III
UNFETTERED
III
UNFETTERED
New Tales by Masters of Fantasy
EDITED BY Shawn Speakman
SEATTLE, WA
Unfettered III is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these stories are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.
UNFETTERED III Copyright © 2018 by Shawn Speakman.
All rights reserved.
“The Heart Box” by Callie Bates. © 2018 by Callie Bates.
“Allanon’s Quest” by Terry Brooks. © 2012 by Terry Brooks.
“Among a Throng of Bilious Octogenarians” by Delilah S. Dawson (with Kevin Hearne’s blessing). © 2018 by D. S. Dawson.
“The Stone Golem of Qual’Jom” by Jason Denzel. © 2018 by Jason Denzel.
“Kneeling Before Jupiter” by David Anthony Durham. © 2018 by David Anthony Durham.
“Everybody Said It Would Hurt” by Lev Grossman. © 2018 by Lev Grossman.
“The Heir Apparent” by John Gwynne. © 2018 by John Gwynne.
“Blood of the Sardaukar” by Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson. © 2019 by Herbert Properties LLC.
“A Fire within the Ways” by Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson. Copyright © 2019 by The Bandersnatch Group, Inc.
“A Thousand Years” by Mark Lawrence. © 2018 by Mark Lawrence.
“Second Chances” by Megan Lindholm. © 2018 by Megan Lindholm.
“Prologue: Second Book of The Evertide” by Todd Lockwood. © 2018 by Todd Lockwood.
“Stripes in the Sunset” by Seanan McGuire. © 2018 by Seanan McGuire.
“Seven” by Naomi Novik. © 2018 by Naomi Novik.
“The Paper Man” by Peter Orullian. © 2018 by Peter Orullian.
“Merchants Have Maxims” by Cat Rambo. © 2018 by Cat Rambo.
“Thasha’s Cure for Cabin Fever” by Robert V. S. Redick. © 2018 by Robert V. S. Redick.
“Of Anchor Chains and Slow Refrains and Light Long Lost in Darkness” by Ken Scholes. © 2018 by Ken Scholes.
“Throwdown” by Scott Sigler. © 2018 by Empty Set Entertainment.
“Gold Light” by Anna Smith Spark. © 2018 by Anna Smith Spark.
“The Fire-Risen Ash” by Shawn Speakman. © 2018 by Shawn Speakman.
“How Not to Invade a Country” by Anna Stephens. © 2017 by Anna Smith.
“Hawkeye” by Patrick Swenson. © 2018 by Patrick Swenson.
“The Spectral Sword” by Ramón Terrell. © 2018 by Ramón Terrell.
“All That Glitters” by Marc Turner. © 2018 by Marc Turner.
“Sidekick” by Carrie Vaughn. © 2018 by Carrie Vaughn, LLC.
“The Hidden” by Tad Williams. © 2018 by Tad Williams.
“Dancing on the Edge” by Deborah A. Wolf. © 2018 by Deborah A. Wolf.
All rights reserved.
Dust jacket artwork by Todd Lockwood Interior chapter illustrations by Kaitlund Zupanic
Book design and composition by Rachelle Longé McGhee
Signed, Limited Edition ISBN 978-1-944145-33-0
Trade Hardcover Edition ISBN 978-1944145-23-1
Emerald City Comic Con Exclusive Edition ISBN 978-1-944145-34-7
eBook ISBN 978-1944145-26-2
First Edition, March 2019
2 4 6 8 9 7 5 3 1
Grim Oak Press
Battle Ground, WA 98604
www.grimoakpress.com
For my father, Richard Louis Speakman
Who taught lessons that will last a lifetime
“I think you have a moral responsibility, when you’ve been given far more than you need, to do wise things with it and give intelligently.”
—J. K. Rowling
“A scar is never the same as good flesh, but it stops the bleeding.”
—Robin Hobb
Table of Contents
Foreword
Introduction
The Heart Box by Callie Bates
Everybody Said It Would Hurt by Lev Grossman
A Thousand Years by Mark Lawrence
Among a Throng of Bilious Octogenarians by Delilah S. Dawson
Blood of the Sardaukar by Brian Herbert & Kevin J. Anderson
Allanon's Quest by Terry Brooks
Kneeling Before Jupiter by David Anthony Durham
Stripes in the Sunset by Seanan McGuire
All That Glitters by Marc Turner
The Heir Apparent by John Gwynne
Dancing on the Edge by Deborah A. Wolf
Prologue: Second Book of The Evertide by Todd Lockwood
Thasha's Cure for Cabin Fever by Robert V. S. Redick
How Not to Invade a Country by Anna Stephens
The Paper Man by Peter Orullian
Merchants Have Maxims by Cat Rambo
Of Anchor Chains and Slow Refrains and Light Long Lost in Darkness by Ken Scholes
Second Chances by Megan Lindholm
The Hidden by Tad Williams
Throwdown by Scott Sigler
Sidekick by Carrie Vaughn
Hawkeye by Patrick Swenson
The Spectral Sword by Ramón Terrell
Gold Light by Anna Smith Spark
The Stone Golem of Qual'Jom by Jason Denzel
A Fire within the Ways by Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson
Seven by Naomi Novik
The Fire-Risen Ash by Shawn Speakman
Acknowledgments
Landmarks
Cover
FOREWORD
by Jacqueline Carey
Shawn Speakman didn’t have to do this twice; and he certainly didn’t have to do it a third time! And yet here it is, Unfettered III, with another fantastic lineup.
