Lucky or Unlucky? 13 Stories of Fate

By N. E. White

In this second annual SFFWorld.com anthology, N. E. White presents 13 speculative fiction stories from authors of the SFFWorld.com Writing forum.

The apocalypse rides into town and only one man can stop it. An engineer stationed on an aluminium world attempts to thwart a superhero gone mad. A lucky device proves the opposite. Magic and mayhem ensue at the 13th gate of hell. Can two unlucky people change their fate?

These are 13 tales of luck. All richly told stories of characters down on their luck, relying on their luck, or simply have bad luck.

Featuring all new stories by Michael Aaron, Charlotte Ashley, Eric Best, Nils Durban, Wilson Geiger, Andrew Leon Hudson, A. Lynn, J. R. Murdock, J. M. Odell, Michell Plested, Tristis Ward, and N. E. White. The collection is rounded off by dark-fantasy writer Mark Lawrence, author of the Broken Empire series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: N. E. White
• Release date: Nov 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310046247

N. E. White

N. E. White (1969 - ) was born in California to a Texan native and a Mexican immigrant. Her professional pursuits include environmental management, spatial analysis, and computer modeling. She writes and edits speculative fiction in her spare time.

Book preview

1. Lucky Bill

Nils Durban

Straight Line

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. You 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 late 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.

He scooped up the five dice, closed his fingers about them and rattled them gently. Horace was sure this was how you handled dice, but he didn’t comprehend what difference it made.

Off yer goes then, Borrows urged, turn up that thirteen and you’ll be home in a thrice.

Horace was convinced in that moment that Borrows was right. His father would throw these dice onto the boards and at least one of them would work out. He watched as his father glanced uncertainly at Borrows before tossing the dice into the back of the cart. They rattled across the wooden boards, almost as far as where Horace sat. He pulled his legs up quickly, as if a wild animal was about to take a bite out of him. As they came to rest his father anxiously scurried around to the side of the cart where he could best see what the outcome was. Borrows sauntered around to the opposite side and peered over.

At first, Horace couldn’t believe it. He searched from die to die and then looked again. There was a raven, no—two ravens, a skull, a dagger and one of the odd crosses. There was no thirteen.

Well that’s bad luck, that is, Borrows declared, it’s a good job yer has another go.

Two more goes, Bill, his father reminded him, apparently concerned that Borrows was going to change the rules, yer did say three goes.

Aye, Gil, that I did. Don’t be concernin’ yer self. I wouldn’t ’ave thought yer be needin’ the third, that’s all I was meanin’.

His father bent over the side of the cart to gather up the dice once more. This time he rattled them rigorously as Borrows leered across at him. He threw them down again and they watched the paths they took until they were still once more. Horace scanned them hurriedly, eagerly seeking the result which would end this nightmare. Stars this time, a pair of the blasted things. Two skulls as well, and a dagger!

Borrows whistled to himself. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the like, Gil. That’s just downright poor luck, that is.

Horace continued to stare at the dice, as did his father, but the little images carved into their upturned faces did not waver, would not transform, no matter how he willed them.

Last go, Gil, Borrows stated flatly. Why don’t yer try yer luck from the end of the cart again?

Their father looked weak now, as if he might collapse at any moment. He appeared to bolster himself, though, perhaps in an effort to appear strong for Connie and him, no matter what the outcome. He collected the dice again and made his way to the rear of the cart where Bill was waiting. Horace watched on as his father studied the small bone-white cubes, turning each die around, presumably until the number thirteen was staring upwards from each of them.

I’m surprised yer didn’t check earlier, to be honest, Borrows conceded, they’re all there though, ain’t they?

Their father nodded sorrowfully, looking up at Connie who had turned about to discover what her fate would be. He closed his hand around the dice for the last time, not caring to shake them. Horace let a small prayer run through his mind, please, God, and decided to shut his eyes tight before his father sent the dice flying onto the boards again, this time with considerable vigour, as he heard more than one of them bounce off the side panels of the cart. He could hardly bring himself to look but no one else had made a sound, so he opened his eyes and searched them out. A cross, a dagger, a skull, a raven and…another skull. He couldn’t believe it. Connie was crying once more. No, please no, she gasped in between her sobs. His father stood there, shoulders sagging, looking every inch the beaten man. Horace remained silent, waiting for whatever would come next.

Borrows was chuckling to himself. Oh, they don’t call me Lucky Bill for nothin’, that’s for sure.

There would be no mercy now, surely—the whole thing had been no more than a charade played out for the other man’s pleasure. But then, without warning, their father flung himself towards Borrows, arms outstretched, reaching for the vagabond’s throat. He never made it. He came up short of Borrows’ neck, could only steady himself on the other man’s shoulders, puzzlement filling his eyes as to what had halted him so abruptly. Horace looked down to see several inches of narrow, gleaming steel between Borrows’ gloved hand and his father’s stomach. He could only watch as his father’s eyes slid back in his head before he slumped first to his knees and then onto his side in the middle of the muddy track.

