Guest Post: “Saying Goodbye” by Tom Pollock

August 1, 2014 Civilian Reader Guest Post Jo Fletcher Books, Urban Fantasy, YA

So that’s it then, it’s done.

It’s a strange thing, finishing a trilogy. It comes with a sense of dislocation. I’ve spent the last five years – a sixth of my life – in a dream world: a London where the streets are lit by glass-skinned dancers with phosphorescent blood, and where the statues conceal a priesthood entombed by their Goddess in stone and bronze as a punishment, a London where the scaffolding can slide from the face of a building, rearticulate itself into a snapping, snarling steel wolf, and pounce.

It’s not letting go of the world that’s the strangest thing, though it’s letting go of the people. Because I’ve also spent the last five years in the heads of two teenaged girls. I’ve done my best to feel what they felt as they fell in love, and fought with their friends and were kidnapped by sentient barbed-wire parasites and took on the powers of urban gods. I’ve pretzel-twisted my thoughts into the shapes of theirs. To put it simply, within the bone enclosure of my skull, I’ve been them. And it’s been a trip.

I am little sceptical of the claim that writing is ‘hard.’ I mean, it is, but so is everything. By nature, I’m a monkey that wants to sit in the sun and eat bananas and unselfconsciously scratch unsociable parts of myself when they itch and… that’s it. There is no deviation from that state of simian bliss that doesn’t count as hard for me. However I’m pretty sure writing doesn’t compare to the difficulty, and let’s be honest – the courage – of doing something really difficult, like farming, or teaching or soldiering or midwifery

Still, it’s not all been fun and games and hijinks with blood-chilling monsters. Side effects of fantasy writing may include: fever, cramps, dizziness (from lack of sleep), diahorrea (verbal, about your book, which when it’s half-conceived no one else cares about), hallucinations, an inability to talk in complete sentences and the growing worry that you may not in fact be human.

That last comes from core activity of writing: grubbing around inside yourself for the truest and most important and most human thing you can lay your hands on and putting it on the page, and then showing it to other people. Because there’s a very real possibility they’ll look at that page and say ‘nope, doesn’t seem human to me’ and then what do you do? Like a lot of writers my ego is the size of the Yukon but has the damage resisting qualities of a Kleenex caught outside on a stormy day, and I think that would have felt like the most undeniable judgment, a kind of reverse Turing test, a double-blind, clinical trial of my soul.

Until now, that was the scariest thing about writing, but now I’ve got something to top it: letting go. I need to stop being these people now, and make up someone else to be. After five years, I won’t lie, that’s a little intimidating.

I’ll do it though. I have to. I’ll put one sentence in front of another until I’m back gibbering incoherent bits of plot to innocent tourists who stop me on the tube to ask for directions. You know, back to normal.

It’s either that or learn to be a teacher, or a soldier, or a midwife. And you know what? I’m not sure I’m up to that.

***

Inventor of monsters, hugger of bears, Tom Pollock is the author of the Skyscraper Thrones series – The City’s Son (shortlisted for the Kitschies Golden Tentacle); The Glass Republic (shortlisted for the British Fantasy Award); and Our Lady of the Streets, which is out in August. All three are published by Jo Fletcher Books in the UK. The City’s Son is also published in the US by Flux Books (cover below).

For news on Tom’s novels and next projects, be sure to check out his blog and the Skyscraper Throne website, and follow him on Twitter. AND, if you’re in London, be sure to go to Tom’s signing at Forbidden Planet, on August 7th.

Excerpt: OUR LADY OF THE STREETS by Tom Pollock (Jo Fletcher Books)

July 28, 2014 Civilian Reader Excerpt Jo Fletcher Books, London, Urban Fantasy

I. THE FEVER STREETS

Chapter One

A girl hurried barefoot through the streets of what had once been East London.

She stumbled, clumsy in her haste, and caught herself with the iron railing she carried in her right hand. Her skin was covered in scales of tiny terracotta rooftops. A fringe of rubberised cable fell across her forehead from under the hood of her sweatshirt. The hair-fi ne streets that crisscrossed her back were flooded with oily sweat. As she ran, her shadow loomed and shambled in front of her, stretched by the dawn.

Beth could barely keep her eyes open. Hunger, exhaustion and week after week of pretending to be fi ne had hollowed her out. She licked her dry lips. She could sense the pulse of the street under her, but instead of slapping her soles flat to the pavement and replenishing herself from that tantalising thrum of energy, she ran on tiptoes like she was trying to avoid broken glass. She looked up at where the houses had used to be and swallowed fearfully. Hungry as she was, she didn’t dare feed here.

Brick terraces rose on both sides of her, their façades unbroken but for the zigzag of mortar: no windows, no doors. Gravel paths led through the overgrown front gardens to dead-end against the featureless walls. No one knew exactly when Hackney had fallen to the Blank Streets, or how many people had been trapped in their homes when all the entrances and exits had suddenly vanished. Beth had heard rumours of fat beads of blood rolling down the cracks between bricks like marbles through children’s toy mazes, but she’d never witnessed it. All she knew for certain was what everyone knew: the cries for help had fallen silent quickly – far too quickly for those entombed inside to have starved to death.

Oscar, nestled in her hood, growled and curled tighter into her neck.

I hear you, little buddy, she thought. She reached back into her hood and let the little lizard lick her fingertips. I hear you.

She paused at the end of the street and bent double. Her breath sawed in and out of her lungs, rattling like a troubled engine. Get a grip, she ordered herself. She straightened slowly, feeling the steel hinges in her vertebrae click into place.

She heard a noise and froze.

It was very faint, like a shoe-scuff, but the city was all but silent now and such small sounds carried. She felt a brief impulse to open herself up to the street, to push her consciousness into the asphalt and feel what it felt – but she held back, eyeing the windowless walls. On these streets, she didn’t know what might push back into her. She imagined her eyes, nose, mouth, ears, even her pores, sealing over with the same seamless brick and shuddered.

She inhaled deeply and all the minuscule lights that dotted the city on her skin flared in response to the fresh oxygen.

Thames, she whispered inside her head, please, dear Christ, let me be in time.

She turned the corner – and stared.

If her voice had still belonged to her, she would have laughed, but instead she just stood there in silence, her mouth open, while her chest heaved and her jaw ached.

Garner Street, the road where she’d lived all her life until three months ago, had been spared.

She stumped towards number 18 in a relieved daze. Wilting plants and dead bracken blocked the gate from opening more than a few inches, but she knew that gap well and squeezed through it with ease. Chapped paint surrounded a letterbox with so fierce a spring that when she was a kid she’d imagined it was the snapping jaws of a brass wolf.

She smiled to herself. Back when we had to pretend.

The place looked the same as always, the same as it had the night she’d fled it: the night Mater Viae returned.

She relived it between eye-blinks: the blue glare from the blazing Sewermanders reflecting off the walls; the stink of burning methane and wet cement; the terrified faces of London’s Masonry Men pressing out of the brickwork, their mouths silently shaping pleas for help. The walls had rippled as Mater Viae’s clayling soldiers swarmed under them, clamping red hands over those screaming mouths and pulling them back beneath the surface; the Sodiumites had fled their bulbs in bright panic, leaving darkness and silence in their wake when everything passed on.

And the cranes…

A spindly shape caught her eye and she looked up. A crane loomed over the tiled roofs at the far end of the street. It was stock-still.

If you’re looking for something to be grateful for, Beth, she told herself, there’s always that.

When Mater Viae first stepped through the mirror, the cranes had started to move. For three days and three nights they’d torn at the flesh of the city, but then, as suddenly as they’d woken, they’d stopped, fallen silent. Not a single crane had moved since. No one knew why, but it was the smallest of small mercies, and Beth wasn’t complaining.

She fumbled in the pocket of her hoodie, but came up empty.

You’ve got to be kidding me. What kind of Street Goddess locks herself out of her own damn house?

Lizard claws pricked their way down her arm and Oscar appeared on her hand, growling at her questioningly. Beth sighed and nodded; the Sewermander rolled an eye and moved towards the lock. There was a faint hiss from inside the house, from the direction of the kitchen. Beth smelled gas.

Oscar’s tongue flicked out. Blue flame flared in the keyhole and with a snap-sizzle the lock vanished and was replaced by smoke, charred wood and a hole two inches across. Beth stroked the back of Oscar’s head and he let out a self-satisfied purr.

Ah, the Sewer Dragon. What self-respecting burglar would be seen without one?

She pushed inside and let her feet settle flat on the carpet. For a moment she swayed in place, stretching her feet, wiggling her toes and relishing the return of her balance as the tension ran out of her insteps. The place smelled of dust and next door’s interloping cat.

The house felt smaller than it had when she’d left it, like a three-quarter-scale mock-up for a film set. She hurried up the stairs, passing photos of her mum and dad and herself as a kid. She trailed her tile-clad fingertips across them as she passed, but she didn’t look at them.

A cobweb stretched across the doorway to her room and she broke it like a finishing-line tape. A sunbeam shone in through the skylight. Old sketches were strewn all over the floor. She accidentally kicked a mug over, and cold, mouldskinned tea crept over a half-finished flamenco dancer with swirling charcoal galaxies for eyes.

She yanked her wardrobe open, shovelled armfuls of clothes out of the way and pulled out a battered Crayola carry-case. Over the years that yellow plastic box had held her diaries, her love letters (both the ones she’d received and the ones she hadn’t had the guts to send; sadly, they were seldom to the same boys), condoms, a handful of razor blades and her first-ever eighth of ganja, still wrapped in cellophane: everything she’d ever been scared of her dad finding.

She snapped the clasps and tipped out the current contents – a round-bottomed chemical flask and a yellowing paperback novel – onto the bed. She picked up the book and turned it over. The cover had fallen off and the pages had the texture of ash. The Iron Condor Mystery: she’d locked it away in her box the day after Dad gave it to her. She remembered her mum leafing through it when she was alive, and her dad obsessively doing the same after her death. She ran her thumb delicately along the spine, then pulled her hand back like she’d been burned.

Even after the cranes and the trains and the metal wolves, even after the chemicals had changed her skin to concrete and her sweat to oil, Beth feared the traces this book had left on her heart. She stuffed it into her back pocket and turned to the flask. The liquid inside it glimmered like mercury and reflected the green light of Beth’s eyes back at her as it clung to the inside of the glass. A label taped to it read: Childhood outlooks, proclivities and memories: traumatic and unusual. Dilute as required.

She pulled the label off and turned it around. The words were written on the back of a sepia photo of a boy with messy hair and a cocky smile.

So here we are, Petrol-Sweat. Beth looked from the photo to the room and back again. With everything we used to be.

