Dare - rtf

by Farmer, Phillip Jose

  Dare

  by Philip José Farmer

  a.b.e-book v3.0 / Notes at EOF

  Back Cover:

  Ever since the "lost" colony of Roanoke was kidnapped in 1588 and set down 200 light-years from Earth, humans and the golden-maned Wiyr have lived in peace. But then the blade that was 500 years in falling, falls; and from Slashlark to Farfrom the ridges of Dare are loud with war!

  It is a war to the finish, and worse: for the contract is broken, and even as the bend-glass swords are lifted to heaven, a great ship strides in from deepest space. . .

  Copyright © 1965, by Philip José Farmer

  All rights reserved

  Published by arrangement with the author's agent

  All rights reserved which includes the right

  to reproduce this book or portions thereof in

  any form whatsoever. For information address

  Berkley Publishing Corporation

  200 Madison Avenue New York, New York 10016

  ISBN 425-03953-6

  BERKLEY MEDALLION BOOKS are published by

  Berkley Publishing Corporation

  200 Madison Avenue

  New York, N.Y. 10016

  BERKLEY MEDALLION BOOK® TM 757,375

  Printed in the United States of America

  Berkley Edition, FEBRUARY, 1979

  Prologue

  Where did they go?

  One hundred and eight men, women, and children do not disappear from Earth without a trace.

  The "lost" colony of Roanoke, Virginia, did. Virginia Dare, first white baby born in North America, was among those never seen again. She and her English fellows and some Croatan Indians went -- somewhere. Between 1587 and 1591 A.D. they -- traveled.

  Charles Fort, chronicler of the better-off-forgotten and explainer of the unexplainable, knew the above. But he did not know several other things. It is too bad, for he would have been delighted. The theories, the ironies, the sarcasms, the paradoxes that would have flowed from his pen!

  Too bad that the disappearance of the Genovese ship Buonavita was not brought to Fort's notice by some South American correspondent. On May 8, 1588, she was last seen sixty leagues off the Grand Canary Islands by the Spanish caravel Tobosa.

  Sailing under the Portuguese flag, she carried forty Irish and three Italian monks. They were bound for Brazil, where they hoped to convert the heathen. Neither Christian nor pagan saw them again.

  Here.

  In itself, the disappearance is not so noteworthy. Ships have long had a habit of dropping from the surface of evident things. The Buonavita is men­tioned in various church histories and in a recent Brazilian history because the abbot of the monks was one Marco Sozzini, or, as he is most often called, Marcus Socinus. He was the nephew of the heretic Faustus Socinus, and a courier had been dispatched to Brazil with orders for Marcus to come to Rome, where he would face some questions.

  That courier would not have been able to deliver his message even if he had known where Socinus was.

  Another event at the same time would have made Fort sing with joy if it had been brought to his notice.

  A book published in 1886 and now long out of print contains a translation of sections of Ibn Khulail's History of the Turks. By a Fortean coin­cidence, the translator was a Methodist minister, the Reverend Carl Fort. Taking the same interest in the unorthodox as his literary grandson, he records the Arab historian's description of the vanishing over­night of a large caravan.

  In 1588 ninety Circassian beauties, destined for the harems of Moslem lords, and forty guards of various nationalities passed from man's sight. Their horses were found hobbled for the night. Their tents were still set up. Meals had grown cold waiting to be eaten.

  The only sign of disorder was a bloody scimitar lying on the ground. Stuck in the blood were a dozen long, thick, and reddish hairs that the experts said were those of no known animal. Some people thought they might be from a bear, for the footprint of a tremendous ursine creature was found on the campsite.

  Where, asked Ibn Khulail, did all those people go? Had a djinn flown away with them to some flame-guarded castle? Were those his hairs sticking to the blade?

  History has no more answer for him than it has for those curious about Roanoke and the Buonavita.

  Another item for Fort. The now defunct Aiguillette Press of Paris printed the essays of an eigh­teenth-century Chinese sage, Ho Ki. He remarks casually in his Frost Thoughts that the village of Hung Choo decided one night to go for a long walk and never came back.

  That is all he says, except that the year they left was 1592 A.D.

