The Malazan Book of the Fallen: Too many wor'ds.

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Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

These marketing blurbs are always the gd worst

penguin books posted:

Due for release 21st February 2019

The incessant war between the bickering city states of Quon Tali rages. So engrossed are the warring lords and princes in their own petty feuds that few notice that an upstart mage from Dal Hon has gained control of the southern seas. But some powers are alarmed
And in the meantime, as Purge and Tali indulge in what seems like a their never-ending game of war, a mercenary caught up in the fight between the two states suddenly refuses to play along and causes all sorts of chaos. Simultaneously, a pair of escapees from Castle Gris make their way across this ravaged landscape of flame and butchery. Their intention to seek out the legendary Crimson Guard.
And then there's Kellanved who could not care less about any of this petty politicking or strategy or war. Something other and altogether more mysterious has caught his attention and he - together with a reluctant and decidedly sceptical Dancer - traverse continents and journey through the Realms in pursuit . . . But this ancient mystery that has so captivated Kellanved is neither esoteric nor ephemeral. No, it is of an altogether darker and more dangerous hue. It involves the Elder races themselves, and more specifically - certainly more alarmingly - the semi-mythic, and universally dreaded, Army of Dust and Bone.
Surely no one in their right mind would be so foolish as to embark on a journey from which none have returned? Well, no one except Kellanved that is . . .

Returning to the turbulent early history of what would become the Malazan Empire, here is the third awesome chapter in Ian C. Esslemont's new epic fantasy sequence.

# ¿ Jul 25, 2018 23:56

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# ¿ May 22, 2024 10:49

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

His father died while he was writing Toll, yes.

# ¿ Jul 28, 2018 21:10

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

I started forge of darkness as an audiobook this weekend. Tiste pronounced tighst. :supaburn:

# ¿ Sep 1, 2018 19:34

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

I got an ARC for Erikson's new first contact novel. Wish it was a physical copy but it'll do

. Impressions as I go through it this weekend.

# ¿ Sep 7, 2018 23:27

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

It's quite meta. Canadian authors, musk, Rupert Murdoch is Murdo, Koch brothers...

# ¿ Sep 9, 2018 05:01

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

I'm sad they never made a limited edition Fall of Light to go with Forge. I doubt there'll be one for the final book in however many years either. Oh well.

# ¿ Oct 20, 2018 00:58

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

The Ninth Layer posted:

Yep book 2 and beyond are both substantial better written and much easier to read. Part of the problem of Gardens is that it was originally written as a film script, in book 2 Erikson actually remembered to write a book and add some narration once in a while.

Amazon says April 2nd.

In the UK only. Withholding ebooks for region restrictions is like so 2000s and I can't believe publishers are still doing it.

# ¿ Feb 21, 2019 20:15

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

Looking nice

# ¿ Mar 27, 2019 20:00

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

Steven Erikson posted:

The God is Not Willing
Prologue
Godswalk Mountain Range, Northwest Genabackis, Teblor Territory

The ascent had taken six days. By midday on the seventh they reached the top of the escarpment flanking the near-vertical wall of ice that had been on their left for the past two days. The face of that wall was ravaged by past melts, but at this height winter still gripped the mountains, and the winds that spun and tumbled down from high above were white with frost, bleeding rainbows in the sharp sunlight.

The escarpment’s summit was a sloping, ragged ridge, barely level enough for the four Teblor to stand. The wind howled around them, tearing at loose weapon straps and furrowing the furs they all wore. That wind periodically shoved at them, as if incensed by their audacity. These heights and this world did not belong to them. The sky was too close, the air too thin.

Widowed Dayliss of the Teblor drew her wolf-skin cloak closer about her shoulders. Before them, the slope fell away in a steep, rock-studded descent to a mass of broken ice and sand and snow that skirted the shore like a defensive wall.

From where they stood, they could see beyond that saw-toothed barrier, out to the lake itself. Buckled ice rose like islands, shattering the level snow-covered surface of the lake. Some of those islands were piled high as fortresses, as if a hundred tyrants warred to rule this vast empire of frozen water.

No-one was yet ready to speak. Widowed Dayliss lifted her gaze and squinted northward, where the lake presumably came to an end. But all was white in that immense distance. Hovering like vague clouds above this whiteness were the higher peaks, the highest of the range, and the sides facing south were bared of snow. The sight of that alone was appalling. Widowed Dayliss turned to the young warleader standing upon her right.

It still startled her to find a Rathyd accompanying them, as if a thousand years’ worth of feuding and murdering meant nothing, or at least not enough to keep this warleader from venturing among the Uryd, from seeking out warriors to accompany him to this place.

Everything was changing. She studied him for a moment longer, and then said, “Your people could see, then.”

Elade Tharos was leaning on his two-handed bloodsword, its point jammed into the glassy ice that filled a crack in the stone at his feet. “In the high summer camps,” he said, nodding. “The White Faces were white no more.”

There had been few Uryd, having heard Elade’s tale, who came to comprehend the significance of this news. Life’s pace was slow, the measured beat of seasons. If it had been colder this past winter, why, it had been warmer the winter before that. If the thaw came in fits and starts; if strange draws of warm air swept down from the northern heights; if snow fell for day upon day, deep enough to bury a Teblor; if the forests themselves now climbed higher upon every mountain side, while trees much further down died to summer droughts and pestilence … why, just as one chooses a different high pasture each summer, so too would the ways of the Teblor shift and adapt and accommodate.

