The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  The ink on the scroll dried as it sat, waiting for delivery across the sea. The terms were terse, the language tight and simple, but the sign and seal were unmistakably those of the Hezzan of the Drammune. It said simply that the war was over. The Drammune troops would be called off, brought back across the sea. The Hezzan gave three very simple conditions, which she was rightly sure would be impossible to reject.

  First, the King of Nearing Vast would immediately dispatch an envoy with plenipotentiary powers to the shores of Drammun to draft and sign a binding treaty of alliance. Second, that same diplomat would arrive in Hezarow Kyne aboard the warship Trophy Chase. And third, as sign and symbol of the goodwill of the Vast people toward their new allies, that ship would carry aboard it the leaders of the Firefish trade, who would share all they knew. In exchange, the Drammune would similarly reveal to the Vast all the secrets of their own fishing industry.

  A simple request. Transparent, of course, but considering the alternative cost in mutual loss of life, hard to reject. It would bring to Drammun immediately and in peace what otherwise she would need to wait for, fight for, and hope could be salvaged from battle. What would happen, once Talon knew the secrets of the Firefish, would happen.

  She was rightly confident that when the falcon reached the shores of Nearing Vast, the war would be over.

  The small cottage in the woods was little more than a shack, but it had a door that locked and windows that closed and shutters that shut and a candle that burned. Packer and Panna had been tucked inside for some much-needed rest, and some much-desired privacy. Guards were stationed far enough away to be discreet, close enough to protect the pair from almost anything. Prince Ward had made sure the couple would not be disturbed.

  The larger house some twenty-five yards away served as headquarters of the Army of Nearing Vast. Inside it, young General Jameson, the old and recovering general Mack Millian, Prince Ward, and a number of their lieutenants were busy planning. They had taken care of the details of their own Army’s defensive positions, and then had turned to plans for the burial of Prince Mather. When that was done, they started their offensive strategy, to take back the City of Mann.

  The officers and the prince gathered around a large map laid out on a kitchen table and weighted down with coffee mugs. They drew lines with their fingers and discussed troop strengths, but they had quickly come to an impasse, and opinions differed as to how they might break the logjam.

  “We need a king,” Ward suggested, rubbing his temples. He felt sick again, dried out and hollow.

  “Yes,” the elderly General Millian agreed. His head was bandaged, and though he was somewhat pale he appeared quite vigorous for an injured man of eighty-three. “I must tell you in all honesty, I am extremely uncomfortable making such plans with no input from King Reynard.”

  “My father has gone to the Mountains,” Ward reminded them.

  “Then we must fetch him,” General Millian insisted.

  “I’ll go,” General Jameson offered.

  Ward sighed. He knew Reynard Sennett would not come back. And even if he did return, the people would not much like what they saw in him.

  Just then a knock on the door introduced Packer Throme. He looked rather tired, but determined.

  “Ah, Packer! Excellent timing. I see you haven’t gotten much rest yet,” Ward said good-naturedly. “Not surprised. I understand this little war interrupted your…what do you call it…honey month? Highly inconsiderate of us all.”

  Packer turned crimson as the others laughed good-naturedly. But the room went silent as he pulled a ring out of his pocket. “I came to give you this. It is not mine by right.”

  They had all heard about Mather’s last moments. Panna and Packer had both told Prince Ward all they could remember, and Ward had passed much of it on to these men. Now Ward looked at the ring, but did not move to take it from Packer.

  “Tell me again what Mather said when he gave that to you.” Ward’s tone was a shade more ominous than Packer would have preferred. Packer hesitated. “I’d like these gentlemen to hear it from you,” the prince said, more gently.

  Packer swallowed. “He said he gave it gladly.”

  “Gladly?”

  Packer nodded, then thought a moment. “No, freely. He said he gave it freely.”

  “What did he say about the ring? What did he say it represented?”

  Packer nodded. “He said it was the sign and seal of everything he owned. But it should be yours, sir. I’m not a noble. I’m the son of a fisherman.”

  Now Ward smiled. He spoke softly. “That ring, Packer, is not Prince Mather’s.”

  Packer studied it. Of course it was; it was the same ring.

  But before he could protest, Ward said, “That is the king’s signet.”

  “What?” General Jameson feared that Mux and his hordes had somehow reached King Reynard even before the events of the morning. “How could that be?”

  Ward picked up a coffee mug, looked into it. Empty. No help there. He cradled it in both hands, then looked mildly at the urgent faces surrounding him. “Two days ago my father wanted to abdicate, and to name Mather king. Mather declined. It’s quite apparent the ceremony happened anyway. King Reynard passed that ring, and all it represents, to his firstborn son.”

  No one spoke. Packer shook his head.

  Ward’s voice became gentler yet. “The dominion Mather passed to you, Packer, was not that of a prince.”

  Packer just stared at the ring.

  Mack Millian spoke up gruffly. “But you said that the Transfer ritual was Drammune law. We’re not obligated by it, surely.”

