Legends II Read online

  LEGENDS II

  STORIES IN HONOUR OF

  DAVID GEMMELL

  EDITED BY IAN WHATES

  NewCon Press

  England

  First edition, published in the UK August 2015

  by NewCon Press

  in association with The David Gemmell Legend Awards for Fantasy

  NCP 081 (hardback)

  NCP 082 (softback)

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Compilation copyright © 2015 by Ian Whates

  Introduction copyright © 2015 by Stan Nicholls

  “The Blessed and the Cursed” copyright © 2015 by Gav Thorpe

  “A Rescue” copyright © 2015 by Mark Lawrence

  “The Lowest Place” copyright © 2015 by Edward Cox

  “The Giant’s Lady” copyright © 2015 by Rowena Cory Daniells

  “An Oath Given” copyright © 2015 by John Gwynne

  “The Singer” copyright © 2015 by Stella Gemmell

  “Sandrunners” copyright © 2015 by Anthony Ryan

  “Smokestack Lightning” copyright © 2015 by Gavin Smith

  “Oak” copyright © 2015 by Lou Morgan

  “An Owl in Moonlight” copyright © 2015 by Freda Warrington

  “Heaven of Animals” copyright © 2015 by John Hornor Jacobs

  “The Iron Wolves: Retribution” copyright © 2015 by Andy Remic

  All rights reserved, including the right to produce this book, or portions

  thereof, in any form.

  ISBN: 978-1-907069-81-9 (hardback)

  978-1-907069-82-6 (softback)

  Cover art © 2013 by Dominic Harman

  Cover layout by Andy Bigwood

  Interior layout by Storm Constantine

  eBook conversion by Gavin Pugh at handebooks

  Contents

  Legends II An Introduction

  Stan Nicholls

  The Blessed and the Cursed

  Gav Thorpe

  Rescue

  Mark Lawrence

  The Lowest Place

  Edward Cox

  The Giant’s Lady

  Rowena Cory Daniells

  An Oath Given

  John Gwynne

  The Singer

  Stella Gemmell

  Sandrunners

  Anthony Ryan

  Smokestack Lightning

  Gavin G. Smith

  Oak

  Lou Morgan

  An Owl In Moonlight

  Freda Warrington

  Heaven Of Animals

  John Hornor Jacobs

  The Iron Wolves: Retribution

  Andy Remic

  About the Authors

  Legends II

  An Introduction

  Stan Nicholls

  Something interesting is happening in fantasy fiction. Other than the interest generated by inventive ideas and compelling storytelling to be found in the best of it, that is.

  Science fiction, the genre to which fantasy has tended to be yoked – and which, make no mistake, this writer loves equally –was once the vessel for a certain kind of social commentary. I’m thinking of that often satiric, deflationary form summed up in a quote attributed (perhaps erroneously) to Ray Bradbury: “I don’t want to predict the future. I want to prevent it.”That strand of sf, if not gone, seems to have diminished a lot in recent times.

  Is it possible that fantasy has inherited, or at least now shares, science fiction’s mantle in this regard? Well, fantasy isn’t science fiction, despite occasional overlaps, and goes about its business in its own way. Although it’s maybe a generalisation that sf has majored in ideas while fantasy inclined to emotion, there is a grain of truth in that. But just as sf used to be weak on characterisation, for example, particularly in its depiction of women, and improved with maturity, fantasy is also coming of age. The truism that, whether set in the far future or on a distant planet, much science fiction is really about the here and now, just might be starting to apply to fantasy too. There certainly appears to be a growing engagement with ‘the real world’ as seen through fantasy’s particular lens. In that respect the stories in this volume are a fascinating snapshot of the contemporary genre.

  It’s been said that whereas sf has fans, fantasy has readers. That’s debatable, though it’s undeniable that given science fiction’s head start as a definable category there was time for a supportive community to develop. Fantasy, on the other hand, is a comparatively recent distinct form. But that could be changing too. Events centring on the genre, and increasing online activity, are building a discrete fan base. We like to think that the David Gemmell Awards for Fantasy are playing a small part in helping to foster it.

