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). As things developed, I realized something much deeper was going on, and then I fell in love with this book. Not unlike Flaubert, Dorrian’s elegant writing and compelling storytelling kept me turning the pages. 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.
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. Yet I couldn’t put Flaubert’s masterpiece down even though I despised everyone in it. 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. Great books sometimes have unlikeable protagonists.
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