The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  He was too unpredictable to be trusted.

  Packer saw nothing as he looked out over the crowd. It was a blur to him, this cheering, exulting throng. He could not make a connection between their fervor and himself, or anything he’d ever done. They cheered something, but he was sure it was not him. They cheered for the defeat of the Achawuk, but that was a thing he had not accomplished. They had not seen the bloody melee on the decks of the Chase, this very deck where he now stood. They had not been struck by the horror of it, as he had been. They did not see how God had rushed in and changed the outcome. Perhaps they cheered God. Yes, perhaps they cheered God’s deeds, without even knowing it.

  “Wave to them!” the prince whispered through clenched teeth. Packer was just standing there like a stone.

  Packer put his right hand into the air. The crowd renewed its efforts. There would be so much more death, Packer knew, now that the circle had widened into war. Unless God intervened again. Scat’s greed had sparked Packer’s dream of glory, which had lit the fuse on Talon’s vengeance, which had now exploded into war. And for this, Packer stood as a hero, lauded by a roaring populace. Why? Because they wanted this war. But he knew they wanted a victory only God could bring them.

  Out in the crowd, a few recruits who still retained their muskets and pistols fired them into the air, small fireworks with white smoke plumes exploding violently skyward. This was the beginning of the great campaign, they now knew, the mobilization of Nearing Vast onto the field of honor, the noble field of battle, where history would be written by their deeds. They would be warriors! They were warriors already. Prince Mather had said it, and Packer Throme confirmed it. What better proof of their own valor than this boy, this young man, a fisherman of humble birth just like each of them, who had gone to sea and made his name glorious? If God was with him, then why not with them? And if God were with them, then victory would be theirs!

  A few spectators did not join in the revelry. There were a handful who did not see this event as a talisman of good fortune, but as a portent of doom. Among them were two men who watched from the darkened back window of the rooms just above Croc-Eyed Sam’s, a window that looked out over the docks, over the heads of the roaring crowd, not sixty yards from the spot chosen for the Trophy Chase’s send-off. Scat Wilkins sat at eye level with those on the dais, his boots up on the windowsill, his wheel-lock pistol in his hand. Next to Scat stood Jonas Deal, a deep scowl seared into his face.

  Neither man said a word. There were no words, none dark or foul enough, that could give adequate expression to this moment. Scat’s ship, the thing he loved most in the world, the all-but-miraculous Trophy Chase, was draped in blue-and-white bunting and given like a wrapped package to John Hand. The glory she had won under Scat’s leadership, at the cost of his blood and his sweat and his health, the dual glories of killing Firefish and defeating Achawuk, were now draped around the shoulders of a stowaway bilge rat, a boy who didn’t fight and could barely sail, and who had collapsed in sobs under Talon’s torture.

  All the renown that was rightly Scat’s, all Scat had done and built, would be wasted, was already wasted on this, all sold for this one moment, which was meant only to generate a passion in the peasantry that would not make one whit of difference when the Drammune warships appeared on the horizon. Nothing could keep this war from being short and brutal, from ending with Scat’s commandeered fleet at the bottom of the sea or in the hands of the Drammune. Nothing could keep the foreign armies from ransacking the City of Mann.

  But that was not Scat’s concern. He was concerned only with saving the Trophy Chase. And he had a plan. Nearly a third of that crew, the ones now starched and shining like beacons of all that is upright in the world, were sworn to be loyal to him. His men understood who owned the Trophy Chase. They understood whose glory Throme was stealing. They would act, at the proper moment.

  Scat rocked slightly in his chair, his face blank of all expression. Then he raised his pistol casually, closed his left eye, and aimed carefully at Packer Throme’s heart. It was not an easy shot from this distance, but it was one he could make nine times out of ten.

  Bang, he mouthed. And he lowered the pistol again. “Raise your hand, accept all the glory, little stowaway rat. This is far from over.”

  Then to his right-hand man he said, “You better get going, Mr. Deal. We don’t want our precious hero facing the Drammune without a good first mate aboard.”

  When Deal smiled, his teeth were almost as dark as his intentions. “No, sir. We sure don’t.”