She lifted the bottle and peered into her reflection in the glass. And here’s what I am now. What you made me. She felt a dull ache set into her forearm from the simple act of holding up the flask. A drop of sweat fell from her brow and stained the duvet black.

But did you know any way to save me from it?

‘That him?’

Beth looked up sharply. The skylight was open and a girl in a black headscarf was looking in, her chin resting on folded arms. The scars on her brown skin bracketed her mouth as she smiled, a smile Beth returned with an openmouthed stare.

‘Anyone else, I’d say this was an awkward silence,’ Pen said. ‘But since it’s you, I’ll let it pass.’ She swung her legs in through the window and dropped into the room.

Recovering herself, Beth rummaged in her pocket for her marker pen and grabbed a scrap of paper from the floor.

Told you to wait back at Withersham, she scrawled on the back of it. Her surprise made the words jagged. Blank Streets, fever Streets. Not safe here.

Pen lifted her scarred chin the way she always did when Beth implied she couldn’t take care of herself. ‘Chill, B. I came over the rooftops. The tiles aren’t deadly yet, far as we know, anyway. Besides, you were taking so long – I got worried.’ She frowned, puzzled. ‘What gives? I covered the distance here in forty-five minutes, which means you could have run it less than five. But you’ve been gone more than an hour. What happened?’

Beth swallowed, her rough tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth as she wrote her reply. Being careful. Masonry Men at junction with Shakespeare Ave. Didn’t know whose side they were on.

She passed the note over, watching Pen carefully. One advantage of losing your voice, she thought to herself. Lies go over easier on paper.

Pen’s frown deepened. She sat on the end of Beth’s bed, crossed her legs under her and started drumming her palms against her kneecaps. ‘Weird being back in this room after all the nights we spent sitting up in it,’ she said. ‘You remember the very first time? When we were bitching about Gwen Hardy? I was so worried you’d tell her I could barely get the words out.’ She laughed and showed the scarred back of her hand to Beth. ‘It felt like the riskiest thing I’d ever do.’

Beth smiled carefully, keeping her church-spire teeth hidden behind her lips. She went to sit beside Pen.

‘You miss it?’ Pen asked. ‘Talking like that?’ She paused, but Beth made no move towards her paper. Pen started to pick at the cuticles on her hands, peeling the skin back from around her nails like pencil shavings.

Quickly, Beth put a hand over hers to stop that little self-demolition. She mouthed, What is it?

Pen looked right into her eyes. Beth could see the green glow from her own gaze fill her friend’s eye sockets. ‘Could you use your other voice, B?’ Pen asked quietly. ‘Your new one? I miss hearing you talk back.’

Beth hesitated, but then she opened her hands in front of her. The lines in her palms were streets, dark canyons between miniature rooftops. As she concentrated, tiny lights began to traverse them: the wash of headlights from invisible cars. She heard the growl of their engines and the faint protest of their horns. Water gurgled through turbines on her shoulder. A train rattled over tracks near her heart.

The sounds were faint, but if you knew how to listen, you could hear words in the edges of them where they blended into one another: a precise and literal body language.

‘What’s wrong, Pen?’ Beth asked.

Pen sighed. ‘Glas sent a pigeon,’ she said. ‘She found my parents.’

Beth started forward in concern. ‘Thames! Are they okay? Are they—?’

‘They’re alive,’ Pen said. ‘They’re not hurt. They made it to the evacuation helicopter when Dalston fell – they manage to dodge the Sewermanders and get out. They’re staying in Birmingham right now—’

‘Pen! That’s grea—’

‘—with Aunt Soraya.’

Beth sat back. ‘Oh.’

‘Yes.’

‘Your favourite Aunt Soraya? The one whose house I stayed at?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘The one with pictures of you up all along her hall? The one who named her cat after you?’

‘Yeah. Can’t imagine that was awkward when my folks turned up, what with them not even remembering I exist.’

‘Pen, I—’

‘I did that to them, B,’ Pen cut her off, her voice still quiet but stony, matter-of-fact, brooking no argument. She kept her eye on the shred of skin she was flicking on her thumb. ‘I was the most important thing in their lives and I stole myself from them.’ Her gaze fell on the bottle of Fil’s memories. ‘Just like that. I thought that what they couldn’t remember couldn’t hurt them, but damn, it’s hurting them now.

‘Glas had her bird sit right on the window ledge. It listened in to a whole conversation. You’d be amazed how many words that trash-spirit has to use to say, “You’ve made your parents think they’re crazy.” when she’s trying to be nice about it.’ She sniffed like she’d been crying, though no tears had fallen, and rubbed the sleeve of her jacket across her eyes.

After a moment she continued, ‘Anyway, Glas just told me, and since we were here anyway, it felt kind of appropriate to tell you here, for old time’s sake, you know?’

Beth nodded, but she couldn’t hold her friend’s gaze so she studied the swallow pattern on her duvet cover instead.

‘B?’

Beth didn’t look up.

‘Is there anything you want to talk about?’

Beth stilled her shaking right hand by making a fist.

For old time’s sake, she thought. Her old backpack was tucked under her desk, stuffed with aerosol cans and stencils and markers. The smile she gave Pen was almost shy. ‘You feeling inspired, Pen?’

Pen returned the smile, stood up and stretched. ‘I think I might have some game, sure.’

***

Tom Pollock’s OUR LADY OF THE STREETS is the third novel in his Skyscraper Throne series, and will be published in the UK by Jo Fletcher Books on August 7th, 2014. The series also includes The City’s Son and The Glass Republic.

Upcoming: GLEAM by Tom Fletcher (Jo Fletcher Books)

July 24, 2014 Civilian Reader Uncategorized Fantasy, Jo Fletcher Books, Sci-Fi, Upcoming

Now this sounds pretty interesting. Don’t know much about the novel or the author, but it caught my eye earlier today (when I received a press release about it…). I do know it’s the first in a new trilogy. Here’s the synopsis:

The gargantuan Factory of Gleam is an ancient, hulking edifice of stone, metal and glass ruled over by chaste alchemists and astronomer priests.

As millennia have passed, the population has decreased, and now only the central district is fully inhabited and operational; the outskirts have been left for the wilderness to reclaim. This decaying, lawless zone is the Discard; the home of Wild Alan.

Clever, arrogant, and perpetually angry, Wild Alan is both loved and loathed by the Discard’s misfits. He’s convinced that the Gleam authorities were behind the disaster that killed his parents and his ambition is to prove it. But he’s about to uncover more than he bargained for.

Tom Fletcher’s Gleam is due to be published by Jo Fletcher Books in the UK, on September 4th, 2014. Fletcher is also the author of The Thing on the Shore, The Leaping, and The Ravenglass Eye. The author is also on Twitter.

Guest Post: “Whosoever touches the Tarot of Eternity…” by Rachel Pollack

July 4, 2014 Civilian Reader Guest Post Fantasy, Jo Fletcher Books, Supernatural

THE USE OF TAROT CARDS IN THE CHILD EATER

Tarot cards appear in my novel, The Child Eater, in a number of ways, in particular a mysterious pack called the Tarot Of Eternity. In the story, the original has been lost for many centuries, so that the pack is known only through “a copy of a copy,” or even “a copy of a copy of a copy.” At the same time, the pack is seen as so significant that even these copies several times removed, but hand-created by magicians, have great power.

The book moves back and forth between two worlds, the first a medieval-style land ruled by wizards, the second a contemporary small city America. In the medieval world, an abused boy named Matyas runs away from his violent father to study magic. In the second, a lonely boy named Simon Wisdom desperately tries to suppress his deep psychic abilities, partly because he knows that no one likes him “reading” their minds, and more, because they bring him terrifying visions—dead children begging him for help, severed heads that live on in pain, and a gray man with an ancient stone knife. Matyas has similar visions, and he too does his best to forget them.

What bridges the two worlds, or rather crosses between them, is the Tarot of Eternity.

This use of the Tarot is not what many people expect when Tarot cards appear in a story. The pack in the novel has almost nothing to do with fortune-telling. There is a point in Simon’s story where a girl brings a set of Tarot cards to school and announces she will “read” everyone’s future. Simon is contemptuous. He can just see the future—though he tries not to—what does he care about some dumb deck of cards? Later, Simon discovers a set of Tarot that the reader suspects may in fact be the Tarot Of Eternity (or at least a copy of a copy), but he does not even consider using them for divination. It’s not the future Simon seeks, but a refuge—doorways to worlds where he might escape the severed heads of children begging for help.

Matyas too seeks something when he encounters the cards. He has seen a man fly, and even though everyone, including his teacher and all the other wizards, tell him it cannot be done, he believes that he is destined to do it, if only he can find the secret. He tries to find it in the cards only to discover that for him, all roads lead to the man with the stone knife.

Readers who only know of the Tarot as a tool for divination may find these more fantastic uses of the cards as far afield from what they expect. In fact, the idea that the Tarot contains mystical power completely separate from any psychic function is deeply rooted in Tarot tradition. At least, in the occult Tarot tradition, since 1781.

First, a bit of history. The Tarot was not created for fortune-telling. In fact, there is no documented use of the Tarot as a divinatory tool until after 1781 (more about that date in a moment). Extensive research over the past thirty or so years has demonstrated that the Tarot began its life in Northern Italy around 1430, as a card game called at first Il Trionfii (The Triumphs, or Trumps), and later, Tarocchi, which the French shortened to “Les Tarots.” The various titles refer to the pack’s unique feature, an extra suit of elaborately painted images, some secular (an Emperor and Empress), some moralistic (virtues such as Justice and Fortitude), and some religious (a Pope, various angels). In Tarocchi these cards will triumph over the regular suit cards.

The first known use of the Tarot not as a game—only a few years after the earliest packs—was as inspiration for poetry. People in salons would make up poems about the figures in the cards, but everybody knew they would be satires on people at court.

So what happened in 1781? A pair of French occult scholars set forth a daring idea. Antoine Court de Gébelin and Comte de Mellet announced that the Tarot, assumed to be a trivial game, was in fact the coded wisdom of Ancient Egypt, disguised as a game so that it might survive the Dark Ages of ignorance until it might be discovered by the sages of the future—that is, Court de Gébelin and de Mellet.

From a strict historical perspective this was wrong, both about the cards and about Egypt, but it didn’t matter. A new myth had taken hold, what we might call the Tarot’s secret origin. For the next 200+ years people would argue about which great secrets the cards concealed, but never about the basic idea. In The Child Eater the Tarot of Eternity draws on the secret origin idea but in fact goes further, suggesting that the Tarot was involved in creation itself.

