Lucky or Unlucky?
13 Stories of Fate
Edited by N.E. White
LUCKY OR UNLUCKY?
Copyright © 2013, N.E. White
Compiled and edited by N.E. White
Cover art by Guillermo Diaz
Cover design by A. Lynn Ferguson
All rights reserved. This story collection remains the copyrighted property of the individual authors, and no material in this book may be copied or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage-and-retrieval systems, without the express written consent of the author, except for brief quotations in critical articles and reviews.
These are works of fiction. All people, places, events, and organizations are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to any places, events or organizations is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Introduction, by N.E. White
Lucky Bill, by Nils Durban
Thirteen Bullets, by Andrew Leon Hudson
Military Magic, by Michael Aaron
13 Days, by Tristis Ward
Fold, by Charlotte Ashley
The Devil’s Knocking, by A. Lynn
Runner, by J.R. Murdock
The Emperor’s 13th Choice, by N.E. White
Getty Lucky, by J.M. Odell
Double Negative, by Eric Best
The 13th Spell, by Michell Plested
Sundered, by Wilson Geiger
Married to the Apocalypse, by Mark Lawrence
Introduction
N.E. White
Last year, the writers who frequent SFFWorld.com and I decided to put together an anthology. We were fortunate to have Hugh Howey’s and Michael J. Sullivan’s participation. With their help, and with the contribution of our forum writers, we put together a collection of short stories we could all be proud to show to the world.
This year, the challenge was to do it again.
Mark Lawrence, dark fantasy writer extraordinaire and author of the popular The Broken Empire series, has joined twelve other writers of varying experience and talent to bring you thirteen exceptional fictional stories for your entertainment. Each of the authors included in this anthology is a member of the forum of SFFWorld.com, where we gather to talk about the books we love and the stories we create.
The theme for this anthology centers on the number thirteen. Yes, I picked that number because I’m publishing this anthology in the year 2013—very obvious, I know. But thirteen is also a significant number in many cultures for being lucky or unlucky. I thought it would be interesting to read fictional stories that incorporated that number and see where fate might take their characters.
This was a difficult theme to write and judge, and we had incredible difficulty finding all the stories. But we persevered and in the end, I’m happy to report that the writers of SFFWorld.com did not disappoint. We have thirteen eerie stories of luck I hope you will enjoy.
Before I leave you, one quick note: SFFWorld.com supports an international community. We have authors from the United States of America, the United Kingdom, Canada, and even Spain! British and U.S. spelling has been preserved (for the most part) in each story according to its author’s origin.
Thanks for reading,
N.E. White (cat herder)
1. Lucky Bill
Nils Durban
First Parte—Bill
Horace was startled from his uneasy slumber as the cart jolted to a standstill, the shrill whinny of their horse and the gasp that escaped his sister’s lips echoing his own bewilderment. Reluctant to open his weary eyes and accept a fully wakeful state he pulled the sackcloth further up about his shoulders and called out to his father seated up front, “Is we home, Da’?”
“Quiet boy,” his father hissed through gritted teeth, “and keep yer ’ead down!”
Something’s up, he determined, opening his eyes to be faced with a dark canopy of leafy branches silhouetted by the gibbous moon, casting a ghostly pall over the wooden boards of the empty cart. Although mindful of his father’s orders, he could not find it within himself to resist a peek at whatever had caused this unscheduled stop. He rolled over carefully to peer through a gap where the planks formed the cart’s corner. At first he spied nothing past his father sitting upon the box, reins in hand. Then, through the darkness, he became aware of a figure making its way towards them along the track’s verge. A tall man, wide of shoulder, a pointed hat upon his head.
“Who is it, Da’? What’s he want with us?” Connie whispered fearfully from her seat alongside their father. The cart creaked as she shifted across to nestle against his side.
“Don’t worry, gal,” he reassured her, sounding anything but, “you just let yer Da’ deal with ’im, okay?”