  When the admiral finished speaking, Mather was in a hurry. All had gone exactly according to script, and now he wanted to push the Chase and her escorts to sea, while the crowd was in full throat and energized.

  But there was one ceremony yet to perform, one that had been designed very carefully. As the applause for Packer died away, the prince turned to face him. When he spoke, it was in the carefully practiced, loud and precise voice meant to carry to the ears of the kingdom.

  “Packer Throme,” he said with great gravity, “you were awarded a special sword by our late beloved swordmaster, Senslar Zendoda. That sword won great victories against the Firefish, the Achawuk, and the swordmaster’s assassin, the Drammune warrior known as Talon.”

  Packer opened his mouth as the crowd cheered, but he did not speak. Precisely none of those feats were accomplished with that sword. Packer had handed the sword given him by Senslar Zendoda to Scat Wilkins on his first day aboard the Chase, receiving it back in time to face only Talon, before whom he had dropped it, never to pick it up again. None of what the prince had just said was true.

  If Mather read Packer’s misgivings, he didn’t seem to mind. He continued. “And after your sword slew your nation’s enemy, its work was done. It was lost at sea in the burning conflagration that was Talon’s tomb. And so, it is my pleasure,” he said, unbuckling the sword at his own hip, “to present you with this.” He held aloft the sword by its scabbard. It was a rapier, in an unadorned, soft golden sheath.

  The people cheered again. Packer studied the sword. The hand guard was not a cup, but a crosspiece. The gleaming thing the prince held high, its hilt upward, looked like a crucifix.

  And just then the prince beckoned to the High Holy Reverend and Supreme Elder, who stepped up to the dais between the two. Mather passed the sword, still held aloft, to Father Stanson. The churchman, taller than Mather by four inches, held it near its tip and raised it even higher. The crowd hushed. Hats came off; heads bowed. Now the symbolism could not be missed. The highest priest in the land held aloft a cross.

  Hap Stanson raised his left hand and boomed, “Let us pray.” He craned his neck upward and spoke with gusto, with passion. “Almighty God, You are our defender and our salvation. You alone determine the fate of men. Have mercy on us, and give us strength in the battles ahead. We ask You to multiply our strength, as You have done over the ages, as You have done with this ship, this crew, and this young man, Packer Throme. Help him to wear this sword well, in the honor of service to his country. Help us all in our time of trouble, give us hearts like lions, souls like lambs. Give us victory, and we will give You all the glory and the praise forever. Amen.”

  Packer accepted the sword. He held it by the scabbard with two hands and looked at the hilt. The handle was wrapped in a light, almost golden leather, dyed to give the impression it was all metal, one with the scabbard and the crosspiece. A cross that is a sword. A sword that is a cross. A thousand thoughts careened through his mind, but he couldn’t come to grips with any of them. He didn’t know what this meant. Finally, he rested on the simple fact that the prince had given him a new sword.

  “Draw it,” the prince said in a tone of command.

  Packer put his gloved hand on the hilt. It fit his disfigured grip perfectly, as though made for it. And in fact, it was. He slid the rapier from its casing. It was shorter than his previous sword, and lighter. The blade was silver-gold in color, with the soft gleam of a pearl rather t
han the stark mirror finish of polished steel. It was straight and true, and unadorned but for the unmistakable mark of its creator, Pyre Dunn, at its base. It struck him as being pure. He swung the blade once, twice; it moved through the air as though his thoughts propelled it. He held it aloft, the point skyward.

  The crowd saw a swordsman plying his craft in preparation for battle. He was their swordsman! He was their hope. Heartfelt, deeply emotional cheering erupted. Grown men had tears in their eyes. Those who had them drew their own weapons and raised them high. Those who didn’t raised fists, hands, mugs, and bottles. They raised them to Packer, to the Trophy Chase, to Prince Mather, to John Hand, to Nearing Vast, and to God. Certainly nothing could defeat them now.

  Will Seline, shoulder to shoulder with the throng, grimaced, then wiped away the ale that had been sloshed onto his robes by a drunken patriot.