This news, they muttered, was not a thing to fear. Oh, perhaps the Rathyd – those few settlements left, in their hidden, remote places, cowering from the hungry slavers of the south – had taken to suckling fear from a beaten bitch-dog, and would now start at shadows in the sky…

Such words should have darkened Elade Tharos’ visage. Instead, he had smiled, teeth bared in a silent snarl. Drawing a breath, long and slow, he had then said, “The slaver-children are all dead. Or did you disbelieve even these rumours? Has my name no meaning here? I am Elade Tharos, Warleader of all the Sunyd and Rathyd. Warleader of the free and the once-enslaved. The heads of a thousand slaver-children now mark our victorious trail back to our homelands, each one riding a Sunyd or Rathyd spear.” He paused, contempt a feral gleam in his grey eyes. “If I must, I will seek out a few Phalyd warriors for this journey north…”

And that had done it. After all, what tale would Elade Tharos bring to the hated Phalyd? ‘The Uryd fled into their huts and would not hear me…’ Even without comprehension, there was now no choice, for pride was every warrior’s master.

This Rathyd warleader might be young, but he was no fool.

“The eternal snows have been shed,” said Karak Thord. “In itself an impossible thing.” His mien was troubled, but he was not staring at the distant mountains. He was staring at the lake. “The question, then, of where they went, has here been answered.” Karak turned to Elade. “And this drowned valley? Has it ever been thus?”

“No, Karak of the Uryd. A river once, yes, that ran clear and cold over rounded stones and pebbles and sand. A place where gold was gathered in the shallows. To cross, no deeper than one’s hip.”

“When was that?” Karak Thord asked.

“In my father’s time.”

There was a snort from the other woman among them. “Have you pried his memories, Warleader, to glean what century it was when he last visited this place?”

“No, Tonith of the Uryd, I have not, for he is dead. Understand, my family line has long held the gift of gold-gathering. We travelled the deepest reaches of the range, in ways no other Teblor had. All the gold traded among the Teblor was found by my family.” He paused for a moment, and then shrugged. “I was to have followed, of course, and so my education began early. Then the slavers came and we were driven from the south, we who escaped. And when at last we thought ourselves safe, why, a Teblor raiding party came upon us. There, my father was slain.”

Widowed Dayliss studied the Warleader again. Her mouth was suddenly dry. “The raiders, Warleader, they were Uryd.”

“They were,” he replied with little inflection.

Karak Thord was now staring at Elade with wide eyes. “My kin…”

“Just so,” said Elade. “It was not difficult to learn of their names – after all, do the Uryd still not sing of Karsa Orlong, Delum Thord and Bairoth Gild?” He levelled his gaze on Dayliss. “And you, Widow, whose child was born of Bairoth’s seed. Are you not now among the new believers of the Shattered God?”

“You know too much of the Uryd,” she replied, a blade’s edge now hovering beneath her words.

Elade shrugged. Seeming to dismiss them all along with the subject of their conversation, the warleader fixed his attention once more on the frozen lake. “Look well,” he said. “Before us is not a lake, but an inlet. Beyond the Godswalk Mountains, where tundra once stretched, there is now a sea. High lands to the west keep it from the ocean. To the east, it stretches across a third of the continent.” He halted abruptly and tilted his head. “What do I know of this continent? More than any of you, I am sure. You imagine us in a small world, these mountains and valleys, the flatlands directly south and beyond that, a sea. But it is not the world that is small, it is Teblor knowledge of it.”

“But not for you?” Tonith Agra’s tone was harsh, whispering of a fear she would mask with contempt.

“The once-slaves had much to say. All they knew serves to enlighten. And, I have seen the maps.” He now turned entirely round. “The ice-wall holds back the sea. We have climbed with it at our side these past two days. We have seen its cracks, its rot. We have seen the ancient beasts once trapped in it, knots of foul fur studding the cliff’s face. More emerge with every Spring, drawing in the condors and crows and even the Great Ravens. The past offering up a bounteous feast for the carrion-eaters. And yet,” he added, “to see it is to see the future. Our future.”

Widowed Dayliss had understood the significance of the bared mountain peaks. The world’s winter was dying. She had understood, as well, the purpose of this journey. To see where the meltwater had gone. To see why it had not come into the lower ranges, where drought still plagued them every summer. Now she spoke the truth. “When this ice-dam breaks –”

But Warleader Elade Tharos was not one to yield to her the utterance. “When this ice-dam breaks, warriors of the Uryd, the world of the Teblor ends.”

“You said a sea,” Karak Thord said. “Against that, where can we flee?”

Now Elade Tharos smiled. “I have not simply come among the Uryd. I have been elsewhere, and before I am done, I will have all of the Teblor clans with me.”

“With you?” Tonith asked. “What would have us avow? The great Rathyd Warleader, the Liberator of the Sunyd and Rathyd slaves, the Slayer of a Thousand Children of the South! Elade Tharos! Why yes! Now he will lead us into a war against a flood that not even the gods could stop!”

He cocked his head, as if seeing Tonith Agra for the first time. For certain, there had been few words between them since they’d left the Uryd settlement. “Tonith Agra, your fear shows its pattern beneath skin too thin, and every word you speak is its brittle beat.” He held up a hand when she reached for her bloodsword. “Hear me, Tonith Agra. Fear stalks us all, and any warrior who would deny that is a fool. But listen well. If we must feel terror’s icy wind, then let us have it at our backs.”

