Wards of Faerie by Terry Brooks

I owe Terry Brooks a lot, so much so that I hesitate to write this review. In 1991, I read The Sword of Shannara and opened the door to two decades of imagination. I still rank it as one of my favorite books ever written. I went on to read Elfstones of Shannara and Wishsong of Shannara, both superior novels to the original, as well as the subsequent Heritage of Shannara quartet, a spectacular follow-up series to my memory. Thirteen years later I haven't read any further. Encouraged by Aidan Moher of A Dribble of Ink to give Brooks another go, I picked up Wards of Faerie to see where the wind would take me.

Given that fourteen Shannara books filled the gap between The Talismans of Shannara and Wards of Faerie, I was moderately concerned that I'd be lost among the history of Brooks' creations. I'm happy report that fear unfounded. Brooks newest novel is an ideal place to jump back in with only a few knowledge gaps left unfilled. Unfortunately, I can also report that it is quintessential Brooks with all the good and bad connotations such a description elicits.

Aphenglow Elessedil, a Druid of Paranor, searches through the elven libraries for hints of lost magic. The Druid mission is, after all, to find lost magic for the good of all. She comes across a journal written by an obscure royal child a thousand years ago that tells of the elfstones, now lost to history. While the text reveals little about their whereabouts, Aphenglow believes she has found the first hints to uncovering the legendary elven magic. Beset by assassins and those who would keep the stones hidden, she returns to Paranor to rally the Druids to her discovery.

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Three Short (Not)Reviews - Continuing Series Edition

I tend to write long reviews for everything I read, but I've found that difficult, particularly with second and third book in a series. From time to time I'm going to do posts like this one where I bundle a bunch of reviews together. Most of them will be part of a series, but occasionally I'll throw a standalone in as well. I'll also write up novels in this space that I didn't finish (very rare) and I'll try to explain why without actually reviewing it. Enjoy!

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Suited by Jo Anderton

Last year's Debris was a fascinating debut novel. In it, Anderton developed a world that reminded me of Brandon Sanderson's Mistborn, particularly in the mystery surrounding the world's mechanics. Her main character was a powerful woman, cast down from the heights of society to work in the dreary underbelly of a city literally falling apart. The second novel, Suited, picks up soon after the end of the first, suffering from middle book syndrome and falling short of its predecessor by a reasonable margin.

Far more action oriented, having already built the mystery of the world and plot in Debris, Suited is the story of Anderton's protagonist taking control of her life and new found abilities. Despite the increased agency, and the illusion of activity, there doesn't seem to be a ton of progress to the overall plot. Instead, it sets up a final show down in a third book and a reveal of the villain behind it all.

However, it's my understanding that Anderton isn't under contract for the third book. I always find that disquieting in cases where the story is so clearly unfinished. I'd certainly like to see what happens in the series conclusion, but I don't know if I'll be writing letters to Angry Robot HQ demanding it.



Caliban's War by James S.A. Corey

Caliban, one of the antagonists in William Shakespeare's The Tempest, and also a moon of Uranus, is a word that never occurs in the text of Caliban's War. Instead, the title is an acknowledgement to the Shakespeare character, defined as a once controllable monster who turns on its master. In this case, the monster is the alien protomolecule. Loose on the Martian moon Ganymede, Captain James Holden and his crew are tasked with trying to stop it.

Much more a space opera than the noir horror that personified Leviathan Wakes, Corey's sequel moves at a slower pace. The protomolecule remains the MacGuffin, but the conflict in the novel is between humans as the different political factions come to grips with a seemingly all-powerful presence in their midst. The result is a far more nuanced story that will call to mind the skills Daniel Abraham (part of the James S.A. Corey writing team) honed in his Long Price Quartet series.

Caliban's War is the natural next step from Leviathan Wakes, superior in almost every facet. I suspect mileage may vary for readers who will pine for the Detective Miller chapters and their noir sensibility.

Roughly eleven months to go until the next installment. I can't wait.



The Wanderers by Paula Brandon

I began Paula Brandon's Veiled Isles Trilogy last year with The Traitor's Daughter. Mocked up like a historical romance, the novel offered far more than appeared on the surface. Putting aside the hatchet job Random House did on marketing, I said,

'Brandon's debut is high fantasy with a sprawling plot, political machinations, complex systems of magic, all of which manifest themselves in themes that both men and women will very much enjoy. To someone looking for romance they're going to be sorely disappointed.'

