The Wild Hunt
Perhaps half the riders gathered on the trail were elves. They rode sleek horses and wore fanciful crystalline armor, but no helmets obscured beautiful, pitiless faces. Men and women alike had long hair flowing freely or elaborately dressed, but not one face showed anything but eager cruelty.
Then there were the . . . other things. Great black hounds with glowing red eyes and slavering jaws. Oneeyed giants holding massive stone clubs. Shriveled things that looked more like decaying corpses than living beings, clawed hands all the weapons they needed.
Megan snaked her right hand down to her fanny pack and her pistol. The things could not be special effects: No special effect included the smell of rot mingled with roses.
Her hand closed around the grip, eased it free.
Two of the red-eyed hounds stepped off the trail, a powreful animal musk wafting with them.
The pistol was cold in Megan’s hands. She aimed, steadying her right hand with her left.
The shot sounded like thunder in her ears. The howling of the dying hound seemed oddly distant as it thrashed, its claws scoring trees and dirt.
Again.
The second hound’s thrashing as it died sent it twisting back onto the path.
Megan held the pistol steady, waiting.
—from “Raining the Wild Hunt” by Kate Paulk
Also Available from DAW Books:
Fate Fantastic, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Daniel M. Hoyt
Do we all have destinies we can’t avoid? Or is each of us able to determine our own future by our actions? Are there key moments in time that offer unique opportunities to change fate? These are just a few of the questions explored in sixteen original tales that follow the paths of fate. From a street vendor selling Fate dogs, to a gambler who turns to the Kabbalah to find a sure bet, to a man whose girlfriend is one of the three Fates, to the “true” story of King Arthur, here are tales of darkness and danger, stories with a humorous twist, and some gripping visions of the role fate can play in anyone’s life. With stories by Julie E. Czerneda, Mike Resnick & Barry N. Malzberg, Sarah A. Hoyt, Alan Dean Foster, Esther Friesner, Laura Resnick, Irene Radford, and others.
Wizards Inc, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Loren L. Coleman
“What do you do for a living?” is one of the most commonly asked questions when people first meet. Now fifteen of fantasy’s finest, such as Orson Scott Card, Steve Perry, Mike Resnick, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Laura Anne Gilman, Diane Duane, and Mike Stackpole have taken up the challenge of answering that question from the viewpoint of practitioners of magic. What career path would you take if you had the Talent? Would you manipulate the stock market? Hire out to ward against competitor’s spells? Conjure up confections to make people fall in or out of love, recapture treasured moments, or forget sad ones? Or would you cast your spells on the darker side?
Fellowship Fantastic, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Kerrie Hughes
The true strength of a story lies in its characters and in the ties that bind them together—and the events that drive them apart. Thirteen top tale-spinners here offer their own unique looks at fellowships from: a girl who finds her best friend in a portal to another world; to four special families linked by blood and magical talent; to two youths ripped away from all they know and faced with a terrifying fate they can only survive together, to a man who must pay the price for leaving his childhood companion to face death alone. With stories by Jody Lynn Nye, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Alan Dean Foster, Brenda Cooper, Fiona Patton, S. Andrew Swann, Alexander Potter, and others.
Copyright © 2008 by Tekno Books and Sarah A. Hoyt.
All Rights Reserved.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1436.
DAW Books is distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
All characters in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
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ISBN: 1-4362-2423-3
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—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
“The Power of Magic” © 2008 by Sarah A. Hoyt
“More to Truth than Proof,” copyright © 2008 by Phyllis Irene Radford
“In a Dark Wood, Dreaming,” copyright © 2008 by Esther M. Friesner
“The Thing in the Woods,” copyright © 2008 by Harry Turtledove
“The Star Cats,” copyright © 2008 by Charles Edgar Quinn
“Lighthouse Surfer,” copyright © 2008 by Daniel M. Hoyt
“Something Virtual This Way Comes,” copyright © 2008 by Laura Resnick
“Tears of Gold,” copyright © 2008 by Paul Crilley
“Houdini’s Mirror,” copyright © 2008 by Russell Davis
“Angel in the Cabbages,” copyright © 2008 by Fran LaPlaca
“Raining the Wild Hunt,” copyright © 2008 by Kate Paulk
“Still Life, With Cats,” copyright © 2008 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
“The Case of the Allergic Leprechaun,” copyright © 2008 by Alan L. Lickiss
“The Flood Was Fixed,” copyright © 2008 by Eric Flint
