In times of desperation, sometimes a hero is the last thing you need.
In the darkest hours, sometimes only a villain can offer a Kingdom a chance for salvation.
Kurzhon, The Life-Taker, is the last member of the lost race of Vultaikans - warriors feared and hated across the lands for their murderous ways. Like his ancestors before him, this ruthless fighter solves problems with violence and intimidation, making him a man with a target on his back.
But when the ruling powers from the Kingdom of Resslayke need a great warrior, The Life-Taker is their only hope of victory, and they will stop at nothing to force him into the fight.
Marked by a magician as a means of coercion, Kurzhon is left unable to hide from those seeking vengeance for his bloodthirsty ways. With no other choice, he is forced to travel to the beleaguered Kingdom where he is drawn into the conflict of two nations.
Using his arsenal of deadly skills, while confronting old enemies and making new ones, the last of the Vultaikans must navigate these dark waters of deceit if he is to survive.
In times of desperation, sometimes a hero is the last thing you need.
In the darkest hours, sometimes only a villain can offer a Kingdom a chance for salvation.
Kurzhon, The Life-Taker, is the last member of the lost race of Vultaikans - warriors feared and hated across the lands for their murderous ways. Like his ancestors before him, this ruthless fighter solves problems with violence and intimidation, making him a man with a target on his back.
But when the ruling powers from the Kingdom of Resslayke need a great warrior, The Life-Taker is their only hope of victory, and they will stop at nothing to force him into the fight.
Marked by a magician as a means of coercion, Kurzhon is left unable to hide from those seeking vengeance for his bloodthirsty ways. With no other choice, he is forced to travel to the beleaguered Kingdom where he is drawn into the conflict of two nations.
Using his arsenal of deadly skills, while confronting old enemies and making new ones, the last of the Vultaikans must navigate these dark waters of deceit if he is to survive.
 âTry to leave one aliveâŠ
⊠but do not try too hard.â
~ Kurzhon the Life-Taker
Marvo didnât know the dark, cold forest he was lying low in was on the southeastern end of a continent named Straifus.
He wouldnât have cared had someone told him. He only knew that they had better keep heading west.
They would spend the night here in the forest. In the morning they'd try to hook up with one of the old roads and head west where no one knew them.
Going back east wasnât an option, on account of the man they had just killed when they went to lighten his pouches a bit.
Why couldnât the damned fool just hand over the haul? Marvo thought. Heâd still be alive right now, thatâs for sure.
He didnât like killing people. It didnât have to come to that. He was good enough to take from folks without them ever knowing.
Marvo narrowed his eyes, trying to concentrate on keeping the fire going. Someone was talking. Oh, rightâŠ
⊠Geoff. That hare-brained horseâs hind.
Geoff was a mutt. Patchy red hair growing all over his small body. Teeth pushing out in every direction from his mouth. Hard face glowering all the time⊠unless he was going on and on about how he'd stuck somebody.
Marvo gritted his teeth against the stiff wind and shook his head. That was Geoffâs only move. Stick! Stick! Stick! Then check the pockets of the bloody corpse and run to the next village before the Drakes showed up.
That same move was why they left their village over 10 harvest seasons ago.
Wait. Had it really been that long?
Marvo tried to tune Geoff out. Has it been 10 years since I seen my ma and sister?
He tried not to think of his father. The beatings had got more and more frequent as he recalled, but his sister and ma had always been good to him.
Where Geoff had been rough and blunt, Marvo had been soft of feature and handsome. His fair skin sunburned easily. His father had called him a dandy. They had the same brown hair and brown eyes, but his father had never believed that Marvo was his.
Marvo knew this because of all the times the old bastard would get drunk and yell it out into the streets for all to hear.
This weak, soft-looking child was no son of his!
He and Geoff had been tight as ticks since before he could remember. Geoff always stuck up for him with the other kids. Thatâs why he stuck up for Geoff when the boy was caught stealing some of his fatherâs brandy.Â
He had only been about eight then, but he knew he had to do something or his father would have killed Geoff. So he had stepped in front of him to protect him. Fat lot of good that did.
