Is The Riches of Xulthar For You?

The Riches of Xulthar is a sword-and-sorcery desert adventure about a fallen nobleman, a freed slave woman, and a legendary lost city whose treasure may be more curse than blessing. It delivers a fast-moving heroic fantasy quest with cursed coin, dark sorcery, ruined temples, undead servants, moral temptation, and a slow-burning bond between two wounded people learning what freedom really means.

What Kind of Reader Will Love The Riches of Xulthar?

If you love classic sword-and-sorcery adventures with lost cities, cursed treasure, desert ruins, dark kings, monster-haunted catacombs, and heroes who have to fight both outward evil and inward temptation, then The Riches of Xulthar is probably your kind of story.

If you enjoy fantasy about honor, freedom, slavery, moral courage, and the corrupting power of wealth, this story gives those themes a mythic adventure shape: a dangerous quest across the wastes, a cursed city at the end of the road, and two protagonists who must decide what they are truly willing to serve.

If you like romantic fantasy where the emotional bond grows out of danger, trust, sacrifice, and shared moral struggle, Roderick and Laria’s journey gives the story a strong character-driven heart beneath the sword fights and sorcery.

If you enjoy fantasy that feels old-school in its adventure structure but more intimate in its emotional focus, The Riches of Xulthar blends pulp adventure, moral fantasy, and redemptive romance into a compact, high-stakes quest.

What You’ll Find Inside

Roderick is a disgraced nobleman seeking the lost city of Xulthar in the hope of breaking the curse that destroyed his family’s honor. Along the way, he rescues Laria, a slave woman who has never truly owned anything—not even herself—and their journey through the desert becomes as much about freedom, agency, and love as it is about cursed treasure and dark magic. The tone is adventurous, mythic, sensual, and morally serious, with fast-paced action, eerie ruins, dangerous supernatural encounters, and a hopeful emotional arc beneath the darkness.

What Makes The Riches of Xulthar Different

Readers who enjoy Robert E. Howard-style lost-city adventure, classic sword-and-sorcery quests, and treasure-hunting fantasy will recognize the familiar pleasures: desert wastes, ancient ruins, sorcerous kings, monster-haunted temples, and a warrior with a sword in his hand. But The Riches of Xulthar turns the treasure quest inward by asking whether wealth can ever restore honor, whether freedom is worth its burden, and whether a man can reject the very prize he set out to claim. Unlike many old-school sword-and-sorcery stories, the female lead is not merely a prize, temptation, or rescued captive; Laria’s moral insight and growing agency become essential to the heart of the story. The result is a heroic fantasy adventure that uses the lost-city quest to explore slavery, self-mastery, family, corruption, and the kind of love that makes freedom meaningful.

What You Won’t Find

You won’t find a sprawling epic fantasy cast, court intrigue, or a heavily political worldbuilding saga; this is a focused sword-and-sorcery quest built around two central characters and one cursed destination. You also won’t find nihilistic grimdark: the story contains violence, slavery, sensual temptation, dark magic, and peril, but its moral center remains hopeful. This is not a sanitized cozy fantasy, but neither is it cynical or despairing.

Why I Think You Might Love It

What I love about The Riches of Xulthar is that it takes the classic fantasy question—“What if the treasure is cursed?”—and makes it personal. Like Queen of the Falconstar, this is a story about power, agency, and a woman learning to stand in a world that wants to use her, but here that struggle is filtered through mythic sword-and-sorcery rather than space opera. Roderick’s quest begins as a search for wealth and restored honor, but the real treasure is the freedom he and Laria learn to choose together: freedom from slavery, freedom from despair, freedom from the lies of cursed power, and freedom to build a new life out of the ruins of the old one.

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Humility and Leadership in The Sword Keeper

What makes someone worthy to lead: strength, status, skill, or something deeper? The Sword Keeper is a chosen-one fantasy about a tavern girl who is handed a legendary sword, a dangerous prophecy, and a responsibility she never asked to carry. At the heart of the story is the idea that true leadership begins not with power, but with humility.

