Angry Robot US Release Dates

Angry Robot Books has finally announced the release of their books in the US. Below is the schedule for the first few months (and, as always, more information can be found over at the Angry Robot website).


May

Moxyland by Lauren Beukes

Slights by Kaaron Warren

Triumff: Her Majesty’s Hero by Dan Abnett

White Tiger by Kylie Chan (Book One of the Dark Heavens Trilogy)

Winter Song by Colin Harvey

Kell’s Legend by Andy Remic (Book One of the Clockwork Vampire Chronicles)

June

Amortals by Matt Forbeck

Damage Time by Colin Harvey

Sixty-One Nails by Mike Shevdon

Red Phoenix by Kylie Chan (Book Two of the Dark Heavens Trilogy)

Zoo City by Lauren Beukes

Soul Stealers by Andy Remic (Book Two of the Clockwork Vampire Chronicles)

July

Blue Dragon by Kylie Chan (Book Three of the Dark Heavens Trilogy)

Nekropolis by Tim Waggoner (Book One of the Matt Richter series)

Vegas Knights by Matt Forbeck

The Crown of the Blood by Gav Thorpe

Walking the Tree by Kaaron Warren

August

City of Dreams and Nightmare by Ian Whates

Death’s Disciples by J. Robert King

Edge by Thomas Blackthorne

Embedded by Dan Abnett

The Road to Bedlam by Mike Shevdon

September

Dead Streets by Tim Waggoner (Book Two of the Matt Richter series)

Book of Secrets by Chris Roberson

King Maker by Maurice Broaddus (Book One of The Knights of Breton Court series)

Point by Thomas Blackthorne

Servant of the Underworld by Aliette de Bodard

Warhammer 40,000 Movie Announcement

Among the many tie-in franchises throwing out movies, noticeably missing has always been Games Workshops' two major franchise, Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000. But no longer! The announcement has been made for Ultramarines: A Warhammer 40,000 Movie.

FREE FICTION: U Is For Undertow by Sue Grafton

Another bit of free fiction here at Luke Reviews, we this time are featuring Sue Grafton, famed creator of the Kinsey Millhone mystery series. Her newest book, U Is For Undertow, will be released on December 1st, but here at Luke Reviews we have a special look ahead at the first chapter of the new novel.

1


Wednesday afternoon, April 6, 1988

What fascinates me about life is that now and then the past rises up and declares itself. Afterward, the sequence of events seems inevitable, but only because cause and effect have been aligned in advance. It’s like a pattern of dominoes arranged upright on a tabletop. With the flick of your finger, the first tile topples into the second, which in turn tips into the third, setting in motion a tumbling that goes on and on, each tile knocking over its neighbor until all of them fall down. Sometimes the impetus is pure chance, though I discount the notion of accidents. Fate stitches together elements that seem unrelated on the surface. It’s only when the truth emerges you see how the bones are joined and everything connects.

Here’s the odd part. In my ten years as a private eye, this was the first case I ever managed to resolve without crossing paths with the bad guys. Except at the end, of course.

***

My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private detective, female, age thirty-seven, with my thirty-eighth birthday coming up in a month. Having been married and divorced twice, I’m now happily single and expect to remain so for life. I have no children thus far and I don’t anticipate bearing any. Not only are my eggs getting old, but my biological clock wound down a long time ago. I suppose there’s always room for one of life’s little surprises, but that’s not the way to bet.

I work solo out of a rented bungalow in Santa Teresa, California, a town of roughly 85,000 souls who generate sufficient crime to occupy the Santa Teresa Police Department, the County Sheriff’s Department, the California Highway Patrol, and the twenty-five or so local private investigators like me. Movies and television shows would have you believe a PI’s job is dangerous, but nothing could be farther from the truth . . . except, of course, on the rare occasions when someone tries to kill me. Then I’m ever so happy my health insurance premiums are paid up. Threat of death aside, the job is largely research, requiring intuition, tenacity, and ingenuity. Most of my clients reach me by referral and their business ranges from background checks to process serving, with countless other matters in between. My office is off the beaten path and I seldom have a client appear unannounced, so when I heard a tapping at the door to my outer office, I got up and peered around the corner to see who it was.

Through the glass I saw a young man pointing at the knob. I’d apparently turned the dead bolt to the locked position when I’d come back from lunch. I let him in, saying, “Sorry about that. I must have locked up after myself without being aware of it.”

“You’re Ms. Millhone?”

“Yes.”

“Michael Sutton,” he said, extending his hand. “Do you have time to talk?”

We shook hands. “Sure. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

I ushered him into my office while I registered his appearance in a series of quick takes. Slim. Lank brown hair with a sheen to it, worn long on top and cut short over his ears. Solemn brown eyes, complexion as clear as a baby’s. There was a prep school air about him: deck shoes without socks, sharply creased chinos, and a short-sleeve white dress shirt he wore with a tie. He had the body of a boy: narrow shoulders, narrow hips, and long, smooth arms. He looked young enough to be carded if he tried to buy booze. I couldn’t imagine what sort of problem he’d have that would require my services.

I returned to my swivel chair and he settled in the chair on the other side of the desk. I glanced at my calendar, wondering if I’d set up an appointment and promptly forgotten it.

He noticed the visual reference and said, “Detective Phillips at the police department gave me your name and address. I should have called first, but your office was close by. I hope this isn’t an inconvenience.”

“Not at all,” I said. “My first name’s Kinsey, which you’re welcome to use. You prefer Michael or Mike?”

“Most people call me Sutton. In my kindergarten class, there were two other Michaels so the teacher used our last names to distin¬guish us. Boorman, Sutton, and Trautwein—like a law firm. We’re still friends.”

“Where was this?”

“Climp.”

I said, “Ah.” I should have guessed as much. Climping Academy is the private school in Horton Ravine, K through 12. Tuition starts at twelve grand for the little tykes and rises incrementally through the upper grades. I don’t know where it tops out, but you could probably pick up a respectable college education for the same price. All the students enrolled there referred to it as “Climp,” as though the proper appellation was just, like, sooo beside the point. Watching him, I wondered if my blue-collar roots were as obvious to him as his upper-class status was to me.

