S.D. Reeves's Blog

In the city of Pietalos, where corruption and poverty reign, the fires of revolution burn hotter each day. An oppressive government has bled its people dry for the benefit of the elite, but the citizens have had enough. Eight lives—each scarred by loss, betrayal, and violence—intertwine as they fight for their own futures and that of the city. 

If only they really did intertwine. 

There are interesting features here, and Richie Billings takes it out of the normal confort zone by utilising a soundtrack (scannable by QR code). This adds a unique flare, but just like maps, created languages, etc., it only goes so far to hide issues in a manuscript. And while there is quite a good bit of wonderful prose in this book, my problem with Together we Rise, is that it feels like it tries too hard to be something it is not, as if ideas were thrown together to make some sort of writing Paella. 

Billing’s characters fail to strike a chord, and the dialogue ranges from the tropish to ungrounded. There were many times everything felt out of place, the reactions of characters disjointed, distanced from any sort of reality. Further harmed, strangely, by bouts of the aforementioned wonderful prose and scene setting. Harmed, because the writing did nto seem to match the mood of the particular character I was following.

Which, brings us to the topic of the overall presentation. There are very few errors, and the overall editing is well-done. Yet, we also have quite a bit of questionable plotting. The division of the chapters into some sort of mini-stories can work if there seemed to be an overarching line pulling things together. However, the narrative is rather disjointed, and the ultimate picture Billing’s was trying to portray, a muddle. Fantasy elements also were thrown in one of the last chapters which didn’t help.

Taken as a whole, complete novel or novella, Together we Rise simply falls flat. However, there are bouts of genuinely good writing, and character concepts that can work, if given more time to stew.

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The American Weekly magazine was a Sunday supplement published by The Hearst Corporation from 1896 until 1966. They claimed a circulation of over 50 million readers. This book consists of the complete contribution of Edmund Dulac for the publication as it relates to the run from 1924 until 1951.

By now I have read and reviewed a few of Albert Seligman’s editorial trove, so I am becoming somewhat familiar with the content, if I remain a layman towards reviewing art. Even so, find the craft here is quite expressive and reflective of the style of the time. Furthermore, all the summation of 106 watercolors have been lovingly restored, and in the eBook version, pop. My one concern with their presentation would be in the hardback version, as the paper quality is lacking – though I have been told this will be remedied by a change in the printer.

The addition of Ann Hughey’s introduction was welcome. I assumed this book would be by its nature less focused, so the additional information helped offset this issue. This results in a larger book than the other publications, coming in at around 167 pages to Canterbury’s 117, to use as an example. I did however find the middle of the introduction to be a touch dry, yet the rest was sufficiently interesting. It was also fascinating to see again another artist demanding in a contract to have their original works returned, as serialization paid so little. I believe I read it was, perhaps still is, something that plagues comic book artists and other sorts of similar freelance illustrators.

Altogether another finely edited collection by Albert Seligman. There is just the right mix of thematic information on the depictions and context as it relates to Edmund Dumac to occupy oneself for an evening, but not to retire out early. I am sure readers of the classics represented herein, and lovers of this period of art, will enjoy this collection.

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“Call it,” William said.

A coin flipped, flashed a crown to the table, then plunked into his tankard.

“Eagles.”

Lazy curls of smoke wandered around Calem’s head as Sigor coughed and wheezed in laughter. William was less amused, though he hid it behind his usual fake smile.

Calem slumped back into his chair. “Eorik,” he said, addressing their newest partner. “You know that you’re spose to call it in the air, right?”

Unfortunately the lad was quite dim, choosing to fill the silence with awkward muttering about having had too many drinks.

This one won’t last, Calem mused. Sigor would clumsily try to poison him first. Though if he had money to waste on a bet, Calem wagered it’d be William  who would slit Eorik’s throat by the end of the week. Nice and simple, that was his style. After they’ve returned from the ruin, of course.