Where the Idea Came From

The first spark for The Sword Keeper came when I was taking Brandon Sanderson’s writing class at BYU, around the time he had just published Warbreaker. I loved the idea of a sentient sword as one of the characters, but the story truly came alive later, after I moved to the Republic of Georgia to teach English. The mountains, villages, dances, family names, food, roads, and little backcountry details of the book all grew out of my time there, especially in Kutaisi and the mountain village of Rokhi.

How Humility and Leadership Shape the Story

Tamuna is not the obvious person to bear Imeris. She is not a warrior, a noble, a trained monk, or a commander. She is a tavern girl from a mountain village, more familiar with chores, travelers, and local gossip than with swords, strategy, or war. That is exactly what makes the theme work. The sword does not choose the strongest person in the room. It chooses someone who can learn, listen, care, and carry power without treating it as a prize.

Alex is the clearest contrast. He has the training, discipline, courage, and martial skill that Tamuna lacks. He once hoped the sword would choose him, and part of him still believes he would have been the better bearer. But his struggle shows why humility matters. He has to learn that service is not failure, and that leadership is not always given to the person who looks most qualified. By the end, he recognizes Tamuna as the true sword bearer because she treats command as a sacred burden rather than a personal honor.

This theme also shapes Tamuna’s growth. She does not become a leader by pretending she is fearless or invincible. She becomes a leader by accepting responsibility, listening to counsel, protecting her friends, and slowly learning how to make decisions that affect more lives than her own. When she realizes that leadership means deciding life and death for those who follow her, Alex tells her that the fact she treats that responsibility seriously is probably why Imeris chose her.

What Humility and Leadership Say About Us

Most of us are tempted to think leadership belongs to the confident, the talented, the powerful, or the people who seem born for greatness. But real leadership often begins with the person who understands the weight of responsibility. Humility does not mean weakness. It means knowing that other people’s lives matter, that power can corrupt, and that courage is only noble when it serves something beyond itself. That is why Tamuna’s journey matters: she is not chosen because she wants glory, but because she can learn to serve.

Why This Theme Matters to Me

I care about this theme because I know what it feels like to be unprepared for the road ahead. When I first began working on this story, I was trying to launch a writing career during a difficult season, with discouraging book sales and few good prospects outside dead-end jobs. Moving to Georgia became one of those unexpected life turns that gave me more than I knew I needed. In a way, Tamuna’s story grew out of that same feeling: being called into something larger than yourself, not because you feel ready, but because the road has opened and you have to decide whether to take the next step.

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Is The Sword Keeper for You?

The Sword Keeper is a coming-of-age epic fantasy about a village tavern girl chosen by an ancient sentient sword to stand against a rising empire of corrupted blades, dark mages, and enslaving powers. It delivers a classic quest-fantasy experience with mountain passes, warrior monks, sword training, prophecy, friendship, danger, and a young heroine slowly learning that wisdom matters as much as strength.

What Kind of Reader Will Love The Sword Keeper?

If you love…

  • classic epic fantasy quests with ancient prophecies, enchanted swords, lost orders, and rising dark empires
  • young heroines who start ordinary, frightened, and untrained, then grow into courage and command
  • sentient magical weapons with personality, memory, moral purpose, and ancient secrets
  • friendship-driven fantasy where loyalty, sacrifice, and trust matter as much as battle skill
  • mountain settings, old fortresses, warrior cultures, road journeys, and a sense of mythic history

…then The Sword Keeper is probably your kind of story.

What You’ll Find Inside

Tamuna Leladze is a curious tavern girl from the mountain kingdom of Kutaisa whose life changes when she touches Imeris, the twelfth and final enchanted sword of an ancient order. Suddenly bonded to a blade that can speak into her mind, share the memories of past bearers, and train her for a war she never asked for, Tamuna is forced to flee her home with Nika, her loyal childhood friend, and Alex, a proud warrior monk who resents that the sword chose her instead of him. The story is adventurous, earnest, and emotionally sincere, with fast-moving escapes, training sequences, strategic lessons, battlefield danger, and a hopeful but serious tone.