One of the major influences on the novel is Jewish myth and folklore, in particular several Talmudic and medieval tales. The terrible ritual in the center of the novel, the reason for the Child Eater’s actions, derives from a bizarre belief that an evil magician can lure away a boy just before his bar mitzvah, kill him, and keep his head alive as a tool to…predict the future. In my story the heads of the murdered children serve a different purpose entirely. Perhaps I unconsciously wanted to divorce Tarot from its assumed purpose in order to re-create it.

Possibly the most daring use of Tarot in the book also comes from Jewish myth. The rabbinic tradition sees the Five Books of Moses, the Torah, as more than just a sacred text. Some say that before God created the universe, S/He (yes, the Jewish God is hermaphroditic; this too is an ancient Talmudic idea) created the Torah. Then God consulted the Torah on how to make a universe!

This idea has fascinated me for many years, only, instead of the Torah I imagine the Tarot, that is, that God created the Tarot before the universe. This is not meant as a serious suggestion, but as a way to open our minds. I once did a reading in which I asked the cards “Show me the reading you gave God to create the universe.” (It appears in a book titled The Forest Of Souls). The same idea occurs in the novel.

There is another power in the cards that is unique to this book. The first time Matyas encounters the Tarot, or rather, a copy of a copy of a copy, the old wizard who lets him see them says a very strange thing, an ancient saying about the original. “Whosoever touches the Tarot Of Eternity, he shall be healed of all his crimes.” Matyas will not understand this until the very end of the book.

***

Rachel Pollack’s The Child Eater was published by Jo Fletcher Books last week.

Also on CR: Interview with Rachel Pollack

An Interview with RACHEL POLLACK

June 25, 2014 Civilian Reader Interview Fantasy, Jo Fletcher Books

Let’s start with an introduction: Who is Rachel Pollack?

I’m a 68 year old writer living in the Hudson Valley of New York, after 19 years living in Europe primarily Amsterdam. THE CHILD EATER is my 36th book, coming right on the heels of 35, a non-fiction guide to a new oracle card deck, called The Burning Serpent, conceived and developed with artist Robert M. Place. This is fitting, since my first novel, Golden Vanity, was published at the same time, summer of 1980 as my first Tarot book, 78 Degrees of Wisdom. Golden Vanity is available now from Gollancz as an e-book (along with all my previous SF books), but otherwise long out of print. 78 Degrees has never been out of print, and is sold all around the world. My novel Unquenchable Fire won the Arthur C. Clarke Award, while Godmother Night won the World Fantasy Award. Temporary Agency was short-listed for the Nebula. I’ve published seven novels, plus two collections of short stories, one of reprints and one of all-new stories. I’ve also had a chapbook of poetry published, and created a Tarot deck, The Shining Tribe, drawing all the cards myself. A few years ago I co-translated the ancient Greek play Oedipus Rex, working with a scholar of ancient languages named David Vine. Our version is called Tyrant Oidipous.

Your next novel, The Child Eater, is published in July by Jo Fletcher Books. How would you introduce the novel to a new reader? Is it part of a series?

THE CHILD EATER moves back and forth between two worlds – a medieval style fantasy world dominated by powerful magicians, called Masters, and present-day small town America. In each, we find a boy enmeshed in magic. In the first, Matyas, poor and terribly abused by his father, runs away to become the greatest Master of his age, only to fall and become a helpless beggar who cannot even remember his own name. In the second, Simon Wisdom, son of a loving father, tries to suppress his powerful psychic abilities, knowing only that his father fears and hates them, and they seem to have killed his mother. What unites them – even though they will never know each other – is the terrifying figure of a gray man with an ancient stone knife. This is the Child Eater, who kills children and uses their heads in a ritual even the magicians have tried to banish from memory.

Though I found this world an incredibly rich place to explore and develop, I have no plans at the moment to make it a series. But now that I write this…

What inspired you to write the novel? And where do you draw your inspiration from in general?

The novel comes from the final two stories in my collection of original tales, The Tarot Of Perfection. They told the story of Matyas and Simon, but in a much simpler form. I kept thinking there was much more to these people, and these worlds that seemed so different and yet were entwined together. Beyond that immediate cause, the novel comes from my intense interest in magic, myth, and folklore of many cultures, most of all Jewish. For many years I have been fascinated by certain tales from the Talmud and the Middle Ages. In this case the seed story was a belief that magicians would cut off the heads of boys who were about to be bar mitzvahed and use them to gain secret knowledge. Another important source was an essay by Peter Lamborn Wilson about the 18th century French visionary Charles Fournier. Wilson’s descriptions gave me a sense of magic that was ecstatic and real, beyond spells and power. Almost my favorite scene in the book is the moment Matyas, still an apprentice, sees a vision of the greater cosmos, and all the wizards, and even the spirits, gather round him in awe.

How were you introduced to reading and genre fiction?

I loved fairy tales as a child (and still do), so it seemed a natural move to fantasy and science fiction. I remember reading anthologies like Big Book Of Science Fiction when I should have been sleeping, and giving 1, 2, or 3 checks to my favorite stories.

How do you enjoy being a writer and working within the publishing industry?

The industry is in a difficult state at the moment, which makes everything difficult, but the people I’ve worked with, particularly in the SF field, are a wonderful group – dedicated and enthusiastic.

Do you have any specific working, writing, researching practices?

Like many writers, I try to write 1,000 words a day. I write everything longhand and then type it into my computer for the second draft. I often write in cafes, or the library.

When did you realize you wanted to be an author, and what was your first foray into writing? Do you still look back on it fondly?

I began writing when I was about 7 or 8 years old. My family went on a trip and to keep me occupied my parents gave me a Big Eagle Tablet and a pencil. I promptly began a fantasy epic. It didn’t get very far but I kept writing. My first published story was “Pandora’s Bust” in Michael Moorcock’s New Worlds Quarterly. This was in 1971. Back then, of course, you had to include a return envelope for your manuscript if they rejected it, and I was so used to those large envelopes coming back that when I got a regular size envelope, with Michael Moorcock as the return envelope, I wondered why he would be writing to me. Then I realized and tore open the envelope.

What’s your opinion of the genre today, and where do you see your work fitting into it?

The genre seems to me to have opened up in some very exciting ways. There’s a new emphasis on wild and very speculative ideas. At the same time, characters are more vivid and real. It’s always hard to say where one’s own work fits in, but I’m definitely in the ideas camp, but also very much try to create characters who are real within their worlds.

What other projects are you working on, and what do you have currently in the pipeline?

Novels are often slow for me, but I’m currently writing a series of novellas about a kind of private eye shaman (called a Traveler) named Jack Shade. As with everything I do, I’ve been making up my own magical world and lore rather than, say, adapting some existing tradition.

[The first Jack Shade story – “Jack Shade in the Forest of Souls” – appeared in Fantasy & Science Fiction July/August 2012]

What are you reading at the moment (fiction, non-fiction)?

In non-fiction I’m reading an amazing collection of essays about magic – both stage magic and ritual/shamanic magic – called Magiculum. Possibly the best novel I’ve read in the past couple of years was Boneland, by Alan Garner. Remarkably, it was the third book in a trilogy, the first two of which were published fifty years ago. I just finished The Girl On The Road, by Monica Byrne, which I liked. Now I’m reading Lexicon, by Max Barry.

What’s something readers might be surprised to learn about you?

As well as writing my books longhand, I use antique fountain pens, some 100 years old.

What are you most looking forward to in the next twelve months?

First of all, the publication of THE CHILD EATER. Beyond that, I have a trip to Australia and China coming up that I’m very excited about.

Books Received…

June 8, 2014 Civilian Reader Comics Books Received, Fantasy, Gollancz, Jo Fletcher Books, Sci-Fi, Transworld

Featuring: Rachel Aaron, Tanya Huff, Charlie Human, John Hornor Jacobs, Matthew K. Manning, Rachel Pollack, Robert Rotstein, Kieran Shea, Taylor Stevens, Daniel Wallace

Rachel Aaron, Nice Dragons Finish Last

As the smallest dragon in the Heartstriker clan, Julius survives by a simple code: stay quiet, don’t cause trouble, and keep out of the way of bigger dragons. But this meek behavior doesn’t cut it in a family of ambitious predators, and his mother, Bethesda the Heartstriker, has finally reached the end of her patience.

Now, sealed in human form and banished to the DFZ – a vertical metropolis built on the ruins of Old Detroit – Julius has one month to prove to his mother that he can be a ruthless dragon or lose his true shape forever. But in a city of modern mages and vengeful spirits where dragons are seen as monsters to be exterminated, he’s going to need some serious help to survive this test.

He only hopes that humans are more trustworthy than dragons.

I am a big fan of Aaron’s writing – her Eli Monpress fantasy series and her new sci-fi trilogy, written under the pseudonym “Rachel Bach” were great, light-hearted examples of the genre. I do have some catching up to do, though. This novel, the first in a new urban fantasy series, will be self-published by the author. It sounds interesting, too. An interesting twist on some popular UF tropes. I’ll hopefully be reading this pretty soon.

Tanya Huff, The Truth of Valour (Titan)

Having left the Marine Corps, former Gunnery Sergeant Torin Kerr is attempting to build a new life with salvage operator Craig Ryder. Turns out, civilian life is a lot rougher than she’d imagined. Torin is left for dead when pirates attack their spaceship and take Craig prisoner. But “left for dead” has never stopped Torin. Determined to rescue Craig, she calls in her Marines. And that’s when her mission expands from stopping the pirates to changing the balance of power in known space.

The fifth book in the Confederation series! Review soon.

Also on CR: Reviews of Valour’s Choice, The Better Part of Valour, The Heart of Valour, and Valour’s Trial

Charlie Human, Kill Baxter (Century)

AND HE THOUGHT THE HARD PART WAS OVER…

The world has been massively unappreciative of sixteen-year-old Baxter Zevcenko. His bloodline may be a combination of ancient Boer mystic and giant shape-shifting crow, and he may have won an inter-dimensional battle and saved the world, but does anyone care? No.

Instead he’s packed off to Hexpoort, a magical training school that’s part reformatory, part military school, and just like Hogwarts (except with sex, drugs, and better internet access). The problem is that Baxter sucks at magic. He’s also desperately attempting to control his new ability to dreamwalk, all the while being singled out by the school’s resident bully, who just so happens to be the Chosen One.

But when the school comes under attack, Baxter needs to forget all that and step into action. The only way is joining forces with his favourite recovering alcoholic of a supernatural bounty hunter, Ronin, to try and save the world from the apocalypse. Again.

The anticipated follow-up to Apocalypse Now Now, I’ve been eagerly awaiting this. I think I’ll probably read it next, or next-but-one. Sounds fun.

John Hornor Jacobs, The Incorruptibles (Gollancz)

In the contested and unexplored territories at the edge of the Empire, a boat is making its laborious way upstream. Riding along the banks are the mercenaries hired to protect it – from raiders, bandits and, most of all, the stretchers, elf-like natives who kill any intruders into their territory. The mercenaries know this is dangerous, deadly work. But it is what they do.

