At the end of Grim Company, we left Yllandris in the clutches of the crazy bastard, Krazka. She’s come a long way from the self-obsessed woman she was, and in Sword of the North her desire for vengeance battles her desire to do good. At some points in the narrative, Scull skips ahead and glosses over important moments in the development of a particular plot point or character, which I found a little bizarre. It’s most obvious in Yllandris’ story. Her defining moment—a forced sacrifice—is related very briefly, as a memory. The power of that moment is lost, and Yllandris suffers the most from character whiplash, a near 180 degree turn from the last book.
Yet another viewpoint in Sword of the North comes from a mentally unhinged knight in Krazka’s Kingsguard. His chapters seemed fewer and farther between than the others, and I honestly failed to understand the point of them. He was completely unsympathetic.
The return of the Fade is the thread that binds the book together and gives it a great sense of impending doom. Throughout the book I got a sense of things being kicked into motion as a complicated network emerged, and Scull deserves praise for how he handles the intricacies of his story. However, I sometimes felt that characters emerged at random from the woodwork to take on a new significance or give us a twist. At times I also felt that the pacing suffered, escalating from crawling to breakneck speed in almost no time at all, particularly where Cole and Yllandris were concerned.
Scull’s writing is competent and sometimes laugh out loud funny. His dialogue is a strong point, but I found many of his descriptions, particularly emotional ones, to lack depth. And when Eremul refers to his penis as his ‘treacherous wizard’s staff,’ I nearly put the book down then and there. Think before you metaphor, people! Luckily, that was the only truly cringe-worthy moment for me.
The success of Sword of the North as grimdark literature will depend on how things are wrapped up in Dead Man’s Steel. Scull has designed an ambitious story, and it only becomes more complicated as the book winds up. If Dead Man’s Steel proves a satisfying conclusion, then Sword of the North could turn out to be a fantastic run-up to an explosive payoff. However, it’s possible that the intricate details in Sword of the North could get lost in the gore-spattered pages of Scull’s conclusion, which would leave us with a largely incomprehensible middle. When Dead Man’s Steel is released, I’ll have to reread Sword of the North before diving in—but I will reread it.
Sword of the North was published by Head of Zeus on March 12th, 2015. A synopsis and purchase links can be found on Head of Zeus’s website.[GdM]
All the Lovely Brides
KELLY SANDOVAL
Sariana's touch is gentle as she slides the last ruby pin into Lydra's hair. Still, Lydra flinches. Soon, Sariana's sure fingers will draw a blade across Lydra's throat. Will she be so gentle then? The knife is more difficult, in Lydra's experience. When she slit her own Mistress's throat, her hands would not stop shaking.
That was five years ago. Her Wedding Day. She remembers the blood on her skin, warm as the Lord's smile. She remembers believing he loved her. That she would be the one he kept.
For a time, he let her believe. He danced with her on the surface of Bride's Lake and visited her bed. Everything bloomed. Now the farmers complain of their weak harvest, and she shrivels as his hunger consumes her. She believes very little, anymore.
She studies her reflection. Her dress is black, for mourning. Sariana wears red. A wedding gown.
‘You look very beautiful,’ Lydra says. A Bride should hear such things. And, despite herself, Lydra likes sweet-tempered, gentle Sariana. They were friends once. Or nearly so. The Chosen are bad at friendship.
‘Thank you, Mistress.’ Sariana doesn't meet her gaze.
‘Are you excited?’ It isn't a kind question. ‘The Lord is waiting.’
Sariana shakes her head. ‘I thought, with you— I thought he might—’
‘He might love me?’ Lydra tries to smile. But she is too tired and too hungry. ‘Yes. We all believe that, don't we?’
She can't remember her life before the temple. She can't remember the priests taking her or her first days among the Chosen. But she remembers when the priests told her she could be the one. That if she only loved the Lord enough, he would love her too.
‘He does not love,’ Lydra says and Sariana flinches.