“Visitor’s Night at Joey Chicago’s,” copyright © 2008 by Mike Resnick
“A Midsummer Nightmare,” copyright © 2008 by Walt Boyes
“Winds of Change,” copyright © 2008 by Linda A. B. Davis
“Firebird and Shadow,” copyright © 2008 by Darwin A. Garrison
“Night of the Wolf,” copyright © 2008 by John Lambshead
“Opus No. 1,” copyright © 2008 by Barbara Nickless
“Regency Sprite,” copyright © 2008 by Dave Freer
CONTENTS
THE POWER OF MAGIC
Sarah A. Hoyt
MORE TO TRUTH THAN PROOF
Irene Radford
IN A DARK WOOD, DREAMING
Esther Friesner
THE THING IN THE WOODS
Harry Turtledove
THE STAR CATS
Charles Edgar Quinn
LIGHTHOUSE SURFER
Daniel M. Hoyt
SOMETHING VIRTUAL THIS WAY COMES
Laura Resnick
TEARS OF GOLD
Paul Crilley
HOUDINI’S MIRROR
Russell Davis
ANGEL IN THE CABBAGES
Fran LaPlaca
RAINING THE WILD HUNT
Kate Paulk
STILL LIFE, WITH CATS
Kristine Kathryn Rusch
THE CASE OF THE ALLERGIC LEPRECHAUN
Alan L. Lickiss
THE FLOOD WAS FIXED
Eric Flint
VISITOR’S NIGHT AT JOEY CHICAGO’S
Mike Resnick
A MIDSUMMER NIGHTMARE
Walt Boyes
WINDS OF CHANGE
Linda A. B. Davis
FIREBIRD AND SHADOW
Darwin A. Garrison
NIGHT OF THE WOLF
John Lambshead
OPUS NO. 1
Barbara Nickless
REGENCY SPRITE
Dave Freer
> THE POWER OF MAGIC
Sarah A. Hoyt
ONCE upon the time magic—defined as forces and events that could not be explained—ruled the world. The lightning bolt across the sky was as miraculous to our ancestors as was the return of daylight after the blackness of night.
Out of their minds they conjured one god’s thunderbolt and any number of carriages drawing the sun, any number of demons eating away daylight.
Then came enlightenment, and little by little the realm of magic got pushed aside, isolated, contained.
Science, seemingly, stood astride the world, illuminating all dark corners and showing the entire world that the darkness contained nothing more mysterious than the absence of light, easily explainable by the rotation of the Earth.
And yet . . . and yet, it’s not so easy. It never will be. Even for us, the people of the twenty-first century, the unexplained, the miraculous, those things that happen who knows how? will always exist.
Computers might be very good at itemizing and tagging reality, but how many of us haven’t looked at some inexplicable event within our units and said “gremlins” or “I swear this thing has a mind of its own”?
Our big cities, our hulking machines are full of and operated by humans. And in the human mind there will always be room for the fantastic explanation.
There will always be room for gods and demons and the unexplained miracles they produce. Perhaps to mask our ignorance. Or perhaps to explain those areas that science itself can’t illuminate.
There will always be room for things we swear couldn’t have been there, and yet we saw . . . didn’t we?
Friendly or dangerous, reflecting the confused observations of our ancestors or the hopes for our descendants, fairies and shapeshifters will walk among us; urban legends will be born of cataclysmic destruction; vampires will lurk at the edges of the night waiting for us; and ritual and belief will renew us and refresh us and make us perhaps not less rational but more human.
Here, now, or in the past or—if we ever get there— in the future stars, we shall take magic with us. Because inside, deep down inside, as we sit at our computers we are not so different and not so much more rational than our ancestors who sat gazing at the fire listening to the storytellers tell sagas of gods and demons and stories of woodland spirits.
And even deeper inside, we want to believe just as our ancestors did . . .
Welcome to Something Magic This Way Comes. Sit by the fireside. Listen to the stories. And feel free to indulge your imagination.
MORE TO TRUTH THAN PROOF
Irene Radford
“YOU see this line on your palm?” the old Gypsy woman rasped through a fog of incense in the shadowy carnival tent. She shook her head and closed her eyes. A pained expression crossed her weathered and lined face.
Gabrielle Whythe peered closer at her hand. Her arm ached from holding it stretched across the round table for so long. The light was so dim in the carnival tent that she could barely make out the damask pattern of moons and stars in the red tablecloth. Filmy curtains resembling brightly colored cobwebs draped about, adding to the light diffusion.
Outside she could hear her dormmates giggling.
They’d each taken a turn at having their fortune told at the Beltane Renaissance Fair that erupted on campus every May. Gabby hadn’t cared about the mixture of physiological profiling and mystic fakery. But the other three girls had dared her.
Whythes never passed up a dare. Or so Grumpy, her great-grandfather had informed her many times.
“What about my life line?” Gabby asked in reply to the old woman’s question.
“It is broken. Three times. Then it cuts short here.”
She drew a cracked fingernail the color of nicotine across the center of Gabby’s palm.
“So?”
“Your life will present you with many hard choices.”
The Gypsy clamped her mouth shut and swallowed.