In the boat the drunk governor of the territories and his sons and daughters make merry. They believe that their status makes them untouchable. They are wrong. And with them is a mysterious, beautiful young woman, who is the key to peace between warring nations and survival for the Empire. When a callow mercenary saves the life of the Governor on an ill-fated hunting party, the two groups are thrown together.

For Fisk and Shoe – two tough, honourable mercenaries surrounded by corruption, who know they can always and only rely on each other – their young companion appears to be playing with fire. The nobles have the power, and crossing them is always risky. And although love is a wonderful thing, sometimes the best decision is to walk away. Because no matter how untouchable or deadly you may be, the stretchers have other plans.

I’ve actually already finished this. It was very good. Review either tomorrow or Tuesday.

Matthew K. Manning, The World According to Wolverine (Bantam)

In The World According to Wolverine, Marvel Comics’ favorite stoic loner finally opens up on a range of topics that are close to his mutant heart. With helpful tips on everything from clawed combat to outdoor survival and dealing with the agony of adamantium implantation, this book will delight fans who want to learn how to be just like the headstrong hero. Also featuring Logan’s ruminations on an extremely long and checkered life, his global travels, and the art of picking the perfect partner, The World According to Wolverine will offer unparalleled insight into one of the most fascinating and mysterious characters in the Marvel Comics universe. The book will also come with a number of removable items, including a postcard from Madripoor, snapshots of Wolverine’s lost loves, a wanted poster for Dog Logan, an exclusive Wolverine poster, and much, much more.

I hadn’t been aware of this title (nor the Spider-Man one, below) before they arrived in the mail. I’ve had a flick through them both already, and I must say they’re rather fun. I’ll have them reviewed in the coming week.

Rachel Pollack, The Child Eater (Jo Fletcher Books)

On Earth, the Wisdom family has always striven to be more normal than normal. But Simon Wisdom, the youngest child, is far from normal: he can see the souls of the dead. And now the ghosts of children are begging him to help them, as they face something worse than death. The only problem is, he doesn’t know how.

In a far-away land of magic and legends, Matyas has dragged himself up from the gutter and inveigled his way into the Wizards’ college. In time, he will become more powerful than all of them – but will his quest blind him to the needs of others? For Matyas can also hear the children crying.

But neither can save the children alone, for the child eater is preying on two worlds…

This sounds pretty interesting. Another Wizards’ College novel, but I have always had something of a weakness for such novels. I’ll hopefully be getting to this soon.

Robert Rotstein, Reckless Disregard (Seventh Street)

Parker Stern’s last case was highly publicized, so it’s no surprise when he is asked to defend a video game designer in a libel suit brought by a Hollywood media mogul, who may also be a murderer.

Former topnotch attorney Parker Stern, still crippled by courtroom stage fright, takes on a dicey case for an elusive video game designer known to the world only by the name of “Poniard.” In Poniard’s blockbuster online video game, Abduction!, a real-life movie mogul is charged with kidnapping and murdering a beautiful actress who disappeared in the 1980s. Predictably, the mogul – William “the Conqueror” Bishop – has responded with a libel lawsuit. Now it’s up to Parker to defend the game designer in the suit.

In defending Poinard, Parker discovers that people aren’t who they claim to be and that nothing is as it seems. At one point, his client resorts to blackmail, threatening to expose a dark secret about Parker. Then, many of the potential witnesses who could have helped the case die prematurely, and the survivors are too frightened to talk. Parker begins to feel as if he’s merely a character in a video game, fighting malevolent Level Bosses who appear out of nowhere and threaten to destroy him.

Reckless Disregard explores the lure of celebrity, the limits of the legal system to get to the truth, and the elusive assumptions that we make about the people and the reality around us.

I haven’t read Rotstein’s first novel, but this sounds pretty interesting. I shall endeavour to get to it before I move to Canada (a point at which I am going to have to bid farewell to too many of my books, and begin the slow, laborious and expensive process of replacing ARCs with eBooks). It does sound really good, mind…

Kieran Shea, Koko Takes a Holiday (Titan)

Five hundred years from now, ex-corporate mercenary Koko Martstellar is swaggering through an easy early retirement as a brothel owner on The Sixty Islands, a manufactured tropical resort archipelago known for its sex and simulated violence. Surrounded by slang-drooling boywhores and synthetic komodo dragons, Koko finds the most challenging part of her day might be deciding on her next drink.

That is, until her old comrade Portia Delacompte sends a squad of security personnel to murder her.

I’ve dipped into this already, and I think it sounds pretty interesting and bonkers. It feels like ages ago, though, that I first heard about the novel. The book and one-sheet are covered in praise from other authors, many of whom I am already familiar with. I have high hopes for this.

Taylor Stevens, The Innocent (Arrow)

Eight years ago, a man walked five-year-old Hannah out the front doors of her school and spirited her over the Mexican border, taking her into the world of a cult known as The Chosen.

Now, after years of searching, childhood survivors of the group have found the girl in Argentina. But getting her out is a whole new challenge.

For the rescue they need someone who is brilliant, fearless and utterly ruthless.

They need Vanessa Michael Munroe.

Because the only way to get Hannah out is for Munroe to go in

This series has been described as being perfect “for fans of Lisbeth Salander, Jack Reacher and Jason Bourne”. That’s a pretty interesting selection, so I’m hoping to get to this soon. I’ve heard very good things, but have been oh-so-slow about getting around to reading anything by Stevens.

Also on CR: Interview with Taylor Stevens

Daniel Wallace, The World According to Spider-Man (Bantam)

It’s not easy being a Super Hero when you’ve got a steady job to hold down and girlfriend problems to deal with. Somehow, Peter Parker (aka Spider-Man) manages to do it while regularly saving New York City from a rogues’ gallery of super villains. In The World According to Spider-Man, the wisecracking hero spills the beans on how he balances his two lives and manages to keep his trademark sense of humor, even while he’s tangling with Doc Ock or the Green Goblin. The book comes with a wealth of incredible inserts, including clippings from the Daily Bugle, snapshots taken by Spidey on his adventures, a letter from Oscorp, a note from Mary Jane Watson, a page from Uncle Ben’s diary, schematics showing how the web-shooters work, and much, much more.

See my earlier comments, above, about The World According to Wolverine. Both of these Marvel characters are among my favourite from that publisher, so I’ve enjoyed the quick reads of them both already.

Guest Post: “‘Don’t Worry, It’s not My Blood’ – On Tough Guys” by Snorri Kristjansson

May 19, 2014 Civilian Reader Guest Post Jo Fletcher Books, Snorri Kristjansson, Vikings, Writing

At this moment in time, human interaction is very heavily coded. We learn from a tender age what’s good, bad, not allowed and WHY ARE YOU POOPING UNDER THE DINNER TABLE?! (Which is, in retrospect, also ‘bad’.) We can talk for a while about where our behaviour comes from – some say ‘nature’, some say ‘nurture’, some say ‘a very small shed in Hatfield’ – but there can be no doubt that at the moment we are animals with highly complex behavioural patterns that start with ideals at an early age.

Now, I am a ‘man’. My generously padded 6-foot frame gives it away, as does the beard and the deep voice. And as a ‘man’, I’ve lived with the ideal of the Tough Guy all my life. He is tall (usually), mysterious (sometimes) and handy in a scrap (always). The Tough Guy might not be best suited to navigating the treacherous waters of, say, office politics or teenage girl drama, but with every roll-back of learned behaviour, with every step backwards to the rule of might, the Tough Guy’s role increases. Basically, when the going gets tough I will happily take my big ol’ manly frame and hide in a very manly fashion behind a proper Tough Guy.

And if we were to start grouping and ranking Tough Guys, my ancestors the Vikings would be up there. In Viking times Tough Guy-ness was currency. It created your reputation, and your reputation made sure that people stayed the hell away from you and yours. Tough Guys survived, so becoming a Tough Guy was essential.

On the face of it, writing a whole book about Tough Guy Vikings could have been just grunting and snow. However, the Tough Guy act can be just that – an act. I was very interested in the genesis of the Tough Guys, the place they came from, and not least smashing them all together and seeing what happened.*

In the great debate on the one true way to write I fall mostly into the ‘Architect’ camp, looking down my nose from my Outline Tower at those madcap ‘Gardeners’ and their organic, story-growing ways. However, in writing Swords of Good Men I found that what did grow organically in my very heavily outlined story was the relationship between various Tough Guys. I found that it was a fairly egalitarian thing, too – if you could do the work and stand your ground, the Tough Guys didn’t care about nationality, gender or anything else.

I found out that the Tough Guy was simple – but he could be complex, too, and not necessarily just layered on top. Thinking back, some of them may be layered sideways. The Tough Guy could also just be a tool, in all senses of the word, and the Tough Guy could also be thoroughly unpleasant if he revelled a bit too much in his toughness. However, even the worst of the worst still had friendships and connections, and to my surprise the characters in Swords of Good Men became much more real than I had expected and possibly intended.**

However, I am nothing if not true to my roots. There are also punch-ups, punchlines and definitely a couple of Tough Guys who are too old for this shit – because writing tough guys is fun.

*Possibly somewhat predictably, a lot of death happened.
** Which was a kind of Lethal-Weapon-with-Swords kind of thing.

Snorri Kristjansson is the author of Swords of Good Men and the recently-released Blood Will Follow – both published in the UK by Jo Fletcher Books. Reviews coming soon!

Also on CR: Interview with Snorri Kristjansson, Excerpt of Blood Will Follow

Books Received…

May 14, 2014 Civilian Reader Uncategorized Books Received, DC Comics, Doubleday, Gollancz, Jo Fletcher Books, Orbit, Princeton University Press, Pyr Books, Quercus, Vertigo

Featuring: Kristen Britain, Brian Freeman, Christopher Galt, Nick Harkaway, Snorri Kristjansson, Ursula le Guin, Peter May, Karen Miller, Paul Sussman, Chris Willrich, & graphic novels

Kristen Britain, Mirror Sight (Gollancz)

Magic itself under threat – and the key to saving it lies far in the future…

Karigan G’ladheon is a Green Rider – a seasoned member of the royal messenger corps whose loyalty and her bravery have already been tested many times. And her final, explosive magical confrontation with Mornhavon the Black should have killed her.

But rather than finding death, and peace, Karigan wakes to a darkness deeper than night. The explosion has transported her somewhere – and into a sealed stone sarcophagus – and now she must escape, somehow, before the thinning air runs out and her mysterious tomb becomes her grave.

Where is she? Does a trap, laid by Mornhavon, lie beyond her prison? And if she can escape, will she find the world beyond the same – or has the magic taken her out of reach of her friends, home and King forever…?

