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Bookwright
Book One of the Vanir Trilogy
By George R. Dasher iUniverse
Copyright © 2014 George R. Dasher
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4917-5336-1
CHAPTER 1
THE NIGHT BATTLE
For a brief second, Jarl's feet touched a slippery slope. Then his boots slid out from under him and he tumbled onto a hillside of wet grass. Beside him, the old man had also fallen. He was muttering under his breath, but did not appear to be hurt.
It was dusk, and the air had a clean feel, as if it had just rained. Nearby, a tiny stream of muddy water hurried down the hillside and into the gathering darkness. A short way up the hill, a row of tall trees formed a broken line across the skyline.
Jarl took a tentative breath. He could smell nothing but the wet grass and woods. He could hear nothing but the quiet of the impending night. The air was heavy with moisture and Jarl could feel the sweat already forming on his forehead. The atmosphere seemed correct for his lungs, and the gravity also seemed like what he was used to. He took a another breath and peered around, but saw nothing but the deeper darkness near the bottom of the hill.
Then one of the trees along the skyline moved. Both men had been getting to their feet. Now they both tensed and stooped, to make themselves less obvious. Jarl rotated his assault-blaster forward. Kvasir, caught securing the crystal, slowly removed his right hand from his deep pocket and silently withdrew his long sword from its scabbard. Another shadow on the ridge line followed the first and the movements became several people, then a line of soldiers, climbing toward the top of the hill. Silhouetted against the last bit of daylight were bayonets or pikes, pointing every which way, and a limp banner hung, all of its energy spent. As his senses cleared, Jarl could suddenly hear quiet cursing and the soft clank of equipment.
Kvasir reached out and touched Jarl on the shoulder. It was a statement of support, but it was also a gesture for silence. Together, they listened as the line of toiling men climbed up the hill. Then, in a voice almost too faint to hear, Kvasir whispered, "They are friends, soldiers of the King." He stood upright and began to climb toward the trees.
The old man moved silently and quickly on the wet grass. Jarl followed. He rotated his rifle behind him and under his coat, but he maintained his hold near the trigger.
The soldiers were exhausted. Jarl could see it in their movements and hear it in their tired voices. He could smell their dirty uniforms. They held what appeared to be muskets and wore dark jackets. Behind them, a cluster of artillerymen—wearing large, floppy hats—struggled to push and pull a heavy iron cannon with high wooden wheels up the hill.
There were also swordsmen, who appeared to have no standard uniform, holding all manner of shields. Some, like Kvasir, carried long broadswords. And there were pikemen, with short pikes and rectangular shields, wearing leather helmets. Only Kvasir wore a long woolen robe that almost touched the ground.
A short man stepped away from the main body of soldiers and approached the two men. He wore a huge, floppy hat and carried a curved sword at his side. Jarl heard the sharp intake of breath as the soldier saw Kvasir's face, and then the man spoke in a reverent, hushed whisper, "We heard you was dead."
"Not yet," the old man replied. "Not yet ..." Even in the dim light, Jarl could see the bright sparks of Kvasir's eyes travel down the long line of soldiers. Then the eyes dropped back to the shorter man, and Jarl could see one of the bushy eyebrows arch upward in an unspoken question.
The short man answered, "I'm Sergeant Schad Shofstal. I was stationed in Tyr when you tutored the Prince." There was a pause. "Now I'm with the 14th Foot."
"What happened?" Kvasir whispered.
Shofstal let out a long breath. "Late this afternoon, Hisson and his cavalry encountered some Glassey pikemen on the main Foord Road near Bryan Creek. They drove 'em back a ways, or so we heard. Goran, his ownself, showed up, and sent in some pikemen and militia. They shoved good, and the Glasseys gave way and it looked like we might shove them clean out of Kettlewand." The sergeant paused and instinctively ducked as first one—then two more—screaming yellow streaks arched over their heads and exploded, with bright flashes and dull blasts, onto the empty hillside above them.
No one had been hurt by the cannon fire. In the stillness that followed, Kvasir spoke, "I was there. The Glassey cavalry came out of the woods on our left and stopped our attack. But there was a regiment of the King's Rifle behind us. Didn't they come forward and help?"
If the sergeant thought it strange that Kvasir did not know what had happened, he did not show it. "Aye, they came forward. And for a moment things looked good. Damn good."
Shofstal snorted, then continued, "But those Glasseys had a bunch more cavalry in that woods. There were cannon too. They laid down a terrible fire. Hisson got all tangled up with some of our pikemen, and then suddenly the King's Rifle was giving ground. Some of our artillery opened up, but damn if the shells didn't fall short and into our own people. Goran couldn't get the mess straightened out and we've been retreating since then. Goran is probably halfway back ..."
