The Wheel of Osheim is a tale of wonderful paradoxes, with many of them embodied in its protagonist. In Prince of Fools, Jalan began as a pathetic coward, yet one with enough wit and charisma that you couldn’t help but root for him, and he manages to come into his own in The Wheel of Osheim, maturing and learning from his experiences without losing his core. Jalan has been through so much that, despite still claiming to be cowardly, he seems far braver than many of those around him simply by virtue of being so used to danger that he barely notices it. After spending two books with him I’d assumed that he wouldn’t surprise me anymore, yet he continues to do so seemingly every chapter. He’s selfish and selfless, fearful and brave, weak and strong, callous and caring. In short, he’s one of the most well-realised, realistic protagonists that I’ve encountered. Where Jorg Ancrath was a grimdark protagonist, possessing characteristics that would make him a villain in any other story, Jalan is a grimdark hero because it’s as if fate plucked a random side-character from his days of drinking and gambling and forced him into the role of the hero just to see what would happen. It almost feels as if he wishes he was from another genre of fantasy entirely, one where heroes exist and he is one of the best. In Jalan, we get to see how a flawed, realistic person might fare in a fantasy quest.
The secondary characters are equally as well realised, even if we only get small glimpses. For example, our time with the Red Queen is brief as ever, yet when reading about her I felt as if I was staring into a lake and could just make out the suggestion of great depths. On one level I’d love to read a series following the Red Queen’s life, but on another the glimpses we get convey a full, rich life of complexity, boldness and bravery. The trilogy is aptly named The Red Queen’s War since, although we follow Jalan, the Red Queen and her struggle against the Lady Blue are always at the heart of things. There are glimpses of a war that has spanned decades, one that reaches far further than Jalan’s little tale. Additionally, the Red Queen’s story crosses over significantly with Jorg’s tale, and seeing these glimpses is immensely satisfying. Snorri, of course, is Jalan’s tortured but heroic Viking companion, and while Jalan spends significant time apart from Snorri this time round, his influence remains important. It’s interesting to see Jalan operating without Snorri, as it gives us a chance to gauge how different Jalan is because of their friendship. His rare but increasingly frequent moments of genuine courage and steel feel well earned and are all the more satisfying because we know that cowardice would be a perfectly reasonable reaction for him. Snorri is another paradox since while he’s a hulking muscle-bound warrior, he’s perhaps the most vulnerable character in the book. He’s what a hero might become after he’s lost everything, dead-set on the impossible task of rescuing his family from the afterlife. He and Jalan are polar opposites which is probably why their unlikely friendship is so touching and their banter so entertaining. Snorri’s heroism and equally heroic expectations are what bind Jalan to his quest: he just doesn’t want to let Snorri down. This, along with a variety of external pressures, provides a very human reason for Jalan to even attempt the ‘save the world’ mission. Kara and Hennan make reappearances, along with a variety of other secondary characters from the first two books, and their characters remain compelling though their roles are less significant than in The Liar’s Key.
The certain doom of the Dead King and the destruction of reality that has been creeping up on Jalan, and indeed the whole Broken Empire, is no longer the far-off threat that it has been, but explodes violently into the present. Jalan, always seeking to escape from his troubles, finds that there is nowhere left to escape to, and this realisation, along with the epic battles that accompany it, make for a fantastic ending to the trilogy. The emotional threads woven through the series all culminate in a satisfying finale that links closely with the Broken Empire trilogy. Throughout the book, Jalan traipses around the edges of Jorg’s story and provides an explanation for the forces behind Jorg’s struggles. Where the previous books in The Red Queens’s War crossed over in minor ways with the Broken Empire trilogy, this time the links are significant. Rather than feeling like a tacked-on addition to a pre-existing story, The Wheel of Osheim slots in and adds to the Broken Empire trilogy seamlessly, giving us a glimpse into the Machiavellian machinations that happened behind the scenes of Jorg’s tale. However, at times, especially in the slower first third of The Wheel of Osheim these comparisons reminded me just how fantastic Jorg and the Broken Empire trilogy are, and made me yearn for the dark brilliance of those books. This effect was short-lived and by the time The Wheel of Osheim picked up, I was so swept up in Jalan’s story that thoughts of Jorg were far from my mind. The Broken Empire trilogy is larger in scale and perhaps more epic, with a deliciously dark tone and clever subversion of fantasy tropes, but The Red Queen’s War stands firmly on its own merits, providing more humour, heart, and a high stakes plot that’s ready to explode.