It had me very excited to read the second book in the series, The Ruined City, which continued some of the promise from the first, while simultaneously descending into a somewhat tedious travelogue. The central female character, Jianna, also fell into the 'hopeless female' trap that sapped my investment in her half of the narrative. I held out hope that The Wanderers would return to form. Sadly, it did not. Continuing at pace until the final chapters, Brandon's plot unravels into a neatly arranged conclusion that lacks any tension, topped by one of the more blatant examples of deus ex machina I've seen.

As I read the final volume I found myself comparing it in my head to some odd combination of KJ Parker's characters and Diana Gabaldon's style. Unfortunately, neither of those two glowing comparisons hold water when the plot fails to carry any of its own.

Year Zero - Rob Reid

In 1999, I was a freshman in college at the University of California, Santa Barbara. We Gauchos have a bit of reputation, but I think that first year more students spent time indoors that ever before. We were in the midst of the file sharing revolution and I was at ground zero.

A lot of files were shared that year from music to movies to games. Napster was catching fire, but for the lazy college student it was as easy as peeking into another's public folders and grabbing what caught the eye. I don't think most understood what they were doing. It was the Wild Wild West back then, long before the narrative of intellectual property theft began in the public eye. Nevertheless, in Rob Reid's Year Zero, they'd be in the same dicey position as the universe's non-Earth population. That is to say, in a severe legal conundrum as it relates to copyright law.

Low-level entertainment lawyer Nick Carter thinks it’s a prank, not an alien encounter, when two extraterrestrials show up in his office. The entire cosmos, they tell him, has been functionally addicted to humanity’s music since 1977, when American pop songs first reached the stars. As a result, intergalactic society has committed the biggest copyright violation in history, bankrupting the entire universe. Sure, they tried to stop, but:

"Normal reactions to Rickrolls range from eye rolls to ironic sing-alongs. But my visitors started trembling, almost convulsing. And as they clung to their chairs for support, they took on an ecstatic air that was almost smutty."

Obviously, they need legal advice and fast. Who better than a Backstreet Boy turned copyright expert? Oh... he's not the Nick Carter? 

That statement alone offers quite a bit of insight into the kind of novel Reid has written. Sold as the new Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, driven by its status as a funny science fiction novel, I find little in common between the two. Reid's humor is biting, and grounded almost exclusively in today's pop culture where Douglas Adams' was silly, timeless, and (if I may say) British. For me that makes Year Zero exponentially more funny, although fifty years from now I'm not sure the same will hold true. Lines like this bring that home:

"But they just have to get up there and mime it to a famous recording, and the crowds go nuts (catch a Britney Spears show to see something similar here at home)."

Laughing from start to finish, I also found myself genuinely invested in the plot. Carter, his love interest, his hard-ass boss, and the strange aliens who reach out for help, are all well drawn. They move through a plot that makes sense and has a natural pace that doesn't get lost in its own comedic meanderings, another fact that distinguishes it from its classic comparative.

In that way I find quite a bit of John Scalzi in Reid's style, but without the endless font of sarcastic characters that pervade Scalzi's work. That's accomplished by Reid's use of the narrative voice for his humor (aided by a first person narrator no doubt) allowing his characters to exist organically as opposed to the joke delivery devices I find many of Scalzi's characters to be.

In the background, Reid builds a workable commentary on the state of copyright law as it relates to the music business and intellectual property in general.

"...music licensing is an arcane thicket of ambiguity, overlapping jurisdictions, and litigation. This is a disastrous situation for musicians, as well as for music fans and countless businesses. In fact, it suits absolutely nobody -- apart from the cynical lawyers who run the music labels, the lobbying groups, the House, the Senate, and several parasite law firms like my own."

He often points out the unique nature of the penalties associated with copyright law and the disincentive within the system to change them. Many of these are included as footnotes that allow the author to break out the more important educational details that would impeach any sort of consistent narrative voice. Reid sometimes attempts to expand into the realm of political commentary, although I didn't find those moments quite as successful.

