The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  Scatter stood on the deck of his latest and perhaps—or so he feared—his last flagship, overseeing the provisions being lowered by ropes and pulleys into her hold. He was in a dark mood; he had been for days. He couldn’t help but brood over the turn of events that had led him here to this fallen place, a sick man leaning on a rail for support, leading a band of cutthroats on a desperate mission of vengeance, sailing a dark and troubled ship, unwanted by a Crown desperate for ships. He put a hand to his chest, felt the beating of his damaged heart.

  How had he gotten here, from that moment mere months ago when he stood in his strength, with the vision of a million gold coins dangling before his eyes, so close he could touch it, as he captained the greatest ship ever built toward the greatest glory a man had ever conceived?

  All that was left him now was one last, savage stroke. If unsuccessful, it would be his undoing. This ship might well be his coffin. And if successful? He would return to his traditional line of work, seeking out the fat prizes that scurried across the seas during wartime. He would sail under the black flag once again, without plans, without politics, and without a pathway to legendary riches.

  And who had done this to him? That was a question that smoldered in his bad heart like coals, ready to flare up with the slightest breeze, the smallest kindling. And as he watched and thought, he was able to supply not only kindling but fuel, and by the boatload.

  King Reynard had done Scat wrong. That fool had sent the Navy off to be destroyed. Had he been even marginally intelligent about it, Scat’s fate would be far different than it was. Scat had invested all his earnings, every penny of his hoarded gold, into buying and refitting this fleet so he could go harvest the Firefish at their feeding waters. And King Reynard had paid him next to nothing; the ships had been stolen from him to conduct a war that could not be won.

  Prince Mather had also done Scat wrong. That cunning upstart had taken not only his ships but most of his men. The taking of his ships Scat actually understood. But to cherry-pick his men, to order them to sail on the Chase without Scat, this was a humiliation he could not bear. But Scat would have his vengeance. His men were loyal. The prince would regret it.

  John Hand too had done Scat wrong. “Admiral Sole Discretion” was disloyal to the point of mutiny. Scat couldn’t stomach this for an instant. He’d killed men for far less. More to the point, he’d never let a man live who had wronged him so fully.

  Talon! She had definitely done Scat wrong. That uncanny witch had undone him by murdering Senslar Zendoda. “Take your pleasure of vengeance,” Scat had told her. But he had been talking about an innkeeper in Hangman’s Cliffs. She had shown Scat up. She had started a war. That murder was a stab at Scat’s heart, to make him pay for sending her ashore. And he had paid dearly.

  And Packer Throme. There was the root of it all. Why had Scat sent Talon ashore? Because of Throme. “Trust him at your gravest peril,” Talon had warned. He came aboard with the stated purpose of taking away Scat’s monopoly, of putting him out of business. So why had Scat trusted him? Here was a bone to gnaw.

  Talon had forced Scat to choose between her and Packer, and he had made a bad choice. But if he had chosen otherwise, if he had let Talon kill the boy, Scat would never have known the location of the feeding waters, would never have sailed in among the Achawuk, and therefore would never have seen that glorious sight, an entire school of Firefish feeding. No, Packer was the reason for both his greatest hope and for the dashing of that hope.

  And this is what kept Scat’s gloom growing deeper. He could find no path he should have taken, could have taken, that would have led anywhere else but here. He was trapped, channeled down this canal to a dead-end swamp, destined by his own lust for coin and Firefish to do precisely what he had done, with no one to blame but himself and God, or whoever or whatever planned out the order of the universe. He had played the hand he was dealt, and he had lost. Here was the end of it.

  But it wasn’t quite the end. Scat would write his own ending. He would not die a sick old man spinning tales of former glories. Here was one pirate who would not retire to the Warm Climes to drink and play cards. He would not end up like Fishbait McGee and Skewer Uttley. He would rather hang, like Belisar the Whale. Let Bench Urmand pull the lever. Fine. Someone had to do it. Better the noose than dying of this terrible sickness in his chest.

