Kiska: Book Two of the Vanir Trilogy

By George R. Dasher

Jarl Hawkins is an ex-geographer from the planet Earth, ex-partisan from the planet Jubal, and is now marooned on the planet Vanira backward world with sorcerers, black-powder weapons, nomad raiders, and a church seeking to become all powerful. He has lost track of his friend, the great wizard Kvasir Haroldson. Jarl is desperate to find another wizard who can help him get off Vanir and back to his home world.

Instead, he discovers a witch who is one of the feared nomads. Kiska Ericson is a Sulfur Hills People and has been banished to the mountains for practicing her craft. Jarl befriends her, and together they search the Province of Cimarron, the Sabre Mountains, the secret Ghost Raider city of Jorvik, and the magical city of Vor for some word of Kvasir.

While they journey throughout the country, the King of Vanir dies and Jarl friend Will James is made king. Jarl and Kiska must return to the frontier province of Kettlewand to help Will James save his nation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491762493

George R. Dasher

George R. Dasher has worked as an EMT, paramedic, and a coal, oil-and-gas, and environmental geologist. Dasher is the editor of a statewide caving newsletter and has published nine books on caving. He lives in West Virginia.

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Copyright © 2016 George Dasher.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-6250-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-6249-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015953728

iUniverse rev. date: 01/25/2016

CONTENTS

Chapter One: The Woman

Chapter Two: The Sabre Mountains

Chapter Three: Smilodon

Chapter Four: The Fort

Chapter Five: The Four Magics

Chapter Six: The Saber-Toothed Cat

Chapter Seven: The Ambush!

Chapter Eight: Kiska

Chapter Nine: The Sabre Mountains

Chapter Ten: The Sorcerer

Chapter Eleven: The Plains Of Death

Chapter Twelve: The Wickiup

Chapter Thirteen: The Trial

Chapter Fourteen: Jorvik

Chapter Fifteen: Traveling To Vor

Chapter Sixteen: Vor

Chapter Seventeen: The King

Chapter Eighteen: Captain Royal Olson

Chapter Nineteen: Greenlands

Chapter Twenty: Beers Bend

Chapter Twenty-One: Janis!

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Spoiling Attack

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Race To Desjhan

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Red Rock Inn

Chapter Twenty-Five: Henlopen

Chapter Twenty-Six: The King’s Wedding

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

THE WOMAN

Throughout the cold, wet morning, Jarl Hawkins—ex-geographer from the planet Earth, ex-partisan from the planet Jubal, and marooned on the planet Vanir—rode his dapple gray horse up the narrow valley, zig zagging from the side of the mountain to the fast-moving, high-country river, searching for sign, either of the giant bear or of the old witch.

At one place the river came in close to Jarl’s side of the mountain, and he forded it, crossing near one end of a long, ice-rimmed pool, where the water was deep and still. Then he walked his two horses up a high rock bar, observing a cathedral-like silence, past patches of hard spring snow, and under twisted and massive walnut and sycamore trees, ancient sentinels guarding wide, flowered meadows of blue grass. Often, during the quiet lapses in the rainstorm, he would stop and listen, watching his back trail. No one followed him.

The valley turned west and opened up, becoming wider and wilder. Once, far up the river, Jarl spotted an old bison, standing in the middle of one of the river’s many small rapids, a long trail of grass hanging from a broken horn. When he cautiously approached, the huge animal snorted, then shook its massive head and, unperturbed by the human interloper, waded out of the cold water and into the dark forest on the opposite side of the river.

Jarl wandered across a meadow of knee-high grass and followed a small tributary upstream to where it cascaded from a low, black opening in the rock, a place overhung by tall, towering cedar trees. As he stared at the cave opening, a bat flittered by and he felt warm, moist air, billowing out from unknown places inside. The water stretched from one wall of the cave to the other and, just inside, the ceiling appeared to be low. Jarl turned his horses and waded downstream, deciding the cave was not the place he would have picked for a home, had he been one of Vanir’s elusive sorcerers.

For what seemed a long time, the rain increased, falling in gray sheets. He pulled his camouflage jacket close and attempted to shelter under a massive red oak tree. Nearby, hidden in a deep split in the tree, was a great horned owl, which stared at him with large, unblinking eyes. Finally, when the rain stopped, he rode up the main valley. In that direction, far away to the south, he could see the rounded tops of snow-covered mountains.