In three years, five if she's strong, Sariana will sit before the mirror, dressed in black. Jamyr will pin rubies in her hair, readying her for sacrifice. Jamyr is to be Sariana's handmaiden. Jamyr, then Leshta, then Trinel, then Roni. The priests brought Roni a year ago. She's six.
‘The priests say he's looking for a Bride who truly serves him.’ Sariana's voice has a desperate edge. ‘A partner.’
‘The priests are priests. To them, he is only a god.’ Lydra adds another dusting of false colour to her cheeks. ‘He will be your husband. Then you will see what it is to serve him.’
‘I'm scared,’ Sariana whispers.
‘We all are.’
Of the two of them, Lydra imagines her fears are greater. She touches her neck. It's still whole, still smooth. Her fingers are sharp sticks of bone and the paint doesn't hide her pallor. But she is whole.
Sariana's skin glows with health. She holds out Lydra's crown, the rubies suiting her complexion better than they ever did Lydra's.
‘Thank you.’ Lydra settles the crown on her hair. It feels heavier than yesterday.
‘You look lovely.’ Sariana lies well. The Lord will appreciate that. Perhaps he will love her, find sustenance in her quiet kindness.
Lydra, too, was kind at the beginning. It was easier, then. She was more beautiful and less hungry.
‘Do not hope for too much.’ She tries to sound gentle. ‘He is not as you imagine.’
She has lain in his arms, heard him whisper of death and godhood.
‘We are both sacrifices in the end,’ he told her. ‘You feed me. I feed the land.’
‘You live,’ she said.
‘I suffer.’
She knows his suffering. His endless hunger sits like a worm in her belly, devouring her by inches. His fingers, corpse cold, have stolen the warmth from her flesh.
The people grow wheat and grow fat.
In time, fresh, beautiful Sariana will be sallow-skinned and sunken-eyed. Sariana, and all the girls who come after. All the girls who don't want to die.
Lydra doesn't want to die.
‘What else can I do?’ Sariana asks. Lydra has no answer.
Sariana pours wine and offers her the cup.
The wine is a deep, bruised red. Lydra lets it touch her lips. Sweet. It hides the laudanum well.
‘Perhaps I'm wrong,’ she says. ‘Perhaps it's better to love him…for a little while. Buy yourself a few months of joy.’
‘I love our people.’ Sariana sets her shoulders and lifts her chin. ‘That's enough for me.’
‘Love them while you can, then. Love their hunger. It's all they'll offer you.’
The discordant clang of the noon bells fill the air. Lydra stands in a sweep of black silk and leaves the nearly full cup on her dressing table.
She used to believe she'd face the blade bravely, even smile as the Bride slit her throat. Her own mistress died cursing, and Lydra never forgave her. She forgives her now.
At the Bride's door, the Chosen gather. Jamyr wears pink. The rest wear white. Little Roni is crying.
‘Hush now.’ Lydra crouches and grasps the girl's hands. Her own hands won't stop shaking. ‘You must be good.’
‘Are you really going away?’ Roni asks.
‘Yes.’
‘But why?’
‘Because that's what the Chosen are for. It's Sariana's turn to be the Bride.’
‘Will I go away?’
Lydra feels the disapproving weight of Jamyr's stare and doesn't care. What good will lying do?
‘Yes, Roni. All the Chosen go away.’ Lydra stands and straightens her skirts. ‘We're ready.’
Jamyr opens the Bride's doo
r.
The Grand Hall is built for first impressions, with vaulted ceilings and pillars of iron. Lydra's people have gathered to witness. They stand as close as they dare to the aisle of red silk. She looks for herself in their round, healthy faces. They have thrived as she has withered. And now they've come to watch her die.
How easy it must be for them. A Bride, killed slowly, then all at once. A small price to pay for a generous god.
Beyond the crowd, the Lord waits on his iron throne. A grey-robed priest stands beside him, holding the knife. The priest keeps his gaze locked on the Lord. The Lord watches Lydra.