The figure stood before them, hands on hips, cloaked from neck to boot, collar turned up against bearded cheeks. It was not an image that provided Horace with any comfort, and he was gladdened when his father plucked up the courage to call out a challenge.
“Mister? We ain’t wantin’ any trouble. If it’s a ride ye seek, I can help ye out. Otherwise, I’ll thank ye to move aside and we’ll be on our way.”
The stranger chuckled to himself, providing little clue as to his disposition.
“So there I was,” he spoke in a gruff voice and in complete disregard of their father’s words, “dozing in yonder ditch, all settled in for a pleasant eve, when what do I hear?” He cupped a hand to his ear.
Horace’s father remained silent, possibly unsure as to whether this was intended as a direct question.
“I’ll tell you what I be hearin’,” the stranger continued. “The clopping of a horse’s hooves and the creaking of cartwheels, that be what. And then all of a sudden, here ye are, interruptin’ a good night’s slumber.”
“We’re not lookin’ for trouble, mister, like I said.”
“Well, you’re in luck,” and he hunched over suddenly in a fit of laughter. “Oh, that’s amusing, is that! You see, I’m the lucky one. Lucky Bill Borrows, they calls me. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He doffed his tricorn in their direction. “Now,” he said, parting his cloak to reveal the polished handles of a pair of heavy muskets, “there don’t ’ave to be any trouble. All you has to do is hand over the coin you made at market and we can all go about our business. You can make yer way home and I can get back to that there ditch. No trouble at all, wouldn’t you say?”
Horace knew that his father was not a stupid man. Uneducated, admittedly, but he could hold his own in a marketplace barter and had always found a way of providing for his family, even when the crop had been especially poor. Perhaps now though he was berating himself for choosing this shortcut through Dankmere. He had toyed, Horace recalled, with the notion of taking the broad Kinnerton Road which wound its way around the forest’s northern edge, but that would have required lodgings, the cost of which would have rendered their foray almost pointless. As valuable to them as their few coins were, Horace was relieved by his father’s next words.
“Mister, my purse is inside me coat here. I can reach and get it for yer. I just wouldn’t want you to think I was trying anything foolish, if yer take my meaning?”
“What’s your name, me friend?”
“It’s Gil,” his father replied hesitantly, “Gil Caster, Sir.”
“You don’t ’ave to Sir me,” Borrows laughed. “Yo
u can call me by my name, and I be callin’ you by yours. Friendly like. As if there weren’t ever gonna be any strife between us. Can we be doin’ that, Gil?”
His father nodded. “Yes…Bill.”
“There you go,” Borrows smiled, “I don’t get to hear me name spoken out loud very often. Apart from when it’s me sayin it, that is. When I’s talkin’ to me self.” He glanced around at the trees on either side of the track, as if he were waiting for them to gainsay him. “Me Da’ used to have all sorts of ’orrible names for me. And me Ma, well, she used to call me ‘Oi’. As in ’Oi, fetch me a bucket of water’, or ’Oi, I’m gonna clip your ear when I catch hold of yer’. Now, Gil. I don’t want you to do nothin’,” he returned to the matter in hand, “what I wants is for that pretty little thing beside yer to reach into yer coat, real slow like, and find that there purse. D’ya think yer can do that, missy?”
Horace sensed Connie shrinking even further down in her seat, but their father spoke for her. “Aye, Bill, she can do that.”
“Well, go on then,” Borrows cackled, “we ain’t got all night, ’ave we?”
“It’s okay, Connie, you go ahead and reach round for me purse. It’ll be alright. We’ll soon be on our way.”
“Course yer will,” the thief assured her, “you’ll be tucked up in bed afore ye know it.”
His sister shuffled about as she reached around their father’s middle, feeling for the pouch of coins which he kept secreted there.
“Easy now,” Borrows reminded her. “What I wants, missy, is for yer to toss it on the ground right ’ere. If you can do that, you is almost home and dry.”