  In their seventh year at time of writing, and consisting of the Legend Award (best novel), Morningstar Award (best debut) and Ravenheart Award (best cover art), all decided by an open vote, the Gemmells harness the energy of fantasy’s emerging fandom. I suspect that’s something David Gemmell, who placed a high premium on the sentiments of readers and championed their voice, would have been delighted about.

  2016 will mark the tenth anniversary of Gemmell’s passing. This anthology, ably edited by Ian Whates and made possible by the generosity of all the writers who have contributed to it, is a fine tribute to him and the genre as a whole, and helps support the awards bearing Gemmell’s name. My hope is that Legends II will prove as popular as the preceding volume, and that we’ll see a continuation of these showcases that, like fantasy fiction itself, will go from strength to strength.

  Now that would be interesting.

  Stan Nicholls

  Chair, The David Gemmell Awards for Fantasy

  April 2015

  www.gemmellawards.com

  The Blessed

  and the Cursed

  Gav Thorpe

  “Just a bunch of priests, where’s the danger?”

  Words that had inspired confidence at daybreak were about to come back to haunt the brigands of the Scatha Vale. Calgallun shifted slightly in his hiding place within the undergrowth so that he could see Leopard, the band’s leader. The tall, wiry bandit had not moved or shown the slightest inclination that all was not well. Calgallun glanced across to his left, to where Feranck was concealed from the caravan track behind a tree.

  “Hsst! What in the Five Hells is Leopard doing?”

  Feranck shot him an annoyed look and shrugged. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Look at them damn flags on the wagon,” said Calgallun, wondering how Feranck, in his forties and almost twice Calgallun’s age, had survived so long with such dull wits.

  The ‘wagon’ coming along the muddy road was more like a huge strongbox on wheels, built from heavy timbers and banded with iron. It was pulled by four draft horses, Perastian Greys, each sturdy enough to drag a drayman’s cart by itself. Two poles stuck out from the back, hung with a white banner displaying a scarlet fist design.

  Feranck’s look betrayed ignorance of the sigils’ significance.

  “Priests, all right,” said Calgallun. “Monks from that shrine at Erod. Dedicated to the Creator as Avenger.”

  “Fighting priests?”

  “You bloody plainsfolk are all the same. Don’t know nothing important. Yeah, priest-soldiers of the Creator. Very dangerous.”

  The priests were just about visible now, six on each side of the wagon. At this distance one might have thought they were wearing silver robes, but Calgallun knew better. Their garb was the finest scale from the smiths of Erod, said to be lighter than steel mail but twice as resilient. Their hands were covered in gauntlets of the same. Their heads were protected by open-faced helms with cheek guards and scarlet crests, aventails of more scale guarding neck and throat. Each warrior carried a foot lance with long tapered head, blood-red streamers twirling in the wind that
funnelled down the valley. At their waists they bore short stabbing blades.

  It was hard to see features yet, but Calgallun could see that several were darker-skinned, natives of the southern lands, or descended from such people. He was just as surprised to see that some of the ‘priests’ were women. A female outlander rode on the wagon beside the driver, scanning the hills and cliffs to either side.

  “We need to call off the attack,” said Calgallun. “This is a bad idea.”

  “Afraid the Creator will strike us down?” sneered Feranck.

  “No,” Calgallun snapped back. “I’m afraid those priest-soldiers will. I better warn Leopard, it looks like he doesn’t know what we’re getting into.”

  “Move and you give us away,” Feranck said sharply. “Calm down. There’s a dozen of them and forty of us. We’ve got more bows than they’ve got men.”

  “From what I’ve heard that won’t help,” muttered Calgallun.

