The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  “The decision on the table,” Father Mooring interrupted, not unkindly but not backing down, “is a decision much like any other. We all make them, and none of us can know where they will lead. On that trip, the one I did not take, my companions caught influenza and two of them died. The woman I wanted to marry said no, and left town the next day with a good friend of mine. I believe they have seven children now.” A shadow crossed his face. “Or is it eight?” He touched seven of his fingers, then reported, “Seven. Seven children.” He looked wistful, and proud in a distant sort of way. “So now, the king has a choice to make. It’s his choice. And we don’t really know of which sort it is, life or death, or inconsequential, though it may seem very much like one and not the other. So, gentlemen,” he looked to Panna, “Your Highness, it is now, as always, the heart of the chooser that matters.” He glanced around the table, looking serene, apparently oblivious to the fact that his audience still hadn’t the least idea what he was suggesting.

  “Your counsel then, to the king, is…?” Millian finally asked.

  “Counsel? No, no, no. I have no counsel. I only have a point.” He would have to be more direct. “Our last sovereign sent the entire Fleet to Drammun, following a heart bent on dominance and intimidation. The Fleet was lost. This king is on his knees before the living God. His heart instructs him in the path of service to that God. So…which of you wants to be the one who successfully persuades Packer Throme to get up off his knees and behave like Reynard Sennett?” The priest waited for an answer, now looking each of the king’s counselors in the eye, one at a time. When his eyes met Packer’s, the priest’s right eye winked.

  The gratitude in Packer’s heart, the affection he held for this little priest, suddenly knew no bounds.

  “Are you certain?” Millian asked Packer. It was a question, but the tone was one of resignation. His own decision was made. “Are you absolutely sure this is from God?”

  “ ‘The king’s heart is in the hand of the Lord, as the rivers of water,’ ” Bran Mooring quoted. “ ‘He turneth it whithersoever He will.’ ”

  Millian ignored the priest and stared hard at Packer.

  “Gather the troops,” Packer said softly. “Those are my orders.” He said it without a trace of doubt, but he did not mean it as it sounded. He did not mean to say that he was now giving the general those orders, but rather that he was a man under orders himself, and these were the orders he’d been given. Both generals, however, took it as a powerful appeal to their simple duty as military men, and both now felt their king’s certainty. It boosted their own confidence.

  Jameson saluted. “Yes, sir.” Packer returned it, and the newest general in Nearing Vast went to make it so.

  Prince Ward now looked around the table and pursed his lips, his jaw clenched. Wasn’t the obvious lesson of the Fleet’s demise that a king should not rashly put his troops in jeopardy? Ward had been ready to ask that question. But it was too late. Now, if somehow the kingdom survived this latest royal stupidity, sound advice would be banished until further notice, replaced by blind faith in a God who gleefully rescued fools from their own well-meant lunacy.

  Strangely, Ward found relief in his silence. The day would now unfold as it would, and he would have no further role to play. There was no mountain left to climb. If none of them survived this, then it would all end as it would. If they all survived, then the celebrations of divine intervention would be extreme, and he could quietly take his leave to seek another crevasse, cool and dark. And amber and wet.

  CHAPTER 4

  Varlotsville

  The square of Varlotsville was half the size of the Green, but the number of people gathered outnumbered those who had gathered at Prince Mather’s hanging by at least four to one. The five streets leading away from the village center were packed. Soldiers climbed up on rooftops and into trees. The dais chosen for the king was atop the general store, not the highest but definitely the flattest roof facing the square.

  Packer could see them all as he stood in the warm sun, waiting, watching the last battalions join at the farthest points. He had ordered them all here, every last soldier. They were a grizzled lot, not as varied in skin tone as the crew of the Trophy Chase, perhaps, but far more diverse in dress and age and gender. Drammune helmets and tunics, Vast uniforms, peasant shirts and skirts and breeches, priest’s robes. And except for the priests, who had now been sworn to uphold the peaceful duties of the chaplaincy, all held weapons of one sort or another. A few even carried Achawuk spears.