It was the quiet that finally nudged his consciousness. Jarl walked his two horses this way and that, searching unsuccessfully for the noisy river. The valley narrowed and he rode through a long meadow of tall grass and spring flowers. He discovered the river next to a steep wall of brown sandstone. Upstream was a wide waterfall, and downstream of the falls—almost at his feet—the river rushed into the entrance of another dark cave, formed in a smooth, blue-gray limestone and covered with fallen trees and logs, washed downstream by earlier floods. Jarl sat contented on the gray, searching out a trail upstream and looking down the valley, which unfolded below him. It was a beautiful place, but nowhere was there any sign of any other human.

Jarl prided himself in an understanding of wild country, and—while watching the loud waterfall—it suddenly occurred to him that there was much less water in the river. With a touch of the reins, he turned the gray and walked the animal back down the valley, toward the north, trying to guess at the course of the underground river. He had reached a point almost back to the owl’s roost when the ground suddenly opened up before him, and there—far below in a narrow, deep gorge—was the river, muddy, rain swollen, and rushing toward Spice. It was no wider or deeper than at the waterfall upstream, so—keeping to the right—Jarl continued to follow it downstream.

The river was soon joined by a second stream, almost of equal size, flowing in from the east. This river too had cut a deep gorge and Jarl was forced more and more to his left. He discovered another waterfall, this one high and narrow, and then the opening of a tiny valley. But, try as he might, he could not find a path past the rock wall forming the waterfall and leading into the side valley. In one last desperate attempt, he worked his way back up the main valley and tried there. For a short hundred meters, behind a forest of tall conifers, he thought success was within his grasp, but then he encountered a massive blow down, the work of some past, violent windstorm, where the broken and torn trees towered high above him and pressed in against the steeply dipping rock formations of the mountainside.

Jarl was determined to enter the narrow side valley. Somehow, in the confines between the conifers and the mountain wall, he managed to turn both the dapple gray and the packhorse. He threaded his way back out into the main valley, crossing over the top of the cave. Then he followed the small canyon downstream until he found a place where he could cross the stream. He slid the two horses down a steep slope and splashed across the small river. As the gray stepped up onto the high shale bank on the opposite side, Jarl, leaning over one side of the animal, caught the glimpse of an old track, possibly from a horse, in the dried mud just above the high-water line.

Jarl turned the gray directly into the forest and, dodging the low limbs and weaving between the trees trunks, forced his way to the abrupt mountain wall there. There, the gray hunched its back and, with Jarl pressed low against the saddle, scrambled up a steep alluvial bench. Beyond was a dark, cold place, soon to be night as the sun, hidden by the heavy clouds, moved behind the western mountain. To his left, downstream, there were no limbs at head height, giving the impression of an ill-defined trail. To his right—toward the narrow side valley—Jarl had a similar feeling, and it was in that direction he turned the gray, letting the animal pick its own way along the bottom of the sandstone wall. Almost immediately, he spotted the edge of another faint horse track, old and crumbled, beside the trail—if trail it was.

The gray walked silently along the side of the mountain, staying next to the sandstone wall, occasionally wandering between massive blocks of rock or through a narrow gauntlet of trees. Nowhere did Jarl see another track, but rarely did he have to duck or turn sideways to avoid a pine limb.

The gray sprinted up one last hill and the small valley opened before him. Jarl walked his horses through a flower-covered meadow, skirting several fallen trees. Behind him, under the overcast, evening sky, the narrow pinch of the valley’s mouth was a dark, foreboding place. Across the stream, a brown wall of vertical sandstone formed the opposite side of the valley. Upstream, the valley was wider, with fewer trees, and become a meadow of tangled grass. Far upstream, Jarl could see one side of a rainbow. For the first time that long rainy day—and with a little imagination—he felt almost warm. It was time to find a place to camp.

Then, abruptly, a huge, brown shape stood forty meters in front of him, on the edge of the meadow. It was a giant grizzly, more than three meters tall. Jarl froze. The chill returned to his spine and he dared to hope the powder in his flash pan was dry. For a long minute, the bear stood on its hind legs, looking directly at Jarl, and giving him a subtle impression of mindbeaming. Jarl, with a reverent-like relief, felt a slight breeze on his face. He held his two horses motionless, knowing that if he did not move, the grizzly would not see him, and—with the animal upwind—it could not smell him.