Reid's background contributes to these aspects of the novel, echoing the age old advice to write what you know. Sole founder of the online music company Listen.com, which in 2001 launched Rhapsody, as well as a founding member of IGN Entertainment, Reid has been a unique figure in the music business -- one fundamentally connected to the internet and other forms of entertainment. Subsequently, he's become a vocal spokesperson for change, highlighted by his presentation TED this year where he explained his idea of "copyright math", which was clearly the germ that gave birth to Year Zero.

And what a beautiful zygote it is. Rob Reid has struck a nerve with Year Zero that will resonate with anyone who lived through the music internet revolution in the same way that Scalzi's Redshirts does with science fiction television fans. It lives and breathes the absurdity of copyright law, while simultaneously recognizing the importance of protecting artists' rights. It's also the funniest piece of fiction I've ever read and will almost surely be one of the five best novels I read this year. I would suggest acquiring a legal copy at the earliest convenience. Trust me, you'll want nothing to do with violating copyrights after finishing it.

Railsea by China Miéville

China Miéville, international man of mystery & outlandish science fictional ideas, has released a new novel targeted at readers of 'all ages', which is (typically) code for: a young adult novel that old people should like too. I would say in this case it means something closer to: this is a novel for adults that young people ought to read. I tried hard to come up with a clever way to describe my feelings about it. Instead I came up with this. Imagine those Magic Eye prints from the 1990's. Stare at them for a few minutes, allow the eye to unfocus, & a 3D image appears within the 2D pattern. That's Railsea. Unfortunately, just like the Magic Eye prints, some people will be incapable of seeing anything in it.

Surprisingly, that analogy works quite well as the concept of the railsea looks something like the jumbled mess of Magic Eye art. Tracks, rail & tie, blanket the world, connecting enclaves of habitation with a criss-crossing of infinite possibility that can change direction at any moment. Beneath it all is an unstable network of subterranean creatures that are as anathema to humanity as Miéville himself is to main stream political discourse. It's a world that's inherently unnatural, a fact which Railsea's protagonist Sham Yes ap Soorap is well aware of & can't help but push against.

A doctor's assistant on board the moletrain Medes, Sham watches his captain's obsession with a moldywarpe (giant mole) she’s been chasing for years. It's a singular determination Sham cannot rationalize. He wants more from life than hunting. He wants to know where the railsea comes from & where it ends.

There's natural connection to be drawn between Railsea & the Herman Melville classic Moby Dick. Those comparisons are not without merit as the captain's story arc is very much a retelling of Ahab's search for his white whale. It would be easy to draw a line there & move on, but the truth is Miéville is also exploring a lot of other themes & structures beyond that obvious one. Most strongly, there's a sense of wonder & drive for self exploration that will resonate strongly with younger readers.

Sham could be with them. & while he wouldn't be a salvor, or would he be a train doctor nor a moler either. He'd be something else.

Sham is a character pushing against the boundaries placed on him by a society that's stuck in doing things the way they've always been done. A social & cultural fear pervades life in the railsea that is untenable to Sham's need to explore

In that sense, I suppose Miéville's newest work is a tremendous success. It addresses things of thematic import & follows through on them. What it doesn't do, unfortunately, is tell a coherent & readable story. Short chapters intermingle with longer ones, referencing themselves as a narrative & pointing out the literary devices being used -- all seemingly done in asserting the author's cleverness. For example,

We have just had a story of a story. Tell it yourself, again, & story of a story in a story will be born, & you will be en route to that abyme. Which is an abyss.

Alas, Miéville is being too clever, or not clever enough. I never felt a thread of connectivity between the first chapter & the last. I kept looking for a moment in which all the machination & manipulation of the text would become meaningful. I never got there.

I'm sure it's been noticed by now that I've used '&' instead of 'and' at every opportunity in this review, echoing the same choice made in Railsea. One of the aforementioned short chapters provides some explanation for why it's done, but it's not an explanation that made any sense to me. Likewise, neologisms abound, from moldywarpe, to ferroviaoceanology, to homo vorago aperientis. All combined to frequently break me out of the narrative & into pondering Miéville, rather than the novel.

Going back to the Magic Eye analogy (is it tired yet?), Railsea & Miéville in general, seem to receive the same kind of reception that 3D art did back then. Those who could see it were flabbergasted by those who couldn't. I remember people asking to me, "How can you not see it?! Are you blind?!" In much the same way, I find Miéville adherents taking a similar stance with regards to his work.