Connie screamed. Horace began to rock back and forth, drawing his knees up to his chin, unable to accept what had just transpired in little more than the blink of an eye. He watched Borrows wipe the still dripping blade on his trouser leg, stride around to the front of the cart and pull himself up onto the box where he reached out and grabbed Connie by the forearm before she could climb down the other side. And you, boy, he shouted over his shoulder, you stay put too. Don’t be thinkin’ yer can make a run for it. I’d hunt yer down like the little pig yer are in no time at all! Horace was certain of the truth in that, but he felt sick and stunned and knew that he would barely be able to put one foot before the other.

Right, missy, Borrows said, let’s get this cart off the track. Privileged is what ye are, he treated Horace’s sister to a toothy grin and she attempted to squirm away, you’re gonna be makin’ camp with Lucky Bill for a while.

Second Parte—Ned

Borrows cuffed Horace around the ear for what must have been the third time that morning. Oi! Keep yer bloody ’ead down! he whispered. Keeping his head down had, of late, been turning into something of a career for Horace. They had been hunkered down in the undergrowth beside the track for the past half hour, listening to the cheery, yet tuneless, whistling of the approaching rider. It was no nervous whistle either, not the kind you might employ to convince yourself that all was well. Horace imagined that some folks would be spooked by these trees, by the silence and the solitude. Perhaps that was what had skewed the mind of their captor. He had surely lost much of his reason. Whoever was approaching down the track, however, was whistling away merrily as if it was a bright summer’s day and he hadn’t a care in the world.

What kind of loon is he? Borrows muttered, it’s colder than a witch’s tit.

Horace had to agree. He could barely feel his fingers and hadn’t felt his toes for days, let alone be able to pucker his lips to issue a cheery ditty.

Connie and he had been the unwitting guests of Bill Borrows for the best part of two months. On numerous occasions they had attempted to plot their escape, but Borrows was vigilant and apparently mindful of how desperate they might become. Having grown suspicious of their whisperings he had beaten them soundly and now they were never left together. He kept them separated whilst at the camp and, when he decided to venture out, he took Horace along. One of them lurching around was more than enough to cope with, Borrows said, especially when he smelled there was a prize at hand. And he had made it clear that if Horace attempted to make a run for it he would be forfeiting the life of his sister. At first Horace had wondered if he would be killed outright, as Borrows’ intent was solely focused upon having his way with Connie. Unsurprisingly, she was not well-disposed towards the robber but, with her brother’s continued existence in the balance, she’d had little choice in the matter.

And, to Horace’s disgust, Borrows had found a further use for him, drawing him close for shared warmth during the icy frosts that came before the dawn. His sister, by comparison, was waif-like, and he had become worried that she may not survive the remains of the Winter. Borrows appeared considerably less concerned. Perhaps the novelty of having her at his disposal had worn off and he would as soon see the pair of them dead.

The volume of the whistling had increased noticeably and, as Borrows parted the foliage, Horace spied a man’s bald pate, bobbing up and down to the rhythm of his mount’s footfalls. As the traveller came around a bend in the track, however, Horace saw that he was actually astride a donkey.

We’ll ’ave some fun and games with this one, more than likely, Borrows said, as he rolled through the vegetation and rose up to present himself in the centre of the icy road with his customary doff of hat. Horace stayed put, as was expected of him. As he watched Borrows straighten up to receive his latest ‘customer’, Horace was amused to see that no attention was being paid to the rogue whatsoever. He had to summon up a loud harrumph to announce himself before he was run over by the ambling beast of burden. Its rider, seemingly lost in his own little world, reined in the animal and gazed down with a wide grin to rival Borrows’ own, which may have been a fairly disconcerting experience for the thief.

He was no youngster, this newcomer, seemingly past middle age. His wispy hair, what was left of it, was golden and shone in the meagre sunlight that penetrated the canopy. He wore a jerkin and leggings of well-worn leather, his boots appeared sturdy and were near enough knee length. His face was creased and ruddy, a short blond beard concealing his jawline. His twinkling blue eyes were firmly focused upon Borrows.

A good mornin’ to you, the rider said, his broad smile unwavering, even though Borrows had already drawn back his cloak to reveal the presence of his prized muskets.

Aye, it’s a good mornin’ now, for I’ve been waiting in yonder ditch without hope of reward for far too long. But here, at long last, ye is.

The rider cocked his head as if to consider the figure confronting him anew. Is you a highwayman, is that it?

Well, let us see now, Borrows scratched his beard whilst he appeared to mull over the question, "I is a man and I live besides the highway, so yes, I guess you could say so. Bill Borrows is the name. Some calls me Lucky Bill."

Glad to be makin’ your acquaintance, Bill, the rider said with a nod of his balding head, for what it’s worth, they calls me Ned, Ned Withershank, on account of this, and he bent forwards to rap his knuckles upon his lower leg, the resoundingly solid tap indicating the wooden limb which obviously hung there. Could you help me out, mayhaps, Bill? You see, I’m headin’ for Kinnerton but ever since I’ve entered this forest I’ve been unsure as to whether I was pointin’ in the right direction. Am I on the right track?

Bill nodded eagerly. "Oh, aye, Ned, yer on the right track, don’t worry on that score. Unfortunately though, I’m gonna need yer to climb down off that donkey for