E-Book, Englisch, Band 35, 470 Seiten
Reihe: Writers of the Future
Bestselling Anthology of Award-Winning Science Fiction and Fantasy Short Stories
E-Book, Englisch, Band 35, 470 Seiten
Reihe: Writers of the Future
ISBN: 978-1-61986-601-0
Verlag: Galaxy Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)
24 Award-Winning Sci-Fi and Fantasy Authors and Illustrators.
Accompanied by Dean Wesley Smith, Rebecca Moesta, Mike Resnick, Rob Prior and Echo Chernik and Edited by David Farland
The 35th collection of winners of the Writers and Illustrators of the Future competition features expertly crafted stories and art, spanning the gamut from hard core sci-fi to epic fantasy. Stories so fresh and new, they're 5-10 years ahead of the curve-the future is literally here and now.
Each year, the Writers and Illustrators of the Future Contests' blue-ribbon judges search the world to discover and introduce to you the very best new talent in sci-fi and fantasy.
Created by L. Ron Hubbard, whose commitment to help new writers and artists gave rise to the annual Writers of the Future anthologies-a launching pad for writers and artists who are sure to command our attention for decades to come.
Wondrous and powerful tales from some of the world's best new writers and illustrators.
Learn how to write or improve your craft with tips from award-winning and bestselling author and editor Mike Resnick and New York Times bestselling author L. Ron Hubbard. Internationally renown artist, Rob Prior, shares tips of the trade for aspiring illustrators.
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The First Warden
When I was very young, a sickness struck—the sort that spreads like fire, consuming everyone it touches. I remember terrible heat, terrible cold, a drifting sensation, and something I can only describe as bliss. It would not have been a bad death. It would have been an ordinary one, and I have never felt the disdain some feel for the ordinary. I thought I was dreaming when I opened my eyes to see a blurry figure wreathed in light. He bent over me, long hair brushing my face, and asked me if I knew him. I nodded. I did know him, though only from afar. He was Shae, our magus, the vessel of the gods. He replied softly that he knew me too. Then he told me he was going to take me away. “To the Afterworld?” I asked—or something to that effect. And he laughed the most delighted, silken laugh. I recall being unsure if he would be able to lift me; he was so slight. But he did so with ease, letting my soiled blankets slide to the floor and bearing me out into the cold daylight in only my nightshirt. My eyes watered in the sunlight, so my family’s tent blurred as I took my last look at it over his shoulder. And then, all at once, it burst into flames. I cried out, only half sure the flames were real—they wavered and danced so phantasmically. Names spilled from my lips—those of the people we’d left inside—though now I cannot recall them. Shae murmured something meaningless and calming, holding me firmly as I struggled. And as we departed, I saw that all the tents around us were burning. The air shimmered, flakes of ash gathered in Shae’s long hair, and for the first time in ages, I felt warm. Illustration by Alexander Gustafson We did not go to the Afterworld. When I came to myself, I was buried in soft furs and the air was sweet with wood smoke. The canvas that arched overhead glowed softly in the afternoon sunlight. My body felt languid, boneless, and my mind was pleasantly muddled. I would have described the feeling as drunkenness had I been old enough to enjoy the pleasures of wine. Voices reached me faintly from outside, rising and falling in a lulling manner. It took me some time to identify one of them as Shae’s and to realize that he was angry. “I have done my duty. The north side of the camp is cinders.” “Your duty was to eliminate the plague. Not to bring it into our midst.” This voice, I did not know. “I knew when I saw him that the child would live.” “And what is to be done with him now? No family will take a child of plague.” “He will stay with me.” The words were cool and placid, but for the taut silence that followed, he might have shouted them. When the man—I was sure it was a man—spoke again, his voice was thick and pent. “You think that is wise?” “It is not your concern whom I share my home with, Councilor. Now I ask that you leave me be.” There was another fraught pause, and then the man—who I now suspected was Councilor Glenn—uttered stiff departing words, which Shae politely returned. I lifted my head as the dim tent was briefly flooded with light and then darkened again as the door flap fell back into place. Shae’s slender figure approached me, and as he passed the fire pit in the center of the room, the flames within sprang brightly to life, illuminating rich carpets and polished wood furnishings the likes of which I’d never seen. It frightened me to see the fire flare so suddenly. I buried my face in the luxuriant furs. But my fear flickered out as I felt him settle beside me, replaced by curiosity. He smiled as I peeped at him, and the effect was truly startling. He had a face like no other: smooth, sculpted, and ageless. Tawny skin and ink-black hair that fell in a rippling curtain to his waist. And when the light caught his eyes, they were jeweled amber. “I suppose you heard all that,” he said. His voice made me think of clear water. “But I don’t want you to