He smiles, showing straight, white teeth. She used to like his smile. Now, she looks away and focuses on her feet. One step. Another.
He will settle in Sariana like a tumour. She, too, will think he loves her.
They stand before him: the old bride and the new. Lydra kneels, pressed down by the weight of his gaze. He touches her cheek and she shivers. What remains of her warmth leaves her.
She does not want to die.
She looks up at Sariana, meaning to smile, or to curse her, or to beg. Sariana takes the knife in a shaking grip. Her eyes are bright with tears.
She'll botch it, cut shallow. Lydra will bleed out slowly while the Chosen watch and the Lord gathers Sariana into his arms.
She reaches up and grips Sariana's wrist, trying to steady the knife as it grazes her throat.
‘I'm sorry,’ Sariana, whispers. ‘I don't want to.’
But she will. They all do.
Lydra hates her, and herself, and all the lovely, obedient Brides who came before.
She squeezes, digging brittle nails into Sariana's fine, soft skin.
The knife drops, hitting the silk covered stone with a muffled thud. Lydra wraps her fingers around the familiar hilt. It's heavier than she remembers, warmer to the touch. She stands, still holding Sariana's wrist.
They were friends, once. And she's so very gentle.
Lydra takes her by the chin. ‘You serve your people,’ she whispers. And she slits Sariana's throat in a single, steady stroke.
The parting of skin and muscle. The rush of warm blood over her hands. The dull sound of Sariana's body hitting the stones. None of it surprises her. She has done it before.
She wanted to live then, too.
She ignores the gasping crowd, the cursing priest. Only the Lord matters now.
He laughs. She remembers the sound, all velvet and heat, from long walks by moonlight. She's pleased him. The worm of his hunger eases its grip as he gains new strength from Sariana's death. Lydra takes her first full breath in months.
She had forgotten what it meant not to hurt.
She turns away from Sariana's corpse, looks past the crowd to the Bride's door. Roni sobs silently, her fist stuffed in her mouth. Jamyr stares at Lydra's bloody hands. Lydra understands the relief in her expression. Jamyr need never learn the weight of the knife or the heat of fresh blood.
‘I thought you had tired of bringing me gifts,’ the Lord says.
Lydra refuses to mirror his smile. She won't play at banter. Not while Sariana grows cold between them.
‘I am not as tired as you might have wished,’ she says.
‘And what will you do now? Host my hunger for another five years?’ He reaches forward and touches her gaunt wrist. ‘I fear you haven't the strength for it.’
She studies the crowd. A slack-jawed farmer gawks at the Chosen. The woman next to him links her fingers in the sign against evil. The man, she decides. He can be first.
‘You need not hunger. These are prosperous times, Lord. There is plenty of life to offer.’
‘And will you offer it? A god can't take what his people won't give.’
She smiles at last. ‘I am ever your loyal Bride.’
She will bring them, and slit their throats, and feel the warm flush of health return to her skin. She will bring as many as it takes.
She will live.[GdM]
Kelly Sandoval lives in Seattle, Washington with her patient husband, demanding cat, and temperamental tortoise. She attended Clarion West in 2013 and lived to tell more tales. Her fiction has appeared in Shimmer, Asimov's, and Flash Fiction Online. You can find her online at kellysandovalfiction.com.
An Interview With
Luke Scull
GDM
Reader warning—This interview may contain spoilers.
Thank you for taking the time to speak to us, Luke. We really enjoyed your debut novel for all of its grittiness, twisted storyline and characters more grey than a stormy sky. The team and I are really excited to get our teeth into Sword of the North, a sequel to The Grim Company.
[GdM] What is it about the grimdark genre that appeals to you personally? Is there anything in your personal life that guided you in that direction?