The sergeant cut himself short as two riflemen and a pikeman joined their small group. One of the soldiers was a fair-haired girl, no more than a teenager, holding a musket with a long, thin bayonet and wearing a practical wide-brimmed hat. Her face was tired, dirty, and anxious. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Jarl slid his own weapon a little more behind him. Other soldiers trudged by, and he could hear whispers of "Kvasir" and "There's Kvasir." But he also heard another word too, one that sounded as if it was spoken with fear, "Wizard!"
Shofstal continued, his voice full of irony, "'Course on top of it all, it poured buckets of rain for about an hour." Another pause. "Anyway, this here ridge runs clear down to the road. We are going to try to hold it until morning and then try to straighten this mess out." He turned and waved a hand toward the confusion of troops behind him, and continued, "This is supposed to be our left flank."
The sergeant then said something about food and officers up on the hill. Kvasir thanked him, and the small group of soldiers moved up the hill and melted into the darkness. Below, a second column of men and women staggered up the hill in a parallel direction. Jarl had been relieved and comforted by Shofstal's friendly and down-to-earth manner, and he realized suddenly that Kvasir was whispering to him.
"When I left this afternoon, it appeared the Empire was routed. I thought we had stopped the counterattack that left me surrounded and almost captured." Kvasir ended his sentence with a curse, one uttered so intensely it came like a physical blow.
This made no sense to Jarl. "You decided to travel to this Western Star in the middle of a battle?" he asked.
"Yes," the old man admitted, sounding tired. "My decision was totally made at the spur of the moment. I had been knocked down and left behind for dead. The battlefield was covered by heavy smoke, and the rain was threatening. There were Glasseys everywhere. They hadn't found me yet, but when they did ... and saw who I was ... Well, let's just say I didn't want to be captured."
"And?"
"I was lying on my back, and I could see the Western Star hanging far above my head, and somehow it didn't seem that the risk of traveling to the star was as great as it had been, at least when I had thought about it in weeks past. And at least not compared to being captured. The Glasseys do not like my kind ..."
Jarl wondered why a person would take such an incredible risk, even in such terrible circumstances. Perhaps Kvasir had been that desperate. He did not voice that concern, but instead asked, "Your kind? What do you mean?"
The old man's eyes twinkled, and then abruptly dimmed. "I may have the reputation of being a wizard ...," he softly said.
Jarl let a long breath slide between his teeth. He was badly frightened again, but he knew he had no choice but to trust this old man. "What do we do now?" he asked.
Kvasir was thoughtful. "Go up the hill. There might be food and there might be someone who knows what is going on."
"I thought we were leaving for this Vor place?"
"We will. Soon."
With one smooth move, Kvasir sheathed his heavy sword and the two men began to climb the hill. Then the old wizard stopped abruptly and said, "Say nothing of your ability to mindbeam. Do not even do it. Many don't like it and Church will jail you. There are rewards and many slight mind talkers will turn you in as a sorcerer."
"Is it illegal? This mindbeaming?"
"Not officially, but the Church is a law unto itself and they can imprison you." The old man then smiled, but it was a smile with sad eyes. "Personally, you could have done better in your choice of company."
"I do not understand ..." "I have powerful enemies. And there is no other wizard in all of Vanir that the Church would more like to have in their dungeons."
Jarl grimaced. "Will my clothing cause problems?" he asked.
Kvasir thought for a second. "I think not. There are many uniforms in the King's army, and your English is closer to ours than the Glassey gutter talk."
The old man started to turn away, but Jarl caught his sleeve. "That crystal," he whispered, "it is very important."
"I know," the old man replied. "Say nothing of it! It is far more dangerous than the mindbeaming. We will talk of it later." He again turned and started up the hill.
Jarl followed, but with each stride up the hill, his apprehension of this strange place became worse and worse, until finally his fear swept over him like a cold rain and settled into a hard knot in his stomach, leaving him both chilly and sweating.
He fought to control his emotions, to remember other deadly circumstances that he had survived, but he felt so out of place and alone, and in surroundings that were so different from what he was used to, that there was no fighting the fear. In the end, he peered at the old man striding purposely up the hill at his side. This was an individual who could be trusted, Jarl decided, despite the Church's opinion. And whatever fires drove the old wizard, Jarl thought, they burned bright and intense, deep inside.
There was no officers or food at the top of the hill, but the soldiers, expecting their enemy from the dark forest in the valley on the other side, began to move fence rails, stones, and fallen trees to construct a battle line along the ridge. Kvasir moved among the men and women, offering occasional words of encouragement. Despite the old man's words concerning the bad company of wizards, a surprisingly large number of the soldiers were friendly and seemed to take courage from his presence. The night was strangely quiet, even more so with the growing number of soldiers, and—other than the three cannon shots—there had been no sign of any enemy. A full moon rose through a hole in the mist. It was a bloody red orb, with black streaks across its face, about half the size of Earth's bright, pock-marked moon.
