Adrian Collins's Blog

Having failed in his attempt to strike down his captor, the ruthless sorceress Athyr-Bast, Conan finds himself struggling to resist her mind domination magic. Zula, a shape-shifter Conan previously encountered in the jungles of the southern Black Kingdoms, appears in the nick of time, knocking Athyr-Bast unconscious and freeing Conan from her influence. Still indebted to Zula after their previous encounter (Conan the Barbarian #20), Conan agrees to help the magician sabotage his Set-worshipping Stygian enemies, provided they return to rescue Livia once their mission is complete. Zula uses his magic to disguise himself as Athyr-Bast and Conan dons the armor of one of the sorceress’ slain bodyguards. Together they set out to uncover the aims of Thoth-Amon, leader of the sorcerous Black Circle and an influential figure in Set’s snake cult.

Part III of A Nest of Serpents, this issue is entitled “Power and Influence.” Finally, Jim Zub delivers the much-teased first encounter between Conan and Thoth-Amon. While Thoth-Amon and Conan never actually meet in the original Robert E. Howard short stories, Conan only indirectly comes into contact with Thoth-Amon’s malign magic, Thoth-Amon is a fan-favorite antagonist from the pastiche novels and comic adaptations. Finally seeing the two characters together in the current Titan Comics Conan the Barbarian run was a long-awaited treat. Zub makes their meeting a tense one, showcasing Thoth-Amon’s great mystical powers while also depicting him as an embattled leader, beset by enemies both distant and within his inner circle. As one potential threat Thoth-Amon namedrops Natohk the Veiled One, who Howard fans will recall as the antagonist from the 1933 Conan tale “Black Colossus.” Thoth-Amon also demonstrates how well-informed he is when he recognizes the name Amra, Conan’s current nom de guerre; Conan hurriedly claims that he is a DIFFERENT Amra, not the notorious Black Coast pirate of which Thoth-Amon has heard.

Fernando Dagnino continues to showcase his strength and versatility as an artist in this issue. The architecture in this issue particularly stands out. Dagnino makes the teeming slums of Keshatta come alive, and Thoth-Amon’s Temple of Set is appropriately monumental and imposing. Thoth-Amon himself also looks “right,” maintaining the sinuous build and vaguely reptilian aspect popularized by Cary Nord in the 2004 Dark Horse Comics Conan title. In an interview in Conan the Barbarian #21, Dagnino laments that Conan’s face is tricky to perfect: if the bridge of his nose is even slightly too short, he ends up looking like the Incredible Hulk. True enough, in this issue there are some borderline Hulk-faced Conan depictions. But that’s less a critique of the artwork on my part than an amused acknowledgment of the two characters’ resemblance.

Conan the Barbarian issue #23 gives readers the Conan and Thoth-Amon encounter they have been waiting for. Zub and Dagnino deliver a briskly paced issue packed with tension and spectacle.

Read Conan the Barbarian #23 by Jim Zub (W) and Fernando Dagnino (A)

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When Among Crows ( the first in the Curse Bearer duology) brings old world folklore to modern-day Chicago in a compact urban fantasy package that tackles ideas of redemption, retribution and belonging alongside themes of emigration/immigration, culture and the ills of Christian colonialism and its associated, persistent violence. There is a lot to think about packed into this novella from Veronica Roth, some of which brought to mind the film Sinners (2025) and its exploration of shared-oppression, of being crushed under the heel of the same boot despite the differences among us.

Fans of Slavic folklore in fantasy should feel at home with When Among Crows’ displaced Polish community of ‘creatures’ that protagonist Dymitr immerses himself in as he searches for Baba Jaga, the most powerful witch there is. He encounters Ala, a zmora suffering under a blood-curse that forces daily visions of death and murder on her, and Niko, a strzygoń who can use magic as a defender of his community but is likely to die younger because of it. These three must work together, fight together and learn to trust each other enough to achieve their goals.

It’s a little difficult to delve too deeply into plot points here, given the overall length of the novella, needless to say I’m sure if you imagined a slighter Witcher with the ability to feel guilt – and a lot of it – and transplant him into Chicago that would get you partway to the feel of When Among Crows. There’s an added M/M attraction mixed in, and some rich history and magic lying beneath the surface, and my only criticism is that there’s perhaps too much vying for attention in only 165 pages that some aspects feel rushed.

