PROLOGUE: THE OLD MAN
One of the flood lights he had placed near the door flickered, and Jarl knew someone deadly silent had entered the room. He moved to his left, just as quietly, and placed his wrench on the floor and picked up his blaster pistol. He knew he had no time for this, not with what little air there was escaping, but he also knew with all probability that whoever had entered the room so silently had most likely come to kill him.
Jarl was desperate. With one exception, everyone else on board the ship was dead, killed by the Mjollnir‘s two attacks or the CEP’s assault force. His head hurt, his knuckles hurt, his right knee hurt, and he was terrified. Deathly terrified. Twice now, the dying Cassiopeia‘s artificial gravity had failed. The first time had been brief, only two seconds, but the second time had lasted a full Earth minute, long enough for Jarl to float more than a meter into the air, and then when the gravity came back on slam him hard back onto the steel deck, hurting his right knee, and bouncing his tools all over the transport bay.
And there was no time. Three times he had injected foam into the damaged hull of the spaceship, hoping to stop the escape of the air. But that had not worked, and now the duct behind him automatically vented air into the room again. That made four times in the past hour, and Jarl knew there were other holes in the hull, holes he could not find, and holes he had no more foam to plug.
He rubbed his arm across his face, wiping away the sweat, and feeling the roughness of an old scar. And he waited, silently, listening to the rapid, terribly loud beating of his heart, waiting for the other person to make the first move. But that person did not. He was clearly a hunter, patient and also waiting.
Jarl had been trying to bolt the last hatch onto the last life pod, and then inject himself into space. But then what? He knew that no one, other than the Mjollnir, would hear his distress beacon, andCwithout power he had no hope of descending to the planet below or traveling to the great golden ship they had seen in orbit. And, more than likely, the Mjollnir would return and destroy the pod or capture him. And his capture, Jarl knew, would lead to a very public, very humiliating trial, and he would be tortured for the secrets he knew. Suicide, he knew and dreaded was the best choice of all.
He risked a quick glance at the yeoman on the table behind him. He could hear the faint rasp of her breathing, which was good, but with no medical supplies there was little he could do other than stop the bleeding. She had been shot in one shoulder with a blaster rifle, and was now struggling with fluid in her lungs. If he could get to the medical supplies, maybe then she would have a chance.
But that was another lost hope. The Cassiopeia was dying. No one Jarl had thought had survived the pitched battle that followed the assault of the CEP’s landing partys on the ship. The sick bay and bridge were cut off by the automatic air locks, and there was no way to get to the medical supplies, no way to send a distress signal, and no good way to get off the wrecked ship. Not that, Jarl knew, abandoning the ship in this remote corner of the universe was any kind of solution the best it would bring would be a slow death trapped in a powerless life pod.
Damn that Sharon Hindman anyway! What right did she have to knock him out? And why, with dozens of drugs on board, did she hit him over the head with an electronic clipboard? What had she hoped to gain? Had she hoped to somehow get him to the golden ship they had seen orbiting the green-blue planet below? And why couldn’t she have organized a simple ambush for the CEP storm troopers? Jarl had seen the results, and it was obvious that she, her crew, and all the Space Marines had walked blindly into a firefight, into what had become a slug match, where both sides threw reinforcements piecemeal into the battle, and where everyone on both sides had been killed.
Jarl rubbed his forehead again. High above him, the vent released another hiss of air. The noisy air stopped, and Jarl held his breath and listened with all his being. And then he heard it, the faint scrape of a shoe on the floor. He moved a little more to his left, and more behind the escape pod. There he waited, still listening. There were no other sounds. But still he waited, trying to hold his breath so he could hear better. And then a shadow passed in front of one of the lights.
Jarl was careful to make no noise. He moved slowly backwards, so that he was now behind a crooked stack of discarded equipment.
There was another person in the transport bay. That person stopped in front of the pod, then quietly started to circle it. Jarl, on cat feet, moved further left and hid behind the broken remains of a large radio transponder. The other person reached the front of the escape pod and stepped toward the bright lamp under which Jarl had been working.
Slowly, ever so cautiously, Jarl edged his head around the side of the transponder. There, bending to look inside the pod, was an old man. He was wearing neither the black uniform of the CEP nor the brown of the Space Marines. Instead he wore heavy gray robes, and he carried not an assault-blaster but rather a long, wide sword. The man’s boots were leather, not plastic and Velcro, and his hair was long and gray.
Jarl blinked, once and then again. He felt his breath catch in his throat and his jaw go slack with surprise. He risked a glance around the bay. He and the old man were alone. The door was now open a score of centimeters, but he could see no one on the other side.
The old man lifted his robes with one hand. He ducked his head, preparing to enter the escape pod. Jarl took a small step, so that he would be partly visible to the old man, and he softly whistled. The old man turned, at the same time whirling his sword in a graceful arch, and looked up. When he saw Jarl with his pistol leveled, one thick, white eyebrow arched upward, but he said nothing. His eyes were gray, and they were calm and unafraid.
