The Bonehunters

“The past, even dead, especially dead, could continue to work harm.” – Leslie Fielder.

“The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past.” – William Faulkner.

The past is an uneasy thing. Suffering constant historical and political revisions, it’s restless, rarely remaining rooted in time, revealing a worrying tendency to extend its claws to the future and, just like Palpatine, somehow return. However, when the past is the starting point but also the destination, when it’s both past and future, it denies progress. The Bonehunters works precisely with the idea that the past can be prophecy: a relentless foe we tragically face as it materializes itself as… destiny.

The story follows the 14th Army of the Malazan Empire, led by Tavore Paran, which seeks to wipe out the last remnants of a big rebellion by eliminating its current leader, Leoman, as it chases him down to the city of Y’ghatan, known for being the stage of one of the Empire’s most famous military defeats: it doesn’t bode well for the Malazans, then, who are understandably anxious about history repeating itself. The very name Bonehunters, when referring to Tavore’s army, may symbolize exactly that: by hunting Leoman, much like the Star Wars producers, they’re going after a long-dead past.

The siege of Y’ghatan, which, given its ridiculous scope, could have fit quite well as the explosive final climax in any other fantasy book, here it’s the initial turning point in the story. And the buildup to it is all about the contrast between the two warring forces and their respective leaders: Tavore and Leoman.

On the one hand, Tavore’s army has numerical and technological superiority, but on the other, Leoman’s soldiers have more battle experience and geographic advantage – and the past at their side. Leoman’s soldiers are also fighting for a cause that they’re not only prepared to die for but also eagerly await this end, considering it glorious – no wonder they’re constantly referred to as “fanatics” by their own commander, while Tavore’s army seems lost and aimless, continuing the fight merely because it is commanded to. Leoman clearly shows he’s got a plan to defeat the Malazans, too, while Tavore is too introspective to reveal whether she’s as adrift as her soldiers or has something up her sleeve. Her loyalty to her men and to her mission is unshakable; however, while Leoman’s is even questioned by his right-hand man, Corabb.

Corabb is our way into Leoman’s rebellion. He’s a fascinating character who, at one point, is seen philosophizing about the stars, and, at another, resenting Leoman’s lover, revealing to possess both a poetic heart and a sexist stance. His character arc is all about deconstructing his binary worldview: at the beginning, Corabb completely vilifies the Malazans, assigning them exaggerated flaws, and embracing as the unquestioned truth any news or rumors that confirm their stereotyped – and therefore narrow – framing. I bet you’ve never met someone like that, right?

Corabb’s hatred for the other is depicted as necessary in order to conceal the violent nature of his own positions and attitudes under a veil of righteousness. In other words, Corabb needs to see his enemies as one-dimensional monsters so as to become blind to his own terrible faults. His trajectory, however, can be quite optimistic, as it shows a way out: Corabb gradually opens his eyes each time he’s faced with contrary evidence, instead of just dismissing them as false. Is this realistic? Probably not, but then again, Corabb doesn’t have access to Twitter and WhatsApp and so isn’t bombarded 24 hours a day by barely disguised political propaganda, so there’s that.

Few antagonists in The Bonehunters are not given some shades of complexity. Even a monstrous creature demonstrates its own sense of justice when we briefly observe the world from its point of view. Even Leoman, who is once described as “pure evil”, is far from being one-dimensional. Despite being treated as the antagonist, we see him being kind and sensible in several moments, and his genuine friendship with Corabb makes their dynamic almost tragic.

When the siege of Y’ghatan begins, we are following the Malazan sappers who will be responsible for breaking down the city walls. These books can be quite funny in some unexpected moments, and here we’re reminded – with a mix of amusement and worry – that the Malazan sappers are usually divided into two distinct groups: those who don’t know what they are doing, and those who do, but are quite insane and suicidal… and are handling explosives. It doesn’t come as a surprise, then, that as the actual battle unfolds, what we witness in Y’ghatan is a burst of blood, guts, and much, much fire.

The whole sequence is masterfully paced: the length of each point of view is shortened, making us jump from one to the other quickly and feel a disorientation that mirrors the chaos of the fight, while the length of the whole chapter is, on the other hand, increased, leaving us with no big pause to breathe: the siege of Y’ghatan is nerve-wracking and exhausting by design.

The narrative, however, never forgets to underline the human element involved, regardless of the side of the conflict: a Malazan soldier dies thinking about the varied ways he has failed his mother, suffering a kind of regression to a childish state, while a Leoman fanatic utters the name of a woman when he’s stabbed, which fills his foe with a deep sadness. In other words, the siege is framed as a tragedy all around, mourning the loss of so much life

The last part of the chapter – focused on a slow and excruciating escape – also allows several important characters to have more intimate moments of development. The highlight is a brief response (“A welcome gift”) that fittingly closes a certain character arc. Finally, this chapter also discusses themes dear to the series, presenting us with beautiful passages about compassion (“Compassion existed when and only when one could step outside oneself, to suddenly see the bars inside the cage”) and some poignant symbolism, like that of the “birth scene” that occurs near the end.

And this is all just in the first turning point in the novel.

The first.