Of course, the analogy falls apart quickly. I'm not on either extreme. I don't always see the beauty in his work, as though the precise pattern was interrupted during production. Other times the beauty of the ingrained image shines through, as it did in The Scar & The City & The City. I believe China Miéville is singularly talented. He knows it, occasionally resulting in a work of fiction that reaches too far. Railsea is such a novel, but I, for one, would rather he reach too far than not far enough.

The Games - Ted Kotsmaka

As a widely published short fiction author, Ted Kosmatka's first novel The Games is hardly a debut. Since 2008, Kosmatka has seen eight stories reprinted in Years Best anthologies and received multiple award nominations, most prominently the Nebula for his story Divining Light. He's also a writer for Valve, creators of the massively successful Half-Life video games. With that in mind, I was looking forward to the The Games being a polished, layered, science fictional novel. What I got was a polished, straightforward, near term technothriller that calls to mind a taciturn Michael Crichton.

Set sometime in the near future, the games in The Games refers to the Olympics where the main event has evolved into a gladiator like competition with only one rule: no human DNA permitted in the design of the combatants. Silas Williams is the geneticist in charge of preparing the U.S. entry whose designs have led them to the gold in every previous event. Looking for an edge in the upcoming Games, Silas’s boss engages an experimental supercomputer to design the genetic code for a gladiator that cannot be beaten.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, the guy who invented the supercomputer, Evan Chandler, is batshit crazy and he's got more to accomplish that creating a genome never before seen on earth. Aided by the beautiful (aren't they all?) xenobiologist, Vidonia João, Silas must find a way to understand what he created and how to keep it from ruining everything he's built.

Before I go any farther I think I should disclose the fact that I wanted a lot more gladiator action. When a book is sold as containing genetically engineered gladiatorial combat, I'm looking for Jean Claude Van Damme's Bloodsport with chitinous armored sentient chimeras. Or maybe rabid vorpal bunnies. While The Games delivers on the crazy genetically engineered monster factor, very little of the novel actually takes place in the arena. Kosmatka instead focuses on the overworked 'you-can't-put-technology-back-in-the-box' angle.

As far as those kinds of stories go, The Games is a success. It's fast paced, full of tension, and just the right amount of blood and guts to sustain things. There's a little romance and the whole thing is a tragic story of technology run amok. Except, replace the Olympic setting with a remote island and the genetically engineered gladiator with a velociraptor or two and the end result looks an awful lot like Jurassic Park with a (very) slightly altered cast of characters. That's just not going to do it for me.

The characters themselves are likeable enough. Silas is a bit miscast as a once in a lifetime genius geneticist, but that's part of his charm. He's smart and athletic, loves to hunt with his bow and arrow, and no one can seem to get over how big he is. Everything about his character to me screams big time executive, not genius level scientist. Nevertheless, he comes across as incredibly conflicted about what he does and why he does it. The other motive character, Evan Chandler, is even more interesting. A functional (barely) autistic (maybe?), he struggles to interact with the real world, choosing instead to live within the virtual confines of his super computer. Outside them, the cast is archetypal and bland. The major villain, Mr. Baskov (the Olympic Commissioner) and the love interest, Vidonia João, fit into tidy boxes that eschew any sort of eye opening moments.

Considering Kosmatka's exceptional short fiction and his work experience in research labs, it comes as no surprise that the novel is well written and authentic seeming in its science. He presents the latter in a clear way that allows for suspension of disbelief without becoming Tom Clancy didactic. The tension is well structured and peaks at the right times. What I'm getting at is that this is perfectly good novel. It's just a novel I feel like I've read a half a dozen times.

Ted Kosmatka's first novel, The Games is a paint by numbers technothriller separated from its peers only by its level of polish and the interest ignited by the Olympic backdrop. For readers who rabidly seek out this kind of yarn, I suspect they'll find a great deal of enjoyment. For me, I kept waiting to be engaged at a deeper level, or caught off guard by a twist, or sucked into some bad ass monster fighting. Unfortunately, I'm still waiting.

