Scarecrow: Book Three of the Vanir Trilogy

By George R. Dasher

The battle for Orrins Fort is a fairly easy endeavor. Not one shot is fired and only Navee Ordor bloodies a blade. Taking this fort gives the Scarecrow, Jarl Hawkins, and his small force a warm base from which to operate and fight against the Glasseys. Hawkins, an ex-geographer from the planet Earth and ex-partisan from the planet Jubal, is marooned on Vanira backward world with sorcerers, black-powder weapons, and nomad raiders.

In Book Three of the Vanir Trilogy, Hawkins continues to help his friend, Will James, the king, fight the invading Glassey armies. At the same time, he; the great wizard, Kvasir; his wife, Kiska; and the star reporter for his newspaper, Janisbegin to search for advanced technology left by the original colonists of the planet.

This quest is interrupted by the return of the space empire, and now Jarlwith the help of his friendstravels into space, where he fights to save one of the great, golden colonization ships and a supercomputer named Sam. Jarl learns the secret of the smoky quartz crystals, and he struggles to prevent the subjugation of the planet by the brutal and all-powerful empire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532019289

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.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

TOM FERGUSON

Tom Ferguson was cold. He wiggled all his toes. Then he wiggled all his fingers. Then his toes. Then his fingers. Toes. Fingers. It was no use; he would never get them warm. But he kept wiggling them, knowing the tips of both extremities were already frostbitten, and afraid they would freeze and would have to be cut off if he stopped. And he squeezed in closer to the cold stone tower, trying to hide from the gusting wind.

As he was overcome by another violent fit of shivering, shivering so intense it was as if he had a fever, the young man realized that it was all to no avail. He had offended his sergeant on one too many occasions and this time, when his relief came, it would be too late; he would be dead, three days before his 20th birthday, much—he was sure—to his sergeant’s immense satisfaction.

He shared his lonely guard duty with no one. All the other soldiers in his rifle company were below, inside the small border fort, warm and dry, enjoying their fires and food. But not Tom Ferguson. He stood on cold ramparts alone, all because he had dared to ask his sergeant for a few days’ leave to visit his wife and mother in Horst, a place he had not seen for three years, ever since he had been caught reading an outlawed book and offered an opportunity to either serve in the Empire’s army or row one of their many slave ships that plied the Cimarron Sea. Tom had jumped at the chance to be a lowly foot soldier.

The young man sighed, wondering from what dangers he was guarding the fort. It was mid-March. They had seen no Ghost Raiders all winter. True, for the past month, there had been rumors of skirmishes with the Vanir along the length of the Foord Road—in fact, the few companies of the Empire’s army guarding the highway had been driven from their various winter quarters, which were mostly the Station houses and tiny towns of west-central Kettlewand. But that was no major concern. The officers of the Empire bragged openly that, come spring, their army—which was presently enjoying the warm luxuries and women in Atwa, the provincial capital of Kettlewand—would march east, sweeping the Vanir forces before them, capturing Desjhan and driving into the provinces of Atrobee and then Nowell, bringing the one true God to the Vanir once and for all. Nothing would stop the Glasseys this time, not even the irritating northern nomads.

Thanks to the Empire’s allies, the Old Church of Vanir, it was open knowledge that the Vanir army was wintering in Freyr and that the King of Vanir was honeymooning in Smyrna. And the Vanir Bookwright—the great wizard who had figured so prominently in the war with the Dominion of Roomia—was near-death with a sickness, even according to his own newspaper. Yes, come spring, the year was going to be a good one for the Most Holy Empire.

There were no clouds in the azure sky. Blue and white, that was Tom Ferguson’s entire world. He faced the southeast, looking at the soft, snow-covered fingers of the Blue Hills, here dry and treeless, frozen in the hard grip of winter. Immediately at the toe of the mountains, hidden deep under white folds of snow, was the Foord Road, leading east to Desjhan. North of the highway was the endless steppe of the White Plains, usually empty and devoid of all life, but today Tom could see the tiny dark forms of lumbering haystacks more than two kilometers away. They were mastodons, migrating from one unseen forest to another, unperturbed by the harsh winter temperatures.

