quite good enough.

  ‘It was a trap,’ she said quietly, when they were a hundred yards from shore. ‘You were right. We never should have come here. They had’—she swallowed hard—‘someone like me, someone working for the Black Priests. I barely made it out, and I think I broke something in my hand.’

  They were far enough from shore now that they should be invisible, a dark boat against dark water. There were enough lights burning on either shore that they wouldn't need to light a lantern until they were well downriver. Alex sat up, wincing every time she shifted her injured arm, and turned to face the Old Man—

  —who was gone. He'd thrown off the heavy cloak, revealing a much younger man in dark leather. She caught the gleam of steel in his hand as he reached forward, with an almost casual gesture, and planted long, needle-like stiletto in the meat of her shoulder.

  She felt the blade sink through skin and muscle with an odd detachment, but no pain, not yet. Automatically, she called on her power, raising her hands to send dark spears of shadow through what could only be another of Orlanko's minions. But her limbs didn't respond—her injured hand only fluttered weakly, and the arm he'd stabbed lay as dead as if it had been severed. Alex felt something cold spreading through her body from the wound, her muscles tightening painfully as whatever substance had coated the blade coursed through her veins. Her heart began hammering double-time, though she didn't know if it was from the poison or sheer terror.

  ‘My name is Andreas,’ the young man said. ‘I'm afraid Metzing will not be joining us, he had an urgent appointment to keep at the bottom of the river. But he did me the favour of explaining all about you before he ... ah ... left, including your little repertoire of hand signals. Some of them are quite elegant. I may have to borrow the idea. ‘

  Alex fell back against the edge of the boat. She couldn't speak—the poison had clamped her jaw shut, and muscles in her neck stood out like cords. It was getting hard to breathe.

  ‘You're not going to die, if that's what you're worried about. Our friends from Elysium were very particular about that. They were kind enough to provide us with this little potion, which I must say works quite marvellously. I know of quite a few ways to render a person unconscious, but none that operate this quickly without any risk of ... damage.’

  Alex struggled to open her mouth. She wanted to curse him, or maybe spit in his face. It didn't matter, as she couldn't summon up the strength for either.

  ‘Don't glare at me like that,’ Andreas said. ‘You must have realized the risks when you decided to steal from us. And you should be thankful the Priests of the Black have expressed an interest. Anyone else who crossed His Grace would die for certain, at considerable length.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Mind you, one hears stories about what goes on at Elysium. You may wish you'd been a bit less lucky, eventually...’

  But no one was listening. Alex's head lolled back, and she slipped into an inky sea of darkness, as though the waves of her own power had washed over her.

  * * *

  The Duke's finger tapped slowly on the careful loops and curls of Andreas' handwritten report. He frowned as he read, and looked up.

  ‘What have you done about the building?’ he said.

  Andreas inclined his head. ‘Construction failure. There was an attempt at refurbishment several months ago, which obviously has gone disastrously wrong. Everyone knows those old Newtown buildings are falling to pieces.’

  ‘Move against the builder,’ Orlanko ordered. ‘Negligence on that scale cannot be seen to go unpunished.’

  ‘I have taken the liberty of doing so already,’ Andreas said. ‘As it happens, the gentleman in question owns a considerable quantity of Crown debt, issued in lieu of payment on a previous project. Now that he is under arrest and his property forfeit, the question of repayment will of course not arise.’

  Orlanko didn't smile often, but at this the corner of his mouth at least twitched upward.

  ‘Ah, Andreas. You are a master of killing two birds with one stone.’

  ‘I do my best, Your Grace.’

  ‘And the thief?’

  ‘On her way north by now, with Father Volstock.’

  ‘Excellent. That will go a long way towards keeping the Pontifex happy.’ Orlanko leaned back in his chair. ‘Well d
one, Andreas. You may go.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’

  The assassin slipped out. Orlanko pushed his report aside, revealing another file, and turned to the room's other occupant. The ignahta was still swathed in grey from head to foot, but Orlanko had insisted the monk-like hood be pushed back. The Last Duke did not want his allies keeping secrets from him.

  ‘You've done well,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’

  ‘You're certain that your identity has not been compromised?’