Finally, after what seemed a lifetime, the grizzly dropped to all fours and sauntered off into the forest on Jarl’s left. For a long half hour Jarl simply sat on his horse. He inspected the powder in his flash pan, and blew it away and replaced it with fresh, dry powder. Then the gray became impatient, stamping a foot and arching its back. Reluctantly, Jarl headed up the little valley, keenly aware that he would cross the grizzly’s line of travel. He rode across the overgrown meadow, which ended in a steep slope of rounded granite boulders and unwashed gravel. The gray hunched its back and launched itself up the abrupt bank, climbing toward what appeared to be an obvious path. As it crested the small hill, Jarl caught his breath—there, to his right, standing quietly on a rock outcrop, was another potential adversary, one far more dangerous than the giant grizzly. It was a Ghost Raider, far from the White Plains.

Jarl brought his horse to a quick halt, trying to keep an eye on the plains’ nomad and scanning the nearby brush for other Raiders, all at the same time. The Raider was a woman—about his own age—standing tall on the outcrop, holding a small stack of kindling and flintlock shotgun. But the woman, alerted by his horses’ hoofs on the rock bank, held her gun at an angle that required only a slight movement to point it directly at Jarl. She wore a tan buckskin dress and knee-high moccasins, edged with hundreds of tiny beads. She had high cheek bones and gray-blond hair that reached past her shoulders. Feathers were woven into her hair and hung from her ears. Her face was a deep brown, tanned by the wind and sun, and streaked with two old, wide, flaking bands of paint, one red and the other yellow.

Several long moments passed. Then, quietly, Jarl spoke, I mean you no harm.

The woman did not speak. She continued to watch him, her face a mask. She was a proud woman, who held her head high.

Jarl repeated his words, I mean you no harm… He waited several seconds, then added, I am searching for a witch, who is a sister to a friend of mine.

The woman’s weapon was a short, double-barrel shotgun. Both hammers were cocked. She moved it, just a little, so it pointed directly at Jarl’s chest. Her hand was rock-steady. Jarl tensed, waiting for the impact of the lead projectiles. Why had he been so clever this morning and escaped from his E’landota escort? One side of his mind caught a bit of mindbeaming, as the woman tried to edge her thoughts into his, attempting to discover his feelings.

Jarl opened his mind a little, telepathically repeating his words. The two of them stared at each other for a full minute; then, telepathically, the woman asked, Who is your friend?

Jarl replied in kind, Kvasir Haroldson, one of the wizards of Vor. After another long silence, he spoke aloud, I have not seen or heard from him for close to three years, since the Battle at Burkes Ford.

The Ghost Raider said nothing.

There was another long wait. His horse impatiently stamped one hoof, and Jarl asked a question, Do any witches live up this valley?

Still the woman did not answer. Instead she spoke aloud, Are you sure that is why you are here? To search for your friend… after three years?

Yes…

Common to people who had lived a long time in the wilds, she took a long time to reply. What took you so long to search for him?

I was arrested by the Church. When she said nothing, Jarl added, I can show you the scars from the shackles if you like?

Again, for a long time, the woman said nothing. Then, slowly, dryly, she said, Don’t start undressing. I would hate to mistake your intentions.

Jarl was taken back, but before he could offer a reply, the Ghost Raider suddenly pointed her weapon skyward. With a deft movement, she lowered both hammers, uncocking the shotgun. Then, with a quick flash of her eyes, she mindbeamed, Come! She turned and bounded off the rock outcrop, jumping into the path and following it up the hill, quickly disappearing out of sight.

For a few seconds Jarl simply sat there, enjoying the fact he was still alive. The quickness of the Raider’s movements, so smooth and sure, together with the cocked shotgun, had badly eroded his confidence. Slowly, he nudged the gray forward and followed the path up the mountain.

The trail led nowhere. After he had gone a half kilometer, he doubled back, sure that the woman had not been too far from her camp, since she was carrying a small load of kindling. After smelling wood smoke, he followed a faint path toward the north side of the valley. There he discovered a tiny house, almost the exact color of the brown sandstone, set against the mountain wall.

There was a small barn beside the house. Jarl dismounted and stepped inside. To his surprise, the little building was quite spacious, built partially under a rock overhang. There were two horses inside, a red roan and a black-and-white pinto. Jarl brought the dapple gray and his packhorse inside, and relieved them of their saddles and packs. There was a bit of old hay and he used a homemade pitchfork to shovel some down for his horses. While Jarl’s two horses ate, the pinto reached across one of the wooden stall and nipped at him—not in an unfriendly way—and tried to grab at the hay. It was now almost dusk outside, and it had become pitch black inside the barn. Taking his rifle, Jarl fumbled his way outside and walked across to the tiny house. The rainbow had been a false promise; it was beginning to rain again.

