The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  “I want the lad,” she said, sheathing the knife. She could not believe she had been beaten by an innkeeper and a mere boy. There was more here. There was something deeper behind such a scheme.

  The Captain studied her. What she wanted, he knew, was permission to torture the boy without interference. “He said he could find Firefish.”

  She stared a moment, and then laughed. “So he knows your weaknesses already? That is a sure sign that he was sent.”

  Scat had to admit this was true. He sighed. The kid had signed his own death warrant when he climbed into the barrel. And if he wanted to help, he had already done it by improving the ship’s security. Scat waved a hand. “If he lives, you can have him.”

  Talon noticed the blood on his hand. “Let me see the wound,” she said.

  “It’s a scratch,” he protested. But he offered it up to her anyway.

  She looked at it, then at him. “A puncture.”

  He nodded. “My trigger finger.”

  She looked shocked.

  “Yes,” Scat said. “He’s that good.”

  She snorted. Another sign there was a conspiracy here. She took a bottle of rum from the storeroom shelf and poured alcohol on the cut.

  The Captain swore at her and pulled his hand away. “That’s my good rum!” He took the bottle from her, read the label, then took a long pull.

  Talon wrapped his finger with a handkerchief from her breast pocket. “Close your hand and squeeze, like so, until the bleeding stops,” she ordered. He obeyed. Her knowledge of the healing arts was part of her dark magic, springing, he believed, from her alliance with death. She could make a man die or make him live, as she chose.

  “Where is his sword?”

  Scat pointed. It still lay in the corner of the saloon, where he had flung it.

  She picked it up gently, turned the blade over in her hands as delicately as if it were made of silk. “Only one forge in the world could have created this.” She drew her own rapier and held it side by side with Packer’s. They were dissimilar in many regards: Talon’s was shorter by several inches, and her hand guard was so small as to be almost nonfunctional, designed as it was to be easily concealed. But both were of the highest possible craftsmanship, gleaming, polished, detailed, balanced, perfect. “It was made in the forge that created mine.” She showed him the maker’s mark. “The ovens of Pyre Dunn.”

  “Pyre Dunn? How could a stowaway rat afford his work?”

  “We know nothing of this boy. Besides, Pyre works for more than money. He wants his swords in the hands of those who can bring him honor.”

  “But if he’s good enough with a sword to get Pyre Dunn’s attention, he may be of use to us,” the Captain ventured.

  “It only means he is very dangerous.”

  Scat met her gaze, wondering why a boy would flaunt such a thing if it was a sure giveaway he was a conspirator. Why not carry a lesser blade? But Scat acquiesced. “Do as you see fit,” he told her. “But I want to know what he’s doing here,” he warned. “And while you’re at it, find out what he knows about Firefish.” He didn’t want the boy dead or useless before he gave up his secrets. Talon was known to get distracted when she started in at that sort of work.

  She smiled, nodded, and left quickly.

  The last thing Packer saw was the great rudder rushing toward him. He had swum downward as hard as he could, knowing that the ship’s keel plunged deep below the surface. It was against nature, contrary to every impulse, to force his body away from the air it needed so desperately. But he couldn’t keep up with the speed of the ship, so the only alternative to a downward plunge was to be dragged against the wooden hull and its barnacles.

  It seemed to Packer that the keel went on and on, lower into black, cold water than could be possible, deeper than he had ever been. His ears ached, his chest pounded. The effort burned what air his blood carried, and he was lightheaded as he turned, finally, to swim again for the surface. He swam hard, with a desperation born of the growing realization he would lose this race. Black spots appeared to both sides of his field of vision, growing as he focused on the rudder, which was now, finally, silhouetted against the shimmering blueness beyond. Another stroke or two and he would be clear of it…but his body would no longer respond.

  The huge wooden rudder loomed before him. He could do nothing to get past it, he could not muster the strength to swim below it. He could not make his arms or his legs move at all. He had given it his best, but it wouldn’t be enough. A searing pain, like regret multiplied to an infinite number, racked his chest and heart. Why wouldn’t it be enough? The question gave way to peaceful acceptance. He quit swimming and knew, finally, that he would die. It was a relief to know. It was a relief to be done with it all.