His father had knocked him to the ground with a blow to the head so powerful he didnât quite remember it.Â
He remembered coming to on the ground outside with his head throbbing in explosive pain. He remembered his father towering over him, blotting out the sun, about to punish him with another blow.
Stick! Stick! Stick!
The surprise on his fatherâs face was something he could never forget. Then the roar of agony as he clutched his side and tried to stop the blood from pouring out. He failed.
He remembered his mother screaming, and then his sister screaming. That brought one of the blacksmithâs apprentices, and then one of the farmerâs guild, and then even more people.
All of them were screaming and yelling. They pronounced his father dead, and someone talked about going to the next town over to get one of the Drakes. Thatâs when Geoff finally realized what he had done.
Geoff had begged Marvo to help him get away. He had agreed, not wanting his old friend to get hung by the Drakes.
But⊠10 years? Has it really been 10 years?
As time went on and they ran and ran and ran, he realized something was very wrong with Geoff. He was a killer.
Everywhere they went, Geoff killed, and they had to run. Usually it was someone low in status like them, but this time Geoff had gone and done it.
This time they killed a merchant with nice shoes and a fine coat and a nice horse and carriage and a pretty wife and everything.
The Drakes are gonna skin us alive, he thought.
âHey Marvo⊠Marvo!â Geoffâs grating voice interrupted his internal despair.
âWhat?!?â Marvo snapped at him. It didnât matter, though. Geoff didnât register things like tone of voice.
He was still laughing. âDid you see the look on his face when⊠stick! Stick! Stick! Ha ha ha haaaaaa!!â Geoffâs cackling was echoing throughout the small clearing they had found in the woods.
âShhhhhh!!!!â Marvo hissed at him. âThe fireâs bad enough, you wanna lead them right to us?!â
âB-but, did you see his face??â Geoff was still laughing, but he tried to make his face serious for a moment to mock the man he had killed.
âHow DARE you address me like that?! Do you know who I am??!â Geoff fell back into quivering laughter.
âNope! Stick! Stick! Stick!â Now Geoff fell over onto his side.
Marvo was beyond annoyed. âGeoff, watch out for the fire, youâ!â
âHO, THE FIRE!â
Geoffâs laughter died instantly. Marvo felt his stomach drop. It had been a booming, powerful voice that almost sounded like it came from every direction at once.
âWho was that?!â Geoff croaked. âShhh!â Marvo held out a hand to keep him quiet. âItâs the fucking Drakes! I knew it!â He whispered, fiercely.
Suddenly, Marvo was very aware of how little light the fire actually provided. There was a small globe of illumination surrounding the fire, but it ended abruptly.
With neither moon out tonight, whatever was out there beyond the edge of the light might as well not exist.
Was it the Drakes?
âI SAID, HO THE FIRE!â The voice came again. âIF YOU UNDERSTAND ME, SPEAK NOW!â
Marvo decided to speak. If it was the Drakes, surely they would just charge in and take them, not try to warn them of their presence.
âHo, my friend! Come into the light!â His entire body tensed. It could still be a Drake. He didnât know what he would do if it was.
But what came into the light was most definitely not a Drake. For the Drakes, despite their reputation for harsh justice, are still men of a code, men of honor.
To be in the presence of a Drake is to be in the presence of a righteous (sometimes self-righteous) do-gooder. They dressed in the gray cloak and uniform of their order, with gray sword and shield always at hand.
The man who stepped out of the darkness had what Marvo could only describe as a malevolent bearing.
He was big and muscular. Too big. And too strong, thought Marvo. The man was bald, and his skin was brown and rough, crisscrossed with the faded scars of many old wounds. The manâs skin tone was out of place for this region.
Normally, the dark ones stay up in the north, he thought, as he continued his examination of the large man.