We exchanged pleasantries while I waited for him to unload. The advantage of a prearranged appointment is that I begin the first meeting with at least some idea what a prospective client has in mind. People skittish about revealing their personal problems to a stranger often find it easier to do by phone. With this kid, I figured we’d have to dance around some before he got down to his business, whatever it was.

He asked how long I’d been a private investigator. This is a question I’m sometimes asked at cocktail parties (on the rare occasion when I’m invited to one). It’s the sort of blah-blah-blah conversational gambit I don’t much care for. I gave him a rundown of my employment history. I skipped over the two lackluster semesters at the local junior college and started with my graduation from the police academy. I then covered the two years I’d worked for the Santa Teresa PD before I realized how ill suited I was to a life in uniform. I proceeded with a brief account of my subsequent apprenticeship with a local agency, run by Ben Byrd and Morley Shine, two private investigators, who’d trained me in preparation for licensing. I’d had my ups and downs over the years, but I spared him the details since he’d only inquired as a stalling technique. “What about you? Are you a California native?”

“Yes, ma’am. I grew up in Horton Ravine. My family lived on Via Ynez until I went off to college. I lived a couple of other places, but now I’m back.”

“You still have family here?”

His hesitation was one of those nearly imperceptible blips that indicates internal editing. “My parents are gone. I have two older brothers, both married with two kids each, and an older sister who’s divorced. We’re not on good terms. We haven’t been for years.”

I let that pass without comment, being better acquainted with family estrangement than I cared to admit. “How do you know Cheney Phillips?”

“I don’t. I went into the police department, asking to speak to a detective, and he happened to be free. When I told him my situation, he said you might be able to help.”

“Well, let’s hope so,” I said. “Cheney’s a good guy. I’ve known him for years.” I shut my mouth then and let a silence descend, a stratagem with remarkable powers to make the other guy talk.

Sutton touched the knot in his tie. “I know you’re busy, so I’ll get to the point. I hope you’ll bear with me. The story might sound weird.”

“Weird stories are the best kind, so fire away,” I said.

He looked at the floor as he spoke, making eye contact now and then to see if I was following. “I don’t know if you saw this, but a couple of weeks ago, there was an article in the newspaper about famous kidnappings: Marion Parker, the twelve-year-old girl who was abducted in 1927; the Lindbergh baby in ’thirty-two; another kid, named Etan Patz. Ordinarily, I don’t read things like that, but what caught my attention was the case here in town . . .”

“You’re talking about Mary Claire Fitzhugh—1967.”

“You remember her?”

“Sure. I’d just graduated from high school. Little four-year-old girl taken from her parents’ home in Horton Ravine. The Fitzhughs agreed to pay the ransom, but the money was never picked up and the child was never seen again.”

“Exactly. The thing is, when I saw the name Mary Claire Fitzhugh, I had this flash—something I hadn’t thought about for years.” He clasped his hands together and squeezed them between his knees. “When I was a little kid, I was playing in the woods and I came across these two guys digging a hole. I remember seeing a bundle on the ground a few feet away. At the time, I didn’t understand what I was looking at, but now I believe it was Mary Claire’s body and they were burying her.”

I said, “You actually saw the child?”

He shook his head. “She was wrapped in a blanket, so I couldn’t see her face or anything else.”

I studied him with interest. “What makes you think it was Mary Claire? That’s a big leap.”

“Because I went back and checked the old newspaper accounts and the dates line up.”

“What dates?”

“Oh, sorry. I should have mentioned this before. She was kidnapped on July 19, which was a Wednesday. I saw the guys on Friday, July 21, 1967 . . . my birthday, the year I turned six. That’s how I made the association. I think she was already dead by then and they were getting rid of the body.”

“And this was where?”

“Horton Ravine. I don’t know the exact location. My mother had errands to run that day so she dropped me off at some kid’s house. I don’t remember his name. I guess his mom had agreed to look after me while she was gone. Turns out the other kid woke up with a fever and sore throat. Chicken pox was going around and his mom didn’t want me exposed in case that’s what it was, so she made him stay in his room while I hung around downstairs. I got bored and asked if I could go outside. She said I could as long as I didn’t leave the property. I remember finding this tree with branches that hung down to make a little room, so I played there for a while, pretending I was a bandit in a cool hideout. I heard voices and when I peeped through the leaves, I saw the two guys walk by with shovels and stuff and I followed them.”

“What time of day?”

“Must have been late morning because after I came in again, the kid’s mother fed me lunch—a plain lettuce and tomato sandwich, no bacon, and it was made with Miracle Whip. Our family didn’t eat Miracle Whip. My mother wouldn’t have it in the house. She said it was disgusting compared to real homemade mayonnaise.”

“Your mother made mayonnaise?”

“The cook did.”

“Ah.”

“Anyway, Mom always said it was rude to complain, so I ate what I could and left the rest on my plate. The kid’s mom hadn’t even cut the crusts off the bread.”

“There’s a shock,” I said. “I’m impressed your memory’s so clear.”

“Not clear enough or I wouldn’t be here. I’m pretty sure the two guys I saw were the ones who abducted Mary Claire, but I have no idea where I was. I know I’d never been to the house before and I never went there again.”

“Any chance one of your siblings would remember who the kid was?”

“I guess it’s possible. Unfortunately, we don’t get along. We haven’t spoken in years.”

“So you said.”

“Sorry. I don’t mean to repeat myself. The point is, I can’t call them up out of a clear blue sky. Even if I did, I doubt they’d talk to me.”

“But I could ask, couldn’t I? That would be the obvious first move if you’re serious about this.” He shook his head.

“I don’t want them involved, especially my sister, Dee. She’s difficult. You don’t want to mess with her.”

“All right. We’ll scratch that for now. Maybe the kid’s mother was being paid to babysit.”

“That wasn’t my impression. More like she was doing Mom a favor.”

“What about your classmates? Maybe she left you with one of the other moms, like a playdate.”