  He looked again at Leopard, who was staring intently at the armoured cart and its escort. Even if the lowlander knew nothing about the Knights of Erod, Leopard could clearly see their military aspect. Calgallun tried to signal to his leader but Leopard never once glanced back in his direction.

  “He won’t call it off,” said Feranck. “Not now. You know how he thinks. He said it was some chapel’s tithe money for Lord Krieff, but with that sort of protection it’s got to be something even more valuable. The bigger the guards...”

  “...the more they’re protecting,” Calgallun finished one of Leopard’s favourite sayings.

  “Exactly. And I don’t figure Leopard is the type that’s easily intimidated. Do you want to go back to the camp tonight with an empty belly and purse? We didn’t come to these accursed valleys for no reward.”

  “Better than not going back at all,” countered Calgallun.

  It was too late, they were definitely committed to the attack. The wagon was about two bow shots away now, moving at a brisk walking pace. The knights were alert to danger as the open valley closed in to the narrowing gorge occupied by the bandits. Stands of trees, scrubby bushes and scattered boulders provided the cover the brigands needed and the holy soldiers escorting the wagon had to know this. Scatha Vale had gained a notorious repute over the last few years due to the exploits of Leopard and his men. Pickings had been slim all summer; most merchants took the longer route to the south, which had forced Leopard to come into Bleak Valley.

  From his hiding position only the southern edges of the dale were visible, but even within his restricted view Calgallun could see two sets of standing stones and a chill-inducing monolith atop the jagged hills. Ruins of an age passed long ago, but the tales still held that the spirits of those ancient heathens clung to this valley. Most folk avoided this area even more than the Scatha Vale, including Leopard’s men.

  Not so the priests, and so the bandits had crossed the Low Pass, acting on information from one of Leopard’s spies at the Inn of the Crossed Roads.

  Calgallun’s instinct itched for him to back out now while he could, but he was too afraid; even more so than of the soldier-priests. If he pulled out of the attack and Leopard’s gang survived, they would hunt Calgallun down for desertion. Promises had been made and brotherhood sworn. Honour, not to mention pride, would demand the life of any that broke faith with their fellow outlaws.

  The trill of a mountain thrush – or the imitation of such by Leopard – signalled that the attack was about to start.

  Calgallun licked dry lips and tested the string on his bow before nocking an arrow. He half-drew and sighted on one of the lead horses. Leopard had insisted that the first arrows were used to ensure the target could not gallop away.

  “Creator spare me if this goes wrong,” Calgallun muttered.

  He pulled the bowstring to the full draw and waited for Leopard’s next call.

  Seven years at the monastery of Erod had taught Naldros much patience, but the continued belligerent ignorance of the wagon driver tested her sorely.

  “The Creator brought everything into being,” the Castigator explained again, speaking slowly. “Dove and lion, rose petal and thorn, summer breeze and storm. Destruction and violence are nothing more than another part of the pattern the Creator wove into the fabric of the world. One can study war and know the Creator as well as finding the Creator’s will through peace.”

  “But it’s murder, right?” insisted Markwell. He picked a scab on his chin with his free hand, idly flicking away the tag of dried blood. “To kill is evil, right?”

  “What if I were to kill an evil person to protect an innocent?” asked Naldros. “Besides, we of the Order of Erod do not believe in an afterlife. We think of the Creator as Avenger, not Judge.”

  “So we can do what we want while we live, is that it?” The driver looked dubious.

  “Within the society and law we create and enforce ourselves. The Creator shaped us but he does not control us. It is only our fellow people and our own standards and conscience by which we are measured. At the point of death all that remains of us is the legacy of our decisions, whether barbaric, civilised or both.”

  “And you’re civilised, right?” Markwell eyed the stocky priest with suspicion. “You get to decide which is which, right?”

  “We all decide, each to his own morals,” Naldros said with a sigh.

  She gave up trying to explain and lowered herself down from the riding board. Gaitlin waited a few moments for her to catch up.

  “So, Castigator, how goes the philosophical debate?”