The man was bare-chested, except for the sparse warriorâs harness that also crossed his torso. It came together at a dull, metal plate on his chest.
His arms bore a manner of light armor from upper arm to wrist. It looked rusted and worn.
The man wore leather breeches, dull black boots, and he lead a tan colored horse behind him. Marvo wondered how he'd led the animal through these dense woods, in the dark, without breaking the poor creatureâs legs.
Then he met the manâs eyes.
Marvo shrunk back, as he was given a baleful glance and then⊠dismissed. The man looked them over and then ignored them, turning his back to them to tie his horse to the nearest tree.
There was a frightening-looking axe strapped to his back.
Both Marvo and Geoff were quiet now. Quiet as the forest, which had also gone silent. It seemed even the damned wind had stopped.
Marvo wished it had been a Drake instead. He had always been a thin, slight boy, yet had made up for it with speed. Now, he was keenly aware of how small he was, compared to this man.
It probably takes five of me to make one of him! He thought.
âFriend,â he said, timidly, âyou are welcome, please share our fire.â He spread his hand out to indicate the fire, although the man had not turned to look at him and did not see his gesture.
âI do not share,â said the man, who had produced a brush from a pouch hanging from his horse. He began slowly brushing out knots and brambles in the horseâs mane.
âYou may leave now.â
Marvo and Geoff traded looks. âErm⊠what?â Marvo asked.
The man was silent. He continued his brushing.
Marvo tried again. âListen⊠friend. We are more than willing to share, but we found this clearing and started this fire. You canât just come here andââ
The man turned. Not quickly, but it was even more menacing for the lack of speed.
âI require this fire for me and my horse. I do not desire company. Leave now and live.â
Geoff had enough. âAre you threatninâ us?!â He jumped up and produced the long dagger he was so fond of.
âWe just killed a man! So maybe youâd best take your horse and find another fire, eh??â He brandished the dagger.
The man looked at the dagger, then he shook his head and turned back to brushing his horse. A moment later he spoke again. His voice was deep. Quiet. Menacing.
âWhen I am finished seeing to my horse, Iâm going to kill anyone still in this clearing.â
Marvo felt an intense chill ripple through his body. He jumped up and went to gather his belongings.
Geoff read his sudden movement the wrong way.
âYeah, Marv! Letâs get this big bastard!â And with that he let out a yell and rushed at the manâs back, dagger outstretched somewhat comically.
To Marvo, it seemed to both happen in slow-motion, and yet be lightning quick. As Geoff got close enough to strike, the man spun quickly, as if he were a top. He hit Geoff in the head with the back of his fist, then completed his turn and went back to brushing his horse.
Geoff let out a short squawk of surprise, then he collapsed to the ground as if he'd been pulled down by ropes.
Marvo opened his mouth to say something, anything, but he couldnât get sound to come out.
The man calmly placed the brush back into the pouch he had retrieved it from. Then he turned and took the few steps necessary to reach Geoffâs moaning, twitching body.
Marvo watched in horror as the man raised his foot. Then in one swift, powerful motion he brought it down with brutal force on Geoffâs neck.
A dull CRACK, and Geoffâs moans ceased. Marvo let out an involuntary squeak when it happened.
After that, the only sound was the crackling fire, wholly unconcerned with who might benefit from the warmth it provided.
Marvo looked up from Geoffâs lifeless body and found the hulking man staring directly at him. The man spoke.
âGo. Away.â
Marvo was paralyzed for the space of one breath. Then he turned and ran out of the clearing into the dark, leaving his possessions behind.
He immediately tripped over some tree roots, tumbling all the way to the ground. He scrabbled back to his feet and kept running, not caring about the branches scraping his face and body.
In the back of his mind, he thought he definitely shouldnât be heading east, but he pushed the thought down and ran on into the night.
* * *
Kurzhon watched the skinny boy-man scramble away and disappear into the darkness. He would have preferred it if they would have both simply left.
