The explosion of electronic gaming has had an undeniable effect on the fantasy genre, especially the science and epic varieties. That’s not really a bad thing … sort of. Many solid novelists now supplement their incomes writing Assassin’s Creed, Halo, LitRPG, Star Wars, Star Trek and even Elder Scrolls tie-ins. And that just scratches the surface of a massive industry. Wizards of the Coast franchised the Forgotten Realms, not only as a gaming platform but also an impressive array of novels, which pretty much qualify as their own sub-genre by now. I know little about how the Forgotten Realms publishing universe works and have read only a few of the novels, but it’s obvious that the books supplement the games and vice-versa, even to the point to wrenching entire plots around to reflect updates to the gaming universe.
For example, in his short story collection for the Legend of Drizzt series, (which was unfortunately packed in the Last Great Pruning of the Library and now resides somewhere in my barn or I’d look up the exact quotation) R. A. Salvatore explained that he had become quite attached to one of his characters, assassin extraordinaire Artemis Enteri (admittedly, he’s got reason to be attached to this guy — he’s a great character), so when the Wizards publishers decided to kill off all assassins in its universe, Salvatore was expected to script an exit for Enteri. Instead, he argued to the publishers that Enteri wasn’t really an assassin; he was a professional thief who killed people and sometimes got paid for it. Oh, okay, the publishers responded, in that case….
I’m sure I don’t have the details of that exactly right, but the point is that, as the game platform shifts, the novels are expected also to shift, to keep continuity. You can see where this might be regarded as, well, constraining, to say the least, but Forgotten Realms is a flourishing franchise, and it’s keeping a stable of writers able to feed and educate their children. There’s a lot to be said for that, given the current publishing climate. And it speaks volumes that, despite the creative constraints, writers like Salvatore have the freedom to develop central themes that organize their storylines, themes like the tension between free will and determinism, the question of evil, the dehumanizing of enemies, the scourge of racism.
As I noted above, I’m really not big on gaming-related novels. I suspect, however, that I am not the target audience. If anyone would like to write more appreciatively about this huge market, let me know and I’ll give you the conn.
So why write about gaming and gaming-connected novels at all? Well, because they’ve had an outsized impact on fantasy, and that has both good and bad aspects. It’s given rise to things like TV Tropes, which we hate, but it’s also brought new readers and made of them enthusiastic fans, some of whom move on to the more esoteric and challenging works. For the record, I am constitutionally unamenable to looking down one’s nose at anybody else’s taste in fiction. I don’t want to imply in any way that gaming-related novels are inferior, although I do suspect that contractual obligations impose some constraints on the authors, constraints that, in a perfect world, would serve artistic freedom, rather than the opposite.
And then there are a few novels that escape their gaming origins and take us to amazing, fiercely imagined places. Prime case in point, Steven Erikson’s The Malazan Book of the Fallen.
The World of Malaz was conceived in an “enhanced” RPG setting, where authors Erikson and Ian Cameron Esselmont gamed out a whole world. Both trained in archaeology and anthropology, and when I write “a whole world,” I mean it in an epochal sense. We don’t get just a few decades of history, or even a century or two; think in the hundreds of thousands of years, and you’re closer to the mark. Nobody else does what they’ve done in conveying a deep sense of time, history as waves of civilizations rising, falling, wiping each other out, wearing each other down, enduring. History has a whole other flavor in the Malazan world.
The two writers Erikson and Esselmont started with D&D but soon moved on to GURPS, which is a far more customizable format for gaming. The history of the Malazan World is widely chronicled among the fan base, but one of the better (and concise) explanations is here. For our purposes, it’s sufficient to note that the series began as a game, and some of the action scenes throughout the long series came directly from gaming sessions, but it outgrew its gaming origins fairly quickly.
That is not exactly evident in the first novel to emerge from the Erikson/Esselmont game marathons, Erikson’s Gardens of the Moon, which began life as a game, then became a film script and only after that became a novel. If ever an introduction to a series were unlike the series, it’s Gardens of the Moon.
