So, Stephen King eh. "I won't read anything by him because he only writes dodgy horror novels."
A common misconception is that King is a horror writer. However, those who know anything about him know the man is capable of writing in a variety of fields. Although, predominantly known for books such as "The Shining" and "Carrie" due to the hugely successful films, an increasing number have been following his Dark Tower series myself included. The Dark Tower series consists of seven books all of varying lengths and scope.

King got the idea to write this series of novels from a poem by Robert Browning called "Childe Roland to The Dark Tower Came". I will let those of you with the patience read it in its entirety at the end of this review as it is a truly wonderful piece; but for some idea on the inspiration behind the books here is an excerpt which sums up the massive undertaking King has taken on.

If at his counsel I should turn aside
Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescently
I did turn as he pointed, neither pride
Now hope rekindling at the end descried,
So much as gladness that some end might be.

Confused? Don't be. What this poem is about is a man's ceaseless quest to reach "The Dark Tower" (although there are several underlying meanings within) and as such this is the main focus of King's books.

This is all well and good Dave but what is the
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Dark Tower?
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The Dark Tower is the centre of all worlds. It is what binds them together. Represented by a single red rose it joins all worlds together by its "beams" of light. However, the Dark Tower is crumbling, the twelve original beams have failed and there is just one left. Hence, one man's quest to reach the tower and find the cause of the decline.

And who is this man on this unshakeable quest?
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Roland of Gilead, last in the line of the famous gunslingers. The world has moved on, things are changing and Roland wants to know why. Bound by Ka (fate) Roland must reach the tower.

Gunslinger?
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Imagine a gunslinger as a knight with guns. In this series a gunslinger shares the same nobleness, code of laws and honour within a Western environment.

The Books:

Book One

The Gunslinger

The shortest of the series to date and perhaps this is good. It gives a good introduction to Mid World where the majority of the books are set and introduces us to our hero. The action is fast paced and perhaps due to it being an early work of King (first published in 1978) is short on characterisation. We learn little of our main protagonist and the emphasis is definitely on plot.

It reads like an old fashioned Western and is none the worse for it. It is a story well told and has an ending, which makes it almost impossible to resist reading the next one in the series. Therefore, though not one of King's most polished works,it is definitely the most exciting.

Plot
*****

Roland is in hot pursuit over a never-ending desert for the man in black, a sorcerer named Walter. Roland blames Walter for the death of his mother and his exile from his homeland.

Along the way Roland stumbles across an old fashioned town and meets a woman called Alice whom he falls for. Unfortunately, Walter has already poisoned the minds of the people in the town and Roland must flee for his own sake.

In a strange place called "the way station" he encounters a young boy called Jake, a kid from New York with his own tale to tell. With his unlikely companion they continue their quest.
Roland is left with an agonising choice. Jake or the Tower?

Book Two:

The Drawing of the Three

A slower pace than the first book, the Western feel is replaced by a barren, rocky beachhead. We learn much more in this book about the thinking of Roland, his motives and his ruthless nature. We are also introduced to three major characters Eddie, a heroin addict, Odetta Holmes and Detta Walker a lady of shadows.

The advance in characterisation is probably due to the lengthy gap between this and the first novel as this novel was published in 1987, almost ten years later.

Plot
*****

Roland, anguished by the choices he has had to make finds himself washed up on a beach. Attacked by "lobstrosities" , maimed and poisoned Roland walks, limps and crawls his way towards the tower.

Upon finding a doorway to a strange world Roland enters the mind of Eddie, a Heroin addict and brings him into mid world. Will Eddie kill Roland or join him on his quest?

They come across another doorway this time "drawing" an unaware schizophrenic black lady known as Odetta, a rich dentist's daughter or Detta Walker a vicious killer. Will these women help or hinder their quest? Why has Ka chosen to bind this band of misfits together?

Book Three

The Wastelands

This is a departure from the other books as it centres on the lives of Jake and Eddie and the roles they play in the quest for the tower. Less action and more background orientated this book is less focused in mid world and more on New York. First published in 1991,with a post apocalyptic feel, this book successfully blends old-fashioned ideals with new technologies and thinking.