  But Scat could evade such a fate for a good long while, if he just had the Chase under him again. And if he couldn’t succeed in taking her back, then Scat might remake his legend aboard the Seventh Seal. He looked at the triune motto he had had carved into a rough wooden plaque and nailed to the base of the mainmast.

  Vigilance. Precision. Vengeance.

  The day the Trophy Chase set sail was warm and sunny. The sky was a deep crystal blue, so clear it seemed a wonder stars were not visible. The Chase rocked and tugged at her mooring, creaking and groaning as though impatient to get to sea. Her hull was draped with heavy blue and white bunting all along her freshly repaired rails; her gangway was carpeted red. A dais had been constructed on her decks, so that those making speeches on this historic day could be seen, if not always heard, by the crowds gathered on the docks, as well as in and around and on top of the buildings lining the docks, and even on the hills beyond.

  It was not yet noon, but the crowds were already in fine spirits. They could catch sight of Prince Mather, who was dressed in his finest, a white coat with golden epaulets and golden cords, powder-blue breeches and matching sash and gloves, a softly gleaming sword and scabbard at his side. There on his left stood Bench Urmand, in a dark-green suit crisp and pressed, the medallion of his new office around his neck. And on the prince’s right stood Admiral John Hand, his white dress uniform brilliant, with vest and tails, and medals from naval services rendered almost twenty years ago gleaming on his chest. On his shoulders were five gold bars, the top one looped, the bottom one as wide as the top four combined: the insignia of the Admiral of the Fleet.

  Behind them were the few officers who had retained their commands—a handful of men who had managed to keep the trust of their prince and pass muster with their new masters. Among them were three aged generals, but no admirals. In a seat of honor in front of them and to their right was the High Holy Reverend Father and Supreme Elder, Harlowen “Hap” Stanson, the sunny and genial leader of the Church of Nearing Vast. He was dressed in a white robe with a bright yellow hood and sash, with the small, inverted golden chalice that represented his office hanging from a braided gold chain around his neck.

  A few steps from the church leader, and just out of sight of the crowd, hidden by the ship’s wall below the quarterdeck, stood Packer and Panna Throme. Packer wore the simple dress whites of a Vast naval uniform, with the single gold collar bar of a newly minted ensign. He wore white gloves, the right one custom-made by the prince’s own tailor to slip easily on and off his scarred and cupped hand. Panna was dressed in her only finery, the robin’s-egg-blue dress that had been the disguise so artfully used by Talon, though it was now cleaned and pressed and repaired, and sparkled like new.

  Lined up along the gunwales were marines, the soldiers of the sea, all bearing muskets and swords and wearing matching blue blazers with the familiar white sashes that signified their rank. Filling the decks and the rigging were the regular sailors of the Nearing Vast Royal Navy, dashing in their new white uniforms, the disciplined crew of a naval vessel.

  Or so it appeared.

  In fact, the marines and sailors were the longstanding crew of the Trophy Chase, with a few huntsmen from Scat’s Firefish venture and some newly recruited adventurers thrown into the mix. They had all been formally drafted and then hastily outfitted. The ability of Andrew Haas, Mutter Cabe, Smith Delaney, and their ilk to stand at attention and present an impression of martial bearing tested the very furthest reaches of their military discipline. Those ashore who looked carefully could pick up on clues—the telltale tug at a collar, the half-concealed scratch of an uncontrollable itch, the
shrugging shoulder or fidgeting leg that hinted at the deep, obscured misery of pirates in pressed pants and starched shirts.

  “Countrymen!” Mather called out, and the scene below erupted into wild cheering. Will Seline, standing on the docks amid the shoulder-to-shoulder throng, thought, This is going to take a while.

  And it did. Not that the speeches were long. Mather’s was short and stirring, a song of dire times, heroic deeds, and certain future glories. It took time because the crowd responded with full hearts and full throats, almost sentence by sentence. The prince knew how to present a dark problem, draw out its drama, and then punch home the profoundly simple solution provided by good people doing simple but heroic deeds in accordance with their faith and their duties and their historic natures.

