This is a sweepingly, fulsomely, voluptuously bromantic fantasy novel. Its Laurence of Arabia and The Song of Roland and Ivanhoe set in an alternate Reconquista Spain with a few extra suns in the sky. If you can let go and just roll with it, this will speak to the ten year old within you, the one that ran up a hill waving a stick and yelling for death and glory.
Personally I'm not a huge fan of epic fantasy, I often find it pompous and tiresome. It tends to be pretty humorless and I am massively irritated by the uncritical glorification of warrior aristocracies. The general failure to acknowledge in any meaningful way that these people are a tiny miniscule fraction of their society dominating but entirely dependent on a gigantic support system of people growing crops and birthing babies and building houses and weaving cloth and twisting rope and sailing and fishing and baking and - you know, actually doing the necessary work of the world - that kind of makes me crazy too.
But. If and to the extent I can leave that aside, there's good stuff here. Its grand operatic emotions, its glory and honor and the tragic passing of an age, loss and love and friendship and I can go with it for about an hour before the combined weight of all the stuff I have to ignore to believe just gathers into an enormous wave and comes crashing down on my head and smacks me out of the spell. But while it lasts, its a fairly glorious hour.
So if that's your kind of thing, this is a good one.