  Packer closed his eyes and gave himself up, repentant, humbled, pained, entirely yielded. God would take him, and this time it was forever. It was a good thing, a deeply sad thing, but a sadness that had joy written all through it. He felt a sorrow about Panna. Dear Panna. He prayed for her, prayer without words, like a flame released from a burning soul, a soul shed of its body, flowing upward. The bright sun grew brighter until its pure white light engulfed him.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Promise

  “Pull!” ordered the first mate when it became clear there was no resistance, no movement at the other end of the lines. Had the boy gotten loose? The sailors holding the lines complied.

  Beneath the ship, the limp body of Packer Throme responded, a puppet on two strings. Packer’s head missed the rudder by an inch, but his left shoulder slammed into it. The force of the blow and the pull of the line on his wrist yanked the bone of his left arm out of its socket. Packer’s unconscious body drank in seawater, seeking air that would not come.

  “He’s caught on the rudder, Mr. Deal!” cried one of the men, pulling fruitlessly on the line.

  The sailors all looked at the first mate, waiting for his instruction. Deal smiled, in no hurry. He picked his teeth with a fingernail, studied the scrapings. Finally he sighed. “Well, then, I guess you better give ’im a little slack.”

  “Aye, aye,” they said with knowing grins.

  They played the lines back out, and within a few seconds, the limp body was visible just below the churning waters behind the ship. The sailors began hauling the line, dragging Packer back toward the ship. The force of the water created by the speed of the ship made it a difficult task. Packer’s head broke the surface facing backward, away from the ship, with his chin driven down into his chest by the water rushing around his head. His head bobbed up, then went under, then came up again. It was hard to tell from the deck whether he had survived.

  The two line-handlers, joined now by several others, finally hauled him clear. His left shoulder was grotesque in its angle, disfigured with the injury, and his back slammed into and scraped along the barnacles attached to the dead-work of the hull. Then his lifeless body banged up the wooden stern of the ship.

  Captain Wilkins heard the banging against the wood and the glass, saw the pale body hauled up outside his windows. He just shook his head. Deal had made him swim the length of the ship. What sort of keelhauling was that? Well, so much for the stowaway’s promise to help find the beasts.

  The crewmen were silent when they finally pulled Packer in over the rail and laid him out on the deck. They’d seen this before. The boy’s young face was ashen gray, his lips white, his chest unmoving, his wounds gaping but not bleeding.

  He was dead.

  Mr. Deal pushed at Packer’s head with the toe of his boot. “Such is the price paid for stowing away on the great Trophy Chase, young pup,” he growled. It was as close to a eulogy as Deal could get. He turned to the crew. “And let no man forget it!” They murmured their agreement, but did not turn away.

  And then Talon was kneeling beside the body. “So get the men back to work, Mr. Deal,” she said without so much as looking at him.

  The first mate’s face contorted with hatred and disgust. He spa
t.

  Now she turned to look at him, calm eyes deadly. “He’s mine now.”

  Jonas felt nausea, his stomach churning at her necromancy. He knew she’d already visited the Captain. That’s what gave her such audacity. Why Captain Wilkins wasted so much of his time and energy on this witch, Jonas could only guess. But however good she was for the Captain, she was equally bad for the ship. She undermined discipline. She had no respect whatever for the first mate and didn’t care who knew it. And now she wanted the boy’s body? It was disgusting. She was a cancer he would dearly love to excise.

  Talon studied Packer. He was young, younger than he’d seemed as he walked to his death. A strong body, and a face innocent and calm. She straddled him, putting both hands on his chest, her fingers splayed outward. The crewmen watched with morbid fascination, with looks of confusion. She pushed hard on his chest, and water came out of his mouth and nose. She did it again. And then again.

