Sword and Sorceress 32

  edited by

  Elisabeth Waters

  The Marion Zimmer Bradley Literary Works Trust

  PO Box 193473

  San Francisco, CA 94119

  www.mzbworks.com

  Contents

  Sword and Sorceress 32

  Contents

  Introduction

  Elisabeth Waters

  The Sound of the Moon

  Robin Wayne Bailey

  A Librarian in Distress

  Rose Strickman

  Wight Nights

  Steve Chapman

  Unexpected

  Suzan Harden

  The Nature of Wraiths

  Dave Smeds

  Royal Daughters

  Elaine Cunningham

  The Girl from Black Point Rock

  Deborah J. Ross

  Shaman’s Quest

  Kevin L. O’Brien

  Save a Prayer

  Mercedes Lackey

  Add a Cup of Terror

  Michael Spence & Elisabeth Waters

  Deadly Questions

  Jonathan Shipley

  Sky, Clouds, and Sonam

  Catherine Mintz

  Hostages of Honeycomb

  Marian Allen

  Women’s Work

  Pauline J. Alama

  Authority Figures

  Michael H. Payne

  Till the Cows Come Home

  L.S. Patton

  Expiration Date

  Julia H. West

  Finding Truth

  Lorie Calkins

  About Sword and Sorceress

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Elisabeth Waters

  At Baycon, an annual science fiction convention in the San Francisco Bay Area, I attended a concert by a group called the Library Bards. They have a YouTube channel (in addition to Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, iTunes, a website, and several listings in the Internet Movie Database). When I got home I showed some of their YouTube videos to Ann Sharp (the trustee of the trust that publishes Sword and Sorceress). Our hands-down favorite was “Grammar Got Run Over”—sung to the tune of that unforgettable Christmas classic “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” I do reject stories for bad grammar and have been known to stop reading at the second grammatical error, or the first if I’m in a bad mood that day and have a lot of stories to get through.

  But there was a song the Library Bards performed at their concert that stuck with me—in fact, it’s still running through my head. It’s called “Geeky Girl” and it complains about female characters being left out of toy sets. The song laments, “I want to play with toys, but they’re all for boys...”

  I’m a writer and I play with ideas now rather than toys, but it got me thinking about the toys of my childhood. My grandmother referred to dolls as “doll babies,” which was a fair description. Most dolls available when I was a child were babies, presumably intended to prepare us for our adult careers as wives and mothers. “When you grow up, get married, and have children” was practically one word in our house. It’s scary to think that Barbie, which came along when I was around seven, represented progress. None of the dolls of my childhood could be considered even remotely heroic. G.I. Joe didn’t come along until I was in 6th grade, and that was for boys. Back then if you wanted to be brave and strong, you had to pretend to be a boy. And that’s my childhood. Marion Zimmer Bradley, who started these anthologies, was born in 1930, and I shudder to think of the role models available to her.

  Fortunately things have improved since then. What “Geeky Girl” complains about is not the lack of strong female characters but rather their absence from specific sets of toys. “Where’s Gamora? Where is Rey?” Movies and books nowadays do have characters who can be both female and heroic. And I’d like to think that this anthology series does its bit to add to that trend.

  The Sound of the Moon

  Robin Wayne Bailey

  You expect a person to remember her homeland, even many years later. But you don’t always expect the land to remember its people.

  During the editing/proofreading phase, I asked Robin about the name of the horse, because “the Gray” struck me as odd. He assured me that he actually had a horse with this name years ago.

  Robin Wayne Bailey is the author of numerous novels, short stories and books of poetry. He's the creator of the ongoing FROST series of books and stories; the BROTHERS OF THE DRAGON series, and the young adult trilogy, Dragonkin, as well as such stand-alone novels as Shadowdance, Enchanter and the Fritz-Leiber-inspired Swords Against the Shadowland. Many of his short works have been collected in two volumes, Turn Left To Tomorrow and The Fantastikon: Tales of Wonder, both from Yard Dog Press. He's also the editor, along with Bryan Thomas Schmidt, of the new humorous science fiction anthology, Little Green Men—Attack! He is a former two-term president of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America and co-founder, along with Grand Master James Gunn, of the Science Fiction Hall of Fame, which is now located in Seattle. He's extremely proud of his many appearances in the Sword and Sorceress series, as well as many other anthologies supported by the Marion Zimmer Bradley Trust.

  Frost stood at the edge of a high cliff in the pale glow of a full moon. A sharp salt-tinged wind whipped her dark hair and snapped the edges of her doeskin cloak as she stared outward over the tossing sea far below. A thousand ships, under full oar with sails furled and secure, approached the coast in attack formation. Their decks were lit with swaying lanterns, and the distant thunder of the oarmaster drums rolled over the water.

  Behind her, holding the reins of the horses, Kipling shouted. “Are you calling this wind?”

  She turned toward him, and the wind immediately whipped her hair around her face. She didn’t bother trying to tame it. The boy regarded her with wide eyes, hugging his cloak about his shoulders with one hand. “The wind is the wind,” she answered. “Come have a look!”

  “I’m close enough!” Kipling called back.

