Criticism is always hard to take, and I have great respect for Mr Donaldson as a writer. But this book is crushed to death under its own weight and it drags the Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant down with it.

I review it not to point my presumptuous little finger at a great writer’s faults, but to try and understand why the book itself has lost me as a reader, so I can avoid this style of writing in my own fantasy novels. It’s particularly instructive for me, because I deal with similar themes in Second Sight, on a similar stage, with similar stakes (a world wracked with chaos; a female mage striving to save the essence of life; the world will end by her causing the conditions for the Apocalypse).

There’s a strange kind of resonance I suspect many authors have discovered. Similarities emerge between writers when they write about a similar theme. As you write, you discover the same entities and challenges. To put it another way, when you work with the stuff Tolkien delved into, you come face to face with the same Balrog, regardless of whether you’ve read Tolkien or not. It’s not a case of copying; it’s a case of working with the archetypes that lurk in the place writers find themselves in. So I appreciate that what Donaldson is attempting to work with here is extremely difficult: gods, mages with staggering powers, doom and apocalypse, and the meaningful culmination of story arcs from two trilogies with many potent characters.

The opening is definitely not designed to cater for mainstream readers. When you compare it to something like Mordant’s Need, it’s plain that Donaldson knows how to write a cracking opening scene, but has chosen not to. I know we are well into a series here, but I would have still made some kind of concession to engage readers. For pages and pages we must endure the introspective exposition that is Covenant’s trademark, his fractured, floundering grasp on reality, then Linden’s self-doubt, and piles of explanation.

As an author, I have a large working vocabulary, and there’s some academic enjoyment to be found in encountering obscure or archaic words. But the language and the overwrought specificity (see?) of this book comes across as pedantic. I know it’s partly a deliberate stylistic technique to establish continuity with the ‘otherworldliness’ of The Land, but if I read percipience one more time I am going to bleed from the eyeballs. Where oh where was the editor’s red pencil? Kill the darlings, they say.

This ‘ornate and heavyweight’ style makes it ‘different’ in a market of gritty, action-driven fantasy novels, but different is not necessarily a good thing. It makes the dialogue strange and off-key. I also struggled to understand the complicated web of conflicting motives, so Donaldson has to continually remind me what is at stake for each character, and then agonise over every possible ramification of their choices, which slows the pace even more. The strict rules of established behaviour lead to some painfully polite posturing. I wished Brand the Haruchai would say ‘fuck you’, just once, and kick the Manethrall’s head in, but instead he says ‘we will hear no more of this, Manethrall. You are unjust …’ This wooden dialogue just isn’t convincing from people who are all living rough: fighters, survivors, dirty smelly tough-as-nails folk, people who haven’t given up in an endless fight against ultimate evil.

When some action does eventually happen, the excitement is ruined by unrealistic stop-start pacing. The rising dread of She Who Can Not Be Named (Donaldson’s Balrog) is made ridiculous by being spoken to, answering in English, and then being ‘paused’ while the hero devises some get-out clause and thinks it through. The last time I was chased by a deadly snake, I didn’t have a moment to think of anything beyond run. The bane is supposed to represent a threat ten thousand times worse.

Donaldson is the master of writing about self-torment and hand-wringing indecision, but these qualities in a lead character become tiresome and eventually, unbearable. Even while running from death, characters pause to consider the outcome of everything they do, as if Donaldson is trying hard to explain everything in case we readers don’t get it. This makes me feel that he knows it’s too complicated. Actions should be obvious and believable, given the situation. Instead the characters look over their shoulders all the time and try to explain why they are doing what they are doing.

While the despair and self-doubt continues the style of the Covenant books, it has been elevated to such a degree by now that it overwhelms the story. There are hints that the author cares deeply about the inspirations of his characters and their morality, but overall the mood is just too serious and entirely humourless. Even the giants laugh at unfunny moments, deliberately controlled by the author, and they seem like miscast extras going hohoho in the background of a funeral scene. I know Donaldson is trying to do something with the symbolism and metaphors and deeper meanings, but because it’s so complicated and contrived I just don’t get any of it.

The second and third books of the final cycle interfere with my memory of the previous trilogies and break their spell. This ponderous tale needs to be cut down to size, to make it able to stand on its own as a story. In the attempt to forge the Unifying Conclusion of Great Significance with such meticulousness, Donaldson has throttled his own creation.

If he ever writes short standalone fantasy stories I’ll be right there in the front of the queue. But I’ve abandoned Covenant, Linden and The Land to collapse and annihilation. They do not seem worth saving.

As a fantasy author, what do I take away from this?