Jarl stared at the man. Nothing nothing! about him made any sense. He had worn leather boots and was dressed in tattered archaic woolen robes. He carried a long obsolete weapon. His hair hung down to his shoulders, and his face was weathered with what seemed to be several lifetimes of experiences. His great, bushy eyebrows almost met above his large nose, and his eyes those gray eyes were amazingly calm.
Jarl moved more to his left, so he could better see through the open doorway, and the old man moved in the opposite direction. He now held his great sword with both hands, with an easy grace, and with its tip pointing at Jarl.
They stared at each other in silence for most of a minute, then Jarl asked a single question, Do you speak English?
One of the old man’s gray eyebrows again arched upward. He spoke one word, Yes.
That too was surprising. Jarl paused, considering what to say, then he asked, Are you from the Mjollnir?
The old, white-haired man shook his head no.
Jarl was confused. Are you a stowaway?, he asked.
The old man spoke slowly and softly. I am not a stowaway. My name is Kvasir Haroldson. He paused, then spoke again. I am from the nation of Vanir, on the planet of Vanir. He had a strange accent, but his words were easy to comprehend.
Is that the planet we orbit?
Kvasir paused, considering the question. The answer is yes… if I understand the concept correctly. He paused again. And who are you?
Jarl was not willing to answer this question. Kvasir repeated it, but not verbally this time telepathically.
Jarl was again surprised so surprised, in fact, he took a step backward. He answered slowly, but also telepathically. Few, if any, of my enemies are telepathic. He hesitated, then lowered his pistol so that it was pointing somewhat toward the floor.
After a moment of hesitation, Kvasir made the next move, and dropped the point of his sword toward the floor.
Jarl spoke aloud, Your orbiting ship came as a surprise. I presume you saw our battle. The old man did not speak, and finally Jarl asked, You are from that golden ship, aren’t you?
No.
Are you from a shuttle?
No.
Then how did you get here?
Kvasir said nothing.
Jarl did not know what to do next. He moved to the open door and glanced into the empty corridor beyond. He looked at the young woman lying on the table. It required only a second to see that she had died. He forced a mask onto his face and made his thoughts neutral, then he turned back to the old man. My name is Jarl Hawkins, he said. I am from Earth.
Both of Kvasir’s eyebrows shot upward in surprise. Earth! he exclaimed. Where is that?
Jarl was also amazed. Earth is the planet where all human life originated…, he began.
I know that. But Earth has become a myth to us. We are not sure it exists…
The deck underfoot shuddered, reminding Jarl of their need to hurry and to focus on their problem. If you are not from the Mjollnir or the golden ship, then where are you from? And how did you get here?
Kvasir looked at his clothes, as if he was seeing them for the first time. I understand your dilemma… my clothes… my sword… They are not what you are used to… And your dress is equally strange to me. I can travel through the void that surrounds this ship, but not in the manner you are used to. The old man’s voice was soft and strong, and somehow reassuring. The gray eyes had never changed. They were still calm and confident.
The air vent hissed again, then became silent. With the quiet, the ship felt even colder and more tomb-like. We need to go, Jarl said. This ship is dying. Can you get us out of here?
I can take you to the planet…, Kvasir said. His eyes flickered to the dead yeoman. Are you the only one left alive? I saw many other bodies. Many were torn apart… His words were now soft, and with a hint of pain. Jarl knew, without asking, that this man had seen death before. Perhaps a lot of death.
Jarl spoke quickly, I’m the only person left alive. He momentarily fingered the bruise on his forehead, but decided he did not want to go into the details. The escape pods have been damaged, and I can’t get this one to hold air. I cannot get off this ship. It is your way or no way.
Kvasir still waited. It was clear he was hesitant about something.
And, Jarl added, the Mjollnir might come back at any moment. That’s the ship that attacked us.
That ship will not be back. There was a dry finality to Kvasir’s voice.
How do you know?
Because it is hanging out there in the void, not moving. It is a wreck, and as bad as this ship is. I saw it through one of this ships round windows. Clearly you were not defenseless…
We fought the battle as best we could, Jarl murmured. How did you get on board? His questions were becoming insistent.
Kvasir nodded suddenly to himself, and it was clear he had made some kind of decision. He sheathed his long sword, stepped forward, and before Jarl could back up placed a strong hand on his shoulder. Please have no fear. I will help you. He paused, and then added, How long will it take you to gather your things?
As if on cue, the ship shuddered again. There was an instant when Jarl felt heavier, then there was a second of being too light. I have very little, Jarl said quickly. Everything I had was on the upper deck, which is no longer accessible.
How long do we have…?
It could be only seconds. Jarl had no options, and he knew it. He holstered his pistol, moved to the other side of the room, and quickly retrieved a blue pack and began stuffing it with a considerable number of odds and ends.
What is this room? Kvasir asked, watching.