worry. You are my ward now, and no one can take you away from me.” “Ward,” I repeated the strange word, pleased by the way it rolled out of my mouth. “It means you are under my protection.” Smiles came to him so easily; it was as though his face were made for them. But, overwhelmed by the strangeness of my new surroundings, I could not share his joy. Turning my face back into the furs, I whispered that I wanted to go home. He answered calmly that I was home, and I started to quietly cry. He stayed beside me until I hiccupped myself into silence. Then he asked me if I wanted something to eat. I sat up and nodded, suddenly ravenous. I never asked to leave again. The following days passed, dreamlike. The sweet, heavy wood smoke made me sleepy and the tea Shae brewed for me, thick with honey, made me feel light and dizzy in a not-unpleasant way. It would take me time to grow accustomed to this muddled state of being that I would soon learn was simply the way Shae lived. It would take me time also to adapt to the luxury, the softness, and the warmth. I had lived a harsh life before coming here, though the details of it were fading fast. Sometimes, I was woken by terrible nightmares in which faceless people called my name and reached for me with skeletal hands, black with ash. But he was always there, a quiet presence in the dark, and his soft, even breaths would lull me back to sleep. He bathed me in warm water and patiently trimmed the mats out of my hair. He clothed me in his spare garments at first, which were long and silken and trailed behind me on the floor when I walked. He laughed to see me stumble about and promised to have proper-fitting clothes made for me. One day, a woman came to measure my arms, legs, and torso, though she didn’t look me in the eye or touch me directly. She murmured something strange and stomped in a hurried circle before entering and leaving the tent. “Superstition,” Shae said when I looked at him questioningly. I did not know this word, so he went on, “She believes that you have cheated death, so death will forever seek to claim you. She believes that this curse may cleave to her if she comes too close. She asks for the gods’ protection.” “And will the gods protect her?” I asked. He shot me a conspiratorial look. “The gods do not entertain such foolishness.” “Then I am not cursed?” I pressed with a cautious hope. “No,” he replied, placing a warm hand atop my cropped curls. “You will live a long life and you will never suffer sickness again. But it will take others some time to see that. You must be patient with them.” I nodded, forever anxious to please him. When the clothes arrived, they were perfectly fitted and made of the richest fabrics I had ever felt. There were soft underthings, thick tunics for winter and lighter ones for summer, trousers and leggings, and fur-trimmed cloaks. There were boots as well, of supple deerskin, and leather belts with pouches for keeping whatever trinkets a child might wish to keep. Shae watched with quiet delight as I marveled over it all—I could tell by the way his eyes danced. They were like crystallized honey, enchanting. “You will never want for anything again,” he told me, snatching the finest of the fur-lined cloaks and swirling it around my shoulders. “Where does it all come from?” I asked, clutching the thick fabric around me. I meant not only the clothes, but all the wonders the large and beautiful tent contained. And I truly asked not where, but why—why were these things here and nowhere else? “It is gifted to me in return for the service I offer the clan,” he answered. “But I thought you served the gods,” I said. With my returning health, my questions had grown bolder. He smiled that secret smile that made me feel privy to something I didn’t understand. “I am a magus. I serve all but myself.” Often, his answers confused more than they clarified. Of magi, I knew only what every child knows. Magi were granted power by the gods. This power they used to protect and guide the clans. Each clan had only one magus, and he or she was regarded with honor. Shae’s name had forever been spoken with reverence in my hearing. Though it was true he possessed the power to call or quell storms, to spark fire from nothing, to summon and ward off sickness, to control animals, and to foretell the future, he was not to be feared. Magi were benevolent and wise beyond measure. This was all children needed to know. But I was no longer an ordinary child. I was ward to a magus, and I wanted to know more. “Is it true they share your body?” I asked him. “The gods?” He appeared surprised, but not displeased by my forwardness. It was a look I would come to know well—the sort one might give a small animal if it suddenly spoke. As time went on, I would come to suspect that he knew very little of children and had expected something far tamer than the whirlwind I turned out to be. “In a sense,” he replied with that unshakable steadiness. “But it would be truer to say that they are me. The gods and I are one.” “Then when I speak with you, I am speaking with the gods?” I uttered, awestruck for an instant. “No,” he chuckled. “The gods do not speak. They do not need to.” “Oh.” I was relieved; it had perturbed me to think I might be plaguing an ancient divinity day in and day out with childish chatter. “They listen though,” he amended, watching my face. “Not to your words, but to your heart. And they know when the two do not...
