Sword and sorceress 04.., p.1
[Sword and Sorceress 04] - Sword and Sorceress IV, page 1
![[Sword and Sorceress 04] - Sword and Sorceress IV](https://picture.bookfrom.net/img/marion-zimmer-bradley/sword_and_sorceress_04_-_sword_and_sorceress_iv.jpg "[Sword and Sorceress 04] - Sword and Sorceress IV")
![[Sword and Sorceress 04] - Sword and Sorceress IV](https://picture.graycity.net/img/marion-zimmer-bradley/sword_and_sorceress_04_-_sword_and_sorceress_iv.jpg "[Sword and Sorceress 04] - Sword and Sorceress IV")
THE LURE OF MAGIC,
THE CLASH OF ARMS…
Called upon to face a human-devouring beast, a swordwoman and a sorceress find that men not monsters present the greatest challenge…
Fleeing a plague-stricken land, a lone swordswoman must battle wizard and demon to save a treasure beyond price…
Can bard’s sight free a wizard from an earth magic prison?
She was a gullrider. sworn to protect her people. But when the monster kraken began its reign of terror, could she alone master the one weapon that might prove the kraken’s doom?
These are but four of the eighteen tales of flashing blades and fantastic sorcery included in this latest collection of—
SWORD AND SORCERESS
MARION ZIMMER BRADLEY
in DAW editions:
DARKOVER NOVELS
DARKOVER LANDFALL
THE SPELL SWORD
THE HERITAGE OF HASTUR
THE SHATTERED CHAIN
THE FORBIDDEN TOWER
STORMQUEEN!
TWO TO CONQUER
SHARRA’S EXILE
HAWKMISTRESS!
THENDARA HOUSE
CITY OF SORCERY
DARKOVER ANTHOLOGIES
THE KEEPER’S PRICE
SWORD OF CHAOS
FREE AMAZONS OF DARKOVER
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MIRROR
NON-DARKOVER NOVELS
HUNTERS OF THE RED MOON
THE SURVIVORS
(with Paul Edwin Zimmer)
WARRIOR WOMAN
NON-DARKOVER ANTHOLOGIES
SWORD AND SORCERESS I
SWORD AND SORCERESS II
SWORD AND SORCERESS III
SWORD AND SORCERESS IV
Copyright © 1987 by Marion Zimmer Bradley.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover on by Joel.
Introduction © 1987 by Marion Zimmer Bradley.
A Tale of Heroes © 1987 by Mercedes Lackey.
The Woodland of Zarad-Thra © 1987 by Robin W. Bailey.
The Weeping Oak © 1987 by Charles de Lint.
Gullrider © 1987 by Dave Smeds.
Blood Dancer © 1987 by Diana L. Paxson.
Kayli’s Fire © 1987 by Paula Helm Murray.
The Ring of Lifari © 1987 by Josepha Sherman.
Rite of Passage © 1987 by Jennifer Roberson.
The Eyes of the Gods © 1987 by Richard Corwin.
Fate and the Dreamer © 1987 by Millea Kenin.
The Noonday Witch © 1987 by Dorothy J. Heydt.
Redeemer’s Riddle © 1987 by Stephen L. Burns
The Tree-Wife of Arketh © 1987 by Syn Ferguson.
Spell of Binding © 1987 by Richard Cornell.
Storm God © 1987 by Deborah Wheeler.
Die Like a Man © 1987 by L. D. Woeltjen.
Death and the Ugly Woman © 1987 by Bruce D. Arthurs.
Bloodstones © 1987 by Deborah M. Vogel.
DAW Book Collectors No. 714.