What Makes The Sword Keeper Different

Readers who enjoy the chosen-one structure of classic fantasy will find familiar pleasures here: a humble protagonist, a sacred weapon, a broken order, and a shadowy enemy moving across the map. But The Sword Keeper stands apart by making the sword itself one of the central characters, not just a magical object or symbol of power. Imeris is teacher, mentor, conscience, strategist, and ancient witness, while Tamuna’s growth depends less on becoming physically unstoppable and more on learning judgment, courage, leadership, and self-command. The setting also draws heavily from the Caucasus and the Republic of Georgia, giving the mountain villages, dances, names, roads, food, and landscapes a flavor that feels distinct from more familiar medieval-Western fantasy worlds.

What You Won’t Find

This is not grimdark fantasy, and it is not a cynical deconstruction of the chosen-one story. Readers looking for morally gray nihilism, graphic sensuality, or a story where everyone is corrupt may not find what they are looking for here. The violence and danger are real, but the heart of the book is earnest, heroic, and fundamentally hopeful.

Why I Think You Might Love It

I wrote The Sword Keeper out of my love for stories where ordinary people are called to become more than they ever imagined. Much of the world building grew out of my time teaching English in the Republic of Georgia: the city of Kutaisa, the mountain pass, the dancing, the family names, the backcountry details, and even small moments like Nika caring for the weakest chick in a brood all came from things I saw or experienced firsthand. I think that gives the story a lived-in texture beneath the fantasy adventure—a sense that Tamuna’s world is not just a backdrop, but a place worth saving.

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Is The Widow’s Child for You?

The Widow’s Child is a character-driven epic fantasy about a mother trying to protect her daughter in a broken world where prophecy, sorcery, and ruthless power struggles shape the fate of nations. As dangerous forces close in, a small family must flee their mountain home and journey through a land ruled by warlords and dark magic.

If you enjoy fantasy stories where personal loyalty and family bonds matter just as much as swords and spells, this is a story about courage, sacrifice, and the fight to protect hope in a world that has almost forgotten it.

What Kind of Reader Will Love This Book?

If you love…

  • epic fantasy about prophecy, destiny, and powerful magic
  • protective parent stories where family is the heart of the adventure
  • refugee journeys and dangerous quests across a war-torn world
  • character-driven fantasy about loyalty, redemption, and unlikely found families
  • classic fantasy conflicts between dark sorcerers and ordinary people who refuse to surrender

…then The Widow’s Child is probably your kind of story.

What You’ll Find Inside

The Widow’s Child follows Elara, a widowed homesteader whose young daughter Seraph is marked by a mysterious prophecy. When a powerful warlord learns of the child’s potential and seeks to claim her power, Elara is forced to abandon her home and flee across a dangerous land. Alongside them travels Aric, a wandering sellsword with a troubled past who becomes their protector.

As they journey through refugee camps, hostile territories, and lands ruled by dark sorcery, the story explores themes of motherhood, destiny, sacrifice, and the struggle between hope and tyranny. The tone blends intimate emotional stakes with sweeping fantasy adventure, creating a story that feels both personal and epic.

What Makes The Widow’s Child Different

Fans of classic epic fantasy will recognize familiar elements like prophecy, dark sorcerers, and a world scarred by past cataclysms. But The Widow’s Child places the emotional core of the story not in kings or armies, but in a mother fighting to protect her child from a destiny others want to control.

Where many fantasy stories focus on chosen heroes rising to power, this one focuses on ordinary people forced into extraordinary choices. The result is a story where the fate of the world begins with the smallest and most human motivation: protecting family.

What You Won’t Find

This isn’t a grimdark fantasy full of cynical antiheroes and relentless despair. While the world is dangerous and often cruel, the story ultimately centers on love, loyalty, and the belief that good people can still make a difference.

If you’re looking for heavy political intrigue or morally nihilistic fantasy, this may not be your style.