  Once the speeches and ceremonies ended, Prince Mather wished everyone well, shook hands all around, and then descended the gangway. The crowd cheered on, and a band, more exuberant than talented, pounded away at “Long Life to King and Kingdom.” At the foot of the gangway Mather stopped and spoke briefly to his bodyguard, a huge young man wearing the light blue hauberk that signified the Royal Dragoons, the palace guard of Nearing Vast. The big man nodded and climbed up to the ship’s deck. Jonas Deal followed him up the gangway.

  “I can’t believe you’re leaving,” Panna whispered. “And I’m not going with you.”

  Packer could say nothing. He held her close.

  “Promise me you’ll come back,” she said. “Promise me.”

  “I’ll make the promise,” Packer said, “but only God can keep it.”

  She heard his heart break. “Then promise me you’ll ask Him.”

  “I will. Every day.”

  “And I’ll ask every hour, and every minute.” They embraced a long while in silence, ignoring the big dragoon, now standing inches from them.

  Finally the soldier spoke, in a surprisingly high and nasal voice for such a behemoth. “Excuse me, ma’am. Sir. Time for the missus to go.”

  “Panna,” Packer said, looking her in the eye. “Don’t stay in the city. Go home, but stay packed. Be ready to run to the Mountains. Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  He embraced her again.

  “Excuse me,” the bodyguard said, less patiently. He was watching the activities on deck, saw mooring lines loosened, sailors unfurling sails. He looked worried. “It’s time.”

  Packer turned his eyes in the dragoon’s direction, but didn’t measure him, barely saw him. He turned back to Panna. “You’re going to be all right?”

  She nodded, smiled through tears.

  The bodyguard spoke with an insistence they could no longer ignore. “Now.”

  Packer sighed. “You have to go.”

  “I know.” She wiped her eyes. She had been determined not to cry, not to leave him once again with the image of the red-eyed, rumpled, tearstained girl. But the tears came anyway.

  And so did his.

  The instant she stepped back, just half a step, the big dragoon took her firmly by the arm just above the elbow and walked her away. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  And then catcalls, boos rose up from the docks. The crowd had been watching the couple’s goodbye, and they now loosed their wrath on the dragoon, who was so surprised he stumbled and almost lost his balance. Panna recovered more quickly; she smiled and waved at the well-wishers. The boos turned to cheers.

  Packer watched her leave, walking in her casual, innately elegant way down the gangplank. She looked back over her shoulder. Her smile was warm and sad and determined, a crushed heart resigned to an impossible duty.

  Then she was on shore. The instant she stepped on solid ground, the gangway was pulled. The dragoon put Panna into a waiting carriage and closed the door. He then climbed up beside the driver.

  As the coach wound its way slowly through the milling crowd, people pressed around it, touching it, peering in on tiptoe, waving, calling. Panna did not wave back. Her head was down, and Packer feared she was crying. When the carriage turned a corner, Packer thought he saw another person inside. He let the thought go. It was probably the prince. That was very kind of him. He’d make sure she got home safely.

  Will Seline watched from amid the throng on the dock. He saw his daughter descend from the ship and he tried to move toward her, but the crowd prevented him. Something about the way she had been maneuvered into that carriage struck him as wrong. That she didn’t stay to watch the ship sail was wrong as well. Will could clearly see the prince inside the carriage, saw him smile. Why did that seem so wrong? He was the Crown Prince of Nearing Vast. Panna was safer now than anyone else in the kingdom. Wasn’t she?

  CHAPTER 4

  Broadside

  “Now that’s what I call a beauty!”

  Packer looked away from the sword in his hand and up at the voice, saw a familiar grin beaming down on him from the footlines. “Delaney!”

  Delaney scrambled the last ten feet and dropped like a cat onto the deck. Packer shook his friend’s vicelike hand, carefully, and clapped him on his narrow shoulder. Then he held out the sword. “It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “I wasn’t talking about that stick a’ metal, ya ninny. There’s not a man aboard could keep his eyes off the beauty you fetched as a wife.”

  Packer felt a stab of pain shoot through his hand. “I shouldn’t have left her.”