Sweat broke out on her brow. Her throat apple bobbed several times. It protruded like a man’s.
Gabby suppressed a giggle. Maybe the fake Gypsy was also a fake woman.
“You will meet an interesting man who will change your life,” the old woman said hurriedly. She dropped her grip on Gabby’s hand and wiped her own palm on her multicolored and threadbare skirt. She looked away furtively.
“And I’ve studied enough psychology to know you’re hiding something.” Gabby narrowed her focus to the pulse throbbing in the woman’s neck. Too rapid. Pale skin. Sweat. Definitely the telltales of a lie.
A whopping big lie.
“You . . . um . . . you are descended from one who helped my people many times.” She lowered her eyes and murmured something that might have been a prayer.
“Yeah, so what. My family traces their genealogy back to God or someone just as important, like King Arthur. Bound to be someone in there with a bleeding heart for the downtrodden.”
Gabby had documents taking the family back to 1774 and the Boston Tea Party. Before that the documents dried up, dissolved into family legend. Without cross references and records Gabby refused to believe her Grumpy’s stories. She’d accept DNA evidence, especially if there were records suggesting an ancestor had the deep blue eyes that permeated every generation of her family.
Blue eyes were supposed to be recessive. Not in her family. They tended to dominate.
Ancient history was just that, ancient. Gabby liked the rough and tumble frontier politics and survival society of western America. Give her fur traders and wagon trains and Native Americans any day over tired and shopworn myths of the old world.
The Gypsy’s eyes flew open. She glared at Gabby malevolently.
Gabby didn’t back down. She’d learned early how to out-stare her great-grandfather, who claimed all kinds of psychic powers. Including the ability to curse an enemy with boils and sores and other such nonsense.
“Your fate is written in the stars and reflected in your hand,” the Gypsy snarled. The tent grew quiet.
All sound outside reduced to a background hum. The candles and incense seemed to stop flickering.
Gabby held her breath in expectation. She didn’t think she could breathe if she wanted to. Her pulse sounded loud in her ears, the only evidence of life and the passage of time.
“I don’t believe in fate. I make my own destiny,” Gabby said on a long exhale. She drew in another breath by sheer force of will.
“The life line in your palm does not lie,” the old woman continued in a singsong voice, almost a chant.
“The interruptions reveal a broken path full of obstacles that you will stumble over. Sometimes even fall. And then you will die young. An ignoble death not worthy of your family’s fine heritage.”
“That’s a ball of crap!” Gabby exclaimed with glee.
Her family might believe in this hoodoo voodoo stuff, but that didn’t mean she had to. “The broken parts are where I splattered acid during a chemistry experiment. And the life line stops because of scar tissue from a deep cut when I fell out of a tree when I was ten.” Another dare.
“Believe what you will. You cannot change your fate.”
The scene became blurry in Gabrielle Griffin Whythe’s memory as a harsh bell jangled her out of a deep sleep. She had put that incident out of her mind at the end of her senior year of college. Right after it happened.
“Nonsense and crap,” Gabby muttered.
The scent of incense lingered in her mind and her nose.
The bell kept ringing. Loudly. She jerked her head to look at the alarm clock. A string of obscenities erupted from her mouth.
“Nine-fifteen in the fricking AM! Shit. I need to get to work.” Oversleeping was a natural consequence after too many hours of research and working on her dissertation.
A donor wanted to deposit a trunkload of family journals and memorabilia at Gabby’s museum. The family had records linking them to Josiah Ezekiel Marshall, a frontier Methodist missionary who had serviced remote communities thr
oughout the Oregon Country in the 1840s and 50s before building a permanent church and settling down on the high desert plateau of central Oregon for the last ten years of his life.
For the last six months, Gabby had spent every spare moment working on her dissertation, exploring the legality and social implications of the unregistered marriages between fur traders and their Indian wives.
At three this morning she’d come to the sorry conclusion that some vital piece of the giant puzzle was missing. She had thoroughly explored the legal precedent set by the heirs of Peter Skene Ogden. His east coast relatives had tried to seize his estate in 1854, claiming that both his marriages to Indian women had been Indian ceremonies and invalid. Therefore his children by both women were illegitimate and ineligible to inherit the sizeable estate.
Ogden’s children had taken their case to the Supreme Court. The ruling found that since the marriages had been recorded in the Hudson’s Bay Company books, they were legal under common law—the prevailing legal system of the time.
In Gabby’s own town of Carter’s Ford, the opposite had occurred. Emile Carter’s only surviving daughter, Hannah, could not find a reference to her father’s marriage in any of the Company books and had lost her inheritance to greedy cousins. No one believed Mary Carter, the widow, when she claimed a Christian marriage. She had no papers to prove it.
Lots of examples. Lots of research. Still, something was missing. And Gabby was running out of time to finish the dissertation.
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