SWORD AND SORCERESS XI AN ANTHOLOGY OF HEROIC FANTASY Edited by Marion Zimmer Bradley DAW BOOKS, INC. DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, FOUNDER 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014 ELIZABETH R. WOLLHEIM SHEILA E. GILBERT PUBLISHERS CONTENTS INTRODUCTION by Marion Zimmer Bradley CALL THE WILD HORSES by Bunnie Bessell KEEPSAKE by Lynn Michals SPIRIT SINGER by Diana L. Paxson FINAL EXAM by Jessica R. herbs THE STRATMOOR BEAR by Charley Pearson GRUMBLE SNOOT by Vaughn Heppner TALES by Javonna L. Anderson MAGGOTS FEAST by Jo Clayton MOONRIDERS by Lynne Armstrong-Jones THIEF, THIEF! by Mary Catelli HEALING by Hannah Blair VIRGIN SPRING by Cynthia McQuillin THE HAVEN by Judith Kobylecky SAVIOR by Tom Gallier BAD LUCK AND CURSES by Jessie Eaker THE MISTRESS' RIDDLE by Karen Luk RUSTED BLADE by Dave Smeds IMAGES OF LOVE by Larry Tritten A FATE WORSE THAN DEATH by Diann Partridge POWER PLAY by Sandra Morrese FENWTTCH by Sarah Evans GREEN-EYED MONSTER by Vicki Kirchhoff SNOWFIRE by D. Lopes Heald ANCIENT WARRIOR by Stephanie Shaver BARBARIAN LEGACY by Lawrence Schimel MIST by Laura J. Underwood SONGHEALER by Tammi Labrecque THE SOW'S EAR by Kathy Ann Trueman POISONED DREAMS by Deborah Wheeler NIGHT-BEAST by Cynthia Ward THE GIFT by Rochelle Marie THE CRYSTAL CASKET by Kristine Sprunger RINGED IN by Mildred Perkins INTRODUCTION On the 11th volume of this anthology, I found it very hard to get a final lineup , not because of a lack of good stories, but because, on the contrary, of an emb arrassment of riches. Even after dismissing the stories by ten-year-olds who did n't own typewriters and sent in handwritten stories—which I couldn't use even if t heir stories were Nebula quality, which they usually, to put it as charitably as possible, aren't—and throwing out unread the single spaced efforts by people who ought to know better, and ploughing through all the stories about people who are called sorceresses but, for all the magic we ever see, might as well be plumber s or carpenters—well, I'm ranting again. But if I can't sound off in my own editorials, where can I? A little rant reli eves the mind, but even amateurs ought to know a little about the business they' re trying to get into. If I had never taken voice lessons and was tone deaf, wou ld I be singing at the Metropolitan Opera or conducting the Philharmonic? So why would a would-be writer fail to learn grammar? But they do. Some New Age types, with more compassion than brains, insist that everyone has talent and simply needs a chance to release her creativity! Maybe so—in play therapy. But not in my anthologies, thank you. I can't help thinking how happy I'd have been even with some of the stories I must now reject when this anthology was getting started. I found out with shock and disillusion that many—or even most—editors do not share my delight in slush pile s. Where I see all that new unformed talent— those young, original, undiscovered voices—some editors see only the yahoo who cou ldn't write his way out of a paper bag. The only thing that makes me angry is people who send stories to me without ha ving read my current guidelines. So, if you want to submit to me, first send a S ASE (Self-Addressed Stamped Envelope) to me at PO Box 72, Berkeley, CA 94701, an d get the guidelines. A lot of slush is just that. But sometimes you do find a pearl in all these oy sters. I still find plenty—and that's what makes it all worthwhile. While some edi tors think only of all the frogs they have to kiss, I keep my mind on the rare p earls. Or princes, depending on which metaphor you're using. And that's what people mean by talking about their sense of wonder. The best e ditors never lose it—and so I go back for just one more wet smelly oyster. Maybe t his one will contain the pearl. And if not this one, maybe the next. Who knows? It might be yours. CALL THE WILD HORSES by Bunnie Bessell Bunnie Bessell is one of those young writers of whom I think with pride as "one of ours," since her first sale was to me, to Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Mag azine. One of my chief delights is to discover the new writers who will turn out to have careers as writers—so I'll have something to read when the others are cal led—as so many of my own long-ago