Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Introduction
ALMOST BROTHERS - Paul Genesse
THE QUEST - Donald J. Bingle
SWEET THREADS - Jody Lynn Nye
TROPHY WIVES - Nina Kiriki Hoffman
THE EYE OF HEAVEN - Chris Pierson
OVERCAST - Alan Dean Foster
FRIENDS OF THE HIGH HILLS - Brenda Cooper
SCARS ENOUGH - Russell Davis
CONCERNING A GAMBIT OF FRATERNITY - Steven E. Schend
REVENGE IS A DISH BEST SERVED WITH BEERS - Fiona Patton
THE ENIGMA OF THE SERBIAN SCIENTIST - S. Andrew Swann
CIRQUE DU LUMIÈRE - Brad Beaulieu
FRIENDLY ADVICE - Alexander B. Potter
About the Authors
Within the den, a wind was rising.
Normally a plesant, puffy cumulus shading to a relaxed altostratus, Aeriel was undergoing a metamorphosis that was as ominous as it was swift. She began to swell and expand, puffing herself up mightily, spreading upward and outward until she filled half the den and her roiling crest and splintering edges pushed threatentingly against the walls and ceiling. She grew dark, darker than Eric had ever seen her before. She was cumulonimbus gray, then nimbus charcoal, then—she was black, black, a glowing, rumbling anvil-head.
She moved toward the couple.
Jessica took a step backward, and fell down. Mesmerized by the turbulent, roaring thunderstorm that now dominated the room, she started edging backward on her backside, pushing with her hands and feet. An anxious Eric hurried to place himself between his fiancée and the glowering cloud.
“Aeriel, you don’t understand! There’s no reason to be angry. This is the way people are, this is the way they’re meant to be. It doesn’t mean that you and I . . .”
—from “Overcast” by Alan Dean Foster
Also Available from DAW Books:
Places to Be, People to Kill, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Brittiany A. Koren
Assassins—are they born or made? And what does an assassin do when he or she isn’t out killing people? These are just some of the questions you’ll find answered in this all-original collection of tales. From Vree, the well-known assassin from Tanya Huff’s Quarters novels . . . to a woman whose father’s vengeful spirit forced her down dark magic’s bloody path . . . to an assassin seeking to escape his Master’s death spell . . . to the origins of the legendary nin-sha and the ritual of the hundredth kill . . . here are spellbinding stories of murder and mayhem of shadowy figures who strike from night’s concealment or find their way past all safeguards to reach their unsuspecting victims. With stories by Jim C. Hines, S. Andrew Swann, Sarah A. Hoyt, Ed Gorman, and John Marco.
Pandora’s Closet, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Jean Rabe When Pandora’s Box was opened, so the ancient tale goes, all the evils that would beset humanity were released into the world, and when the box was all but empty, the only thing that remained was hope. Now some of fantasy’s finest, such as Timothy Zahn, Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Louise Marley, and Sarah Zettel have taken on the task of opening Pandora’s closet, which, naturally, is filled with a whole assortment of items that can be claimed by people, but only at their own peril. From a ring that could bring its wearer infinite wealth but at a terrible cost . . . to a special helmet found in the most unlikely of places . . . to a tale which reveals what happened to the ruby slippers . . . to a mysterious box that held an ancient, legendary piece of cloth . . . to a red hoodie that could transform one young woman’s entire world, here are unforgettable stories that will have you looking at the things you find in the back of your own closet in a whole new light. . . .
Army of the Fantastic, edited by John Marco and John Helfers How might the course of WWII have changed if sentient dragons ran bombing missions for the Germans? This is just one of the stories gathered in this all-original volume that will take you to magical places in our own world and to fantasy realms where the armies of the fantastic are on the march, waging wars both vast and personal. With stories by Rick Hautala, Alan Dean Foster, Tanya Huff, Tim Waggoner, Bill Fawcett, and Fiona Patton.
Copyright © 2008 by Tekno Books and Kerrie Hughes.
All Rights Reserved.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1429.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
“Introduction,” copyright © 2008 by Kerrie Hughes
“Almost Brothers,” copyright © 2008 by Paul Genesse
“The Quest,” copyright © 2008 by Donald J. Bingle
“Sweet Threads,” copyright © 2008 by Jody Lynn Nye
“Trophy Wives,” copyright © 2008 by Nina Kiriki Hoffman
“The Eye of Heaven,” copyright © 2008 by Christopher T. Pierson
“Overcast,” copyright © 2008 by Thranx, Inc.
“Friends of the High Hills” copyright © 2008 by Brenda Cooper
“Scars Enough,” copyright © 2008 by Russell Davis
“Concerning a Gambit of Fraternity,” copyright © 2008 by Steven Schend
“Revenge Is a Dish Best Served With Beers,” copyright © 2008 by Fiona Patton
“The Enigma of the Serbian Scientist,” copyright © 2008 by Steven Swiniarski
“Cirque du Lumière,” copyright © 2008 by Brad Beaulieu
“Friendly Advice,” copyright © 2008 by Alexander B. Potter
INTRODUCTION
Kerrie Hughes
I started to put together this anthology because I love to read about the dynamics between friends in action-packed or challenging relationships. As the project got going and submissions came in, I realized that fellowship is more than just stories of friendship in unique settings. Fellowship is the part of friendship that defines our character and makes us who we are. It is the moment in life when we as individuals pull together and show one another what we are made of.
