If fantasy were a cathedral, Joe Abercrombie would be its most irreverent high priest — the one who rips down the stained glass to let in the storm. The Devils, his latest return to grimdark glory, is less a novel than a reckoning: blood-slick, darkly funny, and aching with the futility of power. For long-time fans of the ethos he forged with The First Law, it’s both a familiar dirge and a terrifying new hymn.

A world reborn in sin and strategy

Set in a fractured continent still staggering from holy wars, The Devils opens with outlaws, mercenaries, and manipulators who make the word “hero” sound obscene. Abercrombie’s worldbuilding has always been less about maps and more about moral fault lines, and here he digs deeper — into theology, technology, and the thin crust of civility that holds a kingdom together. Unlike classic epic fantasy that builds toward salvation, this novel stares into damnation and finds purpose there. Every city feels lived-in and haunted, every negotiation a chess match where each piece bleeds.

Characters who claw at their fate

Abercrombie’s greatest strength is his ability to sculpt moral chaos into arcs that feel unnervingly human. There’s a sellsword who worships efficiency like a faith, a heretic priest haunted by the gods he stopped believing in, and a noblewoman who can’t tell if her ambition or her conscience shouts louder. Dialogue flashes like steel — fast, sharp, and cruelly revealing. Even when the tempo slows, there’s music in the menace: a rhythm that hums with fatalism.

Themes: power, corruption, and the performance of belief

Beneath the gore and gallows humor, The Devils is a meditation on belief — political, religious, and personal. The book asks the oldest fantasy question (“what makes a monster?”) and answers with the modern one (“and what makes a leader?”). The trademark cynicism has evolved: where The Blade Itself reveled in futility, this novel recognizes resilience. A thread of melancholy runs through the brutality — a grudging tenderness for people who keep trying, even when the world is rigged to break them.

The craft behind the carnage

Abercrombie’s prose remains a masterclass in rhythm and restraint. He spares no brutality, yet never lets blood dull the wit. Sentences crackle with precision: not a word wasted, not a cliché in sight. Pacing is deliberate — a slow, bruising build that erupts into scenes so vivid you can almost taste the iron. It isn’t a popcorn read; it’s a dark symphony that rewards readers who savor language as much as plot.

Why The Devils matters

In a genre often obsessed with chosen ones and destiny, Abercrombie writes about the damned. The book doesn’t redeem its characters — it understands them, which is rarer. The closing movements carry a strange beauty: even monsters can pray, even cynics can hope, and even devils can dream of justice. It also marks an evolution in his storytelling: the wit is sharper, the empathy quieter; he’s writing not only for shock, but for legacy.

Final verdict

Ari’s take: The Devils is Abercrombie at his most unholy and humane — a brutal meditation on what power costs and who gets to wield it. It’s the kind of book that makes you underline entire paragraphs, then stare into space afterward, wondering if you’ve just read prophecy disguised as profanity.