William knows what every lad like Eoriks true weakness is; trust.

The tavern door swung open and Calem’s thought’s froze; wintered by a blast of snow.  Groans and complaints were tossed back at an intruder leaning against the threshold. To his right, Eorik fidgeted with a hole in his cuff as frigid wind trailed a man clasped in pelts.

“There’s no stable boy,” this newcomer called out, after shaking the snow from his conical helmet and stomping the ice from leather boots. “What sort of place is this?”

“The kind you find out in the middle of the gods forsaken nowhere,” Calem said. “Which is exactly where Gebeorg is.”

The Southlander’s helmet dropped onto the floor with a heavy thud. “Well I have you know that old Mule is freezing his cock off in that shack of a stable. Artoosh does not ride a mare, mares ride him.” The last he said with a self-satisfied smirk.

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” William drawled. “Tell me again why we had to leave Fairhaven in such a hurry?”

Artoosh took a seat next to Calem. “Because your mother was getting clingy. But…” He leaned forward and everyone at the table mirrored the motion. “Let’s keep this a business meeting. The village elder was useless. They keep more records of the goats they sell. He could only wave towards where the castle lay, as if I don’t have eyes. ”

Sigor nodded. “Then have we wasted our last Geld?”

“There’s still time to travel south,” Artoosh said.

Calem groaned. It was the old argument, and a pointless one. Despite their scoutmaster, Artoosh’s insistence, Calem feared this was no longer an option. Summer in Fairhaven passed into Autumn as they had slinked through Horn’s pass. Winter stalked them now. The last week’s rain had hardened and frosted the skirts of Skalduhorn. Could they really leave?

He rubbed his chin. We’d be Geldless, and would have to make that blasted trip again. Dead here, or dead there after a gruelling march. Calem felt a particular bout of laziness was coming on.

“The safest passes out be fouled’n ice,” said Sigor. “Snow soon will close the others anyways.”

“The better for us to leave now.” Artoosh opened his hands and looked to William. “We can sell the horses once we get to Mittlesans, then beg, or steal a ride south. Start over in a place where it’s the wine that is cool, and not the women.”

“Why not stop in Fairhaven?” Calem said.

“Shut it.”

“Boys, boys,” William interjected. “Do we still not have a job to do? What of our reputation?”

“But Alvanomarsh…”

William swatted away Artoosh’s protest with one hand.“Is likely a degeneration. Alvan. Aelfan. Marsh. March. Aelfmarch, or do you think there are true swamps this far north?”

“They call them mires here. Or bogs.”

“Did you stretch that legendary charisma of yours to ask the elder about a graveyard near the castle?” William pressed on. “A tomb?”

Artoosh titled his head. “I did just as you asked, but they are a superstitious bunch. They refuse to speak even about the recent dead…But you know this, I –”

“But what of the ruin,” Sigor interrupted. “What’s to say they haven’t looted everything of value yet. What’s to say this here innkeeper’s great, great, great granddaddy n’found the old book, and used the paper n’wipe his goat shagging bum?”

“Did you forget? They didn’t have this.”

A brass key hung from a chain around William’s neck, and as he pulled it forward Calem could see raised writing on the stem.

“That trinket again,” Calem said. “Remind me, did one of your daughters make that for you?”

William tsked. “You were there when our benefactor gave it to my safekeeping. It will grant us access to their family tombs.” And now it was his smile that glinted in the firelight. “Which, as you know, is likely unmolested by the superstitious folk of the north.”

“Things change,” Calem said, his eyes alighting briefly on each of them. “People change, and desperate people do desperate things.”

Sigor nodded. “Aye, and what if it is looted? Or this…book…what if it’s all a rotten?”

Chatter from the three other tables picked up with a new vistor. Again, cold air was introduced, and It brewed more complaints.  Someone at the table coughed. William passed his mug to Sigor.