That’s a nice cover. In fact, Gollancz have commissioned great covers for all of Britain’s novels. None of which, sadly, I have read… I’m not entirely sure if this is connected to her previous novels. It sounds interesting, but also not quite my preferred fantasy sub-genre. I may give it a try, but I’m afraid it’s not too high on my priority list. (If someone else would like to review it for CR, just get in touch.)

Brian Freeman, Season of Fear (Quercus)

Lake Wales, Central Florida. Ten years ago, a political fundraiser became a bloodbath when a hooded assassin carried out a savage public execution. Three men were massacred, casting a dark shadow over the Sunshine State.

A decade on, history is threatening to repeat itself. The widow of one victim, herself now running for governor, has received an anonymous threat – a newspaper clipping from that fateful day, along with the chilling words “I’m back.”

Florida detective Cab Bolton agrees to investigate the threat against this candidate, Diane Fairmont: an attractive politician who has a complicated history with Cab’s mother, Hollywood actress Tarla Bolton – and with Cab himself.

But by doing so, Cab is entering dangerous waters. Fairmont’s political party is itself swamped in secrecy – a fact that, unknown to Cab, has led one of its junior staff to start asking very sensitive questions about the death of a party employee.

Both Cab and this young researcher, Peach Piper, are digging up the kind of dirt that ten years can’t wash away. And as the powerful crosswinds of state politics swirl around Cab and Peach, and the threat of a tropical storm hangs over Florida, this whirlwind of pressure and chaos will ultimately unearth a poisonous conspiracy, and reawaken a killer who has lain dormant for a decade.

It’s been quite a while since I last read a novel by Brian Freeman (I read his debut and maybe a couple of others after that, but I forget). This sounded interesting, so I was rather glad to get it through NetGalley. Season of Fear is the sequel to The Bone House, and is published at the end of June 2014.

Christopher Galt, Biblical (Quercus)

An apocalyptic thriller on an epic scale that will make you question your own reality.

All around the world, people start to see things that aren’t there, that cannot be. Visions, ghosts, events from the past playing out in the present.

To start with, the visions are unremarkable: things misplaced in time and caught out of the corner of the eye; glimpses of long-dead family or friends. But, as time goes on, the visions become more sustained, more vivid, more widespread. More terrifying.

As the visions become truly apocalyptic, some turn to religion, others to science.

Only one man, driven by personal as well as professional reasons, is capable of finding the real truth. But the truth that psychiatrist John Macbeth uncovers is much, much bigger than either religion or science.

A truth so big it could cost him his sanity. And his life.

This just sounds pretty interesting. Hopefully soon. It is already out, too.

Nick Harkaway, Tigerman ()

Lester Ferris, sergeant of the British Army, is a good man in need of a rest. He’s spent a lot of his life being shot at, and Afghanistan was the last stop on his road to exhaustion. He has no family, he’s nearly forty and burned out and about to be retired.

The island of Mancreu is the ideal place for Lester to serve out his time. It’s a former British colony in legal limbo, soon to be destroyed because of its very special version of toxic pollution – a down-at-heel, mildly larcenous backwater. Of course, that also makes Mancreu perfect for shady business, hence the Black Fleet of illicit ships lurking in the bay: listening stations, offshore hospitals, money laundering operations, drug factories and deniable torture centres. None of which should be a problem, because Lester’s brief is to sit tight and turn a blind eye.

But Lester Ferris has made a friend: a brilliant, Internet-addled street kid with a comic-book fixation who will need a home when the island dies – who might, Lester hopes, become an adopted son. Now, as Mancreu’s small society tumbles into violence, the boy needs Lester to be more than just an observer.

In the name of paternal love, Lester Ferris will do almost anything. And he’s a soldier with a knack for bad places: “almost anything” could be a very great deal – even becoming some sort of hero. But this is Mancreu, and everything here is upside down. Just exactly what sort of hero will the boy need?

I’ve had rather mixed experiences with reading Harkaway’s fiction. He is undoudtedly talented, and can certain spin a fantastic yarn and phrase. It hasn’t always worked for me, but this novel I have very high hopes for. The premise just sounds really interesting. This is very high on my TBR mountain. Tigerman is published next week in the UK.

Snorri Kristjansson, Blood Will Follow (Jo Fletcher Books)

Ulfar Thormodsson and Audun Arngrimsson survived the battle for Stenvik, although at huge cost, for they have suffered much worse than heartbreak. They have lost the very thing that made them human: their mortality.

While Ulfar heads home, looking for the place where he thinks he will be safe, Audun runs south. But both men are about to discover that they cannot run away from themselves. For King Olav has left the conquered town of Stenvik in the hands of his lieutenant so he can journey north, following Valgard in the search for the source of the Vikings’ power.

And all the while older beings watch and wait, biding their time, for there are secrets yet to be discovered…

Vikings! I do like me some vikings. In fact, I’m about to embark on a bit of a vikings kick, so expect the first book in this series, Swords of Good Men, to be featured soon.

Also on CR: Interview with Snorri Kristjansson, Excerpt from Blood Will Follow

Ursula Le Guin, The Unreal and the Real (Gollancz)

The first volume of collected short stories by multiple award-winner Ursula K. Le Guin, selected by the author herself.

For over half a century, multiple award-winner Ursula K. Le Guin’s stories have shaped the way her readers see the world. Her work gives voice to the voiceless, hope to the outsider and speaks truth to power. Le Guin’s writing is witty, wise, both sly and forthright; she is a master craftswoman.

This two-volume selection of almost forty stories was made by Ursula Le Guin herself. The two volumes span the spectrum of fiction from realism through magical realism, satire, science fiction, surrealism, and fantasy.

WHERE ON EARTH focuses on Ursula Le Guin’s interest in realism and magic realism and includes 18 of her satirical, political and experimental earthbound stories. Highlights include World Fantasy and Hugo Award-winner “Buffalo Gals, Won’t You Come Out Tonight”, the rarely reprinted satirical short, “The Lost Children”, Jupiter Award-winner, “The Diary of the Rose” and the title story of her Pulitzer Prize finalist collection “Unlocking the Air”.

Sad to say, I haven’t read nearly enough of Le Guin’s work. This collection does look like a perfect introduction, though. Will probably read this over time, sprinkling parts of it between full-length novels.

Peter May, The Critic (Quercus)

GAILLAC, SOUTH-WEST FRANCE

A bottled-up secret

Gil Petty, America’s most celebrated wine critic, is found strung up in a vineyard, dressed in the ceremonial robes of the Order of the Divine Bottle and pickled in wine.

A code to crack

For forensic expert Enzo Macleod, the key to this unsolved murder lies in decoding Petty’s mysterious reviews – which could make or break a vineyard’s reputation.

A danger unleashed

Enzo finds that beneath the tranquil façade of French viticulture lurks a back-stabbing community riddled with rivalry – and someone who is ready to stop him even if they have to kill again.

The second novel featuring Enzo, and one I can’t wait to get around to.

Karen Miller, The Falcon Throne (Orbit)

NOBODY IS INNOCENT. EVERY CROWN IS TARNISHED.

A royal child, believed dead, sets his eyes on regaining his father’s stolen throne.

A bastard lord, uprising against his tyrant cousin, sheds more blood than he bargained for.

A duke’s widow, defending her daughter, defies the ambitious lord who’d control them both.

And two brothers, divided by ambition, will learn the true meaning of treachery.

All of this will come to pass, and the only certainty is that nothing will remain as it once was. As royal houses rise and fall, empires are reborn and friends become enemies, it becomes clear that much will be demanded of those who follow the path to power.

The start of a new series. Will hopefully get to this pretty soon. Sounds great.

Paul Sussman, The Final Testimony of Raphael Ignatius Phoenix (Doubleday)

“My name is Raphael Ignatius Phoenix and I am a hundred years old – or will be in ten days’ time, in the early hours of January 1st, 2000, when I kill myself…”

Raphael Ignatius Phoenix has had enough. Born at the beginning of the 20th century, he is determined to take his own life as the old millennium ends and the new one begins. But before he ends it all, he wants to get his affairs in order and put the record straight, and that includes making sense of his own long life – a life that spanned the century. He decides to write it all down and, eschewing the more usual method of pen and paper, begins to record his story on the walls of the isolated castle that is his final home. Beginning with a fateful first adventure with Emily, the childhood friend who would become his constant companion, Raphael remembers the multitude of experiences, the myriad encounters and, of course, the ten murders he committed along the way…

And so begins one man’s wholly unorthodox account of the twentieth century – or certainly his own riotous, often outrageous, somewhat unreliable and undoubtedly singular interpretation of it.

I had never heard of this novel, before it arrived this morning. Sussman also wrote a handful of international thrillers (e.g., The Lost Army of Cambyses and The Last Secret of the Temple). This is his final novel, though, as he sadly passed away in 2012. It sounds pretty interesting, too. Hopefully get to this soon. (I should probably be banned from writing that statement…) This novel is published on May 22nd in the UK.

Chris Willrich, The Silk Map (Pyr)

At the end of The Scroll of Years, the poet Persimmon Gaunt and her husband, the thief Imago Bone, had saved their child from evil forces at the price of trapping him within a pocket dimension. Now they will attempt what seems impossible; they will seek a way to recover their son. Allied with Snow Pine, a scrappy bandit who’s also lost her child to the Scroll of Years, Gaunt and Bone awaken the Great Sage, a monkeylike demigod of the East, currently trapped by vaster powers beneath a mountain. The Sage knows of a way to reach the Scroll – but there is a price. The three must seek the world’s greatest treasure and bring it back to him. They must find the worms of the alien Iron Moths, whose cocoons produce the wondrous material ironsilk.

And so the rogues join a grand contest waged along three thousand miles of dangerous and alluring trade routes between East and West. For many parties have simultaneously uncovered fragments of the Silk Map, a document pointing the way toward a nest of the Iron Moths. Our heroes tangle with Western treasure hunters, a blind mystic warrior and his homicidal magic carpet, a nomad princess determined to rebuild her father’s empire, and a secret society obsessed with guarding the lost paradise where the Moths are found – even if paradise must be protected by murder.

This is the second novel in the Gaunt & Bone fantasy series. Not sure how I managed to miss the first, as both of these novels sound really interesting – their Middle Eastern/Asian-influenced setting also sounds like it would make a very welcome change. I’ll have to hunt down a copy of The Scroll of Years before diving into this one, but I do hope to do so ASAP.

Graphic Novels

Coffin Hill, Vol.1 – “Forest of the Night” (Vertigo)

Following a night of sex, drugs and witchcraft in the woods, Eve Coffin wakes up naked, covered in blood and unable to remember how she got there. One friend is missing, one is in a mental ward-and one knows that Eve is responsible.