Why I Think You Might Love It

I wrote The Widow’s Child because I was fascinated by the idea of a hardened wanderer and a widowed frontier mother building something fragile and hopeful together in a dangerous world. The relationship between Aric and Elara was the spark that first made me excited to tell this story, and once I began writing it, the rest of the adventure grew naturally from that core idea.

At heart, this book is about protecting the people you love when the world seems determined to tear them away from you. If you enjoy fantasy that mixes danger, destiny, and deeply human relationships, I hope this story gives you the same sense of adventure and hope that inspired me to write it.

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Fantasy from A to Z: H is for Heroes

When David Gemmell, my favorite fantasy author, broke into the field in the 1980s, his books were considered to be part of the “heroic fantasy” subgenre. If the two major divisions of fantasy were epic fantasy (sometimes also known as “high fantasy”) and sword & sorcery (sometimes known as “low fantasy”), heroic fantasy was very much in the sword & sorcery vein. Then the stars of George R.R. Martin and Joe Abercrombie began to rise, and heroic fantasy gave way to what we now know as “grimdark.” 

On a superficial level, both grimdark and heroic fantasy appear to have much in common. Both subgenres tend to feature morally gray characters, worlds that are dark and brutal, and a great deal of graphic violence. George R.R. Martin is famous for killing off his characters, and David Gemmell likewise tends to kill off about half of his starting characters in every book. 

But if you spend enough time with both subgenres to get past the superficialities, you’ll see that they are totally different—and in some key ways, diametrically opposed. Not all grimdark descends into total nihilism, but much of it unfortunately does. But heroic fantasy is defined by the fact that it is not utterly nihilistic. Which isn’t to say that all heroes are noble and bright—gray morality is still very much a trope of the subgenre—but the very fact that heroes exist is enough to keep heroic fantasy from delving too deep into nihilism.

This is why I love practically everything that David Gemmell has written, but I couldn’t get past the first book in George R.R. Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire. I acknowledge that Martin is a brilliant and gifted writer. There were parts of A Game of Thrones where I felt more immersed in Martin’s fantasy world than in almost any other book I’d read. But by the end of the book, I hated all of the characters and was rooting for Danaerys to come with her dragons and burn them all to cinders (which was apparently the plan all along, if season 8 of the show followed Martin’s outline).

The thing is, George R.R. Martin is obsessed with the idea of victimhood. All of the characters in A Song of Ice and Fire are either victims or victimizers, or both. That is, apparently, the most interesting aspect that Martin finds about them. Which explains why his series did so well in the 00s and the 10s, when intersectionality was on the rise and critical theory came to dominate so many aspects of our culture. In any other time, Martin’s obsession with victimhood would not have gained such a following—which explains why it took him nearly five decades to hit his big break.

But where Martin is obsessed with victimhood, Gemmell was obsessed with heroism. He had a penchant for taking the most despicable and morally bankrupt characters, putting them in circumstances that demanded something more of them, and showing them rise to the occasion, making a heel-face turn and becoming the hero that the story demanded. It’s so immensely satisfying for me, every single time. Even the villains will sometimes turn into heroes by the end—though when they don’t, you can always expect them to have creative and satisfying deaths. No “creative subversion” of reader expectations there!

For Gemmell, there’s nothing very complicated about being a hero. There’s no list of defining characteristics or attributes. There’s also nothing particularly complex that a character has to do. For Gemmell, a hero is simply a person who does something heroic. Nothing more, and nothing less.

At this point, I’d usually give examples, but since all of them are spoilers, all I can say is go and read David Gemmell’s books! Some of the best heel-face turns are in Winter Warriors and Hero in the Shadows. I also really loved the protagonist’s redemption in The Swords of Night and Day. And of course, if you really want a great example of an unlikely hero, read Morningstar. That’s basically the whole plot of the book.

Like Gemmell, I prefer to write stories with heroes rather than anti-heroes. My Sea Mage Cycle books are generally more light on violence than a typical Gemmell book, but in The Widow’s Child and The Winds of Desolation, I put the main characters into some tough circumstances that forced them to step up and play the part. Same with The Sword Keeper, my first fantasy novel. And of course, with the Soulbond King books that I’m currently writing, where the main character is patterned after King David, there will be lots of opportunities for him to do heroic things, even if he is a more complicated character.