It was from that direction that the gusting wind blew, dusting him with ice particles, freezing his clothes, and numbing the few millimeters of skin that was exposed above the frozen edge of his long scarf, knitted by his wife and smuggled to him more than a year ago. It was that young woman he now thought of. He knew he would never see her again, not as long as his sergeant, the only Glassey non-com in the Cimarron rifle company, continued to assign him the most dangerous and brutal jobs.

The young man had become an expert in predicting the gusts of winds crossing the plains. He watched as they momentarily hid the drifted snow as they came like waves, then washed up against the massive stone walls of the small fort, which were cracked from the intense winter cold and seared by the heat of the fires set by the Glasseys four years previously. One such gust came now and Tom ducked his head to one side, allowing it to abrade the side of his face which, between his frozen scarf and hat, was completely covered.

Or so he thought. This time the wind blew harder; or perhaps a small gap had developed in his protective clothing. Either way, the harsh impact of the wind-blown ice particles was painful and Tom turned away for a second, bending his head to the south, toward Cimarron, his homeland. And, in that instant, he forgot about his toes, his fingers, the wind, the cold, his wife, his sergeant, and his rifle, empty and slung over his shoulder.

The back wall towered almost four meters above the ground. In spite of that, dozens of Ghost Raiders were climbing over it, bundled against the cold with thick coats, heavy trousers, and cloth boots, quilted to hold the insulation in place. They all wore face masks or scarfs, their hats were tied down, all had liners that reached well down over their ears, and many had goggles carved of bone or wood, through which small slits had been cut, so that only a small amount of light could enter. Only the long streamers of their braided hair—silver in the bright winter light—and the feathers interwoven there, showed that the intruders were Raiders. Tom’s breath caught in his throat—he knew he was a dead man.

They surrounded him. They took his rifle. They searched him and took his only knife. But they did not kill him. And they let him watch. Raiders raced down the steps into the cobblestone courtyard, now covered with layers of snow, névé, and ice. They clustered—without speaking—in front of the closed doors, seven in all, doors that led downward to the men and supplies below. Tom tensed, envisioning the slaughter that was about to take place, wondering how he could sound an alarm to alert the soldiers below. The gates had been opened. More men entered, and a few had dark hair. One such man, with a black Kettle hat and a yellow scarf wrapped tightly around his face and ears, climbed high onto one of the stone ramparts. He wore a strange coat, one covered with random patterns of different shades of tan and green, like the wizard Tom had encountered two years ago in the high mountains of Cimarron.

For a few moments all eyes turned toward the man in the strange coat. In one hand, enclosed in a heavy mitten, he held a short-barreled shotgun high above his head, horizontally, grasping it in front of the trigger, near the weapon’s middle. Then—abruptly—he jerked the shotgun downward. Seven doors were opened, all at once, and Raider after Raider raced down the steps, into the heart of the small fort. Tom tensed, waiting for the shots below, waiting for the sudden knife between his ribs. Long seconds passed. There were no gunshots or shouts from below. By his side, no one even so much as bared a blade.

But there must have been some kind of signal. The man with the strange coat hopped down from his high perch and darted along the wide walkway. He jumped down the stone steps three at a time and disappeared through one of the open doors. Other men followed. And still no one spoke.

Tom was pushed toward the steps. Gingerly—his feet were very cold—he climbed down them. He was shoved through the nearest door, the one the man in the strange green coat had used. The heat met him like a wave, almost suffocating him at first, and causing him to suddenly perspire. His captors pushed at him and forced him to hurry. Tom descended the flight of stone steps as fast as his cold feet would carry him. He entered the large common room at the bottom.

Crowded against one wall was an entire company of soldiers. All of them were unarmed. Despite the fact that no one wore anything more than trousers and light shirts, every face was flushed from the heat. All of the soldiers stared, nervous and apprehensive, and each and every one of them glared at Tom when he entered the room, wondering why he had not raised an alarm. One blond man pushed him toward a large fireplace and Tom hobbled in that direction, weaving around fallen chairs and tables and the litter of dropped plates, drinking mugs, and equipment. The northern nomads took no notice of him.

