Grimdark Magazine Issue #3 ePUB Read online

  [GdM] Davarus Cole is such a frustrating character to read by design—constantly, arrogantly, fervently, annoyingly believing he is a hero born—and yet, by the end I found myself a little gutted by his turn of events. What was the inspiration behind his personality?

  [LS] Cole is one of the great divisive figures in The Grim Company. He's a blowhard who believes in his own heroic destiny. If he were even a tenth of the man he believes himself to be, why, there'd be no story because he'd have already overthrown every evil ruler in the land…

  For some readers forty pages of Cole will be enough: they'll hurl the book down, leave a 1-star on Amazon or Goodreads, and move on to the next coming-of-age fantasy in which the lead is a young prodigy, an agreeable badass whose only fault is an awkwardness around women: a nice blank slate on which to project themselves and vicariously live the story. And that's fine, lots of books do that very well. I'm jaded with these stories, so I wanted to do something else.

  The badass with a heart of gold has been done quite a lot recently. Even the jackass with a heart of gold has his share of admirers. Cole's a bit further along even than that – what one might call a "heroic douche," cocksure and arrogant and not particularly charming to boot. Cole is an experiment, really. Can a reader grow to like a character who is a bit—alright, a whole lot—of an ass, even if his actions are, when one gets right down to it, heroic, in contrast to most of the rest of the cast?

  [GdM] Here at Grimdark Magazine, we’re absolutely chomping at the bit to get our hands on Sword of the North. Beyond the synopsis available on Goodreads, what can we expect to be getting our teeth into when reading your second installment?

  [LS] Paper or plastic, depending on your format of choice. Paper is easier on the teeth but I wouldn't recommend putting either in your mouth if I'm honest. And at the angle you'd be reading the text, it can't be good for the eyes.

  Sword of the North follows the aftermath of The Grim Company as the "heroes" of our fellowship, now broken, finds themselves undertaking personal quests. Readers will get a glimpse of Kayne's past as he and Jerek cut a bloody path north. It's an epic tale touched by tragedy – what you might call the dark second book, if the first book wasn't already near pitch black…

  The book is released on March 12th in the UK (and most Commonwealth territories) and May 5th in the US & Canada. Foreign language editions will follow later in the year.

  [GdM] What were your personal non-grimdark writing inspirations that have shaped what you currently write about today?

  [LS] You mean apart from R A Salvatore, Dragonlance and all the usual highbrow literature that you'd expect a young man to immerse himself in? Truth be told, I draw a lot of inspiration from the big screen and the small screen. Videogames too, and even, I blush to admit, professional wrestling. Keen observers might note a certain theatrical air to The Grim Company—it's an intentional echo of the showmanship that is usually more at home outside the pages of a novel. Probably it's this more than anything that draws the frequent comparisons with The First Law.

  As with most writers, I draw inspiration from everywhere: a wry comment from my wife might lend itself to a quote from a particular character five years later; an amusing observation whilst in the pub might mutate overnight into a concept that I can find a place for two or three books down the line.

  [GdM] What else can your readers expect to see from you in the next year or two?

  [LS] I'm currently hard at work on the concluding volume in the trilogy, entitled Dead Man's Steel. You'll be able to get your sweaty hands on it some time next year. There's also an untitled short story set in the same world that I'm writing for this very magazine, my first professional short story ever.

  Once the trilogy is concluded, my intention is to write a few standalones featuring a handful of returning characters. On the non-fantasy side, I have some ideas for a novel or two set in the real world that I'll begin to explore in more detail. I like to set new goals to challenge myself: it helps keep me energized. I can't imagine churning out endless novels in the same sequence for decades on end. Though no doubt someone will dredge up this interview in 2047 when I'm writing book 9 of the Cole Chronicles and throw it right back in my face.

  [GdM] For new readers who’ve not read your work before, they could start on The Grim Company (I certainly would), but you’re also a video game writer. What games best reflect your work?