Heroes are so important to me that I honestly cannot read any fantasy book that doesn’t have one. When I look back on all of the big-name fantasy books that I’ve DNFed, that honestly is the major defining factor. Fortunately, the fantasy genre is full of excellent heroes—and with the way trends are shifting, I think we are going to see a lot more of them soon.

Fantasy from A to Z: C is for Conan

Before there was J.R.R. Tolkien, there was Robert E. Howard. And before there was Middle Earth, there was Conan the Barbarian and the Hyborian Age.

Robert E. Howard had an amazingly prolific writing career, cut tragically short by his suicide. When I think of all the books and stories we could have had if Howard had not shot himself in grief after the death of his mother, it fills me with a profound sense of loss (and makes me want to rewatch the excellent biopic about him—or more accurately, his girlfriend—The Whole Wide World). I love Howard’s fantasy stories—not just the ones about Conan and his adventures, but the ones about Bran Mak Morn, Kull of Atlantis, Solomon Kane… honestly, he wrote so many stories that I have yet to exhaust them all. 

But my favorite are the stories about Conan the Barbarian, who is undoubtedly his most famous literary creation. Over the course of the last century, Conan the Barbarian has taken on a life of his own, with dozens of writers taking a stab at writing stories in the Cimmerian’s world. My favorite of these is probably John Maddox Roberts, though I have a soft spot for L. Sprague de Camp. Harry Turtledove also wrote an excellent Conan novel, Conan of Venarium. 

In a lot of ways, Robert E. Howard’s Conan stories set the standard for modern fantasy—or at least for the sword & sorcery strain for it. Tolkien later established the epic fantasy strain, and you can make a solid argument that every other successful fantasy book is derivative of one or the other (or both). Where the epic fantasy strain tends run super long, with novels in the 200k word to 400k word range, the sword & sorcery strain tends to run much shorter, with many of the original Conan stories clocking in at under 10k words. In fact, from what I’ve gathered, until Lord of the Rings became popular in the 60s and 70s, most readers thought that the natural length of a fantasy story was under 10k words.

For the Conan stories, that’s probably true—or at least, under 40k words, since many of Howard’s original novellas are quite good. My favorite of his is probably either “The Tower of the Elephant” (perhaps the most classic Conan story) or “The Black Stranger,” which had a very interesting Mexican standoff between three stranded pirate captains that Conan totally blows up. I also really enjoyed “Iron Shadows in the Moon,” mostly because the female love interest gets an interesting and satisfying character arc. The crucifixion scene from “A Witch Shall Be Born” was really great, too, and of course, the brutal savagery of “Red Nails” made a really big impact—though since that was the last Conan story Howard wrote before he shot himself, it has a very dark edge to it.

Howard only wrote one Conan novel, and to tell the truth, I wasn’t particularly impressed by it—it just felt like a generic Conan story, padded with a bunch of filler to increase the length. But I did really love Conan the Marauder by John Maddox Roberts, where Conan rises through the ranks of a horde of nomadic tribesmen, starting as their slave and eventually becoming the right-hand man of the Hyborian age’s Genghis Khan. The two major villains of that book had exceptionally satisfying deaths, and the writing was almost as pulpy and glorious as Howard’s writing itself.

After you’ve read all the original Conan stories, you really should watch The Whole Wide World. It’s a wonderful film about the only woman Howard ever loved, his on-again off-again girlfriend Novalyne Price, and their turbulent relationship. As a writer, I really appreciated the glimpse that the movie gives into the life of the author himself—and on how some of his eccentricities as a writer mirror my own. Thankfully, though, my family life has been much more stable. I don’t blame Novalyne Price for rejecting Howard, but I am very thankful for my own wife and children. My own writing changed dramatically when I became a husband and father. I can only imagine what wonderful stories we would have had if Robert E. Howard’s life had taken a similar path.