The timeline of When Among Crows is spread over little more than a day, which contributes to the feeling of being a bit of a whirlwind. While it works for some parts of the plot – adding tension and stakes – other parts do feel a little starved of attention. The novella feels like a hasty introduction, a whistle-stop origin story for a trio of characters I expect we’ll see much more of in the future, and in much more depth, maybe in a Murderbot-esque format with novels interspersed among novellas. Despite feeling a tad brief, there’s enough intrigue teased out and enough character building that makes me root for these three misfits to bring me back for To Clutch a Razor, the second novella that releases in September 2025.

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Last Updated on September 4, 2025

I went through a big Stephen King phase in my teens. The Stand was a life changing read for me, one of those books that just alters your brain chemistry. Other favourites at the time included Misery, The Mist, and The Jaunt (the latter two both part of Skeleton Crew, a short story collection which really fucked me up for a while). Time passed and I moved on to other things. But my love affair with King briefly rekindled in my early twenties, with reads of It, The Dark Tower, and The Running Man, first published under the nom de plume Richard Bachman. I mention the latter specifically because in many ways it’s very similar to The Long Walk. Both involve post-economic crash dystopian USAs; both involve men voluntarily signing up for deadly gameshows; and both involve constant movement.

But The Long Walk is not The Running Man, so let’s talk about the former, not the latter.

It goes something like this.

America has gone to shit, and a mysterious despot known as The Major (Mark Hammil) now figuratively and literally runs the show. The show in question is the titular Long Walk, a competition in which fifty-odd men—well, walk, across a desolate, but beautiful, rural USA. There’s no finish line. Keeping pace is a handful of armoured cars full of fascists with assault rifles and one enormous howitzer for some reason.

There are three rules:

You must walk at or above 3 miles an hour constantly;If you drop below 3mph, you get three ten-second warnings to make it back to pace; andEvery hour you keep pace, one warning is erased from your record.

If you fall behind for thirty seconds, you get “your ticket”—i.e. shot. Last man standing gets untold wealth and one wish (this is important!).

Of the fifty men who volunteer, the story unsurprisingly focuses on a handful. The main character is Raymond Garraty, played with decidedly chequered acting ability by Cooper Hoffman, very capably supported (read: undeniably overshadowed) by British actor David Jonsson playing Peter McVries (the only criticism that can be levelled at Jonsson is that his occasionally hammy South-USA drawl is at times unintelligible).

Garraty and Hoffman’s friendship forms the thematic and emotional core of the movie. As they walk for—eventually, hundreds—of miles through burning heat, freezing rain, blazing arguments, and the violent elimination of their fellow contestants, they form a profound and intimate fraternal bond, made all the more unlikely by the fact that they are direct competitors.

A movie like The Long Walk is an interesting concept. Unlike, say, The Stand, which is a plot-heavy apocalyptic narrative you simply sit back and marvel at, The Long Walk is constantly asking you the question ‘what would you do in this situation?’

Well the first thing I would do is not sign up for it.

One of the most surprising things I learnt about The Long Walk was that participating in it is entirely voluntarily. The script has Garraty try to explain/handwave this, by arguing that the dystopian system in which they all exist means it’s voluntary only in name (it’s the system, man! It’s the corporate fat cats, man!); but even with this ham-fisted sociopolitical spiel, the movie tells us that Garraty was entirely free to abandon the whole thing up to a day beforehand.

I am a professional writer, and so I do really genuinely appreciate the concept of suspension of disbelief (promise!) and I’m prepared to accept all sorts of things in the name of the Rule of Cool. But it feels to me like it wouldn’t have been much of a stretch to have made the Long Walk mandatory, like the frickin’ Hunger Games. It really is quite difficult to understand the motivation to sign up for something with a 49/50 chance of violent death, even if you are living in a dystopia, and even if you get a bajillion dollars as the winner. Statistically you’re just committing suicide.

(And yes, Garraty has his own special emotional reason which I can’t spoil, but even that isn’t enough to penetrate this reviewer’s grey matter and stick).

The men who participate do so initially, gleefully, backslapping and trading jokes and stories, and then are shocked and dismayed when the first of them gets shot. Well what did they expect???

Even knowing what it was they were signing up for, some of these guys had the survival instincts of a wet cardboard box. Being shot in the face with an assault rifle—and the movie delights in showing you these gory cranial explosions in very high definition—is, arguably, one of the worst things that can happen to you. Yet as you watch men yield to cramp, trips and spills, a hill—a hill!—and Chekhov’s howitzer, the temptation to shout at the screen becomes overwhelming. I suppose having 49 of them simply drop down from sheer exhaustion and lack of sleep would have been a more boring movie.