Plot
*****

Roland is going mad. He remembers two lives and can't decide which one is true. In another time and place Jake remembers his death but is clearly still alive. And what is the beautiful rose he sees in an abandoned lot? Which reality is true and can they figure out a way of coming together before they both go insane?

Meanwhile Eddie and Susannah (for Odetta and Detta have joined) are on their way to becoming gunslingers themselves. Shardik, one of the twelve guardians from times gone by, tests Eddie on this. Can he defeat this strange mechanical monstrosity?

Book Four

Wizard and Glass

This book acts as an interim, call it a toilet break if you will. There is little progress in the quest for The Tower. Instead we get the story of Roland. We are given information as to: where he comes from; what he is about; and what happened before he started his pursuit of Walter. This book reads strangely, as it is told in the past tense throughout but this makes it all the more engaging. It is nice to finally get to know what Roland is all about instead of the mechanical killing machine we were previously led to believe. First published in 1997.

Plot
*****

After making it through the wastelands onto Blaine, the mono, they realise Blaine is insane and will run itself of the tracks to kill them all. Will Eddie and his illogical thinking save them?Roland finally tells his story of love and loss as they are all now ka-tet (one from many).

Book Five

The Wolves of the Calla

The quest halts for a time here due to the plight of a group of farmers. It is in this book Jake becomes a man and Susannah once again becomes a lady of shadows. The most recent of the Dark Tower Books (2004) this is a novel in its own right which blends old and new seamlessly while harking back to the Western feel of the first novel.

Plot
*****

Roland and his ka-tet are asked to assist a group of farmers who are under attack by a group of "wolves". These wolves take their first-born child and return them retarded. Who are these wolves and why do they sound so familiar? Why is Susannah getting stomach cramps?

Meanwhile, the tower is under threat as the lot in which the rose stands is to be bought by an evil corporation. It is here that a familiar face to King readers turns up in the form of Pere Callahan (Salem's Lot). In this book he tells his story.

Book Six

Song of Susannah

The paths of the group seperate as Roland and Eddie search for Stephen King who they think is the link that binds them and The Dark Tower. However, this book centres on Susannah, her pregnancy and the demon possessing her. Who is Mia?

Plot
*****

Roland of Gilead continues in his quest towards the Dark Tower along with his friend and fellow gunslinger Eddie Dean in an attempt to stop it being destroyed. Meanwhile, Susannah is looking for somewhere to have her "chap" in New York while pursued by Jake and Father Callahan, from another King novel Salem's Lot, who are trying to get to save her from what could be a fatal birth.

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So, after all that rambling why should you read the books. The Dark Tower series read like a modern fairytale. It is the closest you will ever get to a present day Lord of The Rings and in many ways surpasses it. King effortlessly blends the old world into a shattered new one and his storytelling is constantly engaging (unlike this review!LOL!).

The genius with this series is that you can enjoy any one of these books individually or all together.

King has also written these books with his other books in mind. There are several references to characters from other books including Randall Flagg and Jack Mortimer as well as the welcome inclusion of Pere Callahan from Salem's Lot. It is not essential you have read his previous works but it certainly adds to the experience.
The man must have an amazingly logical mind as well as a wild imagination as he managed to include references to Star Wars and even Harry Potter!

Why do I read these books?

Well I have a penchant for fantasy mixed with reality and this succeeds on both fronts. The post apocolyptic vision King gives truly makes you think and the story is a compelling one. It is the presence of friendship, trust and loyalty which is evident in all King's books which make my favourite set of books with the right amount of humour and emotion throughout. It is one of few books were you care what happens to the characters. If you don't like King you should still read this. I promise you will not be disappointed.

I could write so much more but I have bored you all enough already. For those who want to know even more here is the official website http://www.stephenking.com/DarkTower/

Prices are from £5.99 to £17.99 for the current hardback of Wolves of the Calla (£11.99 on e-bay) and all books are available in WHSmith's Waterstones etc.

Thanks for reading. Dave

Update
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Book seven, the final book in the series, has been released and I will complete this review when I get my hands on a copy!

