The Devils Audiobook – The Devils, Book 1

It’s hard to forget the morning I started The Devils—I was pacing the kitchen floor before sunrise, coffee in hand, half expecting the aroma to be replaced by blood and brimstone. Joe Abercrombie’s world is so raw and immediate that it doesn’t just invite you in; it kidnaps your senses and makes you question your own moral compass. And what a wild, dangerous ride this audiobook is—equal parts chaos, black humor, and bruised hope.

From its opening moments, The Devils sets fire to all expectations of “chosen one” heroics or spiritual certainty. Instead, we get Brother Diaz: earnest but utterly outmatched—a soul on a holy mission surrounded by outlaws who seem more likely to gut him than save his faith. Listening to Diaz reminded me of times in my own life when optimism felt almost foolish—like starting a new teaching job with grand ideals only to meet students who challenged every boundary (and maybe taught me more about myself than I wanted).

The real magic here is Abercrombie’s signature ensemble cast—the anti-heroes you shouldn’t trust but can’t help rooting for. There’s something uncomfortably relatable in their bickering camaraderie; they squabble over everything from tactics to theology with gallows wit sharp enough to cut glass. Steven Pacey brings them all vividly alive: each voice distinct, whether it’s the cannibal assassin whose prayers are as unsettling as her blades or the sorceress who can literally peel secrets from your skin (a metaphor for intimacy if there ever was one). Pacey manages not just accents and tone but the undercurrents—the despair behind bravado, the sly affection beneath insults—which left me alternately laughing out loud and feeling unexpectedly heartbroken.

One of my favorite aspects? The worldbuilding seeps through dialogue and action rather than dense exposition dumps. Every throwaway line hints at history; every choice echoes centuries of compromise between power and faith. Elves here are predators—not Tolkien’s beauties—and empires rot from within even as monsters mass at their borders. It’s a landscape where nothing is pure except perhaps loyalty among misfits.

I deeply admired how Abercrombie weaponizes dark humor against existential horror—one minute you’re wincing at violence or cruelty; the next you’re snorting because someone has cracked an off-color joke that feels both wildly inappropriate…and cathartic as hell. This balance is tricky: too much cynicism would feel empty; too much hope would ring false. But somehow The Devils threads that needle perfectly.

If there’s anything I struggled with during these 25 hours (and wow do they fly!), it’s occasionally wanting more quiet moments amid all the grit—a little space for introspection between knife fights and political betrayals. Sometimes emotional beats come so fast they blur together like rain against stained glass windows—you feel them even if you can’t name them all.

Still, this book left me breathless—deeply satisfied yet hungry for more stories about broken people finding slivers of meaning in darkness…even if those slivers look suspiciously like bloody daggers most days.

Steven Pacey deserves particular praise for capturing not just voices but entire souls—audiobook narration at its best should vanish into story, yet here I found myself marveling again and again at his choices: innocent Diaz unraveling chapter by chapter; monstrous allies baring teeth along with pain; side characters vivid enough that I’d flinch if one tapped my shoulder in Portland traffic.

If you love grimdark fantasy with brains behind its brawn—and find yourself smirking where others might gasp—I cannot recommend The Devils highly enough. Just don’t expect comfort food storytelling: prepare instead for existential hangovers…and maybe a newfound sympathy for sinners on doomed missions everywhere.