Consider for a minute what you do when disaster strikes or when someone or something stands in the way of your needs and desires. Do you reveal what you truly are inside through voice and action? Are you a leader or tyrant, follower or sheep, voice of reason or dissenter? The answer probably depends on who you are with at that moment and the circumstance at hand. It also depends on your experience and talents.
I would like to think of myself as a calm, guiding influence who can lead others through crisis and calamity, but I know full well that if blood is present I’m the one who calls the ambulance, not the one who gets the compress started. I tend to faint at the sight of vital fluids spilling out of open wounds. I also know that if running is involved, you may as well give me the gun and I will buy us some time, as I’ll be bringing up the rear anyway. Hopefully I’ll be able to shoot all foes and you can come back for me in the car. (Given my blood aversion, I’ll probably have passed out from the act of shooting someone, so hopefully my comrades wil
l check my pulse before thinking I took a fatal hit.)
All kidding aside, as I assembled this book I noticed that fellowship can also be a quiet thing, without blood, bullets, running, and mayhem. It is also cooperation and openness between people with common goals. I knew from experience that every story would be a glimpse into the hearts and minds of the authors. What I didn’t realize until now was that nearly every author was someone who has enriched my life somehow and in some way. They are all truly comrades in the fellowship of the written word and friends of the human soul.
So tip a cider and enjoy the fellowship!
Gra, Dilseacht, Cairdeas!
ALMOST BROTHERS
Paul Genesse
The rope sawed into Finn’s wrists as he struggled to escape from the heavy wooden chair, which was still stained with the blood and urine from the last child Nagel had captured. The leathery-skinned brute sat on a stool, grinning at the young boy as he sharpened a long rusty razor.
Nagel locked his gray eyes on Finn’s wiry twelve-year-old frame, then lubricated the crumbling whetstone with blood-tinged spittle. Finn realized that hitting Nagel in the mouth with the rock had not been a good idea, but he wasn’t going to be captured without a fight.
Finn shifted on the sticky chair, and a splinter poked into the naked flesh on his bum, beaten red and raw by Nagel’s calloused hands. The much-too-thin boy glanced at the fireplace. His filthy clothing smoldered there, permeating the shack with a swampy odor mixed with burning hair.
Despite his hands being securely lashed behind him, Finn arched his back, fighting to escape the fate all the other orphaned refugee children had fallen victim to. Even his best friend Owen had received the “special treatment” at the hands of the Bloody Barber.
Nagel’s fierce gaze met Finn’s terrified green eyes. “Listen, you rat-hunting turd, if you don’t stop squirming the first thing I’ll do is shave off that little mushroom cap between your legs.”
Knees clenched together, Finn tried in vain to hide his nakedness. He wished he had one of the dried animal skins or furs hanging on the dingy walls to cover himself. If only he could slip his hands free, he could escape out the side window of the trapper’s shack. In desperation he thought, Perhaps the Barber will listen to reason. Finn searched for the right words, summoning his beggar’s voice, “Please, sir. If you let me go I’ll—”
“You’ll what?!” Nagel furrowed his brow. “Steal more food? Damn Tarnite orphans like you are all the same.”
“I swear I didn’t eat it! I catch my own food. I swear it on the twelve saints of the Celestrum.”
“Eleven saints, stupid boy. You’re not in Tarn. Everyone here knows Vivianne is a witch, not a saint.” Nagel shook his bald head. “And don’t expect me to believe that you be surviving on them skinny rats your ratter dogs kill in the barns.”
“We do. The food I . . . found . . . was for—”
Nagel pointed the razor at Finn’s crotch.
Trembling uncontrollably, Finn felt blood oozing from where the ropes sliced into his skin. He stopped struggling as pain and cold fear washed over him.
“And don’t you go pissing on my chair either. The last one of you orphans to piss themselves was sorry she did.”
Finn guessed he was talking about Lynn, and saw what remained of her long blond hair in the corner of the fireplace. The sticky stain on the chair had to be from her.
The Bloody Barber stopped sharpening the folding razor knife and gave Finn a wicked grin, showing all three of his front teeth.
Finn’s eyes opened wide as the hulking man lumbered toward him. He almost had a hand free when cold iron pressed against Finn’s dirt-smudged cheek. Nagel grabbed Finn’s unkempt sandy brown hair and stepped behind him.
“No, please!” Finn squeaked. “I swear I won’t—”
A rough hand squeezed Finn’s throat, choking off his plea.
The razor scraped against Finn’s scalp, shearing off a swath of hair over his right ear and opening several small stinging cuts. Finn screamed, “Stop! Please!”
The Bloody Barber’s chortling made Finn gnash his teeth. He wished his friends were there to save him, but he was alone. Captured. Helpless. Just like Owen, Lynn, Hazel, and the others had been when Nagel had caught and killed them.