• When the seminal story is concluded (in this case, end of the first trilogy), end the series. Sequels can eventually suck the life out of the whole world. Be especially wary of writing the ‘last’ book that points back at the whole series and ties it up: you cannot make it better than it was and like analysing a joke, over-scrutiny of the original story leads to a dissipation of the magic.
• Readers don’t need reasons for everything; they should be able to puzzle motives out as things develop.
• Evocative writing is more engaging than prescriptive writing.
• Lead characters need to be decisive, so they move through the story.
• Extended internal dialogues are story killers.

I loved the first Chronicles and applauded the second. The third Chronicles began in a cunning way, and I was eager to be swept away into the Land once again. But this book, Fatal Revenant, dragged at my heels.

.

It could be cut by 400 pages and still tell the same story, and the excessive use of anachronistic (damn, he’s doing it to me too now, I mean to say old) and downright obscure adjectives highlight the problem: Donaldson insists on telling us exactly what every single thing means, and every possible outcome, repeatedly, with painful precision. There is no space to wonder, to guess; to fill in the blanks in the writing: to be amazed.

In the earlier books I enjoyed the poetry of the Land, the way the atmosphere of the story made me feel. There was a special beauty to the fact that the world was a dream-world which Covenant did not believe in. It was real but unreal–that ambiguity was essential to the magic of the book.

But now the Land has become too real or too defined to be believable. Being the only world that exists for the lead character, it becomes a stock-fantasy story and reads like a fictionalised role-playing game with staged combat scenes. The plotting is arduous, with character motivations analysed so often that I became suspicious of the plot. I knew that if I stopped to think about it, I’d see that the characters probably wouldn’t do what they were doing unless the author had insisted that they did. It doesn’t ring true.

There are some high-points, great fantasy inventions, wonderful wizardry and moments when Donaldson works his old magic to good effect, but on the whole I found I couldn’t empathise with Linden Avery. I just didn’t care what she did.

Fatal Revenant also has tons of back-story. It’s a classic case of ‘show don’t tell’ gone wrong. I can’t believe that anything Donaldson writes is accidental, but he has perhaps over-analysed this manuscript, filling it with reminders, patches and information readers ‘should know’. This exposition drags the whole series down. Linden is so insecure and uncertain. She is a woman of shallow emotions who is rather desperate as a heroine. The Extended Unabridged Chronicles of Linden Avery, the Chosen has become too tiresome for me.

*****

Yes, it was! Logen is spectacular. What Mr A achieves here is worth emulating – he makes me care about this barbarian despite the awkward fact that even Logen can’t deny – he is a killer. I don’t like killers. Nobody does. But we really care about this guy. How does he do that? It seems that part of the art is withholding the truth about Logen’s past, giving us glimpses that worsen through the tale, but never enough to overbalance the empathy that develops as we endure hardships with Logen. The crux of it is that Logen is trying to be better than he was. It’s enlightening to learn how much one can forgive a man when is honestly trying. This only makes the horror of what he is and does more intense.

The humour is back: “Jezal sat in a haze of awkwardness, in a dreamlike silence, startling from time to time like a sick rabbit as a powdered footman blindsided him with vegetables.” I giggled myself to tears. My fellow commuters looked on like sheep eyeing a naked farmer. He’s gone mad – is he dangerous?

The characters all develop and (finally) assert their will: West comes into his power, Jezal too, despite the clear sense that all the lead characters are being carried along in events greater than themselves, they also begin to take command of their little patch, which is greatly satisfying to read. And this goes some way to explaining what was going on in terms of character development in book 2 – nothing.

The launch into the story world was expertly planned, and the conclusion was dazzling with a hell of a lot happening. The middle seemed, by comparison, to go nowhere. I was beginning to think that it may be better to take a story in a surprising direction in book 2 or simply eliminate the book altogether – if the plot goes up up and away and comes down with a crunch, we probably don’t need much of the bit in between. But there seems to be a lesson for the characters and this reader in the rambling arc of the middle book – nothing seems to work out the way we want it to. We’re all left feeling disappointed, which sets us up for the finale. I might have set the series aside, but I’m very glad I didn’t.

Bayaz is the best wizard I have ever read of. In the Last Argument of Kings Mr A passes on a revelation about what the wizard was actually doing and the book suddenly came alive! Bayaz is cunning, terrifying, manipulative and untrustworthy, arrogant, too wise, inhumanly inspired, and his magic is more in politics than in spells, yet he doesn’t shy away from destroying someone if he needs to. He is masterfully crafted, and this series is worth studying just for Bayaz alone. He is to be feared.