He was unwilling to enter without knocking, so he tapped on the door. There was a curt, Enter, from inside. Slowly and cautiously, he opened the door and ducked his head inside. The woman, her face freshly scrubbed, was standing at a wide hearth, poking at something in a black, cast-iron frying pan. Jarl stepped inside, softly closing the door behind him.

The interior of the house smelled of the rich odors of wood smoke, herbs, and fried onions, all made more potent by the wet weather outside. To one side was a small bed, covered with a few sleeping furs. In the middle of the room was a table, set with two mismatched wooden mugs. In a dark corner on the other side of the room, past a small counter, was another table, covered with two or three books and several jars of plants. Above that table, on a series of cluttered shelves, were numerous clay jars, some with twigs and bark overflowing from their wide mouths. There were only two windows, both of which—to Jarl’s astonishment—contained blown glass, with its characteristic large bubbles. In one corner of the room, near the foot of the bed, was a short, unstrung bow and a quiver of arrows. Hung on the wall near the opposite end of the bed, was the curved samurai sword so favored by the Ghost Raiders and the E’landota. Jarl saw no sign of the shotgun.

The woman turned from the hearth, placing two wooden platters of fried rabbit on the tables. From the top of the counter, she produced half a loaf of homemade bread and a salad of watercress and dandelions. Jarl, nervous from the lack of an invitation, leaned his short rifle beside the door. He shucked his rain-wet camouflage jacket, and hung it on a convenient wall peg, next to a wide-brimmed Kettlewand hat and an old worn sheepskin jacket, not unlike the one he had given Janis.

He sat at the table. Together, and without speaking, they ate. Afterwards, and still without speaking, the woman got up from the table, collected the dishes, gathered up her old coat, and—after producing the shotgun—went outside. Jarl wandered the room for a few moments, counting the weapons, beds, and chairs. He decided the woman lived here alone, and that there was no old witch in residence.

Then the door opened and the blond woman reentered, carrying her freshly washed dishes. Quickly, but without haste, she placed them back on a small shelf. Then she turned back toward Jarl, staring at him for several seconds, and she spoke five blunt words, You sleep in the barn. Jarl nodded his agreement, and for lack of something better to do or say, put on his coat, picked up his rifle, and stepped outside into the rain.

The next day he told her his name. Just after dawn, she fed him more rabbit, this time on a table outside the small house, under a bright morning sky. Jarl asked her a dozen questions, but she answered not one of them. She spoke only to give him permission to leave his packhorse in the small barn. Not without some misgivings, Jarl saddled the gray and rode up the narrow mountain valley.

All day he searched along the stream of the high valley, finally wandering out onto a high grassy slope that led upward to a snow-covered mountain. There, he turned back, arriving at the small house an hour before dusk, carrying a small white-tailed deer across the front of his saddle. He had seen no sign of the old witch and the only hoofmarks he had spotted were identical to the old tracks he had found down the valley from the Ghost Raider’s home—and which matched those in the barn stall occupied by the black-and-white pinto.

Supper that night was venison and more dandelions and watercress. The next morning they ate a breakfast of fried venison, onions, and potato cakes. Again, the woman answered no questions; in fact, she had not uttered one word since Jarl had returned the previous night. On this morning, Jarl washed the few dishes, having discovered the cold, walled limestone spring down the valley from the small cabin. Afterwards, he slowly saddled the gray. He was hesitant to leave and unsure where to search. After he mounted the horse, the woman looked up, her gray eyes a shield, and asked, Where will you go today?

Jarl signed, I thought maybe upstream of the waterfall in the main valley.

And then?

High in the mountains behind here. He nodded over her shoulder, up the valley.

You wouldn’t find her…

Jarl was beginning to suspect as much, She is that good at remaining hidden?

The woman shrugged. She seemed indifferent. When she spoke, after almost all of a minute, she said, No.

Why not then? Does she exist?

There was another minute of silence. Jarl had given up any hope of an answer when the woman abruptly looked away for several seconds. Then she suddenly glanced back, again staring up at him with hard eyes. Because Kvasir never had a sister. There were only three brothers. And one of them was killed long ago by a Kettlewand Ranger.

Jarl was shocked. Why would the Kettlewand Rangers kill Kvasir’s brother? he gasped.

The woman’s eyes flashed, full of anger, turning the color of burnished steel. Because that is what Kettle Rangers do best… Kill the Peoples of the White Plains. She turned on her heel and marched back into her tiny cabin.