“Go on, Connie, love,” his father urged, “you can do it.”
Connie threw the pouch down to the ground before Borrows, where it landed with a slight jingle.
“Lean pickings, by the sounds of it. What ’ave you been tradin’ today, anyhow?”
“Chickens, mostly,” their father replied, “and a couple of piglets.”
“Well you didn’t get much for ’em, did yer?” Bill Borrows said as he bent to collect the purse.
“Times is tough, Bill, yer has to accept what is offered, mostly.”
Horace hoped desperately that this would bring an end to the conversation and that the fearful figure would retreat back into the darkness with their hard earned coin.
“I guess yer right, Gil,” Borrows mused. Horace surmised, rather, that his gaze was fixed upon Connie. “Before yer be leavin’, though, I has a little proposition for yer.”
“Bill,” his father gulped, “I’d rather be gettin’ on now, if it’s all the same to yer. It’s been a long day.”
Borrows frowned. “If it’s all the same to me? I’m not too sure I catch your meaning, Gil. Is yer sayin’ that you can’t bear to listen to me prattle on no more? Is that it?” He moved his right hand to let it rest upon a musket handle.
“Don’t take me wrong, Bill, it’s late is all.”
Oh, God. Let this be over, thought Horace, sweat breaking out upon his brow despite the chill night air.
Borrows stared unblinking for what felt like a full minute, all the while caressing the weapon at his side. Horace was convinced that he could wait like that forever.
“A p–proposition, you say?” his father stammered eventually.
“Aye,” the robber was all smiles again, “a little game ’o chance, that’s all. I fancy me luck tonight, yer see, and I don’t like an opportunity to pass me by. It’d be on me mind all night otherwise. Might never sleep at all.”
Horace didn’t have the slightest notion what the stranger was talking about. The only thing he understood for sure was that they had no choice but to play this out according to the wishes of one Bill Borrows. Eventually, perhaps, he would grow tired and send them on their way.
“Right,” said Borrows, rubbing his hands together, “jump down from there, Gil, and help me clear some space in the back of your cart.”
Horace’s heart sank. He was about to be discovered. Don’t move a muscle, he told himself needlessly, already frozen in terror.
“Bill,” his father said, as Horace heard him clambering down from his seat, “my boy’s back there. He’s only a young ’un mind. Wouldn’t want him to startle you, is all.”
“Not to worry, Gil. I’ve only ever been startled once, as I can recall. Some careless fellow taps me on the shoulder—not a bleedin’ sound he made, honest to God. I’d blown his head clean off before I even realised me pistol was in me hand.” Connie whimpered fearfully. “It don’t pay to creep up on a man, wouldn’t yer agree, Gil?”
“Absolutely, Bill,” his father said, as he came alongside the rear of the cart where Horace was cowered down, “it don’t pay none at all.”
“Some kind of preacher he was, although it was kind of hard to tell afterwards,” Borrows continued rambling. “It was a bit of a mess, really. Not just him, yer understand—the whole situation. I had to lie low for a bit, yer see. Now then, who has we ’ere?”
Horace could only stare wide eyed, white knuckles gripping the sackcloth pulled up about him.
“This is Horace, me youngest,” his father said.
“Blimey,” Borrows exclaimed, “he’s a big ’un, Gil. Eats well, does he?”
“He’s a growing lad, Bill, that’s all.”
“Yer ain’t jokin’. Are yer sure he’s growin’ in the right direction?”
Horace was glad that his father chose to ignore the comment. All he wanted was for this to end.
“How old are these two then, Gil?”
“Constance is sixteen and Horace here is fourteen.”
Borrows was lowering the gate on the back of the cart and then proceeded to sweep aside the straw that covered the boards. Horace retreated as far back as he could, desperately wanting no part in whatever this frightening character had planned. He watched as the man drew a small leather pouch from within his voluminous cloak and spilled the contents out before him. Five milky white dice rolled onto the boards.