As the real battle begins in the North, Logen is in his element and the tension around him is incredible. The way the hard men fear and hate him, yet respect him gives you a hint of what he is capable of, yet you aren’t shown the truth of it until you really need Logen to reveal his dark nature, and then there’s this complicated resolution to events where Logen doesn’t ever really save the day (but we want him to).

To write like this is a great achievement, in my opinion. Such despicable people, yet we care about their fortunes and want them to do right, in the end. It would be so easy to slip up in the telling, to lose the reader in a moment of revulsion and never regain the interest in the character. Mr A comes very close sometimes, so expect a bloody tale. But then the barbarian gets philosophical, and I’m speechless with respect for Logen (and his creator, back there in the shadows):
“You can have enemies you never really meet, Logen had plenty. You can kill men you don’t know, he’d done it often. But you can’t truly hate a man without loving him first, and there’s always a trace of that love left over.”

Five stars. Now sneak over to Joe Abercrombie’s website and watch what he’s up to. I know I’m going to. I just hope Bayaz doesn’t (ever) notice me.

This is the second book in The First Law fantasy trilogy. The Dogman leads us into the sequel with a strong voice, and seems to have taken over from Logen Ninefingers as the issuer of pithy barbarian proverbs and gritty wit. The story runs fast in the style of the trilogy, where there are no heroes, just survivors, or rather people with a strong determination to not die.

Abercrombie’s strength is his characterisation, and he delivers incisive insights into the nature of his ruffians and rogues which carry the story with wry humour. If you don’t think too hard about it, the tale is a lot of fun, particularly for those who enjoy watching a good fight.

The first cracks in a potentially great fantasy series appear in the plotting. The questers go on a seemingly endless journey to ‘find’ the talisman for the wizard, but it becomes obvious that the wizard can’t be trusted and will use the power for his own ends. At this point I’m asking myself “What is Logen’s motivation to risk almost certain death and hardship?” The assassin Ferro Maljinn has even less motivation. She was hunted by the invincible Eaters at first, but they seem to have abandoned the chase entirely. She’s been told she will get her revenge, but she’s not that stupid to believe the wizard. None of them would repeatedly risk their life without being shown exactly what the quest was about. Maybe there were better motivations devised for the characters but they weren’t obvious.

The conceited soldier Jezal gets some of the arrogance kicked out of him and so becomes more interesting, but he still lacks a compelling motivation for following the quest and any real ambition we can empathise with. Glokta, the crippled torturer, survives in a world of politics and subterfuge only by being clever. We feel his vulnerability, but I’m not rooting for him anymore, because he doesn’t seem to have any ambition beyond survival.

There are bright instances of great descriptive writing: sharp, clean and evocative. But on the whole the crassness of the characters and the pointlessness of the quests, battles and political intrigue create a world that can become tiresome. The story lacks the magic of the first and leaves me thinking that the ‘delightfully twisted and evil’ review quote on the cover might be appropriate. It’s still a good fantasy due to the arc from the first book and my hopes for the third, but the trail between them is bloody.

Before They Are Hanged: The First Law: Book Two

The story presents itself as hard action space fantasy. A feared and militaristic nation has oppressed the galaxy. They are in search of an ancient powerful artefact, but a broken soul seeking revenge finds it first. All good stock material for a violent retribution comic, which speaks to a young-and-restless part of the market.

The story gets up and running fast with a prison escape, but it is tripped up by passive voice writing ['forces are traded between vicious warriors'], errors in fact ['we were too heavy to make the atmosphere' beside a ship clearly off the surface - the atmosphere begins at the surface of a planet] and unclear writing with mixed metaphors and spelling errors [grievous, not greivous]. When there are so few words in print, there’s no excuse for poor proofreading.

At one point, the hero Kaizaxx is overwhelmed by the magical influence of the key he was given, and when he recovers from his temporary insanity he sees the mythical Dome of Ragnirok but the text suggests he ‘bears witness to a site’ (meaning provides evidence for a place) instead of ‘witnesses a sight’ (meaning he saw something). The demon calls him a yokesack (a bag draped over the necks of two oxen?) when meaning yolksack. Unfortunate errors, easily corrected.

Concerning the writing style, the impartial narrative voice of the author distances us from the story. For instance, it is written ‘he then ponders on what happened to these warriors’ instead of ‘what happened to these warriors?’ as a thought bubble.

In places the colourist does a brilliant job (the explosion of the escape ship, and whenever muted tones are used) but in places the colours are overdone and garish (mostly when neon pink, mauve and red are used, as in the cover). The characters have a digitised unreality in places, in others are drawn really well, creating an uneven reading experience. The main character’s face seems to change beyond the limits of expressional shifts. Occasional poor typography, particularly near the beginning, adds to the jumbled impression that suggests the artwork has come from different sources and styles, a collaborative production built up over time.

