CHAPTER ONE: THE WOMAN
Throughout the cold, wet morning, Jarl Hawkins—ex-geographer from the planet Earth, ex-partisan from the planet Jubal, and marooned on the planet Vanir—rode his dapple gray horse up the narrow valley, zig zagging from the side of the mountain to the fast-moving, high-country river, searching for sign, either of the giant bear or of the old witch.
At one place the river came in close to Jarl’s side of the mountain, and he forded it, crossing near one end of a long, ice-rimmed pool, where the water was deep and still. Then he walked his two horses up a high rock bar, observing a cathedral-like silence, past patches of hard spring snow, and under twisted and massive walnut and sycamore trees, ancient sentinels guarding wide, flowered meadows of blue grass. Often, during the quiet lapses in the rainstorm, he would stop and listen, watching his back trail. No one followed him.
The valley turned west and opened up, becoming wider and wilder. Once, far up the river, Jarl spotted an old bison, standing in the middle of one of the river’s many small rapids, a long trail of grass hanging from a broken horn. When he cautiously approached, the huge animal snorted, then shook its massive head and, unperturbed by the human interloper, waded out of the cold water and into the dark forest on the opposite side of the river.
Jarl wandered across a meadow of knee-high grass and followed a small tributary upstream to where it cascaded from a low, black opening in the rock, a place overhung by tall, towering cedar trees. As he stared at the cave opening, a bat flittered by and he felt warm, moist air, billowing out from unknown places inside. The water stretched from one wall of the cave to the other and, just inside, the ceiling appeared to be low. Jarl turned his horses and waded downstream, deciding the cave was not the place he would have picked for a home, had he been one of Vanir’s elusive sorcerers.
For what seemed a long time, the rain increased, falling in gray sheets. He pulled his camouflage jacket close and attempted to shelter under a massive red oak tree. Nearby, hidden in a deep split in the tree, was a great horned owl, which stared at him with large, unblinking eyes. Finally, when the rain stopped, he rode up the main valley. In that direction, far away to the south, he could see the rounded tops of snow-covered mountains.
It was the quiet that finally nudged his consciousness. Jarl walked his two horses this way and that, searching unsuccessfully for the noisy river. The valley narrowed and he rode through a long meadow of tall grass and spring flowers. He discovered the river next to a steep wall of brown sandstone. Upstream was a wide waterfall, and downstream of the falls—almost at his feet—the river rushed into the entrance of another dark cave, formed in a smooth, blue-gray limestone and covered with fallen trees and logs, washed downstream by earlier floods. Jarl sat contented on the gray, searching out a trail upstream and looking down the valley, which unfolded below him. It was a beautiful place, but nowhere was there any sign of any other human.
Jarl prided himself in an understanding of wild country, and—while watching the loud waterfall—it suddenly occurred to him that there was much less water in the river. With a touch of the reins, he turned the gray and walked the animal back down the valley, toward the north, trying to guess at the course of the underground river. He had reached a point almost back to the owl’s roost when the ground suddenly opened up before him, and there—far below in a narrow, deep gorge—was the river, muddy, rain swollen, and rushing toward Spice. It was no wider or deeper than at the waterfall upstream, so—keeping to the right—Jarl continued to follow it downstream.
The stream was soon joined by a second creek, almost of equal size, flowing in from the east. This river too had cut a deep gorge and Jarl was forced more and more to his left. He discovered another waterfall, this one high and narrow, and then the opening of a tiny valley. But, try as he might, he could not find a path past the rock wall forming the waterfall and leading into the side valley. In one last desperate attempt, he worked his way back up the main valley and tried there. For a short hundred meters, behind a forest of tall conifers, he thought success was within his grasp, but then he encountered a massive blow down, the work of some past, violent windstorm, where the broken and torn trees towered high above him and pressed in against the steeply dipping rock formations of the mountainside.