Jarl just sat on the gray for almost a full minute. Then he quietly swung to the ground. Still holding his rifle, he walked toward the house. The woman met him in the doorway, pointing her cocked shotgun at his middle. Jarl, taken off guard, backed up and placed his flintlock rifle carefully on the table. He held up both his hands, to show that he was unarmed. Please do not shoot me, he said.

Why not? she asked.

I only came here to find answers to my questions, not to hurt anyone. He paused, staring at the anger in her eyes. Kvasir is a Ghost Raider? he asked. His words were full of surprise and disbelief.

The woman said nothing, only glancing at his flintlock pistol still under his belt. Jarl did not like this situation. This woman was quick and lithe, and she moved like a trained warrior. What did she have to fear from him? His thoughts had been open, and he realized, not without surprise, that she had easily read them.

Jarl carefully reached down and removed the pistol from his belt. He took one of her hands—she did not flinch or draw back—and handed her the weapon. For a long time, she stared at him, then she pointed her shotgun skyward and uncocked the weapon. She handed him back his pistol. Without speaking, he again took her hand and led her over to the two seats next to her outdoor table.

There he sat, pulling the woman down onto the other chair, which was nothing more than a sawed-off log. He laid his pistol next to his rifle and she piled her shotgun on top of both weapons. Jarl then asked one question, desperately hoping that she would answer, Would you please tell me what you know?

The woman glared at him. Are you from Kettlewand?

Jarl shook his head no. I have lived there, but it is not where I am from. I rode with the Rangers for one winter.

And how many of the Peoples did you kill?

The Peoples?

The persons you call the Ghost Raiders.

Jarl knew the woman had already snatched the answer from his mind. One, he said, slowly. The admission was difficult, and almost impossible to make.

It took a few seconds before the woman spoke again. And you were Kvasir’s friend?

Jarl felt pain, noticing she spoke of the old man in the past tense. He nodded yes, and then quietly, somberly, asked, What has happened to him?

For the first time since he had met this strange woman, who lived so far from her people, the anger left her gray eyes. Nothing as far as I know… He escaped from the Glasseys. That much I know. But then he disappeared…

Jarl’s question came quickly, How do you know he escaped?

The woman glared at Jarl, obviously once again angry, but then she softened and spoke quietly. Yes, I am sure he escaped, but I will not tell you how I know.

She paused again, then said, Kvasir was born a Ghost Raider, of the Sulfur Hills People. Even from the beginning, he had great powers and the Ghost Raiders banished him, as they do all sorcerers. He wandered. Where I do not know for sure, but I know he went to Tyr and that he eventually wound up at Vor. There he studied and between intermittent wanderings, was elected Sovereign of their High Council.

The woman stopped speaking for several moments, then asked, How long did you know him?

This was another difficult admission, and Jarl’s answer was weak. A couple of days.

What? The gray eyes became wide, then abruptly narrowed.

Jarl had the impression she thought that he had trapped her. He tried to ease her anger with mindbeaming. It was during the Battle at Burkes Ford. I… We were becoming good friends… or so I thought. Besides, I don’t think he has that many friends and he may need help.

The eyes narrowed even more, but she did not become angry, only suspicious. He might need less help than you think… And he has a great many friends. Suddenly, she looked away, staring at the mountains, obviously thinking, and cursing under her breath. Jarl tried to read her thoughts and—when she became aware of it—was rewarded by another angry stare.

He wanted to ask more questions about Kvasir, but when the woman turned back to him, her thoughts and expression were unreadable. He remained silent. She picked up her shotgun and pushed his two weapons toward him.

Then she spoke, You are right about one thing. Although I know he escaped from the Glassey army, he could still be caught inside their country. It is probably high time someone went and looked for him. We will leave in the morning for Cimarron.

Jarl was stunned, then exasperated. He shouted after the woman, almost in a panic, as she walked toward her tiny house, Who are you? How do you know Kvasir escaped from the Glasseys?

The woman whirled, light on her feet. For a second she was angry. I know… I am sure he escaped from the Glasseys… But I will not tell you how I know.

She stared at him with serious gray eyes, and when she spoke again, her voice was very, very low, My name is Kiska Ericson. I am Sulfur Hills People. My father is Eric Haroldson, brother to Kvasir and Iivarr. There was another long pause and Jarl could feel her anger turn to pain. Finally, she added, I was banished by the Peoples for witchcraft and sent here to study by the Sovereign of the High Council of Vor.