  Ward nodded. “But in Nearing Vast the king may pass his title to anyone he chooses. No death required, no ceremony necessary. All he need do is freely give his signet, with all it represents, before two or more witnesses. I believe the small gathering this morning qualifies.”

  Packer, wide-eyed, was now insistent. “You take it, then. I freely give it to you.”

  The prince held up a hand. “Ah, but Packer, the recipient must also agree to take it. You have done so. I have not, and will not.”

  “But why not?” Packer pled, still offering the ring on his scarred palm.

  “I have thought about that since you first showed it to me. I recognized whose it was immediately. I’ve thought about it all day, and I have many reasons for my decision. The most important is, I believe Mather wanted you to have it. It was his abdication, every bit as valid as my father’s. I have no right to question it. But as you offer it to me, I can tell you that I absolutely do not want it, and will not accept it.”

  Packer started to protest again, but Ward cut him off. “Why? Because I believe you will not abuse it, and I am quite sure I can’t say the same of myself. Even if I did want it, Packer, I would have to tell you I cannot take it now. This nation is at war, and it needs a leader who will inspire the people. That, my friend, is not me. It is you.”

  The other men in the room now stared at Ward Sennett. What they saw in him amazed them. They saw character.

  Now the Prince of Nearing Vast lowered himself to a knee. “Packer Throme of Hangman’s Cliffs, you are by all rights the King of Nearing Vast.” Then he bowed his head. “And as such, I swear to you my allegiance.”

  And then all the men in the room did the same.

  When Packer reentered the tiny cottage, Panna was waiting for him, eyes questioning.

  Packer held up his hand, the ring firmly in place on his right forefinger. Then he walked past her, sat down heavily on the rickety bed, and stared at the signet. A pain shot through his damaged hand.

  Panna saw the troubled look and sat down beside him. “Packer, what does that mean? He wants you to be a prince?”

  He turned his eyes toward her, but he was far away. “Panna…” He didn’t know how to say it.

  His look struck something deep into her heart. Fear…wonder…both…she couldn’t identify it. Finally she spoke. “What, Packer? What is it?”

&nbs
p; “Somehow…” He took a deep breath. He held it a long time. Then he said in a rush of breath, hardly more than a whisper, “Somehow I just became the King of Nearing Vast.”

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  THE BATTLE FOR VAST DOMINION

  Copyright © 2008 by George Bryan Polivka

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Polivka, Bryan.

  The battle for Vast dominion / George Bryan Polivka.

  p. cm. — (Trophy Chase trilogy ; bk. 3)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-1958-6 (pbk.)

  1. Packer Throme (Fictitious character)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3616.O5677B38 2008

  813'.6—dc22

  2007028420

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  For the joy of the Lord

  NEHEMIAH 8:10

  CONTENTS

  Maps

  As Our Story Opens…

  1. The King

  2. The Opposition

  3. Surrounded

  4. Varlotsville

  5. The Alliance

  6. The Unworthy

  7. The Crown

  8. The Flotilla

  9. Disaster

  10. The Darkness

  11. Madmen

  12. The Mission

  13. Drammun

  14. The Queen

  15. Snakes

  16. Exchange

  17. Fire

  18. Smoke

  19. The Crucible

  20. The Presence

  21. Ashes

  22. Triumph

  23. Rewards

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Maps

  As Our Story Opens…

  The great ship Trophy Chase is at sea, commanded by Admiral John Hand. But this admiral has no fleet. His navy was sunk by the Drammune in the opening salvo of war, and now Hand’s desperate mission is to transform a handful of merchant vessels into a fighting force. As he contends with recalcitrant captains, the monstrous Firefish awaits, looking for the sleek ship it calls Deep Fin, and the enthralling, maddening presence that lives aboard.

  The invaders own the capital of Nearing Vast, the City of Mann, having routed and humiliated the Vast army. But victory is not assured. The hanging of Packer Throme for war crimes against Drammun turned inexplicably to triumph for the rabble remnant of the Vast, pirates and priests and brigands, and led to the escape of their yellow-haired hero.

  Across the sea in Drammun, the Hezzan Skahl Dramm has received reports that the Vast have trained Firefish to attack on command. She knows a single beast could destroy an entire fleet of ships. She believes the Vast have learned the secrets of the Firefish and she must learn those secrets in order to dominate the world.

  The Vast army, regrouped within the Hollow Forest outside Mann, is now learning that Packer Throme, the fisherman’s son, has been made King of the Vast. And his new bride, Panna, the principled daughter of a village priest, is now his queen. God is with them, the Vast believe. So certainly, victory will now be theirs.

  But can an inexperienced king and queen, an outnumbered army, a tattered navy, and a single unpredictable Beast triumph over Drammune, and Achawuk, and the Firefish?