Years later, Eve returns to Coffin Hill, only to discover the darkness that she unleashed ten years ago in the woods was never contained. It continues to seep through the town, cursing the soul of this sleepy Massachusetts hollow, spilling secrets and enacting its revenge.

Set against the haunted backdrop of New England, COFFIN HILL explores what people will do for power and retribution. Noted novelist Caitlin Kittredge, author of the Black London series, brings a smart, mesmerizing style to comics. Artist Inaki Miranda (FABLES) brings his dynamic storytelling to COFFIN HILL, following an acclaimed run on FAIREST.

Collects: Coffin Hill #1-7

Heard a lot of great things about this series, not to mention really liking Inaki Miranda’s artwork from Fairest. Have very high expectations for this. Let’s hope they’re met!

Superman, Vol.4 – “Psi War” (DC New 52)

Writer: Scott Lobdell | Art: Kenneth Rocafort & Aaron Kuder

The Queen of H.I.V.E. (Holistically Intergrated Viral Equality) has placed the telepathic Dr. Hector Hammond’s thoughts deep into the recesses of Superman’s mind in an effort to control the Man of Steel. The merging of Hammond and the Superman’s minds brings about vivid hallucinations that cause Superman to experience different realities and view longtime allies as potential threats.

With the Man of Steel unable to tell what is real and what is a hallucination, it is up to Orion of the New Gods and Wonder Woman to release the H.I.V.E.’s grip on Superman and save the universe from succumbing to power of the H.I.V.E.

Collects: Superman #18-24, Annual #2

I do like a good Superman tale. The New 52 run on the series has been a bit hit-and-miss (sadly, more miss than hit). I enjoyed the first story arc, which doesn’t appear to have been as popular among the wider readership. Lobdell’s done a decent job on the series, though, so I’m interested to see how this rather-weird-sounding tale shapes up.

Excerpt: BLOOD WILL FOLLOW by Snorri Kristjansson (Jo Fletcher Books)

May 8, 2014 Civilian Reader Excerpt Jo Fletcher Books, Snorri Kristjansson, Vikings

Prologue

EAST OF STENVIK, WEST NORWAY

October, AD 996

Ulfar walked, and the world changed around him. With every step the colours shifted from green to yellow, from yellow to red, from red to brown. Around him, nature was dying. Every morning he watched the same pale sun rise over greying trees. He was cold when he woke and wet when he slept. He jumped when he heard a twig snap or a bird take flight. Every shadow threatened to conceal a group of King Olav’s men about to burst out of the forest with drawn swords. His ribs still hurt after the fall, but there had been no other way out of Stenvik. They’d hidden themselves among the corpses at the foot of the wall until dark, then made their way in silence to the east, past the bloody remains of Sigmar on the cross and into Stenvik Forest, over the bodies of scores of slaughtered outlaws, after King Olav’s army had charged through the ranks of the forest men, killing everything in its path.

Audun marched beside him, hardly saying a word. The blond blacksmith had regained his strength incredibly quickly after the fight on the wall. The only thing that remained was a hole in his shift, front and back, where Harald’s sword had skewered him.

Audun had died on that wall. They both knew it.

Yet there he was, marching stony-faced beside Ulfar, hammer tied to his belt. Neither of them spoke of the fey woman on the ship – beautiful, evil and serene in her last moments. Neither of them mentioned her words. Were they truly cursed to walk the earth for ever? Would they never know the peace of death? Audun refused to speak of his experience, as if talking would seal their fate and somehow make it real. Just thinking about it sent chills up and down Ulfar’s spine.

On the first night after the wall he’d fallen into an uneasy sleep, only to wake with the breath stuck in his throat and Lilia’s falling body in his mind. Audun, standing first watch, had spoken then. He’d known what was wrong, somehow. He told Ulfar she’d be with him for ever and that no matter what he did, he couldn’t make her leave and he couldn’t make her live, so he should accept it, let her into his head and let her out again. That night Ulfar wondered just how many people visited Audun in his dreams.

The sharp wind tugged at Ulfar’s ragged cloak as his feet moved of their own accord, picking a path over stones, tree branches and dead leaves. When they set out they’d gone east, then north, then further east, with the sole aim of putting the most distance possible between themselves and King Olav, ignoring everything else. They were fleeing, like animals from a fire. Like cowards from a fight. At their back was the smell of Stenvik’s corpses, burning on King Olav’s giant pyre. No doubt Geiri’s body was among them.

Ulfar stopped.

He searched for the sun in the sky. He looked north, then south. He looked back to where they’d come from.

Audun shuffled to a halt and glared at him. ‘What?’

Ulfar swallowed and blinked. ‘I’m going home,’ he said. ‘There’s something I need to do.’ Then he turned to the east. He felt Audun’s eyes on his back as he walked away.

STENVIK, WEST NORWAY

October, AD 996

‘Do you accept our Lord Christ as your eternal saviour?’ Finn snarled, forearms taut with tension.

Valgard sighed. ‘He can’t hear you, Finn. Lift his head up.’

The burly warrior snorted, grabbed a handful of hair and pulled the prisoner’s head out of the water trough. The bound man tried to cough and suck in air at the same time, thrashing in panic as his lungs seized up.

‘Hold him,’ Valgard said. Finn strengthened his grip and planted a knee in the small of the prone man’s back. The slim, pale healer knelt down on the floor, leaned into the prisoner’s field of vision and put a firm hand on his chest. ‘You’re not dying,’ he said. ‘You’re getting enough air to survive. Breathe,’ he added, prodding at the man’s sternum with a bony finger. ‘In… out… in… out… Good.’ The man stopped squirming and lay still on the floor. Finn shifted the knee against the prisoner’s back but did not let go of the man’s hair. ‘Now. My friend here asked you a question. Do you believe?’ The man spat, coughed and tried to speak, but all that came out was a hoarse wheeze. Valgard’s smile flickered for an instant. ‘Let me see if I can explain this,’ he said. ‘King Olav has told us that for a man to accept the faith he needs to be… what was it?’

‘Christened,’ Finn said.

‘That’s right. Christened. And this involves pouring water over the head. We thought about this and figured that the more heathen you are, the more water you will need. So we have this’ – Valgard gestured to the trough – ‘and we have you. And we’re going to keep christening you until you believe. Do you believe in our Lord Christ?’ He expected the tough-looking raider to spit and snap like the others had – either that, or accept his circumstances and lie. Some men had a bit of sense in the face of death, but among the captured raiders that hadn’t appeared to be a highly valued trait.

Neither of these things happened. Much to Valgard’s surprise, he noticed that the prisoner’s lips were quivering. The man was crying silently, mouthing something. ‘Put him down. Check the straps.’ Finn lowered the prisoner to the floor and quickly did as he was told. When he’d examined the wrist and ankle straps to his satisfaction, he nodded at Valgard. ‘Good. Would you bring us something to eat? He’s not going anywhere and you could use the rest.’

Finn lurched to his feet, favouring his right leg. ‘You staying with him?’

Valgard rose alongside the big soldier and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I don’t think we should leave him alone. You go – I’ll be fine. You’ve made sure he’s all tied up.’ Watching the concern in the eyes of King Olav’s captain as he left the house, Valgard had to fight to suppress a smile. It had taken fewer than four days since the fall of Stenvik to bring Finn over to his side. The fact that he’d made the big warrior dependent on the mixture that soothed his aches helped. Mindful of the lessons learned from Harald’s descent into madness, he’d gone easy on the shadowroot this time.

Still, Valgard felt the last days deep in his bones. The aftermath had been hectic – much to everyone’s surprise, the king had refused to put the captured raiders to the sword. He’d extended the same mercy to the men of Stenvik, explaining to Valgard that he wanted to show all of them the way of the White Christ first. Valgard had nodded, smiled and done his best to patch up those most likely to survive – including his current visitor.

The man on the floor looked to be around forty years old, with thinning hair the colour of an autumn field. Callused rower’s hands and a broad chest suggested he’d spent his life sailing; weatherworn and salt-burned skin confirmed it. He’d probably killed a lot of people, Valgard mused. This wolf of the North Sea who now lay trussed up on the floor of Harald’s old house had most likely raped, terrorised and tortured with his group of stinking, bearded brothers, like all raiders. Apparently he’d followed someone called Thrainn, who’d been a brave and noble chieftain. But most of the brave and noble people Valgard had ever heard of shared the same trait – they were dead.

He knelt back down beside the man on the floor and waited, listening to his captive’s ragged breathing.

‘She’ll… kill me,’ the bound man whispered.

Valgard’s scalp tingled and the breath caught in his throat. Was this it? He fought hard to keep his composure. ‘Who?’ he asked.

‘She is… she is the night…’

Working carefully, Valgard eased the bound sailor up into a sitting position. Heart thumping in his chest, he chose his words carefully. ‘She was… with Skargrim, wasn’t she?’ The sailor shuddered and nodded. ‘And she would kill you.’ Again, the sailor nodded and when he tried to look around, Valgard said, ‘There’s no one here. You are safe. Five thousand of the king’s soldiers are camped around Stenvik. No one will attack us.’

This did nothing to ease the sailor’s fears. ‘She could do anything. We are all in her power.’

Fighting to control another surge of excitement, Valgard asked, ‘Who was she? Where did she come from?’

‘She raised the dead,’ the sailor muttered. ‘She was beautiful…’

‘And she came with you?’

‘Not us. Skargrim. Someone told me she murdered Ormar with his own knife. She was the magic of the north. She’ll find me. I can’t. I can’t abandon the gods. She’ll find me.’ The words tumbled out as silent tears streamed down the raider’s cheeks. ‘I can’t,’ he muttered, lapsing into silence.

After a moment’s thought, Valgard stood up and moved to his workbench. He came back with a small leather flask. ‘Here. Drink this. It’s for your throat. To make sure you breathe right.’ The prisoner gestured to his tied hands and Valgard snorted. ‘Forgive me. I’m thoughtless. Here.’ He leaned forward, touched the spout to the bound man’s lips and tilted very carefully. ‘Sip, but be careful.’

The sailor drank from the flask, sighing when Valgard took it away. ‘Thank… you,’ he managed before drifting off.

‘No. Not at all. Thank you,’ Valgard replied. He watched the sleeping man and listened to his breathing slow down. As it became more laboured, the sailor’s eyelids fluttered. The time between breaths increased. Then the man on the floor was still.

Exhaling, Valgard thought back on when he’d first seen someone die. He hadn’t been much more than eleven summers. She was an old woman; her hacking cough had irritated him. Passing in and out of sleep, she woke up in the hut where Sven used to teach him about healing. She shouted her husband’s name, confused and frightened. Then she fell silent. Valgard had watched as she sank back on her pallet and the life just… left. He’d gone out of the hut and vomited. He was easily rattled back then: a sickly, weak boy.