(To be fair to the movie, one of the characters does walk for about 10 miles with a disgustingly 90-degree-broken ankle, so terrified of death is he. That is the kind of desperation that felt much closer to the mark).

Anyway, this feels like nitpicking. “You don’t get it Swan,” refined enjoyers of the book shout at me through the internet. “It’s not about that. The Long Walk is really an exploration and celebration of male friendship and brotherhood, the unbreakable bonds we form in extreme situations, and ultimately the triumph of altruism, compassion, self-sacrifice and espirit de corps that define the best humanity has to offer—and that’s a good thing.”

“Yes, but the howitzer—” I shout back, but you cut me off: “We need more of that in the modern world. We need movies that show young men just unashamedly enjoying the ritual of bonding! Sure, at times this is grating and annoying; but at others, especially towards the end of the movie, its actually very poignant!”

“Certainly,” I shout, sweating, “but they shouldn’t have signed up for it knowing they would die!”

“You’re missing the point!” You rejoin. “Even the character you are very obviously supposed to hate—and do, because he’s very hateable—epiphanises: “my dad always said everyone’s got to have a few buddies”. Friendship, kinship, sharing experiences good and bad, defines us as people! As McVries says in the movie, better to be friends even if it’s just for a couple of hours!”

“Aha!” I shout. I play my ace. “Anthony O’Connor of FilmInk told me after the ending in the book was really good and this ending is ridiculous.”

You thrash about for a counterargument like a drowning man searching for a life preserver. But there’s nothing. Even you, enjoyer of the beautifully explored themes of the novel, cannot deny that the movie’s ending is, in a word, stupid.

“Whatever,” you mutter, closing the laptop.

And I, the winner of the internet argument, reach for my old, dogeared copy of The Stand, and begin to read.

The Long Walk is out Thursday 11 September.

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Great writers take the theme of their book, and they don’t just say it, they show it with the rhythm of their writing: the flow of it, the feel of it, the pulse of it. What the hell do I mean, to the extent I ever mean anything? Well take the remarkable Coffin Moon by Keith Rosson, out on September 9 from Black Crow Books in the UK and Random House in the US. This feels like a book about the pride and rage of man, and how utterly pointless it is, and the hollowness of revenge. And boy does Rosson tell us that through the plot, but he also shows us through his writing, which is propulsive third person present tense, beating, fast, never slowing, vital, hot, a runaway train that reflects the inevitable, unavoidable, combustive emotions of the flawed protagonists and antagonist. And that makes Rosson a great horror writer—surely soon of the greats if he carries on like this—and it also makes Coffin Moon one of the must-read, visceral, unforgettable horror experiences of the year, and one of the great vampire novels.

When we meet our male protagonist Duane Minor, a troubled Vietnam vet in 70s Portland, it’s already clear his anger has cost him; some initially undisclosed recent event haunts him. But still, he has a loving wife and they’ve adopted her niece, thirteen year old Julia, after Julia’s mother killed her abusive step-father. But things take a turn for the very bad when some bikers start selling drugs in his mother-in-law’s bar, and despite her protestations to leave alone, Minor’s pride intervenes and he crosses John Varley. Which is even worse, as Varley is a vampire built like a brick shithouse whose pride and anger and penchant for violence are more than a match for Minor’s, and now his wife is dead and it’s just Julia and him. Wounded by guilt, he should leave well alone… but oh, that anger, oh, that pride, and soon he sweeps a more-than-willing Julia up in a nightmarish road trip of revenge against an incomprehensibly powerful foe.

There’s many astonishing things about Coffin Moon but I’ll settle on two. The first is how Rosson examines the cost of rage, pride, and vengeance through his three subtly distinct character studies. Minor is a man whose war-induced rage and life-induced male pride has ruined him, and he knows it, but he can’t stop; the tragedy of it smothers the reader even as the action barrels along. The terrifying, iconoclastic villain of the vampire Varley is similarly prideful and rageful, and also self aware, but he justifies it with an almost Buddhist-style mantra of it’s just the present moment that matters. Whether he’ll pay for this stance creates one of the more intriguing subplots of the book. And then there’s Julia, the thirteen year old girl who’s had to grow up before her time, who’s so consumed by rage she’s willing to throw her life away. I didn’t foresee how dark Rosson would make her path; but, at some point, there is beauty in it too.