generation—to that great SF Convention in the afte rlife. I'm looking out to see so many of my own contemporaries there. Bunnie Bessell says of herself that she has always been a storyteller. As a ch ild she believed that small creatures lived inside her who came out at night and told their adventures to her two sisters as they huddled under the covers. That 's really how every fiction writer I know started. Despite all the New Age stuff about releasing one's own creativity, we all started with some variation of lov ing "Pretend" more than any other game. Another thing she says rings such a bell that it might have been my own teens. She was "the kind of adolescent who was s till playing make-believe while others were discovering boys." I, for instance, was the one who hid in the library while other girls my age were being herded in to the gym at noon for mandatory social adjustment—meaning dancing with boys—which m ay be why schools are in trouble: too much emphasis on social skills instead of reading. At the risk of being thought reactionary, I suggest schools return thei r emphasis to making the kids literate instead of emphasizing "social adjustment " to such a degree that girls drop out to be married while still illiterate. Bunnie adds that (like me) she wrote h er first book in seventh grade and that it was a science fiction thriller. "It n ow resides in the darkest recess under my bed. Don't we all have one under our b eds?" Well, no; sometimes we drag them out when we're in our forties and rewrite the m, and they get nominated for Hugos! Mine did! Maybe yours will. If it's as inte resting as this tale of a horse-clan sorceress, it just might. Bunnie also adds that she collects wind-up toys and, having no children, has d ecided "to become the world's greatest aunt." She now has the honor of adoring, befriending, and frolicking with eleven marvelous nieces and nephews. One great thing about aunthood, Bunnie: nieces and nephews never—or very seldom—wake you up fo r a diaper change or a bottle at 3 a.m. You get a lot more sleep—and time to dream up plots—that way. She's female, 40 something, lives in Arlington, Texas, and is a "dedicated hug ger." Long may she hug—and keep on writing. It took all of Marlee's courage to walk into the circle of the campfire. She did n't look to either side, not wanting to meet the stares of the Clan women, but k ept her gaze fixed straight ahead. The chatter of conversation fell silent as sh e entered. On the other side of the fire, Hesta stood up and Marlee came to a halt in fro nt of her. Her heart ached at the sight of the older woman. Hesta had been secon d mother to Marlee since her own mother died many years back. Once, she would ha ve stepped forward to hug Hesta, but she had lost that right twelve months ago. Sabrine came from behind Marlee, shoved her aside, and stood next to Hesta. "T ell her to leave," she demanded, pointing at Marlee. "She's done enough harm." Fearing Hesta would send her away, Marlee quickly tossed off her outer cloak a nd sank to her knees in front of the fire. Underneath she wore only a plain, sho rt tunic of untanned hide. "I, Marlee, daughter of Quebacc, granddaughter of Iris, great-granddaughter of Leemay, ask to serve the Horse Clan." She heard grumbled surprise at her words but carefully kept reciting the ritual plea of a novice to join the Callers. "On this the Night of Calling, I wi ll touch the minds of fillies and colts, of mares and of stallions. I will share their thoughts and bring them forth in p-peace," she stumbled over the word. "I will bid them to live among the People, to serve the Clan and to be one wit h the Clan. I do this so that the People and the Herd might grow and prosper. I will Call the Wild Horses from the Great Herd and make them gentle." Then she bowed her head. "I will Call for the Horse Clan if This Leader wills it." She waited, knowing she should not look up until Hesta pronounced her decis ion. She had knelt like this five years ago, truly a novice then. Juliane had been by her side. They had been young and full of excitement. Neither doubted that th ey would be allowed to join the Callers. Both girls came from families strong wi th the Caller magic. Their acceptance had been quick and their first Calling cel ebrated happily.