  With Thee on board, each sailor is a king

  Nor I mere captain of my vessel then,

  But heir of earth and heaven, eternal child;

  Daring all truth, nor fearing anything;

  Mighty in love, the servant of all men;

  Resenting nothing, taking rage and blare

  Into the godlike silence of a loving care.

  —GEORGE MACDONALD, DIARY OF AN OLD SOUL

  CHAPTER 1

  The King

  Word got out.

  “Have you heard?” Father Mooring asked.

  Dog winced. The needle flashed in the lamplight as the priest slid it deftly through the old fisherman’s torn flesh, restitching his chest wound, black thread pulling tight his wounds once again. It shouldn’t hurt this much, he thought. Tiny little thing. He lay on his back under the stars with one big, calloused fist squeezed tight and trembling at his side, the other gripping the wire handle of the kerosene lamp.

  “Heard what?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  “Just the most amazing news. They made Packer Throme king.” The priest said it with great warmth as he knelt over his patient. His needle went deep, searching out sound flesh beneath the ragged, torn skin.

  “Ow!” Dog’s empty hand came up and swept the little priest away, knocking him back on his haunches. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

  Father Mooring was unperturbed. He had stitched, sawed, sewed, pressed, and bandaged so many soldiers and citizens now, with nothing to dull the pain, that no reaction surprised him. Dog had a particularly deep gash, the same honorable wound he had stuffed with dirt and gravel to stanch the bleeding, and that had taken a long, painful process to clean. Now the stitching had been stressed past breaking by the stubborn man’s long walk here through the dank tunnels from the Battle of the Green. And by his insistence on behaving as though nothing much had happened to him.

  “Mr. Blestoe,” the genial priest said, still smiling, but with a sense of command not even Dog could ignore, “you are a proud man. A strong man. But your wound is deep. It will kill you if you refuse the only ministrations that God has, in His mercy, sent you.”

  Dog grimaced, his eyes clamped shut and his face twisted in pain. The agony caused by his own sudden movement far outstripped the pinpricks from the needle. “All right. But what in blazin’ glory are you goin’ on about?”

  Father Mooring grasped Dog’s left hand, the one with the lamp, and maneuvered it back into position. “You just popped three stitches. Three of my better ones, I don’t mind saying. This isn’t exactly embroidery I’m doing here.”

  “No, I mean…” he couldn’t bring himself to say the boy’s name, “the king. What did you say about the king?”

  “Oh, that!” Father Mooring brightened immediately. “That’s what they say. Packer’s been named king. Isn’t that something?”

  “King of what?”

  “Why, of Nearing Vast. King of us all.” The priest bent over the fisherman-soldier once again, needle poised. “King of you. Now, if you’ll just relax and—”

  Dog lowered the lantern again. “Of all the confounded, ignorant rumors…” Words failed him. “What blame fool would make a fisherman into a king?”

  “Well, I believe God would be your fool there. He’s been known to do such things. Did it with a shepherd once, and a carpenter another time.” The priest positioned the lamp again, squeezing Dog’s hand firmly. “Hold it there,” he ordered. Then he stitched away as he spoke. “And I believe it was you who told me Packer wasn’t much of a fisherman anyway. And he couldn’t be a priest. So perhaps he’s finally found his calling.” Dog flinched, and the pain of his own movement again seared thro
ugh his chest. “Listen now, Mr. Blestoe, if you continue to resist, I can’t help you.”

  Dog stewed. It just couldn’t be true.

  “Now be still. This is medicine, not torture.”

  Dog begged to differ.

  The soldiers of the Army of Nearing Vast were deeply enfolded by the Hollow Forest, hidden by its trees, protected by its hills and its undergrowth. For the moment, they were safe from the expected Drammune onslaught. Orders prohibited campfires, and so soldiers huddled together or bivouacked under cold moonlight. The first light of dawn revealed clear skies but brought no additional heat. They gathered together for warmth, regulars in near-pristine uniforms alongside recruits wearing now-ragged civilian clothes, interspersed with the irregulars, the already-storied veterans of the Battle of the Green. And they talked.

  They talked of victory. They talked of hope. A thousand recitals with a hundred thousand details would not have been enough to quench their thirst for details about how the dregs of Vast society, the undisciplined and unwanted and infirm yet unintimidated, had overcome the most vaunted warriors alive. They wanted to hear of the charge of Bench Urmand, the prayer of Packer Throme, the sacrifice of Prince Mather, the surge of the Vast, the retreat and defeat of Fen Abbaka Mux.

  Spoils of war were admired and coveted, Drammune swords and pistols and helmets and hauberks. These irregulars, most of them unaccustomed to being treated with even a sliver of honor, now spoke humbly, in hushed tones and solemn terms, to reverent audiences. “Seemed like we had to fight, is all. Like the sea rammin’ up against the shore.” “Never did think about winnin’ or losin.’ Just fought.” Back in the City of Mann, the Rampart stood, protecting the conquerors of Nearing Vast. But here in the wilderness walls had fallen.