“I have been assured that we will still get paid, ” he said. “We will just need to bring back some proof that we didn’t just faff off.” He paused and tucked the key back under his tunic. “Besdies, even if they were to leave our debts unsettled, why…an unplundered noble’s tomb? The possibilities are…profitable.”

Calem shrugged. “And how will we find the bugger? Not much in the way of signage around secret tombs..”

“Leave that to Artoosh and me,” William said, the corrected himself. “Artoosh, me, and our new friend. Introduce yourself Eorik.”

When all eyes turned to him Eorik tried to twist the opposite way, but there was no avoiding it. He looked away briefly, then back, and there was a nervous smile on his face then.

“Pleasure to….well.”

“Eorik here will be our guide and local representative,” William said. “Rare amongst his fellows here, he has actually been to the castle.”

“Well, I’ve been –”

“This will be of course, his trial,” William drolled and reached across the table, gripping Sigor and Eorik simulataneously. “He has shown remarkable pluck in seeking us out, we will see this next morn what he is truly made of.”

Meat , bone, blood, and lots of screaming. Calem yawned, while the others still stared on with their usual sternness.  Except for Artoosh, who,instead became more interested in the fire and the wench than Eorik’s sheepish attempts to speak. Calem was sure the scoutmaster by now was tired of William’s shit.

Sigor stared down at the king at the bottom of the mug that unexpectedly became his.  “Hmm,” he grunted.

“…until then he is of course, paid only the usual retainer. Yes, what’s that Sigor?”

“You tell me this lad is to keep the locals from thumping us, eh?”

“That is what we are paying for, he is related to the elder by blood. It is his uh…uncle?”

“Grand uncle…er great,” Eorik stammered.

“Great uncle,” William said, his smile growing. “The lad has assured me that he will ‘square it away with him’ before we leave.”

Now it was Sigor’s turn to smile, and it was awful, yellow and crooked as the streets after too many pints of ale.  But at his shoulder, Artoosh could not keep still. The Southlander, normally so full of patience, appeared to be seething.

Calem looked askance at Eorik as Artoosh dragged a chair to the table. “I would have preffered to have wintered this year in Maiden’s Market at least.”

“It was a very long journey, and with much haste,” Artoosh added.

“Time limits.” William said. “Trust me, this is the best course. Have I ever lead you astray? Intentionally.

The word “intentionally” forstalled Artoosh. Instead he settled back into his chair and eyed William with a neutral face. Calem grunted. “What do we know about our patrons, these…You never told us their names?”

“Safe that you didn’t. As usual,” William shrugged.

“Are they dangerous?”  Mugs clattered in the background and weak cheers rolled out from the nearest table, masking the edge of Calem’s voice It was Sigor who spoke next, gesturing with his pipe as if he were trying to skewer a fly.

“Will told me a plenty about em,” he said.

“Not surprising, might as well yell it to the wind,” Calem said. “Or into a horses ass.”

“Sigor is a better confidant than you give him credit for,” William said. “His sage advice was quite helpful.”

“Confidant,” Sigor said his face screwing as if he tasted the word, and liked it none. “What’n you means by that?”

Calem waived off Sigor. “It’s the usual then.”

“Yes, the usual,” William said.

“Whatn I don’t understand, is what’s we to do after, and before we turn this book in,” Sigor said. “Rustle sheep? Because that’s all I see, is sheep, and sheep shit.”

Calem lowered his mug. “That is…a very good point. What do they put I in the ale here in Gebeorg?”

“Calem…” Sigor growled.

“I’m just saying that, as the quartermaster, maybe I should procure a few barrels before we leave.”

Sigor stared blankly. “Shut it. Yeh make it sound like I’m daft. This taint my first go around the bush.”

“A few ales a day,” Calem mused. “Might lead to some better decisions. Or at least less women being bothered.”

Artoosh smiled. “And sheep.”

