The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  The grizzled one grew impatient. “Hand ’em over, or die. Don’t matter to me which.”

  “Please don’t shoot. I’m dismounting.” Senslar took half a second more to gauge their relative positions, then gripped his sword hilt. He pulled it from its sheath as he pirouetted off the horse’s left side, slashing backhanded at the first armed brigand almost before he landed on the ground. By the time that highwayman’s pistol had hit the ground, Senslar had spun under the horse’s head, slashing a forehand at the second brigand. Both pistols lay on the ground as he remounted his horse from the right side, completing his task in one fluid movement. Then he backed the gray mount one step, to the side, and held his sword in the direction of the big man behind him, eyeing him alone.

  “Ow!” each gunman cried in turn, shocked more than pained, amazed by the little man’s lightning quickness, his agile movements. They looked at their bleeding hands and realized they were cut, but not badly injured. He had spun their pistols from their hands somehow, enveloped them the way a swordsman disarms another swordsman.

  It took a moment to sink in. But there the weapons were, lying on the ground, and there the horseman was, back up on his horse. With a rush the two assailants picked up their weapons, aimed at him, and fired.

  Both weapons clicked harmlessly. When they looked down, mystified, they saw the glow of two matches, severed and lying on the cobblestones at their feet.

  “You have told me twice that you want this sword,” Senslar said, still serene. “I have argued the point in vain. Tell me again that you want it…” Now his voice grew cold, and his eyes burned. “…And you shall have it.”

  The would-be robbers glanced at one another, unsure of their next move.

  “What, have you changed your minds?” Senslar asked, his tone still deadly.

  The grizzled one considered the glowing wick on the ground, realized a move toward it would result in the same kind of reaction from the little man, this time with no guarantee of similar mercy. He cleared his throat. “In fact, sir, we have. I believe that I was…that is, we were…mistaken. We thought you was someone else.”

  Senslar looked at each man in turn. The danger passed, the horseman’s good humor returned. “Fine, it was all a misunderstanding, then.”

  “That’s all it was,” the grizzled one said quickly. “A misunderstanding.”

  “Then kindly step back.”

  The two obliged, and Senslar maneuvered the gray horse between them.

  “Good morning,” he offered with a smile, and trotted off down the street.

  “A misunderstanding?” the big one asked. “Who did you think he was, Dirk?”

  “Shut up,” Dirk answered.

  To Mather Reynard Mason Sennett, Son of King Reynard Redcliff Odolf Sennett, the Duke of Nearingsford Alms, and the Crown Prince of Nearing Vast. The young man read the words pinned to the leather pouch and smiled. One day, and in the not too distant future, there would be a different title: King of Nearing Vast.

  Mather Sennett sat on the warm stones by the fireplace near his bed, the blaze lighting the huge room, its ornate tapestries, its polished mahogany furnishings. He was up early, as was his custom, and the day as always started with mail and paperwork.

  The pouch, just handed him by his valet, carried the stamp of Bench Urmand, the Sheriff of Mann. Bench was a good man. At thirty-eight he was nine years older than Mather, and one of the few people the crown prince considered competent. Most of the king’s appointees were aged, doddering, and fat, much like the king himself. When the post of minister of arms had come open recently, Bench didn’t get it, even though Mather had all but begged his father. Bench could invigorate a navy and an army that had both been in decline for a decade. But King Reynard had refused.

  Mather pulled two scrolls of foolscap from the pouch. The first was a note written not in Bench Urmand’s hand, but in a familiar, precise one:

  B. Urmand brought the enclosed to my attention. As yet, it has not been posted. Bench granted me but one day to investigate. I have sought answers, but in vain. Please contact me at any hour so that I might gain your wisdom in this matter. Many thanks.

  S. Zendoda

  Then, as though the author believed it lacked urgency, two sentences were added beneath the signature:

  Your life was in his father’s hands. Now his life is in yours.

  —Z.