From one side—Tom’s left—five Glassey officers were being herded from their private room by the same number of Raiders. The man with the strange coat stood to one side, his face unmasked, quietly watching. It was the same wizard Tom and his company had chased and who Tom alone had encountered, high in the Cimarron mountains. Tom had never understood why the sorcerer had not killed him then and there.

Despite their captors’ incredible efficiency, no commands had been spoken. But now, from the other side of the room, there was a commotion and, suddenly, Tom’s sergeant broke free of the press of prisoners. He tore past one guard and knocked down another, a tall, thin woman with brown hair who fell with an explosion of cursing. The Glassey ran directly at Tom, baring a hidden knife as he did so, and calling out an ugly name.

Tom backed up, bumping into the man with the strange green coat. The cursing woman rolled back to her feet, unsheathing a large knife of her own. The Glassey sergeant, his face livid with rage, continued to charge forward, toward Tom, holding his knife low, the blade up. As he jumped over the last chair, he jerked the bright knife up, aiming for Tom’s soft belly, calling him one last name. Tom inched back another half dozen centimeters, sucking his stomach in, waiting for the sharp pain of death.

It never came. Another blade—this one the curved length of a samurai sword—swept down from behind Tom’s head, cutting deep into the sergeant’s arm, the one that held the knife. The Glassey dropped his weapon. The sword wielder moved in front of Tom—he was a short man, who danced forward like an E’landota. The man rotated his sword blade upward and cut the sergeant, as the Glassey jerked his head and body in the opposite direction, across the side of his dirty neck. The big sergeant, his balance destroyed by his abrupt maneuver, began to fall. Before his knees even touched the floor, the E’landota’s long blade slashed out one more time. Again the little man turned the cutting edge and this time he sliced the bigger man’s throat. Blood sprayed outward, and the sergeant fell forward, dead, and onto the floor.

Tom expelled a long breath. Beside him, there was a slight noise and Tom turned, surprised to see that the sorcerer was lowering the twin hammers on his shotgun, easing the flints cautiously past the flash pans. Tom looked up into the older man’s brown eyes and gasped as he realized the sorcerer had recognized him. After a second of silence, he stammered out one awkward question, Are… are… are you going to kill me?

The man smiled—a slow, gentle smile. He shook his head no. Then he spoke in a loud voice, Unless anyone else does something foolish, no one else will die.

The battle for Orrins Fort was over. Not one shot had been fired and only Navee Ordor had bloodied a blade.

CHAPTER TWO

THE DRAGONS

The battle for Orrins Fort had been easy. Easy that is if you didn’t include the long, cold march down the length of the Foord Road, fighting countless skirmishes with the few Glassey units left behind to guard the highway, mostly using the Peoples of the White Plains as a fast-moving assault force. Easy if you did not count the tiring climb into the Blue Hills, on a trail known only to Otis Gottress, where they battled their way upward across a cold, wind-swept pass and descended the other side of the ridge, into Cimarron. Easy if you did not count the long, intensely cold night ride across the Plains of Cimarron, sighting Orrins Fort at daybreak. Easy if you did not count the breakneck race across the long flat to the small fortress, fighting meter-deep snow, exhausting their already fatigued horses, where one Glassey looking south would have given the entire game away. Yes, after all that, scaling the walls and entering the small fortress had been easy—in fact, downright child’s play.

Taking the one fort gave Jarl Hawkins’ small force a warm base from which to operate. The large number of prisoners, mostly from Cimarron, had little love for their late comrades-in-arms and required little guarding. And, because no one knew his small assault force was even in the area, the second fort fell and then the third, both—again—without a shot being fired. It required most of three weeks, but then King William, his generals Liebs Hisson and Enrick von Rhinehart, and the main Vanir force—who had been battling their way through the snow from Desjhan—arrived. The Glassey prisoners were turned over to the larger army and Jarl’s small force captured the fourth fort, this time after a small pitched battle, where an equal number of Glassey and Vanir were killed and wounded.