The central dilemma of the novel, whether it’s worth the effort of even trying to save a world from certain doom, is compellingly encapsulated in the world of the Broken Empire. Hordes of horrific undead monstrosities storm kingdoms while corrupt rulers consolidate their own power. Undead have been portrayed frequently in fiction in general, not to mention fantasy, but Lawrence presents fresh horrors that exceed anything he’s shown us yet. Some of the descriptions of the new monstrosities summoned forth are genuinely disturbing, and I feel that the menagerie of monsters that Jalan faces in this book are more disturbing and varied than ever before. The battles with undead hordes are well thought out, with the actual logistical challenges of fighting undead clearly considered and used to create an atmosphere of hopeless dread. The chapters depicting Hell are particularly compelling, and Lawrence manages to incorporate aspects of various religions into the afterlife’s makeup without feeling derivative. We’re also given greater insights into the Broken Empire, including the history of the Builders and the bizarre nature of the Wheel of Osheim itself, all filtered through Jalan’s supremely entertaining viewpoint. Rather than odd titbits here or there, we’re now given great swaths of information about the Builders and how the world of the Broken Empire came to be, and after so long piecing things together, specific insight is definitely satisfying. The dissonance between how little Jalan cares about the world-shaking events of the past and the history of the Builders, paired with how hungry we as readers are to know about it, makes for a wonderfully humorous contrast.
Throughout the novel, Lawrence’s prose succeeds in being both unpretentious and beautiful, with genuinely deep insights into human nature wrapped up in Jalan’s wittily cynical commentary. A single-narrator first-person perspective is rarely used in fantasy in favour of multi-viewpoint third-person epics, but Lawrence utilises the intimate nature of the first-person point of view and internal monologue to great effect, and looking out at the world from inside Jalan’s head is far more entertaining than simply watching him would be. An example of this is when he ruminates about the supposed beauty of deserts and how some people “wax lyrical about the grain and the shade of the sand, the majesty of bare rock rising mountainous, carved by the sand-laden breeze into exotic shapes that speak of water and flow… but for me sandy, hot and boring covers it all.” The manner in which Jalan relates events is almost laughably biased, and it’s great fun to mentally disregard his endless self-aggrandising. It’s with novels such as this that one realises just how much more engaging books can be when compared to other media, such as films. There’s just no substitute for being transported into another person’s mind, and Mark Lawrence is a master of the art. Jalan’s antics are genuinely laugh-out-loud funny at times, and act as good counterpoints to the dire stakes. His humour doesn’t detract from the seriousness of the situation, but is derived from it with his hilariously realistic reactions to horrific events that would see a traditional hero set his jaw and raise his weapon. Many of the action scenes are so tense and riveting that it’s impossible to look away from the page until they have run the
ir course. From the first page to the last, the prose succeeds in being captivating, beautiful and hilarious.
Overall, The Wheel of Osheim presents everything GdM readers could want in a fantasy book, which is no less than one would expect from Mark Lawrence. Fantastic character development, an intimate and entertaining narrative voice, artful and compelling prose, and a plot that manages to be both deeply personal and world-shaking all coalesces into a standout example of grimdark fantasy. It’s a wonderful end to The Red Queen’s War and a rich addition to the world of the Broken Empire. Read it.[GdM]
A Proper War
James A. Moore
They found their prey near the edge of the cliff that fell into the Rehkail River a few hundred feet below. There was a damp trail of footsteps that ran from the edge of the cliff to where the shape waited. Allim wondered if the furry mass they stared at had actually climbed the sheer cliffside and then shook the notion away. Madness.