Collection of Short Reviews from Early 2012

I tend to write long reviews for everything I read, but I've found that increasingly difficult as I read more. It's particularly difficult with second and third books in a series. From time to time I'm going to do posts like this one where I bundle a bunch of reviews together. Most of them will be second and third volumes in a series, but occasionally I'll throw a standalone in as well. I'll also write up novels here that I didn't finish (very rare) and I'll try to explain why without actually reviewing it. Enjoy!

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Shadow Master by Jon Sprunk

I finished Shadow's Master last night, concluding Jon Sprunk's trilogy that began a few years ago with Shadow's Son. I'm keeping this review short because I've said almost everything about the series and Sprunk's style that needs to be said in my reviews of Shadow's Son and Shadow's Lure. For those who've been awaiting this final installment I can confidently say it's a fitting end to Caim, Josey, and Kit's stories. The novel is also a bit of a return capturing the kinetic violence and unrelenting pace of the first volume.

If I have one complaint about the series, and it's a relatively big one, it's that Sprunk doesn't do a very good job of giving his world and magic system the depth that could have taken the series to another level. There are times when the magic becomes deus ex machina almost entirely due to the fact that it's just unexplained. None of that really detracted from my enjoyment, but it is something I'd like to see Sprunk do better in his next series.


The Ruined City by Paula Brandon

Last year I wrote a review for The Traitor's Daughter, the first book in Paula Brandon's The Veiled Isles Trilogy. I found it wildly entertaining, but lamented the book's marketing strategy that pushed it more toward romantic fantasy readers. The romance comes across as a secondary story line to the true conflict in the series which revolves around the corruption of the Source, a magical energy that's in danger of reversing course and altering the world. Brandon shines in this space, utilizing interesting, flawed, and wholly believable characters with goals that are equal parts right and wrong.

Book two, The Ruined City, picks right up where Traitor's Daughter left off. Admittedly, Brandon does open up the throttle on the romance, taking Jianna and Rione's relationship to the next level. It's handled well, and never descends into the sugary annoyance the novel's cover might suggest. Unfortunately, it occasionally portrays Jianna as a girl waiting around for men to solve her problems. The novel's conclusion gives me hope that will change in the final volume, due out this summer.


Jane Carver of Waar by Nathan R. Long

Being Long's first original novel, I would typically write a long form review about Jane Carver of Waar. Except as much as I enjoyed the read, I don't have a whole lot to say. Long takes Edgar Rice Burrough's classic John Carter stories and gives them a modern bent with a strong, female protagonist. The novel reads like a pulp lover's fantasy with over the top action, humor, and a good amount of sex.

It's not just cheap thrills. Long embeds a good amount of commentary on racial and gender equality, class warfare, and biker chicks. As I've never read Burrough's original series, I suspect there was a lot of nuance I missed that fans will pick up on.  Either way, it was a ton of fun to read and I highly recommend it.


The Legend of Eli Monpress by Rachel Aaron

Ok, I'm totally cheating because I haven't read the entire Legend of Eli Monpress. It's an omnibus of three novels -- Spirit Thief, Spirit Rebellion, and Spirit Eater. Orbit has released them in this format, I presume, to get some new readers involved in time for the fourth installment, The Spirit War, due out this summer. Personally, I'd never heard of the series before despite the fact that it's part of one of the most popular sub-genres in fantasy (thief/assassin). I can't help but wonder if the original covers had something to do with it (very urban fantasy don't you think?).

I did finish the first of the original three novels and I'm glad to report it was a fun read. Shallow, overly light on the world and character building, but also possessing a great voice with a fast paced adventure plot. I think the target demographic is younger readers, but there's plenty here to enjoy for everyone. I don't hesitate to recommend the omnibus. I mean it's three books for $10, how can you beat that? I plan to finish it before the fourth book is released.


Giant Thief by David Tallerman

I'm kind of cheating here too. I didn't finish Giant Thief. I didn't even get very far -- around 90 pages. It's not a bad book. It's well written and the plot wasn't unworthy, but the narrator didn't do it for me at all. I found his voice bland and completely uninteresting. A first person novel pins everything on the reader's ability to connect to the narrator, and I just didn't. I can't recommend or not recommend it and I hate that. I try to finish everything I start, even bad books, but this was a rare case where I just didn't dislike or like it enough to continue. Most of the reviews out there, from people I trust (Far Beyond Reality), have been good so maybe I just caught it on a bad week.