  The ignahta nodded. ‘Certain.’

  That was the best thing about these Penitent Damned, Orlanko had decided. A conventional agent would always require some tools to get the job done. No matter how carefully hidden—the pistol at the back of the waistband, the dagger strapped to the thigh, the bottle of poison disguised as perfume—there was always a chance of discovery, especially if the opposition was alert. Whereas the Black Priest's supernatural killers could be anyone, anywhere, and no one would ever be the wiser.

  ‘Very good.’ He leaned back, finger tapping idly on the file. The tag, carefully attached by some meticulous clerk, read Vhalnich. ‘Very good. Now. I have another assignment for you ...’[GdM]

  Django Wexler graduated from Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh with degrees in creative writing and computer science, and worked for the university in artificial intelligence research. Eventually he migrated to Microsoft in Seattle, where he now lives with two cats and a teetering mountain of books. When not writing, he wrangles computers, paints tiny soldiers, and plays games of all sorts.

  You can find him on Twitter at @DjangoWexler, on Facebook at AuthorDjangoWexler, or at http://www.djangowexler.com. The Guns of Empire, book four of The Shadow Campaigns, will be published in August.

  Is the First Law Trilogy the Anti-Lord of the Rings?

  C.T. Phipps

  A question that often comes up in the various fantasy forums I frequent is, ‘What is the anti-Lord of the Rings?’ This is an odd query because it implies there's automatically an antithesis the most famous fantasy trilogy of all time. What does the questioner mean by ‘anti-Lord of the Rings’ anyway? For the most part, they're talking about something that is just as epic and grandiose but is darker and morally ambiguous. However, the question stuck with me and I started to ask myself, "Is there any series which well and truly inverts the majority of themes and values of Professor Tolkien's work?"

  I believe that series to be Joe Abercrombie's The First Law trilogy.

  It should be noted Joe Abercrombie has expressed nothing but love for J.R.R. Tolkien on his own blog. He also rejects that he was trying to rewrite the novels.

  We’re on sides, now? No one told me about sides. What are the sides? Of what? And on which side am I? I love Tolkien, after all. I’d like to be on his side. Grew up with The Hobbit. Read The Lord of the Rings every year. I’m a great admirer of his. Without Tolkien there’d be no fantasy as we know it, and certainly no First Law. When it comes to an epic tale with moral clarity set in a supremely realized fantasy world, he pretty much knocked it out of the park. But that means there’s not much point in my writing it again, is there? Forgive me for saying so, but it feels as if folk have been writing Lord of the Rings again for a while now, and I think we could probably, you know, stop. [1]

  I believe the two series bear some striking similarities and yet go in different directions which are fun to note. Beware reader, spoilers for both series lie ahead.

  The books contain some superficial similarities on the surface in their central plotlines:

  An evil supernatural threat from the East has gathered an infinite army of soldiers and monsters beneath its banner and intends to invade the Western European-themed lands. From the North, a second, lesser-threat has also gathered a force of barbarians and monsters to invade the West. An ancient wizard gathers a ragtag bunch of misfits together, related to a mystical artifact, and sends them on a journey to a distant land. One of these individuals will emerge as the last heir of a dynasty to unite the land. The Northern threat will be defeated and, in the darkest hour, an army of barbarians will arrive to rescue the Western lands before the mystical artifact plays a key role in annihilating the Eastern threat.

  Anyone who has read both series knows every single one of these similarities has a stark difference on closer examination. The similarities, however, highlight the differences.

  Take the central conflict between the Prophet Khalul and the wizard Bayaz, which lies at the root of the wars between the Union and Gurkish in Abercrombie’s The First Law. The Blade Itself paints Bayaz as a lovable trickster mentor who helps rescue Logen Ninefingers from death and helps our heroes in various ways. The Gurkish and their Prophet are, by contrast, portrayed as nebulous and threatening. The Gurkish employ the mysterious Eaters-cannibal wizards who make a number of attempts on Bayaz's life. These views are challenged somewhat in Before They Are Hanged, but only by Last Argument of Kings do we discover Bayaz is every bit as bad as Khalul, if not for worse. Indeed, the only reason the Prophet is pushing for war against the Union is in hopes of getting revenge for a long-ago slight by Bayaz.