‘What do you make of that, then?’ Allim stared at the lump of fur leaning against a large rock and frowned. Under him his piebald shifted from hoof to hoof, but did not bolt. The damned thing was always skittish.
‘It’s a big bastard of a man, or a bear. Damn near the same size.’ Benny spoke, no more troubled than if they were having a pint around a fire. Just the same Benny checked that his weapons were in easy reach.
They spoke softly, while considering their options, lest they disturb the large thing huddled in dark furs. Though Allim had never seen a Pra-Moresh they’d discussed the beasts before. Apparently the damned things were big enough to eat bears without much consideration, but none had ever been seen this far east. The fur on whatever they were staring at didn’t quite look like a bear’s. Kellish wanted to poke it with a spear, just in case there really was a bear under that fur. Kellish was from Louron and his dark skin made him stand out almost as much as the skull he painted on his face every day. He nearly danced whenever he used his sword, and Allim had never seen the man cut before.
Benny disagreed: he just wanted to wake the fellow and take what he could.
On the other side of the river the armies of Goltha were engaged with enemies from the far west. They’d heard the cries of war earlier and seen the smoke coming from the river below. On this side of the river, there were plains and flatlands and occasional settlements. People were slowly working the soil and growing farming communities where no one had ever bothered before. Allim and his men were moving along the area looking for easy prey. They were raiders. He wasn’t proud of the fact, but a man has to make a living and lately the only good livings seemed to involve swords. Fight for an army and die with them. Fight for your dinner and you get to eat another day. Farmers didn’t fight so hard, and some of them had daughters. As Able liked to point out, a man has needs. He’d had his way with too many women and girls to count and had no desire to stop. Even Allim joined in occasionally, though he preferred his women on the willing side.
Now and then a cutthroat gets lonely, too.
The fur covered figure stood, and the raiders took their turns being properly appalled. He was a big one indeed, and his skin was grey as stone. His eyes burned with a silvery glow in the twilight, and his body rose to a height that made Allim consider the risk of taking on one target. Maybe they should leave this one alone. Still, the numbers were in their favour, and the brute had no ranged weapons that Allim could see.
Fat Able spoke. ‘Is that one of them Sa’ba Taalor the Empire is fighting? He looks like a demon.’ Able was the one who called himself fat, because he was. But under that fat there was a great deal of muscle and to prove that fact he wielded a mace that most men would have been hard pressed to lift with both hands. Fat Able came from the north and he was well trained as a fighter. He just didn’t much care for the ways of the armies. His horse was a brute, dark and big enough to hold his master.
Allim shook his head and gestured for silence. Benny was the one who liked to talk to possible targets.
Benny nudged his horse gently to keep her from trotting. She wanted to move on by the looks of things. ‘Drop your weapons and give us whatever valuables you have. Step back carefully. This doesn’t have to go badly for you.’
Benny meant not a word of it, of course. He was a killer through and through. If he couldn’t mate with it, he’d just as soon cut it into pieces and leave it for the storm crows to feast on. Sometimes Allim worried about Benny. Other times he was merely glad they were on the same side.
Able looked at the stranger and nodded his head, his face unreadable.
Cenna the archer, greatest damned shot Allim had ever seen with a bow, reached over his shoulder and drew an arrow from his quiver. While he looked on, he notched the arrow and rested the whole affair across his saddle’s pommel.
From Cenna’s left, M’Rae nudged his gelding forward, squinting as he looked over the grey man.
‘Lookit ‘im. He looks like a damned soul if ever I saw one.’ M’Rae fancied himself a follower of Kanheer, the god of war, and always claimed he was taking souls for his deity. He never said a prayer. Allim tended to doubt the man’s faith.
The grey-skinned man replied, ‘I am not damned.’ He stepped forward and his heavy fur cloak parted, showing the weapons hidden beneath. There were a lot of blades of differing sizes. Some looked familiar enough—an axe, a dagger—but others merely sparkled softly. ‘I am blessed. I am offered combat and a chance at a proper battle.’ His low voice was thick with an accent that Allim did not know, but his words were clear enough. He was not afraid of the raiders, not in the least.