  [LS] My last released project was The Shadow Sun, which is currently available for the princely sum of a dollar on both Android and Apple devices. It's a 10-hour CRPG in the vein of Dragon Age. I both designed and wholly wrote the game, so you can expect a masterfully crafted slice of mobile gaming to rival the very best. I actually did the design work whilst writing the opening chapters of The Grim Company—it as turned out, the game ended up being the depository for all my wackier ideas while the book tended towards established tropes, at least initially.

  The first game I created that demonstrated a semi-professional level of ability was a Neverwinter Nights module called Crimson Tides of Tethyr, released away back in 2005. It received a lot of acclaim in the community and won me a contract with Bioware. It still gets recommended on message boards. I like to point to it as evidence that, indeed, I was writing dark, gritty and humorous fantasy well before the current onslaught of comparable novels…[GdM]

  Excerpt: Sword of the North

  Luke Scull

  This is an extract from Sword of the North by Luke Scull, published by Head of Zeus in March 2015. Sword of the North is currently available for order on Amazon, Book Depository and Waterstones.

  He could hear them crashing through the trees behind him. He half-skidded down the slope, ruined boots finding little purchase on snow frozen solid. His feet were numb with cold, felt as dead as the lamb flopping wildly over his shoulder. Blood still leaked from the slit throat of the beast and soaked the filthy rags that covered his body.

  There was a curse from one of the men chasing him, followed by an angry yell. He shifted the carcass on his shoulder and allowed himself a grin. He was losing them, even weighed down as he was. He reckoned a few had given up already. They were old men, most of them. Well past thirty.

  He would get some distance on them and find somewhere to hide. Lie low for a bit and get a fire going. His stomach gave a mighty growl, a reminder that this winter had been desperate. Harsher than any he could remember.

  He leaped a fallen tree, managing to keep his balance despite the thick patch of ice just beyond. Moments later he heard a thump and a fresh flurry of curses turned the air blue – he guessed one of his pursuers had blundered into the log and landed flat on his face.

  He wondered what had become of Leaf and Red Ear – or Dead Ear, as he decided he would take to calling his hapless friend. Red Ear was supposed to be keeping watch while he and Leaf raided the farm. They were just done slaughtering the first lamb when someone raised the alarm. It turned out Red Ear was about as useless a sentry as he was a cook. How he’d survived in Skarn’s gang as long as he had was anyone’s guess.

  The trees finally parted. He could see the river now. Once he was across the Icemelt’s surface the stubborn bastards would surely admit defeat. He ran on, rapid breaths throwing up clouds of mist – but approaching the bank he realized he had things all wrong. The Icemelt had yet to fully freeze over. Massive chunks of ice churned in the surging rapids, grinding together with enough force to crush a man to pulp. There wasn’t a chance in hell of swimming across that raging deluge.

  Listening for the sounds of the chase, he swerved, intending to head downstream and circle back into the forest.

  Two men emerged from the trees, blocking his path.

  ‘You’ve gone far enough, boy.’ The nearest of the pair was panting, but there was no mistaking the grim resolve in his voice. Nor the glitter of cold steel at his waist.

  He didn’t waste time replying. Instead he dashed forward and drove his forehead into the speaker’s face. He h
eard bone crack, felt cartilage break beneath the force of the blow. He spun immediately, shrugged the lamb off his shoulder and raised it as a makeshift shield. The other man’s sword thrust wedged in the animal’s flank, and his assailant’s surprise lasted just long enough for him to get in three quick blows, dropping his opponent to the ground.

  He retrieved the lamb and was tugging the sword free when someone barrelled into him from behind, knocking him down and sending both the sword and the abused carcass flying from his grasp.

  He twisted around to grab the newcomer. This one was a real piece of work, as tall as he was and a good bit heavier. Though he’d always been unusually strong for his age he couldn’t get the bastard pinned down for a solid hit. He took a glancing blow to the mouth and spat out blood. The other man grabbed him in a headlock and forced him down. He pushed back desperately and narrowly avoided getting his skull dashed against a rock.