These are basic storytelling and art direction errors that underline a classic mistake of self-publishing. Because the budget is limited, no money is spent on an independent editor, so story and artwork that could be improved is included. By doing so, the self-publisher limits the impact of the end-product and makes it even harder to sell and to continue with the series. But the self-published / indie author often works in a vacuum where there is no access to professional critiques or guidance, or they simply won’t accept hard criticism because it’s in the nature of independent thinkers to ‘publish it myself anyway, and show the critics they are wrong’. It’s that defiant streak that gives self-publishers the determination and perseverance required to get the publication into the market, despite the many obstacles or indeed, their relevance.

Genecy #1 is the start of a series. If it doesn’t really blow everyone’s socks off, the whole series is doomed. You have to put your best work up front. I get the impression that this could have been a lot more, but it can’t be a commercial success in its present form. Make no mistake, these guys are dedicated to their craft and have tried really hard, it’s just that the final product lacks the commercial polish that a publisher would bring to it, which is a pity.

The production does show promise for the individual creatives though. There are some moments of great mood. The artwork is particularly good at conveying moments of scale, odd perspective, and brooding macabre spaces. It also includes some wonderful lighting effects and glowing mists. The layout of chapter two is great, with visual appeal and variation making it interesting.

The rendering of the god Raknirok and his voice is great, as are certain pieces like ancient warriors emerging from the inscribed walls. The story reaches a climax of artistic cohesion near the end, then … ends. That’s it. The character has been presented to the world, but without a clear idea of what his new incarnation wants (and if the original character even exists anymore) I’m not motivated to continue the story.

That highlights the problem of the indie graphic novelist. One issue alone is such a big creation, involving a writer, penciller, colourist and designer, and printing in full colour is expensive, especially in a short run. Hence it’s only available from a POD website. For the team to get anywhere, the story has to really SELL.

It puts immense pressure on the writer’s story-telling ability, to get it all done in a few short pages. As such, Cooper does a good job of presenting a troubled character in a mythic playing field, but he needs to develop his writing more with the help of an editor before committing money to get artists involved. The premise of a tortured slave seeking vengeance on his merciless oppressors failed to connect with me, because the enemy seemed to be the whole human-like race (the Grunnon), which suggests an adventure in genocide.

The team, as Invision Comics, are trying to collect money on the creative funding site kickstarter.com to produce Issue #2, but Genecy can only ride on the momentum of the readership generated in Issue #1. I’d suggest they polish that until it shines then reissue it for free to build a fanbase. After a few hundred thousand downloads, produce Issue #2 for the iPad to the clamouring fans. Eventually, the project might break even and some galactic credits might roll back to the creators.

Which just goes to show, it’s a long long journey to release a successful science fiction story, particularly in the graphic novel format. Genecy is a brave attempt to blast a new legend into being, but it ‘won’t reach the atmosphere’ until the ship is engineered to reach the stars.

Snap review: 5 stars, a dark, gritty and wry fantasy based on the sword-and-sorcery and epic fantasy templates. There’s no safe middle ground here: you’ll either love the raw gleeful energy, or you’ll find it too slapstick and cynical. Joe Abercrombie’s prose is deadly: witty and violent, well plotted and brilliantly told.

I was reluctant to begin a book with a blood-spattered cover lauded as ‘delightfully twisted and evil’. I’m not a psycho. I don’t fantasise about blood. But as a fantasy author, I want to know what’s happening in the fantasy genre, and so I stuck my neck out and got it chopped right off by the blade itself. It’s not what I was expecting. The Blade Itself is personal, brutish, and brilliant. Joe Abercrombie really packs it in, and I get the feeling that he takes great pleasure in writing this way. If he doesn’t like someone, they get smacked.

His characters scream “Character!” In a few lines of dialogue we meet some unforgettable rogues. Logen’s viewpoint shines! To enter a city for the first time and see all of its strangeness through the eyes of a barbarian was so very funny. (I felt not unlike a South African arriving in London). The book is worth reading for this character alone. But Abercrombie himself is the lead character – he expresses himself so strongly that I found myself wanting to read on just because of the way he told his story.

He drops his capitals too. Instead of The Blade Itself the first cover was ‘the blade itself by joe abercrombie’. Unfortunately later designs have put his name and titles in capitals, which doesn’t truly reflect the style. His prose cuts you before you’ve seen the stroke coming; no words are wasted on flowery descriptions. If he’s telling you something, it’s relevant: if he’s building someone up, he’s poking fun at them. His story-telling is remarkably efficient.