Consider Gardens as more of a general introduction to the Malazan world than it is an overture. The novel doesn’t hint at either the scale or the thematic depths the series achieves. It’s also, stylistically, a lot rougher than subsequent novels — Erikson’s writing improves noticeably in Deadhouse Gates, the second novel of the series. But tonight is about Gardens, cognizant of its relative lightweight status and its … shall we say, lesser-developed stylistics? Yes, that works.
One thing you can say about Erikson as a writer — he doesn’t explain, or hand-hold, or info-dump, or make it easy for the reader. Instead, he plunks you right into the middle of an entirely strange world, history, magical system, and power-structure, and expect you to catch on. Stick with it, and you will indeed catch on. Consider Gardens to be an introduction to characters you will grow to love, even as they’re not presented lovably.
Gardens of the Moon is primarily about the Malazan Empire’s attempt to conquer the free city of Darujhistan. In epic fantasy you expect great conflicts and in military fantasy you expect enormous battles lovingly chronicled. Erickson doesn’t give us the slaughtered hordes; his gaze lingers on the butchered soldiers, the common infantry who have no voice in strategy but are sent out into the furnace of battle. He also gives us the aftermath — the guts and gore, yes, but more than that, the pain of lost friends, the outrage at stupid commanders, the soldiers who know each other so well they can finish each other’s sentences.
In most epic fantasies there’s a clear hero and a clearer villain. Not so in Erikson. Almost every one of our assumptions about what to expect will happen is subverted directly, or twisted into a shape that takes a ninety degree turn away from expectations.
We start with Ganoes Paran, a young noble who doesn’t want to be a wine merchant like his father. No, he wants to be a soldier. Young Ganoes meets Whiskyjack, commander of the legendary Bridgeburner brigade, who tells him,
“The best life is the one the gods don’t notice. You want to live free, boy, live quietly.”
“I want to be a soldier. A hero.”
“You’ll grow out of it.” (1, p. 5)
From Mock’s Hold to Itko Kan and the aftermath of a massacre, and from there to an assault at the siege of Pale, where the Bridgeburners are almost entirely decimated in the attack on Moon’s Spawn, the floating mountain and stronghold of Anomander Rake and his Tiste Andii sorcerers. But it seems that Rake is not the one responsible for the destruction of the brigade, and the few survivors are detailed to infiltrate the last remaining free city, Darujhistan, where they’re to be killed by their own side. At Darujhistan a number of powers converge to decide the city’s fate.
Even in Gardens of the Moon Erikson’s focus and approach to fantasy are clearly delineated, presaging much of what follows in the Malazan series. Events that at first seem to fall cleanly in the hero/villain traditions of mainstream fantasy are quickly subverted; we’re not sure who the good guys really are because (almost) all the characters are heroes in their own narratives. Likewise, real villains are, for now, in short supply. Wizards, mages, soldiers, assassins, spies, gods, and monsters, however, there are in plenty.
Baruk closed his eyes. Behind him the broad window shutters rattled in a gust of wind, then settled again. A moment later there came a sharp rap against the smoky glass. Baruk sat upright, his eyes startled open. A second rap, louder than the first, brought him round with a swift alacrity surprising for one of his girth. On his feet, he faced the window. Something crouched on the ledge, visible through the shutters only as a bulky black shape.
Baruk frowned. Impossible. Nothing could penetrate his magic barriers undetected. The alchemist gestured with one hand, and the shutters sprang open. Behind the glass waited a Great Raven. Its head snapped to view Baruk with one eye, then the other. It pushed boldly against the thin glass with its massive, ridged chest. The pane bulged, then shattered.
His Warren fully open, Baruk raised both hands, a savage spell on his lips.