The book I’ve written that comes closest to matching the mood, theme, and action of a typical Conan story is probably The Riches of Xulthar. It isn’t nearly as good as the original Conan stories, but I do think it compares favorably against some of the later knock-offs. The idea for it came when I was playing around with ChatGPT and asked it to write me a fantasy adventure story in the style of Robert E. Howard. Things took off from there. Riches of Xulthar was my first AI-assisted novel, though after using AI to generate the rough draft, I rewrote the whole book to put it in my own words, which is the process I use for all of my AI-assisted books. If you’re interested, you can do a side-by-side comparison between the AI draft and the human draft on my blog. 

Short-form vs. long-form fantasy

For the last month, I’ve been doing a lot of research into the fantasy genre, rereading all of the original Conan the Barbarian stories by Robert E. Howard and a bunch of the other ones too, by authors like L. Sprague De Camp, Lin Carter, Bjorn Nyberg, Robert Jordan, etc. I’ve also been reading a lot of epic fantasy, like the Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan and the Stormlight Archive by Brandon Sanderson. And I’ve also read some essays on the genre, most notably “The Critics, the Monsters, and the Fantasists” by Ursula K. Le Guin, and “The Making of the American Fantasy Genre” by David Hartwell. Oh, and opening a bunch of chats with ChatGPT, though those are of limited usefulness (for some reason, ChatGPT hallucinates like crazy when you ask it to recommend any noblebright fantasy that isn’t more than two or three decades old).

From what I’ve gathered, there are basically two camps or schools within secondary-world fantasy: the heroic / sword & sorcery camp, based off of Howard’s Conan the Barbarian, and the epic fantasy camp, based off of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. According to David Hartwell, those are the only two franchises to achieve breakout success: everything else has either achieved only moderate commercial success in its time before petering out, or gained only a niche audience. Apart from Conan, the fantasy genre as a whole didn’t really take off until Terry Brooks immitated Tolkien with his Shannara series, thus launching a wave of Tolkienesque epic fantasy in the 70s and 80s that morphed into Grimdark in the 90s, 00s, and 10s.

So for a while, I was looking into all the various tropes and archetypes that make Conan and LOTR tick, and trying to use those to differentiate the two. But lately, I’ve been wondering if maybe I’ve been overthinking all of this, and the real difference between the two is that Tolkien mastered long-form fantasy, and Howard mastered short-form fantasy. In other words, what if the defining difference between the two camps doesn’t have to do with tropes so much as with the length of the actual story?

I suspect that short-form fantasy is poised to make a resurgence, especially with all of the challenges associated with writing and selling long-form fantasy in the 2020s. Larry Correia is right: Rothfuss and Martin have ruined the epic fantasy field for new authors by failing to finish their series in a reasonable timeframe. Unless you are independently wealthy or already have a large and loyal following of readers, it just doesn’t make commercial sense to write a lengthy series of +200k-word fantasy epics. Better to write shortier, punchier 40k-word novels instead, especially if you can churn them out every other month or so. That seems to be the model that works best for indies, at least in adjacent genres like urban fantasy and paranormal.

Anyway, that’s my current thinking on the subject. What’s your take on it?

Stormrider by David Gemmell

I thoroughly enjoyed the Rigante series. It has everything that I’ve come to love about David Gemmell’s books: scarred but good-hearted people struggling to do the right thing in the face of great hardship and evil, some of which lies within. Every chapter is compelling and filled with conflict, and while you know that most of the characters are going to die, none of them is beyond redemption.

There were a lot of things in particular that I liked about this book. One of them was the early-modern feel and aesthetic to the world-building. A lot of fantasy worlds are locked in a perpetual state of medieval technology, with very little growth or development. In Stormrider, however, Gemmell advances the world of the Rigante a couple of steps up the tech tree, to a tech-level more on par with the 30 years war.

It’s not just window dressing, either, because the introduction of things like gunpowder has a direct effect on things like battle tactics and duels for honor, which directly affect the story. And yet, there’s still the same undercurrent of magic that made the other books in the series so great. The Sidh may have left the world, but their influence remains, and their magic has not yet faded completely.