  And then, to audible gasps, she opened his jaw and put her mouth on his. She held his nostrils shut and breathed into him, and his chest rose. The crew was shocked, each man certain he was witnessing some dark necromancy. She pulled away, and his chest fell again, the air leaving him.

  “Bah!” Jonas Deal walked away from the scene and stood beside two huntsmen just arrived from below decks. “Black-magic voodoo woman. She’ll lead us all to the devil.”

  Talon continued her efforts to revive Packer for several more minutes, until finally the young man gagged, vomited, coughed once, and began to breathe. The crewmen grumbled loudly, fear in their voices. Threats against Talon were audible, and the men moved in toward her menacingly.

  Packer slowly regained consciousness to find the leather-clad woman standing above him, still straddling him. She was looking around at the crew, glaring at them until she cowed them. She didn’t draw her sword; she didn’t need to.

  Their weakness and superstition disgusted her. “I have brought him back from death,” she told them simply. “You have witnessed it. Take care, or I will send you to the Dead Lands in his place.” The men backed up involuntarily. She smiled.

  Packer tried to focus, tried to understand what was happening. The woman standing over him was Talon. She must be. The ship…now he recalled being shoved overboard. But he couldn’t remember why. And then his left shoulder blazed in screaming pain. He looked at his right hand—the rope was still tight around his wrist. Suddenly it came back.

  He’d been keelhauled.

  And he was alive! Talon bent down and loosened the knots at his wrists. He looked at her fierce, determined face, the scar down the left cheek. She did not meet his gaze. She stepped away from him.

  He tried to sit up, but the stabbing pain in his arm and shoulder stopped him cold. Without a word, Talon grabbed his left hand, put a boot against his ribs, and yanked hard. His dislocated shoulder popped loudly back into place. Packer shrieked out in agony, but recognized the improvement almost immediately. She took a step back and drew her sword, putting the point to his neck. “Stand,” she ordered.

  He felt sick; his shoulder ached. His head throbbed, and his back felt like it had been flogged. He dragged himself to his feet, staggering slightly. He looked around at the sailors and saw a depth of fear and horror he couldn’t comprehend. But he didn’t have time to sort it out. Talon grabbed his left elbow and moved him toward the main hatch, taking him below decks. His shoulder screamed again, but this time the pain was more manageable. He gritted his teeth and stayed silent, following her lead.

  “And now he breathes the witch’s breath,” Jonas Deal said quietly, but audibly enough, as they passed him.

  Two huge men, bearded and unwashed, held Packer Throme’s arms pinned behind him. They stood in a dark, wet room, far from the sunlight. Rivulets of sweat ran down Packer’s forehead. Fear and defiance were in his eyes. One of the men yanked Packer’s arm upward behind him, and he gasped. The brute yanked again, and the bone cracked. Packer whimpered, but did not cry out. Then a woman with long, dark hair falling across her shoulders walked close to Packer and looked him in the eye. He was afraid of her. She laughed at his fear. She stepped back, drew a dueling sword, and put the point of it to Packer’s heart. And then she drove it home.

  Panna sat up, gasping for air. Sweat soaked her nightgown. She closed her eyes and prayed it was just a dream. But something…its vividness, its feel…something told her there was truth in it. It was more like a vision. She quickly got out of bed, quietly got dressed, momentarily paused at her father’s door to listen for his snoring. Satisfied he was asleep, she descended the warped boards of the creaking staircase. The wooden clock in the hall ticked through the minutes just past midnight.

  It had been all she could do to force herself to stay behind, telling herself that all was as it should be, that God was in heaven looking out for them. But her prayers seemed not to leave the confines of her troubled mind, and her heart ached in ways she hadn’t thought possible. And now this dream. It was too much.

  She wrapped herself in a cloak and left the house.

  Packer sat on a rough wooden bench built into the ship’s wall, his back pressed against the inside of the angled hull. He felt sick and broken. He was deep below deck, where he had been led six hours earlier by Talon. She had put a salve in the wounds on his back that burned like fire. She had fastened iron manacles around his wrists and ankles, chained him to the wall, and tightened the chains so he could not move his feet or his hands. His arms were crossed in front of him. His right arm, crossed over his left, held the injured shoulder secure.