  The enclosed sheet was a likeness of Packer Throme, with these words printed below it:

  PACKER THROME

  of Hangman’s Cliffs

  Wanted for Murder

  Reward: Five Gold Coins

  Prince Mather stared hard at the likeness, and at the name. He remembered the shipwreck, the cold seas, as though it were yesterday. He remembered the warmth of the Throme home, the fires that burned there, bringing him life. He’d been whisked away to the Palace very quickly once he was well enough to inform them of his identity. But how the elder Throme’s aid all those years ago had any bearing on the younger Throme’s current troubles was beyond him.

  Still, this was from Senslar, and Senslar was one of the competent ones who would help him rebuild his kingdom. To the swordmaster, the teacher–student relationship was lifelong. Mather knew this well, having labored many hours himself under Senslar’s badgering. The crown prince went to his desk and dipped a quill, wrote a message back to Senslar at the bottom of the same sheaf:

  Come to breakfast.

  —M.

  “Stebbins!” Mather called out as he sealed the document. The old valet creaked into the room.

  “Sir?”

  “Post this immediately to Senslar Zendoda, care of the Academy.” Packer Throme’s difficulties were undoubtedly of his own making, like so many of the supposed injustices perpetrated on the villages and their people. But he would indulge Senslar.

  “Sir,” the valet said languidly. “He’s here.”

  “Who’s here?” Prince Mather asked.

  “Mr. Zendoda.”

  “He’s here now?”

  The valet pointed a bony finger silently, indicating that Senslar was positioned just outside the doorway, probably within earshot.

  Mather smiled. The swordmaster was always prepared, and unfailingly persistent. A polite, careful, smiling man who locked onto a mission, or an idea, like a bulldog. “Well, send him in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, and…bring us our breakfast.”

  “As you wish.”

  Bench Urmand looked at the stack of handbills on his desk. He looked out the window, saw that the sun was on the ground, and sighed. He picked up the hammer, tucked it into his belt, and dropped the sack of nails into his pocket. Then he grabbed the handbills and headed out to the square to post the image of Packer Throme.

  “Something else is afoot, Mather,” the swordmaster said matter-of-factly, ignoring the breads and pastries before him. “These two murders are not the handiwork of Packer Throme.”

  “You think because you taught him to fight he’s incapable of murder?” Mather asked, a cheek full of bread and marmalade.

  Senslar shook his head. “His being my student has little to do with it, other than such is how I know him.”

  “The evidence seems to suggest the contrary, or the Sheriff wouldn’t post the reward. Why not let justice take its course?”

  “I do not fear justice.”

  “Then let the courts decide.”

  “That’s a different matter. Justice is a goal to which courts aspire, Your Highness, but one they do not always attain. I have seen the two victims laid out for burial. I have visited the beach where the murders took place. I have spoken with the last man to see Packer Throme ashore. I am confident these murders were not Packer Throme’s doing, but I need more time to find the sort of proofs required by courts.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Mather sat back, patting his dark hair to be sure it was still appropriately oiled and groomed. Then he sipped his tea.

  “Two nights before the murder
s, Throme used his skills rather carefully to wound a man he could justifiably have killed. Reports are that Packer anguished over even this small act of aggression. The last man to see Packer alive was an innkeeper who sent him off to a ship, which is now at sea. The murders happened more than a day later, after the ship Packer was to board set sail. The victims were killed almost instantly, with no thought whatsoever for their lives, only for the quickest death possible.”

  “How were they killed, then?” The prince heaped more marmalade on his biscuit.

  “One was shot through the throat, the other killed with a thrust to the heart.”

  “A sword.”

  Pause. “Yes. You see, in the first incident, you have a skilled but compassionate swordsman. Packer Throme. In the second, a trained killer, with no reluctance or compunction.”

  “But there was a witness to the murders on the beach.”

  Senslar nodded. “The man Packer fought and let live. A man known to hate Packer Throme. On questioning, he admitted to witnessing the murders from fifty yards away through a fierce rainstorm.”

  “Why does he hate Mr. Throme?”