  Behind him were several blocks of homes and businesses, and behind those were the fields where the food wagons stood empty and alone, but for one sullen quartermaster taking stock of the bare cupboard that was once again his duty to refill. Behind those fields, a little more than half a mile away, the ground rose up into hills which were topped by a wall of great pines and oaks, a finger of the Hollow Forest.

  But now specks of crimson began to appear on that hilltop, set against the deep forest shadows. These were figures on horseback.

  The Drammune commander arrived and rode to a stop beside his generals. From here the gathered Drammune leadership looked across the empty field to the tiny town and watched the gathering at the square. From this distance it seemed unimpressive, the numbers puny. Huk Tuth took the telescope offered to him and twisted it into focus.

  “How many, would you say?”

  “Fifteen thousand at least. Perhaps as many as twenty thousand. They are fish in our net.”

  “How long have they been here?”

  “They began gathering an hour ago.”

  “What do you suspect is their purpose?”

  “I believe the yellow-haired one is about to address them.”

  Tuth scanned with the telescope, focused it more carefully, searching for Packer Throme. He found the tiny figure in his telescope, facing away. Yes, the yellow hair did seem to be speaking to his troops. “Where are their lookouts posted?”

  “We have seen none.”

  Tuth frowned. He scanned the buildings. It couldn’t be. But his pulse rose. “How long will it take you to bring your armies across this field?”

  “To surround them? An hour. Maybe two.”

  “Not to surround them,” Tuth said angrily. “To attack in force.”

  The general shrugged. “We could attack within minutes.”

  “Then do so,” he commanded. “Move as quickly and as silently as possible across these fields. As soon as enough companies are in position, we will attack.”

  “Yes, lord. And how many companies will be enough?”

  Tuth glared at him. “I will decide that from here, and signal the charge.” His voice dropped. “I want Vast blood shed on that square before their king finishes his speech.” His emphasis on the word king dripped with contempt. “Now go!”

  “Yes, Your Worthiness.” And the general rode off at a gallop.

  “Good people of Nearing Vast,” the king said to his troops. As his voice echoed and fell silent, he despised the sound of it. It was not the tenor of his voice he hated, but the phrase he used, the pretentiousness of it. He was play-acting, trying to sound like a king. He paused, considering his next words and the heart from which they must come. The crowd shifted uneasily.

  “The Drammune call us Pawns,” he told them. “They consider us worthless.”

  Grumbling and anger grew from below him, pikes and swords were shaken.

  Packer clenched his jaw. “But that is what we are!” he shouted. His voice now boomed, and even those farthest away heard him clearly. “We cannot decide where we are born, who our parents are, the shade of our skin or our hair, how long we will live, or when we will die. We are not masters of our own fate. We are, in fact, pawns. But we are not pawns in the hands of the Drammune. We are pawns in the hands of God!”

  The troops shifted uneasily once more, still awaiting the martial speech.

  Packer took a deep breath. The words he knew he needed to say would seem harsh, unnecessary. Perha
ps cruel. Finally he spoke. “But you should not be pawns in the hands of your own government. There are things you should know. All has not been well. You have been deceived.”

  Prince Ward had been squinting up from the ground in front of the general store, shading his eyes from the sun as he watched and listened. Now he looked down at his shoes. Panna, standing beside him, watched this reaction. Bran Mooring closed his eyes in prayer. General Jameson held his breath, eyes sharp and focused on Packer. General Millian stood like a statue, expressionless and waiting. Chunk guarded the wooden ladder that led up to the rooftop, ever protective of his king.

  Packer was loath to say it, but he must. “You should know that King Reynard sent not just a few ships to Drammun, to answer the assassination of our swordmaster. He sent the entire Fleet of Nearing Vast. The Fleet was destroyed there in a single day. King Reynard and Prince Mather hid this from you.”

  Stunned silence. The rumors were true then.