Sutton blinked twice. “That’s a possibility I hadn’t thought of. I’ve kept in touch with the other two Michaels, Boorman and Trautwein, but that’s the extent of it. I didn’t like anybody else in my kindergarten class and they didn’t like me.”

“It doesn’t matter if you liked them or not. We’re trying to identify the boy.”

“I don’t remember anyone else.”

“It should be easy enough to come up with a list. You must have had class photos. You could go back to the school library and check the ’67 yearbook.”

“I don’t want to go back to Climp. I hate the idea.”

“It’s just a suggestion. So far, we’re brainstorming,” I said. “Tell me about the two guys. How old would you say?”

“I’m not sure. Older than my brothers, who were ten and twelve at the time, but not as old as my dad.”

“Did they see you?”

“Not then. I decided to spy on them, but where they ended up was too far away and I couldn’t see what they were doing. I sneaked up on them, crawling through the bushes and crouching behind a big oak. It was hot and they were sweating so they’d taken off their shirts. I guess I wasn’t as quiet as I thought because one of them spotted me and they both jumped. They stopped what they were doing and asked what I wanted.”

“You actually talked to them?”

“Oh, sure. Absolutely. We had this whole conversation. I thought they were pirates and I was all excited about meeting them.”

“Pirates?”

“My mother was reading me Peter Pan at bedtime, and I loved the illustrations. The pirates wore bandanas tied around their heads, which is what the two guys had done.”

“Beards? Earrings? Eye patches?”

That netted me a smile, but not much of one. He shook his head. “It was the bandanas that reminded me of pirates. I told them I knew that because of Peter Pan.”

“What’d you talk about?”

“First, I asked ’em if they were pirates for real and they told me they were. The one guy talked more than the other and when I asked what they were doing, he said they were digging for buried treasure . . .”

As Sutton spoke, I could see him regressing to the little boy he’d been, earnest and easily impressed. He leaned forward in his chair. “I asked if the treasure was gold doubloons, but they said they didn’t know because they hadn’t found it yet. I asked to see the treasure map and they said they couldn’t show me because they were sworn to secrecy. I’d seen the bundle on the ground, over by this tree, and when I asked about it, the first guy said it was a bedroll in case they got tired. I offered to help dig, but he told me the job was only for grown-ups and little kids weren’t allowed. And then the other one spoke up and asked where I lived. I told them I lived in a white house, but not on this street, that I was visiting. The first guy asked what my name was. I told him and the other one spoke up again and said he thought he heard someone calling me so I better go, which is what I did. The whole exchange couldn’t have taken more than three minutes.”

“I don’t suppose either of them mentioned their names?”

“No. I probably should have asked, but it didn’t occur to me.”

“Your recall impresses me. Much of my life at that age is a total blank.”

“I hadn’t thought about the incident for years, but once the memory was triggered, I was right there again. Just like, boom.”

I reran the story in my mind, trying to digest the whole of it. “Tell me again why you think there’s a connection to Mary Claire. That still seems like a stretch.”

“I don’t know what else to say. Intuition, I guess.” “What about the kidnapping. How did that go down? I remember the broad strokes, but not the particulars.”

“The whole thing was horrible. Those poor people. The ransom note said not to contact the police or the FBI, but Mr. Fitzhugh did it anyway. He thought it was the only way to save her, but he was wrong.”

“The first contact was the note?”

Sutton nodded. “Later they phoned and said he had one day to get the money together or else. Mr. Fitzhugh had already called the police and they were the ones who contacted the FBI. The special agent in charge convinced him they’d have a better chance of nabbing the guys if he and his wife appear to cooperate, so they advised him to do as he was told…”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars, wasn’t it? Somehow the number sticks in my head.”

“Exactly. The kidnappers wanted it in small bills, packed in a gym bag. They called again and told him where he was supposed to leave the money. He stalled. They must have thought there was a trap on the line because they cut the call short.”

“So he dropped off the ransom money and the kidnappers didn’t show.”

“Right. After a day passed, it was clear the FBI had bungled it. They still thought they had a chance, but Mr. Fitzhugh said to hell with them and took matters into his own hands. He notified the news-papers and the radio and TV stations. After the story broke, Mary Claire was all anybody talked about—my parents and everyone else.”

“What day was it by then?”

“Sunday. Like I said before, she was kidnapped on Wednesday and I saw them on Friday. The paper didn’t carry the story until Sunday.”

“Why didn’t you speak up?”

“I did. I’d already done that. When my mother came to get me, I told her about the pirates. I felt guilty. Like I’d done something wrong.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know how to pin it down. I believed what they said about digging for treasure. When you’re six, things like that make perfect sense, but on some level I was anxious and I wanted reassurance. In-stead, Mom got mad. She said I wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers and she made me promise I’d never do it again. When we got home, she sent me straight to my room. On Sunday we heard the news about Mary Claire.”

“And your mother didn’t see the relevance?”

“I guess not. She never mentioned it and I was too scared to bring it up again. She’d already punished me once. I kept my mouth shut so she wouldn’t punish me again.”

“But it worried you.”

“For a while, sure. After that, I put the incident out of my mind. Then I saw Mary Claire’s name and it all came back.”

“Did you ever see either guy again?”

“I don’t think so. Maybe one of them. I’m not sure.”

“And where would that have been?”

“I don’t remember. I might have made a mistake.”

I picked up a pencil and made a mark on the yellow pad lying on my desk. “When you explained this to Cheney, what was his response?”

His shoulder went up in a half-shrug. “He said he’d check the old case notes, but he couldn’t do much more because the information I’d given him was too vague. That’s when he mentioned you.”

“Sounds like he was passing the buck.”

“Actually, what he said was you were like a little terrier when it came to flushing out rats.”

“Sucking up,” I said. Mentally, I was rolling my eyes because Cheney wasn’t far off the mark. I liked picking at problems and this was a doozy. “What about the house itself? Think you’d recognize it if you saw it again?”