The Desert Spear - Peter V. Brett

Some have said that The Desert Spear has all the same components (good and bad) from The Warded Man, only more.  I think that's an apt description.  In the second installment of the Demon Cycle, Peter V. Brett expands the scope of his story, spending more time on his pseudo Islamic/Samurai culture (Krasnians) and offering the demon's point of view for the first time.  He brings new characters into the fold and expands the reader's understanding of his magic system and world.  Despite some persistent problems that return from the first novel, Desert Spear is a delightful read that calls to mind the great epic fantasies of years gone by.

The novel begins through the point of view of Jardir, the Krasnian leader so vilified in Warded Man.  Structured much like the first novel, Brett jumps through different points in time to tell the story of Jardir's childhood and rise to power without losing track of his holy war of unification against the north.  Later, Arlen, Leesha, Rojer, and a new point of view character, Renna, reconnect to the story as they struggle to confront the encroachment of the Krasnian army.

If that brief summary lacks in plot movement, it's because there isn't a ton.  Desert Spear is a middle book in the tradition of Empire Strikes Back.  In order for the war between Krasnia and the north (and humanity and demon-kind) to happen, Brett needs to get all his chess pieces in the proper place.  It requires him to show Jardir's motivations, setting him up as the foil to Arlen.  Two Deliverers on a different end of the same continuum -- one representing a universal world view and a united front, the other an ideal of self-sufficiency and independence.

Critics might think by looking inside Jardir's head, Brett is trying to justify his deplorable actions or even worse, further bastardize non-western points of view.  I think it's more to provide an understanding of Jardir's motives.  I've heard Brett speak a few times, and he's said that his novels are in many ways an expression of the fear he witnessed on September 11.  A New Yorker in the city that day, he watched as some ran toward the towers, others ran away, and others froze, unable to do either.  If the demons and humanity in Brett's world are that paradigm writ large, then I can't help but wonder if Jardir is an embodiment of both those who attacked America that day and the nation's reaction to that threat.

That's not to say that Brett is in anyway condoning Al-Qaeda or the war on terror -- I suspect he doesn't much care for either -- but I found the early parts of the novel, and every scene with Jardir there after, an exercise in cultural understanding.  As incompatible as the Krasnian way of life is to Arlen and Leesha, their's is equally as foreign to Jardir.  Brett seems to be speaking to those differences and through Jardir he reaches a hand out to bridge the cultural gap that only willful understanding can span.  Could Brett be wondering aloud that, 'if we could see through each other's eyes would this violence seem so necessary?'  In that dialogue, Desert Spear is a far more powerful novel than its predecessor.  A better novel though?  I can't go that far.

Brett's a big deal in the

German land.

What Desert Spear gives in thematic oomph, it gives back nearly as much in terms of pacing and character.  The early sections with Jardir drag as Brett covers some of the same ground witnessed at the end of Warded Man.  Likewise, returning to a childhood story feels like starting over after growing up with Arlen, Leesha, and Rojer in the first book.  Leesha gives me particular pause as her character has yet to feel real to me two books into the series.  I would call her actions unsupported by her character, but I can't because I don't find her remotely believable in the first place.  Arlen, Rojer, and Renna all feel much more authentic, but the first two stagnate throughout the novel as they wait for the plot (Jardir) to catch up to them.

That paragraph is awful critical, which is perhaps unfair.  None of my quibbles impacted my enjoyment of the novel beyond a raised eyebrow or three.  Brett's action sequences and dialogue continue to impress me, and I never lack for a crystal clear picture of his characters and setting.  Additionally, the tighter narrative and thematic focus (i.e. - not foaming at the mouth with unnecessary digressions) continue to elevate it, doing nothing to dispel my assertions that the Demon Cycle may one day be considered on par with The Wheel of Time and other fantasy icons.

I devoured The Desert Spear, compelled to know more about Peter V. Brett's world.  Why do demons plague the night?  Who is the true Deliverer?  Are the wards more than they seem?  I dare anyone to read it and not demand those answers.  To anyone who enjoyed The Warded Man, this second novel will provide more to love.  A third installment, The Daylight War, is due to be released in 2013.  I'll be at the front of the line to see what happens next.