But if I’ve bombarded you with character work, let me note the other astonishing thing about Coffin Moon: the sheer ferocity of its pace and violence, especially in the last third. There’s about ten crime novels in here: bike gangsters, drug rings, police chases, saloon gangster, 1900s flashbacks, massacres and dogged detectives. And then there’s the violence. Constant, visceral, horror, laid out in that don’t-look-away grim detail that Rosson has. I’m used to gore and violence with my horror obsession. But you can’t get used to this. The vampire lore is strong here too; Rosson gives us a vampire foe who is horrifically powerful yet in some clever ways unaccountably weak.

Smeared all over this is the grime of the 70s, an America dealing with the cost of Vietnam. The 70s were the decade where America lost its innocence; it never recovered from Vietnam and this loss of innocence is shot through the book from the characters who know they’re damning themselves but can’t stop to the sense of pointless death seeping from the book like a bloated corpse.

Overall, Coffin Moon is a bullet train midnight descent into a purgatorial hell that never stops from the first page, a simply stunning tour de force of the cost of rage and vengeance painted in scenes of unending carnage, topped with a blistering set of character studies. You won’t have another horror experience like this for a while.

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In K.J. Parker’s dark fantasy novella Making History, usurper king Gyges has gathered the finest minds in all of Aelia to rewrite history and cement his invented legacy.

One of those fine minds is our protagonist, who, along with this fellow academics, has been press ganged into making history. He’s a bit of a genius rogue, with a courtesan at home and a cynical and cheeky approach to life and this project. But he’s also a rogue who is dearly attached to being alive, and we ride the roller coaster of disbelief, acceptance, hope, confidence, and horror as he discovers that the biggest project of his life may also be his last one.

Making History follows a group of scholars as they try to make history suit the narrative that their people fled an evil empire to create their nation–naturally as a reason for their king to justify attacking said nation in the coming months. Each scholar brings a different insight into the story that makes the ancient and modern history of a nation, responsible for creating a small part of a larger fiction. And if the scholars can’t bring this story together to become a real justification for war, then death for all of them is the likely outcome.

Thematically Making History is about how the victors create history, while the vanquished are doomed to the footnotes or to play the villains. I loved that about this book and the characters, and it–like all amazing fantasy books–makes you immediately start mentally picking through your own home’s history. (Honestly, if you’re an author wondering how to create a world to write in that feels real and lived in, this would actually be a pretty good book to read from a research perspective.)

The protagonist is another in a line of characters I loved because they were people in interesting, non-warrior jobs, having massive impacts on the world around them. That started for me with Jasaray from David Gemmell’s Rigante series, who, if memory serves, was a physically useless procurement officer who ended up having the highest rank in the army after a devastating loss. The voice Making History is told in I absolutely loved—breathing life into this novella through the way the character explored himself and history through mental tangents, as opposed to just chasing the next thing that happens.

The only part of Making History that didn’t knock it out of the part for me was that the end was a little too contrived for my tastes, but I didn’t mind the message that it sent. A minor blip on an otherwise amazing read.

Making History by K.J. Parker is an almost perfect modern dark fantasy novella. It’s insightful, holds a mirror up to our society, and is such a fun way to spend a few short hours reading. If Parker had stuck the landing on this one, it’d likely go down as one of my all time favourite novellas.

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In equal parts profound philosophy and cynical foreshadowing, Ruocchio has delivered an all time great sequel in Howling Dark. Intensely interesting world-building, some great character work, and an ending that will shake readers to the core, Howling Dark improves on the already great start of Sun Eater and marks the arrival of one of the best voices in SFF right now. 

“We are clay, shaped as the mountain is shaped: by the wind, the tramping foot, and the rain. By the world. The mark of other hands is on us, but we are ourselves alone.”

Following Empire of Silence, Hadrian has more questions than answers. He has prisoners, a semi-loyal crew, gusto, and no idea where to go. He’s searched the galaxy for ways to contact the Cielcin and put an end to the war, and he’s done so mostly fruitlessly. When he gets a hint of where the planet of Vorgossos is, he’ll find threats both larger and more insidious than the Cielcin.

Howling Dark begins in media res, something I wasn’t fully expecting given the framed narrative of Suneater. Hadrian and crew are targeting a being known as The Painted Man while they search for information. From the intro alone, you can tell Howling Dark is going to be a special book. The imagery and attention to detail for The Painted Man feels fresh out of a horror film, as well as the intensity and action that follows. 

While you can tell right from page one that Howling Dark is firing on all cylinders, you can also tell that Ruocchio has improved his game in pretty much all facets. Empire of Silence is a great book, Howling Dark is better. The rumination of Hadrian has always been a treat to read, but now it’s paired with increased action, sprawling world-building, and some really interesting philosophizing. A lot of the novel feels inspired by Book of the New Sun in its weirdness and the twists and turns it takes, and while Ruocchio has always had a nice feel for action, it’s vastly improved in this.