  “That was the reason for the call to arms. That was the reason for the king’s proclamation. We no longer have a Navy. Our enemies have known it, but you have not. We have in fact only a few merchant ships equipped with cannon. We have the Trophy Chase. And we have you.”

  Now the uneasiness found a voice, and grumbles could be heard—questions, even curses.

  “I am telling you the truth because you need to know it,” Packer shouted. “You need to make a choice today!”

  “We want to fight!” one man called out, raising his sword. “Give us the Drammune! We beat ’em on the Green, didn’t we?”

  Others cheered these words, martial words they longed to hear, even if they were spoken by an anonymous citizen. The gathered Army of Nearing Vast held high their swords, their muskets, shook them in the air. If the king wouldn’t inspire them to battle, they would inspire themselves. All, it seemed to Packer, were quite prepared to ignore the dark words of their king. They would simply leave all these thoughts behind, if only he would shut up and lead them on to battle, on to victory or death.

  Packer tried again, his voice ringing like steel against steel. “Here is your choice! You may fight, or you may let God fight for you! King Reynard chose to fight, and the Fleet was sunk. Prince Mather chose to fight, and the City of Mann was lost.”

  “You fought the Achawuk!” someone called out. “You beat ’em!”

  “You whipped the Firefish!” another called out. “We will fight with you!”

  “No!” Packer shouted back, stopping another bout of raucous cheering before it could begin. “God defeated the Achawuk! God sent the wind, and the wind saved us! God sent the Firefish to defeat the Drammune! God sent the rain to us at the Battle of the Green!” Their silence was deep and ragged. “You are brave soldiers and sailors, and yes, you can swing your swords and shoot your muskets. You can vow vengeance and curse your enemies and fight to the death. You can look for blood and you will have it, by the gallon! But you—can’t—win!”

  The crowd was dumbfounded. Their king was telling them they were hopeless. That they were not capable. Wasn’t it a leader’s job to make them feel good about themselves? That’s what Prince Mather had always done. That’s what King Reynard had done.

  Now Packer spoke into the silence. “We cannot win without God. We do not have the power.”

  After a long pause, someone shouted again, “We will fight with God!”

  Now the troops cheered lustily. “Fight with God!” someone else called out, trying to get a chant started. “Fight with God!” Others picked it up, and then the whole army was chanting, raising their swords and pistols and pikes and maces and fists, pounding them rhythmically into the air: “Fight with God! Fight with God!”

  Packer lowered his head. The words were blows to his heart, to his spirit. What he heard was not a vow to fight alongside the Almighty, but to fight against Him. They were choosing to pick a fight with God.

  The Drammune armies crossed the fields like a torrent, a crimson flood. They came from the north, where they had marched along the forest’s edge. They poured into the little field at a dead run, filling it like a steady stream of liquid fills a platter. They heard the Vast chanting. They gripped their muskets, pistols, pikes, and swords more tightly as they approached.

  “What does it mean?” they asked one another.

  “They call on their God,” was the answer passed around among them.

  Bustian Harmey lay inside one of his wagons, his wide body wedged tightly between two empty drums of ale. He had been inside the wagon when the first troops approached, and he had quickly decided to stay hidden there. Between the side boards of the wagon he could see a horizontal sliver of the activity around him. He saw an endless sea of gathering Drammune troops, a pinched panorama of impending doom. He heard the Vast army chanting something from the square, but their voices sounded tinny to him. They could not drown the stamp of Drammune feet, the rustle and clink of Drammune clothing, Drammune armor. He smelled their sweat and their anger, the foreignness of the food on their breaths. He felt the chill of death sweep through him.

  He spit tobacco juice onto the floorboards in front of his face and swore silently, a streak of profanity that started strong but soon ended as more pained petition than imprecation. He put his forehead onto the floorboards, heedless of the juice he had just expelled there.

  The chanting died away, but the Vast stood defiant, swords held high, fire in their eyes. They were ready for battle.

  Packer watched as his people cheered him. Someone started chanting, “Death to Drammun! Death to Drammun!” Swords waved and clanked in the air. Bloodlust reigned.