My one big issue with the book had to do with the climactic battle leading up to the ending. It wasn’t exactly a deus ex machina, but in some ways it felt very much like it came out of left field and wrapped things up in a way that was just a bit too neat and tidy. That said, it wasn’t nearly as unsatisfying on a character-based level—on the contrary, it brought several of the character arcs full circle in a way that I thoroughly enjoyed. It just wasn’t as good as some of Gemmell’s other endings.

For that reason, I’m only giving this book four stars. However, a 4-star Gemmell book is like a 5-star book from anyone else. Stormrider may fall just short of the standard that Gemmell sets with his other books, but it still clears the bar for truly a truly great fantasy novel.

Ghost King by David Gemmell

Ghost KingAnother review of a David Gemmell book?  Yes, because I’m just that much of a fanboy.

With the Drenai series finished, I decided to sink my teeth into the Stones of Power series.  This series confuses me, because I’ve read The Jerusalem Man, which was retroactively put in as book three, but that’s a post-apocalyptic tale of the gunslinger Jon Shannow, but the series actually starts in Arthurian England.  As soon as I got a couple chapters into the first book, though, I began to see the connection.

Ghost King is an alternate history tale of King Arthur (Uther, in the book), and how he rises to become the Blood King of Britannia.  His grandfather, Culain, takes him into the mountains after the Brigantes assassinate his father, and there trains him to become a leader and a warrior.

Culain, of course, is one of the immortal Atlantians, just like his friend Maedhlyn (Merlin).  After the fall of Atlantis, they have wandered the Earth as gods, using the powers of the Sipstrassi stones to accomplish wonders.  Worshipped in turn by the Greeks, the Romans, the Hittites, and the Babylonians, Culain has tired of immortality and now wants to live out a mortal life.  But his jilted lover, the Ghost Queen, wants revenge on him for leaving her.  She was the one who killed Uther’s grandmother and mother, and who now wants to kill him and rule all of Brittania.  But her son Gilgamesh has corrupted her, so that in a parallel universe she must kill twenty pregnant woman every month just to replenish the magic of her Sipstrassi …

Okay, I might as well give up trying to explain the plot, because it only gets crazier.  Somewhere in this parallel dimension, a lost Roman legion has been wandering for hundreds of years, consigned to the void by Culain.  Also, Gain Avur (Guenevere) is in there too, as well as the Lance Lord (Lancelot), though he doesn’t come in until the epilogue.  There are also demons and vampyres, all sorts of battles, and lots of other crazy stuff.  It’s pretty freaking dang awesome.

I really enjoyed Uther’s transformation from the weak, bookish boy to the warrior king, as well as the budding of his relationship with Gain Avur (what can I say, I’m a sucker for romance).  My favorite character, though, was Prasamaccus, a crippled Brigante peasant who becomes one of Uther’s close advisors.  He’s basically a regular guy who gets sucked up into the whole adventure, but he’s level-headed and practical enough that he manages pretty well.  He’s also just a good person, which was quite refreshing in a world full of death and drama.

At one point, after rescuing Uther, he’s a guest in Uther’s chief general’s villa.  The general gives him a servant girl for the night, since in this world most men think nothing of bedding a slave.  Prasamaccus is a peasant, though, and he’s kind of shy.  The girl was actually captured in a raid in Germany, where she was raped, and this is her first time bedding someone since those traumati not the monster she’s afraid that he’ll be–they actually share a really tender moment of intimacy that heals much of her trauma and introduces him to the love of his life.c events.  She’s absolutely terrified, but so is Prasamaccus–he’s a cripple, and assumes that women just don’t want him.  He spends the night with the girl but doesn’t force her to sleep with him, and when she realizes how gentle he is–that she holds the power, and that he’s not the monster she’s afraid that he’ll be–they actually share a really tender moment of intimacy that heals much of her trauma and introduces him to the love of his life.

It’s poignant, story-rich moments like that that make me such a David Gemmell fanboy.  Usually they happen in the midst of war, between battle-hardened friends who are forced by circumstance to do something heroic, but they also happen in the quiet moments between characters who carry other scars.  That whole thing in the previous paragraph only happened in three pages or so, but it was still so incredibly powerful and moving.  Every moment of a David Gemmell book is like that, sometimes from the very first paragraph.  It’s awesome.