And as promised for those of you who liked the earlier excerpt here is Robert Brownings Childe Roland To the Dark Tower Came in full.

My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.

What else should he be set for, with his staff?
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
All travellers who might find him posted there,
And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,

If at his counsel I should turn aside
Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescently
I did turn as he pointed: neither pride
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,
So much as gladness that some end might be.

For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,
What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope
With that obstreperous joy success would bring,
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring
My heart made, finding failure in its scope.

As when a sick man very near to death
Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end
The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,
And hears one bid the other go, draw breath
Freelier outside ("since all is o'er," he saith,
"And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;")

While some discuss if near the other graves
Be room enough for this, and when a day
Suits best for carrying the corpse away,
With care about the banners, scarves and staves:
And still the man hears all, and only craves
He may not shame such tender love and stay.

Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ
So many times among "The Band" - to wit,
The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed
Their steps - that just to fail as they, seemed best,
And all the doubt was now--should I be fit?

So, quiet as despair, I turned from him,
That hateful cripple, out of his highway
Into the path he pointed. All the day
Had been a dreary one at best, and dim
Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim
Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.

For mark! no sooner was I fairly found
Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,
Than, pausing to throw backward a last view
O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round:
Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.
I might go on; nought else remained to do.

So, on I went. I think I never saw
Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:
For flowers - as well expect a cedar grove!
But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
You'd think; a burr had been a treasure trove.

No! penury, inertness and grimace,
In some strange sort, were the land's portion. "See
Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly,
"It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:
'Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place,
Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."

If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk
Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents
Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents
In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk
All hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk
Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.

As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair
In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud
Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,
Stood stupefied, however he came there:
Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!

Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.

I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.
As a man calls for wine before he fights,
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
Think first, fight afterwards - the soldier's art:
One taste of the old time sets all to rights.

Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
An arm in mine to fix me to the place
That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!
Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.

Giles then, the soul of honour - there he stands
Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.
What honest men should dare (he said) he durst.
Good - but the scene shifts - faugh! what hangman hands
Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands
Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!

Better this present than a past like that;
Back therefore to my darkening path again!
No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.
Will the night send a howlet or a bat?
I asked: when something on the dismal flat
Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.

A sudden little river crossed my path
As unexpected as a serpent comes.
No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;
This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath
For the fiend's glowing hoof - to see the wrath
Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.

So petty yet so spiteful! All along
Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;
Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit
Of mute despair, a suicidal throng:
The river which had done them all the wrong,
Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.

Which, while I forded, - good saints, how I feared
To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek
For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!
--It may have been a water-rat I speared,
But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.

Glad was I when I reached the other bank.
Now for a better country. Vain presage!
Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage,
Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank
Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank,
Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage--

The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.
What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?
No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,
None out of it. Mad brewage set to work
Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk
Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.

And more than that - a furlong on - why, there!
What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,
Or brake, not wheel - that harrow fit to reel
Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air
Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware,
Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.

Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood,
Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth
Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,
Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood
Changes and off he goes!) within a rood--
Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.

Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,
Now patches where some leanness of the soil's
Broke into moss or substances like boils;
Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him
Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim
Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.

And just as far as ever from the end!
Nought in the distance but the evening, nought
To point my footstep further! At the thought,
A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,
Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned
That brushed my cap--perchance the guide I sought.

For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,
'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place
All round to mountains - with such name to grace
Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.
How thus they had surprised me, - solve it, you!
How to get from them was no clearer case.

Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick
Of mischief happened to me, God knows when--
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,
Progress this way. When, in the very nick
Of giving up, one time more, came a click
As when a trap shuts - you're inside the den!

Burningly it came on me all at once,
This was the place! those two hills on the right,
Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;
While to the left, a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunce,
Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,
After a life spent training for the sight!

What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?
The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart
Built of brown stone, without a counterpart
In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf
He strikes on, only when the timbers start.

Not see? because of night perhaps? - why, day
Came back again for that! before it left,
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,--
"Now stab and end the creature - to the heft!"

Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears
Of all the lost adventurers my peers,--
How such a one was strong, and such was bold,
And such was fortunate, yet each of old
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met
To view the last of me, a living frame
For one more picture! in a sheet of flame
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,
And blew. "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came."