  He lost all sense of time as he struggled with the big Easterman. A minute or an hour might have passed as they battered each other on the bank of the river, neither able to get the upper hand. Finally they broke apart and his opponent stepped back, breathing hard.

  Slowly he became aware they were being watched and he turned. Half a dozen faces stared back. One he knew well, beneath the bruises that had turned his boyish features into a discoloured mess. Leaf.

  One of the men held a long dagger at Leaf’s throat. Two others had arrows nocked and drawn. The meanest-looking shook his head and spat on the snow. ‘Where the rest of you hidin’?

  ‘The rest of us?’ He knew whom the man referred to, or reckoned he did. And if that was the case, he was as good as dead.

  ‘Your gang. Been raiding the settlements near the Borderland for the last year. Left a family murdered in their beds, mother and children and all.’

  The memory made him wince. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and examined the bloody smear it left. He glanced up. The sky had grown dark as an old bruise.

  ‘I’m waiting for an answer, boy.’

  He narrowed his eyes and stared at the dead lamb lying skewered by the side of the river. ‘It wasn’t me what did that. Nor Leaf nor Red Ear.’

  ‘You gonna tell me the three of you split from the group when it started killing folk?’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  The leader of the Eastermen spat again. ‘We’ll do this the hard way then.’ He gestured at the man holding Leaf. ‘Drown him in the river. Slowly, mind. Give our friend here time to ponder whether there’s anything he should be telling us.’

  Leaf began to struggle as he was dragged to the river. His friend was little more than a child in truth, and his efforts to wriggle free were hard to watch, but he didn’t turn away. Not even as Leaf’s head was forced under the churning water.

  ‘How old are you?’ the leader asked, once Leaf’s head was dragged back up again.

  ‘Sixteen,’ he replied. He could see Leaf’s teeth chattering uncontrollably. The wiry youngster was struggling to catch his breath and his skin had turned a nasty shade of blue.

  ‘Huh. Hardly more than a boy and yet you knocked two of my men senseless. Butchering that woman and her kids must’ve been easy work.’

  He was growing angry now. ‘I told you – we didn’t do it! All we ever did was steal some livestock. We left Skarn and the others before they reached Eastmeet.’

  Leaf went into the water again. When he came back up his eyes had rolled back in their sockets. He wasn’t struggling any more.

  The leader gestured at the limp figure. ‘He’s done. Finish him and throw the body in the river.’

  Rage surged through him. He liked Leaf, who was smart and had a cheerful nature despite the fact he’d cut his uncle’s throat rather than spend another night in his bed. Leaf had watched out for him when he had joined Skarn’s gang; saved him from a bloody confrontation or two when his pride wouldn’t let him back down.

  ‘You drown him and I’ll kill you.’

  The men with bows shifted slightly, their arrows nocked and ready to loose. Their leader gave an ugly little chuckle and nodded at the man holding Leaf. ‘Drown him.’

  He charged.

  The next thing he knew he was lying on the ground, staring up at the leaden sky. Snowflakes fluttered down to melt on his face. He reached for his knee and felt the arrow protruding there. A face loomed over him.

  ‘That was stupid. Brave, but stupid. Men!’

  He felt himself being dragged across the snow towards the sound of rushing water. They turned him roughly and held him out over the river. He stared out across the Icemelt, watching as Leaf’s body twisted and spun like its namesake before it finally went under. Then someone took hold of his hair and his head was pushed down, down towards that freezing maelstrom of ice...

  ‘Wait.’

  His would-be executioners hesitated and his head came to a halt an inch above the water. He stared into its savage depths.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked the voice. It was deep and powerful and sounded like it was directed at him. He turned his head a fraction and saw the speaker was the big bastard he had fought earlier.

  ‘What does it matter?’ The leader was clearly annoyed. ‘He’s a brigand. Kill him and be done with it.’