Instead, there was a freshly dead body at his feet, cluttering his campsite. He frowned. He could probably leave it for the night, but scavengers would come soon enough, and that might disturb his sleep.
With a grunt of annoyance, Kurzhon bent down and grabbed ahold of the dead manâs rough tunic. With one arm he dragged the corpse to the edge of the small clearing, and with a minor bit of two-handed effort, tossed the body away into the darkness.
From the sound of the body landing, Kurzhon judged he had thrown it a considerable distance, and was satisfied.
Let the bears and hojats fight over the bones, he thought as he turned back into the clearing. Then he realized it would be unlikely for a bear and a hojat to be in the same territory, so great was their distaste for each other.
He decided it didnât matter, then went to examine the pack the skinny boy-man had left behind.
Eh, dried fruit. Dried meat. Cheese. Gah!
He wanted more substantial fare, but there was nothing to be done about it out here. Besides, he had eaten well at a woodsmanâs cabin he had stumbled across early that morning a good deal to the south.
Kurzhon did not know what the woodsman was going to eat tonight, but that was not his concern. More importantly, he had found much needed hay for his horse on the woodsmanâs property.
He bit down on a stringy, gamey piece of dried meat and tore a piece off, chewing fiercely. An instant later he spit the rancid meat into the fire, gagging. The meat was inedible!
For a moment, he considered running after the departed boy-man and teaching him a lesson about providing rotten food to others. He couldnât have gotten too far.
No, Kurzhon thought. Iâm sleepy tonight. Iâll turn east tomorrow. If I come across him, Iâll kill him then.
He sniffed at the dried fruit and hard cheese, then decided it wasnât worth making himself ill and tossed it away into the night. Now was the time for sleep.
He moved around the fire to check the edges of the clearing before bedding down. Something glinting in the firelight caught his eye.
Moving closer, he saw it was the long dagger the dead boy-man had charged him with. He bent down to pick it up.
Examining the dagger up close, he determined that it was a poorly made weapon. Not even fit for a common street brigand, and thus no good to him. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the dagger spinning into the void beyond his firelight.
He remembered that the boy-man had bragged about killing someone. If true, that might mean the Drakes would get involved. Depending on who they killed, and where, it was possible one or more of the pompous do-gooders would track the killer here to this camp.
Kurzhon smiled. He had killed Drakes before, and likely would kill more of them in the future. For now, he decided he would take sleep, and ready himself for travel in the morning.
The fire was still going strong, and although he had just killed for it, he thought about dousing it, anyway. A fire would be nice, but those fool boy-men had likely attracted attention, and although he had no fear of Drakes, he wouldnât make it easy for them to find him.
Yet, he could register that the night air had a bit of a bite to it. To someone like him, who had experienced true cold in his life, this was nothing, but he knew his horse would benefit from the warmth provided by the flames.
He determined to keep the fire going until it burned out on its own as he slept. No man, woman or child could sneak up on him, whether he was asleep or not. If someone came in the night, he would kill them and return to sleep.
As he sat down by the base of a tree, he heard noises above him. Flapping sounds. He stopped, then spun around and stood, looking up into the trees. He couldnât see anything up there. It was far too dark on this moonless night.
He heard more flapping, and the sounds of branches creaking under the weight of birds landing. Many birds.
The sounds spread from tree to tree surrounding the small clearing. Bird wings flapping, and branches straining and snapping. Kurzhon spun around in a circle, looking intently but still unable to see into the darkness.
Raucous bird calls emanated from above. Crows? He thought. It canât be.
Crows were not usually active at night, but Kurzhon could identify every animal that flew, walked, crawled, or swam. Those were definitely crow calls.
Although, something was strange. The calls continued, a harsh cacophony that was unnerving his horse, and Kurzhon thought he could make something out in all the noise.
KZAAA! KZAAA! KZAAAN!
Was that his name? He felt a surprising chill in the night air. He was certain of it. The crows were saying his name.