  From 1592 to 2092 is five hundred years, not such a long time in Earth's life. But from Earth to Dare is a long way, even as light flies. Dare is the second planet of a star classified as Tau Ceti by the moderns.

  English is spoken there, Latin, and horstel.

  An old map, drawn by Ananias Dare, father of Virginia, shows the continent on which the abducted Terrans were landed. Avalon they named it. The outlines, hastily inked as the planet grew larger and larger in the viewport, indicate a roughly four-lobed shape sprawling in the center of a globe of water.

  A cross marks the location of the first human set­tlement, originally titled New Roanoke. Later it was named Farfrom because the little Virginia Dare remarked that it was "far from where I was born, Papa."

  Also on Dare's original cartograph are legends in­dicating where creatures strange to Earth but named after those that resembled Terrestrial beings, actual or mythical, were to be found.

  "Here be unicorns. . . . Here be man-eating werewolves."

  Many places, of course, are marked, simply, "Horsetails."

  Jack Cage walked down the ancient highway. His high-crowned broad-brimmed hat kept off the hot, late-spring sun. Under its shadow his brown eyes searched the forests on both sides of the road. His left hand held a totumwood longbow. His quiver was full. A leather scabbard held a scimitar on his left; from the right of his broad belt hung a bag. It con­tained a round glass bomb filled with black gun­powder. A very short fuse jutted from its thick neck.

  Beside the bag was a scabbard that sheathed a knife of red copperwood.

  If the "dragon" charged down the highway or burst out of the forest, Jack was ready for it. First, he would let fly an arrow at one of its huge eyes. Elsewhere would be useless. Flint tips wouldn't go through two inches of hard hide.

  He had heard their bellies were soft, but he couldn't depend on that. Rumor could kill a cat, so the proverb went. He wasn't a cat -- whatever a cat was -- but he could be killed just as dead.

  As if reading his thought, Samson, the giant yellow canine of the breed known as "lion," rumbled in his throat. He halted ten feet ahead of his master. Poised stiff-legged at right angles to Jack, he faced the trees to the left of the highway.

  Jack drew an arrow from the quiver and fitted the notch to the string. He reviewed his plan. Shoot at the eye. Hit or miss, he would drop the bow. Snatch out the bomb. Touch off the fuse with a lucifer. Throw it at the monster's chest with the hope he'd timed the cast so the bomb would explode and crush its chest and drive the glass splinters into its throat.

  Then, without waiting to see the effect of the powder, he'd turn and run, drawing his scimitar at the same time. Having gained a tree on the opposite side of the road, he'd stop to defend himself. He could dodge behind the large bole and slash out with the sword, circling around the trunk away from the large and presumably clumsy beast.

  Meanwhile, Samson would harass the thing on its flanks.

  He placed himself behind Samson. There was a slight break in the greenery. At the moment he glanced through it, something bright flashed. Un­consciously, he sighed with relief. He didn't know who was behind the glittering object,
but he was fairly sure it wasn't a dragon. It should be a man or horstel.

  As the arrow would be useless in the entangling bushes and vines, he put it back in the quiver. The bow he hung on a bonehook on his backstrap. He slid the scimitar from its sheath.

  "Quiet, Samson," he said in a low voice. "Lead."

  The yellow dog padded ahead into a barely dis­cernible path. Samson's nose bobbed up and down on the scent like a cork on a wave. He sniffed at the earth. Somebody had left tracks, for instead of taking a straight path, the "lion" followed a ser­pentine track through the green labyrinth.

  After about thirty yards of slow and cautious ap­proach, they came to a little glade.

  Samson stopped. The growl buried in his massive throat spoke through bristling hairs and rigid muscles.

  Jack looked past him. He, too, froze. But it was with horror.

  His cousin, Ed Wang, was crouched by the body of a satyr. It lay on its side, its back to Jack. Blood spread from the base of the spine. The shaggy hair that enclosed the loins was soaked with red.

  Ed had a copperwood knife with which he was cut­ting away the skin around the tailbone. He stuck the knife into the ground and then ripped away the circle of tissue and the long "horsetail" that grew from it. Rising, he held the bloody trophy in the sunlight, examining it.