Benny shook his head. ‘Be wise, there are six of us. We’ll have you dead as soon as you pull a blade.’
As Benny spoke, the stranger jumped forward, one hand blurred in motion and pointed toward Benny. A blade rammed into Benny’s cheek and lodged deep in his face.
Benny dropped off his horse shrieking in pain, both hands clutching the area around the vibrating blade.
The grey man charged them.
Allim slid from his saddle, reaching for his sword even as the giant charged. Fear had his heart thundering. The bastard was head and shoulders taller than Allim, who was always short and slender. The ground nearly shook as the man came closer.
The horse was there, a wonderful beast, a great shield against any possible attack.
The grey man did not bother with Allim. He charged Fat Able. Able swept his mace down in a vicious arc at the grey man’s skull. Hellishly fast for his size, the stranger dodged the blow, grabbed Able, and wrenched him down from the saddle. The ground shook when Able landed.
Able rolled himself around and was standing only a moment later, but by then the man had moved on.
Allim watched, and learned. Able was not the target. Able was the shield. Cenna was calmly backing his horse away using his knees, bow drawn, desperately searching for a clean shot past Able’s bulk. The warrior countered smoothly.
Cenna loosed his arrow, the shaft disappearing in to the grey man’s furred cloak to no visible effect. A second shot had better luck. The arrow sailed smoothly and the tip drove into the meat of their enemy’s shoulder. The grey man grunted and kept charging.
At too close a range to fire an arrow Cenna changed tactics and whipped the bow around at his enemy’s head.
One thick forearm caught the worst of the blow. The other hand grabbed Cenna and yanked him from his horse.
Cenna yelped as the grey man slammed him into the side of his horse. The animal took it poorly, whinnying a warning and bucking lightly. Cenna beat at the arms holding him but it did no good. The grey-skin smashed him into his horse a second time and a third before the horse reared and snorted. The man threw Cenna at the front of the panicking animal and stepped back as the horse reared and stomped down on top of the archer.
The warrior was smart enough to stay away from the horse as it reared up and came down on Cenna again, hooves breaking bone and scraping away muscle and flesh. Cenna screamed once, yel
ped once and then was silent. Allim shuddered at the sight and watched on, weighing his options.
Through it all Allim watched, rooted to the spot in the face of such unrivalled brutality.
While he looked on, Fat Able and M’Rae moved together toward the grey giant. M’Rae held a dagger in one hand and a thin sword in the other. He smiled as he circled the stranger.
M’Rae shouted, ‘Your gods have blessed you?’ He spat at the ground. ‘My god, Kanheer, will eat your gods as an offering when I’m done with you.’
Able, limping after his fall, looked at M’rae as if he’d lost his mind.
The stranger said, ‘You will die first then.’
M’Rae came in fast, sweeping his sword as a distraction. Allim had seen him in action many times and knew the strategy was one of his favourites. While his enemy worried about the sharp end of the sword, the dagger came in low and bit at legs and fingers, whatever could be struck.
Rather than dodging, the stranger swept the sword aside with a crushing blow as he stepped in close. M’Rae’s arm took a smashing that would have cost the stranger his fingers, or his arm to the wrist, if the sword had caught him. M’Rae’s sword flew from his hand. Before he could recover the grey man struck him hard in the throat. M’Rae stepped back, gaping. He dropped his dagger and reached for his own wounded neck, trying to drag a breath past his ruined windpipe.
Allim circled around, looking for a vulnerability, watching the fight, hoping for an easy opening to attack. No luck. The grey man moved with him, never losing sight of Allim’s blade.
Fat Able slammed his mace into the grey man’s left arm, the sound of meat tearing and bone snapping quickly drowned out by a scream. The stranger fell to the side and staggered backward as Able came at him again, mace held in both hands. Allim grinned. Able intended to finish this fight as quickly as he could, and Allim intended to help him.
Grimdark Magazine Issue #8 ePUB Page 6