  When Talon had chained him to her satisfaction, she delivered this message: “You died in the water. I have resurrected you. You belong to me.” Then she left him to the darkness and the sickness and the pain.

  His head still pounded, but the ache had moved from the back of his head to his forehead. His lungs felt heavy and leaden. His wounds seemed to be almost numb now, but his shoulder was, if anything, worse. The smallest movement caused excruciating pain to shoot through him, like a musket ball at close range. If he kept still, it was a manageable throb, but he couldn’t keep still in a ship that rolled ceaselessly on the waves.

  Worse than the physical discomfort was that his mind whirred, and he was unable to calm it. Packer did not know what Talon had meant. He had died? She had brought him back to life? Those were lies, of course. Had to be. No one could bring someone back from the dead but God. Was it a bald lie, or had something happened? God could have done it, and she might be claiming responsibility. He now remembered falling, hitting the water, and turning himself downward to swim away from the air. Then nothing. He certainly didn’t die. And what did the first mate mean by “the witch’s breath,” and what were those dire, fearful looks he got from the crew?

  He had no way to know what really happened until she returned, and he didn’t want her to return.

  He tried to put himself back into that place of peace he had found while hiding in the barrel, where he had felt such great freedom. But he could not. Nothing was right here. He thought of Panna, and what would have happened if he had stayed there, in her kitchen, and let the pirates come and go. Why hadn’t he done that? What was wrong with him that he would try something like this? His mind drifted in and out of unsettling thoughts until he finally found unconsciousness once again.

  But sleep was no better. He dreamed he was falling from the Hangman’s Cliffs, falling toward the blue water, and then toward the Trophy Chase, anchored peacefully below. He saw the crew looking up at him as he fell. They were aghast, fearful. There were Captain Wilkins and Talon, grim-faced, and the first mate grinning up at him, holding out a rope. The others were crowding the decks, looking at him, pointing. Then they started laughing. He was falling toward Talon; he was trying desperately to avoid her, to land in the ocean, but he kept falling toward her. Suddenly he was tangled in rope; it was wrapped around him, then around his neck. It was a noose. Talon smiled a horrible smile as he crashed onto the deck at her feet, land
ing on his shoulder.

  He came awake amid a torrent of pain and terror. Talon stood before him, her right arm outstretched. In her right hand she held her long knife, her dirk. She had pressed it against his left shoulder, triggering once again the searing pain. A lantern she’d brought with her lit her from behind and to the side, leaving her dark eyes black and empty, like sockets. Her hair was wild, unbraided now, falling around her shoulders. The fear more than the pain threatened to overwhelm him. It was hot and dank here; he was sweating, but his mouth was dry as dust. It hurt when he swallowed. There was a sharp, pungent smell of urine, and something else…a spice.

  Seeing he was conscious, Talon spoke. “You stink. You have let your water go, like an animal,” she said. “Like a pig.”

  Packer realized this was true. Somewhere in the night he had made water, right where he sat. He felt ashamed, could not help but feel ashamed, though he knew there was little he could have done to avoid it.

  She took a pail of water and threw it at him. It was cold, but there was something in it to neutralize the odor. This was the spice he had smelled.

  She stepped back toward him and put the point of the knife under his chin. She brought her face close to his. He couldn’t see her; with the light coming from behind her she was little more than a dark presence. But he could now smell the leather of her jacket, her stale breath. More than that, he could feel the evil of her intent. Her voice was sinuous. “Shall we begin?”

  The tavern lights were out. The door was locked. Panna knocked softly, glancing up and down the empty street. No answer. She knocked louder. No answer again. She banged on the door with her fist. The shutters opened above her.

  “Panna, is that you? Land sakes, child, what do you need this time of night?” asked Henrietta Hillis, the innkeeper’s wife. Her round, ruddy face peered down, her cheeks bouncing as she spoke.