“I doubt it. Right after I read the article, I drove around the old neighborhood, and even the areas I knew well had changed. Trees were gone, shrubs were overgrown, new houses had gone up. Of course, I didn’t cover the whole of Horton Ravine, but I’m not sure it would have made any difference since I don’t have a clear image. I think I’d recognize the place in the woods. The house is a blur.”

“So twenty-one years later, you’re clueless and hoping I can figure out where you were.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You want me to find an unmarked grave, basically a hole.”

“Can you do it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried before.”

I studied him, chasing the idea around to see where it might go. “It’s an interesting proposition. I’ll give you that.”

I rocked in my swivel chair, listening to the squeak, while I sifted through the story, wondering what I’d missed. There was something more going on, but I couldn’t imagine what. Finally, I said, “What’s your stake in the situation? I know it bothers you, but why to this extent?”

“I don’t know. I mean, the article talked about how the kidnapping ruined Mrs. Fitzhugh’s life. She and her husband divorced and he ended up leaving town. She still has no idea what happened to her little girl. She doesn’t even know for sure she’s dead. If I can help, it seems like the right thing to do.”

“It’s going to cost you,” I said.

“I figured as much.”

“What sort of work do you do?”

“Nothing right now. I lost my job so I’m on unemployment.”

“What was the job?”

“I sold advertising for KSPL.”

KSPL was the local AM station I sometimes tuned in on my car radio when I was tooling around town. “How long were you there?”

“About a year, maybe a little less.”

“What’s it mean when you say you ‘lost’ your job? Were you laid off, downsized, fired, what?”

He hesitated. “The last one.”

“Fired.”

He nodded.

I waited and when it was clear he had no intention of continuing, I gave him a nudge. “Uh, Sutton, I’d consider it a courtesy if you’d be a bit more forthcoming. Would you care to fill me in?”

He rubbed his palms on his pants. “I said I had a BA from Stanford, but it wasn’t really true. I was enrolled and attended classes for a couple of years, but I didn’t graduate.”

“So you lied on the application?”

“Look, I know I made a mistake . . .”

“That would cover it,” I said.

“But I can’t do anything about it now. What’s done is done and I just have to move on.”

I’d heard a host of criminals make the same remark, like boosting cars, robbing banks, and killing folks could be brushed aside, a minor stumble on the path of life. “Have you given any thought to how you’re going to pay me out of your unemployment benefits? We’re talking about five hundred bucks a day, plus expenses. Assuming I agree to help, which I haven’t.”

“I have some money set aside. I thought I’d write a check for one day’s work and we’d see how it goes from there.”

“A check?”

A flush tinted his cheeks. “I guess that’s not such a hot idea.”

“You got that right. What’s plan B?”

“If you’re going to be here for a while, I could make a quick run to the bank and bring you cash.”

I considered the notion. The prime item on my Thursday To Do list was to make a bank deposit and pay bills. I had two reports to write and a few calls to make, but I could shift those to Friday. The job it-self might end in folly, but at least when he mentioned “the right thing to do,” he didn’t turn around and ask me to work for free. I wasn’t convinced he was right about what he’d seen, but Cheney must have considered the story credible or he wouldn’t have sent him over to me.

“Okay. One day, but that’s it. And only if you pay me cash in advance. I’ll be here until five o’clock. That should give you plenty of time.”

“Great. That’s great.”

“I don’t know how great it is, but it’s the best I can do. When you get back, if I happen to be out, you can stick the money through the mail slot. In the meantime, give me a contact number so I’ll know how to reach you.”

I handed him my yellow pad and watched while he scribbled down his address and telephone number. In return I handed him my business card with my office number and address.

He said, “I really appreciate this. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t agreed.”

“I’ll probably regret it, but what the hell? It’s only one day,” I said. If I’d been listening closely, I’d have caught the sound of the gods having a great big old tee-hee at my expense.

I said, “You’re sure you don’t want to make the trip up to Climp? It would save you a few bucks.”

“I don’t want to. They probably wouldn’t talk to me in any event.”

“I see.” I studied him. “You want to tell me what’s going on here? You can’t talk to your siblings and now you can’t talk to your prep school pals?”

“I already told you I didn’t have pals. It has more to do with the administration.”

“How come?”

“There were some difficulties. I had a problem.”

“Like what, you were expelled?” I love stories about flunking and expulsions. With my history of screwups, those are like fairy tales.

“It’s not something I want to get into. It has nothing to do with this.” A stubborn note had crept into his voice. “You go up there. They’ll let you see yearbooks as easily as me.”

“I doubt it. Educational institutions hate handing over information about their students. Especially with the words ‘private investigator’ thrown into the mix.”

“Don’t tell ’em you’re a PI. Think of something else.”

“I didn’t even attend Climping Academy so why would I want to see a yearbook? It makes no sense.”

He shook his head. “I won’t do it. I have my reasons.”

“Which you’re not about to share.”

“Right.”

“Okay, fine. It’s no skin off my nose. If that’s how you want to spend your five hundred bucks, I can live with it. I love driving through Horton Ravine.”

I got up, and as we shook hands again, I realized what was bothering me. “One more question.”

“What’s that?”

“The article came out two weeks ago. Why’d you wait so long before you went to the police?”

He hesitated. “I was nervous. All I have is a hunch. I didn’t want the police to write me off as a crank.”

“Nuh-uh. That’s not all of it. What else?”

He was silent for a moment, color rising in his cheeks again. “What if the guys find out I remembered them? I might have been the only witness and I told them my name. If they’re the ones who killed Mary Claire, why wouldn’t they kill me?”

Gus & His Gang by Christophe Blain

When you think of Westerns, you don’t think of French graphic novels. However, Frenchman Christophe Blain, much better known in France but gradually gaining an audience in the United States, takes the Western and creates a wonderful tale of three bandits that both embraces the Western genre while at the same time playing with all of its tropes. Gus & His Gang follows the trio of Gus, Gratt, and Clem through 13 interconnected stories.


“Natalie”: “Natalie” kicks things off by introducing Gus, a train robber who has absolutely no problems in his robberies, but fails miserably in his attempts with women. A short intro that sets the tone for the rest of the book.

