There is magic in our world . . . and in others. The fertile imagination can cultivate wondrous things, aided by ancient myths and memory, enduring childhood dreams and desires, and the power of cultural archetypes. Once again, award-winning editors David G. Hartwell and Kathryn Cramer reap a magnificent crop of superior fantasy short fiction -- the finest to blossom over the past twelve months. A cornucopia of remarkable tales from some of the field's most acclaimed artists -- Neil Gaiman, Octavia Butler, Tanith Lee, and Michael Swanwick, to name but a few -- as well as stunning new works from emerging young talents, Year's Best Fantasy 4 is a collection as magical as its illustrious predecessors, a feast for every true connoisseur of fantastic literature.

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Year's Best Fantasy 4

Chapter One

King Dragon

Michael Swanwick

Michael Swanwick [www.michaelswanwick.com] lives inPhiladelphia, Pennsylvania. His novels include the NebulaAward winner, Stations of the Tide (1991), The IronDragon's Daughter (1993) and Jack Faust (1997), andBones of the Earth (2002). Swanwick is also the author oftwo influential critical essays, one on SF, "User's Guide tothe Postmoderns" (1985), and one on fantasy, "In The Tradition... " (1994). But in between the novels, he writesshort stories, and his tales have dominated the short fictionHugo Award nominations in recent years. His stories havebeen collected principally in Gravity's Angels (1991), A Geographyof Unknown Lands (1997), Moon Dogs (2000),Tales of Old Earth (2000), and as a pamphlet, PuckAleshire's Abecedary (2000), and a collection of shortshorts,Cigar-Box Faust and Other Miniatures (2003).

"King Dragon" appeared in an original anthology publishedby the Science Fiction Book Club, The Dragon Quintet,edited by Marvin Kaye. It appears to be set in the samefantasy world as The Iron Dragon's Daughter. It is in anycase an example of what Swanwick in his essay "In the Tradition... " calls hard fantasy, not like the fantasy worlds ofother writers but dark, technological, and brutal. It is interestingto contrast it to Pat Murphy's fine and very differentdragon story later in this book.

The dragons came at dawn, flying low and in formation, theirjets so thunderous they shook the ground like the greatthrobbing heartbeat of the world. The village elders ranoutside, half unbuttoned, waving their staffs in circles andshouting words of power. Vanish, they cried to the land,and sleep to the skies, though had the dragons' half-elvenpilots cared they could have easily seen through such flimsyspells of concealment. But the pilots' thoughts were turnedtoward the West, where Avalon's industrial strength wasbased, and where its armies were rumored to be massing.

Will's aunt made a blind grab for him, but he duckedunder her arm and ran out into the dirt street. The gun emplacementsto the south were speaking now, in boomingshouts that filled the sky with bursts of pink smoke andflak.

Half the children in the village were out in the streets,hopping up and down in glee, the winged ones buzzingabout in small, excited circles. Then the yage-witch camehobbling out from her barrel and, demonstrating a strengthWill had never suspected her of having, swept her armswide and then slammed together her hoary old hands witha boom! that drove the children, all against their will, backinto their huts.

All save Will. He had been performing that act whichrendered one immune from child-magic every night forthree weeks now. Fleeing from the village, he felt the enchantmentlike a polite hand placed on his shoulder. Oneweak tug, and then it was gone.

He ran, swift as the wind, up Grannystone Hill. Hisgreat-great-great-grandmother lived there still, alone at itstip, as a grey standing stone. She never said anything. Butsometimes, though one never saw her move, she went downto the river at night to drink. Coming back from a night-time fishing trip in his wee coracle, Will would find herstanding motionless there and greet her respectfully. If thecatch was good, he would gut an eel or a small trout, andsmear the blood over her feet. It was the sort of small courtesyelderly relatives appreciated.

"Will, you young fool, turn back!" a cobbley cried fromthe inside of a junk refrigerator in the garbage dump at theedge of the village. "It's not safe up there!"

But Will didn't want to be safe. He shook his head, longblond hair flying behind him, and put every ounce of hisstrength into his running. He wanted to see dragons. Dragons!Creatures of almost unimaginable power and magic.He wanted to experience the glory of their flight. Hewanted to get as close to them as he could. It was a kind ofmania. It was a kind of need.

It was not far to the hill, nor a long way to its bald andgrassy summit. Will ran with a wildness he could not understand,lungs pounding and the wind of his own speedwhistling in his ears.

And then he was atop the hill, breathing hard, with onehand on his grandmother stone.

The dragons were still flying overhead in waves. Theroar of their jets was astounding. Will lifted his face intothe heat of their passage, and felt the wash of their maliceand hatred as well. It was like a dark wine that sickenedthe stomach and made the head throb with pain and bewildermentand wonder. It repulsed him and made him wantmore.

The last flight of dragons scorched over, twisting his headand spinning his body around, so he could keep on watchingthem, flying low over farms and fields and the Old Forestthat stretched all the way to the horizon and beyond.There was a faint brimstone stench of burnt fuel in the air.Will felt his heart grow so large it seemed impossible hischest could contain it, so large that it threatened to encompassthe hill, farms, forest, dragons, and all the world beyond.

Something hideous and black leaped up from the distantforest and into the air, flashing toward the final dragon. Will's eyes felt a painful wrenching wrongness, and then astone hand came down over them.

"Don't look," said an old and calm and stony voice."To look upon a basilisk is no way for a child of mine todie."

"Grandmother?" Will asked.

"Yes?"

"If I promise to keep my eyes closed, will you tell mewhat's happening?"

There was a brief silence. Then: "Very well. The dragonhas turned. He is fleeing."

"Dragons don't flee," Will said scornfully. "Not fromanything." Forgetting his promise, he tried to pry the handfrom his eyes. But of course it was useless, for his fingerswere mere flesh.

Excerpted from Year's Best Fantasy 4 by David Hartwell, Kathryn Cramer
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.