  The swordmaster grimaced, then spoke quietly. “There is speculation in Hangman’s Cliffs that he is in love with Packer’s fiancée.”

  The prince lit up. “Ah, the plot thickens!”

  “Uncommon skill with a sword, twice in the area of the same small town, and a witness who will swear Packer’s guilt. Our courts have convicted many on far less evidence.”

  “What does Bench say?” Mather asked, knowing the answer from Senslar’s note.

  “Bench is sympathetic. A day’s pause in the machinery of his justice is a great gift, which I appreciate. But a day is not enough. I have not found Packer Throme. And there is the small matter of the girl, who has now gone missing, a mystery I have as yet been unable to unravel.”

  Mather’s eyebrow went up. “The plot thickens yet again. Who is she?”

  “Her name is Panna Seline, at one time betrothed to Mr. Throme. She seems to have left home to follow him.”

  “The lovers vanish, bodies turn up on the beach…Say, it has some drama, doesn’t it? Someone should write this down.”

  Senslar shook his head, not interested at the moment in his prince’s literary aspirations. “A young man’s life is at stake.”

  “As are the lives of innocent men and women. What will it hurt to have a suspect in custody? Then he and all others will be safe while the courts sort out the truth.”

  “I don’t have to remind you of the debt—”

  “Which has been fully repaid with his schooling,” the prince cut in. There would be no more discussion along this line. “The law is the law.”

  “I have no desire to insinuate myself between Packer Throme and the law, Your Highness,” Senslar said, hiding his disappointment. “The courts are far preferable to the bounty hunters Bench will involve by posting his name and likeness. If he is at sea, as I suspect, and arrives at some obscure port without knowing that he is a wanted man, he will be easy prey for their pistols.”

  Mather shrugged. “The money’s the same if he’s alive.”

  Senslar looked askance at him. “You know, Your Highness, how bounty hunters work.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Delay the posting.”

  The prince paused. “I must decline. I respect you greatly as a swordmaster, Senslar. But Bench Urmand is the expert in these matters. I trust his judgment, as should you.”

  “I trust Bench implicitly in such matters as these. He, however, does not know Packer as I do.”

  “Nor do I, I’m afraid.”

  Senslar stood and bowed. “Thank you for your time, my liege. And thank you for your tea and cakes.” He had not touched the food or drink before him.

  “But do keep me posted on how it turns out. It’s quite an intriguing story.”

  Senslar nodded, but made no promises. He had to protect Packer from the bounty hunters.

  A ragged troop gathered in the early morning light. The cool of the night was still felt in the breeze that drifted through the square. But the scent of dew and the promise of a new day were lost on this muster of half a dozen men—two Boweryton drivers with keen eyes and accurate long-rifles, and four others not much more than vagabonds and brigands. They worked the city’s violent gray netherworld between law and order. They waited for Bench Urmand to post the day’s work.

  The Sheriff of Mann was a house of bricks, solid as a wall, his muscular shoulders square, his neck thick as a tree trunk. His dark eyes were crisp and full of purpose, his stride the same. He looked up the street one last time before posting the handbill. Bench knew how final an act it was likely to be. For confirmation, all he needed to do was to turn around and study the faces of the men standing behind him. He didn’t have to look, however. He knew the scarred faces, the dirty clothes, the armaments they carried. He didn’t much like the necessity of using thugs for the purpose of justice, but the royal coffers were low. If an outlaw was holed up in the city, the sheriff had enough manpower to bring him in. But a killer who roamed the villages and terrified the small towns required more resources than Bench had available. Five gold coins to bring swift justice and keep peace in the realm was a bargain.

  As Bench looked, the familiar crimson beret rose up from the cobblestones. He paused, waited…but when Senslar’s face came into view, Bench knew the answer. He nodded once, then tacked the poster to the wall.

  The bounty hunters gathered in, studying and memorizing. Among them was a grizzled highwayman named Dirk. “Musketeer?” he asked.