“That will also be Eorik’s duty; helping us find a market for whatever we…recover,” William said with his usual grin. “Or perhaps other nearby worthy ventures.”

****

An hour passed. The late afternoon drifted into the evening, and the slush had turned into a thick, clumpy, snow, to be dragged in with every new customer. Elsewise, the sound of sleet mixed with the sputtering fire and every so often the clack of a ladder would ring out as someone cut sausages from the rafters. Sigor snored next to his upturned mug. Around him snaked the purple and green twines of pipe smoke.

Eorik had left the tavern with William. Artoosh was here still, recalling exploits old and not so. Calem would nod or smile at all the right moments, but his mind was otherwise occupied. Not on their dwindling funds, or their lack of supplies as one would expect of a quartermaster.

The mug fell away, clattered to the floor. Still, Sigor snored on. Calem used the man’s tabbard to wipe away the enchroaching spill, and now the tale of Westfall had stirred some sad memories of Artoosh’s home, and his comrared looked too often into his own ale. At a nearby table two men were throwing sets of four double-sided sticks and moving their little pawns around the table. That was William’s and Artoosh’s game, Calem never had the flare for it. The last half-hour their voices had gotten louder, and louder.

Outside their banter, it was quieter than earlier. The sausages from their dinner were doing their magic. But neither this, or the warmth from the ebbing fireplace could bed-down Calem’s thoughts.

Things had changed. Their band was once at least respectable, if not well known. Now, they were forced to scrounge. Take cast-off jobs. Caravan duty, and worse – whatever this was.

“Artoosh.”

“In the autumn the air in Ezhde – “ Artoosh choked, his ayes sinking until they once more drowned in his ale. “We’d look at the great city from the roof tops in Zamilon. At sunset then, she’d shine the white –”

“Is this how you thought it’d all end?” Calem interrupted.

“It?” Artoosh said slowly, tasting the word.  “Our run of good fortune? Our lives? The latest round of drinks? Or perhaps you mean something as…ahh how does William say it?”

“With big words that probably don’t mean what he thinks they mean,” Calem grumbled.

Artoosh opened his hands.

“We were over twenty,” Calem continued. “Are we even still a band?”

“A fellowship,” Artoosh said.

“We were seven leaving Fairhaven.” Calem leaned back, closing his eyes to paint Thom in Maidenhill. Matt in Edding’s Field. The cold in the night. A farmhand’s dagger in a tavern. “At least Halim had the sense to leave us in Holst.”

“It was easy for him, he was our blacksmith,” Artoosh said.

“I can read.”

Artoosh leaned back, his face falling into shadow. Calem sighed, and stared past at the walls. The ceiling. The thatch needing mending. Mould grew upon the walls, and light shown through several holes, touching upon loose threads in Artoosh’s coat.

“We’re blighted. Manxed. We should bugger off, while the buggering’s good.”

Artoosh tensed as if poked by a burr, then relaxed. “Were you not a part of the conversation earlier? We have no chance, the pass is no longer a pass, it’s –”

“Impassable,” Calem said quickly. “Aye I know, and s’not what I mean. Sides, we’re poor. No.”

“William always comes through,” Artoosh said. “I think we can find enough here to last us through winter, if we are bold enough.”

“Then what,” Calem snapped. “Amble around till another of us takes a walk? We could do that, or we could rightly bugger off. Right now there’s enough, guaranteed, for two.” And he rubbed his neck.

Artoosh stared at him, or through him with an unblinking gaze. Slowly, he settled back into his chair, never breaking eye contact.

As the innkeeper stoked the fire, so too did Calem. He waved away some pipe smoke, saying: “William is no Rogeric. This here old tomb? Lord’s bet that it is trapped, or cursed, or worse…Empty. Now even then, sure as shit somehow he’ll get one of us killed. It’ll hopefully be the boy, but that don’t mean it won’t be someone important.”