Then she turned and walked silently into her tiny house. Jarl sat in the bright sunshine for a long time, remembering the deep hurt in her mind. Then, slowly, like an old man, he stood and led the dapple gray back toward the small barn.

CHAPTER TWO

THE SABRE MOUNTAINS

Kiska spent the remainder of the day cleaning her home, potting her numerous plants outside, and hiding most of her valuables, including her books, in a small storeroom hollowed out of the rock wall near the wide fireplace. Jarl tried to help, but after he noticed she never turned her back to him and always, when he was nearby, kept a weapon close at hand, he decided to instead explore the wide, main valley on foot.

The next morning, at first light, the two ate another breakfast of venison, onions, and potato cakes. Then, after the dishes were cleaned and the food packed in wide, cotton sacks, Jarl and Kiska saddled their respective horses, throwing the packs and the remaining venison onto the two packhorses. The Ghost Raider closed the door on her small, snug cabin. There was no way to lock that one door, but Kiska said that no one would violate a witch’s home, knowing there were sure to be curses and spells set against intruders. As far as Jarl could tell, the self-proclaimed sorcerer placed no magic spells on the little buildings, trusting only to their hidden location and good luck for protection.

Today, the woman wore a pair of baggy pants, a loose blouse, the old coat, and her wide Kettlewand hat. Her feet were not covered with the high, white, ornamental moccasins, decorated with innumerable red, blue, yellow, and black beads, but with high, tan boots of a similar design, with only a few score beads, mostly red and yellow. Her long blond hair, which for the past two days had simply hung free, blowing in the wind, was now woven into three braids, themselves twisted into one long ponytail that hung to the middle of her back. Decorating her hair, ears, hat, and the mane of her horses were a dozen feathers, all from birds of prey. Smeared down the forehead of each horse was a broad stripe of red paint and pressed against the thick winter hair of the left rump and right shoulder of the pinto was a yellow feminine hand print, with long, narrow fingers. Kiska’s own face was clean, and she wore no paint.

Kiska slung her short shotgun from one side of her saddle horn and her still-unstrung bow and quiver of arrows on the other side of her light Raider saddle. Then she hung her curved saber over her back, across the old brown coat, knocking the gray, wide-brimmed hat from her head. She caught it with one deft, fast motion and quickly slapped it back onto her head. At the same time she said in a dry voice, either to Jarl or the wind, Well, the Ranger who owned this hat isn’t going to complain. Jarl twitched in pain, knowing in that moment that the hat was battlefield loot, taken off the corpse of a dead Kettlewand Ranger.

Kiska more hopped than swung onto the back of her pinto. Then, as she reined the animal not down the narrow valley, but up toward the highlands, she introduced her two horses. The pinto’s name was Cricket and the red packhorse was Skedaddle. She turned to Jarl, asking his two animals’ names. His reply was glum; his horses were not so endowed.

They rode southeast, climbing toward the high grassy slope, leaving the beautiful, narrow little valley behind. Cricket and Skedaddle were fast walkers, who quickly ascended the numerous gravel moraines and skirted the groves of aspens. Near the head of the valley, Kiska jumped her two horses across the now tiny stream and began to wind upwards through a grove of short, stunted pine trees. Almost immediately Cricket flushed out a large red hawk, and the blond woman stood in her stirrups, shading her eyes with one hand and watching it fly away, across the barren slope of the mountain.

Kiska led him westward and around the first rounded mountainside, following deer and sheep trails, climbing ever higher, until they reached a small saddle. To their right, Jarl could trace Kiska’s narrow valley downward to its junction with the West Fork of the Locust River. Far to the north, beyond the narrow valley, he could see the wide valley of the October River and beyond that, the never-ending steppe of the White Plains. To their left was a wide alpine basin—dwarfed by a line of saw-toothed peaks further to the south—containing scores of snow fields, pure white under the harsh spring sun, dozens of bright blue lakes and ponds, and patches of green dwarf conifer trees, their limbs flagged by the cold mountain wind. That same wind caused Jarl and Kiska to pull their coats tight around them and fasten their top buttons. Further to the east, a wide, round mountain blocked their view, and in front of them was a long ridge, its crest covered with sandstones and granites.

All day, Kiska led Jarl west along that ridge, crossing over the top of the West Fork, winding among the rock outcrops and the small trees. Occasionally they fought their way through dense vegetation, but—for the most part—they followed numerous game trails, occasionally scaring mule deer and sending them bounding out across the mountain slope. Once, far above their heads, a