“We’re gonna play dice then, Bill?” their father asked.
“Aye, that we is,” Borrows beamed back as if he had come up with some astoundingly miraculous idea, as opposed to the prospect of a game of dice on a cold Autumn eve in the middle of nowhere. “These, me friends, is me lucky dice. I acquired them from a colleague of mine many years ago.” He held one up for them. “Each one has pictures on it, see? Which suits me, ’cos I can’t read none, but pictures is good. Look ye here, Gil, there’s a raven, a dagger, a star, a skull—that be me favourite one. Then there’s this double cross thingy,” he turned the die over to display each face, “I’m fucked if I know what that means. Then there’s this one. Can you tell me what it is?”
Horace had leant forwards slightly for a clearer view. “It’s the number thirteen,” he piped up involuntarily, hoping that this was part of the game and that they were well on the way to finishing it. His father shot him a warning glance but Bill slapped the back of the cart in glee, causing the dice to jump around. “That’s exactly what it is, me lad. I can’t read it me self, not proper like. But I recognise it, I do.”
Horace wondered whether he should inform Borrows that recognising words and numbers was how reading was generally accomplished, but he held his tongue.
“Now,” Borrows continued, with a devilish wink, “pay attention, Gil, for I’m gonna tell yer how the game’s to be played. Yer’s gonna roll these five dice into the back of yer cart ’ere, all at once like, and if even one of ’em turns up thirteen, you’re the winner. How does that sound to yer?”
“And what exactly does I win, Bill?” his father enquired, presumably trying to enter into the spirit of things.
Borrows roared with laughter and slapped his father on the shoulder heartily. “I had you down as the gamblin’ sort right from the off I did, Gil Caster, and now yer be provin’ me right.”
“Oh, I ain’t, Bill, I’ve never had a wager in me life.”
“Well, it ain’t never too l
ate to start. That’s what I was told once, although I think that had something to do with an honest day’s work or some such nonsense, I don’t rightly recall now. Anyway, to answer yer question as to what yer prize be, ’tis yer freedom! All of yer’s. You roll that number thirteen, Gil, or two of them or more, and yer free to go. How’s that for winnings?”
Horace had a bad feeling. A fearful sensation right down in his gut that had him wondering whether he might actually shit his breeches or just throw up. His father braved the obvious question.
“And if I loses, Bill? You’ve took our coin already. What else d’ya want? Would yer take the horse ’n cart and ’ave us walk home?”
Bill chuckled to himself and turned his gaze to the front of the cart where Connie still sat silently, wrapped in her shawl. “It ain’t the ’orse I’ve got me eye on, Gil. Surely you’ve realised that by now?”
“What?” his father was flabbergasted, “what is yer suggestin’, Bill? Yer can’t be takin’ me daughter from me!”
But Borrows was no longer laughing, not even smiling. His face displayed only grim determination. “Oh, I can, Gil. But I tell yer what I be doin’ for yer. I be givin’ yer three goes, with all five of the dice. That’s,” he looked skywards, trying to summon a calculation that obviously wasn’t coming anytime soon, “well, that’s plenty o’ chance is that. I ain’t no tallyman, far from it as yer might ’ave guessed, but I reckon the odds is stacked right in yer favour, I do.”
“I don’t wanna play, Bill. There must be another way. Please just let us go, will yer. I can tell yer ain’t a bad man at heart. Won’t yer take pity on a poor farmer and his only family?”
“Yer’s wrong on two counts there, Gil,” Borrows stated, ashen faced, “I is a bad man, yer know’s it to be true. And there ain’t no other way, I’m ’fraid. Now you roll these ’ere dice, Gil Caster, or I’ll be killin’ yer where ye stands.”
Connie began to sob. Horace felt himself welling up, too.
“It’ll be alright,” their father whispered, perhaps as much to himself as to the two of them, “it’ll work out fine, you’ll see.”
Lucky or Unlucky? 13 Stories of Fate Page 1