The original Unfettered anthology was conceived as a way to help Shawn retire medical debt after being treated for Hodgkin’s lymphoma in 2011. The proceeds from subsequent volumes go toward cancer research and assisting other writers, creatives, and their supporters with medical debts.
Perhaps you’re looking at this stellar array of authors who have contributed short stories or novellas and asking yourself, “Huh, why would so many heavy hitters in the field just donate their work?” The answer is twofold, and the first part is that Shawn’s simply a heck of a nice guy. Many of us (and I count myself as a member of the Unfettered crew, having a story in the first volume) have worked with him for years in a variety of capacities, and we know him to be a tremendously generous supporter of his fellow writers.
The second reason is that each and every one of us knows we could find ourselves in the same predicament. Writing fiction for a living means existing with a great deal of uncertainty—and a lot of responsibility. It’s not a job that comes with benefits. It’s not a job that comes with health care. It’s not a career in which you can reliably predict your income from year to year. A book might take off . . . or it might tank. Who knows?
At least with the passage of the Affordable Care Act, it’s easier for authors and self-employed people of every ilk to procure health insurance. But as of this writing, the ACA remains under attack by politicians who don’t have to worry about their own health care—and the plans that actually are “affordable” carry staggeringly high deductibles. There are very, very few of us in the field who can be confident that we aren’t one devastating diagnosis away from severe financial peril—and among those few who are, you can be damn well sure that we have friends and colleagues who are at risk.
So we do what we can. We write stories. We do our best to infuse the world with the wonder of magic and the beauty of science. With the help of people like Shawn, we use the tools at our disposal to lift up and support our community of science fiction and fantasy writers, and the broader community of hu
mankind.
Enjoy, and know you’re doing good in the world!
Jacqueline Carey
Author
October 2018
INTRODUCTION
The Power of Three
I had no idea what the future would hold when I planned Unfettered in 2011.
In truth, how could I? The present took precedence over that future. I spent every day recovering from two surgeries and six months of chemotherapy—necessary evils to combat the greater evil of cancer. Knowing I must, I fought to create Unfettered from nothing. I gave little thought to a future in publishing, of writing, or even what the next day could bring.
Now, seven years later, I look back fondly at that time, remembering how my author friends rallied to my banner. They did so again with Unfettered II, to raise money for others in similar dire straits. Now the publication of Unfettered III continues that mission. These authors contribute works of the fantastic because they believe in the power of our geek community making a difference. In short, they believe in you, the reader. It warms my heart to no end.
But as I sit here writing this introduction, I am reminded that the true power of these anthologies resides within their pages—great stories written by authors at the top of their game. And Unfettered III has both, no doubt. I never thought one day I’d publish a Shannara tale. Or a Dune entry. Or any part of the Wheel of Time, let alone a novella-sized Perrin story. Or powerful new contributions featuring gorgeously wrought prose from writers like Seanan McGuire, Callie Bates, and Naomi Novik. Or grimdark by Anna Smith Spark, Anna Stephens, and Mark Lawrence. The list goes on and on. I am humbled by Unfettered III. I think you are in for one helluva read!
That is not all though. Unfettered III is why I keep publishing and hope to do so for many years to come. I can see that future now. These anthologies are a testament to great storytelling but more than that. It shows the character and strength of our reading community—and our humanity. We rise to help others when they are down; we fight for those in need when our needs have been met.
And magic is within the words and hearts of us all.
Shawn Speakman
Editor and Publisher
December 2018
III
UNFETTERED
CALLIE BATES
THIS STORY HAS BEEN RATTLING AROUND IN MY HEAD FOR ABOUT A decade—if I’m honest, ever since I first saw Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End. While that may seem an unlikely beginning for this particular short story, Davy Jones’s heart box got me thinking. Why would anyone really want to part with their heart? What would it feel like; what would it mean for them? And what could possibly make them change their mind?
A personal note: this story features a character battling leukemia. As a cancer survivor myself, I’ve long sought an opportunity to portray a fraction of the emotional and physical intensity of this experience in fiction. More than anything, I’ve wanted to show how complex cancer can be; how it doesn’t necessarily rob us of life but instead can make each moment all the more vital. We don’t just survive cancer. Cancer can show us how to better appreciate the depth and power of our own hearts.
Callie Bates
The Heart Box
Callie Bates
1. Before
What he had before the accident:
Barbecues
God
Vacations
Children (their faces a blur of memory and perpetual motion)
A shared bottle of wine
A spouse (the lavender smell of her hair)
Laughter
Swing sets
Parents (who seized the grandchildren in their arms without seeming to notice anyone else)
His heart
2. After
His heart ached, though his wounds healed. It ached when he woke, it ached when he bicycled to work, it ached on his lunch break, and it ached most of all when he came home. He sold the house and boxed up all his belongings, donated dresses and dolls and toys to charity, and moved to an apartment as blank as a chalkboard, its sterile windows overlooking a parking lot and a blackened, sickly river. But his heart still ached, and even the cardiologist said she could do nothing for him.