Someone handed Kvasir a biscuit, and he broke it in half and shared it with Jarl. It was hard, and very salty and dry. The old man pointed down the ridge line and said, "The road runs more or less west and east here. The ridge we're on runs downhill to the road, and it climbs up to the higher hills to the south." Jarl peered down the ridge, toward what he thought was the north. He could just barely make out a white, thin essence far below. Kvasir produced something from one of his pockets and shoved it into Jarl's hand. It proved to be an apple, identical to an Earth apple, and it was fresh and juicy after the dry biscuit.
Kvasir was also eating an apple, and he continued to talk, "About 200 kilometers west of here is the Kettlewand border; however, the Glasseys have broken past the border forts there and are coming down the road into the heart of Kettlewand. The Vanir army, commanded by the great and noble General Sir Kevin Goran," Jarl could hear the sarcasm, "was supposed to stop and otherwise detain the Glasseys." Kvasir took a long look at the moon. "That is Mytos," he said. "It is the small moon of Vanir. The other is Kmir."
"And Vanir is the name of the planet?" Jarl whispered.
"I think so ... It is also the name of our nation." Kvasir took a thoughtful bite of his apple. "The old legends say that it was once the name of all the peoples who lived here."
Jarl too was thinking. "Then Vanir must have been the name the colonists chose for their new home, and this particular people have retained it. I wonder, did your ancestors come on the Western Star?"
Even in the darkness, Jarl could see one of Kvasir's bushy eyebrows arch upward. The surprise was mirrored in his voice. "I always assumed someone else built the Western and Eastern Stars. We have never had that capability."
Jarl said nothing more about that. Instead he asked, "Who are these Glasseys? And why are they invading Kettlewand?"
Kvasir took a long time to answer the question, and—when he did—his voice was full of pain. "The Glasseys are pure in the old religion and seek to convert the rest of us poor heathens. That, and they want our land."
The old man took another bite of his apple. "To the south are the Blue Hills, which rise to the great, snow-covered Sabre Mountains. That highland protects most of Vanir's eastern and southern borders, as does the Cimarron Sea. To the west are the Plains of Cimarron. To the north are the White Plains, which are the home to the Ghost Raiders."
There was a sudden coldness in Kvasir's voice, and Jarl asked, "These raiders and the Vanir don't get along?"
"The Ghost Raiders used to be a part of the Vanir, but there was a parting of the ways long, long ago. It was over religion ... and pride." Now the old man sounded tired.
"What is to the east?"
"To the east lie the rest of the Kettlewand lands and the Forests of Atrobee. Both are a part of the Kettlewand Plateau. Beyond that is the Land of Nowell and the capital of Vanir, Tyr." The old man tossed the core of his apple into a vacant area between the soldiers. Now, from another of his bottomless pockets, he produced a large, wide-brimmed floppy hat, which he carefully fitted to his head.
Then he continued, "The Glasseys, or the Royal and Most Holy Empire of Glassitron, inhabit a tropical land south of the Cimarron Sea. Within the past fifty years or so, they've crossed that sea and taken most of the Province of Cimarron and the port city, Horst. Now they want Kettlewand."
"Are they crowded for land in their Empire?"
"No, they just want to make the Empire larger. And they want to convert all of Vanir to the one true religion. Lately, the Vanir have been straying and marrying out of their social classes." The old man's voice again sounded worn, and he suddenly added, "And we have too many books."
"The Glasseys don't like books?"
"We have far too many. And few are pure in the old religion."
Jarl finished his apple and tossed the core aside. He let out a sad, long sigh. "It sounds like there are many similarities between our two worlds. And many of the same troubles."
"It is a sad thing indeed," Kvasir admitted.
"How big are the two respective armies?" Jarl asked.
"Goran has about 10,000 soldiers, about a third of which are Kettlewand militia. Kivlor, the Glassey commander, has about half that many again, but many of those were left to guard the six western border forts he captured."
"Are there problems with the quality of the militia?"
"Sometimes, but less so with the Kettlewand. These people lead harder lives than most, caught between the wind, the cold, and the Ghost Raiders." Kvasir paused, then asked, "Tell me ... are you a military man?"
"Not by choice. I was a civilian in the wrong place at the wrong time. I had to pick up some training on the run."
"Surely your wars are not this primitive?"
Jarl took a long time to reply, wondering how to describe a ruthless, no-quarter partisan conflict. His words were quiet and painful, "Actually, they can be a great deal worse." He could feel Kvasir's unasked questions weighing down on him.
"You saw the dead on our ship," Jarl continued. "My people are the United Colonized Planets, or the UCP. We are for the most part republics. Our enemy is the Consolidated Empire of Planets. Or the CEP for short. They want control, they want our planets, and they want our peoples in their Empire." Jarl had long since given up clutching his blaster, and now he shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets. "I was a neutral civilian, but ours is a war where sooner or later you have to join one side or the other."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Bookwright by George R. Dasher. Copyright © 2014 George R. Dasher. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse.
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