Free The Merry Men of the Riverworld by John Gregory Betancourt

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    Wildside Press
www.wildsidepress.com
    Copyright ©1992 by John Gregory Betancourt; "Introduction" copyright 1994 by John Gregory Betancourt
    First appeared in "Tales of Riverworld", 1992

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INTRODUCTION

    When you're a kid, reading science fiction is the ultimate escape. You get to explore strange new worlds, boldly go where even television shows can't take you, and meet all sorts of fascinating characters in incredible situations. It's Wonderland.
    When you've been writing the stuff for years, though, that initial gosh-wow feeling starts to fade. You become tired, a little jaded, a little unimpressed. Your uncle is an Martian? Aren't they all. Alien fleets are massing near Jupiter? Don't they always. The galaxy's collapsing? It happens a thousand times a year. That's when you have to go back to Wonderland.
    When I was asked to write a story set in Philip Jose Farmer's Riverworld, at first I was thrilled and excited. Here was a trip to Wonderland already scheduled with the bus parked adn waiting at my door. The books in the Riverworld series— To Your Scattered Bodies Go, The Fabulous Riverboat, The Dark Design, The Magic Labyrinth , and The Gods of Riverworld —are filled with that magic, that sense of wonder, that draws children like moths to its flame.
    It was great. I reread the series, picked up the themes I liked, and and refilled myself with that sense of wonder, I wrote the best story I could, full of swashbuckling action, heroic escapes, and favorite historical characters.
    It seems critics and fans alike thought “The Merry Men of Riverworld” among the best non-Farmer Riverworld stories in the collection. I hope you agree.
    —John Betancourt

THE MERRY MEN OF RIVERWORLD

    The man in green paused dramatically at the top of the rocky cliff, one hand shading his eyes against the sun. His shoulder-length hair, the color of wheat, ruffled faintly in the breeze. He carried a yew longbow and had a quiver of bamboo-fletched arrows slung across his shoulder. With the sun on his face and a thick, dark forest at his back, he cut quite a striking figure.
    Below, the River wound like an endless silver ribbon as far as he could see. On its far bank, half a mile up, stood a town—a ramshackle accumulation of forty or fifty log houses. Smoke rose from clay-brick chimneys, and men and women dressed in brightly colored robes moved among the buildings.
    He heard a woman's low voice singing a tune he didn't recognize in a language he didn't know. His men would have warned him if there was any danger, but he still didn't like surprises. He'd speak to Will or Tuck about it later.
    Slowly, he dropped his right hand from his eyes. In a single movement he whirled, drew his bow, and notched an arrow.
    It was a half-naked woman with skin the color of chocolate, and she was carrying a bundle of bamboo. She dropped the bamboo in a clattered heap, her mouth gaping in surprise and fear. Her hair was long and black, Robin saw, and she wore a grass skirt. Her naked breasts were small and deeply tanned.
    “Ya linya!” she breathed. “Me ton fevin!”
    Putting down his bow, Robin leaped onto a low boulder and looked her up and down. His voice was low, powerful, when he asked, “Do you speak the king's English?”
    The woman started to back away.
    Robin gave a whistle. The woods around them suddenly erupted with motion—two dozen men from the trees, from the bushes, seemingly from the very air itself. All wore green and carried longbows.
    “I am Robin Hood,” he said. “Welcome to Sherwood, m'lady!”
    Screeching in terror, the woman turned