  Tolkien wrote The Lord of the Rings with Sauron and his minions representing an archetypal incarnation of evil that the heroes must rally against. The nations of "good" in the elves, dwarves, Rohan, and Gondor may be flawed, but they are better in every way than the enslavement that awaits those who submit to Sauron. Abercrombie subverts expectations with the Gurkish by revealing, after they finally conquer the city of Dagoska in Before They Are Hanged, that they do not behave in the nightmarish manner which everyone assumed they would:

  It seems the Gurkish were let in by a prior arrangement. Treason, of course, but at a time like that… - hardly surprising. The Union forces were massacred, such as they were, but many of the mercenaries were merely enslaved, and the natives, by and large, were spared.’ Gurkish mercy, who could have thought it? Miracles do happen, then. [2]

  This is hardly much mercy but since the books had given us an impression of a monstrous horde, it is surprising to see Glokta impressed by the people who tortured him. It also gives credence to the belief that a peace agreement forged earlier would have been honored, such as that offered by Ambassador Tulkis:

  ‘We are leaders. War is what happens when we fail. Or are pushed into failure by the rash and the foolish. Victory is better than defeat, but… - not by much. Therefore, the Emperor offers peace, in the hope that this may be a permanent end to the hostilities between our great nations. We have no true interest in crossing the seas to make war, and you have no true interest in toeholds on the Kantic continent. So we offer peace.’ [3]

  Similarly, Sauron and his forces represent an existential threat to the West, which cannot exist in peace with the heroes because Mordor’s immortal ruler wants to rule all of Middle-earth. Yet, here, the conflict between the Union and Gurkish cannot only be resolved peacefully but doesn't end with the war. Like most struggles between real-life nations, the Gurkish defeat in Last Argument of Kings just means the two nations must continue to coexist.

  Peace in Tolkien is a consequence of victory and results in lasting change while the end of the wars in The First Law Trilogy merely results in extensive loss of lives. For a series which is considered much darker than The Lord of the Rings, The First Law trilogy has a much stronger anti-war slant and serves as a direct contrast.

  Another place where the two series go in direct opposites is in respect to their magical artifacts: the One Ring and the Seed. Both are magical enhancers that have the potential to provide their users with immense mystical power. The biggest difference between the two series regarding the objects is both the Seed and the One Ring have the potential to bring great destruction, but whereas Gandalf wishes the Ring to be destroyed, Bayaz wants to use the Seed to destroy his enemies. Additionally, both the Seed and the One Ring have the power to tempt individuals, as we see when demons offer Ferro great power and
Boromir attacks Frodo.

  However, the Seed's primary corruption is done through simple greed and ambition. People want the power of the Seed without magical compulsion. The mass murder of Gurkish troops (and Union soldiers via collateral damage) is done by Bayaz purely of his own accord. The effects of the Seed are described as akin to a nuclear weapon being used, a comparison which Tolkien rejected as a comparison for the One Ring but Abercrombie invokes in describing its aftereffects:

  West was scarcely recognizable. His hair had fallen out in ugly patches. His face was shrunken, had a yellow tinge about it. His uniform hung slack from his bony shoulders, stained around the collar. He shuffled into the room, bent over in an old man's stoop, leaning heavily on a stick. He looked like nothing so much as a walking corpse. [4]

  Perhaps the greatest difference between the quest to destroy the One Ring and the quest to recover the Seed is the former is successful and the latter is a waste of time. The Seed is not at the end of their journey, across vast wastelands and after many adventures. It has been in the House of the Maker, a location Bayaz had access to from the beginning, hidden in plain sight. If The Lord of the Rings is the signature fantasy road trip story, then The First Law has more in common with the Grizwald family vacation. The black humor of the pointlessness of it all is summarized by Jezal:

  ‘I gave up my chance to fight for my country,' murmured Jezal, indignation starting to flicker up in his chest, 'and I slogged hundreds of miles across the wasteland, and I was beaten, and broken, and left scarred… for nothing?’ [5]