High-pitched barking and loud scratching came from the front door of Nagel’s shack. Finn knew it was Pip and Fyse. His little black-and-white rat terriers were still free, and at least they hadn’t abandoned him.
“Quiet!” Nagel shouted at the door, but the dogs kept scratching and barking. The barber threw a discarded child’s shoe—probably Lynn’s—at the door and the dogs stopped.
A yellow puddle of urine came under the threshold. Good dogs!
Nagel stormed toward the expanding puddle. “Stupid mutts!”
Finn pulled at his bonds as excruciating pain swept through him. Skin tore loose from his wrists. Almost there. Just . . . keep . . . pulling. The blood made it slippery enough to wrench a hand free. He slid off the chair and nearly fainted as the flesh on his backside separated itself from the splintery wood.
Cursing, Nagel opened the front door and tried to kick the little black-and-white dogs. Both darted away and growled at the huge man brandishing the rusted razor. Pip and Fyse bared their teeth. The dogs weighed less than twenty pounds each, but they lunged and snapped at Nagel, determined to save their beloved Finn from a gruesome fate.
The sight of his tiny dogs facing Nagel gave Finn a burst of strength. He slipped his other hand free and darted to the side window and clambered over the sill—remembering too late that he was supposed to grab some clothing. He landed in mud that smelled like it contained Nagel’s cast out nightsoil. “Oh, sh—”
Hands grabbed Finn from behind and pulled him up. He expected a cuff on the head, but saw Owen’s clear blue eyes—and newly shaved scalp—staring at him.
“Owen, you’re alive.” Hope for the others flashed through Finn’s mind as he stared at his lanky boyhood friend, already much taller than Finn.
“Come on!” Owen pulled Finn away from the hovel as Nagel came charging around the side of the house with Pip and Fyse yipping and barking at his heels.
“Get back here!” Nagel shouted.
Owen and Finn sprinted away from Nagel’s shack and into the muddy streets of Ryeland. Pip and Fyse caught up as the boys ran past a column of Celestrian soldiers marching south toward the invading Tarnite army. A mounted knight from the Order of Saint Mathias lifted his visor to watch them flee.
The sight of a naked boy running in the street made a few of the villagers shake their heads, but most ignored Finn. A gang of Ryeland’s children—all with full heads of hair—laughed and pointed at Finn, making snide comments about the size of his manhood. It took every bit of control for him not to stop and start another fistfight, but his ribs still hurt from the last brawl with the locals and the thought of facing the boys naked gave him pause. And Owen had said Finn was on his own if he started another fight.
After running far from Nagel’s shack the boys stopped behind Widow Tillwell’s chicken coop to catch their breath. Finn squatted down and covered himself as Pip and Fyse snuffled at his legs before rolling on the ground and showing him their bellies. “Good girl, Pip. Good boy, Fyse.” Their soft brown eyes showed their love for him as Finn tenderly rubbed his little dogs.
Owen got a whiff of Finn and wrinkled his nose. The brown mess on Finn’s knees definitely wasn’t mud.
“You’ve smelled worse.” Finn shrugged. “And I should have taken some clothes.”
“Nagel gave everyone new clothes once he finished. He was just going to shave off your hair.”
“What?” Relief and shame washed over Finn. They’re all still alive. “How was I supposed to know? I thought—”
“If you hadn’t run off you would’ve known.”
“But the locals said he skinned the children he caught alive and—”
“You listened to them?” Owen shook his head i
n disbelief.
Finn’s face turned red as he realized what a fool he’d been by believing the Ryelanders. His shame turned to boiling anger. “I’m not letting anyone shave my head. Especially the Bloody Barber!” Finn stroked the bare spot by his ear, and grimaced when he felt the fresh cuts. Finn glanced at the scabs on Owen’s freshly shaved head and the little bumps and knots revealed by the absence of his blond hair. “I can’t believe you let him do that to you.”
“Sir Luther and the Deacons ordered all of us to let him.” Owen gestured to the abbey’s bell tower dominating the skyline over Ryeland, as if pointing explained everything. “Finn, you’ve got lice, just like the rest of us did.”
“I do not.” Finn’s scalp started to itch fiercely, but he resisted scratching. Owen was right, but Finn wouldn’t yield. “Why do you do everything they say? The Deacons aren’t going to let you be a knight.”
“Sir Luther’s teaching me to ride.”
“Only when you’re not cleaning steaming piles of shit out of the stables or polishing his shield. We might as well be slaves back home in Tarn.”
Owen shook his head. “Sir Luther said he would teach me the lance and sword when I’m fourteen.”
“That’s two years away! They’ll cart us off to the orphanage in Templemoore, just as they did the others.”
“No. The Deacons said they’re keeping a few of us here to be in a proper orphanage—like a school—for devout Celestrians like us.”
“You mean like you.” Finn rolled his eyes.
“They say the Saints have a plan for us. If you’d come to the prayer services you might understand better.”
“I’ve been to plenty back home. I’m not going again. The Saints abandoned us.” Finn stared at the dirt, remembering when the Tarnite soldiers dragged away his mother and sister during the attack on their refugee column.
Fellowship Fantastic Page 1