The fifth fort contained only twelve Glasseys and three Vanir women, all of which had been forced to winter with their enemy, and all of which had been repeatedly raped. There was no battle—the greencoats surrendered in the face of the Vanir’s vastly superior force. That was a mistake. After a short trial in which the women implicated every man in the small fort, Jarl hung all the Glasseys and left their lifeless bodies swinging from the ramparts in the endless wind of the plains. The sixth fort was located west of Atwa and its occupying greencoat army, but after Aaron and a squad of Kettlewand Rangers reported that small fortress empty, Jarl did not risk his tiny force by marching there.

King William and his two generals had brought more than twenty regiments, a seventh of which was cavalry, and the Vanir army was supplemented by more than 8,000 Raiders. For a rare change, the Vanir had the larger force, but the greencoats still had Guslov Kivlor. The Glassey general, when he discovered the Vanir were nearby, was not one to sit and let his enemy come to him, especially since Atwa—like most of the Vanir’s cities—had no real walls. He quickly mustered his army, left the city, and moved to attack the Vanir army. The resulting battle, which was fought on the plains five miles east of the city, was short, with no real beginning, and ending in the early afternoon.

Two hours after daybreak, long after the first greencoat regiment had left Atwa, small bands of mounted Ghost Raiders began to harass the sides of the Empire’s mighty army, removing any lingering doubt they were not in league with the Vanir. The fast-moving marauders would duck into arrow and rifle range, killing and wounding greencoat after greencoat, and race away when they themselves were attacked.

And when a company of Empire’s men did chase the blond-haired men and women any distance onto the Plains, other Raiders, utilizing their far-reaching mindvoices, raced away from the Glassey army, leading their prey far away from safety. And then, like wolves to the kill, they attacked, shattering the greencoat units and slaughtering the individual soldiers, all within sight of the Empire’s army. The survivors who made it back to their army usually had to run for their lives, and were demoralized and often weaponless. The greencoat cavalry seemed helpless to prevent the one-sided carnage, and—in the end—they tried to encircle the greencoat army, making themselves a buffer of men and horses, and separating their comrades from the deadly forays of the Raiders.

Kivlor’s army required more than three hours to march five kilometers, and he lost close to ten regiments of foot soldiers. Some of these were lost to the Raiders, but many were Cimarron companies that simply melted away and deserted, once they discovered they would be taken prisoner and treated fairly, as the rumors that had been circulating in the crowded city for the last two weeks had indicated—King William had released more than two score captured Cimarron infantrymen and sent them into Atwa for that express purpose. And Kivlor lost the provincial capital before he was out of sight of Atwa, when General Harold Stukum and three mixed regiments of Raiders and mounted infantry attacked from the south, rolling over the meager defenses, retaking the city and liberating the people of Kettlewand.

Still, the mighty Kivlor had not been defeated. During the morning, von Rhinehart had constructed a long, hastily built wall of earth. Now, his army hid behind it, all except one long regiment, who waited in front of the crude fortification. Kivlor ordered two regiments of Glassey Rifle forward. With the sound of bugles and to the beat of their drums—while the Vanir stood quiet and unmoving, almost as if they were one man—the greencoats marched to within fifty meters of the regiment.

It was a clear spring day with only a few tiny remaining drifts of snow, so warm that many men went coatless. New grass was pushing through the still damp ground, and the desert flowers had begun to bloom. The terrain was flat, with no significant hills or ridges. The two greencoat regiments were formed into five long lines. The first line knelt. Then it and the second line fired, and the battle became a long eruption of bright flame that was quickly obliterated by a heavy cloud of black smoke. But, even before the roar of the black-powder rifles was over, there was another sound, as 2,000 Glasseys shouted their battle cries and rushed forward. The sun glittered on their bright bayonets and some of the soldiers lost their shoes as they raced across the muddy field. Still the Vanir battle line stood, not firing, not charging, and not retreating. None had fallen to the greencoat blast of rifle fire, and—now strangely—none even moved.

Then, just as the first greencoats reached the waiting Vanir soldiers, the single regiment disappeared into thin air. All that remained were a few scrub bushes and the new blades of grass.