He waited.

Widowed Dayliss made a sound – even she could not describe what it meant. Then she slowly shook her head. “You feel yourself in the Shattered God’s wake, don’t you? In his shadow. The Rathyd whose father fell to Karsa’s bloodsword. Or Delum’s, or Bairoth’s. So now, you would step out from that shadow. And the glory of what you will lead will push the Shattered God into the ditch.”

Elade Tharos shrugged. “Here is the glory I seek, Widowed Dayliss, and if the Shattered God is to play a role in it, then it will be at the end of my bloodsword. Tonith Agra has the truth of it – we cannot wage war against a flood. The water will come. Our lands will drown. But the drowning of Teblor lands is only the flood’s birth. Do you not understand yet?”

She nodded. “Oh, I do, Warleader Elade Tharos. That flood will come down from our ranges. It will inundate all the lands of the south. Where dwell the slaver-children. It will destroy them all.”

He shook his head. “No, it won’t. We will.”

Abruptly, Karak Thord’s weapon was out. He faced Elade Tharos and then knelt, raising his bloodsword between them, parallel to the ground and resting on his upturned palms. “I am Karak Thord of the Uryd. Lead me, Warleader.”

Smiling, Elade touched the blade. “It is done.”

A moment later, Tonith Agra did the same, and despite their clash so recently unveiled between them, the Warleader accepted her without a qualm, without even a moment’s hesitation.

Widowed Dayliss looked away, although she knew that the Rathyd had now turned to her and was waiting expectantly. She neither would nor could deny him. A savage heat burned in her veins. Her heart was pounding. But she held her tongue, long enough to peer into the distant south.

“Yes,” Elade Tharos murmured, suddenly close at her side. “Before the water, there shall be fire.”

“Perhaps it was my husband who killed your father.”

“It was not. With my own eyes, I watched Karsa Orlong cut him down. I alone among the Rathyd men survived the attack.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” he asked. “Tell me, where is this Shattered God? Has Karsa Orlong returned to his homeland? Has he come to gather up his blood-kin, his new followers? Has he begun the great war against the children of the south? No. None of these things. Tell me, Widowed Dayliss, why do you cling to such false hope?”

“Bairoth Gild chose to stand at his side.”

“And died for the privilege. I assure you,” Elade said, “I shall not be so careless with my sworn followers.”

She snorted. “None shall fall? What manner of war do you imagine, then? When we journey south, Warleader, will we not paint our faces black, grey and white?”

His brows lifted. “To chase our own deaths? Widowed Dayliss, I intend for us to win.”

“Against the south?” The others were listening, watching. “You say you have seen the maps. So have I, when Karsa’s first daughter returned to us. Elade Tharos, we cannot defeat the Malazan Empire.”

Elade laughed. “That would be an over-reach of even my ambition,” he said. “But I tell you this: the imperial hold on Genabackis is weaker than you might think, especially in the lands of the Genabarii and Nathii.”

She shook her head. “That distinction makes no difference. To bring our people south, to find a place in which to live that is beyond the floods to come, we shall have to slay them all. Malazan, Nathii, Genabarii, Korhivi.”

“True, but it is the Malazans alone who have bound all of those people into a single foe, upon the fields of battle. Where we will meet them and crush them.”

“We are raiders, Elade Tharos, not soldiers. Besides, we are too few.”

He sighed. “Your doubts do not discourage me, and I will welcome your voice in the council of war. Are we too few? Yes. Will we be alone? No.”

“What do you mean?”

“Widowed Dayliss, will you make the vow? Will you hold high your bloodsword to take my touch? If not, then our words must end here and now. After all,” he said with a soft smile, “we are not yet in a council of war. I would rather, in the time of your doubts, that you gave your voice to all of those who share them yet would remain silent.”

She drew her weapon. “I will,” she said. “But understand me, Elade Tharos. The daughters of Karsa Orlong have journeyed from our lands to where their father, the Shattered God, will be found. They have done so many times.”

“Yet he does nothing.”

“Elade Tharos,” she replied, “he but draws a long breath.”

“Then I shall look forward to hearing his war-cry, Widowed Dayliss.”

I think not. But she held her silence. And then settled down on one knee and held up her wooden blade. “I am Widowed Dayliss, of the Uryd. Lead me, Warleader.”

The sun had reached its highest point in the day. From the vast frozen inlet of the mist-shrouded inland sea, groaning sounds broke the silence. The thaw was beginning. From the wall of ice, now on their right, there was the drumming rush of water, somewhere behind the green and blue columns of ice. It was the same sound they had noted with each afternoon during the climb, when the warmth was at its peak.

In the ranges of the south, the clans would be pleased at this onrush of seasonal run-off. This summer, they would say, the drought shall end. Do you see? There was nothing to worry about at all.

Soon, she knew, such petty matters would lose their relevance. When the Warleader came among them. Bringing with him the promise of retribution against the hated children of the south. Bringing with him the promise of war.

When he at last touched her blade and voiced the words of acceptance, she straightened and held out a hand. “Let us consider this our first council of war.”

Karak Thord had said, “Dayliss, this is hardly –”

“But it is,” she cut in. She met Elade’s eyes. “Warleader. There is a secret we four must now agree upon, a silence we must vow to not break.”

“What secret?” Tonith demanded.