  Panna and Packer listened, hand in hand, their hearts pulled along by this portrait of sacrifice and suffering and ultimate victory painted by their prince. Then suddenly, Panna squeezed Packer’s hand so hard it made him wince.

  She spoke aloud. “This is wrong.”

  Packer ignored the pain, but lowered his brow at her. This is not the place for… But the look in her eyes was far away, as though she were thinking of something else entirely, watching something only she could see. “What?” he asked.

  Panna had become resigned to parting with Packer. There was no other course, regardless of how much she wanted him to stay, or her to go. But something had been tugging at her all morning, something grim and foreboding, pulling at her from within the dark secrets the prince had insisted Packer keep from her. Now, standing on the deck, with crowds gathered and the moment of parting near, she realized her dread was more specific. She had been listening to the prince talk about glories on the sea, and she had looked out into the bay. There she saw only waves catching the sunlight, seagulls careening, and a few small sailboats canted against the sky. That’s when it hit her.

  “Where are the other ships?” she asked.

  Packer swallowed. “Not now, Panna.”

  She had had a picture in her mind of this parting, of the Trophy Chase joining the Fleet of the Royal Navy. She remembered stories told of the Comitani Wars by old men when she was young, descriptions of the Vast Navy filling the Bay of Mann with billowing white sails. She realized, just now, that in her mind’s eye she’d expected this day to look like that. And the ships were missing. “How many ships are sailing today?”

  “Three,” he whispered. “The prince just said that.” The Marchessa and the Silver Arrow and the Chase were lined up, ready to cast off. “Listen to the prince; he’ll explain.”

  But the prince chose that moment to introduce the next speaker.

  “…a career as storied as any in our history, medals of honor, a chair at our Royal Academy, and lately the strategic mind behind the most celebrated business venture of our times, the hunting of the Firefish—”

  Prince Mather had to wait for the cacophony to recede. When it finally did, he hurried through the rest of his introduction so as not to be interrupted again. “A man who has found success in the military, the academy, and in commerce, I give you a great and worthy captain of the Trophy Chase, as she takes her first voyage under the flag of our Navy: Here is our new Admiral of the Fleet, John Hand!”

  The admiral was resplendent in his dress whites, doffing his cap, nodding dutifully, even humbly, waiting for the cheering to die away. When it did, and he began speaking, Packer looked at Panna. “Admiral of the Fleet,” she said softly, eyes wide and distant. “I see the admiral. But where is the Fleet?” Her heart thumped in a hollow chest.

  Packer’s spirits fell. “Not now, Panna. Please.”

  She closed her eyes. A short war.

  John Hand spoke somberly, and his voice, not a natural bass, nevertheless carried, and carried weight. He was confident, serene, grave, and earnest, as though born for this moment. “Today,” he was saying, “we sail this great ship and her escorts out of our beloved bay, and worthy as she has proven to be, she is but a token of the iron will of the people of Nearing Vast.” He had a steadying affect on the crowd.

  “We will bring all our strength to bear against our foe. And such focus will be required. For ours is an enemy taught to believe that killing us gives them the right to our lands, and all our possessions. They do not want to rule us, but to replace us. Think about that, good people. They want to kill us in order to claim all we have.” The only sounds heard were the tense creak of ropes pulling on pylons, the lazy flap of bunting blown in the breeze, and the plaintive squeak of wooden hulls chafing against leather padding on the docks.

  “But they will find that we are not anxious to accept that little exchange.” Breaths were taken, and laughter heard. “They will find that we have within us the rocks against which their dark dreams will be dashed, and sunk.”

  “Aye, Captain!” men called out, and “You said right!”

  John Hand’s voice grew in strength, like thunder rumbling closer and closer. “They will find that all they hope to claim will fight against them. Not only our naval vessels, but our merchant vessels, our fishing vessels, every boat and every cannon, every musket, sword, knife, bow and arrow, every stone and every clod of dirt in this great land will rise up against them! They will find every ounce of our will bent and trained on them, our singular enemy, until we, by God’s grace, prevail!”