“Don’t waste your breath!” the Raven rasped, swelling its chest and ruffling its mangy feathers to rid itself of glass shards. It cocked its head. “You’ve called your guards,” it observed. “No need, Wizard.” A single hop brought the enormous bird onto the floor. “I bring words you will value. Have you anything to eat?”
Baruk studied the creature. “I’m not in the habit of inviting Great Ravens into my home,” he said. “You are no disguised demon, either.”
“Of course not. I’m named Crone.” Her head bobbed mockingly. “At your pleasure, Lord.” (1, 185-186)
Woven into the story of the Bridgeburners’ mission in Darujhistan, Anomander Rake’s deal with the shadowy alchemical cabal to protect the city, and municipal intrigues centering on a tavern and a mysterious spymaster known only as the Eel, is the Adjunct Lorn’s quest with an undead warrior to find, on orders of the Empress of Malaz, a way to clear her way and take over the last free land on the continent of Genabackis. Erikson presents first one authoritative version of events, and then slowly changes the perspective, undermining the authority of witnesses and questioning all the competing interests to arrive at a vision of history that a historian can appreciate. Along the way we meet various peoples and races with different social structures, cultures, levels of technology and sophistication (for example, the Rhivi are nomadic herders, the Imass wield flint weapons, the Moranth make sophisticated munitions that make big fiery explosions). And magic. I’m still not clear about warrens, gates, Holds or Houses. They’re distinct things, but in general they’re sources of power. Warrens are also places, and along with gates are paths between places, worlds within worlds, methods of transportation, and more. Still, Erikson doesn’t yield to the great sin that befalls the unwary fantasy writer: his magical system is consistent and consistently applied, even if it manifests in weird ways. Take, for instance, a sword:
A two-handed sword was strapped to Rake’s broad back, its silver dragonskull pommel and archaic crosshilt jutting from a wooden scabbard fully six and a half feet long. From the weapon bled power, staining the air like black ink in a pool of water. As his gaze rested on it Baruk almost reeled, seeing, for a brief moment, a vast darkness yawning before him, cold as the heart of a glacier, from which came the stench of antiquity and a faint groaning sound. Baruk wrenched his eyes from the weapon, looked up to find Rake studying him from over one shoulder.
The Tiste Andii quirked a knowing smile, then handed Baruk one of the wine-filled goblets. “Was Crone her usual melodramatic self?” (1, p. 198)
That sword sounds a lot like another famous sword of epic fantasy, doesn’t it? Except that this sword isn’t just a sword; it’s also a warren that holds a wagon and countless slain baddies to pull it, and in the wagon is something else …. and its wielder, like most of the other characters is certainly other than what you first think he is.
The great themes that Erikson explores in later novels, the tension between the poles of compassion and indifference, the tragedy of war and missed chances, the transformative power of kindness and potential of forgiveness, are largely absent in the first novel. In Gardens it’s all about shifting perceptions, the way that power attracts powerful adversaries, and how nothing is really exactly what it seems. Given that the series is called the Malazan Book of the Fallen, you would assume that sympathy lies with Malaz. You would be wrong.
“One day I’ll be a soldier,” Ganoes said.
The man [Whiskyjack] grunted. “Only if you fail at all else, son. Taking up the sword is the last act of desperate men. Mark my words, and find yourself a more worthy dream.” (1, p.8)
Sympathy doesn’t lie with Malaz; it lies with the soldiers. All the soldiers, all the desperate men who have left behind what makes life worth living. Their tales are worthy reading.
If it were a stand-alone novel, lacking all follow-up, I’d not be so quick to recommend it. The writing is uneven, but it gets better. The plot is hard to follow, but that too gets better as the series fleshes out. And the series will break your heart, no matter how hardened your heart may be. The Malazan Book of the Fallen is truly a tale that grew in the telling. In Gardens of the Moon you see much of the control and clarity of Erikson’s vision in utero. It’s a necessary start for a series of novels that will not fail to amaze you.
References
1. Steven Erikson, Gardens of the Moon, NY: Tor, 1999.