She held her gaze on the warleader. “Deliver to all the clans of the Teblor the promise of a war against the children of the south. Speak of retribution. Speak of vengeance for all the crimes done upon our people by the slavers and bounty hunters. Speak of the new settlements that sought to encroach upon our territories. Tell them of your past victories. Win them over, Warleader, with words of blood and glory.”

Tonith stepped between them. “What of the flood? That revelation alone is enough!”

“Many will choose not to believe our words,” Dayliss replied. “Especially among the most distant clans, who are perhaps content in seasons that have not changed, and so know nothing of travails or scarcity.”

None spoke for a time. But the shifting of the ice began to find its voice.

Elade Tharos then nodded. “I am prepared to do as you suggest. But to win over all of the clans, I cannot stand alone.”

“That is true. And that is why we three shall be with you, Warleader. Rathyd, Sunyd, and Uryd. This detail alone will make them listen to us.”

Karak Thord grunted. “Could we find us a Phalyd, why, the mountains would shake in wonder.”

Elade Tharos turned to him. “Karak of the Uryd, I have a Phalyd among my followers. Thus, it shall be Rathyd, Sunyd, Uryd and Phalyd.” He faced Widowed Dayliss again. “Wisdom. Let us then avow silence and hold fast to this secret. Until such time that we are all four agreed that it must be revealed.” He looked to the others in turn, and each one nodded. Even Tonith Agra.

Only then did they begin their descent.

While the water drummed through unseen caverns behind gleaming walls of ice, and the sun’s growing heat made the rocks steam.

Copyright Steven Erikson

# ¿ Apr 1, 2019 06:02

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

Also did anyone else notice the giant retcon over the founding date of the empire and hence ages of all the old guard in Kellanved's Reach? The 0 date is reckoned from the birth of Kellanved not his assumption of the throne. He plays at being 120 years old but is actually 20, so they compromise at 70. For example that means in the prologue in GoTm year 96 is really only one generation after taking Quon Tali, and Gardens seven years after that.

# ¿ Apr 8, 2019 19:48

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

Seeing the ridiculous casting for the new Dune movie has me wanting to avoid all speculation of who should play whom, tbh.

# ¿ Apr 15, 2019 18:58

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

Don't worry the covers get worse (better)

# ¿ May 5, 2019 05:21

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

ok you got me looking for more non-english covers, and welp.

# ¿ May 5, 2019 20:45

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

oh steve

# ¿ Dec 5, 2019 02:36

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

General take on it is the ICE books range from poor (his first novella) to decent. I like them and I think people overreact to them not being as good as Erikson's stuff. If you want more malazan they fit the bill.

The two Erikson prequels are like the first two books of toll the hounds ramped up to 11, so if that was your cup of tea you'll like them. I'm a huge malazan fan and simply couldn't finish them.

Meanwhile he's making good progress on the next novel looks like:

# ¿ Jan 7, 2020 23:37

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

Erikson finished his manuscript for the Karsa novel. I guess that means we can expect publication by Christmas hopefully?

# ¿ Feb 29, 2020 02:38

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

Erikson is posting a page a day from a manuscript he's making of the next B & KB story on his fb page. Highly recommended.

# ¿ Apr 5, 2020 06:50

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

Check out this copy of gardens someone had custom printed: http://curiousking.co.uk/2020/09/20/first-project/?fbclid=IwAR1e-_8Bp2OdB09gYrrjZ0wbRIYVVx_ZpEgQRAbx32nQICSK0vRKbxk0_xE

Remade the layout himself, commissioned art, had it printed and bound. Crazy!

# ¿ Sep 24, 2020 19:10

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

Publisher Synopsis for Karsa book one is out:

amazon blurb posted:

Many years have passed since three Teblor warriors brought carnage and chaos to the small lakeside settlement of Silver Lake. While the town has recovered, the legacy of that past horror remains, even if the Teblor tribes of the north no longer venture into the southlands. One of those three, Karsa Orlong, is now deemed to be a god, albeit an indifferent one. In truth, many new cults and religions have emerged across the Malazan world, including those who worship Coltaine, the Black-Winged God, and - popular among the Empire's soldiery - followers of the cult of Iskar Jarak, Guardian of the Dead.

A legion of Malazan marines is on the march towards Silver Lake. responding to intelligence that indicates the tribes beyond the border are stirring. The marines aren't quite sure what they're going to be facing but, while the Malazan military has evolved and these are not the marines of old, one thing hasn't changed: they'll handle whatever comes at them. Or die trying

Meanwhile, in the high mountains, where dwell the tribes of the Teblor, a new warleader has risen. Scarred by the deeds of Karsa Orlong, he intends to confront his god, even if he has to cut a bloody path through the Malazan Empire to do it. Higher in the mountains, a new threat has emerged, and now the Teblor are running out of time.
The long feared invasion is about to begin. And this time it won't be three simple warriors. This time thousands are poised to flood the lands of the south. And in their way, a single legion of Malazan marines . . .

It seems the past is about to revisit Silver Lake, and that is never a good thing . . .

I can dig it.