“Gus, Clem, Gratt”: Furthering the characterization of Gus, we see for the first and only time his robbery of a train, and its disastrous conclusion that ends in riches.

“El Dorado”: The longest story in the book follows the three bandits in their search for the town of El Dorado, one Gus has heard about, in which all the women are single. We are introduced to Isabella, Clem’s love interest, along with Clem’s family, and get to know a lot more about the three men who can pull off a heist without thought but are complete bunglers when it comes to the opposite sex. Humerous, if a little too long.

“Linda McCormick”: Gratt tries to disengage from Linda McCormick, the judge’s wife, but his lies keep building up and threatening to make it all fall down around him. A solid character piece for Gratt.

“Isabella”: The trio has a fancy new hideout in “Isabella,” and as Gratt and Gus turn it into a home, Clem is constantly gone with his family. The group seems to be distancing, setting up much of the rest of the plot.

“Peggy”: Gus, who hates robbing banks, is charged to set up the next bank robbery. However, a pretty teller creates a change of plans, and the group begins its separation.

“Adios”: The shortest piece, in which a bittersweet separation of friends works perfectly to take the Western mentality of a lone hero and show the loneliness of being a cowboy without friends.

“Triumph”: Clem takes center stage as he spends time with his lover in El Dorado and finds the freedom he was always searching for, all while grappling with a physical manifestation of his grief. A wonderfully unjudgmental look at one mine trying to figure out his life.

“Inger Lutz”: Clem’s wife, famous novelist of the Inger Lutz series, strikes it big, and does some soul searching of her own, while Clem struggles with his loss of freedom.

“The Famous Outlaws & Gunfighters of the West”: A short, wordless interlude that creates a switch in roles of two characters. The art takes the big role here, with a brief but fun tale.

“Frisco”: Clem remembers old times, and his melancholy fills the art and tale beautifully.

“Bank of California”: A dream achieved, and a man changed for the better.

“Handsome Outlaw”: The reuniting of two members of Gus’ gang, and a return to happiness.

From playing with allusions to pulp fiction and dime novels to overly-cartoony characters discussing the sadness of needing to grow up and take their responsibilities, Gus & His Gang never judges any of the characters, and there and no bad guys, just three men who are very good at nothing important, and who are struggling with their lives, all while keeping the tone in a shift between humor and melancholia. A wonderfully done piece that takes full advantage of what the graphic novel medium has to offer.

9/10

Beyond the Black River by Robert E. Howard

The Weird Works of Robert E. Howard is a wonderful five-volume series out from Cosmos Books. I have become a big Howard fan after reading the first two volumes (the second of which was one of the first books reviewed here at Luke Reviews), and own all five books, so it was only a matter of time before I jumped on to the next one. Beyond the Black River, Volume Three of The Weird Works of Robert E. Howard, will be reviewed on a story-by-story basis, followed by a review of the collection as a whole.

“A Witch Shall Be Born”: The opener of this collection is a Conan novella which pits Conan against a false queen and her mercenary regiments, but Conan takes the backstage for large portions of the tale as the soldier Valerius plans on how to save his queen. An interesting tale from an author that I’m not used to seeing use two strong plotlines in a well-balanced manor. Not a great story, but fun.

“The Grisly Horror”: A dark tale of a man fighting the forces of black magic to save the woman he loves, “The Grisly Horror” loses some of its effect due to its rather racist tendencies. While obviously a product of its times, to a modern reader the occasional crop-up of very racist attitudes causes a speed bump in what is otherwise a fast-paced, gripping tale. The only other plot flaw is that the hero falls into the trap of letting the villain bash him in the head repeatedly, leaving you to wonder if he will ever learn.

“Jewels of Gwahlur”: This tale just fell flat. Ostensibly about Conan’s search for the Teeth of Gwahlur, a set of jewels with an enormous value attached, yet it starts slow with far too much description and far too little plot, manages to pick up a bit with some action, then slows to Conan stalking his prey (the stealthy, spy-like Conan is not Conan at his best or most exciting), and then finally picks up in time for Conan to fail at every single goal he set out to accomplish and yet try to have an upbeat ending. Conan was not used to his strong points even remotely, leading to a slow and disappointing story.

“Beyond the Black River”: This longer novella follows Conan as he goes deep into enemy territory to try and stop their leader, an evil shaman intent on destroying the fort across the Black River. “Beyond the Black River” is one of the best Conan tales I have ever read, in which Howard balances out Conan with a solid minor character in Balthus, a young man seeking a living and working with Conan to protect the settlers in the area. Howard pulls together a lot of different themes into this story, and does so with an excellence rarely seen in adventure/heroic fantasy.

“The Challenge From Beyond” by C. L. Moore, A. Merritt, H. P. Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard, and Frank Belknap Long: “The Challenge From Beyond” is a round-robin story in which a series of authors hand off the story to each other, each getting a turn to continue the story, until its conclusion. While this tale has a who’s-who of pulp area authors of the fantastic (each one is well-deserved in the renown attached to their names), this tale falls rather flat, as a gimmick like this tends to. It started out well, especially the first two sections, but it begins to spiral out of control, into an ending that is rather contrived and un-impactful.

“Shadows of Zamboula”: Conan survives a break in by cannibals and runs to return a woman to her lover in this tale of revenge. Most of the story was straight Howard, with his brand of action and fast-paced plot, but it was the ending that made this one a great read, with a fun twist that wasn’t a huge shock followed but the perfect moment that encapsulates who Conan is.

All in all, Beyond the Black River continues the trend of wonderful collections in The Weird works of Robert E. Howard series. It struggled a bit in the middle, but the second half of the book (for the most part) pulled it right back out of that funk. As these stories age, some of them are bound to age badly (“The Grisly Horror”), but many other of Howard’s tales retain the wonderful charm and tense storytelling talent that he will always be known for. This entire series so far is a must read for fans of pulp era science fiction, fantasy, horror, and adventure.