Seventeen years had passed and Valgard had seen more than his share of death since then. Like birth, it tended to involve blood, slime and screaming. Like birth, it was a lot more important to the people it was happening to than the rest of the world. It was a cycle, and it would keep on repeating.

Or so he’d thought.

He replayed the moments again in his head. As much as Valgard had been intent on his own survival when King Olav’s army walked into Stenvik, he had not been able to take his eyes off Harald when the raider captain started screaming on the wall, his wife Lilia kicking and squirming in his arms. He’d watched with growing horror as Harald denounced the leaders of Stenvik, mocked King Olav and ripped through Lilia’s throat with a jagged piece of wood, sacrificing her to the old gods, throwing her to the ground like a sack of grain. Valgard was on the point of turning away when he saw Ulfar rushing the stairs and charging the sea captain, only to be beaten back by Harald’s mad fury. Ulfar stumbled and Audun strode into the fight, throwing himself on Harald’s sword to get at the furious raider.

Valgard had seen Audun die in Ulfar’s arms after Harald crumpled before him. For all the raiders’ jibes, he knew what death looked like. He’d seen the sword come out of the man’s broad back, watched the muscles seize up and felt the life leave the blacksmith’s body, like it had left countless bodies before him.

And then he’d seen the tiniest bit of movement on the wall. Audun had moved. The shock on Ulfar’s face had told the rest of the tale.

Valgard had watched Ulfar jump over the wall, holding Audun – and then the survival instinct kicked in, tore him off the spot and hurtled him along. Blind panic pushed him to his hut just in time to retrieve the cheap cross he’d secretly bought off a travelling merchant when he’d heard the rumours of King Olav’s ascendancy. Valgard threw himself to his knees and started praying in Latin, not two breaths before King Olav’s soldiers burst through the door.

Since then he’d done his best to please his new master, but he couldn’t forget what he’d seen on the wall. Audun had cheated death, and it had to be connected to the attack somehow. That, or something to do with Ulfar.

In his quest for information, Valgard had volunteered to join Finn in christening the captured raiders from the north, but most had either drowned or Finn had snapped their necks when they refused to convert. A handful had come over to King Olav’s side, but Valgard did not trust them. This was the first tangible bit of information he’d received about the mysterious presence on Skargrim’s ship; there had been a bit of talk about a small, knifewielding woman who’d been Skargrim’s boatman, but after living with raiders his entire life and spending a lot of time with Harald, Valgard discounted that as nonsense. He’d heard the stories after Audun killed Egill Jotun, but anything from the battlefield was to be taken with a pinch of salt too. No women’s bodies had been thrown on the pyre.

Well, except for Lilia’s.

Now, however, it looked like things were finally moving his way. He’d felt the truth in the sailor’s words. The man had been terrified. As sceptical as Valgard was of the old ways, the stories from the far north had always appeared to support the idea of magic, or some kind of connection with the gods. Now it fell to him to determine whether this was true or not. This was what he needed. He needed to go north – but how?

‘You must come.’ Finn’s voice shook Valgard out of his thoughts. The big soldier could move quietly when he wanted to. ‘To the longhouse.’

‘Why? What’s going on?’ Valgard said, rising slowly.

‘Hakon Jarl has replied, apparently,’ Finn said. His face did not give anything away.

Valgard raised his eyebrows. ‘Has he? Well then. Let’s go.’

Finn did not ask about the body on the floor.

When they entered the longhouse, Jorn was already there, sitting to the right of King Olav. It was very faint, but Valgard still heard Finn’s snort of displeasure. The longhouse wasn’t anything like as great as it had been in Sigurd’s time. War trophies had been ripped off the wall, along with weapons and shields. In their place was a big, broad cross that the king had ordered built out of broken weapons, to signify how faith overcame war, apparently. It caught and broke the rays of the sun. Valgard couldn’t help but think that a handful of Harald’s men would have turned the components of that cross back into tools of pain and death in an instant.

The king spotted them and gestured to the dais. They walked past an old farmer, sixty if he was a day, clad in muddy rags and clutching a sack that looked heavy. He was flanked by two watchmen as he shivered in the cold air. King Olav paid him no mind; the rough and discoloured woollen sack had all his attention.

‘Sit, Finn,’ the king commanded, gesturing to his left. Valgard took a seat by the wall. King Olav nodded very briefly to acknowledge his presence. Then he turned to the old man. ‘You bring a message from Hakon,’ he said.

‘Y-yes,’ the farmer stuttered.

‘In parts?’

‘That’s what the riders said,’ the old farmer mumbled. His voice trembled and he did not dare look the king in the eye. Judging by the sound of King Olav’s voice, Valgard thought that was probably a good idea.

‘So riders came from the north and brought you this,’ Jorn said. Sitting on the king’s right, the self-proclaimed Prince of the Dales looked altogether too pleased with himself. A lucky strike against the Viking Thrainn in what was supposed to be the Stenvik raiders’ last stand had given him some notoriety among the men; turning on Sigurd had not worked against him as much as Valgard had thought it would. Always well dressed and groomed, Jorn looked at home as the king’s right-hand man. He pressed the old farmer. ‘Why didn’t you tell them to bring the whole message themselves?’

‘They… they threatened me, my lord,’ the old man muttered. ‘They told me to take it to… the king… or I’d be on a spike.’

‘Very well,’ King Olav interrupted. ‘What’s in the sack?’

The old farmer shuddered, swallowed twice and drew a deep breath. Then he grabbed the bottom corners of the sack and tipped its contents out onto the floor.

Two rag piles landed with a thud.

‘Oh, the—’ Finn muttered before he bit his lip.

Jorn stared dumbly at the rags. ‘Is that… his—?’ The messenger’s left hand had been cut off, as had his right foot. The farmer shook the sack. Another two bundles tumbled out and clattered onto the floor.

‘The men said… they said Hakon Jarl says you can come up to Trondheim and collect the rest any time you want.’

Like Jorn and Finn, Valgard held his breath. The tense silence was broken when King Olav smashed a mailed fist on the armrest of the high chair. ‘Why won’t he listen?’ he growled. ‘I bring peace. I bring prosperity. I bring a better life for him and his stinking herd of miserable sheep!’

‘The northern lords haven never been famous for caring much about their flock, my King,’ Jorn said. ‘Hakon Jarl has always been a hard master. I don’t think he would like to be ruled by anyone else.’ After a brief pause, he added, ‘It is a shame that he doesn’t understand what is best for him and his people. We’ll show him who rules next summer. Or next spring, even. Before he expects it.’

‘I’ll make him understand,’ King Olav snarled. ‘I can’t run the country while I wait for him to assemble an army.’

Valgard’s face felt hot and his heart hammered in his chest. The chance was here, right now. He cleared his throat. ‘Then why wait for spring?’

He barely managed to stand his ground when King Olav turned towards him. ‘What do you mean?’ Fury was burning in the king’s eyes.

‘Hakon is a savage, we all know it. He has been ruling the north for longer than I can remember, and he is by all accounts a strong chieftain.’

Jorn frowned. ‘Why are you telling us this? We know—’

‘But where do you fit into Hakon’s world, your Majesty? What are you to him?’ Valgard continued, addressing the king and ignoring the dirty look from Jorn. ‘An upstart? One of many challengers? Someone to be squashed? Or someone to be feared?’

‘More than five thousand men follow me. And the word of Christ,’ King Olav said.

‘And why do you think he had your messenger killed?’ Valgard said. The longhouse was suddenly very silent. ‘You knew he wouldn’t step aside. He certainly knows it. He also knows that autumn is here and winter is on its way. So he gambles. He decides to send a statement of his strength, to taunt you and eliminate the one man who could have told you what his forces are really like. While you stew down here, he gathers strength. Word will get around that he defied you; when winter clears, his stinking herd of miserable sheep may have grown significantly.’

King Olav watched Valgard intently. ‘So—?’

‘Take it. Take his challenge – but take it now.’

Jorn nearly jumped out of his seat. ‘That’s foolish! You could never—’

‘Stop.’ King Olav’s calm voice cut Jorn off. ‘Listen. You should listen more.’ The Prince of the Dales slumped back in his seat, and the king sat in silence for a little while. When he spoke again, he sounded almost curious. ‘Go north in autumn, you say.’ His words were directed to Valgard, but he looked to the sky. ‘I will… think about this. Leave us.’

Valgard followed Finn towards the door. The look on Jorn’s face as they left was not lost on him.

‘A-a-and then what?’ Runar said.

‘He just sat there. Didn’t say a word. Then he got up and went over to his little prayer table with the Bible, knelt down and started mumbling. He kept looking up at the roof. After a while I just left. I don’t think he noticed,’ Jorn snapped, whittling at a stick.

‘Th-this does not sound good,’ Runar said. He paced in the hut they’d been forced to share. Five thousand men were squeezed together in and around Stenvik, growing more hungry and restless by the day. ‘But we n-need to th-think about this. There may be opportunities.’ Outside, someone saluted as they passed by but got no reply.

‘But when? When do we do something? Anything?’ The knife bit into the stick and sent wood chips flying into a growing pile at Jorn’s feet. ‘I’m sick and tired of playing nice. Poisoning the food didn’t work, and—’

‘W-w-wrong,’ Runar stammered. ‘Poisoning the food worked just f-f-f-fine. Little f-food for them-m, n-n-n—’ Runar took several deep breaths to get the words out. ‘No b-blame for us,’ he added, smiling. ‘A-and we m-move when the moment comes. You’ll know,’ he added. ‘Y-you’ll know.’

‘This doesn’t feel very heroic,’ Jorn grumbled. ‘I’m not doing anything. The men will not think I’m doing—’

‘Th-th-that’s good, th-th-though. Because right now, K-King Olav is making a m-mistake. Or at least he’s thinking about it.’

Jorn sighed and rose. The house they’d been given was wooden, well made but simple, with only a few trophies mounted on the walls. They’d cleared out the dresses and a strange collection of leather bottles and had found a chest under the bed containing an impressive assortment of blades, axes and meanlooking spearheads – killing tools. They had kept these for themselves.

‘You forgot that there’s also less food for us,’ he grumbled.

Runar shrugged. ‘That’s no problem. You were s-s-starting to get fat anyway.’ He grinned. ‘Now all w-we need to do is w-wait until he decides how to m-mess this up.’

There was a knock on the door.

‘Who’s there?’ Jorn asked.

‘The king requests your presence,’ a boy’s voice piped up. ‘Wall. Now. Both of you,’ he added.

Runar smiled again, winked at Jorn and motioned towards the door.