Jarl was determined to enter the narrow side valley. Somehow, in the confines between the conifers and the mountain wall, he managed to turn both the dapple gray and the packhorse. He threaded his way back out into the main valley, crossing over the top of the cave. Then he followed the small canyon downstream until he found a place where he could cross the stream. He slid the two horses down a steep slope and splashed across the small river. As the gray stepped up onto the high shale bank on the opposite side, Jarl, leaning over one side of the animal, caught the glimpse of an old track, possibly from a horse, in the dried mud just above the high-water line.
Jarl turned the gray directly into the forest and, dodging the low limbs and weaving between the trees trunks, forced his way to the abrupt mountain wall there. There, the gray hunched its back and, with Jarl pressed low against the saddle, scrambled up a steep alluvial bench. Beyond was a dark, cold place, soon to be night as the sun, hidden by the heavy clouds, moved behind the western mountain. To his left, downstream, there were no limbs at head height, giving the impression of an ill-defined trail. To his right—toward the narrow side valley—Jarl had a similar feeling, and it was in that direction he turned the gray, letting the animal pick its own way along the bottom of the sandstone wall. Almost immediately, he spotted the edge of another faint horse track, old and crumbled, beside the trail—if trail it was.
The gray walked silently along the side of the mountain, staying next to the sandstone wall, occasionally wandering between massive blocks of rock or through a narrow gauntlet of trees. Nowhere did Jarl see another track, but rarely did he have to duck or turn sideways to avoid a pine limb.
The gray sprinted up one last hill and the small valley opened before him. Jarl walked his horses through a flower-covered meadow, skirting several fallen trees. Behind him, under the overcast, evening sky, the narrow pinch of the valley’s mouth was a dark, foreboding place. Across the stream, a brown wall of vertical sandstone formed the opposite side of the valley. Upstream, the valley was wider, with fewer trees, and become a meadow of tangled grass. Far upstream, Jarl could see one side of a rainbow. For the first time that long rainy day—and with a little imagination—he felt almost warm. It was time to find a place to camp.
Then, abruptly, a huge, brown shape stood forty meters in front of him, on the edge of the meadow. It was a giant grizzly, more than three meters tall. Jarl froze. The chill returned to his spine and he dared to hope the powder in his flash pan was dry. For a long minute, the bear stood on its hind legs, looking directly at Jarl, and giving him a subtle impression of mindbeaming. Jarl, with a reverent-like relief, felt a slight breeze on his face. He held his two horses motionless, knowing that if he did not move, the grizzly would not see him, and—with the animal upwind—it could not smell him.
Finally, after what seemed a lifetime, the grizzly dropped to all fours and sauntered off into the forest on Jarl’s left. For a long half hour Jarl simply sat on his horse. He inspected the powder in his flash pan, and blew it away and replaced it with fresh, dry powder. Then the gray became impatient, stamping a foot and arching its back. Reluctantly, Jarl headed up the little valley, keenly aware that he would cross the grizzly’s line of travel. He rode across the overgrown meadow, which ended in a steep slope of rounded granite boulders and unwashed gravel. The gray hunched its back and launched itself up the abrupt bank, climbing toward what appeared to be an obvious path. As it crested the small hill, Jarl caught his breath—there, to his right, standing quietly on a rock outcrop, was another potential adversary, one far more dangerous than the giant grizzly. It was a Ghost Raider, far from the White Plains.
Jarl brought his horse to a quick halt, trying to keep an eye on the plains’ nomad and scanning the nearby brush for other Raiders, all at the same time. The Raider was a woman—about his own age—standing tall on the outcrop, holding a small stack of kindling and flintlock shotgun. But the woman, alerted by his horses’ hoofs on the rock bank, held her gun at an angle that required only a slight movement to point it directly at Jarl. She wore a tan buckskin dress and knee-high moccasins, edged with hundreds of tiny beads. She had high cheek bones and gray-blond hair that reached past her shoulders. Feathers were woven into her hair and hung from her ears. Her face was a deep brown, tanned by the wind and sun, and streaked with two old, wide, flaking bands of paint, one red and the other yellow.