Artoosh’s eyes burned at him through the smoke, but Calem continued. “Unless we take what is owed us, and hide abouts until Spring. That’s where a good scout will be very important.”

The door to the tavern opened then, and in stomped more farhhands – Calem was unsure where all these people kept coming from, or could have lived, given the few huts that huddled around the inn.  The newcomers hovered around the threshold as the sounds of more people behind came in with the cold.

Out with the flagging door.  Out flowed the warmth of the Tavern. In came the storm, blustery and white, and the stark chill arrested his breath while the creak from the door ushered out the last of his toughts on the matter.

Artoosh laughed suddenly.  “Did that beast of a mule you call a horse kick you? Did it make you dumb.” A mock look of shock passed over his features. “Dumber?”

As brisk as the chill from an opened tavern door, his mood again changed. Gone was Artoosh’s smile from both his lips and his eyes. “William is not a forgiving man. Even so, I do not fear him. Though I’ll not create an enemy where it’s not needed.” Then in a whisper and a nod towards the sleeping Sigor. “Nor say so in front of his friend.”

Calem blinked, having apparently forgotten the cutthroat. He leaned forward and matched Artoosh’s whisper: “Then when?”

“After,” Artoosh said as he left a copper on the table. Calem tried to interrupt, but the scoutmaster would have none of it. “When we have finished this task he has set, and the wages are settled. We risk what is certain – and certain as I am the most southlander in all of the north, William will not take such betrayal easily. No. I’ll not rob him.”

“Weren’t you earlier looking to faff off back through the closed passes? Was that not a risk?”

“That is different, he’d lose nothing but my glorious presence.”

Calem shook his head. “Yeah. While you are preening and all that, he’ll give you one in the back. One good turn deserves another. Were not William’s slaves.”

“We are indentured to our contract, and our word.”

“We’re freemen here.”

Artoosh tsked. “You Mittesanders use freedom as an excuse to shit everywhere anyways. Like a monkey.” His smile turned and he shook his head. “You’d rob a comrade to make yourself free. I do not think you understand what the word means.”

The Southlander was the company’s, the Wayfarers’, scoutmaster and lieutenant. Men did not trifle with Artoosh. Neither did horses for that matter. His mood could turn as quickly as the weather. The end of the discussion then came when Artoosh made a sweeping motion and took up his helmet as if he were making a bow, and made for the door. Calem walked after.

A  shock of white greeted them. Both men shrank into their coats, but the oiled leather did poorly against the snow, and nothing for the sudden brightness. Calem shielded his eyes. By the time the world was anything other than a blur, he was looking up with their irritated scoutmaster.

The man was tall. Staggering so. He did not seem to notice Calem’s discomfirt or his own, and instead took to cracking the ice that had formed in a trough. For that he was a Southlander used to warmer weather, the snow hardly seemed to bother Artoosh. Then again, he had a proper coat, purchased back before money and personel problems had made Calem little more than a quartermaster in name.

“I will spread my wings tomorrow and gawk at these mountains,” Artoosh said. “Tonight, let’s see what we can make of the town.”

Too, he was young. Second only to their newest member, Eorik. Right now his hair stuck out at all sorts of odd angles, as was formed by his helm. Still, it did not change his demeanor. There was something unique about Artoosh that swept folks around. And away.

“If the weather doesn’t ground me,” Artoosh continued with a heavy sigh. The light from the inn cast further shadows that haunted the entranceway around him. He then turned to Calem and said: “up for an evening promenad?”

“If what you means by that is to scope out some hidey holes for our gang before the last light, then yes, yes I think I can manage.”

A creepy old man arrives at your family’s inn, starting a spiraling chain of events where you find yourself stranded on a mysterious island. Only you can uncover the island’s secrets. Well, because you are the only one there. It’s a choose-your-own-adventure book, and you know what that means? Hot chocolate, and copious hours spent tucked away in a nook reminiscing about the 80’s.