  ‘The boy’s got fire in him. Fire and steel. We could forge him into something with purpose. The spirits know we need fighting men at the Keep.’

  ‘He’s a cold-blooded killer. A child murderer. Besides, he’s just taken an arrow in the knee. Few ever recover from a wound like that.’

  There was a brief silence. He held his breath, the roar of the Icemelt raging below him.

  A strong hand pulled him up, almost gently, and turned him around. ‘I’ve never met a boy who put up as much fight as you did. Especially not half-starved. I’ll ask again: What’s your name, lad?’

  He stared back at his saviour. The man’s face carried a few minor injuries from their earlier struggle, but his eyes betrayed no malice or anger. Only a certain curiosity.

  ‘My name...’ he said slowly, trying not to pass out from the pain. He blinked snow from his eyes. ‘My name...’ he said again.

  ‘... is Kayne.’ [GdM]

  The Knife of Many Hands

  A Second Apocalypse Story

  Part II

  R. Scott Bakker

  The Knife of Many Hands Part I was published in Grimdark Magazine #2.

  The Soul has a thousand directions, the World one.

  –antique Nilnameshi proverb

  High Spring, 3801, Year-of-the-Tusk, Carythusal...

  Monstrous dreams.

  His face burned for the inferno, the great temples imploding about smoke...

  The bodies burning like sacks of pitch.

  Then... hard ground against a jaw of plaster. A web of sunlight cast across glimpses of gloom. A gaggle of nearby voices across the throb of thousands...

  A market somewhere? One of the greater avenues?

  The most violent Son of Wiglic squinted against the brilliance, raised a great hand to obstruct it. He spat an unholy taste from his mouth. Sulphur lingered in lieu of memory.

  What had happened?

  They had dumped him in an alleyway, he realized. ‘Earth and muck...’ he growled thrusting himself to uncertain feet. He leaned against a blackened wall to gather his wind, legs, and wits. He was relieved to find his gear and his body intact. Even his broadsword, Vampire, hung from his hip. The pommel looked scorched, but the edge was as keen as always.

  He staggered to the mouth of the alley, blinked across the crowded thoroughfare. The heat was sweltering, at one with the urban clamour. The Kiro-Gierran temple complex rose over the colourful current and countercurrent of passersby. Dozens of temple-prostitutes languished across the monumental stair, gossiping behind demure hands, naked beneath sheer black habits. He was on the far side of the River Sayut, in the Mim-Paresh quarter, where the residents could afford to worship Gierra an
d—most importantly—where unconscious warriors could expect to awake. Thieves would be hawking morsels of his flesh by now, were this the Worm.

  His musculature hummed for exhaustion. His joints ached. His wrists and ankles stung for the skin his struggles had stripped from them. His thoughts roiled. The Spires! Shinurta—the fat-headed Grandmaster himself!—had interrogated him. Eryelk had been abducted by a School, the worst of them, then released like a fish fat with roe. He knew Stitti would advise him to run, to put as much distance between him and the devil-mongers as he could. Forget all delusions of honour and pride, he would say. Earth and muck, boy! Drink and whores were cheaper medicine than vengeance. Cheaper by far.

  But he was Holca still, and it rankled, the indignities he had suffered—the outrage of being chained naked!

  Never had he endured such... humiliation...

  Boma-bom.

  Never!

  And there was something else... an ache or horror... something that pitched and yawed within him, an inner vertigo that became more distinct as the mist rose from his senses and his reflexes. They had stained him, somehow, polluted him with their wicked craft–he could feel it!

  He was lurching down the street before he realized what he was doing. Stalls lined the street opposite the Temple of Desire, and he wasn’t long in finding a coppery. He swatted aside the cringing proprietor, seized the largest plate sporting the finest polish. The work was crude, his image was smeared, puckered about dimples, but even still, it was clean, uncorrupted, untouched by the nauseous wrongness of sorcery’s telltale Mark.