8/10

The Fighters: Master of Chains by Jess Lebow

After broadening my tie-in reading recently (with Warhammer 40,000 obviously being at the forefront, but also including Resistance and Rose Red, with upcoming books in Warhammer and Magic: The Gathering), I had to eventually (once I started moving into fantasy tie-ins) reach Forgotten Realms. I first gave it a try by jumping into the series following its most famous character, Drizzt Do’Urden, and I kinda crashed and burned (although this wasn’t necessarily the fault of the book, as I was in the middle of the move and just wasn’t focused on it, so I want to give it another go), but I wanted to give it another chance. So, when I saw The Fighters: Master of Chains on the shelves and couldn’t stop think that it looked really cool, I decided it was exactly the re-entry point I needed.

Ryder is a revolutionary. He is from a family of rural farmers, over-taxed and under-cared for by the local Baron. He and his brother Liam are members of the Crimson Awl, a group working to overthrow the Baron. Yet their plans take a hard turn when an ambush is sprung and the Crimson Awl loses a number of fighters. Ryder is captured in the conflict, is sent away, and begins an odyssey to return home, while Liam remains back to finish Ryder’s work. But all is far from simple good and bad, and Liam may come to question just who is in the right.

Lebow pens the first book in a four book series of stand-alone novels that follow fighters in the Forgotten Realms milieu. While it took a little bit to get into the novel, 50 pages in I was more than glad to have made it, and found myself to be hooked. The rest of the novel soared by. Lebow handles the multiple plotlines well, never letting one lag in favor of the other. Both Ryder and Liam become very well-developed characters, and the Baron becomes far more of a grey (as opposed to black and white) character who goes through some major character changes as the novel goes on.

At times the novel was a tiny bit predictable, but Lebow made up for this with wonderful fight scenes and a very fast-paced plot. His introduction of vampires at first worries me, but he plays it out well, not falling into corny situations. The epilogue leaves the potential for a sequel there, and while this seems unlikely as the series has ended and was made to be a set of stand-alones, I for one would love to see Lebow write a sequel and see how the rest of things turns out.

The Fighters: Master of Chains is an excellent re-introduction to the world of Forgotten Realms, and a very fun fantasy novel in its own right. Perfect for those who have little or no background in this tie-in universe, the novel brings you in and will have you searching out the rest of the books in the series.

8/10

FREE FICTION: Kell’s Legend by Andy Remic, Day Five

The final day of the preview of Andy Remic’s Kell’s Legend. Helpful pages: Angry Robot Books, Review of Kell’s Legend, Interview with Andy Remic, Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four.


NOTE: KELL’S LEGEND HAS CONTENT NOT SUITABLE FOR YOUNGER READERS, INCLUDING VIOLENCE AND LANGUAGE.

The sun set over the mountains casting crimson shadows long against granite walkways. Anukis listened, acute hearing placing guards down in the tower entry. She could hear muted conversation, the flare of a lit pipe, the laughter of a crude rude joke. Anukis pulled on her ankle-length black gown, belted the waist, and lifted the hood to obscure her golden hair and pastel features.

She moved to a heavy cabinet beside the door, lifted it with ease, carrying it across a thick rug and tilting it to wedge under the door handle. Moving back to the window, she watched the sun’s weak, crimson rays finally die like spread fingers over the jagged peaks of the Black Pikes; then she leapt lightly onto the window seat and prised open the portal.

An ice wind whipped inside. Anukis climbed out, finding narrow handholds in the marble and stone, and easing herself over the awesome drop. ‘Don’t look down,’ she murmured, but just couldn’t help herself. It was a long fall to hard granite ruts polished smooth by brass wheels. Anukis eased herself along the narrow crack, moving only one hand, or one boot, at a time, so she always had three points of contact. The wind snapped at her with teeth. Away from the window, darkness fell like molten velvet. Anukis felt totally isolated. Alone.

For perilous minutes she eased herself around the flank of the tower, to where she’d discovered a worn vertical rut. Above, tiles converged into a marble trough which had grown a leak, probably a hundred or more years previous. This in turn had allowed water to groove the marble facade, giving slightly deeper handholds, almost like steps, down which Anukis could climb several storeys to a sloping ridge of tiles.

Several times she almost slipped; once, gasping, she swung away from the wall and her boots scrabbled on marble as sweat stung her eyes, and she felt a finger-nail crack. But she calmed her breathing, stopped her panicked kicking, and hauled herself up on bloody fingertips, regaining her handhold, saving her life.

Down, she eased, an inch at a time, as the wind mocked her with brutal laughter.

Below, Silva Valley spread away, some sections well lit, others deep dark pits of intimidation. Despite Watchmaker rule, not every vachine was equal; a complex religious hierarchy existed which sometimes led to murder and civil unrest. Royal torture was delivered for gross acts of sacrilege, but the vachine were powerful, proud, and physically superior. The illegals took some ruling. Only the Machine God kept them sane.

Anukis hit the tiles lightly and dropped to a crouch. Her eyes scanned, swirling with gold, finding the patrolling Engineer Deacons and their minions and watching them as she had watched from her cell window. With care, she eased across sloping tiles on her carefully plotted route, and dropped down to a second storey balcony. She knocked a plant-pot, which clattered, and swiftly she scaled the rails, hung, and dropped to a lower balcony as light emerged above her, muttering voices casting curses on the wind.

Anukis landed on the smooth granite road, and checked herself. Tugging her hood tight, she hurried down the dark street, winding downhill to the Brass Docks.

Silva Valley was just that, a valley; but at its heart, a dissection, lay the Silva River, which emerged from a complex core of caves and vast subterranean tunnel systems beneath the Black Pike Mountains, and named the Deshi Caves. In his youth, Anukis’s father Kradek-ka had explored the tunnels in detail, had been part of several professional vachine expeditions to map the labyrinth beneath the mountains. But something odd had occurred which the more religious of the vachine called bo-adesh. Occasionally, the tunnels moved, altered, shifted within the infrastructure of the mountain vaults. Some said it was down to blood-oil magick; some said the Black Pike Mountains were alive, had been alive longer than Man, and were in contempt of vachine deviation and intrusion. Whatever, many of the under-mountain routes were mapped and used for travel on long brass barges, or even to reach other distant valleys; but some were prohibited. Dangerous. Death to those that travelled…

In those early days of exploration, many had been lost to the Deshi Caves. Anukis remembered long cold evenings, sitting on her father’s knee, staring into dancing flames as he recounted some of his travels, how they used blood-oil markers on the stone, ropes under the water, magick fires by which to see. And still many had died; hundreds had died, lost, drowned, or simply vanished. Sometimes, an empty brass barge would drift from the mist of an early morning, a single bell chiming. Empty. No signs of struggle. It had been Kradek-ka’s view that terrible beasts lived under the Black Pike Mountains; creatures nobody had ever before seen… or at least, seen and lived thereof to speak.