  “Discussing the cosmic order and inherent morality with Markwell is as rewarding as exchanging gastronomic advice with swine,” replied Naldros.

  “Forgive his ignorance, he has not had the benefit of our teachings and the time to contemplate and become one with the will of the Creator.”

  “Forgive him?” Naldros darted a look across to Skaios on the opposite side of the wagon. “You are mistaken, the Redeemer is over there. I am the Castigator.”

  “Very droll,” said Gaitlin. He was about to add something but stopped.

  Naldros felt it too. The teachings at Erod steered a warrior to finding communion with the Creator, able to sense the subtle ripples of energy and fate that continued to echo down through the ages from the moment of the world’s birth. To be attuned to those waves was to touch upon senses beyond those of other folk, granting near-supernatural ability.

  The call of a mountain thrush grated in her ear. To a lesser-trained warrior nothing would have been amiss, but to Naldros and his fellow priest-soldiers the artificial call was as obvious as a war shout. The moment Naldros detected it her conscious mind gave way to instinct. By the time the second bird-call sounded the knights of Erod were already responding to the coming ambush.

  She turned and swung her foot-lance before the arrow left the shadow of the tree. Gaitlin moved as well, taking a step to one side, responding to the intent of his shrine-sister. The tip of Naldros’ spear slashed through the space where Gaitlin had been a moment before. The razor-sharp edge caught the arrow mid-shaft and sliced it in two, sending the pieces tumbling harmlessly to the ground.

  There were more arrows than shrine-warriors. Some of them deflected the missiles, but the horses were each pierced by several shafts. One survived the first attack, wounded and thrashing in the traces against the dead weight of its companions, whinnying in pain and terror. Markwell wrenched the brake with one hand while trying to rein in the bucking horse with the other. An arrow took the driver in the chest and he pitched from the riding board with a deathly croak.

  Naldros blocked the noise and detected the crack of breaking twigs, the creak of bending bow and a pant of breath. She broke into a run even as her eyes picked out the stocky bandit crouching in the bushes to his right. Their eyes met and Naldros recognised dread in her foe’s gaze; his hands were trembling and a fat tongue lolled over fear-dried lips.

  Around Naldros the rest of the group was charging in silence towards the rocks and trees
, drawing their short swords. Hastily loosed arrows whickered across the road, one of them finding Heiran’s throat, sending her crashing to the ground with a spray of arterial blood.

  Naldros focussed on the swaying point of the nocked arrow pointed at her and subtly adjusted her stride, leaning to the left. The brigand’s shot passed by a sword’s breadth to the right. The priestess was confident she would be upon the enemy before he had time to fit another shaft to the bowstring, but her attention was drawn to the left, where two muscle-bound bandits broke from cover, shields and swords at the ready.

  Without breaking stride, Naldros turned her attention to these assailants as other bandits charged out to meet the oncoming warrior-priests. She ducked beneath the first sword thrust, slipping her sword from its sheath as her spear slashed across the bearded man’s throat, parting hairs and windpipe with equal ease. The second man pulled his shield across to ward away Naldros’ sword with a clang, but this exposed his leg. The priest’s spear punched through the knee, sending the brigand crashing to his back.

  Ripping her foot-lance free, Naldros parried the fallen man’s sword and kicked aside his shield. The Castigator dropped to one knee as she plunged her sword through the man’s chest. Straightening, flicking blood from the tips of both weapons, Naldros took a moment to judge the situation.

  The spontaneous counter-attack had served the knights well, negating the archers hidden around the track. These bowmen rose from their hiding places, drawing knives and swords to help their companions embroiled in a melee along the edge of the road. However, not all of the archers had revealed themselves.

  Naldros turned back to the brigand she had first seen, just in time to duck beneath another arrow. Breaking into a sprint, the priestess covered the intervening bare ground in moments. The brigand raised his bow to ward away Naldros’ spear, the wood splintering as it met the hardened steel tip of the foot-lance.