By the half-way mark we have met a whole host of characters, each one unique and memorable and quite possibly important to the outcome of the story, which seems to be that a war that is brewing. Funny, I thought, no clear goal in sight, yet it’s compelling reading. Due to his wry observations and confident style I was drawn into the story despite the lack of any primary character with whom I can sympathise. I can empathise with Logen Ninefingers but to be honest it’s hard to really root for someone who has ‘thrown a woman down a well because she attacked me for murdering her husband’. He’s despicable, just like Inquisitor Glokta, whose murderous reasoning is appalling. I wouldn’t shed a tear for him, but in his tap, tap … scrape I learn the rhythm of his pain, and strange as it may seem, I become drawn into his world, which just goes to show how good Abercrombie’s writing is.

The architecture of the world, the cultures and the power struggles slowly emerge as the pages fly by, and the revelations are perfectly placed and nicely hidden within the fast-paced prose. There’s a lot going on in the background, revolving around the wizard Bayaz, who is a truly outstanding wizard introduced with cunning and subtlety. Bayaz has terrifying power, and is the most fantastically arrogant self-centred bastard of a wizard there ever was, though he seems so reasonable. Or maybe he’s actually good, I can’t be sure, he disturbs me too much, so I’ll have to read on, there is no way I’m putting this series down.

I went out and bought the whole series – it’s an altogether fantastic read. Highly recommended.

Brett’s writing is simple, unpretentious, and action-packed. The Painted Man is a blend of a coming-of-age tale, a monster-violence thriller and a speculation on human nature. When Brett switches from Arlen’s viewpoint and demonstrates that there is more to the story than the standard fantasy fare (a country bumpkin goes on a quest to learn magic and save the world) I know I’ll stay till the end. Although the fast-paced action is often bloody and the body-count is high, it is not slasher-fiction and so does not appal with gore. The writing doesn’t challenge the reader much—it doesn’t need to—it simply sweeps you along with the story.

Master wards:
Arlen, Leesha, Rojer: they are characterised so strongly and memorably that when we return to Arlen after a long break in the narrative, I can picture him immediately, sitting in his ward-circle. Full marks on characterisation. The three character arcs are very different stories that come together in a rollicking climax. The occasional flimsy plot mechanism weakens the spell, but the vigour of the storytelling pushes you into the new action. There are gems of wisdom that brighten the tale and increase the authenticity of the characters. By spanning many years in the character’s lives, Brett makes me feel really connected with them because I feel I’ve known them for a long time.

The question that drives the story forward so well is: how does fear make people behave? That’s what interested me throughout the book, watching the characters grapple with their fear and coming up with responses that defined their humanity. Because there is this interesting subtext, I’m engaged and want to see further examples of well-considered observations of human nature under pressure. It is a simple recipe: Brett forms charismatic leads and places various character types around them in conflict situations. This was fun to watch.

The concept of the wards and the way the knowledge of them has become scattered and lost is a great idea. You begin to feel that you must learn wards or you’ll be dead soon, so it becomes a vital lore. That the user gains power through their use is also a nice twist—usually mages are limited by something, but Arlen has great potential: only the lack of knowledge of wards seems to limit him.

Wards I wasn’t so sure about:
The premise, that bloodthirsty demons rule humanity with fear and would condemn us to become a fractured medieval society is believable, IF you can get past the demons rising insubstantially from the ground and solidifying into rabid monsters. The way the demons sank into the earth and rose again seemed unbelievable to me, I couldn’t shake the feeling they were Monty Python cardboard cut-out demons wobbling back into their slot in the stage. I’m too rational to be left without some science to justify the existence of the monsters. Doesn’t have to be true science, just believable.

The setting is nothing new and will be familiar to Terry Brooks readers (at whom the book is marketed)—a post apocalyptic world that has slipped back into a medieval existence with technology and the knowledge of it lost in the flames. It is a bit unlikely that none of the modern technology survives. Nonetheless, the historical link to the present day helps me to relate to the setting, so it’s easier to believe.

Wards that didn’t work for me:
Leesha’s story has so much sexual posturing that it becomes a little tiresome. Although it is believable that everyone would be obsessed with reproducing because humanity is clinging on to survival, it conflicts with the conservative attitudes within the villages—I think Brett could have pushed the boat out a bit further here on how the culture would change under such extreme survival conditions, given that it develops from the present day. There were also too many ‘narrow escapes’ where undefended humans dodge hungry rabid monsters. They would have been chomped.

