There are some authors who have a knack for making you feel that you are listening to an old story, something passed down through generations, with all the weight of legend behind it. David Gemmell was particularly good at this, and Sword in the Storm, the first book in the Rigante series, is a cracking example of what he could do when he was firing on all cylinders. It has heroes, battles, political scheming, supernatural elements and plenty of bloodshed, but underneath all that action is a story about what makes a person who they are, and whether any of us can truly escape the destiny laid out before us.

At the heart of the story is Connavar, a young man whose life is shaped by events both personal and political. As he grows from a boy into a warrior and eventually a figure of considerable importance, we follow his struggles to understand himself, his responsibilities and the world around him. Gemmell takes his time establishing Connavar’s character, and I appreciated that. He isn’t simply born a hero, ready to stride into battle with a suitably impressive weapon and a dramatic speech. He makes mistakes, carries emotional baggage and sometimes allows his pride to get the better of him. That makes his journey considerably more interesting than watching another infallible warrior hack his way through an army of disposable enemies.

The setting is another of the book’s real strengths. Gemmell’s Keltoi, Men of Stone and Vars draw on recognisable elements of ancient European history, particularly the Celtic peoples and the conflicts between tribal societies and expanding military powers. The Keltoi evoke the ancient Celts, with their warrior culture, clan loyalties and spiritual traditions, the The Men of Stone have something of the organised, expansionist power of Rome about them, while the Vars bring in the Anglo-Saxon and Norse raiders. The Sidhe add another layer of mystery to a world where history, myth and supernatural forces are never entirely separate.

Gemmell isn’t attempting to give us a straightforward historical novel, of course. This is fantasy, and he cheerfully mixes historical inspiration with legend and magic. Nevertheless, the parallels give the conflicts a satisfying sense of authenticity. You can understand why different peoples fight, why traditions matter so much to them and why the arrival of a powerful outside force threatens more than just their territory. It threatens their entire way of life.

And that brings us neatly to the book’s themes. Honour, duty and destiny are woven throughout the narrative, although Gemmell is far too sensible to present any of them as uncomplicated virtues. Honour can inspire courage and loyalty, but it can also become an excuse for stubbornness and unnecessary violence. Duty can mean standing by your people when things become difficult, yet it can also demand sacrifices that leave you wondering whether the price is worth paying. Connavar’s struggles make these questions feel personal rather than merely philosophical.

Destiny is particularly important. There is a sense that certain people are destined to shape events, but Gemmell also explores the uncomfortable possibility that believing yourself destined for greatness can become a dangerous trap. Are we fulfilling some grand design, or are we simply making choices and dealing with the consequences? I enjoyed the way the story leaves room for both possibilities. Its social commentary is never heavy-handed, but there is a clear awareness of how leaders, traditions and collective loyalties can shape the lives of ordinary people, often without giving them much say in the matter.

Naturally, this being David Gemmell, there is plenty of action. The battles have a visceral quality, and the violence carries genuine consequences rather than serving merely as an excuse for increasingly elaborate descriptions of swordplay. There is also that familiar Gemmell fascination with courage in the face of overwhelming odds, and with the idea that the best of us can emerge when everything seems lost. Sometimes the characters lean a little too heavily into the familiar heroic archetypes, and a few developments feel more predictable than I would have liked. The occasional melodramatic moment is another reminder that Gemmell was not always the most subtle of writers. Personally, though, I find these minor shortcomings easy enough to forgive.

I listened to the audiobook narrated by Adjoa Andoh, whose performance does a great deal to bring this world to life. She gives the characters individuality, handles the shifts in mood well and captures the weight of Gemmell’s more reflective passages without allowing them to become ponderous. There is real energy in the action scenes, too, and she understands the storytelling rhythm that makes this sort of epic fantasy work so well in audio.

I do, however, have one small but persistent complaint. Her pronunciation of Sidhe set my teeth on edge. It is the sort of thing that might not bother another listener in the slightest, but once it caught my attention, I found it rather difficult to ignore. Thankfully, the overall quality of her narration more than compensates for this particular irritation.

All in all, Sword in the Storm is an excellent start to the Rigante series. It combines the sweep of epic fantasy with recognisable historical influences and a surprisingly thoughtful exploration of honour, responsibility and the burden of destiny. It may occasionally fall back on familiar genre conventions, but Gemmell’s ability to create compelling characters and make their struggles matter carries the day.

If, like me, you enjoy fantasy that offers more than an endless succession of battles and increasingly powerful enemies, there is plenty here to get your teeth into. Connavar’s story is both a rousing adventure and a meditation on the choices that define us. I’m certainly looking forward to seeing where Gemmell takes the Rigante next.

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