Kurzhon was not one to shrink back in the face of the unknown. He snatched the axe from his back scabbard, stepped forward toward the center of the clearing, and shouted upwards into the dark.
âYES! I AM KURZHON, AND YOU HAVE FOUND ME! COME AND DO WHAT YOU CAME HERE FOR!â
With that, he stood ready. Ready for a mass of dark birds with beady eyes, sharp beaks and slashing talons to swarm around him. But they did not come.
Instead, he heard only one bird launch itself from its perch. It flew down into the firelight, soaring in a circle over his head. Kurzhon stopped himself from swinging his axe to smack it out of the air. He wanted to see what it would do.
The large crow landed directly in front of him, then began picking at its leg. Kurzhon saw that something was attached there. The bird continued its work and finally detached whatever it was. It hopped forward and planted the item in front of Kurzhon, then remained there, but now it was still.
Kurzhon looked the bird over. It was large, but nothing else seemed remarkable about it. He replaced his axe, then bent down to pick up the item. It appeared to be a small parchment wrapped around something and tied with string.
He kept his eye on the bird as he reached out for it. The crow cocked its head back and forth, looking as if it was noting his actions. Kurzhon thought it, or someone, likely was.
After picking up the parchment, he straightened up and moved closer to the fire to inspect it. He unwrapped the string and found that there was a large iron key enclosed in it.
The parchment had a small amount of writing on the inside. He recognized the script as Halvien, a language some of those promoting a unified land had put forth as a common tongue for all. Kurzhon scoffed, but read the message.
You have been marked.
Travel to Fulbank Gulch.
Follow the birds.
Kurzhon stopped himself from hurling the parchment into the fire. His teeth gritted almost painfully as fury washed over him.
Marked. Of course he had been marked! How else could these wretched crows have found him in all the lands?
Marked. But by who? And when? How long had he been marked?
He thought back, tried to think of the last time he had encountered any sorcerous practitioners. The last one he remembered was several years earlier. The old fool tried to use him to bring about some nonsense prophecy that Kurzhon didnât remember the details of.
He had killed the old bastard. Killed him quicker and less painfully than he deserved. It couldnât have been him.
Unless⊠the old wizard had been a necromancer? Had brought himself back to life?
No. Kurzhon knew something of the mysteries of magic, wizardry, sorcery, or as the current crop liked to style themselves - Formulators. That deranged fool did not have the power for such a feat.
They are all self-important fools, Kurzhon thought to himself. Then he noticed the crow that had given him the key was still waiting, looking at him with its head cocking back and forth. Whoever had marked him was definitely watching him right now.
He moved quickly and kicked at the crow, but it hopped aside nimbly to avoid the blow.
âGet out of here! Go! Before I cook you in my fire!â Kurzhon grabbed a stone from the edge of the fire and hurled it at the bird.
The crow again hopped aside, easily avoiding the rock, then launched itself into the air, disappearing up into the trees.
His horse whickered and took a few prancing steps. Kurzhon walked over and placed a hand on the animalâs neck to calm it.
âShhhh, Horse,â he said firmly. âAll is well. They are gone.â Even though he knew they were not. Those crows were still up there, looking down on them.
Normally, Horse was as steady as they come, but the animal did not like sorcery, Elves, or other unnatural creatures.
Kurzhon was not happy himself, but he at least knew the crows would not attack.
They want me to go to Fulbank Gulch. Likely to meet their master.
Kurzhon decided that he would go. He had to, if he was going to get this wizardâs mark removed and then kill whoever had placed it on him.
With the decision made, and nothing else to be done tonight, Kurzhon set down his axe, then laid down at the base of the tree he had chosen earlier. He closed his eyes and was asleep in a few moments.
Above, the crows remained silent and motionless, watching him.
* * *
As Kurzhon slept, he dreamed a dream he did not care for. It was one he dreamed from time to time.