As far as David Gemmell books go, I’d put this one in about the middle of the pack.  It’s not quite as powerful as Legend or Wolf in Shadow, but it doesn’t meander as much as White Wolf or have such an anti-climactic ending as Ironhand’s Daughter (which was probably split by the publisher–more on that when I review The Hawk Eternal).  The characters aren’t quite as memorable as Druss, Skilgannon, or Waylander, but they are pretty awesome nonetheless.  I’d rate this book a 3 compared to Gemmell’s other books, but a 4.5 out of fantasy overall.  Definitely worth a read.

The Legend of Deathwalker by David Gemmell

legend_of_deathwalkerI’m not even going to try to write a synopsis of this story.  It’s just like all the other books in the Drenai series, which is why I love it so much.  Basically, this one gives the story behind the rise of Ulric, khan of the Nadir, and the origin of the Nadir people.  Interestingly enough, Druss the Legend plays a major role.

This was the last book in the Drenai Saga that I hadn’t read, so reading it was a very bittersweet experience.  On the one hand, this one is just as good as all the other books in the series, and made me want to revisit Legend and some of the others.  On the other hand, I knew that once I’d finished it, there wouldn’t be any more Drenai books left.  So I took it slow for the first half, but naturally I finished it at a breathless late-night sprint a day or two later.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about why I love David Gemmell’s books so much.  There are many reasons, but I think the main reason is that his writing is honest.  He strips away all the incidental stuff and gets right at the heart of the stuff that matters.  He doesn’t pussyfoot around, either–if his characters do something despicable, he doesn’t make any excuses for them.  He tells it like it is.  This can make for a very brutal story, but it also makes for a very cathartic one.

The other reason I love his books so much is because he does such a good job depicting raw, unrepressed manhood–not the stupid stuff like driving big cars and eating meat, but manning up and facing your greatest fears.  It’s about friendship, and honor, and fighting with all of your strength for something you believe in.  It’s about all that raw, pent-up energy we all have, that animal urge that drives us to competitive sports and first person shooters, and channeling it for a heroic cause.

The craziest thing is that the fight itself is actually more important than whatever side the characters are fighting on.  In this book, Druss is actually fighting to help bring about the rise of the Nadir khan who later invades his homeland and kills him on the walls of Dros Delnoch.  None of that matters, though, because Druss doesn’t fight with malice.  For him, it’s all about fighting for something, not against something, and the battle itself is just as important as the victory.  I don’t think I can put it better than this:

“Can we win here?” Sieben asked, as the shaman’s image began to fade.

“Winning and losing are entirely dependent on what you are fighting for,” answered Shaoshad. “All men here could die, yet you could still win. Or all men could live and you could lose. Fare you well, poet.”

The best thing about David Gemmell’s books is the fact that none of the characters–not even the bad guys–are defined by their own evil.  The Nadir are supposed to be the evil chaotic race of the Drenai universe, but when you come to understand what they’re fighting for, their hopes and dreams for a better future, you can really see what’s good in them.  Likewise, the more civilized Gothir are kind of like the evil white men who want to put down the savages and keep them in their place, but there are good and honorable men among them too.

And yet, even though the two sides clash, and good men die on both sides, it somehow isn’t tragic.  That’s the crazy part.  It’s almost like you can feel the characters salute each other as they die in a good cause, the way Ulric gave Druss a proper funeral in Legend, even though the two were blood-sworn enemies.  In David Gemmell’s world, honor and courage are more important than life or money.  Everyone dies; dying well is more important than living without honor.

This book is incredible.  As I was reading it, I decided it was the best David Gemmell book I’ve ever read–which is something I do every time I read one of his books.  I feel like I’m a better man for having read them.  If he had written a hundred books in this series, I would happily read them all.  The fact that there are no more new ones deeply saddens me, but I know I’ll revisit these stories again in the future.