  Frost repressed a grin. Her companion didn’t like heights or cliffs. He had made that plain enough by courageously crawling on his hands and knees right up to the edge before turning pale and retreating away to take charge of their mounts.

  “I thought it might be you,” he called again. “It came up so suddenly.”

  Frost held up a finger. “Quiet,” she warned.

  She turned back toward the sea. The invading armada had made little progress against the churning waves. She had never seen a force so large, yet so determined. Banks upon banks of wooden oars beat the water into white foam around their prows, all in perfect time with the master drums. Grudgingly, she admitted that she found something admirable, even majestic, in the moonlit sight.

  Kipling crept forward on wobbly legs to stand beside her. “Who are they?” he whispered, barely audible over the wail of the wind. “I don’t see any banners or insignia.”

  Frost shrugged. “That’s the stuff of fantasies and tales,” she answered. “The enemy seldom announces itself. It comes at you without warning, usually in the darkness or at night.” She fell silent, waiting for Kipling to retreat from the edge again, but this time, the boy held his ground. “This is the navy of Mirashai. After all this time, I still recognize the cut and lines of their ships.”

  Battered by the wind, challenged by his fear of heights, Kipling drew his sword and leaned on it for balance as he watched the invaders.

  “Don’t do that,” Frost chided. “You’ll blunt the point and bend the blade on these rocks.” The boy drew himself up and quickly sheathed his weapon. Frost gave a soft shake of her head and paced along the cliff for another vantage. Pebbles shifted under her soft boots as she took a new position dangerously close to the edge and stared downward.

  The moonlight shimmered on a wide expanse of black, broken glass that stretched as far as she could see in the darkness. A strong, white-capped surf lunged and smashed against the unusual sand, but the shore held its own.

  “Everything the moonlight touches turns to magic,” Kipling murmured, following her, but a little further back from the edge. “It paints everything with an unreal glow. This is strange country.”

  “This is my home,” Frost answered. “This was my home. It was long ago.” She couldn’t help the wistful tone in her voice, nor could she stop the sudden cascade of memories. She had once stood on this very cliff with her mother at night, and down on that shore. The moon had been full then, too. And she had been much younger.

  “Then this is Esgaria!” Kipling exclaimed. “And those are your people!” He pointed to a cluster of kettle fires far back from the beach. In the red glow, shadowy figures moved among the natural rocks.

  “Not mine,” Frost said quietly, warning Kipling with a gesture once more to keep his voice down. “Esgaria is gone, devastated by a witch-war that left the country barren. Its people, if any are left, are scattered and forgotten.” She hugged herself. “History has nothing good to say about that land.”

  “It’s still your land,” Kipling said with surprising stubbornness. “No matter who we are or what we become, none of us can escape our heritage.”

 
Frost looked at the boy and grinned. Even in the short time they had traveled together, he had grown, and he had changed. “When did you become so wise?” she asked.

  He looked away toward the ships at sea. “Sometime after I met you,” he answered. “It snuck upon me when I least expected it. In the darkness, I think, or at night.”

  Frost gave a quiet laugh. “Are you mocking me?”

  Kipling drew his cloak around himself and walked a few paces away, his footing more certain as he became used to the height. “I never had a parent.” He spoke softly, but firmly. “I’ve never had a love, either. I don’t know which you are. I don’t know which I want you to be.”

  Frost stared at Kipling’s back, startled by his confession, not knowing quite how to respond. For the moment, she decided that the best answer was no answer. Behind them, the horses nickered. Then Ashur, her black stallion, stamped one nervous hoof on the stony ground. “Don’t make any quick moves,” she warned Kipling.

  Four large men in armor with spears and swords emerged from the darkness. Their faces were dirty and grim with eyes full of anger and suspicion. “What have we here?” one of the four said. “Spies?”

  “It’s a woman and a boy!” said another with a tone of surprise.

  Kipling walked slowly to stand beside Frost, but not too closely. He held his cloak wrapped around his body, as did she, to conceal the weapons they both wore. She half-smiled to herself. He had learned well. But as the four came into the full moonlight, she took closer note of the armor they wore. The metal looked tarnished, even rusted in places, but patterned in intricate fashion and blazoned with glyphs in a language she knew.

  “By what right do you wear the armor of Esgaria?” she said, keeping her voice calm. “You not Esgarian.”

  “You’re in no position to ask questions, woman,” said the first speaker, acting as leader of the four. “Obviously, you’re not spies, or if you are, you’re very poor ones. We saw you moving around up here. Your shadows and the moonlight gave you away.”

  Kipling bristled. “We weren’t trying to hide, and we’re not spies.”

  The leader’s eyes narrowed as he studied the boy. Then, he turned his gaze on Frost. “I’m not sure what you are,” he said. “Travelers, maybe. We saw the packs on your horses. But plainly you’re not threats to us, so we’ll just take those packs and your horses and any weapons you have, and leave you alone.”

  Frost opened her cloak to reveal the jeweled dagger she wore on her belt. “I assure you, Captain,” she answered, extending the small courtesy in hope of diffusing a situation. “You will not.”