There’s a touch of horror in every aspect of Howling Dark, especially the ideas brought to life in Vorgossos. Sometimes it’s in your face, sometimes it’s insidious, but it’s ever present, like the blackness of space. Creepiness oozes off the page and leaves you feeling like you need a shower. 

Amidst the fear is a lot of philosophical discussion. Characters debate, and what I love is that they’re never right or wrong. The conversations feel real and high-level. You can tell that every character truly believes they’re right and they’re willing to state their case until the very end. 

“The world is filled with monsters: dragons in the wilderness, serpents in the garden. We must become monsters to fight them. Anyone who thinks otherwise has never really had to fight for anything.”

While the beginning of Howling Dark is one of my favorite parts of the book, that is in retrospect. In real time, I must confess the beginning threw me off and I’m curious why Ruocchio took this approach. The narrative of Suneater is an intimate one—full of minute details about Hadrian’s life—so to skip years and years of Hadrian’s life felt like a head scratcher. 

Once we get out of the first bit, Howling Dark does slow down to the pace of Empire of Silence. It’s not bad, but it is frequently slow at times, so the read does require patience. Lots of dialogue, lots of wandering, lots of soul searching. It’s a book that needs you to bear with it for a while, but once things kick off near the end, Ruocchio has you trapped. 

The ending of Howling Dark is an epic whirlwind that is impossible to put down once you hit The Red Scene. There’s multiple instances of jaw-dropping scenes, but it’s not just flash. The substance behind it builds the plot and makes me extremely eager to see what Ruocchio has in store in the next books, and my mind has been kept busy by the foreshadowing and hints provided. 

All in all, if you liked Empire of Silence then this is a must-read. I encourage any fans of Name of the Wind or Book of the New Sun to pick this series up, and I encourage them to be patient. Ruocchio rewards the faithful, and the ending of Howling Dark is the cherry on top of one of my favorite sequels of all time.

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Shauna Lawless returns to her Gael Song Saga with Daughter of the Otherworld. This is the first novel in a second trilogy set in Lawless’ Irish historical fantasy world. It is with great happiness that I can say that this story is more of the same that readers will know and love – an incredibly readable, well-paced, believable fantasy tale, inspired by Irish mythology. If you have already read Lawless’ other novels and novellas in this world, you will feel very comfortable hitting the ground running and immediately re-immerse yourself in this saga. However, I think you would be able to begin with The Daughter of the Otherworld and still enjoy it. Lawless is a very thorough writer, and there is usually a detailed Dramatis Personae (including a pronunciation guide for those of us who butcher the Irish names) available to refer to if needed.

The Daughter of the Otherworld is the story of the next generation of Descendants and Fomorians. The children we met in the first trilogy are all grown up, and still hell bent on destroying each other. For Broccan, this is a very personal vendetta; he blames the Fomorians for the death of almost everyone he has ever loved. For Isolde, it is prophesied that she will be the one to destroy fire. But Isolde presents no magical gift; she is young, untested, and horribly naïve of the world beyond the tiny island where her cousin raised her in near isolation. Before, the Fomorians, Gormflaith, her brother, and their offspring, plotted to rule Ireland. Now that they are returning to their homeland, they still desire it and will burn everyone who stands in their way.

So, as I said, this is a follow on from the earlier trilogy. The first chapters are relatively soon after the ending of The Land of the Living and the Dead, but then there is a time jump of one hundred and fifty or so years. Given that the magical characters have a life span of half a millennium, it is enough time for the mortal world to move on and forget, but not a tremendous amount of time for our main characters. I’ve always liked the historical details in Lawless’ writing, which continues in The Daughter of the Otherworld in a slightly different era. There are more Normans than Vikings now, they travel to ports and castles that I recognise with the city of Bristol and Chepstow Castle (which is still a very cool castle to visit if you ever find yourself around the area).

There is a shift in perspectives in The Daughter of the Otherworld. Where Lawless’ first novel, The Children of Gods and Fighting Men, was told exclusively from female perspectives, there is more variation here. We switch from male and female POVs, Fomorian and Descendant’s, first- and second-generation perspectives. Increasing the number of narrators is a great way to show how the power is shifting in this new trilogy and the contrasts between them, but I miss that female-focused viewpoint. It showcased how Fódla and Gormflaith had to exist (and persuade or scheme) whilst not actually being in a position of power, and we don’t get as much of that here.