“But it aches,” he said.
“There isn’t anything wrong with your heart.” She offered him a mother’s smile. “Maybe you need a meditation class. Yoga. Self-love. Do you have a faith?”
On the wall above her computer station hung a portrait of a woman in a red dress, her head haloed in a golden nimbus, her gaze as gentle as it was fierce. The sight of it gutted him, for reasons he couldn’t explain.
“Faith?” he said. “How could I have that?”
He had hoped for a prescription. A procedure. Something. Anything. But he walked empty-handed out of the clinic’s beige corridors.
There were other ways, though. Other methods. He had a friend. Most people have a friend like Larry, when they need one, though if he’d thought about it he might have wondered whether Larry was really a friend to anyone.
Even Larry thought the idea a bit extreme. “That’s gonna kill you, dude. Heroin would be safer.”
“It won’t kill me.” He couldn’t stand to think about heroin, or alcohol, or the myriad ways of coping that were not love or faith or lotus position. He did not want any of those answers. It was simple: he wanted to feel nothing.
In the end, Larry sold him the box, but he didn’t take Larry’s offer of help or even the antibiotics.
“You’re going to be dead,” Larry said—but, well, wasn’t that the point?
He went back to the colorless apartment. First he called his boss and explained that he needed a week off—mental health time. He tried not to hear the relief in her voice when she said he must take as long as he needed, that he should just call when he was ready to come back.
He hung up the phone, locked the doors, and opened the windows. Summer had died into autumn, and its warm golden light transformed the barren room. Birds sang in the scraps of trees along the turgid river far, far below him. He closed his eyes. His dad had been a birdwatcher—not a very good one, but he knew his way around a pair of binoculars. The birds were some kind of warbler, he thought. Their song wrapped shining filaments of sound around his heart.
If he did it, he knew the birdsong would mean nothing to him.
He went into the kitchen and got out a knife, the sharpest one he had. Before he could think much more about it, he stripped off his shirt, mopped a cotton ball with some antiseptic, and began to cut. It took a long time and when, at last, the heart came out, he realized he hadn’t given much thought to sewing the wound back up. But when he patted the skin back into place and wrapped it with cotton gauze, it began to scab over.
The heart was smaller than he’d imagined it would be, and more scarlet. It thumped in his hands.
He put it into the cherrywood box he’d gotten from Larry and fixed it with a padlock. Already the gentle numbness had begun to settle in, a soft static that filled the gaps where his heart had so recently beat. He took the box and nestled it in the back of the closet in his bedroom, where it disappeared behind white shirts and gray suit coats. Then he laid down on his bed and fell asleep.
3. After
Sometimes in the night, he heard it beating, the twinned rhythmic pulse echoing from the box, playing to his defenseless ears. He turned over in bed, trying to shut out the incessant sound of it, but still it beat.
4. After
He stopped aging. New floors clambered up from the top of the building; a fresh swimming pool was installed; the river vanished behind a concrete wall. Babies wailed and grew to screaming toddlers, who became shouting children, who transformed into sullen teenagers who finally went off to college, and the hair stayed the same dark color on his head. The lines of his mouth did not shift; the crease between his eyebrows did not deepen.
“Someone’s going to notice,” Larry said, his own stomach now grown soft, the fringe of his hair whitened. “Maybe you should think about
moving.” He glanced around the spartan walls of the apartment. “It wouldn’t take much.”
He did not agree. At work they had ceased to notice him: another figure in a gray suit producing black numbers on white paper. He could have been anyone. The people in his apartment building had long since stopped trying to talk to him in the hallway or invite him over for dinner; they had forgotten the story that once worried them so, the story of a man driving home from vacation at the beach with his sunburned, sandy family, his parents crowded into the middle of the van singing along to Joni Mitchell, his wife with her feet on the dashboard turning her toes in time to “Both Sides Now,” the kids barricaded in the far back behind sand shovels and buckets and inflated beach balls and books. They burst open upon impact, the beach balls. Somehow, in all that rushing noise, he heard them break.
“I’ll stay here,” he told Larry in the voice that was his now, the one with no color and little sound.
5. After
The carpets in the hallways grew faded, and the parents who opened their doors to returning college students began to fade out with them, evaporating to the suburbs, and new people moved in—young buttoned-up would-be professionals who reeked with the eager odor of hope. But as soon as they got promotions, they moved on; they did not want to be in the aging building beside the concrete-bordered river, with the carpet that smelled of time.
Still, in the night, he heard the heart beating in its box, like a clock stuck on one hour, or a bomb waiting to detonate.
Only one emotion seemed to remain for him: the longing for the heart to go silent.
6. After
“Come in,” his boss said, “and close the door, Tim—Tom?” She glanced surreptitiously at the file on her tablet, but the letters blurred. Maybe it wasn’t Tom or Tim at all, she thought, maybe it was another three-letter name like Eli or Ian. Maybe she was getting a migraine. It must be from all the stress.
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