  Wild, sustained cheering followed.

  He’s good, Packer thought. He glanced at Panna. But not good enough.

  Now the prince stepped forward. He shook the admiral’s hand, beaming his pleasure. He turned to the crowd and raised an arm, taking in the Trophy Chase and her sailors. “This is the ship, and this is the crew that slew the Firefish!”

  Exuberant cheering.

  “This is the ship, and this is the crew that defeated the Achawuk in their strength!”

  Thunderous cheering.

  “This is the ship, and this is the crew, that will slay the Drammune!”

  Delirious cheering, whoops, roars, pounding.

  “She will cast off today, by God’s grace, with that mantle, that cloak of invincibility, that wreath of glory so recently hung around the neck of one of our own citizens, a humble fisherman and the son of a fisherman, who showed us all the true spirit of Nearing Vast. By strength of spirit and force of will he became a hero. I’m speaking of none other than our own native son, Packer Throme!”

  And as the applause grew to a deafening roar, as the citizens pounded their feet and clapped their hands and raised their mugs with raw and ragged voices, Prince Mather looked over to Packer and held out his hand, beckoning.

  But at that moment Panna clutched Packer’s arm with both her hands. “Packer, don’t go!” she pled. Packer looked at her in shock. Her face was pale, bloodless. She stared at him with eyes empty, dark windows into her fear.

  “Panna, I have to.”

  She had heard it; had Packer not heard it? The prince had said it! He had called it a wreath of glory, but he had said it was hung around Packer’s neck. And when he had said it, she saw the dream, saw it coming true. It was the side of a ship, and not a cliff; and it was a prince and not a king; but the cheering throng was here, and Packer and Panna were here, and Packer the hero was now pushed to the fore.

  The prince’s eyes narrowed. He stretched out his arm again, beckoning, providing Packer’s cue a second time. Packer grasped Panna’s right wrist firmly, intending to pull her hands away, to pull himself free. “Panna,” he said.

  “Oh, Packer,” she answered, the words escaping her like a last breath. And she let go of his arm.

  Had she clutched him more tightly, had she insisted, had she cried out, he would undoubtedly have torn himself away. But she breathed out heartbreak; it was the sound of love punctured, a heart deflated. She dropped her hands, as though dropping her claim.

  And so he could not turn away. Instead he turned toward her and took her by the shoulders. He looked into her eyes, searching for the life, the spirit, the heart he knew was there. “P
anna,” he called gently. And she responded. Light came back into her, from her, into her eyes, and they searched his.

  He would choose her over glory, over fame, over duty, over everything else in the world. She knew that now. And she would therefore let him go.

  The prince was not impressed. He covered the five steps to the couple in three. Out of view of the crowd now, his face was wholly given over to anger. “Packer!” He put a hand on Panna’s wrist, to disentangle her from her husband. Panna’s eyes darted to him, cold and hard, and she yanked her hand from his grasp.

  Mather was not accustomed to being disobeyed, nor was he accustomed to receiving such looks from his subjects. He blanched.

  Packer didn’t take his eyes off of Panna. “Are you all right now?”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “Yes, go.”

  The prince grabbed Packer’s arm and spun him around. Plastering a smile onto his face, he marched Packer onto the platform, his hand on Packer’s neck.

  Now Panna heard the crowd again, cheering wildly. She stepped out from behind the ship’s wall just far enough to see them in their frenzy, their zealous applause for a hero they knew not at all, could not know, not as she did.

  Prince Mather stood aside, turning now toward Packer, clapping along with his subjects. But he was thinking how dangerous it was to put his trust in this young man. This humble-looking boy with the scruffy hair and pockmarked face had shown a missionary’s zeal to serve, just yesterday. But now he was completely willing to make his prince look like a fool. Packer had insisted his wife join him here, and then he had ignored his duty, his commander, his prince, and quite literally, his country, in order to wrap himself in the embrace of that hardheaded creature he’d married. Which could only mean that Packer himself was softheaded, letting his marital desires overwhelm his martial instincts.