Scarecrow - Softcover

Dasher, George R.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1532019297 ISBN 13: 9781532019296

Publisher: iUniverse, 2017

Synopsis

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 Vanir--a 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, Janis--begin 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 Jarl--with the help of his friends--travels 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.

About this title

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Scarecrow

Book Three of the Vanir Trilogy

By George Dasher

iUniverse

Copyright © 2017 George Dasher
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-1929-6

CHAPTER 1

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 2

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 green-coat 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.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Scarecrow by George Dasher. Copyright © 2017 George Dasher. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse.
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Edition details

• Publisher: iUniverse
• Publication date: 2017
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1532019297
• ISBN 13: 9781532019296
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 344