Toll the Hounds, a Malazan Book of the Fallen

In Darujhistan, the saying goes that love and death shall arrive together, dancing...It is summer and the heat is oppressive, yet the discomfiture of the small rotund man in the faded red waistcoat is not entirely due to the sun. Dire portents plague his nights and haunt the city's streets like fiends of shadow. Assassins skulk in alleyways but it seems the hunters have become the hunted. Hidden hands pluck the strings of tyranny like a fell chorus. Strangers have arrived, and while the bards sing their tragic tales, somewhere in the distance can be heard the baying of hounds. All is palpably not well. And in Black Coral too, ruled over by Anomander Rake Son of Darkness, something is afoot - memories of ancient crimes surface, clamoring for revenge, so it would seem that love and death are indeed about to make their entrance.



I have been trapped for two days now, a very willing prisoner, a fitting testament to such an author. And the sights I've seen, the sights Erikson has shown me, have beggared me.

The action has moved from the continent of Lether, and we're back on familiar ground, with familiar faces. Darujhistan, jewel of the continent of Genabackis, is on the cusp of a fell convergence. Familiar players have begun their opening moves. Cutter, once Crokus Younghand, has come home, and he brings with him a resolution of sorts. The few men and women left of the Bridgeburners, now owners of a bar in the Estates District, need to find the strength to fight when they come under vicious attack by the Assasin's Guild. The regulars of the Phoenix Inn, and the magnanimous Kruppe himself, find themselves drawn ever tighter in a web of plots, with deadly consequences.

Across the continent, in Black Coral, Anomander Rake, the Lord of the Tiste Andii broods in his city of perpetual night. A new faith has emerged in the wake of the devastating siege and battle that took place 6 years before, a faith centred around the Cult of the Redeemer. But now something has begun threatening its adherents.

In between these two cities, travellers are on the move. Karsa Orlong, the man known as Traveller, and Nimander Golit and his band of bloodkin, the immortal Kallor, all moving towards destiny. They have different destinations, but they are thematically similar. They are travelling towards purpose.

And in the realm of the dead, Hood, the Lord of Death, High King of the House of the Slain, Embracer of the Fallen, waits to end a game that started aeons ago. A game with surprising participants, and a very unexpected ending, for all involved.

The pace of the book was slow at the beginning. Indeed, the first 200 or so pages merely sets the tone. But by the middle, you look up and see that half the night has gone by. By the end, you're left gasping for breath. The plotting is masterful, the sense of foreboding apparent. And the end . . . was cataclysmic.

This book marks the beginning of the end. Toll the Hounds serves to tie up many of the subplots that were brought up during the course of the series. It suffered a bit, in my opinion, especially during the early third. Too many characters were introduced, and the use of Kruppe as narrator tends to be jarring, for he can sometimes be too verbose.

But the small inconsistencies are not the sum of its parts. The book itself is a worthy addition to the Malazan series. And considering Erikson is being hailed as the most significant author of the millenium, then this is the best time to start getting to know his work.

So what the hell are you waiting for?

Ian McDonald's River of Gods

As Mother India approaches her centenary, nine people are going about their business - a gangster, a cop, his wife, a politician, a stand-up comic, a set designer, a journalist, a scientist and a dropout. And so is Aj - the waif, the mind-reader, the prophet - when she one day finds a man who wants to stay hidden.

In the next few weeks, they will all be swept together to decide the fate of the nation.




I do not really enjoy sci-fi. The high blown physics tend to sail over my head, making me think of school and the utter humiliation I felt when I don't understand what the hell is being written on the blackboard.

But this book sheds sci-fi for humanism, physics for religion, and higher mathematics for faith. Amid the newsreels of waterwars and high politics, between the puujas on the Ganges, there is a story of people caught up in the flow of fate.

This is India, this is Bharati, this is Varanasi, as seen through the eye of its citizens, 39 years from now. The smell of rotii, the stink of traffic, the hooting of phatphat horns, temples and Gods, all seven million of them. The crowds and riots and beautiful sari's, jawans and jai Bharat!.

And through it, between it, among it, flows the Ganga Mata, Mother of Rivers, life-giver and life-taker.

Yes, there is physics; M-Star theory and physical manifestations of higher level aeiai consciousness, parallel universes and zero-point energy math models, but it fits. It is merely a part of the larger story, and not the whole of it.

Read this book, you will not be disappointed.

The End

And a grand end it was; shocking, moving, a bit dragged out and maudlin, but beautiful nonetheless.

Rowling finished her series with surprising panache. Clocking in at merely 600++ pages, it is not the longest book by far, but what it lacks in pages, it more than makes up for it substance. Questions and plotholes alike are dug up, explained, seen in the clear light of day.

It all makes sense, now.

Swordfights and dragons, battles and magic and wands, power and its price. Growing up, falling in love. Family, friendship. The death of many and the death of one.

Yes, it's a children's book. But read it anyway. Because you will regret it if you don't.

(Bah, I'll rewrite this article when my head cools off a little)

Malazan Book of the Fallen

Supposed to be working, but got caught up in (another) reread of Steven Erikson's superb epic.

Ye gods, epic is about right. 7 books in, 1 book a year. 900+ pages per book. And his prose humbles the mind and beggars the imagination.

Pffft, keep your child wizards and kitchen boy turned kings. Give me Malazan marines, Cussers in one hand and crossbow in the other, cursing while they blow up dragons. Give me scheming gods and human ingenuity. Give me continent-spanning war, tragic character death, heroic charges into unwinnable odds, where the heroes are flawed, where armies clash and the blood flows freely (complete with flying bits of skull tissue and torn-away backbone), where the author will make you truely, honestly love a character, then let you watch him take a sword in the gut and die in agony.

Give me real fantasy, and not the cookie cutter elf (oo look at me, I'm a fucking supermodel) crap that has flooded the market after Tolkien.

You want your safe, happy little worlds? Worlds where the heroes win and the good guys and bad guys are clearly defined? Then stay the hell away from this series.

But if you're looking for more, if you're looking for a world every bit as real as our own, with all its attendant mysteries, religions, gods, and a history spanning three hundred thousand years, then go pick up the first book.

Else I will call upon the combined might of the T'lan Imass to hunt you down. And they have long memories.

"Staring after the fast-diminishing dragon, Fiddler leaned his crossbow onto his shoulder.
'This ain't your fight,' he said to the distant creature. 'Fucking dragon.'
Then he turned and stared at Hedge."

Reaper's Gale pg 886