Anukis shivered; and not just with the cold.

She stopped at an intersection, easing into shadows beyond the pooled light from a swinging brass lamp. Two guards passed and stopped beneath the yellow orb, lighting long pipes and exchanging pleasantries. Anu watched them carefully; these weren’t real Engineer Deacons; they didn’t have the shaved heads and facial tattoos of the Royal; but they were as near as damn it. And certainly authorised to kill Anukis beyond curfew. She smiled, her smile a crescent in a bloodless face. And the reason for curfew?

The vachine were running out of blood-oil.

The vachine had bled the cattle dry…

Oh, the irony!

The guards moved on, and so did Anukis, loping across the road and delving into more darkness. Down she strode, cloak pulled tight, breath emerging in short gasps of dragon smoke.

She rounded a corner, and the Silva River opened before her, vast, wide, and glass-still at the base of the Silva Valley. Buildings staggered in staccato leaps far down the steep descent before her, right to the ebony water’s edge. Anukis hurried on, down narrow back-streets of this vast and beautiful city, down ill-advised routes. Three times she spotted thieves before they spotted her, and circumnavigated their positions. Even so, she knew, she would have needed no weapon to deal with their kind. Outcast. Impure…

Like me, she realised.

But then, despite her disabilities, she was… special.

Her father had made sure of that.

Anukis reached the long flanks of the Brass Docks and halted, a few feet from the water, listening to the lilting slap against brass jetties. She waited patiently, searching out more guards; finally, she moved down a wide curving walkway which followed the crescent of the Silva River towards… The Black Pikes. And the Mouth, which disgorged ice-pure mineral-rich waters from deep beneath echoing mountain halls. She felt the Breath before she saw the river’s ominous exit; it emerged, hissing and singing sometimes, to wash cool mineral-scented air over those who stood within five hundred yards. Anukis walked into the breeze, which tugged annoyingly at her hood, and stopped by the Brass Docks warehouse block. She glanced right, where huge brass and bronze freighters bobbed at anchor, trade vessels and smaller navy vehicles, many unmanned and silent, some showing tiny yellow glows from fat-oil lamps. Carefully, she stepped down a narrow alley and entered a maze, skilfully negotiating a complex route which led her to a steep, dark stairwell.

From the depths, a cold breeze blew, and Anu skipped down slick granite, slowing as she reached the bottom. The crossbow appeared before the Blacklipper, strung and tensioned, and his teeth gleamed behind the black-tainted scarring of his lips.

‘Going somewhere, my pretty?’

‘I have business with Preyshan.’

The Blacklipper moved from the shadows, and she saw he was what they called a Deep Blood; not only his lips were stained black from the powerful narcotic, even the veins beneath his skin had taken the taint, showing a diffused map of web-strands beneath his pale white skin. Anukis shuddered inside; he had to be close to death to look like this. Ready for the Voyage of the Soul.

Seeing the shudder, the man smiled. ‘Don’t you be worrying about me, pretty one. I’ve had a good life. My Paradise awaits.’

‘One filled with blood-oil?’

The crossbow jerked towards her, and his eyes narrowed. ‘One such as you shouldn’t readily condemn, pretty, outcast vachine.’

Only she wasn’t an outcast.

Because – they didn’t know… yet.

And if the Watchmakers discovered her impurity?

She heard they had special chambers for just such occurrences.

Anukis shuddered, and squeeze past the leering Blacklipper, feeling his fetid rigor-mortis breath on her face, his body pressed close to her own, its muscles surprisingly iron-hard beneath his web-traced skin. She hurried on, down more and more steps, and deep into a maze of brass-walled corridors which eventually gave out to smooth-hewn tunnels, some flooded. Several times Blacklippers challenged her, and several times Anukis used her magick card. The name: Preyshan. One of the three kings of the Blacklippers.

As she entered the maze beneath the Silva River, so she could discern a distant booming sound. It was said to be the noise made by the souls of the drowned, banging on the river bed for spiritual release. Anukis moved on, hand touching the smooth wall where lode-veins of crystals and blood-red mineral deposits could be traced, glittering, in the glow of irregularly placed fat-lamps.

The corridor ended in an iron gate. She gave her name, and the gate swung open revealing a long, low chamber filled with perhaps fifty men, and only a handful of women. Many were Blacklippers, some from the south, over the mountains; Falanor couriers who had sworn an oath to keep from using blood-oil and its deviants in order to turn huge profits smuggling. Money, not blood-oil, was their own particular narcotic.

‘Anu!’ boomed Preyshan, striding forward, towering over the vachine and beaming her a generous smile. His lips were jet black, riddled with blood-oil, his eyes blue and wide. He wore a bushy black beard, and his size was prodigious beneath cheap market clothing. ‘So long since you last visited! How is your father?’

‘My father is dead,’ said Anukis, voice soft, her eyes lowered to the ground lest she fill with tears and betray her weakness here, of all places. ‘I think the Engineers murdered him.’ Preyshan reached out, a huge, black-nailed hand cupping her chin and lifting her eyes to his, where there came a spark of connection.

‘Truly, Anukis, I am sorry. He was a great man.’

‘And now he’s a dead man.’

‘You have escaped their machinations?’

‘For now. But I must return. I have come for…’ She did not say it. Could not say it. But Preyshan understood; after all, the only vachine who visited Preyshan and his underground minions were those in need of the impure, and the illegal, Karakan Red. Smuggled in from beyond Black Pike. Fresh blood.