He dreamed of the Gods. Not just his God, the mighty Vultaan, but the siblings and offspring of Vultaan. His traitorous family.
All Vultaikans were taught the lore of Vultaan early in life. It was often hoped a childâs first word would be to utter the name of the God, but that rarely happened.
Kurzhon dreamed of Vultaan, as tall and strong as a mountain, striding the world long before Humans came, longing for battle, but finding none worthy, save his own fellow Gods.
Vultaan was the God of War. The Master of Battles. None were stronger, save the unseen Father of the Gods, who had left this realm after birthing his children.
Vultaan had many siblings. The Goddess Rhona was his twin, birthed at the same moment, and yet jealous because she lacked the raw power of Vultaan.
Athletic and powerful, she could never match Vultaan, though she always contested with him.
She coveted all that was his, and had to content herself with being Mistress of the Hunt, when the Humans were finally created.
If any could have seen Kurzhon as he slept, they would have seen him grimace, and even growl in his sleep. Rhona, most beloved goddess of the Drakes, was most hated by the Vultaikans.
Kurzhon then dreamed about lovely Anura, who cared for nothing but love, passion, and pleasures of the flesh. She desired her brother Vultaan as much as Rhona envied him.
Plump and lushly beautiful, Anura could beguile any man, woman, child or animal, should she desire. And she did desire, for desire was what she was.
There had come a time when Anura had managed to trick Vultaan into laying with her. The consequences of that union had been dire. An offspring named Aeremon, who was strange and fey. Nothing like any of the other Gods, and best not dwelled upon.
Then, in his dream, Kurzhon watched as another God was born out of nothing.
Vultaanâs brother Ahrven, the God of Beauty and Vanity appeared. He cared nothing for fighting, but only for order, symmetry and beauty.
He followed behind Vultaan and Rhona, eternally striving to set right the destruction caused in their struggles.
Heiromon was another brother to Vultaan. He was the opposite of Ahrven. He liked to sow dissent and discord. He tore things apart. Where Vultaan destroyed with pure force, Heiromon destroyed with precision and careful planning.
Kurzhon rolled over in his sleep then, disturbed, but not waking.
The disturbance was understandable, for next he dreamed of stark Oya, Goddess of Death, the last and youngest of the Gods.
Oya cared nothing for the dalliances or struggles of the other Gods, her siblings.
She was harsh looking, wiry, almost skeletal. Her dark hair covered most of the ebony-dark skin of her face and body, except for burning white eyes that could be seen beneath it.
Oya kept herself apart from the rest, telling them she would see them when it was their time to die.
The others always laughed at this, for Gods did not die.
Vultaan did not laugh, though. He knew one day he would slay the rest of the Gods, then he and Oya would mate.
Their child would destroy both of them, then rise up to destroy the father of the Gods, and finally reality itself.
There would be nothing left but endless black, silent and still, forever.
Before that could happen though, Vultaan would have to be freed.
There had come a time when, well after Humans had been created, the other Gods became angered at the constant warfare waged by Vultaan's followers.
Their own followers were diminishing, and soon they felt that all that would be left were disciples of Vultaan.
Bitch Goddess Rhona was the one who came up with the plan.
Kurzhon was twitching, almost writhing in his sleep now. He knew how the dream would go, but could not stop it.
Rhona convinced Anura to disguise herself as Oya, as Oya herself would have no part of it.
Then Vultaan was lured by false Oya to mate. As he slumbered after the deed, the other Gods dropped all the mountains of the world on top of him, trapping him beneath them forever.
There he lay, trapped for eternity, forced to use almost all of his great strength to keep from being crushed.
He could see the Godâs face, contorted in fury, eyes burning red, hotter than molten iron. His wrath was held in check by mountains, but it could not be contained forever.
Kurzhon woke with a start, sitting up sharply and grunting loudly. He heard the crows above him rustling in the trees, still.
He rubbed his face with his hands, proving to himself that he was awake.