# ¿ Nov 17, 2020 19:56

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

fb posted:

The 2-Volume Edition of
The Malazan Book of the Fallen
Do I have your attention? Thought so. So I had this idea. It fuzzed its way into my brain years ago now, on a low simmer. It was kind of a pipe dream and I knew that, but it wouldn�t go away. Basically, my thought was: wouldn�t it be cool to have a single volume containing all ten novels of the Malazan Book of the Fallen. As a very limited production. Something with a thick leather-bound cover, maybe an iconic symbol embossed on the front and on the spine. And inside, on teeny-tiny font in two or even three columns, the entire text, printed on the kind of paper they use for holy books, with illuminated book and chapter headings, and a bunch of other added bells and whistles including never-before seen hand-drawn maps, old notes, and gilded edges to the pages.
Trapped in Covid isolation, I stirred the idea back to life, and put out a few feelers to local book-binding companies. The response was unanimous. Impossible to do. My electronic version of all ten novels in a single Word document, when converted to small font and each page split into two columns of text, topped out at over 3000 pages (if I recall). There�s no technology out there that can handle that (even converting the text to two columns made my powerbook sweat a bit).
I think it was in a conversation with A.P. Canavan about this idea, that he suggested I contact Subterranean Press. As a specialty publisher, maybe they had access to binders who like a challenge. So I sent them a rough description of my idea and they were intrigued (and Sub Press definitely loves a challenge).
They bounced the idea off two binders in quick succession. One thing was immediately obvious. One volume wouldn�t work. But two could.
But we hit a roadblock and it was a major one. Printing alone would be costly. Using colour and then plates would be even costlier. Leather binding and all the rest, costlier still. Add in slip-casing and the production budget just keeps on climbing.
Now, I�m aware that individual Sub Press editions of the series sometimes go for a chunk of money on e-bay, and full-sets are sometimes offered for almost obscene amounts. Those readers who have bought all ten books have spent over a grand in total (or is it more? I�ve not checked the list prices). But neither me nor Sub Press make anything off those e-bay transactions.
So, the upshot is, Subterranean Press had to step back. The idea had been for a 500 run. Five hundred two-volume sets. I�d probably receive ten sets as comps, of which more than half would go to close friends and the like). But for this to work for Sub Press, the list price would have to be at least a grand. That�s one thousand USD. Being a cautious and reasonable publisher, there�s no way the company could foot the bill for a product that might prove too expensive to find a market. And I can�t argue with that at all.
But I wasn�t quite ready to surrender. So, on my own back as it were, and in no way implying any promises from Subterranean Press, I thought I�d test the waters and just put it out there, which is what this post is.
For this to happen, it�s clear that it would have to be a pre-order, pay-in-advance prospect. From somewhere between one thousand and fifteen hundred US for a slip-cased, 2-volume, leather-bound version of The Malazan Book of the Fallen, containing full colour illustrations as well as original previously unpublished maps and other odds and ends.
Are there 490 fans of the series out there prepared to buy into such a thing? I�d need to have a firm answer in the positive before I�d bother the people at Subterranean Press again.
As one last note. This is kind of explains the whole business with the iconic image idea, doesn�t it? Which is why one of my original mock-ups used the Extrude feature on Photoshop, and why monochrome (barring the line of blood) was necessary. That said, that sword and hand image would not have any words added for the book cover or the spine. In fact, me putting in the word �MALAZ� may have been a red herring. Is it all making more sense now?
The challenge facing me now is, somehow coming up with a reliable list of confirmed potential buyers. I�d need that in pretty clear terms before I bother Sub Press again. This post will, I hope, give me a rough estimate of levels of genuine interest and commitment (even assuming that half of those wanting to buy the set will eventually bow out, because, cripes, we�re talking a chunk of money here).
In my mind, I pretty much expect the interest to be insufficient. I�m not aware of any new books, even a two-volume set, costing what these would cost. But nothing ventured, nothing gained. So, cry havoc and let loose�
SE

# ¿ Feb 25, 2021 07:48

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

I barely remember anything from HoC or I guess reaper's gale where Karsa shows up again in Darujhistan. Gonna have to reread everything maybe.

# ¿ Jun 2, 2021 22:57

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

They used to be very far apart but as the main ten continued they began to coincide better. No idea why TOR would start sitting on them again. If you're gonna import I strongly recommend Munro's in Victoria BC so you can get them signed by Steve for free.

# ¿ Jun 17, 2021 01:58

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

I will say, when I read stories now and the villain is a rapist, or sadist, or child abuser or whatever for no reason but just to set them up as the bad guy in the book I find it super lazy and offputting.

# ¿ Dec 10, 2021 22:12

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

I agree with that. His last book however was very fan fictiony though. Felt like a Dune prequel or the Solo movie where it just went from scene to scene and shouted, "see? This is where that thing came from!" Over and over.

# ¿ Dec 12, 2021 02:55

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

In case anyone (almost everyone) didn't get on the limited train way back in 2008 or whenever, heads up that Subterranean Press is doing a second limited edition of the series. I have a fair number of their books and they are fantastic. GotM going up for preorder at noon EST this monday!

quote:

We're pleased to announce that preordering for the long-requested signed second printing of Gardens of the Moon by Steven Erikson will begin January 31, 2022 at 12:00 pm EST.

Please note that links to the book's product page will go live at that time.

About the Book:

The Malazan Empire is a continent-spanning dominion over which the ruthless Empress Laseen holds sway, her rule enforced by the Claws, the Imperial assassins. Bled dry by incessant warfare and undermined by dissension, signs indicate that the Empire could be crumbling from within.

The Genabackis campaign has been a war of attrition in which the Malazans have spent years fighting the combined forces of local armies aided by the formidable Son of Darkness and Lord of the Tiste Andii, Anomander Rake, the Crimson Guard, the powerful warlord Caladan Brood, and their allies.