Preyshan gestured, and could sense the need in Anukis. A man ran forward with a small brass cylinder. He passed it to Anukis, who took it gratefully and unscrewed the top. Carefully, she consumed a small amount of the contents, and the Red glistened on her lips. As Preyshan watched, the blood shone against tiny, elongated canines of the female vachine before him, and he caught a sense of movement deep within her mouth; of whirring wheels, tiny cogs meshing and integrating, balancer shafts lifting, rotating cylinders and pumping pistons. He smiled, and it was a dry smile.

Paradoxical, thought the large Blacklipper, that as the vachine feed from man, so here, and now, in an ironic twist of fate and science, so men feed from the vachine to become Blacklipper. A twisted symbiosis? Ha! He could debate the philosophy all night.

Anukis gave a deep, drawn-out breath. Gold clouds, like golden oil, swirled in her eyes. She glanced up, a swift movement, lethargy gone as energy infused her, as blood infused her. ‘I’ll need to take more,’ she said, quietly.

Preyshan nodded. ‘Why not stay here, with us? You will be safe here, Anu. You know that.’

For an instant she saw the longing in the big man’s eyes, but then it was gone, a neat mask replaced, the portcullis gate closed. Anukis licked her lips, tracing the last of the Red and swallowing. Inside, she felt greased. Oiled. Whole again.

‘I cannot. The Engineers have Shabis…’

Preyshan nodded, and taking the woman’s elbow, guided her to one side of the low chamber. Here, where a breeze blew in from deep subterranean mountain tunnels, where they could not be overheard, Preyshan leant against the wall and interlaced his fingers.

‘If you stay, Anukis, I will fetch Shabis for you.’

‘How…’

He reached out, placed a finger against her lips. ‘You vachine are powerful, yes. But you do not understand my heritage; or my history.’ His eyes glittered. ‘The Engineers hold no fear, for me. Nor does Vashell.’

Anukis shook her head. ‘If I allowed you to do this, I would place you all in great jeopardy. Your whole world…’

‘I know this. We know this. Our existence is a dangerous one at best. But still…’ He touched her arm. ‘You know I would do this for you. For your father, the great man, but mainly… for you.’

‘I understand.’ Anukis stepped forward, reached up on tip-toe, and kissed him on his black necrotic lips. ‘You are a great man, Preyshan. I am lucky to be… loved, by such as you.’

Preyshan opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes narrowed, shifting over Anukis’s shoulder.

‘Breach!’ screamed a voice, followed by a metallic screech and a twanging sound as five crossbows disgorged industrial quarrels. Three vachine, tall, athletic, hands curved into gleaming metal claws, skin peeled back from faces revealing long, curved steel fangs bared and growling, screaming, leapt from the tunnel. Crossbow bolts riddled them, and one vachine was punched back, slamming the wall, body a torn and twitching marionette of tattered flesh and twisted, bent gears; savaged clockwork. The others leapt amongst the men in great bounds, claws slashing left and right sending severed limbs flying, and long fangs descending on throats, ripping out windpipes in a sudden harsh attack. Swords hissed from sheaths as the two vachine paused, hunkered on all fours like beasts, heads rotating, eyes glittering, tiny cogs and wheels humming in their skulls. The Blacklippers converged, sword and axes drawn, spears held in clammy hands, faces grim with a need to kill these invaders –

Preyshan ran forward, his own sword held in one great paw, his face merciless in the cold glow of brass lamps. The vachine leapt, fangs tearing at arms and throats in a mad flurry of ripping flesh and savagery and inhuman speed; swords slammed, spears stabbed, and Preyshan, as if with some primeval instinct, turned back towards the iron gates – open, now, with this sudden breach of violence.

His soul fell from his world.

In the tunnel, more vachine eyes glittered. And with a roar they flooded the chamber, ten, twenty, fifty of the clockwork vampires, bowling over and through the Blacklippers ripping at flesh tearing heads from bodies steel fangs and brass claws tearing easily through unprotected flesh and succulent raw bone…

Preyshan skidded, turned, sprinted back towards Anukis who stood, shocked, mind not registering what her eyes could see. ‘We’ve got to get out of here!’ he screamed at her, pounding across stone, but as he reached her he faltered, and his eyes met hers, and there was confusion there, and sudden pain, and he glanced down at the brass blade emerging from his chest. Blood bubbled around the wound, and his mouth opened allowing blood to roll through his thick beard. He reached out towards Anukis, and their fingers met, but Preyshan carried on falling to the floor and hit with a heavy slap. He lay still.

Anukis fell to her knees amidst the sounds of slaughter, tears on her pale cheeks, and she stroked Preyshan’s beard. Gradually, a presence drifted through her confusion, and into her consciousness. Sobbing, she glanced up.

Vashell smiled, placed his boot on Preyshan’s back, and pulled free his short brass sword, weighing the weapon thoughtfully.

‘What a surprise, finding you here in this den of iniquity. And I see, you’ve drank your fill of Karakan Red. And left none for me? Tut tut, sweetheart.’ He shook his head, eyes mocking. ‘No wonder you could never marry me, Anukis.’ He squared his shoulders. Took a deep breath through fangs stuck with torn flesh. ‘I see now, with your impurity, with your taint, with your fucking sacrilege, how we could never be compatible.’

‘Damn you, Vashell! What brought you here? Why kill these…’

‘Blacklippers? Why? You ask me why?’ He pressed the heavy brass blade against Anukis’s throat and lifted her, panting, from her knees using the point. ‘Because, my darling, they are illegal smugglers. Because, sweetheart, they undermine our core vachine society. And because, my beautiful little Anukis, they are the unholy, the impure, and the damned.’ He glanced over his shoulder, where savage vachine warriors had finished off the last of the Blacklippers in a bought of savagery that had sprayed the walls with blood. The chamber was littered with mangled corpses. The vachine started a low, metallic keening, and with fangs ejecting, savoured the kill. Vashell leant close. His breath was sweet. ‘Just like you,’ he said.