There are other plotlines in the book, after all. And even though they may be less busy, they are not less engaging. We have Herboric’s journey with Felisin, for example, which mirrors the futility of what happened in Deadhouse Gates. The historian’s new companions are each one haunted by a specific past: Cutter, by guilt and a feeling of abandonment, after having been turned down by the woman he loves; Felisin, by Sha’ik’s legacy, which is looming over her; and Scillara – who is revealed to be the most insightful and empathetic member of the group – by the fruit of the abuse she suffered. All of them doomed to face the same problems over and over again: Herboric’s indifference continues to put those close to him in danger; Cutter’s guilt is further reinforced by more moments of powerlessness; Felisin retreads the steps of her predecessor; and Scillara continues to face male oppression. The past, my friends, can be a bitch.

We have Mappo and Icarium too, with the former also embodying the metaphor of the title, seeking to recover Icarium’s memories among the trail of bodies his friend left behind. The Trell struggles with the potential consequences of helping Icarium – their relationship gaining some amusing sexual undertones (“Would that you were a woman”) – since the discovery can destroy his friend entirely.  It’s just fitting, then, that Icarium’s name makes reference to Icarus, as his objective is his ruin: at a certain moment, Icarium seems to even fly to his memories.

And then we have Karsa Orlong, the barbarian whose gradual character’s growth can be clearly spotted in the dialogue, which now displays his newfound self-awareness regarding his own culture (“It is blood-oil that drives Teblor warrior to rape”), still some remnants of his literal way of thinking (“I shall, although it is not made of wood, and so it should be called Inn of the Brick”), and some new astute political insights (“Better is never what you think it is”). Karsa sees himself as a savior, but unlike the series’ main antagonists, he’s learned to value doubt and criticism, considering things such as tradition, certainty, and religion as prisons of the mind and the soul. I’m not saying Karsa would reduce certain real-life politicians to a bloody pulp using his bare fists, but…

Thematically ambitious, The Bonehunters is not afraid to delve into religious discussions either, passing judgment over any institution that restricts critical thinking and frames its doctrine as inviolable. The narrative frequently opposes certainty with doubt: while the former leads to righteousness and cages our thoughts, prohibiting us from even contemplating certain questions, doubt liberates the heart and the mind, for it allows the doors of empathy to be always open, never denying beforehand the perspective of the other. In other words, certainty can lead to oppression, to violence, providing justification for these horrible acts, while doubt makes us question our actions, our stances, and recognize our mistakes. That’s exactly the lesson Corabb learns.

Even monotheism is put in check: “The existence of many gods conveys true complexity of mortal life. Conversely, the assertion of but one god leads to a denial of complexity, and encourages the need to make the world simple. Not the fault of the god, but a crime committed by its believers.”

The Bonehunters also discusses how the belief in a paradise can have negative social consequences, as the promise of a happy afterlife can function as a tool of political control: it stimulates conformism in the face of oppression, making it difficult for changes to happen in this life as we put our faith solely in the next:

“There is something profoundly cynical, my friends, in the notion of paradise after death. The lure is evasion. The promise is excusative. One need not accept responsibility for the world as it is, and by extension, one need do nothing about it. To strive for change, for true goodness in this mortal world, one must acknowledge and accept, within one’s own soul, that this mortal reality has purpose in itself, that its greatest value is not for us, but for our children and their children. To view life as but a quick passage along a foul, tortured path – made foul and tortured by our own indifference – is to excuse all manner of misery and depravity, and to exact cruel punishment upon the innocent lives to come.”

Gods, meanwhile, play a pivotal role in the novel, being constantly associated with spiders, trapping mortals in their webs of political machinations. So, it’s curious to notice how it’s Cotillion the god to receive more projection here, as he appears to be the only deity that acts directly to fight injustice. Cotillion never conceals that he manipulates humans and plays with them, but he also shows traces of empathy, such as when he proactively informs Apsalar of what he knows about Crokus. As Paran defends in a certain moment, it is the gods who claim compassion, yet remain inert, who most need to account for the injustices of the world – a criticism that reaches even one of the most interesting characters of Midnight Tides.

Finally, if the final climax is not bigger in scope than the siege of Y’ghatan (how could it, really), it still manages to be even more thematically important. It deconstructs history, with characters defending that history is not about facts, but narratives: history, when it’s recounted, is a form of discourse that, despite expressing a certain ideology, has the appearance of truth. It should strive for accuracy and precision, but it is still an account, a discourse, a tale: it’s subject to subjective elements such as point of view and interpretation. That’s why history can always be revised when convenient, which can sometimes be beneficial and fix some injustices, but sometimes can also culminate in the repetition of terrible errors.

However, the confrontation in the climax manages to find an optimistic side to this discussion by being interspersed with a special melody: a song that honors figures from previous books and shows that if the past foretells tragedies, it can also predict some victories.

At some point in the novel, Karsa Orlong meets some people who refer to the past as “Frozen Time”. It’s a perfect metaphor, because while it puts the past as being initially frozen, locked in time, preserved, it also assumes that just a little heat is enough to bring it back to life. In The Bonehunters, the past does not remain static. It’s more than a warning; it’s an omen: it’s not enough to be cautious about it and heed its warning; it’s necessary to actively fight to – perhaps, if we’re lucky – avoid its repetition.

May 27, 2026.

Review originally published in Portuguese on April 28, 2018.