Kurzhon hated that dream. He hated to think of his God, mighty Vultaan, trapped under the mountains, waiting millennia for his followers to gain enough strength to free him.
And now, Rhona had assumed his place, as she was easily the most worshipped of the remaining Gods.
Heiromon could also assume Vultaanâs place, and often did, in places like New Shenjen, where worshipping a Goddess of War would not be acceptable.
Worst yet, was how the Gods sought to erase Vultaanâs very existence.
Most people did not believe Vultaan existed, if they had ever heard of him at all.
There were some versions of the texts that explained, briefly, that Vultaan was destroyed, but only as a footnote to the glory of the other Gods.
Only the Vultaikans knew the truth. That Vultaan was still there, still angry, ready to be freed by a large enough blood offering.
Plans were in the works to do just that. Only, they would have to wait.
Now, he had to deal with some fool wizard who had marked him. Kurzhon smiled, thinking of how he would offer that oneâs blood to Vultaan when the time came.
He laid back down, determined to salvage some sleep this night.
Then he closed his eyes and slept without dreaming this time.
Good times.
If you need someone to call people out on their bullshit, Kurzhon The Life-Taker is your man. He does not mince words. He hates giving people false hopes. He calls it as it is and does not care a squirt of horse piss for your feelings. He does not abide by any stupid code that makes otherwise strong and brave warriors weak. He hurts and kills without prejudice and is never one to extend a hand to a weak-willed person begging for his help.
As far as Kurzhon is concerned, if you are too much of a coward to help yourself, if you can't even be bothered to raise a sword in defense of the weak, then you're nothing but wasted space in Straifus.Â
He's an absolutely unlikable character. No redeeming quality to boast of to the very end (except maybe for his love of horses). Every one of his decisions, even if it seems to be in the service of others, always circles back around to self-preservation and a deep-seated need to quench a desire for blood and violence.
And yet, I kept reading about him. All 150,000+ words of him. Because his story has a way of engaging your senses, challenging your ideals, questioning your beliefs. He's also got a swagger about him, an attitude that makes reading about his tales and exploits quite enjoyable.
Right from the opening scene, you could tell that Kurzhon's cutting wit, unapologetic mouth, and no-fucks-given disposition are going to pave the way for more exciting and morbidly humorous interactions down the line.
He's a character reminiscent of Riddick, an anti-hero whom I absolutely adore. Which then begs the question, is he really as much of a villain as his reputation has made him out to be? What exactly makes a hero a hero, and a villain a villain? Does civilization really make civilized people, or is that just one of the many illusions we maintain to cover up the way we humans tend to abuse our rank and privilege to lord power over the weak?
The Life-Taker is a fun ride of a book, but one that also inspires some deep thoughts.Â
Additionally, the writing makes it really easy to visualize every scene without overloading the senses. The fight scenes are dynamic and well choreographed. Every painful blow felt real. Every fear, palpable.Â
The setting, cultures, histories and the mythologies are well thought out as well, mirroring a portion of our reality - both current and from times long past. However, there were points when I felt a little bogged down by details that felt unnecessary, and was left hanging on to some vague taste of mysteries yet to unfold, which was kind of frustrating. At the same time, this vagueness also worked well to whet my appetite for more of Kurzhon's tales and (mis)adventures.
I have questions. I expect to get them answered in a later book.Â
I am also not a fan of characters zoning out in the middle of an on-going scene to allow the reader a peak into their past. Also, I don't think people dream in Wikipedia pages (ie, info-telling instead of scene-showing) for the benefit of the reader. I felt that these parts of the book could've been presented in a better way.
But that aside, I really liked this book. And I am stoked that Kurzhon's tale does not end here. The Life-Taker may have made at least a couple of allies, but he's also made twice as much new enemies, all of whom will stop at nothing to capture him again. You'd think the people of Straifus have learned their lesson by now. Then again, maybe they have... ^^
Thank you John Garrett and Reedsy Discovery for the opportunity to read and review this book. â„