Several long moments passed. Then, quietly, Jarl spoke, “I mean you no harm.”
The woman did not speak. She continued to watch him, her face a mask. She was a proud woman, who held her head high.
Jarl repeated his words, “I mean you no harm…” He waited several seconds, then added, “I am searching for a witch, who is a sister to a friend of mine.”
The woman’s weapon was a short, double-barrel shotgun. Both hammers were cocked. She moved it, just a little, so it pointed directly at Jarl’s chest. Her hand was rock-steady. Jarl tensed, waiting for the impact of the lead projectiles. Why had he been so clever this morning and escaped from his E’landota escort? One side of his mind caught a bit of mindbeaming, as the woman tried to edge her thoughts into his, attempting to discover his feelings.
Jarl opened his mind a little, telepathically repeating his words. The two of them stared at each other for a full minute; then, telepathically, the woman asked, “Who is your friend?”
Jarl replied in kind, “Kvasir Haroldson, one of the wizards of Vor.” After another long silence, he spoke aloud, “I have not seen or heard from him for close to three years, since the Battle at Burkes Ford.”
The Ghost Raider said nothing.
There was another long wait. His horse impatiently stamped one hoof, and Jarl asked a question, “Do any witches live up this valley?”
Still the woman did not answer. Instead she spoke aloud, “Are you sure that is why you are here? To search for your friend… after three years?”
“Yes…”
Common to people who had lived a long time in the wilds, she took a long time to reply. “What took you so long to search for him?”
“I was arrested by the Church.” When she said nothing, Jarl added, “I can show you the scars from the shackles if you like?”
Again, for a long time, the woman said nothing. Then, slowly, dryly, she said, “Don’t start undressing. I would hate to mistake your intentions.”
Jarl was taken back, but before he could offer a reply, the Ghost Raider suddenly pointed her weapon skyward. With a deft movement, she lowered both hammers, uncocking the shotgun. Then, with a quick flash of her eyes, she mindbeamed, “Come!” She turned and bounded off the rock outcrop, jumping into the path and following it up the hill, quickly disappearing out of sight.
For a few seconds Jarl simply sat there, enjoying the fact he was still alive. The quickness of the Raider’s movements, so smooth and sure, together with the cocked shotgun, had badly eroded his confidence. Slowly, he nudged the gray forward and followed the path up the mountain.
The trail led nowhere. After he had gone a half kilometer, he doubled back, sure that the woman had not been too far from her camp, since she was carrying a small load of kindling. After smelling wood smoke, he followed a faint path toward the north side of the valley. There he discovered a tiny house, almost the exact color of the brown sandstone, set against the mountain wall.
There was a small barn beside the house. Jarl dismounted and stepped inside. To his surprise, the little building was quite spacious, built partially under a rock overhang. There were two horses inside, a red roan and a black-and-white pinto. Jarl brought the dapple gray and his packhorse inside, and relieved them of their saddles and packs. There was a bit of old hay and he used a homemade pitchfork to shovel some down for his horses. While Jarl’s two horses ate, the pinto reached across one of the wooden stall and nipped at him—not in an unfriendly way—and tried to grab at the hay. It was now almost dusk outside, and it had become pitch black inside the barn. Taking his rifle, Jarl fumbled his way outside and walked across to the tiny house. The rainbow had been a false promise; it was beginning to rain again.
He was unwilling to enter without knocking, so he tapped on the door. There was a curt, “Enter,” from inside. Slowly and cautiously, he opened the door and ducked his head inside. The woman, her face freshly scrubbed, was standing at a wide hearth, poking at something in a black, cast-iron frying pan. Jarl stepped inside, softly closing the door behind him.