Verdict:
The Painted Man has a flaming good concept and is great fun to read. It doesn’t have the mind-dazzling awe-inspiring impact I need for 5 stars, but it’s a solid 4 and I look forward to reading The Desert Spear. Arlen is definitely a mage to watch. I’m practising my ward-work now, just in case the demons come. You never know.

It is an incendiary work of black magic that will leave kindergoths wide-eyed.

Occultist James Edward Guillaume enjoys living up to his reputation as South Africa’s wickedest man, but in so doing, he becomes a target for those who believe his esoteric arts and alternative lifestyle are the work of the devil and should be punished.

The author displays an accomplished style that gives me confidence to follow her into the dark. The protagonist, Jamie, offers a distinctive shock-rocker view of the world with a unique perspective on our so-ordinary lives. The story is an introduction to a ragged slice of Goth culture in Cape Town. The detailing is convincing – references to esoteric texts, drug culture and rituals that speak of experience or such good research that it is indistinguishable from it. But the book comes with a warning: M/M and M/F sexual content, occult, violence, gore. You’d best avoid it if you find smears of prejudice, graphic violence and conversations peppered with vile expletives offensive. I’d never have expected a woman to have written this … but I suspect that she is more fire and demon, with an undeniable knack for finding soft places with her claws.

In terms of setting a mood of eerie loneliness and ruin in modern-day suburbia, Kephera Rising is a complete success: Jamie’s life is a tragedy, the suffering graphic, the grimness unrelenting and some of the first-person writing is superb: ‘a smile fakes its way across my face and a cold sweat starts beneath my armpits. Hollow eyes glance at me from the mirror above the fireplace.’ Jamie is suitably tormented by his lack of evil intent and vacillation in the face of his growing dilemma. The detailing of Cape Town is convincing and the dark underbelly of the city disturbing in its believability. This is where Dorman’s alter-ego as a travel writer shines through. You’ll also have ringside seats for some blinding action scenes.

There are occasional dead points in the plot: making his tormentors as flawed as Jamie is quite plausible but seems too convenient. Jamie is a bit of a wet regarding his emotional problems, but the relationship with his girlfriend is ambiguous enough to keep us guessing, with twists and turns, tensioning and reversals. And he is a bit too dim-witted regarding his shocking hidden talent.

The way his world falls to pieces is expertly crafted and it shows up his narcissistic life as a reclusive magician. It must be said, however, that it is hard to care for a man who cusses the world and everyone in it, and unless you find the details of esoteric practices irresistible then only curiosity and an appreciation of the brooding atmosphere can pull you into the dark heart of the story. He doesn’t do much to help anyone but himself as he tries to survive his persecutors and the effects of his own emotional baggage, but the story (strapped to a chair with packing tape) is kept artfully alive by the ongoing character development and the incisive philosophical observations amidst the creative trails of blood on the floor.

The real attraction of the book is the essence of horror stated in Dorman’s seductive voice: ‘fear is an ambrosia, a liquor of unparalleled desire that I crave.’ There is something else at work in the writing; something that works around and underneath the words with demonic cleverness. The shifts from vision-possessed fugues back to real world were especially well done. Through sleight of hand plotting and misdirection Dorman induces the reader to empathise with Jamie, and we become complicit in his actions, participating in his sins whilst pretending not to know. The result of this manipulation is an emotional trap and you begin to understand that you will only find release from Jamie’s dragging guilt by reading through to the end.

The climax is a killing stroke with a strong message and is well worth the journey. Kephera Rising may be a gothic horror that marginalises itself by its extreme defiance but it recommends itself to its aghast audience in so doing.

First novel? Come off it, Dorman is no apprentice. She’s pulled something out of the hat with this one, but then she’s a practicing magician and no, it’s not a white bunny she’s holding in her hand. Then again, if being scared wasn’t irresistible, you wouldn’t be reaching out to take it.

[You can get it from Lyrical Press]