  “Swordsman,” Bench answered.

  “Last seen?” another queried.

  “Hangman’s Cliffs. Maybe Inbenigh, depending on who you talk to.”

  “Headed where?”

  “To sea. Wanted to join up with Scat Wilkins and the Trophy Chase.”

  This stopped the questioning for a moment. “Must be a heavin’ good swordsman,” one said.

  “Don’t matter. Never knew a sword that could outduel a musket ball,” another said, and the others laughed.

  Senslar approached on horseback, his horse’s shoes clipping the paving stones briskly.

  “Still, if he’s Scat’s swordsman, five coins is five too light,” the first said, unconvinced.

  “That’s the bounty,” Bench said matter-of-factly.

  “I know how you can double that purse,” said a clear, precise voice. The horseman rode into their midst.

  “How’s that?”

  “Bring him in alive,” Senslar said.

  “Whose money?” someone asked. Dirk slunk back, not wanting to be recognized.

  “Yours if you bring him in alive, and well. From my purse to yours.” There were sighs and whispers. Senslar looked at the men, eyeing their resolve, or lack of it. Then he noticed the man with the grizzled beard. “Ah, good morning once again, sir,” Senslar said with a smile and a tap of his cap. “I see you’re a man of many talents.”

  Dirk Menafee looked sour. “Who are you?”

  “That’s the Swordmaster of Nearing Vast,” the sheriff said flatly. “If he says he’ll pay it, he’ll pay it.”

  Dirk swallowed, wide-eyed. He bowed his head slightly. “Sorry about…I…thought you were someone else, sir.”

  “Yes, I recall your mistake.”

  “So what’s this Throme to you,” he asked, “that you put up your own money to keep him alive?”

  Senslar smiled. “He taught me a few things about swordsmanship.”

  Dirk blanched.

  “Good day, gentlemen, and happy hunting.” Senslar saluted Bench Urmand, who laughed and returned the salute, and he rode away.

  “What’s the story, Bench?” the others asked. “Is this Throme a pistoleer too?”

  “I don’t know him.”

  Dirk stewed. “Ten coins may be ten too light.” But in his heart, he was determined to find Packer Throme and bring him in. He would gladly take the little ma
n’s money. But if he had to kill the man’s student, he’d take satisfaction in that too.

  CHAPTER 19

  The Gates of Heaven

  The carriage stopped at the square just before noon, and Talon descended. The cool of the morning was long gone, the sun was high, and the day promised to be long and hot. Talon’s hawklike eyes surveyed the city streets. All looked serene. She was looking for dangers in the form of swords and daggers, gunpowder and muskets, not in small line drawings, and so she missed seeing the one thing that would strike most deeply to confound her mission. She turned to help her young mistress from the conveyance.

  “I’ll pay the driver, ma’am,” Talon said, and she left Panna standing on the cobblestones.

  Panna looked around, breathing in the atmosphere. It was enough to make her forget who she was. She had been to the City only once, with her father years ago, and her memories were of dirty streets and multitudes of people, and the grandeur of the Cathedral, the solitude of the seminary. But here were more storefronts than she had known existed. This one square had two clothing stores, a haberdashery, a hardware store, a barbershop, the Sheriff’s office, a bakery, a butcher shop, three taverns, and two inns. The movement of people was tremendous, with never fewer than thirty, maybe forty people in sight at all times. And their dress! All the lines, the colors, the bustles, the bodices, the knickers here and the tails there. She soaked it all in, inhaled it, the motion, the activity, the smells, and the sounds. For a moment she allowed herself to be a part of it. She knew she looked part of it.

  And then her eyes fell on the handbill. From where she stood, from across the street, the picture was small. But she couldn’t mistake the image. Her feet moved without her willing them, and she had to stop short to keep from being run down by a horse-drawn cart.

  “Miss!” Talon hissed at her, following.

  But Panna didn’t hear. When she reached the parchment, she put both her hands on it, framing it, then touched it as though it were Packer’s face and not a crude image of it.