Jonathan Strahan - Swords & Dark Magic - The New Sword and Sorcery

Whirrun started to back towards them, twisted himself sideways as an arrow looped over and stuck wobbling into the side of the hall. He waved his free hand. “Maybe we better—”

“Run!” roared Craw. Perhaps a good leader should wait until everyone else gets clear. First man to arrive in a fight and the last to leave. That was how Threetrees used to do it. But Craw wasn’t Threetrees, it hardly needed to be said, and he was off like a rabbit with its tail on fire. Leading by example, he’d have called it. He heard bow strings behind him. An arrow zipped past, just wide of his flailing arm, stuck wobbling into one of the hovels. Then another. His squashed foot was aching like fury but he limped on, waving his shield arm. Pounding towards the jerking, wobbling archway with the animal’s skull above it. “Go! Go!”

Wonderful tore past, feet flying, flicking mud in Craw’s face. He saw Scorry flit between two huts up ahead, then swift as a lizard around one of the gateposts and out of the village. He hurled himself after, under the arch of branches. Jumped down the bank, caught his hurt foot, body jolting, teeth snapping together and catching his tongue. He took one more wobbling step, then went flying, crashed into the boggy bracken, rolled over his shield, just with enough thought to keep his sword from cutting his own nose off. He struggled to his feet, laboured on up the slope, legs burning, lungs burning, through the trees, trousers soaked to the knee with marsh-water. He could hear Brack lumbering along at his shoulder, grunting with the effort, and behind him Yon’s growl, “bloody…shit…bloody…running…bloody…shit…”

He tore through the brush and wobbled into the clearing where they’d made their plans. Plans that hadn’t flown too smoothly, as it went. Raubin was standing by the gear. Wonderful near him with her hands on her hips. Never was kneeling on the far side of the clearing, arrow nocked to his bow. He grinned as he saw Craw. “You made it then, chief?”

“Shit.” Craw stood bent over, head spinning, dragging in air. “Shit.” He straightened, staring at the sky, face on fire, not able to think of another word, and without the breath to say one if he had been.

Brack looked even more shot than Craw, if it was possible, crouched over, hands on knees and knees wobbling, big chest heaving, big face red as a slapped arse around his tattoos. Yon tottered up and leaned against a tree, cheeks puffed out, skin shining with sweat.

Wonderful was hardly out of breath. “By the dead, the state o’ you fat old men.” She slapped Never on the arm. “That was some nice work down there at the village. Thought they’d catch you and skin you sure.”

“You hoped, you mean,” said Never, “but you should’ve known better. I’m the best damn runner-away in the North.”

“That is a fact.”

“Where’s Scorry?” gasped Craw, enough breath in him now to worry.

Never jerked his thumb. “Circled ’round to check no one’s coming for us.”

Whirrun ambled back into the clearing now, hood drawn up again and the Father of Swords sheathed across his shoulders like a milkmaid’s yoke, one hand on the grip, the other dangling over the blade.

“I take it they’re not following?” asked Wonderful, one eyebrow raised.

Whirrun shook his head. “Nope.”

“Can’t say I blame the poor bastards. I take back what I said about you taking yourself too serious. You’re one serious fucker with that sword.”

“You get the thing?” asked Raubin, face all pale with worry.

“That’s right, Raubin, we saved your skin.” Craw wiped his mouth, blood on the back of his hand from his bitten tongue. They’d done it, and his sense of humour was starting to leak back in. “Hah. Could you imagine if we’d left the bastard thing behind?”

“Never fear,” said Yon, flipping open his pack. “Jolly Yon Cumber, once more the fucking hero.” And he delved his hand inside and pulled it out.

Craw blinked. Then he frowned. Then he stared. Gold glinted in the fading light, and he felt his heart sink lower than it had all day. “That ain’t fucking it, Yon!”

“It’s not?”

“That’s a cup! It was the thing we wanted!” He stuck his sword point-down in the ground and waved one hand about. “The bloody thing with the kind of bloody light about it!”

Yon stared back at him. “No one told me it had a bloody light!”

There was silence for a moment then, while they all thought about it. No sound but the wind rustling the old leaves, making the black branches creak. Then Whirrun tipped his head back and roared with laughter. A couple of crows took off startled from a branch it was that loud, flapping up sluggish into the grey sky.

“Why the hell are you laughing?” snapped Wonderful.

Inside his hood Whirrun’s twisted face was glistening with happy tears. “I told you I’d laugh when I heard something funny!” And he was off again, arching back like a full-drawn bow, whole body shaking.

“You’ll have to go back,” said Raubin.

“Back?” muttered Wonderful, her dirt-streaked face a picture of disbelief. “Back, you mad fucker?”

“You know the hall caught fire, don’t you?” snapped Brack, one big trembling arm pointing down towards the thickening column of smoke wafting up from the village.

“It what?” asked Raubin as Whirrun blasted a fresh shriek at the sky, hacking, gurgling, only just keeping on his feet.

“Oh, aye, burned down, more’n likely with the damn thing in it.”

“Well…I don’t know…you’ll just have to pick through the ashes!”

“How about we pick through your fucking ashes?” snarled Yon, throwing the cup down on the ground.

Craw gave a long sigh, rubbed at his eyes, then winced down towards that shit-hole of a village. Behind him, Whirrun’s laughter sawed throaty at the dusk. “Always,” he muttered, under his breath. “Why do I always get stuck with the fool jobs?”

Thanks are due to many people for this project. Among them are Diana Gill, our editor at Harper Eos who believed in this anthology enough to make it a reality; to Benjamin Carré, for the cover; and to each of the authors involved, who contributed such wonderful stories. Thanks are also due to Lev Grossman, Tim Holman, Katie Menick, Howard Morhaim, Erik Mona, Jason M. Waltz, and Bill Schafer.

Last, and most importantly, to our wives, Xin C. Anders and Marianne Jablon, whose infinite patience and support are the key ingredient in any anthology project.

Lou Anders is the editorial director of Pyr Books, in which capacity he has been nominated three times for the Best Editor Hugo Award, twice for the Best Art Director Chesley Award (one of which he won), and once for the World Fantasy Award. He is the editor of nine critically acclaimed anthologies, one of which, Fast Forward 2 , was itself nominated for the Philip K. Dick Award. He is the author of The Making of Star Trek: First Contact (Titan Books, 1996), and has published over five hundred articles in such magazines as The Believer , Publishers Weekly , Dreamwatch , Death Ray , free inquiry , Star Trek Monthly , Star Wars Monthly , Babylon 5 Magazine , Sci Fi Universe , Doctor Who Magazine , and Manga Max . His articles and stories have been translated into Danish, Greek, German, Italian, and French. He lives with his family in Alabama.

Jonathan Strahan is the two-time Hugo Award-nominated editor of the Locus Award-winning anthology The New Space Opera, Aurealis Award-winner The Starry Rift, the multiple award-winning Eclipse anthology series, and many more. He is the reviews editor for Locus and lives in Perth, Australia.