But only for a second.

Above the heads of the greencoats—even before most of them had realized their enemy had disappeared—a score of dragons appeared, each a different color, scintillating in the bright sun, each with four legs and a pair of nearly transparent wings, and each with a long, scale-covered leather neck and a diamond-shaped head that turned this way and that, spraying the greencoats with fire and smoke. There was a long, terrified gasp up and down the entire length of the camouflaged Vanir’s battle line, and some of the men and women hidden there sprinted away and into the desert, terrified for their lives. The shock was worse for the Glasseys, and it was far too much for the regiments of attacking riflemen. Some greencoats continued to run, hunched over with fear, past the hidden wizards and witches producing the mindimages, toward the main Vanir battle line, more than one hundred meters away. Other Glasseys fled to the right, and still others to the left. A large number turned and raced back toward their main army. Scores of men fell to the ground, covering their heads with their hands, burying their faces in the sand. Officers ran this way and that, panicked, taking no notice of their men. Then the dragons disappeared and Raiders converged on the madness, slaying some, but capturing most of the terrified Glasseys.

The long regiments of Vanir next stepped out from behind their wall. They began advancing, relentlessly sweeping the remains of the disorganized greencoats in front of them. Kivlor and his officers tried to organize a defense, but everywhere the Glasseys formed a battle line, a dragon would appear, breathing fire and screaming shrill cries. The Glasseys fired their cannon, arrows, and rifles at the gaudy beasts and, although the dragon in question would always disappear, another would reappear at another point, and the display of firepower had no effect. And the fastmoving Ghost Raiders were everywhere, harassing, killing and wounding, and adding to the confusion.

The main part of the Glassey army quickly lost its organization, and became a single mass of soldiers that, at first, fell back reluctantly. Other regiments of Vanir riflemen began to attack the Empire’s left flank and the greencoat retreat became more and more disorganized. Then the panic began, sweeping like a wave through the army, and the Glasseys turned and started running back toward the imagined safety of Atwa. They never made it. From the south came Hisson and his cavalry, attacking on a broad front. A few of the greencoat companies formed ranks and tried to fight, but the Empire’s leadership disintegrated, and now—with no dragons anywhere—most of the Glasseys simply surrendered or fell to the ground. Hundreds tried to outrun the mounted Ghost Raiders, but none were successful. Soon the plains’ nomads and Hisson’s cavalry were escorting regiment- and company-sized clusters of captured men back across the plains.

Before nightfall, the confused crowd that had been the greencoat army had been relieved of their weapons and had formed into long lines to be marched back to the east. At the head of the first column rode King William the Fourth, to view the devastation of the sacked provincial capital and hear the complaints of his people. It was a festive night for the civilians, a terrifying night for the prisoners, and an extremely tense night for most of the army. The next day, worried about the panic and fears the sorcerers were causing, King William ordered Jarl and Harold Stukum south and into Cimarron. The long ride to the coast had begun.

CHAPTER THREE

THE RACE TO THE COAST

The Vanir army was a far cry from the force Jarl had commanded the previous fall. That force had been small, always outnumbered, and fighting far behind the enemy lines. This time, his force was a true army, numbering almost 8,000 men and women, from Vanir and the Ghost Plains, all mounted on horses and solidly supported by the local population—who showered them with food, flowers, wine, and more horses. The roads and highways turned to mud, but Cimarron was nothing but a long, never-ending sea of grass, and the thousands of riders simply took to the fields, cantering southward across the endless plains.

Unlike the remainder of Vanir, many of the cities of Cimarron were constructed around tall citadels, with high towers and massive walls. Nevertheless, the towns and villages were captured, one by one, usually by Cimarron partisans or the fast-moving outriders of Jarl’s army. On more than one occasion, Jarl rode into a village to discover a score of greencoat corpses hanging from trees and barns, while the inhabitants that had committed the atrocities lined the road and cheered his troops onward. Many of the stone castles fell to the same people and often, when entering a town, the Vanir had nothing more to do than collect the prisoners and accept the countless gifts. More than one Glassey force quickly surrendered when they discovered how outnumbered they were, or to avoid the vengeful acts of the people of Cimarron.