  Kipling threw back his cloak, too, and drew his sword, but Frost gripped his arm. “Put it away, Kipling,” she told him, and the boy reluctantly obeyed. She looked back to the captain and smiled. “These men are no threat to us.”

  The captain growled and leveled his spear, but the man next to him, who had spoken before, knocked the point away with his own spear. Then, surprisingly, he set his spear on the ground and took a single step forward. He put one hand up to his breast-plate. “How is it that you recognize this armor as Esgarian?”

  The glyphs and symbols forged into the breast-plate moved under his fingers. Not even the tarnishing and rust could conceal the subtle shifting, nor dim the glowing traceries of ancient, forgotten metals that ignited under the moon’s touch. Kipling saw it, too, and stiffened, but he kept quiet. At her side, the jeweled dagger softly vibrated.

  The wearer of the armor perceived nothing. He was utterly oblivious to what hung upon his body. All of them were oblivious.

  The wind was weakening. Frost slowly looked back over her shoulder. Though the waves were still wild, the navies of Mirashai strained at their oars and began to inch toward the shore.

  She looked back to the four soldiers. “You don’t have much time,” she warned. “We should go down to your camp and consider your defenses.”

  One of the others, silent until now, snorted. “Who the hell are you to consider our defenses?”

  Kipling gave a low, one-note whistle. Ashur and the Gray responded, and both horses paced around the startled soldiers to stand at the boy’s side like powerful allies. “Well, I’m just a boy, as you shrewd men have already noted,” he said as he reached up to the saddle horn of the big black and unhooked the scabbarded blade that hung there. He handed it to Frost. “But she, on the other hand….” The light shone in his eyes as he hesitated and looked at Frost. “She is my teacher. And she’s about to become yours.”

  The one Frost had called captain scratched his head. The man beside him chewed his lip in thoughtful curiosity while the other two shifted nervously and waited for someone to make a decision. Frost studied them as they studied her, and finally she recognized them: farmers and undisciplined hillsmen, not soldiers at all.

  Taking Ashur’s reins, she swung up into the saddle as Kipling mounted the Gray. She glanced at him with some quiet pride, noting how the moon limned his broadening shoulders and made his youthful features seem older. “You men go ahead,” he told the four. “We’ll follow.”

  Frost grinned. When did command come so easily to the boy?

  As the soldiers obeyed and started back down the shallow slope, he reached out and touched her arm. “I saw the armor,” he said. “There’s magic upon it. On all of it. Why did I see that when they do not?”

  “Because you’re learning,” she answered. “As you travel with me, you cannot help but learn.” She added a caution. “You won’t always like the lessons.” She looked toward the departing soldiers. “That armor is infused with a dark and powerful witchcraft. It may serve them well in this coming battle, but it will change them.”

  Kipling bit his lip and his touch tightened on her arm. “What I said before, I was confused. I’m not now. Teacher is enough.” He nudged the Gray forward after the soldiers, leaving Frost alone.

  She touched the dagger on her belt. It was quiet again. The night was not so quiet. She listened to the beat of the master drums, stronger and nearer now as the invaders drew nearer, to the rush and crash of the surf on the black sand shore, to the soft wail of the wind over the clifftop.

  Esgaria. She whispered the word reluctantly, as carefully as if it was a spell. She wasn’t surprised at all when the land answered her, told her it had been waiting.

  She stroked Ashur’s withers, then nudged the stallion to catch up with Kipling and the others.

  The camp, such as it was, consisted of perhaps a hundred men and women clustered among the rocks and boulders that bordered the upper beach. They were a rag-tag lot, rail-thin, haggard of face, yet sharp-eyed, wearing armor and bearing weapons they didn’t begin to understand. They stared, silent and sullen, as Frost and Kipling rode in.

  Frowning, Frost rose in her stirrups and looked around. Despite the armor, they were not Esgarians, nor did they show the discipline or training to be an actual army. “Who are you people?” she called.

  A man stepped forward as the would-be defenders began to encircle Frost and Kipling. A few men drew swords. Frost took note of the glowing force-lines and etchings in some of the blades, even as she observed the sloppy manner in which most held those weapons. It only reinforced her first impression: they were not a true army.

  “My name is Soren,” he said. “I command here. Why were you spying on us?”

  “We’re not spies,” Kipling answered sharply, “and I’m getting tired of saying it.”

  Soren stared at Kipling, then looked back to Frost. “Your boy has a mouth on him.”

  “And a temper to go with it,” Frost admitted with a cautionary glance toward her companion. She wrapped her reins loosely around Ashur’s saddle horn and dismounted. Then she sighed as she regarded Soren. “You’re aware that a sizable fleet is approaching this shore even as we speak and you’re not the least prepared for it. What are you really? Farmers? Shepards? And whatever have you done to provoke the wrath of Mirashai?”

  Someone shouted from the circle. “We’re Esgarians! We have the right to defend our homes!”

  “No,” Frost answered dismissively. “You are not.” She unlaced her doeskin cloak and tossed it over Ashur’s saddle, letting all see the weapons she wore. “As for your homes, you may live here now, graze your herds here and raise your children. But never say that you are Esgarians.”