However, there remains the same mix of mythology, history, and magic that I enjoyed so much. There are some violent moments, and a lot of betrayal and double crossing, making it enjoyable to fans of dark fantasy, even if it might not tick all their boxes. If you liked the first trilogy and were left wanting more, you will not be disappointed with the next era, and your time spent reading Daughter of the Otherworld. Thank you to Shauna Lawless and our friends at Head of Zeus / Ad Astra for sending me an eARC for review.

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We got a chance to sit down with Rob J Hayes—a man who refuses to be chained by any single sub-genre—and talk about his books, Baldur’s Gate, fantasy as a whole, and play the game “Wavelength”. 

[GDM] Hey Rob, thanks for doing this interview! To get things started, do you wanna pitch your books in the most off-kilter way possible?

[AP] Hi! Thanks for doing the interviewing.

Have you ever looked at fantasy and thought “I wish there were more magic systems revolving around eating weird shit!”? Then you should definitely check out my books and not Michael R. Fletcher’s.

How was that?

P.S. You should check out Fletcher’s books as well. They’re great!

[GDM] So the God Eater Saga is three trilogies where all the book 1’s, 2’s, and 3’s are all being written together? Do you hate yourself or are you just wildly ambitious? 

[AP] They are indeed. A trilogy of trilogies being written and published concurrently where the 3 timelines can be read separately, but only by reading them all will you get the full scale of the picture I’m painting.

Yes, I hate myself a little for starting it. I still love the idea, but I may have underestimated the amount of work involved. But I’m committed, or will soon be committed (hah, wordplay), and the book 2s are on their way. Just don’t talk to me about the book 3s!

Honestly, I like to push the boundaries and always test myself to do something new and different with each project. The God Eater Saga is my first foray into true EPIC fantasy, and I really wanted to make it as epic as possible.

[GDM] Across all your protagonists, do you have a favorite?

[AP] It has to be Eska (The War Eternal). I poured a lot of myself into that little rage demon, and in many ways writing her was quite cathartic. Her voice was always so easy to slip into, and there is no story easier to write than the one where the main character is driving it forward from start to finish.

[GDM] What are you reading right now?

[AP] I usually have 2 books on the go at any time. 1 audiobook for when I’m exercising or doing the housework or walking the dog, and 1 paper/ebook for sitting in my comfy chair. 

Currently I’m listening to Empire of Silence by Christopher Ruocchio because folk keep recommending it to me. Pretty good so far, though a bit slow.

And I’m reading Blood of the Chosen by Django Wexler because I really need to finish some series instead of picking up new ones.

[GDM] Rob and I played a game of Wavelength. The way it works is that Rob has a number 1-10, and I give him categories where he has to answer with something that corresponds with his number. For example, if I ask Rob to give me a television show based on how good the ending is, he might say Breaking Bad if his number is 10. If his number is 1, he’d say something like Dexter, and if his number was 3 he’d say something like Seinfeld. Play along and see if you can guess his number!

[GDM] Give me a character of yours based on how much you’d like to get drunk with them. 

[AP] Henry the Red. 

[GDM] A book based on how influential is is on fantasy as a whole. 

[AP] The Lies of Locke Lamora. 

[GDM] A fantasy book based on how long it is.

[AP] Assassin’s Apprentice. 

[GDM] Finally, an anime based on how much you like it. 

[AP] Ergo Proxy. 

[GDM] Alright reader, get your guess ready. The answer was a…

[AP] Six! 

Author Rob J. Hayes

[GDM] We interviewed you about five years back and asked who we should keep an eye out for on some up and coming writers. You said M.L. Wang, Evan Winter, and Garteh Hanrahan—all three of which have been rather successful—so I’d like to ask the question again! Who are three up and comers we should be watching?

[AP] Yes, I am the oracle. I predict all. Though saying ML Wang was gonna go far feels like a bit of a cheat. Obvious in hindsight, I guess.

The industry has changed a lot in the past 5 years and I will admit I do not have my finger on the pulse of the current genre trends. Romantasy is not my bag. So instead of naming authors who are going to blow up, I’m going to flex my powers of sight and predict the next BIG genre emergence…

I predict in five years time the biggest books in the fantasy genre will be… Fantasy Murder Mysteries.

[GDM] You have 25 books out now, if I counted right! Is there one that you’re the most proud of?

[AP] All of them? I guess I’m really proud of Herald. It took about 5 years to bring that beast into publication, so I really glad I did, and it seems to have done pretty well. I’m also always really proud of Never Die. For a bizarre idea I had about writing a martial arts flick as a book, it really worked. It even has 2 separate special editions these days.