It is the port transport bay, right now filled with one hell of a lot of useless junk and one broken auxiliary life pod. The Mjollnir destroyed the starboard transport bay. That contained two anti-grav shuttles. Jarl moved to a cabinet and opened a metal door. He took out a camouflage jacket and slipped into it. It was too small. He dropped it, and produced a second coat from the cabinet. This one was larger, and Jarl put it on and began filling its pockets with various items, including a small projectile pistol. Finally, he found a wide-rimmed black hat, slung the pack over one shoulder, picked up an assault-blaster, and declared, I’m ready.
The ship shuddered yet again. Kvasir reached into a deep pocket and produced a small, smoky quartz crystal, which was a little longer than the width of his hand. Jarl stared at it, his confidence gone and suddenly terribly frightened again. He wondered if the old man was insane, and he had no idea what he was going to do.
I don’t know if this has a name, Kvasir said quietly. It is something I have inherited. I have discovered that, by utilizing a mental process I do not completely understand, I can move myself to a different geographic location.
Jarl’s right hand began to tremble with fear, and he hid it under his jacket. This will not work! he thought. But he did not voice his concerns, in part because Kvasir was very serious, and in part because he had no choice but to trust the man.
Something in the older man’s manner made him ask, You are a teacher?
Kvasir smiled. Yes, I taught at Vor for more than a decade.
Vor?
It is a city of wizard-teachers on the Western Ocean.
Jarl was perplexed, and astounded. The Western Ocean? Wizards? You used this crystal to come here?
Yes.
And you knew somehow to come to this ship?
No. I was traveling to the Western Star.
The what?
That, I think, is the ship you are calling the golden ship. It is still far away. We had thought it was a star, but we recently developed a device for making things far away appear closer.
Jarl’s confusion was so great that he actually lost his balance, and he had to put out a hand to steady himself. A telescope, he said slowly. But if you have just invented the telescope, then how did you build this Western Star?
We did not build it. We observed that it is a great palace floating above our planet.
Jarl was even more confused. And all of your people travel using these crystals?
No. Kvasir’s voice was very stern. This crystal and the power that comes with it are very, very secret. No one knows of them but a very select few of my order.
Jarl did not ask about this order. Instead he said, And how did you end up on this ship?
I don’t know. Kvasir paused. You will have to be very careful when we get to Vanir. Such inquisitiveness will be not liked, and you will be labeled a sorcerer. You will be imprisoned… or worse. The old man smiled again, obviously now trying to be reassuring. He added, Now, let’s get started.
The smile was not lost on Jarl, but he was leaving his only link to his home. Emotion crept into his voice. All right…
The older man held up one hand. When I distance-jumped I was with the King’s army. I will take us to a hill near the army, then I will take my leave and we will travel to Vor. Is that satisfactory?
Jarl was even more hesitant. Are you sure arriving so near this army is a good thing?
Aye. Too many people know I was with the army. Disappearing and then being seen at Vor could cause problems. Big problems.
Jarl nodded his understanding, and Kvasir asked, Are you ready?
Yes.”
There was a brass cylinder attached to the base of the crystal, and while Jarl watched, Kvasir his face a mask of concentration adjusted a small ring on this base. Then he said, We have to touch, and he again placed his left hand on Jarl’s shoulder.
The last thing Jarl remembered was the interior of the Cassiopeia shimmering around him. Then the ship vanished forever.
* * * * * * * * *
Bookwright Reviews
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In Bookwright, we find Jarl Harkins, a space traveler who is marooned on a distant planet. When doom is
certain he is saved by an old wizard who possesses unique powers. As quickly as he is saved, he loses the
wizard. And so begins Jarl’s journey to discover and learn about this strange planet and find his new
friend, Kvasir, the wizard. This will lead to his new identity, the Bookwright.
What a great read this first book of the Vanir Trilogy is. Dasher held my attention and I could not put
down the book until complete. I would definitely recommend this book for fans of science fiction.
G. Fielden, Bluff City, TN, Nov 2024
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The Vanir Trilogy by G. R. Dasher. This three-book series follows an earthling hero “Jarl” who is trapped
on the medieval planet Vanir. Jarl brings knowledge and understanding from an advanced civilization on
his quest to save the planet and himself from warring factions on Vanir, and invasion from another star
system. Jarl becomes a bookwright using printed information to gain respect, wealth, and build a
coalition to save the planet. This creative series flows from adventure to adventure, enchanting the
reader.
G. McCoy, Front Royal, VA, Nov 2024
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Bookwright, by George Dasher, is the first book in the Vanir Trilogy.
Jarl, a castaway, finds himself on the planet Vanir. He survives and adapts to the medieval cultures of his
new home and seeks to help the colonists reclaim their lost technology.
Bookwright’s description of people and scenes, landscapes were good—detailed enough to see in my
mind’s eye. Especially the pea-green clothing. The plot, storyline, dialog was riveting. Names were
interesting. Garydittle… Desjhan… Wooploy… Kettlewand…
Vanir is an amazing place, with the Ice-Age creatures and beautiful scenery………
Bookwright is an excellent, enjoyable book!
M.S. Socky, Roanoke, VA, Nov 2024
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