Gemmell's name guarantees a satisfying story and a thumping good

Host: The afternoon sun slanted through the windows of a quiet secondhand bookstore, dust spinning in the golden air like tiny stars. The place smelled of old paper, coffee, and a faint trace of rain from the street outside. Somewhere in the back, an old record played a slow jazz tune, its crackles syncing with the heartbeat of the room.

Jack stood in front of a shelf marked Fantasy Classics, a book in one hand, his thumb tracing the embossed title: Waylander by David Gemmell. His eyes, cold and grey, flickered with something that wasn’t quite nostalgia—more like recognition.

Jeeny approached, a stack of books balanced in her arms, her hair falling into her eyes, her smile soft. She noticed what he was holding, and her brows lifted with quiet delight.

Jeeny: “Ah, Gemmell. I should’ve guessed. You’ve got the look of someone who’d love his kind of heroes—the broken, brooding, morally questionable type.”

Jack: “Neal Asher once said, ‘Gemmell’s name guarantees a satisfying story and a thumping good read... my favourite has to be Waylander: Clint Eastwood with a crossbow and the same “Make my day, punk” attitude.’”

Host: Jack spoke the words almost reverently, though his tone carried that usual cynical undercurrent, the kind that wrapped around admiration like barbed wire.

Jeeny: “I know that quote. And I agree with Asher. Waylander isn’t just a hero; he’s a reflection of our contradictions. The man who’s both the sword and the scar.”

Jack: “Or just another killer wrapped in a cool quote. I mean, come on—‘Clint Eastwood with a crossbow’? That’s not heroism, Jeeny. That’s style. People love Gemmell because he makes violence poetic, revenge noble, and cynicism heroic.”

Host: He set the book down on the table, the cover catching the light—a figure in a cloak, a crossbow, a shadowed face.

Jeeny: “You call it style, Jack, but I call it myth. And myths are the language we use to understand pain. Waylander isn’t great because he kills—he’s great because he’s haunted by it. That’s what makes him human.”

Jack: “Haunted, sure—but still celebrated for it. We worship our wounded warriors and forget the corpses they step over. That’s the trick of good storytelling—it makes you forget the blood and remember the pose.”

Host: Jeeny frowned, her eyes darkening. She placed her books down, the sound echoing faintly through the store.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re too afraid to admit that those stories matter, Jack. They remind us that even the damaged can redeem themselves. Look at Druss the Axeman—an old man, still fighting not for glory, but for honor. Or Waylander—the assassin who saves a kingdom. Isn’t that something worth believing in?”

Jack: “Believing in fictional redemption doesn’t make the real world cleaner. We love heroes like Waylander because they let us escape the truth—that sometimes, there is no redemption, just survival.”

Host: The record crackled, pausing, before drifting into another melody—something slow, melancholic. Outside, the rain returned, tapping against the glass with a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat remembering loss.

Jeeny: “So you’re saying stories are lies?”

Jack: “Not lies—just comforts. The kind that keep us quiet while the world burns. Gemmell’s heroes, Eastwood’s outlaws—they’re all just fantasies for people who can’t stand the banality of real morality.”

Jeeny: “No. They’re mirrors for people who need to remember that strength and mercy can coexist. You see cynicism, I see courage. Waylander doesn’t pretend to be pure—he knows he’s flawed, and still chooses to do the right thing. That’s rarer than perfection.”

Jack: “Or convenient. It’s easy to give a killer a tragic backstory and call him deep. But the truth is, we just romanticize darkness because it feels more real than hope.”

Host: Jeeny moved closer, her voice softer now, her words gentle but firm.

Jeeny: “Maybe, Jack. But even darkness needs a narrative, or it just consumes you. That’s what writers like Gemmell understood. They build heroes not to glorify violence, but to tame it. To remind us that even in a world of blades, you can still choose mercy.”

Jack: “You talk like mercy is a weapon.”

Jeeny: “It is. The only one that’s ever really worked.”

Host: Jack’s eyes narrowed, but there was something in them—an uneasy respect, a crack in the armor. He picked up the book again, flipping it open to the first page, his fingers pausing over a line.

Jack: “‘The way of the assassin is solitude.’”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He’s not proud of his path. He’s alone because he knows what he’s done. But that’s the beauty—he keeps fighting anyway. Not for redemption, but for others. That’s not escapism, Jack—that’s responsibility turned into art.”

Jack: “And yet it’s still fiction. No assassin in the real world gets forgiven because he saves a few villages after a lifetime of murder.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But the idea of him can still teach us. That’s what Asher meant—‘a satisfying story, a thumping good read.’ It’s not just about the fight, it’s about the feeling it leaves behind. Gemmell’s heroes don’t just kill—they make us want to live better.”

Host: The rain had eased, and the sun broke through the window, catching the floating dust, turning it into a galaxy of light.

Jack: “You really think a story can change that much?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because I’ve seen it. I’ve seen kids who read Legend or Waylander and decide to stand up for something. Stories don’t just reflect reality—they reshape it, quietly.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s why we keep reading them. Because the real world won’t give us heroes, so we borrow them.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, nodding slightly, her eyes shining with the kind of light that comes from both belief and loss.

Jeeny: “Yes, Jack. And sometimes, that’s enough.”

Host: The store fell silent, except for the soft hum of the record and the rustle of pages. Jack closed the book, his hand still resting on the cover.

Jack: “Maybe Asher was right. A ‘thumping good read’ isn’t just about the story—it’s about the heartbeat you feel when it’s over.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe that’s the closest we ever get to being heroes ourselves.”

Host: Outside, the sky cleared, the rain gone, the air washed clean. The light pooled over the shelves, illuminating the titles—names and worlds etched in ink and memory.

Jack and Jeeny stood side by side, silent, the book between them like a shared weapon—not for war, but for understanding.

Host: And as the record crackled one last time, it was as if the world itself had turned a page—from darkness, toward story, toward the quiet courage of fiction that still believes in heroes.