They found King Olav standing above the north gate, looking out. In front of him, Stenvik Forest was a wall of red, yellow and brown, with only occasional dabs of green.

‘I have sought guidance on the matter. We will send a delegation to Hakon Jarl.’

‘A delegation, my lord?’ said Jorn. ‘But Hakon will—’

King Olav turned and looked at them. His smile was cold. ‘Jorn, you are a loyal servant and Christ commends you for your work. But you speak too much and too quickly. Like I said: listen more. We are going north to talk to the jarl. Our delegation will number three thousand men.’

Jorn took a few breaths to compose himself and digest the information. ‘As you wish, your Majesty. Who do you want with you, and who are you leaving behind?’

‘I will take you both with me. Finn will stay behind, command in Stenvik and speak with my authority.’ King Olav turned again, and Jorn risked a quick look at Runar. He got a grin and a wink in return.

‘Very good,’ Jorn hazarded. ‘Which men will you take?’

‘I want at least eight hundred archers, eight hundred foot, pike and as much experienced horse as we can carry. The rest is at your discretion. You’ve got a head for this.’

‘Thank you, your Majesty,’ Jorn replied.

‘That is all.’

‘Yes. Yes, thank you,’ Jorn said. Runar was already moving towards the stairs.

When they reached the ground, Runar turned towards him. His eyes positively sparkled. ‘W-we n-n-n-need to talk!’ he stuttered.

Jorn simply gestured towards the hut.

Once they’d closed the door, Runar bounded around the cabin. ‘Perfect. Perfect!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ve already got the men from the Dales on your side. I’ve t-talked to some of the boys from the southeast – some of them could be swayed. Skeggi, B-b-botolf and his brother Ingimar might all cross over, and I think that would make up a good four hundred at the least. Now all we n-n-need to do is get them on the right boats. Put K-king Olav in a boat with us, thirty of our men, boat gets lost and the king finally gets to meet his precious m-m-maker.’ Runar grinned from ear to ear.

Jorn frowned. ‘Keep your voice down. I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all. It sounds stupid to me, and King Olav isn’t stupid.’

‘Even s-smart people make mistakes,’ Runar said, still grinning. ‘Sometimes they don’t know they’re m-making them until it’s too late.’

Valgard shuddered and pressed harder into the chair. It was starting to feel like King Olav’s longhouse would never be warm. They’d been in the middle of converting another raider to the good side when the boy had come to summon them. The man had not been… cooperative. Yet another soul which would not be joining Christ in heaven. He couldn’t help but think that the way this was going, the other side would be having one bastard of a war party.

King Olav gestured for them to approach. ‘I have consulted with higher powers. You were right yesterday, Valgard. We should strike, and strike now. Waiting is the wrong thing to do. So we’ll take three thousand men up north. Finn, you will stay behind and control this town in my stead. Valgard, you will stay with him to negotiate with the men of Stenvik. You’re one of them; they will trust you.’

Valgard had to fight to keep the panic off his face. He hadn’t been able to go back to his hut after yesterday’s meeting. Instead he’d walked the town, treading paths he’d stopped walking since the battle, allowing his mind to wander and listening to the sounds of the town, the voices in the huts. He’d almost been able to taste it; in his mind he had been on his way to the mysterious north to seek the source of the magic. To find the power. And now it was all being taken away. He had to think of something, fast. ‘Erm, your Majesty, I am not sure they’ll trust me too much. They will not forgive me for abandoning the old gods.’

‘Do you fear them?’ The king looked mildly curious.

‘I am not a warrior,’ Valgard said. ‘I have lived in this town all my life, endured their taunts – they hated me because I couldn’t fight, they despised me because I knew things they didn’t, and now they fear me because I believe in the one true God. I do not doubt that if you were to leave me here, some of them might seize the opportunity to do me harm.’

‘Finn will be with you, as my voice. I’ve known and believed among the savages, and with Finn by my side no harm has yet befallen me. You will be his advisor. He will be acting chieftain of Stenvik.’

Finn coughed, swallowed and coughed again. ‘If… if that is your wish, your Majesty—’

‘It is. I can trust you, Finn, and Valgard can make sure the influence of Sigurd and Sven does not confuse the men. Now go – there is much that needs to be done.’

There is indeed, Valgard thought as he walked out. There is indeed.

‘What do you want?’ The guard posted outside Sigurd and Sven’s house was big, ugly and determined. Valgard thought he’d probably been put in front of their cabin because he’d be very hard to move out of the way. A large, hand-made crucifix hung on a cord around the big oaf’s neck.

Valgard made the sign of the cross and bowed his head. ‘Glory to God, amen.’ The guard mumbled something indistinct in return. ‘I am here to check on the health of our… guests.’ The guard stared dully at him and did not move a hair’s breadth. ‘Finn said I should look them over.’ Still no movement. ‘If they were to fall ill, King Olav would get very angry.’

The guard inched away from the door.

‘Thank you,’ Valgard said. The guard ignored him and stared straight ahead. The door was reinforced; the bar across it was at least half Valgard’s weight. After struggling with it for a while, Valgard managed to shift the bar just enough to send it crashing to the ground. The guard spared him a contemptuous glance but did not move a finger. Biting back a curse, Valgard sent him a smile instead and opened the door as far as he could.

The inside of the hut was dark and dusty. Sigurd sat with his back against the far wall; Sven was getting to his feet. He had been allowed a pouch of herbs to treat his wounds, but he looked naked without a blade. Valgard stepped towards his foster-father and helped him up. He glanced towards Sigurd; Sven shook his head.

‘I’m trying,’ Valgard muttered under his breath, ‘but there’s no reasoning with the king. He’s out of his mind. Jesus this, Jesus that.’

‘Could you get us some weapons? We’d happily—’

Valgard grabbed the old man’s wrist with strength he didn’t know he had. ‘No,’ he hissed. The look of surprise on Sven’s face was rewarding. ‘You’re not cutting your way out of this. There are five thousand men out there.’

‘We’ve seen worse,’ Sven said.

Valgard released his grip. ‘I know, Father. I’ve heard the stories. But I think patience is the best way forward now. Just… allow things to happen. Give me a couple more days. I’ve talked to the men. They’re behind you. We just need to find the right moment.’ He glanced towards the door and the guard outside it. ‘I’m not supposed to give you this. King Olav wants to control what you eat so he can keep you weak.’ Valgard reached into the folds of his tunic, produced a leather bottle and handed it to Sven. ‘For both of you.’

‘Thank you, son,’ Sven said. His expression was difficult to read.

‘You’re welcome, Father,’ Valgard replied. The breath caught in his throat. ‘I must go – I have things to do. His Majesty doesn’t like to wait.’

Sven glanced towards Sigurd and for the first time since Valgard stepped through the door he saw a twinkle in the old rogue’s eye. ‘Tell me about it,’ he muttered.

Valgard’s smile lasted until he’d turned his back. When he left the hut, the guard was waiting, holding the bar.

King Olav sat down in the high chair, then stood up again. Unable to find a comfortable position, he continued walking around the longhouse and touching the silver cross hanging around his neck. ‘How many ships do we have?’

‘Sixty,’ Jorn said. ‘Sixty ready to sail, needing only minimal repairs.’

‘Sixty. How many benches?’

‘Mostly twenty-seaters, up to thirty-six.’

‘And have you decided who we’re taking?’

‘We’ve drawn up a list,’ Jorn said, gesturing to Runar.

‘Very good,’ King Olav said. ‘What of the grain stores?’

Runar consulted a slate of wood with carved notches. ‘W-we have th-thirty sacks of grain left, forty head of s-smoked lamb… Th-they managed to treat what Sigurd had slaughtered and s-save most of it… herbs for soup, sixty sacks of turnip—’

‘Take what you think you’ll need,’ King Olav said. ‘You’ve proved valuable, Runar. I do not doubt that you provide a lot of ideas for Jorn. We start the fitting tomorrow morning. We sail as soon as we can.’

‘Th-thank you, your M-m-mah—’

A dismissive wave of King Olav’s hand stopped Runar in his tracks. ‘That’s enough. Go. Do what you need to. I have things to do.’

Jorn and Runar rose quietly and left the longhouse. When they’d gone, King Olav walked over to the makeshift altar and knelt.

‘Father,’ he muttered, ‘Father, tell me that this is right. I will risk the deaths of hundreds of my men, Norse warriors who have learned to love you and Jesus Christ. Give me some sign that you value your servant.’

A stillness filled the longhouse. Outside, the autumn light faded as afternoon turned to evening. The door to the longhouse opened slowly and Finn entered with Valgard close behind. After a short while, the big warrior cleared his throat.

King Olav rose without a word. He moved to the dais and motioned for them to approach.

‘I’m glad you are here, Finn. We need to talk about your reign as chieftain of Stenvik.’ He smiled. ‘No need to look so worried, my friend. It will all work very well. Valgard will counsel you and make sure you don’t step on any toes.’

Valgard cleared his throat. ‘If I may, your Majesty. There is one thing I must mention to you. It is very important. I think that you should be careful—’

One of King Olav’s guards burst in. ‘My King! My King!’

‘You will salute!’ Finn shouted. ‘What do you want?’

‘It’s… it’s Sven and Sigurd! The guard just told me to come and fetch you!’

‘What?’ the king snapped.

‘They’re not breathing!’

* * *

Snorri Kristjansson’s Blood Will Follow will be published by Jo Fletcher Books on May 29th 2014. It is the sequel to Swords of Good Men. Reviews for both coming soon!

Errata: The first version of this post incorrectly identified the novel as “Blood Will Flow” – many apologies to the author for this error!

Also on CR: Interview with Snorri Kristjansson

Review: MAYHEM by Sarah Pinborough (Jo Fletcher Books)

April 28, 2014December 16, 2014 Civilian Reader Review Crime, Dr Bond, Jo Fletcher Books, Mayhem, Sarah Pinborough, Serial Killer, Supernatural, Victorian London

Dr. Bond, I presume…

A new killer is stalking the streets of London’s East End. Though newspapers have dubbed him ‘the Torso Killer’, this murderer’s work is overshadowed by the hysteria surrounding Jack the Ripper’s Whitechapel crimes.

The victims are women too, but their dismembered bodies, wrapped in rags and tied up with string, are pulled out of the Thames – and the heads are missing. The murderer likes to keep them.

Mayhem is a masterwork of narrative suspense: a supernatural thriller set in a shadowy, gaslit London, where monsters stalk the cobbled streets and hide in plain sight.

This is the first of Pinborough’s novels that I’ve read, and I rather enjoyed it. It has all of the elements that I look for in fiction, in one tightly-written package: crime, investigation, mystery, a dash of the supernatural and horror. It’s an excellent mix, well-executed. And it’s the first in a series. Continue reading →