[LS] Without wading into the debate about what grimdark actually is, I write the kind of book I like to read. These books tend to include masculine themes, moral ambiguity, dark wit and a hefty dose of irony along with the prerequisite fountains of blood and heads exploding like melons. Consumers demand more honestly from their entertainment in this day and age—we live in complicated times and pitting shiny heroes against brooding dark lords seems awfully trite, at least to me, when contrasted with the messy and myriad truths of the real world. To those bloggers (and perhaps editors) hoping that grimdark's time is passing—sorry to say it ain't happening.
Having said that, heroism—or at least the possibility of heroism—is important to me. The flame glows brightest when surrounded by darkness, and so the heroism in my books tends to be buried deep. It's easy for the dashing young prince with the magic sword and heroic destiny to do the right thing: rather harder for the broken-down veteran carrying a lifetime of regrets on his shoulders.
The prospect of redemption, that kernel of decency that persists in the hearts of the most tortured souls, is present in most all my characters. A truly nihilistic story where everyone is an irredeemable shitheel is not something that appeals to me very much.
[GdM] What role do short stories have in a storytelling world crammed with novels now seeming to consistently reach the +200,000 word mark? Do you have any short stories out there, will they be important to your current world, and where can our readers find them?
[LS] I should note that I'm not the best person to answer that question. I haven't penned a short story beyond the award-winning (well, it finished top of the class!) Bram Stoker tribute I wrote aged 15.
From a world-building point-of-view, short stories can fill in blank spaces in maps or illuminate character backstories. Even in a 200k-word doorstopper there isn't always a good place to go off a tangent and detail this past escapade, or the lore surrounding that particular Forest of Doom.
From a purely commercial standpoint, short stories are a useful way for an author to keep his or her fans well fed with new material and maintain a heightened level of interest in their work. Particularly when said author is behind in producing their latest weighty tome…
[GdM] What made you go with the group of anti-heroes to take on the evil magelord, and what spark of genius made you give us that insight into Salazar right at the end that changed him from an evil magelord into a—kind of—human being?
[LS] I'm not sure I'd call it a spark of genius: sympathetic or least understandable villains have been around in fantasy for a very long time. I remember Brandin from Guy Gavriel Kay's masterpiece Tigana first awakening me to the idea that near-immortal and godlike wizards are human too. They probably have, or had, families and lovers, hopes and dreams that somewhere along the way turned sour. Realistic characterization requires that this be acknowledged even if it ultimately doesn't excuse their behavior.
Moral ambiguity can probably be called one of the hallmarks of grimdark, so it's no surprise that the apparent villain of The Grim Company has hidden layers. And his humanity is a stark contrast to the villains presented later in the trilogy.
[GdM] Your magic system req
uires very little explanation, using vagaries to allow the reader to shape things like the abominations, where they come from and why. It’s like you guide the reader towards what’s in your imagination, as opposed to spelling every little detail out up front. Both methods have their merits, their fans, and naysayers, but what made you favour this sort of system over, say, a Brandon Sanderson Mistborn style system?
[LS] I've worked as a videogame designer for years. The last thing I wanted when writing The Grim Company was to spend a lot of time designing magic systems. I've been there and done that. I found such things hugely interesting when I was twenty: at thirty-three, not so much.
Nowadays I want to delve into the psychology of my characters, not spend ten pages detailing the ways in which a firespark spell can be combined with one of the seven Words of Power to create a perfect sphere of flame thirty feet in diameter. Some readers love this level of detail, and more power to them. I'm content to provide a framework and let the reader's imaginations fill in the blanks, clarifying the rules when the plot calls for it. That's not a ready-made excuse for authorial deus ex machinia: whenever I do step in to explain details the rules must remain internally consistent.
[GdM] Davarus Cole is such a frustrating character to read by design—constantly, arrogantly, fervently, annoyingly believing he is a hero born—and yet, by the end I found myself a little gutted by his turn of events. What was the inspiration behind his personality?
Grimdark Magazine Issue #3 MOBI Page 6