The interior of the house smelled of the rich odors of wood smoke, herbs, and fried onions, all made more potent by the wet weather outside. To one side was a small bed, covered with a few sleeping furs. In the middle of the room was a table, set with two mismatched wooden mugs. In a dark corner on the other side of the room, past a small counter, was another table, covered with two or three books and several jars of plants. Above that table, on a series of cluttered shelves, were numerous clay jars, some with twigs and bark overflowing from their wide mouths. There were only two windows, both of which—to Jarl’s astonishment—contained blown glass, with its characteristic large bubbles. In one corner of the room, near the foot of the bed, was a short, unstrung bow and a quiver of arrows. Hung on the wall near the opposite end of the bed, was the curved samurai sword so favored by the Ghost Raiders and the E’landota. Jarl saw no sign of the shotgun.
The woman turned from the hearth, placing two wooden platters of fried rabbit on the tables. From the top of the counter, she produced half a loaf of homemade bread and a salad of watercress and dandelions. Jarl, nervous from the lack of an invitation, leaned his short rifle beside the door. He shucked his rain-wet camouflage jacket, and hung it on a convenient wall peg, next to a wide-brimmed Kettlewand hat and an old worn sheepskin jacket, not unlike the one he had given Janis.
He sat at the table. Together, and without speaking, they ate. Afterwards, and still without speaking, the woman got up from the table, collected the dishes, gathered up her old coat, and—after producing the shotgun—went outside. Jarl wandered the room for a few moments, counting the weapons, beds, and chairs. He decided the young woman lived here alone, and that there was no old witch in residence.
Then the door opened and the blond woman reentered, carrying her freshly washed dishes. Quickly, but without haste, she placed them back on a small shelf. Then she turned back toward Jarl, staring at him for several seconds, and she spoke five blunt words, “You sleep in the barn.” Jarl nodded his agreement, and for lack of something better to do or say, put on his coat, picked up his rifle, and stepped outside into the rain.
The next day he told her his name. Just after dawn, she fed him more rabbit, this time on a table outside the small house, under a bright morning sky. Jarl asked her a dozen questions, but she answered not one of them. She spoke only to give him permission to leave his packhorse in the small barn. Not without some misgivings, Jarl saddled the gray and rode up the narrow mountain valley.
All day he searched along the stream of the high valley, finally wandering out onto a high grassy slope that led upward to a snow-covered mountain. There, he turned back, arriving at the small house an hour before dusk, carrying a small white-tailed deer across the front of his saddle. He had seen no sign of the old witch and the only hoofmarks he had spotted were identical to the old tracks he had found down the valley from the Ghost Raider’s home—and which matched those in the barn stall occupied by the black-and-white pinto.
Supper that night was venison and more dandelions and watercress. The next morning they ate a breakfast of fried venison, onions, and potato cakes. Again, the woman answered no questions; in fact, she had not uttered one word since Jarl had returned the previous night. On this morning, Jarl washed the few dishes, having discovered the cold, walled limestone spring down the valley from the small cabin. Afterwards, he slowly saddled the gray. He was hesitant to leave and unsure where to search. After he mounted the horse, the woman looked up, her gray eyes a shield, and asked, “Where will you go today?”
Jarl signed, “I thought maybe upstream of the waterfall in the main valley.”
“And then?”
“High in the mountains behind here.” He nodded over her shoulder, up the valley.
“You won’t find her…”
Jarl was beginning to suspect as much, “She is that good at remaining hidden?”
The woman shrugged. She seemed indifferent. When she spoke, after almost all of a minute, she said, “No.”
“Why not then? Does she exist?”
There was another minute of silence. Jarl had given up any hope of an answer when the woman abruptly looked away for several seconds. Then she suddenly glanced back, again staring up at him with hard eyes. “Because Kvasir never had a sister. There were only three brothers. And one of them was killed long ago by a Kettlewand Ranger.”
Jarl was shocked. “Why would the Kettlewand Rangers kill Kvasir’s brother?” he gasped.
The woman’s eyes flashed, full of anger, turning the color of burnished steel. “Because that is what Kettle Rangers do best… Kill the Peoples of the White Plains.”
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