The Warded Man - Peter V. Brett

I'm a little late to the Peter Brett party.  I remember when The Warded Man first hit the shelves a few years ago.  I had just finished Brent Weeks's Night Angel Trilogy and I was hunting for something new.  I wasn't a savvy blogger type then or even someone who read reviews on-line -- just a guy who liked to read.  I'm sad to say, I made a conscious decision not to start it.  I wanted to make sure it had legs before I invested my time and money.  It turns out my $7.99 investment is going to cost me five times that by the time Brett's Demon Cycle is done.  In fact, I should probably just send Del Rey the check right now.  I wonder if they take trade-ins (Omen Machine? Anyone?).

Warded Man can come off a bit like paint-by-number-epic-fantasy at first.  The narrative voice is third person limited, using three distinct points of view.  It begins in a small community on the outskirts of a society built on fear of demons, who come to feed when the sun sets.  Arlen is the stereotypical farm boy who dreams of life beyond the agrarian lifestyle chosen for him.  With a natural talent for painting wards, the only barrier between humanity and the insatiable demons, Arlen isn't satisfied with the status quo.  When his mother is attacked one night, he leaves home, determined to find freedom from fear.

The other two points of view are Rojer, an orphaned jongleur (think gleeman or bard), and Leesha, a stunningly beautiful herb gatherer (think wisdom or hedge witch).  For much of the novel the three story lines are independent from one another, brought together only when each has reached a conclusion that the world they inhabit cannot continue.  While Arlen is the novel's center, all three of them are given about equal time.

Some of the other paint-by-number devices include a combat dedicated desert people who wield spears, battles for survival against impossible odds, villains who engender no sympathy, and coming of age plots.  There's even a prophesy.  All that might be read as a criticism of the novel and Brett as an author.  It's not.  Warded Man may be wrapped in familiar paper, but under the hood is a unique smorgasbord of fantasy delights that becomes more apparent with each page (mixed metaphor, much?).

Of course, there are certain tropes that by their very definition designate something as epic fantasy (prophesy, end of the world stakes, good vs. evil, etc.).  There are also certain tropes that come up again, and again, for a very good reason.  The best example being the small town, farm boy starting point.  When building a second world from the ground up, including a magic system, political structures, and establishing character baselines, there's almost no better way to ease a reader in that the aforementioned trope.  Authors who eschew it are often criticized for throwing too much at their readers, Steven Erikson being perhaps the best example.  Are there other ways to go about it?  Sure, but it's overused for a reason and Brett executes it flawlessly.

UK Cover and Title

And execution is mostly what makes Warded Man such a rousing success.  Brett's prose flows naturally and his action scenes seem effortless.  His world and magic system are cleverly crafted, playing off each other in perfect harmony.  Characters are well drawn, making the reader want to strangle them one moment and cheer for them the next.  To condense things down to a sentence, Brett is beginning something that will be a tighter, and more grim, Wheel of Time.

My one complaint about the novel is that it ends up reading something like a long form prologue.  Brett divides everything up into four parts, starting his characters as children, then young adults, then adults, before bringing the novel to its for-now conclusion.  Covering fifteen years of time, with each section covering a year at most, a great deal of time passes that's a mystery to the reader.  Additionally, until those final pages, Brett's three characters are searching for direction, as opposed to driving towards a goal.  Some might find that a bit off-putting; it just made me angry I didn't have a copy of the sequel, Desert Spear, sitting on my nightstand.  And that's about the best endorsement I can give an author.

By the time Brett pens the final volume, the Demon Cycle is going to be one of the best selling series in recent years.  I know I have readers of this blog who will find aspects of Warded Man irredeemable.  It could be the familiar trappings, or a particular set of scenes near the end that may not sit well with some female (mostly) readers.  But, even critics will recognize that Peter Brett has a tremendous talent for story telling.  It's been a long time since I stayed up to 2 AM to finish a novel (on a work night, no less!), and even longer since I had no idea how much time had passed.

For fans of epic fantasy, with Wheel of Time ending, and A Song of Ice and Fire taking a circuitous route to completion, this is the series to get on board.  Of course, everyone knew that already, right?

                       

Desert Spear, the second installment in the Demon Cycle is available now.  Daylight War, the third installment, is scheduled for release in early 2013.  You can follow Peter Brett on Twitter or on his website.