And, as they rode deeper into Cimarron, the sudden appearance of Jarl’s army was usually a complete surprise, and the Vanir were anything but cautious, and often extremely overconfident. Several of the Empire’s commanders surrendered his well-designed citadel and hundreds of defenders to a mere handful of Vanir or Ghost Raiders. Occasionally, the greencoats managed an improvised defense; however, since the Vanir advance was so fast and unexpected, these efforts were usually undermanned with few supplies. And since Jarl always encircled his enemy, attacking from an unanticipated direction, often over rough terrain, the battles were short, quickly deteriorating into an unconditional surrender. In addition, when it appeared any attack might fail, Jarl used a sorcerer to mindimage a dragon above the forts and demoralize the soldiers inside—however, he was beginning to dislike this option, as it was clear his army was terrified of his use of magic.

Twice, Jarl left hundreds of Vanir to crack the formidable defenses of a well-stocked and well-manned citadel, while the remainder of his army raced southward toward the sea. The first time he left Fokki, the Ghost Raider who had escorted Kiska and him to Jorvik, in charge of a mixed group of Vanir and Raiders, firing heated cannon balls over the tall stone walls of the Empire’s fort. Before the day was over, a mindmessage was relayed to Jarl from Fokki, telling how they had accidentally burned down the small fortress, and that the survivors had surrendered.

On another day, a dark, dismal rainy morning, a mixed company of greencoats managed to avoid the hundreds of Vanir horsemen coursing through the countryside and attack Jarl and the small group of men and women that rode beside him.

The ambush was a total surprise and the Glasseys had the high ground, running with reckless abandon through a broken fence row, and attacking the Vanir as they rode their horses down one of the many sunken roads that crossed Cimarron. But the greencoats, and the priest who led them, had not reckoned with Kiska. The blond-haired witch mindimaged a black and golden dragon, which hovered only meters above their heads, spitting fire, flapping his leathery wings. The attackers slid to a quick stop and many, with mouths agape with astonishment or fear, attempted to fight the creature by swinging long swords and halberds through the image in the air. A handful of soldiers fled. Others fell onto the wet ground, cowering, with their hands over their heads, incapacitated with fear.

Then, abruptly, the dragon was gone and a score of Ghost Raiders charged in from one side, disrupting what little greencoat organization remained, causing more Glasseys to flee. The few that still fought on discovered—as the Raiders rushed by—that their attackers were also an image projected by the witch. Twenty greencoats—a mere handful compared to the original force—turned and renewed their attack on Jarl’s tiny group, but they found themselves suddenly confronted by the mindimage of two score Vanir, wielding all kinds of weapons. From somewhere, ghostlike and behind him, Jarl even heard a drum.

The Glasseys turned and sprinted away. A few fell to the Vanir’s flintlocks, and Kiska planted an arrow in the back of the priest, who had run the fastest of all, with his frock flapping behind him. The man collapsed and slid on the wet grass, slowing to a stop and becoming a small, dark pile of unmoving clothing, easily overlooked in the wide expanse of the Cimarron steppe. Then, from one side, a company of mounted Vanir infantry—this time not a mindimage—formed a long line and swept across the field, collecting the scattered, demoralized Glasseys and herding them toward the rear, where hundreds more of their countrymen waited, already prisoners.

The Vanir army had long since ridden off Jarl’s single map and had become dependent on Otis and a few other old campaigners for knowledge of the terrain. Their advance had become a race to the Cimarron Sea and Jarl’s large force disintegrated into individual units, who fought and rode next to whoever was available, not bothering to locate the proper regiments or—in many cases—even their companies. Ghost Raider rode next to Vanir, cavalry next to mounted infantry, soldier next to wizard, common man next to High Ejliteta.