Though they emerge victorious from the siege of Pale and impel the flying fortress of Moon�s Spawn to retreat and abandon the conflict, the Malazan triumph is bittersweet. Evidence implies that the Bridgeburners were nearly wiped out by treacherous elements from within the ranks of their own army.
Before any light can be shed on what truly occurred, the Malazan troops are sent marching to subdue Darujhistan, the last of the Free Cities of Genabackis. Soon, as the conflict escalates, powerful forces converge on Darujhistan.

And with gods and Ascendants watching and manipulating events, nothing is as it seems in the City of Blue Fire.

Thus begins The Malazan Book of the Fallen, one of the greatest and most ambitious fantasy epics of our time.

About the signed second printing:

It will contain all of the illustrations from the original numbered edition.
Be printed on 70# Finch.
Feature a raised image on the front panel of the book.
Be gilt on three edges.

For this edition, Subterranean Press has licensed custom marbling art by artist Jemma Lewis. Jemma sent us the original art, which we used to create the endpapers. This type of marbling pattern is called "Stormont", a historical pattern that was developed in France during the beginning of the 19th century.

Jemma Lewis's marbling art is considered to be some of the best around the world. Subterranean Press has previously used her sheets for our lettered edition of Full Throttle.

Signed Second Printing: Approximately 1000 hardcover copies signed by the author: $200

I know Erikson was interested in a 2 volume omnibus edition which is just not feasible to print but getting something new and special and not at the $10k price the current limited edition is at is really exciting.

# ¿ Jan 28, 2022 00:07

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

Yeah it's a chunk of change, but they'd be the showpiece of any book collection. Also you'll be getting one edition every 9 months max I'd guess. And if you had to you'd be able to resell them, as I expect they'll sell out within the hour and I believe you get rights of first refusal on preorders of future releases.

# ¿ Jan 28, 2022 00:48

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

To be fair, the Kharkhanas books are nigh unreadable. I'm a big fan & collector and haven't been able to bull through forge of darkness in like 4 attempts.

# ¿ Mar 8, 2022 19:09

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

Teaser chapter from SE:

quote:

Chapter XXXX
You call this normal?
In the garden butterflies
Do their daily dance
Answering sun�s rise and day�s light
In random flurry of life
The flowers turn their heads
Tracking time�s florid insolence
The grinning grinding persistence
Awaiting the final season�s grey curtain
You call this surface simple?
Above the tomb�s deep dive
All the blood flowing unseen
In channels of unending night
I have no name for this
The thumping thundering susurration
Of all these beating hearts
Somewhere a hand lurks
Prodding pushing killing
And here again comes the dawn
Of another harrowing day
Lest It Be Named
Fisher kel Tath
The city of G�danisban was a faded study in dun tones and weary paint in the waning afternoon light. Built of sandstone and mortar, blockish and chaotic as befitted a settlement born before the era of carts, much less carriages, every street was an alley and every alley a tortured, winding maze between buildings. A bird wheeling overhead would see little more than clotheslines on flat roofs, festooned with flags, every nation a home, every army a household, all in rich dyes and flapping in the hot wind.
The central palace had once been a fortress, a bastion of those who eventually climbed to power, generation layered upon generation, addition upon addition, enforcing the illusion of continuity which, should the bird fly ever higher, was not an illusion at all. But some things were too bitter to contemplate.
Fist Jalan Arenfall sighed, his thick, scarred forearms resting on the low adobe wall enclosing the flat roof, his slate-eyed gaze scanning the maze of drying clothes, stone and shadows of the city below. What made this such a knot in the heart of Seven Cities? Barely thirty thousand souls dwelt here, every one of them besieged by seething acolytes of a score or more competing temples, with hands held out and dire warnings on their tongues. Extortion extending into the realm of souls, no less. What manner of beast is man and woman?
Most days, he bore his second name with just enough wry acknowledgement to fashion something like equanimity in the company of his staff, city and provincial officials, officers and clerks and all the rest of his daily entourage. Arenfall. Before his time, the city of Aren�s true conquest � to the Malazans � of course. But his Aren�s fall to the Malazans was not, however, the origin of his name. His attribution referred to a later event. Namely, the day that Aren did not fall. When it held fast against the Rebellion, an island of life surrounded by death.
The fall, indeed, occurred outside the city�s walls. A detail of such significance that the great city had suffered a fatal shift in the regard and sensibilities of an entire empire. No longer Aren, but now Aren Outside the Fall. A mouthful to be sure.
Was it not a wonder So, how was it that one man�s death could change the world? Or give a rebel�s son his second name in the manner of an empty promise?
Over the city, almost level with where the Fist stood, swallows spun and wheeled through the turgid, dusty air. Their presence, flying out from nests in holes built into the palace�s high walls, made an eternal paint of guano down every side of the building, and occasionally, when the winds fell away, a fetid reek as well. Yet he did not begrudge them � was anything more glorious than their aerial dance and piercing song? And now that a freshwater sea occupied what had once been a desert basin, not too far away, malaria had returned to the area. Bats and swallows were welcome to eat their fill of mosquitoes, to the benefit of all.
He heard footsteps approaching and stifled a second sigh. Moments of contemplation were getting rare. Straightening, he turned to study the two men with whom he now shared the roof-top. The captain, Hadalin Bhilad, remained close to the hatch leading into the rooms below, thumbs tucked into his weapon-belt, his off-white telaba�s hood raised to shade his head and face. There was enough in his stance to tell Jalan that not all was well between the captain and the other man, who was now joining the Fist close to the wall.
Jalan dipped his head. �Adjunct.�
�I have unwittingly shattered your sanctuary,� Adjunct Inkaras Sollit said. �Forgive me.�
�Pondering the city below yields little sanctuary,� Jalan replied, �although this view is removed enough to offer some relief.�
�And, I would think, perspective?� Inkaras moved to lean on the wall, matching Jalan�s pose only a few moments ago. The dusky blue of his hands and bared forearms delivered a stark contrast to the magenta-dyed telaba he wore. While many foreigners struggled with the telaba as a garment, given its peculiar folds and bias cut, the Adjunct might well have been born in one, such was his apparent comfort wearing the traditional desert garb. And yet, he was no native to this land.
�Are you settled in your chambers, Adjunct? Given no announcement as to your pending arrival��
�You did very well indeed, Fist. The rooms are most satisfactory.� He paused, and a half-smile flitted across his blunt, battered features. �The heat, on the other hand�.�
�I would think the Napan Isles��
�I was born on Malaz Island,� Inkaras interrupted. �Jakata, to be more precise, which began as a Napan colony. Or so it is said and given the predominance of blue-skinned inhabitants on that side of the island, it seems likely. In any case,� he went on, �my family were fishers, living on Break Island facing the Inside Passage, where the winds from the south were icy year-round.�
Jalan Arenfall considered, and then said, �Icy no longer, I would think.�
�True enough,� Inkaras agreed. �The world of my childhood is not the world
around me now. But then, can we not all say that? After all,� he continued, gaze still on the city roofs below, �you were a child-soldier in the rebel army of Korbolo Dom, your father one of his most trusted commanders. I am curious � what does your father think of your life now? A Fist of the Empire. Poet and musician. And utterly godless.�
Jalan was silent for a moment, wondering why the Adjunct had neglected to mention Jalan�s most notorious trait: namely, his infamous propensity for violence. If baiting, then a dangerous game indeed, especially with the man within reach, and seemingly intent upon the scene below. Arrogance? Confidence? If either, then twice misplaced.
If he chose to kill this man, here and now, none could stop him. Not the captain ten paces behind them. Not the Adjunct himself, since no magic need be called upon.
�Arenfall,� Inkaras went on, still oblivious, �is therefore a peculiar appellation. Then, of course, there is your other name, the one barely whispered in shadows, which I find � fascinating. What meaning, then, is �Blinker�?�
The question faltered on the last word, as the Adjunct now found himself staring at the point of a knife, hovering in front of his right eye.
�Ah,� Inkaras said shakily, �In the blink of an eye, then. I comprehend.�
�Less than you imagine,� Jalan replied, slowly withdrawing the blued blade and taking a single step back � whereupon he felt the broad tip of the captain�s sword between his shoulder-blades, poking against the cloth of his telaba.
�We share the flaw,� the Adjunct murmured.
�We do not,� Jalan replied. �Had I taken your life in that instant, Adjunct, your captain would have followed in the next. The point made here, Inkaras Sollit, had already been delivered.�
�And how do you imagine the Emperor would feel about you killing his Adjunct?�
�Upset, I�m sure.�
�Not enough for tears,� Inkaras said, apparently amused. �But your grave would be unmarked.�
Jalan loosed a heavy sigh. �Do you not think, Adjunct, we already have too many revered tombs? Too many venerated barrows? Why are you here, if not to address this seething cauldron of dead martyrs? No, I welcome a nameless hole for my bones.�
�Just not today,� the Adjunct said.
Jalan shrugged, slowly turning to stare down the captain.
�Return to our quarters, beloved,� murmured Inkaras to Hadalin Bhilad. �For the discussion to follow, it must be the Fist and myself and no other.�
The captain�s cold gaze held for a moment longer on Jalan�s eyes, and then he lowered and sheathed his otataral longsword and stepped back. walking back wheeled and walked towards the hatch, down which he noiselessly went. He strode stiffly back to the hatch in the roof. Descending, then gone.
�Yes,� the Fist allowed, �he is fast indeed.� the Fist allowed.
�But not fast enough.�
�At ten paces, no-one is.�
�I am surprised the Claw did not pay you a visit long ago, with skills such as you have just displayed.�
Jalan Arenfall frowned across at the Adjunct. �Well, the Claw are not likely to record their failures, are they?�
�At recruiting you?�
�No, Adjunct, at surviving the encounter. Did you not know? I used to hunt down and kill Claw for a living.�
Now it was the Adjunct�s turn to stare. �The Emperor was somewhat terse, it seems. How is it you are now a Fist? This makes no sense.�
�There is a perennial problem with the imperial secret assassins, enough to send cold sweat down the back of any emperor. Accordingly, periodically, a cull is required.�
Now the Adjunct�s eyes were wide. �The Emperor hired you to clean house?�
Jalan shrugged. �There was precedent.�
�There was?�
�Kalam Mekhar did much the same for Empress Laseen. In Malaz City, in fact. After that bloody night, she could breathe easy for a time.�
�Hardly at all!�
�Well, other matters intervened.�
�What other matters?�
�The Crimson Guard�s untimely return, I suppose.� Jalan then shrugged. �Is this what we are to discuss, Adjunct?�
�No, but finding my feet is taking longer than expected.�
That was an honest enough admission. Jalan decided to ease out a notch. �My father disapproves of all that I am, Adjunct. We do not speak and have not in years. Accordingly, he knows less of me than he thinks.�
�And you are certain of that?�
�No, but in truth, it hardly matters. Leoman the Flail�s betrayal broke him. My father hasn�t faced a day sober in many years. Not an uncommon fate for the broken-hearted.�
�You sound almost forgiving.�
�A preferred outcome to obsessive, murderous rage, Adjunct.� He paused, and then said, �A world of broken-hearted people sounds � peaceful.�
Breath gusted from Inkaras. �Blessed Laseen, you leave me rattled at every turn!�
�Apologies, Adjunct. Of all the titles given me, it is �poet� that cuts deepest.�
�Why is that?�
�It is the only curse among them.�

Check the fb post for lots of context and commentary: https://www.facebook.com/steveneriksonofficial/posts/601335174680708

# ¿ Jul 26, 2022 03:35

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

Next ICE book getting closer to release. His last one was probably his worst effort since that first novella. Here's hoping though!

publisher posted:

After decades of warfare, Malazan forces are now close to consolidating the Quon Talian mainland. Yet it is at this moment that Emperor Kellanved orders a new campaign far to the north: the invasion of Falar.

Since the main Malazan armies are otherwise engaged in Quon Tali, a collection of orphaned units and broken squads has been brought together under Fist Dujek - himself recovering from the loss of an arm - to fight this new campaign. A somewhat rag-tag army, joined by a similarly motley fleet under the command of the Emperor himself.
There are however those who harbour doubts regarding the stewardship of Kellanved and his cohort Dancer, and as the Malazan force heads north, it encounters an unlooked-for and most unwelcome threat - unspeakable and born of legend, it has woken and will destroy all who stand in its way. Most appalled by this is Tayschrenn, the untested High Mage of the Empire. He is all-too aware of the true nature of this ancient horror - and his own inadequacy in having to confront it. Yet confront it he must, alongside the most unlikely of allies . . .
And then the theocracy of Falar is itself far from defenceless - its priests are in possession of a weapon so terrifying it has not been unleashed for centuries. Named the Jhistal, it was rumoured to be a gift from the sea-god Mael. But two can play at that game, for the Emperor sails towards Falar aboard his flagship Twisted - a vessel that is itself thought to be not entirely of this world . . .
Here, then, in the tracts of the Ice Wastes and among the islands of Falar, the Empire of Malaz faces two seemingly insurmountable tests - each one potentially the origin of its destruction . . .

These are bloody, turbulent and treacherous times for all caught up in the forging of the Malazan Empire.

# ¿ Aug 24, 2022 18:06

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

Cool dude. Keep us posted how you like it. We always like hearing newbie impressions or answering questions.

# ¿ Nov 11, 2022 19:23

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

What I liked about GoTM is how you were free to root for any of the factions. Like an independent Darhujistan? Phoenix in crew got you covered. Find the idea of imperialism distasteful? poo poo all over the empire, gently caress them! Find the idea of the bridgeburners over done? Well they got their comeuppance didn't they? Philosophic zombie neanderthals, hell yeah! Root for whoever you like.

# ¿ Nov 28, 2022 21:01

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

I forget his name and it might be in the ICE books but it's a dude who is in the otataral mines I wanna say? Short 3 letterish name that's all I've got.

# ¿ Jan 25, 2023 00:31

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

Popularity breeds more popularity. It reached a self sustaining level of hype before it even came out because he had publisher connections. I can�t think of a more overrated author actually. Maybe Rowling.

# ¿ Mar 18, 2023 20:24

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

What you did was start over with each new one lol. He actually wasn't that bad, a bit faster than one per year. Which given the girth of these things is pretty good actually.

# ¿ Aug 14, 2023 18:56

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

Generally I wouldn't sweat it much either way. If it were your first time I'd say stick to the main 10 in published order but since you're rereading try inserting in the Esslemont books in storyline order starting I think between Midnight Tides and Bonehunters. I'm sure there is a wiki with the exact order of insertions into the main series. I like Esslemont OK but I wouldn't recommend reading all his stuff back to back and this lets you swap back and forth kind of.

As for the karkhanas and witness books I'd save them for after as well. Erikson's novellas are a fun break and pretty different from the main series and have no story impact so give them a shot whenever you like.

# ¿ Aug 25, 2023 19:28

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

Some are better than others. Night of Knives is his debut and by far the worst imo. Even if ICE rises to 'average fantasy author' he still suffers greatly in comparison to Erikson though.

How important is having the backstory of all the characters filled in for you? How desperate are you for more Malazan content?

# ¿ Jan 25, 2024 00:13

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

Yeah I think so. I found myself reading it super quickly. It kind of feeds into the frenetic pace and the captain stringing along from danger to danger.

# ¿ Jan 25, 2024 20:52

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

I mean it's a satire of trek stuff. That's kind of niche as hell. Though you can read it as straight schlock scifi I guess.

# ¿ Jan 30, 2024 22:25

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# ¿ May 22, 2024 10:49

Fuzzy Mammal: Aug 15, 2001; Lipstick Apathy

Confession:

I own 4 different editions of forge of darkness and have started it like 4 times and have never finished it....

# ¿ Mar 22, 2024 04:44

The Something Awful Forums > The Finer Arts > The Book Barn > The Malazan Book of the Fallen: Too many wor'ds.

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