When I was a kid, I would spend weekends scouring the local library for every one of these I could find, only to usually die half an hour in. So, when I was offered a chance to read On the Island of the Mad Magician: An interactive tale from the Realm of Goblin (take a deep breath before saying this one out loud), I jumped at the chance. My first question naturally was: how would my middle-aged, experienced, geezer self do? About the same, actually. Which tells me I have learned nothing. Either way there is always something wonderful about the journey, and On the Island of the Mad Magician has all the great hallmarks of this genre. But how does one rate this type of book?

The usual standards apply differently. Narrative? Well, that is largely up to you. Still, the choices are numerous, the paths wonderfully nebulous, and the overall plot you can construct always makes sense. The prose? Remarkably author Grissom has peppered On the Island with some great descriptions and imagery. Succinct, mostly, but he understands the concept of timing, and when to let go. Further the solid, albeit small cast of characters read well, and suite this sort of format, and the dialogue – where it applies – is believable and flows nicely. The only problem was that I ran out of hot cocoa, and I won’t knock Grissom for that. This time.

In short, On the Island of the Mad Magician: An interactive tale from the Realm of Goblin is a worthy addition to the genre, and I am looking forward to catching more of author Eric Grissom’s books.

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No real introduction this week. I was asked to review a book by Albert Seligman, and though I rarely do nonfiction, this one was hard to ignore.

Yet, this piece is much more than that. After reading the editorial notes at the beginning, and end, I am equally convinced of editor Albert Seligman’s passion for Edmund Dulac’s art and his erudition on the subject matter. A lot of effort was made to restore the art herein, and to present it in a pleasing manner. It was, by my estimate, successful. The formatting is top notch, easy to read, and the editorials make it all that more easily accessible for laymen such as I. The artwork is fresh, and really pops in this edition.

As for the original work, I found the original publication fascinating in a sense of being “a moment in time,” and for the ease of its commentary. Thus I find it interesting not just on the basis of its analysis of Canterbury Tales, but also for an insight into a sort of Academic mind of the last century. Specifically, from references to Freudian theory to quotations from 1908 play by Belgian playwright and poet Maurice Maeterlinck – something which I have no prior knowledge of, but what makes me think it was much more prevalent then.

In short, this is a wonderful collection, artfully edited by Seligman, and something worthy of preservation. I am sure readers will find this both (by the original works) a great introduction to Chaucer, and a wonderful feast for the eyes in regards to the artwork.

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in George Veck’s Monotone Masquerade, Justin Billings was in a suffocating household where his autonomy and life is monitored. Through a series of scams involving a fake autism diagnosis, he has become his mother’s meal ticket. To escape her psychological abuse, he enters the North Wales care system. Soon after he is dragged into Darcy Quinney’s drug dealing den, where he is once again not free to leave.

George Veck’s literary novel was a bit of a mixed bag for me, and hard to rate. First, the plot is in a rare case, the strongest point of the novel. It is a tight narrative that has some unique twists and turns and will keep you interested. Veck’s biggest asset would be timing, I’d say. He seems to instinctively know when exactly to throw the emotional hits, when to pull back for a bit of quiet, and when to dash forward through the action-drama.

Secondly, the editing and overall writing style are fine, and effective in the case of the latter. Veck rarely delves into poetic prose, but he can craft a scene quite well (which suites this setting). As mentioned, while there were some questionable typography/editing choices, the general layout and such is very readable without any major issues.

The weakness would be the uneven, at times ungrounded cast. There are certainly points when the dialogue and the drama hit the perfect note. However, often I found it hard to “picture” most of the characters as real people. They at times dipped into an over-the-top, uncanny valley sort of puppetry that was hard to shake – like watching young actors starring in a remake of a classic film.

Even despite the last quibbles, the plot drove things on and made this an interesting read. This is a decent book, and that by my standards that would have to be a 3-star range. In summar, Veck’s Monotone Masquerade may have trouble standing out from the crowd, but I believe most will find it an enjoyable read.