The names of the many cities and towns of Cimarron blurred in Jarl’s mind and often, for the Glasseys, the war was over before they knew it had arrived in their corner of Cimarron. Many of the captured officers were totally unable to understand how one minute they could be deep in what they considered one of their own provinces, masters of their entire world, hearing confident and boastful reports from the front, and the next minute they were prisoners, the lowest form of life, commanding no one, taken by the fast-moving forces of the Vanir army, and insulted and abused by the people of Cimarron.

Slowly, over the long month, the Vanir numbers became less, not so much from battle casualties, but from those horsemen or women hurt in falls from their mounts, or who had become sick, or lost, or simply were too tired to continue. Then, with Horst in sight, Jarl received orders, brought by a fast-riding courier, that King William and a regiment of cavalry was hard on his heels, and that he was to wait for Will James—that was the King’s less formal name—to enter the provincial capital of Cimarron.

However, Aaron and Mylea, scouting to the east, brought back word that many of the Glasseys were preparing to escape in ships and boats. Not suspecting Jarl’s army was so close, the greencoats were dawdling, attempting to take as much of their treasure as possible. Jarl decided to immediately attack the highland that contained Horst that night, and they seized scores of ships, all packed with riches and crowded with high officials of the Most Holy Empire. The only real battle was a small skirmish fought when an oared slave ship had attempted to row out of the crowded harbor. In the hail of gunfire that followed, Otis shot one loud-mouthed official and the captain promptly surrendered his vessel. Will James, when he rode into the city the following evening, was unhappy his orders had been disobeyed, but he was pleased to discover the riches the Vanir army had seized.

Janis Eirik—reporting for Jarl’s newspaper—was traveling with the King, and for three days, she, Will James, Jarl, Kiska, and a half dozen Kettlewand Rangers inspected the city, the wharfs, and the many vessels. No house, ship, hold, church, dungeon, cellar, or attic was safe from their eyes. Hundreds of slaves and prisoners were set free. Jarl, along with a dozen Ghost Raiders, toured dry docks and homes of the shipwrights. They learned much about the great ship-building port, and they promised an exchange of knowledge between Horst and the Peoples of the White Plains. Will James and Jarl met with the leaders of the Ghost Raiders one night, and hammered out a solid agreement between the two peoples, one that promised equal representation and a just trial system—and one which, amazingly, promised the return of most of the Vanir children who had been taken by the Raiders over the years.

The agreement included religious freedom, as Will James, with a most unholy glint in his eye, was already anticipating his return to Tyr. The Old Church was finished, particularly after the King had inspected many of the Empire’s papers captured in Horst, documents that openly spoke of the communication between the high officials of the Old Vanir Church and the Royal and Most Holy Empire of Glassitron.

Jarl and Will James also met with the two dozen sorcerers who had accompanied the Vanir army south into Cimarron and who, with their displays of flying dragons, had so effectively destroyed the Glasseys’ will to fight. The King thanked the small group, promising them a place in his new government, but Jarl—hearing the words of a ruler who intended to pacify the fears of his people—was skeptical of the young man’s intent. He said nothing to his friends from the wizard city of Vor.

Then, afterwards, Will James ordered Jarl home to Kettlewand, saying the he was needed there. The young king deceived no one—the general consensus was that he was concerned that Jarl was usurping his authority and glory. But Jarl was happy to return—Janis was in a hurry to speed her many articles to Tyr and Kiska wanted to see her uncle, still recovering in Atrobee. Near the end of May, with the entire 7th Kettle Rangers as their escort, the three of them—together with Navee and Lannie—began their long ride north.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE PEPPER FORD STATION

Despite the cheering crowds and their inexhaustible hospitality, the long ride to Kettlewand seemed to take forever. Jarl—for one—would have been happier with a more sedate pace, but Kiska was concerned for her uncle and wanted to hurry toward Atrobee. Twice, far from the main camp, she tried to communicate with him, using her secret quartz crystal, but did not receive a response. Since neither Jarl nor Kiska had thought to ask Kvasir if he still had his crystal, neither was too upset at the result. Still, because their horses were tired and only a few remounts were available, their pace slowed, often for days on end, becoming no faster than a walk.