[GDM] In a twitter post, you said that Baldur’s Gate 2 is better than Baldur’s Gate 3. Number 1, how dare you? Number 2, who’s the best BG3 companion?

[AP] RIGHT! So here we go. Baldur’s Gate 3 is an amazing game and straight up has some of the best companions in any video game RPG ever created, certainly better than the companions in BG2. HOWEVER!!! Where BG3 falls down is with the villains who are 1 dimensional and background players at best. BG2, on the other hand, has Jon Irenicus, one of the best video game villains of all time.

As for my favourite BG3 companion. Well, I’m a little bit in love with Karlach. She’s pretty much Gideon from Gideon the Ninth, which is one of my favourite books in the past decade, so she’s always in my party.

Now, if you would like some other controversial video game opinions…

Fallout 2 is the best Fallout game and New Vegas is a pale imitation.

Dawn of War 2 is the most innovative RTS game ever made and is infinitely more repayable than Starcraft.

That should rile some feathers.

[GDM] What music have you been writing to lately?

[AP] I don’t actually write to music. I use music for the plotting/dreaming section of the process, but I prefer to write in complete silence.

But lately I’ve been listening to the instrumental versions of Borealis’ Phantom Silence album and Ancient Bards’ Artifex album. I like my orchestral metal.

[GDM] That about does it! Anything you wanna say to the readers of the interview? Grovel and beg them to read your books, tell them you hope they have a horrible day, etc?

[AP] Check out my monthly blog where I list a bunch of upcoming Self Published Fantasy Releases (www.robjhayes.co.uk). Keep reading, keep writing, keep the art form alive. Oh, and buy the God Eater Saga.

Read Herald by Rob J. Hayes

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Roots are tricky things. As Bram Stoker and British Fantasy Award nominated author Gemma Amor explains in her introduction to her edited collection of ancestral horror Roots of My Fears, out from Titan on September 9, they can both tie us to positive forces in our lives but also constrict and trap us. I’ve often found horror rooted in where we come from to be disturbing, as I’ve always felt unmoored from family, country, ancestry, demanding freedom from it all like a hermit Braveheart. But even for those whose roots are forces of good in their lives, horror linked to our familial and ancestral identities is often the most unsettling, not just too close to home but home itself. And in this collection, a group of acclaimed authors combine to drag you down in the tangled dirt with them, and the result is a genuinely terrifying, vivid, and often beautiful smorgasbord of intense family ties horror.

In the strongly interpretive opener “Lamb Had a Little Mary” by Elena Sichrovsky, part symbolism, part brutal reality, a child of an abusive mother is forced to protect their younger sibling. It’s a tale of parental failure versus their offspring’s strength, a vivid punch to the senses, more exposed root canal than family roots. 

Parents continue to not get a great rap in Roots of My Fears: in Premee Mohamed’s stand out “One Of Those Girls”, an American university student from an immigrant family must hide her abortion from her strict parents when she falls pregnant by her college professor, unhelped by the ghostly apparition of a pregnant woman who’s driving her to madness. As always Mohamed’s unique and uncompromising voice drives this story. Meanwhile, in Nadia El-Fassi’s deeply terrifying female body horror/cosmic horror blend “The Saint in the Mountain”, the mother is thinking of anyone but her daughter’s best interests with horrifying consequences. In Ai Jiang’s “Unsewn”, the author uses her precise prose and inventive storytelling to examine the traditions of favouring the birth of sons over daughters and the tricky concept of the simultaneous culpability yet blamelessness of the women participating in this process. 

But parents can be powerful nurturing forces too: in Hailey Piper’s strange ode to parental love and eerie transformation “Crepuscular”, a gifted yet dangerous child and her two mothers travel to an Indonesian island in the hope of a cure to ease their daughter’s more dangerous tendencies, but encounter something terrible from the sea instead. Piper blends parental desperation and hope with the eerie and sci-fi in this powerful tale.

Some stories examine the cultural and political generational spanning effect of roots. In Usman T. Malik’s terrifying timepiece “Laal Andhi”, we are transported to Pakistan in the 1980s and the horror that three young boys discover in an abandoned house, Malik expertly combining supernatural horrors rooted in the region’s lore with the violent political upheavals of the time to paint an unflinching picture of how both humans and legends can conspire to poison our roots as adults. In the unflinching, punchy, and nightmarish tale by Nuzo Onoh “The House that Gabriel Built”, the theme of infernal ancestral vengeance is examined when a villager seeking vengeance for the crimes against his family makes a demonic deal, with consequences for both his descendants and their colonial masters. This tale memorably blends The Fall of the House of Usher with the mythos of the Nigerian Igbo people.