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Recently I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of another up-and-coming fantasy author, and I thought y’all might like to meet him. He just recently released the second in his Dark Realm Series, Reapers of the Dark Realm: The Hunt Begins, and it is already gaining quite some momentum in the fantasy circles. His stuff has been described as Dungeons & Dragons meets the Witcher which as y’all know, we love both here on the Evercharm Blog. Keep reading below to find out more!

“Pressure is life’s way of removing the masks people wear”

A great quote from the first book in the series, and one that is largely quoted in reviews. Let’s take a gander: 

By five may your journey thrive. By five may you return alive.

The idyllic kingdom of Parisia sat nestled securely in the Great Emerald Mountains. For generations, Parisia had known nothing but peace and prosperity. When the elder dragon Draka Mors, steals the Darkstone, the entire realm is threatened. Without the Darkstone, the magic sealing away the Shadow King would fail. His return would bring death and destruction to the world of men.

Desperate, the king of Parisia calls on an unlikely hero, the Disgraced Knight Vale Lox to lead a group of Seekers on the most important quest in a thousand years. To save the realm and everyone they have ever known from the rising shadows of darkness, these misfits must survive hostile lands, enemy armies, unspeakable monsters, and each other in order to retrieve the stone from the dragon’s lair before it’s too late.

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Now the second book just came out in December, and while it only has a few reviews, they have really praised it.

One person said “...the first book felt like a group of DnD players who were having a fun time. They were newer to the game, so their dungeon master had to make sure their shenanigans didn’t go too crazy and make them follow the story….Reapers of the Dark Realm was the same group of DnD players, but they have now played the game for a longer time, and things have gotten more serious.”

How interesting!

“The light only fades when you cease to carry it.”

A new threat arises. A war of dragons is brewing. The day of doom draws near. A child has been born. A child of darkness, destined to tear down the Veil between worlds and bring about the return of the Shadow King, has come. Whoever controls his power, controls the fate of all living things. Alliances are broken. Kingdoms Fall. Even the strongest of friendships are tested. The fate of the realm once again falls on the shoulders of the Seekers.

The Reapers are coming. One of Ash. One of Shadow. One of Desolation. One of Death.

If Lord of the Rings, The Witcher, Mistborn, and Dungeons & Dragons were mixed together into a cake, it would be a Dark Realm cake. Check out book 2 in this new series filled with talking dragons, non-stop action, and banter. Don’t miss out on this epic adventure.

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Growing up I was always a little different. The way I talked, thought, and saw the world wasn’t like everyone else. I got rejected and laughed at a lot. I discovered stories. Stories that took me to places where the problems and troubles I was facing didn’t exist. In the pages of books I could explore other worlds, meeting incredible people, and experience unbelievable adventures. Stories became an escape. A place I could go when reality was too much to take. I didn’t just want to live in these worlds, I wanted to create them. I wanted to build worlds that people like me, who didn’t always feel like they fit in could go. Whether it was to take a break, go on an adventure, or find an escape from an overwhelming storm of life. Even as a young kid, I wanted to dream up worlds other people would want to visit.

The thieves of the Takers Guild plot to overthrow the kingdoms of Baelon but are thwarted by a woman with a strange gift for seeing the future. Meanwhile, retired royal guard Rolft Aerns returns to the palace of King Axil with an old score to settle. What follows is part mystery, part thriller, part fantasy piece that is an enticing setup for the future series.

Six Moons, Seven Gods by Robert Walker takes place in three main locations, though the novel largely centres itself in the village of Forestead. The story is a bit of a slow burn and takes its time for all the various point of views and plotlines to coalesce into the climax. Personally, I appreciate that, and given the complex narrative, I don’t think it could work any other way. We absolutely need the extra time for the developments to seem natural – and for the characters to chew the screen.