They passed all manners of people and vehicles, farmers hauling their spring produce to the market; squads and companies of the Vanir army, riding or marching both north and south; bands of Ghost Raiders, riding northward, toward the high steppe; impossibly long lines of dejected Glassey prisoners, with their officers mixed in, being escorted to some holding camp; ecstatic soldiers from Cimarron—often entire regiments—marching homeward with no weapons of any kind; and priests and clergy, from both the Old and New Church—sometimes in the same group—trudging up and down the roads, traveling toward some unknown place. Had they been in a small group, Kiska and Jarl could have woven in and out of the congested traffic with little trouble; however, with the spring rains and close to ninety Kettle Rangers following behind, the delays multiplied. Often they were forced off the highway and rode up the long, endless slope to Kettlewand.

Finally they reached Orrins Fort, nighting there, and continued east toward Desjhan. Now the road was better, but all the traffic seemed against them. They passed endless streams of refugees returning to their homes, relatives hurrying toward battered Atwa, and soldiers marching to reinforce the army. The only travelers going east were long lines of greencoat prisoners, in no hurry and taking up the entire road. In frustration, Jarl’s group resorted to following one of the broad, wide ridges east, unencumbered and free, more than ten kilometers north of the highway, while Kiska fretted that they might be passing her uncle heading west, toward Vor.

They had to fight their way through a large, foul-smelling refugee camp to rejoin the Foord Road east of Burkes Station. The dry-weather fords north of Roundbottom Hill were a quagmire of broken and overturned wagons and carts, with belongings scattered everywhere. On one low hill above the river, a small group of people, with heads bowed, were clustered around an open hole. Nearby were the fresh coverings of three more graves, two child-sized, the result of an attempt to cross the river and short-cut the long bend in the road around Roundbottom Hill.

Despite the evidence before their eyes, Kiska insisted on using the fords and proceeding on toward Desjhan. No argument could sway her—Jarl even threatened to tie her with rope and throw her over the back of her pinto. But then, while they argued, a group of merchants, carrying their wares on packhorses, threaded their way across a long island, wading the muddy water twice, and proving the Snowy River could be safely crossed. After Jarl promised to mindbeam her if her uncle was at the Pepper Ford Station, Kiska set off, easily crossing the river, taking Mylea, English, and Grayson with her.

The remainder of the Rangers, with Aaron in the lead, turned south and followed the main highway to Pepper Ford. They splashed across the river there and rode into the courtyard of the Station, unsure as to what they would discover. The barns and outbuildings had been burned, as had part of the front porch of the main house. But Kevin, hammer in hand, hanging off a tall ladder, already had most of that damage repaired.

The station keeper shouted a loud hello, and declared he was glad to see the Rangers and Jarl. He said that the Glasseys had set fire to all the buildings, but—for some unknown reason—only the porch roof of the main house had burned. Aaron was plainly unhappy, and he asked about the Rangers’ barracks. Kevin, his long, handle-bar mustache immaculate, climbed down the ladder, telling him to cheer up.

I don’t know why, he said, but the greencoats spared your barracks. Only thing I can figure is, when the getting got good, the Glasseys forgot about it, set as far back from the main Station like it is.

Kevin laughed and slapped the Ranger captain on the shoulder, shouting over the noise of an incoming westbound stage. But don’t worry. If you need something do to, we are having a barn raising tomorrow.

Aaron’s face turned sour again, causing a dozen Rangers to laugh.

Kevin wore a wide grin. He moved toward the slowing stage and, from the inside of the rising cloud of dust, shouted two more sentences, Course I won’t be able to help you. The stages are running again and I’m mighty busy.

The stages were indeed running again. Pepper Ford Station seemed to be back to its normal confusion and bedlam. A half-dozen passengers, all dressed in dusty finery, disembarked from the newly arrived coach. Amid curses and shouts, the two Glades brothers waded into the medley and began to change out the six horses with fresh teams. The driver, cursing and angry, was adding to the noise. The Rangers filed off to their barracks, leading or riding their horses, passing to the right of the big house. Without speaking, Lannie took the reins of Jarl’s dapple gray, Navee’s black, and Janis’ mare. The E’landota led the four animals back toward