The roots in this collection aren’t put off by concrete. In Erika T. Wurth’s “The Woods”—a bitingly well-written acid trip exercise in hope and horror—a troubled couple beset by grief, arguments, and misplaced machismo check into a Tennessee hotel to discover the vine wallpaper seems to be moving and the forest might have taken root inside as well as outside. And in “To Forget and be Forgotten”, Adam Nevill takes the unique approach of giving us a rootless protagonist, whose only wish is to be apart from a world they find annoying (I emphasised far too much with their wish to be “a gentleman of absence”). But when they get the perfect job as a nightwatchman in a nearly empty apartment block, they discover the place is more sinister than they realised. Like so many stories in this collection, the creeping sense of utter terror is fierce here.

The collection concludes with two intense hits of horror: V Castro’s “The Veteran,” a hauntingly powerful tale of a homeless veteran close to giving up who finds potential salvation in two strangers even as the dark closes in—as strong a story of hope among the horror you’ll read for a while—and Sarah Deacon’s “Chalk Bones”, whose shocking ending is the ultimate demonstrations of the dark power of the roots that bind us all.

Overall, Roots of My Fears is a stand-out collection whose sinister branches conspire to reveal your inner fears, exposing you to vividly well written horrors and the ills of family but also the hope that ties can bring. Amor has curated an unstoppable growth of beauty and terror here—let the roots take hold of you.

Read Roots of My Fears ed. by Gemma Amor

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An all time classic, The Black Company is a book that has left its mark and continues to influence the entire genre of dark fantasy. One of the original entries into grimdark, Glen Cook presents a dark world of malignant gods playing games of chess with human pawns. Cook puts us directly into the boots of Croaker, a physician for the company, and makes us scramble, struggle, and banter alongside the entire platoon. 

“Evil is relative…You can’t hang a sign on it. You can’t touch it or taste it or cut it with a sword. Evil depends on where you are standing, pointing your indicting finger.”

The Black Company follows the titular group and their work for The Lady, one of the deities who are running amok in the world and enlisting soldiers as they battle against each other. They’re hopelessly outmatched and in way over their heads, just like the soldiers they fight with and against. No one is happy in The Black Company, no one is fighting for a cause they believe in. Assassinations, wizardry, swords, and other forms of violence harry them from all sides, still, Croaker and crew continue, pitching in to help complete impossible task after impossible task. 

The originality and grit on display in Cook’s work feels fresh and realistic. Soldiers are lost early and frequently, death comes from all directions, and the world keeps turning anyway. Blood is the fuel that powers the engine of Cook’s work, glory is a concept left behind. The setting can be brutal, but the characters continue to strive for life and hope anyway. For a novel that came out in 1984, The Black Company is painted with such rich tones that it can be read for either enjoyment or for research. 

The character work in The Black Company is just magnificent. Beside our main character Croaker, we have the stoic (mildly aura-farming) Raven, the wizards involved in prank wars, Goblin & One-eye, soul-chilling deities like The Lady and Soulcatcher, and many more. Each one feels like a real entity. They banter, they bicker, they command, they grieve, they get scared. It’s truly hard to pick a favorite, and I think any fan of the genre will find someone to fall in love with. 

From an action perspective, it’s short but brutal. There’s some beheadings, some throat slitting, but the magic in it feels the most vicious. While the wizards in the company frequently use magic to mess with each other in a never-ending prank war, they also use it to the dismayingly dangerous effect you’d expect from the world. 

“Ah, the smell of mystery and dark doings, of skulduggery and revenge. The meat of a good tale.”

It’s impossible to talk about The Black Company without talking about its impact on the genre. Glen Cook belongs alongside names like Michael Moorcock, Gene Wolfe, and David Gemmell for what he did for the grimdark genre. The black humor, the violence, the subversion of expectations and the lack of tropes was a brave way to write and publish a book, and a less talented author wouldn’t have been able to do it. While Cook has influenced the genre as a whole, Malazan especially was heavily inspired by the work and I encourage any Steven Erikson fans to pick up The Black Company. 

At the end of the day, The Black Company is a cornerstone for grimdark. Whether you’re an old hand or just getting into the genre, this is a must-read, one that left its mark but also still feels fresh and alive enough to be enjoyed as a deliciously dark tale of war and the tenacity of the human spirit. 

Read The Black Company by Glen Cook

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