  Packer walked to the ladder. He had tried. They had chosen. They had not humbled themselves, but had worked themselves up into a lather. Might as well take them into the tunnels. He looked out over the crowd once more, and asked God to spare them anyway.

  Huk Tuth sat on his horse where the hill met the woods. In his hand was the shaft of a flagstaff; at the end of it was the blood-red flag that bore the Skull of Drammun. Beside him on his left and right a company had placed his artillery, guns that had been brought from the Hollow Forest, now carted to this spot. His troops below blanketed the field, in position. Drammune warriors stood shoulder to shoulder, each with a weapon in his hand, every eye focused on the village square.

  As each commander put his company into position, that commander raised his company’s flag. Tuth saw them rise, one, two, three…a dozen, two dozen silky multicolored pennants fluttering lazily, high in the breeze that blew toward him. Each commander looked back toward the hill, toward the lone horseman that was Huk Tuth, their leader. They awaited his sign. When Tuth raised the red flag of Drammun, they would attack.

  “May I please have your sword?” Father Mooring asked General Millian.

  The general had it unsheathed in a moment, handed the hilt to the little priest without question.

  “Excuse me,” Father Mooring said to Stave Deroy, padding up to him. “I need to see the king.”

  “Sorry, Father,” Stave said. “I have orders—”

  “Let him up,” Panna said quickly.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The dragoon stepped away, and the priest climbed.

  Father Mooring’s round face beamed as it topped the ladder. “Here, hold this, please,” he said, grunting slightly as he handed Packer the sword. It was heavy and awkward in the priest’s hands. Packer took it easily but held it gingerly, as though it might burn him. Then he gave the priest his free hand, and helped him onto the roof. “Perhaps they will listen to me,” Father Mooring said. And he turned to face the crowd, calm and fearless.

  Packer couldn’t imagine what the little man might say, but neither could he imagine saying no to Father Mooring. He raised his hand, and his army went silent. “Listen to the priest!” he said. He turned to Father Mooring. “They’re all yours,” he said gently.

  “Thank you.” Then Father Mooring turned to the crowd. “Packer Throme is your king!” Bran’s tenor voice carried surprisingly w
ell. “He could order you to your knees, and you would obey. But that is not his intent!” Now the priest held the general’s sword up, gripping its hilt, aiming its point skyward. “When you raise a sword to fight, you point it at God!” He looked up at the point as though to say, sure enough, it was aimed heavenward. “When you raise a cross…” and here he flipped the sword upside down, held it by the blade, hilt high, like a crucifix, the point aimed at his own heart, “…you point it at yourself. By this you say to God,” and now he spoke looking heavenward, “You have all the power, and may do as You please with me.” He looked at the crowd. “So, your king asks you to choose this day. Raise your sword, and trust yourselves! Or, raise the cross, and trust in God!” He lowered the sword, set the point on the ground. “Choose one or the other! But your king has warned you. The victory you seek today will come only from God!” He thought for a second and then concluded with a simple, “Thank you.”

  Bran Mooring seemed particularly happy with his performance. “They were just confused,” he said to Packer with a shrug. Packer looked out over the crowd. Their swords were lowered. Their eyes were open. They were waiting on him. Packer shook his head with a sense of joyful disbelief. Had Father Mooring succeeded where he had failed? Without wasting another moment, Packer called to the crowd, “Choose now! Raise your sword again, and you raise it against God! Kneel, and you surrender to Him alone! But choose!”

  His troops stood stock still, unmoving, each one lost in his own thoughts. Packer was quite sure now, however, that they were paying attention. They knew exactly what they must choose between, and what each choice meant.

  A wide-eyed soldier ran up to General Millian and spoke in his ear. The general stepped back, his head jerking as though he had been shot. “Are you sure?” he asked aloud.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Panna watched the exchange and stepped in, her back now to Packer. “What is it?” she asked.

  “The Drammune have filled the fields just to the west,” the general told her.

  “How many?”