First DAW Printing, July 1987
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
PRINTED IN THE U S A.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction by Marion Zimmer Bradley
A TALE OF HEROES by Mercedes Lackey
THE WOODLAND OF ZARAD-THRA by Robin W. Bailey
THE WEEPING OAK by Charles de Lint
GULLRIDER by Dave Smeds
BLOOD DANCER by Diana L. Poison
KAYLI’S FIRE by Paula Helm Murray
THE RING OF LIFARI by Josepha Sherman
RITE OF PASSAGE by Jennifer Roberson
THE EYES OF THE GODS by Richard Corwin
FATE AND THE DREAMER by Millea Kenin
THE NOONDAY WITCH by Dorothy J. Heydt
REDEEMER’S RIDDLE by Stephen L. Burns
THE TREE-WIFE OF ARKETH by Syn Ferguson
SPELL OF BINDING by Richard Cornell
STORM GOD by Deborah Wheeler
DIE LIKE A MAN by L. D. Woeltjen
DEATH AND THE UGLY WOMAN by Bruce D. Arthurs
BLOODSTONES by Deborah M Vogel
INTRODUCTION
Well, it’s been another year, and here we are again, I tend to think of these volumes as a magazine in paperback format, appearing yearly, and dedicated to the proposition that sword and sorcery fiction, once the most sexist of all fields of fantasy, must not be confined to tales of power and pillage, with a seamy underside of rape, which at one time comprised about eighty percent of sword and sorcery fiction—including that written by women.
Peopled with mighty-thewed heroes (what are thews anyhow? I’m sure the dictionary would tell me, but I honestly don’t think I want to know) and shrinking (or shrieking) maidens whose main function was to stand about screaming, or to be distributed to the heroes as bad-conduct prizes, these stories usually followed a general philosophy (if you can call it that) of “Ho, hum, another day, another dragon, another damsel in distress.” Yet they were good fun, and even women enjoyed the adventures, though we deplored the philosophy behind them.
This series started out with only one major rule; that, without resorting to feminist rhetoric, we would present women as central to their own adventures, neither as victims nor as bystanders to the men’s deeds. In the first volume, we found far too many stories of rape and revenge—a category which seems to have dwindled virtually out of existence; this year I received only one such story, and that was written by a man. But then, even men no longer fantasize the rapist as brave or heroic, but as the sickly, impotent psychopath he usually is.
On the other hand, we have tried very hard to avoid the female adventurer who is merely the male adventurer dressed up in long hair and skirts with a girl’s name; we have also tried very hard to avoid the story where the only plot is that a woman Challenges Men’s Magic (or mystique) and proves that she can too be a camel driver, a wizard, a mercenary or swordswoman, a dragon tamer; this story is simply no surprise to anyone in this day of female astronauts and women climbing Everest. Nor is it surprising to me—or, I hope, to my readers—that women should succeed or even excel as thieves or soldiers; if this still surprises—or satisfies—anyone, that reader is living in the Dark Ages. After all, of my three children, only the girl won a varsity letter for any sport. While her brothers were content to excel in mathematics or art, my tall, athletic daughter gained a varsity letter in fencing—not a sport notorious for woman champions, though perhaps aptly suited to them. One of the (women) writers of these volumes holds a black belt in Kung Fu; and there are among them university professors, farmers, animal trainers, and even a few who have the courage to be housewives and mothers; probably the most unpopular profession in this day and age.
On the other hand, women in society and in female achievement and education enjoyed (and despite the best efforts of a few misguided women, still mostly enjoy) one major and unqualified advantage in our country. They were not expected or required to drain off a lot of energy or initiative learning how to throw, kick or chase various kind of balls around some field or other. Women have been and mostly are free to concentrate on more serious tests of the human spirit. An enormous amount of male energy is still taken up by these balls (and believe me, I did not intend the pun, but if it fits…)
The only thing sillier in my opinion than the sight of a group of supposedly adult men kicking, throwing or chasing some kind of ball around a field or court is the even sillier sight of adult males sitting on their flabby and under-exercised backsides watching another group of supposedly adult males kicking, chasing, throwing or batting some such inflated hunk of plastic around some field or other. The cynic who defined golf as “a good way to ruin a perfectly good walk” had obviously never seriously contemplated the phenomenon of Monday Night Football. This is a waste of the human spirit unequaled by anything in history with the possible exception of the hairdressing industry or the following of the plots of soap operas. The hunger for adventure is still there in the best of us (despite the best efforts of Barbara Cartland and her competitors), and the purpose of these volumes is to fill it.