Khepera Rising BY NERINE DORMAN (Lyrical Press, December 2009) An incendiary work of black magic that will leave kindergoths wide-eyed. Occultist James Edward Guillaume enjoys living up to his reputation as South Africa’s wickedest man, but in so doing, he becomes a target for those who believe his esoteric arts and alternative lifestyle are the work of the devil and should be punished. The author displays an accomplished style that gives me confidence to follow her into the dark. The protagonist, Jamie, offers a distinctive shock-rocker view of the world with a unique perspective on our so-ordinary lives. The story is an introduction to a ragged slice of Goth culture in Cape Town. The detailing is convincing – references to esoteric texts, drug culture and rituals that speak of experience or such good research that it is indistinguishable from it. But the book comes with a warning: M/M and M/F sexual content, occult, violence, gore. You’d best avoid it if you find smears of prejudice, graphic violence and conversations peppered with vile expletives offensive. I’d never have expected a woman to have written this … but I suspect that she is more fire and demon, with an undeniable knack for finding soft places with her claws. In terms of setting a mood of eerie loneliness and ruin in modern-day suburbia, Kephera Rising is a complete success: Jamie’s life is a tragedy, the suffering graphic, the grimness unrelenting and some of the first-person writing is superb:  ‘a smile fakes its way across my face and a cold sweat starts beneath my armpits. Hollow eyes glance at me from the mirror above the fireplace.’ Jamie is suitably tormented by his lack of evil intent and vacillation in the face of his growing dilemma. The detailing of Cape Town is convincing and the dark underbelly of the city disturbing in its believability. This is where Dorman’s alter-ego as a travel writer shines through. You’ll also have ringside seats for some blinding action scenes.

There are occasional dead points in the plot: making his tormentors as flawed as Jamie is quite plausible but seems too convenient. Jamie is a bit of a wet regarding his emotional problems, but the relationship with his girlfriend is ambiguous enough to keep us guessing, with twists and turns, tensioning and reversals. And he is a bit too dim-witted regarding his shocking hidden talent. The way his world falls to pieces is expertly crafted and it shows up his narcissistic life as a reclusive magician. It must be said, however, that it is hard to care for a man who cusses the world and everyone in it, and unless you find the details of esoteric practices irresistible then only curiosity and an appreciation of the brooding atmosphere can pull you into the dark heart of the story. He doesn’t do much to help anyone but himself as he tries to survive his persecutors and the effects of his own emotional baggage, but the story (strapped to a chair with packing tape) is kept artfully alive by the ongoing character development and the incisive philosophical observations amidst the creative trails of blood on the floor. The real attraction of the book is the essence of horror stated in Dorman’s seductive voice: ‘fear is an ambrosia, a liquor of unparalleled desire that I crave.’ There is something else at work in the writing; something that works around and underneath the words with demonic cleverness. The shifts from vision-possessed fugues back to real world were especially well done. Through sleight of hand plotting and misdirection Dorman induces the reader to empathise with Jamie, and we become complicit in his actions, participating in his sins whilst pretending not to know. The result of this manipulation is an emotional trap and you begin to understand that you will only find release from Jamie’s dragging guilt by reading through to the end. The climax is a killing stroke with a strong message and is well worth the journey. Kephera Rising may be a gothic horror that marginalises itself by its extreme defiance but it recommends itself to its aghast audience in so doing. First novel? Come off it, Dorman is no apprentice. She’s pulled something out of the hat with this one, but then she’s a practicing magician and no, it’s not a white bunny she’s holding in her hand. Then again, if being scared wasn’t irresistible, you wouldn’t be reaching out to take it.

This story had a deep impact on me. It opens with an innocent sketch in a town square; it soon becomes a deeply engaging study of the act of creation and the mind of an artist.

If I took out my editor’s pencil, I’d only be able to mark one paragraph in the entire book, where a minor character is granted a bit too much page space to rant about his over-intellectualised opinions of art. It is in character though. And that’s it. The single tiny flaw I was aware of, if flaw it is. I mention it only to show that I attempted to be critical, but could not really find fault. The story is mostly flawless, and breathtaking.

There is a twist that throws a new light on the whole story, right at the end, which as a reader is an absolute delight. As my mind recapitulates the tale I get a new version and insight into what I’ve already learned. This is so satisfying, it’s as if I get two stories for the price of one, this deepening of the experience is something I intend to incorporate into my own writing. I shall read more of Charles de Lint’s work. He is a master of his art. He deserves study. Maybe, even, demands it.

The value of this story is an appreciation of the relationship between master and apprentice. True, this story is an extreme relationship, but that brings things to light that in many relationships of this kind would be submerged, suppressed or sub-conscious.

The world de Lint creates is entirely believable, because it does not seem to be a creation (one of the benefits of a contemporary setting). There is so much that is familiar, that the subtle elements of magic slip into this framework without alarming the reader. Even though the created characters could be interpreted to be largely symbolic, I accepted them in the story world and the more I believed the story, the more they slipped into the ‘real’ world. (Is there a ‘real’ world, I began to wonder?)

The structure is not chronological. As more of the past is revealed, we can puzzle together the present. This is a clever mirror of what Isobelle Copley is attempting to do. .. piece together her life from her traumatised memory. That she is trying to understand the great power of her art makes it all the more poignant. This is a great storytelling technique.

