Great books sometimes have unlikeable protagonists. Take Madame Bovary, for example. I have to give props to Gustave Flaubert for crafting such a beautifully brutal examination of shallow, status-chasing jackasses about whom I cared not a whit. Yet I couldn’t put Flaubert’s masterpiece down even though I despised everyone in it.
You’re probably wondering, why is she talking about Nineteenth Century literature on Fantasy-Faction? Don’t worry, I’m really here to talk about Frank Dorrian’s Horns of the Hunter, a grimdark fantasy chock full of swordplay and fisticuffs—and thus about as far as you can get from Victorian-era hookups between housewives and cads. Nevertheless, I stand by the comparison to Madame Bovary, because Dorrian has written a beautifully brutal examination of shallow, skirt-chasing jackasses about whom I cared not a whit in a book I couldn’t put down. Not unlike Flaubert, Dorrian’s elegant writing and compelling storytelling kept me turning the pages. As things developed, I realized something much deeper was going on, and then I fell in love with this book.
Horns of the Hunter is a stand-alone novel set in the same world as Dorrian’s Tales of the Blackshield Dogs and Weaving Shadows series (I loved both the novella Scars of the Sand, which is gritty as its title promises, and the novel Shadow of the High King, which continues the story of a young warrior named Harlin). Like Madam Bovary, Horns of the Hunter is also a character study—in this case of two immortals, a god of war and a god of the forest, who defy their divine nature by giving into their basest instincts. First off, we a blend of Beowulf and G.R.R. Martin’s Mountain in Naith, a giant and a foul-mouthed braggart, a warrior god who’s never lost a fight and enjoys bedding other men’s wives and then crushing anyone who protests. We meet Naith as he’s doing just that to one of his cuckholds. After disabling the poor sot, he tears off his head, dances in the man’s blood, and kicks his skull across the breadth of his island homeland.
In contrast, Luw the Hunter is a pretty decent guy, at least when we meet him. A compassionate steward of the forest, he’s the underdog we want to root for as he endures Naith’s smack-downs. However, the conflict drives Luw to make increasingly poor choices wherein he proves himself just as capable of hubris and folly as his bullying rival.
The pair’s blood feud centers around Síle, a seemingly gentle, Persephone-like deity who reminds me of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Luthien—a stunning, raven-haired beauty in whose footsteps flowers grow (see Beren and Luthien review here.) Síle is no innocent maiden, however. She’s a loner who does as she pleases, including sharing her bed with whomever she likes. Naith and Luw each want an exclusive arrangement with her, and each thinks they can win her love by killing the other.
Because of all the single-minded, toxic masculinity, I initially had a hard time getting into Horns of the Hunter, but this changed when I gained insight into Síle’s part in the love triangle. Like the old song by the Waitresses, Síle knows what boys like, and she plays Naith and Luw as adroitly as Lita Ford plays guitar. It’s no secret that Síle is manipulating the two men—everyone keeps warning them about her, though neither listens to wisdom. Yet Síle has stirred up this rivalry as part of a larger strategy she’s been working on for centuries. Her history and goals make her the most fascinating character in the book, even though we see her only through the eyes of men who want her only as a mirror of themselves.
And there’s the crux of what I loved about this book—it’s all about the limits of the male gaze. Naith and Luw are blind to Síle’s true nature, because they never bother to think about her beyond her good looks and sympathy for them. All too often in fantasies, this sort of masculine narcissism is the status quo and has no consequences, but here, Naith’s and Luw’s failure to see past Síle’s surface—to recognize her as a whole person rather than merely a prize—threatens their entire world. I relished all the ways in which it became obvious that Síle was up to something deep and grand, but Naith and Luw continued to ignore her words and actions, unless it pertained to them. As their dreams of love turned into delusions, her plans came to fruition, and that was really delightful to watch.
It was also delightful to see how Dorrian handled love as a motivator, which reminded me of Michael Fletcher’s She Dreams in Blood (reviewed here), yet another book featuring an immortal black-haired beauty with a plan, who is seen only through the eyes of a male narrator. In both Fletcher’s novel and Dorrian’s, people risk everything for love, no matter how rotten it is. Naith’s early fight with the cuckhold heralds what’s to come. The man has no chance against Naith, but he challenges him anyway for the sake of his ravished wife (it’s not clear whether Naith seduced or raped the wife—the act is referenced only from Naith’s point of view, and he’s such an ass that he probably can’t conceive of a woman not wanting to sleep with him). However, at Síle’s sly and subtle urging, Naith and Luw are soon also challenging powers far beyond themselves in hopes of winning her love. They fight each other; they fight terrifying monsters; they fight death itself.
Dorrian’s prose really shines when he’s depicting these conflicts. His battles are both cinematic and visceral—not only do you see every strike and parry, you feel the hits as well. I may enjoy literary dramas set in Nineteenth Century drawing rooms, but I also love a well-constructed duel. Dorrian’s are among the best you’ll read, as he strikes the right balance between action and emotion, choreography and feeling. He also knows how to use combat to not only drive the plot forward but also develop character, as he shows us one of Síle’s suitors slowly coming to his senses while the other completely loses his mind.
But Dorrian is also a master of the quiet moment, and there are some graceful and heartbreaking ones in Horns of the Hunter. The fights may be the muscle and flesh of the book, but the interludes are the bones of this character study. Naith and Luw are deeply flawed men who take reprehensible actions in pursuit of an illusion of love, but they each have moments of self-reflection that offer us a glimpse of their better natures, the could-have-beens if they’d had a little more sense mixed in with their masculine sensibilities. This sort of deep character work is a hallmark of Dorrian’s books, and the reason why I’ll continue coming back again and again.
Jennie Ivins
JC Kang