As a child I thrilled to the exploits of Maurice Herzog climbing Annapurna, and Francis Chichester sailing single-handed along the Clipper Way; now these feats (and many others) have been duplicated by women, and even the most porcine of male chauvinists find it impossible to deny them. But with our own adventure stories come our own cliches.
The first of these volumes was based upon “rape and revenge”—a category which has fortunately declined. The second volume rather overdid the various changes which could be rung on the Sacrificed Maiden story.
This year I discovered a new cliche which came in so often that I got tired (in this one year) of reading it; the thief waking up with a hangover, having spent or gambled away all her profits for her last endeavor; or sometimes it was someone meeting—always in a tavern of some sort—a tired-out, hard-bitten, gray-haired, old or middle-aged mercenary, looking for a way to make One Last Haul and retire. I have bought, and will continue to buy stories of this kind, just as detective novels will continue to feature the hard-boiled (on the surface) private eye with a heart of solid marshmallow; but they must he more subtle. If I recognize the plot on the first page, I reach for my handy rejection slip, and often don’t bother to read on through the slimy employer who hires the unlucky lady to steal the ill-gotten gains of Bogus the Barbarian, or to heist the hoard of the Horde; not if it is already obvious to
This kind of story is perhaps the modem equivalent of the much-overworked governess novel—the one we’ve all read a hundred times; where the not-very-bright heroine goes as governess, or maybe companion, to the isolated old house at the edge of the moors and is lured into the old wine cellar by the Sinister Byronic Hero who heads the household.
This kind of story has all but vanished in the twentieth century, due to the decline of governess candidates without enough worldly wisdom to come in out of the rain. The potential governess now holds a degree in Early Childhood Education, or went to Katherine Gibbs and can type eighty-four words a minute. And even if she did end up in the sinister old house on the edge of the moors, and the Sinister Employer tried to lure her into the old wine cellar (whether on murder or seduction bent), she could pick up the phone and call the cops, or take the first Greyhound bus out of the place.
So there’s hope that even a hired, middle-aged mercenary may learn to recognize a trap when she sees one, or develop enough brains in her long career of knocking around the world to come in out of the rain or stay out of the hands of Bogus the Barbarian and his various evil magicians and shills.
But I don’t want to take all the fun out of reading or even writing these things. I think we all enjoy the glorious old stories—in fact, the story of the guy who makes it back home in spite of the devil, the deep blue sea, and all the bad guys, is still around, whether you call him Ulysses, Two-gun Tex, or Travis McGee. So if I read one of these things in utter fascination, and only afterward recognize. “Well, son-of-a gun, if that isn’t the old story of the Heist of the Hoard again,” that’s fine; but if I spot it on the first page, all it gets is a rejection slip. We can still fall in love with a lovable thief, whether called Robin Hood or Tessie the trickster. But Tessie must have Robin’s lovable qualities, not just a generic reshuffling of well-tried plot elements.
Believe it or not, even after four volumes, I still greet every day’s haul of manuscripts with enthusiasm; my secretary now slits the envelopes for me, but I still dive into them with delight. After all, the payoff for reading nineteen stories about dragons straight out of Anne McCaffrey may well be that the twentieth will be something like “Kayli’s Fire,” in this volume. Every now and then you find a prize. It’s like pearl diving. Most of the time when you wrench open the shell, all you get is a wet, smelly oyster which isn’t even good to eat.
But the hundredth time you get the pearl.
I’ve done the diving—and you get to read the pearls.
About half the stories this year are by men; which should surprise no one. Men, after all, created the sword and sorcery category; although I still get the odd letter (usually from a very odd person,), who asked me how I dare print “women’s fantasy” by men? (Although this kind of person usually calls it “wimmin’s fantasy” and asks if I am going to let “wimmin’s fantasy, which should be by and for strong womyn, and written by womon only” be taken over and co-opted by men.
Well, I’m afraid that I’m just looking for good stories; and women who object to men writing about women should remember that during our first thirty years or so, women sf and fantasy writers had to write mostly about men. Are they seriously trying to say that no one can write about a character not of one’s own gender? How sad. (And how stupid.) There was Leigh Brackett’s splendid Eric John Stark, for instance—one of the great sword and sorcery heroes of all time. And C.L. Moore’s incomparable Northwest Smith.