  "Bobbing?" asked Jack, the look on his cousin's face making him shudder. His voice sounded hoarse and phlegm-clotted.

  Ed whirled, dropping the bob, and snatched up the knife. His mouth hung open. His black eyes were wide.

  When he saw the intruder was Jack, he came out of the knife-fighter's crouch. Some of his color re­turned, but he still held the blade ready in his fist.

  "Holy Dyonis!" he croaked. "For a second I thought you were a horstel."

  Jack nudged Samson with his knee. The dog padded out into the glade. Though he knew Ed, his stance threatened a swift bound at Ed's throat if he made an unwise move.

  Jack lowered the scimitar, but he did not sheathe it. "What if I had been a horstel?" he asked.

  "Then I'd have had to kill you, too."

  Ed watched closely to see his cousin's reaction. Jack kept his face unreadable. Ed shrugged and turned away, slowly, and with one eye on Sainson. He stooped and wiped his blade on the satyr's thick yellow hair.

  "This is my first kill," he said in a strained voice, "but it's not my last."

  "Oh?" said Jack, and he managed with that one syllable to convey a mixture of disgust, fear, and the first intimations of just what this scene implied.

  "Yes, oh!" mock-snarled Ed. His voice rose. "I said it wasn't my last!"

  He glared and stood up.

  Jack knew that Ed was close to hysteria. He had seen his cousin in action in tavern brawls. His wild blows had endangered his friends as much as his enemies.

  He said, "Calm down, Ed. Do I look like a horstel?"

  He stepped forward to look at the corpse's face. "Who is it?"

  "Wuv."

  "Wuv?" ,

  "Yes, Wuv. One of the Wiyr living on your father's farm. I trailed him until I was sure he was alone. Then I got him into this glade on the pretext I wanted to show him a mandrake's nest. There wasn't any, of course, but while he was walking ahead of me, I stabbed him in the back.

  "It was easy. He didn't even cry out. And after all that dung I'd heard about it being impossible to catch a horstel off guard! It was easy, I tell you! Easy!"

  "For God's sake, Ed! Why? Why? What'd he do to you?"

  Ed cursed. He stepped up to Jack, his copperwood blade flashing red as he stabbed upward.

  Samson's deep chest rumbled, and he crouched. His master, taken unawares, brought up the scimitar for a swing to cut off his attacker's arm.

  But Ed had stopped. As if he'd not seen the effect of his actions, he began talking. Jack lowered his sword, for it was evident that his cousin hadn't meant to attack, but had knifed the air to emphasize what he was saying.

  "What reason should I need other than that he's a horstel? And I'm a human? Listen, Jack. You know Polly O'Brien, don't you?"

  Jack blinked at what seemed a sudden change of subject, but he nodded. He remembered her very well. She lived in the town of Slashlark. She and her mother, the widow of a chemist, had recently moved from the capital city of St. Dyonis to the frontier town. There her mother had set up a shop and sold drugs, wine, ointments, and, so it was said, love-philters.

  The first time he saw Polly, Jack had been im­pressed. She was slim, and her face was wonderfully heart-shaped, her eyes were large and an innocent-wanton gray, if you would admit such a description possible.

  Jack, though he'd been going so long with Bess Merrimoth that he was ready to ask her parents if they could bundle, would have courted Polly, too. Even at the risk of getting his folks and Bess's mad at him. He had held back only because Ed Wang had announced at the Red Horn Tavern that he was squiring Polly O'Brien. As his friend, Jack could not decently cut in on him. Regretfully, he'd decided to leave her alone.

  "Sure, I know her," he replied. "You were very sweet on her."

  Ed said loudly, "Jack, she's taken sanctuary! She's gone cadmus!"

  "Wait a minute! What's been going on? I've been up in the mountains for five days."

  "Holy Virginia, Jack! All hell's broken loose. Polly's mother was turned in for selling horstel drugs, and she was put in prison. Polly wasn't ac­cused, at first, that is, but when the sheriff came after her mother, she ran away. Nobody could find her, and then old Winnie Archard -- you know her, Jack, she's got nothing to do but watch the road into Slashlark -- saw Polly meet a satyr on the edge of town. She went away with him, and since she hasn't been seen again, it's easy to figure she went cadmus."