In many ways, this is the classic tale of the sorcerer’s apprentice. We get a foreshadowing of what she could become, if she follows in her master’s footsteps: consumed the essence of her own art. It is a deeply philosophical work, yet most of that is hidden in the art, so it makes an exciting art-thriller set in a student world. I could instantly relate to it … a familiar world of study, university, friends, and driving ambition to find fundamental secrets. The magic allows this world to become invaded without seeming unbelievably weird. The unsettling power of the narrative comes from de Lint withholding the truth, making us wonder, when we mostly know the truth but a seed of doubt keeps us engaged. This subtlety, combined with conflicted characters, puts us on edge and we must read to the end to find resolution to the distress.

The books could have contained all of this, and still been mediocre. What lifts it to the level of mastery (and to the very TOP of my writer’s bookshelf) is the wisdom and truth de Lint shares, due to his lifetime of artistic practice. The story serves to demonstrate his understanding. Reading is more than entertaining, it is enlightening. In this respect, the story outclasses Tolkien and Hobb and any fantasy world I have encountered. Not due to the world-building—there are more elaborate and awesome worlds)—or scale, or even systems of magic (which is not particularly revolutionary). It is the artistry of the writing, the style, that so enthrals me.

He could have achieved this with just Isobelle’s story, yet in these 600 pages there is another story, told through a diary and memory, of Kathy, the writer. This allows de Lint to explore the relationship between artists and writers, how their craft differs and the poignant and heartbreaking legacy of abuse, the spirit to create and the will to live. I found de Lint’s perspective on these issues unique and troubling. He spoke to my soul. Kathy’s tale twines through Isobelle’s and broadens the emotional range; a subtle kind of world-building.

If this is a fantasy novel, it is of an entirely different genre to sword and sorcery. Yet it deals with magic, and an altered reality. The magic is of her own making. The story is of her own making. The brilliance of it is … Charles de Lint.

Along the way, I’ve come across some shining examples of fantasy. Terry Pratchett has a delightful take on story-telling. He softens his readers up with ten swift humours to the underbelly and then floors you with a slap of wit. He began with spoofing the whole genre; now most fantasy authors have disappeared behind the enviable effect of his big hat. His books have matured in recent years and have some very insightful themes and social commentary. He produces two Discworld books a year, at times. He’s a magician. The best of his works are Thief of Time, Monstrous Regiment and Thud! Because his books are self-contained and not really chronological, they make great light-hearted insertions between books from fantasy heavyweights.

Ursula le Guin has an amazing ability to make you feel immense anticipation for the thing that is just about to happen … and yet it never really happens. I can’t put my finger on how she does it, but even as I was disappointed by the lack of action in The Earthsea Quartet, I was enjoying her writing because I was intrigued all the way through.

For sheer scale and impact, I cannot ignore J.R.R. Tolkien. Strangely enough, I didn’t enjoy the Lord Of the Rings, at first. It’s a stodgy book to get through, and the plot dwells for so long on one story that when you return to the other plotlines you’re left wondering who the characters are. The four interchangeable hobbits have no distinct personality. But the scale of his creation, the world-building, is immense and fantastic, and I’ve probably read this book five or six times. It’s a strange, unforgettable work.

Then there’s Robin Hobb, a delightful writer who explores the feelings and relationships of her characters, everything that I felt was lacking in Tolkien’s saga-style of writing. Although I’ve found some of her tales a bit long-winded, The Farseer Trilogy is almost pitch-perfect.

When you’re in the mood for darker, tormented souls, Stephen Donaldson is a master. In The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, his characters grapple with deep psychological issues and there’s more to his story-weaving than just action-adventure. He’s also written some brilliant short stories. His treatment of magic is unsettling, as it should be. The next step along this dark and troubled road is R. Scott Bakker‘s Prince of Nothing.

I must mention Richard Bach in this discussion. He doesn’t write traditional fantasy, but who can tell where reality ends and magic begins? Like Paulo Coelho or Carlos Castenada, his fantasy is of a metaphysical kind. His books Jonathan Livingstone Seagull and Illusions changed the way I saw the world, they fired my belief in magic, they made dreams possible. Those two very short books are just beautiful.

And then I stumbled upon Charles de Lint‘s Memory and Dream, which is set in the modern world, but it has a timeless elegance; the classic story of an apprentice done incredibly well. It is dark and light and beautiful, with great insight into the artistic process. It took my breath away. I’m going to read a lot more by this man.

I’ve put together a hotlist of these and other fantasy stories on the Best Fantasy Novels page.

Every author mentioned has mastered an aspect of the perfect story. But when is someone going to weave all these elements together into one tale?
Well, that’s my inspiration! I’m done with waiting … I’m writing The Tale of the Lifesong.