Fantasy is always the poorer for any attempt to limit its scope. In fact, if it can be limited, it’s not fantasy at all.
Granted, some female characters created by men are pure wish fulfillment—and I hate to think whose wishes they would fulfill. There are the modern Heinlein “Girls” (one still can’t call them women) who have grown up and learned to cuss—but they’re still Podkayne of Mars under the skin; little girls, and I think they were more attractive before they learned to cuss or to have a self-conscious sex life. But that’s neither here nor there; the important thing is that there are many fine writers whose characters are neither mighty, broad-chested heroes, nor shrinking maidens screen-tested only for their Fay Wrayish screaming power, but plainly and simply human.
I think, for instance, that it would be hard to create a more simply human and believable character than B.D. Arthurs did in “Death and the Ugly Woman.’’ And I doubt if Robin Bailey’s Cymbalin in “The Woodland of Zarad-Thra” could be bettered by any woman writer, whatever her political correctness.
But then, I have a constitutional detestation for apartheid, even when it’s disguised as women’s space. Or, as they’d probably say, wimmin’s space.
When it comes to politics, my version is always, “A plague on both your houses.” Any attempt to mix art and politics makes for bad art and bad politics—or why are so many dancers and choreographers, the petted darlings of the system, defecting from that paradise of political art, the USSR? And any attempt to put politics into fantasy fiction should be treated with the utmost contempt—not to mention the editor’s ultimate weapon, the rejection slip. If you want to write a political treatise, hire a hall—or have the decency to package it as a political tract and hand it out on a street corner to the already converted. Don’t try to sneak it into your story.
On the other hand, if you write with conviction and honesty, your views will be clear enough. Not one of these stories descends to rhetoric (which, after all, is defined as the art of making the worse cause appear the better, or the finer art of telling lies) but I think they embody a consistent view of women in adventure fiction. And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?
—M.Z.B.
A TALE OF HEROES
(Based on an idea by Robert Chilson)
by Mercedes Lackey
“Misty” Lackey made her professional debut in SWORD AND SORCERESS III with the much-liked novelette “Sword Sworn’' which introduced Tarma and Kethry, Misty recently sold a three-novel series to DAW Books. I can’t wait. Female adventurers tend to travel in pairs (like nuns?)—usually mixed pairs; one swordswoman and one sorceress. In this story, they face a problem rather more domestic than most, and some dedicated feminists may find the solution untenable; but to each her own. The haggis shortage is not yet imminent. (Haggis is a Scots dish comprised of liver and oatmeal which is very much an acquired taste. There’s a proverbial statement that it’s a good thing we don’t all like the same things— think what a haggis shortage there would be!)
(If this story doesn’t suit you, try the next story; Robin Bailey’s “The Woodland of Zarad-Thra, which is superficially founded of the same elements, and raising much the same questions, yet is about as different as any story could be.
“Miles out of our way, and still not a sign of anything out of the ordinary,” Tarma grumbled, her harsh voice carrying easily above the clopping of their horses’ hooves. “For certain, no sign of any women in distress. Are you—”
“Absolutely certain.” Kethry (the swordswoman’s partner) replied firmly, eyes scanning the fields to either side of them. Her calf-length, buff-colored robe, mark of the traveling sorceress, was covered in road dust, and she squinted in an attempt to keep that dust out of her eyes. The chilly air was full of the scent of dead leaves and dried grass. “It’s not something I can ignore, you know. If my blade Need says there’re women in trouble in this direction, there’s no chance of doubt: they exist. Surely you now that by now.”
It had been two days since they diverted from the main road onto this one, scarcely wider than a cart track. The autumn rains were sure to start before long; cold rains Tarma had hoped to avoid by getting them on the way to their next commission well ahead of time. Since they’d turned off the caravan road they’d seen little sign of habitation, only rolling, grassy hills and a few scattered patches of forest, all of them brown and sere. The bright colors of fall were not to be found in this region—when frost came the vegetation here muted into shades more like those of Tarma’s worn leathers and Kethry’s traveling robes than the carnival-bright colors of the farther north. In short, the trip thus far had been uneventful and deadly dull.