  He paused for breath and scowled.

  "So?" said Jack with a coolness he didn't feel.

  "So the next day the sheriff is told to arrest Polly. What a laugh! Did you ever hear of anybody being arrested once he'd gone underground with the hor­stels?"

  "No."

  "You're damn right you didn't. I don't know what happens after they go down the cadmus. Whether the horstels eat them, as some say, or whether they're smuggled to Socinia, as others say. But I do know one thing. That is that Polly O'Brien isn't going to get away from me!"

  "You're in love with Polly, aren't you, Ed?"

  "No!"

  Ed looked up at his tall relative; then he flushed and lowered his eyes.

  "All right. Yes, I was. But no more. I hate her, Jack. I hate her for a witch. I hate her for lying with a satyr.

  "Don't look so damned doubtful, Jack. I mean that. She was buying drugs from the horstels, and she was meeting this Wuv secretly to get them. She was making love to him. Can you picture that, Jack? A wild, naked, hairy-loined beast. She was meeting him, and I -- I. . . I could throw up when I think of her!"

  "Who laid the charges against Mrs. O'Brien?"

  "I don't know. Somebody sent letters to the bishop and the sheriff. The identity is always kept secret, you know."

  Jack rubbed the side of his nose and mouth thoughtfully and said, "Wasn't Nate Reilly's chemistry shop losing business because he couldn't compete with Polly's mother?"

  Ed smiled faintly. "You're smart. Yes, he was. And everybody's more or less guessed who informed. Mainly because Nate's wife has the biggest mouth in Slashlark, which is saying something.

  "But what about it? If Mrs. O'Brien was traf­ficking in those devil-begotten drugs, she deserved to get turned in, whatever Reilly's motive."

  "What's happened to Mrs. O'Brien?"

  "She was sentenced to hard labor for life at the gold mines in Ananias Mountains."

  Jack's thick eyebrows rose. "Sort of a quick trial, wasn't it?"

  "No! She confessed within six hours of being arrested, and she was sent away two days later."

  "Six hours on the rack would make anybody con­fess. What if the local Binder of the Contract hears of that?"

  "You sound like you're defending her. You know that when any
body is as clearly guilty as she was, a little torture just helps speed justice. And the horstels aren't going to find out about the machines in the prison basement. And what if they do? So we've broken our contract with them? So what?"

  "So you think Polly's hiding in the cadmi on my father's farm?"

  "Damn right I do. And I was going to corner Wuv and force him to tell me about her, but when I was alone with him, I became so angry I couldn't hold myself back. And --"

  He gestured toward the corpse.

  Jack, following the motion, suddenly pointed the scimitar and cried, "What's that?"

  Wang bent down and lifted the head of the corpse by its long hair. The jaw sagged and pulled the flesh down so the knife cuts on each cheek stretched.

  "See those letters? HK? You're going to see a lot of those from now on. Someday you'll see them on the cheeks of every horstel in Dyonis. Yes, and if we can get co-operation from the other nations, all over Avalon. Every horstel marked, and every horstel dead!"

  Jack Cage said slowly, "I've heard some talk in the taverns about a secret society dedicated to killing horstels. But I didn't believe it. In the first place, it couldn't be much of a secret if all the drunks knew about it. In the second place, I just thought it was the kind of talk you're always hearing when men talk about The Problem. Always talk. Never action."

  "By all that's human and holy, you're going to see action now!"

  Ed removed the bag hanging by a rope from his shoulder. "Come on. Help me bury this carcass."

  He pulled from the bag a short-handled shovel with a scoop made of the new Hardglass. The sight of it horrified Jack almost as much as the body had. Its presence showed such cold-blooded planning.

  Wang started cutting out divots of the short-bladed cropgrass and placing them to one side. While he was doing that he talked, and he did not stop all the time he was digging the shallow grave.

  "You're not a member of the society yet, but you're in this just as much as I am. I'm glad it was you and not some other human that found me. Some of those lickspittle yellow-livered horstel-lovers would run screaming to the sheriff instead of shaking my hand.