  Delaney’s eyes went wide. “Well, that’s sayin’ the ocean’s blue. But you did it. A man like me wouldn’ta never been able to leave her ashore.” He saw Packer’s dark look, then spoke quietly, as though in confidence. “But a girl like that wouldn’ta never married a man like me, so there’s the end of it.”

  Packer smiled. “I wish you’d dropped in earlier to say hello. Or goodbye. She would have been glad to see you again.”

  Both his eyebrows shot up. “Me? Naw. She only said three words to me at your wedding.” He closed his eyes, concentrating as he ticked them off. “ ‘Hello,’ ‘Delaney,’ and ‘Pleased to meet you.’ ” He opened his eyes, then sighed. “I never once left a good impression on a intricate woman such as her.”

  “You’re wrong. She thought you were delightful.”

  He furrowed his brow. “She didn’t say that.”

  “But she did,” Packer assured him.

  He smiled oddly, his eyes losing focus. “Delightful,” he repeated, turning the word around in his mind the way a child turns a piece of candy in his mouth.

  Packer laughed aloud. “Delaney, I thank God you and I are in this one together.”

  Delaney puffed out his chest. “Well, me too. And Marcus is aboard here somewheres.” He leaned in, brow furrowed once again. “What’d she say about Marcus?”

  “Hmmm, let me think. I believe she said he seemed like a fine young man.”

  “And that he is! But she didn’t call him delightful?”

  “No.”

  Delaney nodded, sniffed. A highly satisfactory report. “Well, then. We’re away.” He looked at the dock receding behind them, its people but colorful specks already. “I don’t imagine any voyage could be so much trouble as the last one we three sailed.”

  Packer just nodded, hoping it would prove true.

  “Get to work, you two!” A familiar, angry voice cut into them. Standing on the bridge, glaring down at them, was Jonas Deal.

  “Aye, aye,” Delaney sang, and scampered back to the ratlines.

  Packer just stared at Deal, disbelieving. He hadn’t seen him come aboard. He wasn’t wearing the dress whites every other sailor wore; he seemed like an apparition, materializing from the bad dream that had been their previous voyage.

  Deal descended the stair, walked up to Packer, focused and menacing. He smelled of sweat and ale and old tobacco. “You may be a retchin’ hero on shore, but you’re still nothin’ to me but a stowaway rat.” Then he leaned in and whispered in a sneer. “If I get half a chance when no
one’s lookin,’ I’ll do what Cap’n Wilkins should a done a long time ago. Just one blind moment is all I need, and the next mornin’ you’ll wake up missing. Think on that, Mr. Throme.”

  Packer nodded, doing his best.

  “Where is the Fleet?” Panna asked the prince. The cheering of the crowd had died away behind them, and the clip of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones could now be heard crisp and quick in front of the carriage.

  “Excuse me?” he answered easily. His oiled black hair clung immaculately to his scalp. His gentle, pale-brown eyes smiled. He had had a good morning, and was in a good mood. She wouldn’t spoil it quite this easily.

  “The Fleet,” Panna repeated firmly. “My husband is sailing out to sea with but three ships against the Drammune Armada. How will they be protected?”

  The prince was not the least put off. “The Chase needs no protection. Haven’t you heard? God is with her. But do tell me, what did Packer tell you about our Fleet?”

  “He told me nothing, or I wouldn’t be asking.”

  The prince nodded. “But he said something.”

  “Only that there were things he’d promised not to say.”

  “So, if he felt he couldn’t tell you, what makes you believe I will?”

  His smug confidence was irritating. “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” Panna asked. “The war will go badly because something’s happened to the Fleet.”

  He grimaced. She might get to him after all. “You are truly the most amazing woman, Mrs. Throme. You have a bright and agile mind, not to mention a wicked right hook. But think a moment. If something had happened to the Fleet, and you knew it to be true, what good would it do you? What could you possibly do with such information that would help the kingdom in this war?”

  “The people need to know!” Panna retorted. “Didn’t you see them? Half of them were half-drunk with ale, celebrating like this war was already won.”

  He smiled. “Half of them were half-drunk with ale,” he repeated, amused. “But all were half-drunk with enthusiasm. Is that such a bad thing?”