And speaking of those characters, Walker does a nice job here, investing extra time into making even the tertiary seem realistic. Which is great, because there are a lot of them. Of these the two primary antagonists, at least in terms of screen time, Reynard and Spiro have the most satisfying development. Their friendship, and the devious nature of their interactions, almost had me rooting for the villains at times. Luckily, Rolf and Fereliss are still worthwhile contrasts, so as the story does not feel one sided.

In a sort of Tolkieneque move, the setting itself has a lot of characterisation. Even though the imagery, and the writing favours succinct and effective over flowery, when Walker really wants to set a mood, he can bring a deft and glorious hand with his prose. Dark alleys can feel menacing. A drip of rain, miserable. And a tavern? Deceptively safe. It is a solid lynchpin to his writing style, helping keep the story grounded and believable.

However, like a double-edged sword, having a plethora of characters can lead to other problems. Namely, point of view exhaustion, and Six Moons Seven Gods, isn’t immune to this. Thankfully Walker begins each chapter with the name of the POV character. Yet, even so, I found myself lost at times, and/or jarred out of my immersion. This would have to be the one major negative.

Another issue is, again, due to the necessity of this being on the longer side of novels, the plot becomes a little bit frayed towards the end. Most novels tend to lull in the middle, and Six Moons Seven Gods hits this mark right towards the last third. Walker does however weave things back together quickly enough not to detract majorly. This is of course a difficult thing to balance, something even famous writers struggle with (Robert Jordan and your endless descriptions, I am looking at you).

Six Moons Seven Gods sums up to be a rare piece – a solid slow burn fantasy novel, in a world of fast pace/quick resolution narratives. I for one and more than thankful for the opportunity to have read Robert Walkers’s introduction to the world of Baelon. I fully believe, given enough time, readers of all ages will have equal praise.

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I was a bit surprised when I received the review request for this title, as art books lay outside of my expertise. However, it is hard to ignore such a compelling collection of artwork – especially when it touches upon some of my favorite themes and stories. Unfortunately as mentioned, I can’t unequivocally laud the specifics of the subject matter, nor the professionalism of the presentation as it might be warranted for the standards of this format. What I can say is this:

The curation of this collection is absolutely pleasing. The editing is tight, and Mr. Seligman’s summaries are both interesting and relevant, and not overlong. It is obvious this is a subject he has keen interest in, as everything is presented carefully and in a way to draw the eye most effectively. My wife, who is a museum conservator, can tell you this is not an easy task to do, so kudos to him on his effort.

This cover is a lovely collection, and one where I would love to have a physical copy of.

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Ahh, mirrors. The old classic goto for horror and thrillers. In this case we have the protagonist Craig, a former Marine sniper, who is the beneficiary of a unique gift: an antique wooden mirror.  Which is cursed, naturally, because people can’t give items without cursing them anymore. In order to save his family from an ancient evil (other than the taxes for such a gift) he must find a way to defeat a witch without the use of explosions, fancy rifles, and Americanisms.

Legacy by Chris Coppel is pretty much exactly what you would expect. It’s a fast pace, light on the prose sort of novel that is perfect for a midnight read. There is nothing too complicated here, even with the twists. Neither is there any glaring weaknesses. The book is well plotted, keeps to the premise, unabashedly so, following the usual tropes one finds in these sort of time travel thrillers.

The one negative I would like to highlight is the lack of fleshing out of anyone that isn’t the protagonist. The main character receives most of the focus, and he is likeable and interesting. However, I would have liked to have seen more back story to the witch. We seem to only know that she is evil, because other characters say she is. There is little there to establish her motivations, beyond the designation of being a nebulous baddy.

But perhaps that is nitpicking. Legacy is a solid thriller. I enjoyed it, and I tend to be an unforgiving critic, so I imagine most readers will get a kick out of it. Legacy by Chris Coppel is an engaging story which (witch, hah) hits the target, even if not particularly magical.

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