The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  “More than two years ago,” Talon began, “a Vast merchant came secretly to Drammun with goods to sell. The Hezzan bought. These goods are now a standard part of our best warriors’ uniforms.” She clapped her hands once. Vasla Vor, the General Commander of the Hezzan Guard, he who had been the first to side with Talon, returned with two folded hauberks on his outstretched hands, the top one of which she took. She held it up for all to see.

  Puzzled looks were exchanged. The Twelve were prepared to overlook Talon’s disregard for ceremony. Speeches and invocations could be dispensed within times of war. But for this? Was Drammun government business now to be centered on martial fashion, now that a woman warrior held power?

  “This armor is not of Drammune manufacture, as you may suppose. It is made by the Vast.”

  Now the Court could not hold its peace. “No, this cannot be!” “What sort of nonsense is this?”

  Talon watched and waited while the murmuring died away. Zan Gar was agitated to the point of rage. Talon stared at him coldly until he rose from his seat, put his hands on the table, and leaned in toward her.

  “You are new to Drammun, having lived most of your life among the salamanders. Perhaps you are unaware that the Drammune forges of Rahk Kyne have been producing our armor for centuries. The light mail they manufacture is the best steel armor in the world. No Hezzan would stoop so low as to buy merchandise from the Pawns. Certainly not the Hezzan Shul Dramm.”

  She looked around the room, saw only blank stares. No one cared enough to call him back from this precipice. Excellent. “Commander Vor?” He stepped closer, and held out the second hauberk. “Show this to Minister Gar.” Vor walked around the table and put the garment before the minister, who sneered at him as though he were no more than a trained monkey. Gar glanced down at the two ornate pistols in the General Commander’s belt. Vor looked him in the eye and dared him.

  “Thank you, General Commander.” Vasla Vor broke eye contact, nodded at Talon, and stepped away. “Is this the highest-quality light mail in the world, Minister Gar? You’ll want to be very sure.”

  The cold warning of her voice caused him to study it carefully. He looked at the tiny crimson-painted links, flexed the material, checked the workmanship. “This is Drammune craftsmanship, from the City of Rahk.”

  “And what is this, then?” She tossed him the other hauberk, which slid across the table and came to a stop before him. Distrust in his eyes, he studied it as well. “I do not know what this is. It resembles mail, but…” He looked up. “It is not the product of Drammune forges.”

  “And yet our best troops wear it. It is the superior merchandise of which I speak. It comes from the Vast.”

  “You lie.”

  Breaths were held.

  “General Commander Vor,” Talon said in a purr, “would you please put on the Vast hauberk?”

  The disdain in Zan Gar grew palpable as Talon’s monkey reached for the garment, picked it up, and pulled it dutifully over his head.

  “And you, Minister Gar. Put on the Drammune armor.”

  Gar looked at her, aghast. His lips pursed and fire glowed behind his eyes. “To what end?” He said it with evident venom.

  “To demonstrate your obedience to your Hezzan, of course.”

  Now the hatred in his eyes blazed. He whipped around to look at the Quarto, but Pizlar Kank was impassive and none of the others showed a trace of encouragement. He ground his teeth and looked back at the woman, this widow of the Hezzan who had slithered into his throne. He saw satisfaction grow just behind her blank stare. She knew she had cornered him. If he claimed here and now she was not worthy to be Hezzan, he would need to appeal to the Quarto. And they had put the woman in power, in exchange for their seats at this table. He knew, as all did, that they would like to take her throne away. But they hadn’t done it yet. If he refused to obey the direct order of the Hezzan, she could banish him to prison or worse.

  Gar looked around the room one more time, but found no help. Jaw clenched, he obeyed.

  With both men wearing the loose-fitting vests, Talon walked over to them and stood them side by side, at the corner of the table nearest Pizlar Kank. She positioned herself beside Zan Gar and addressed the assembly. “Only a careful examination, such as the one Minister Gar has made, could tell them apart. The majority of our troops actually wear these Drammune steel hauberks and helmets.” She put her hand on Gar’s shoulder. He twitched. “They even feel similar.” She ran her fingers over the material, looking into Gar’s eyes. She saw no fear in him, only disgust and hatred at full boil. “Our officers,” she continued, “our elite troops, and the sailors and soldiers who support them, wear the Vast merchandise, though we are striving to outfit all of our troops with this superior protection.”

  Gar grimaced. Talon was not tall, but he was shorter than she, and he hated looking up at her. More, he hated her praising the Vast, bragging on them, and by doing so bragging on herself and her own degenerate past.

  “And it is in fact superior,” Talon continued, looking at the Twelve but leaning ever so slightly into Zan Gar, her hand still touching his shoulder. “Infinitely so. Drammune armor cannot nearly compete. The Vast have outstripped our technical prowess—”

  Gar snorted through his nose, gritted his teeth, and glared at her.

  She pretended just now to notice his misgiving. “What is it, Minister? Speak your mind.”

  Gar squared his shoulders to her, pulling his shoulder from under her hand. “You demean your own nation,” he growled.

  “Do I really?” He was so easy to manipulate, it was hardly sport. “I believe I speak only the truth. But perhaps you would like some proof?”

  “Without proof your statements are treasonous.”

  Now she grew serious. “Treason is something you would understand, Minister Gar. I believe that is the charge on which you were imprisoned, and sentenced to die. Treason, for the assassination of the Hezzan. My husband.” Neither said a word for a moment, and then Talon called out, “Commander Vor, are you ready?”

  “Yes, Your Worthiness.” Vasla Vor, still standing beside the enraged Gar, took the two pistols from his belt and handed both their carved handles to Talon.

  Talon stepped away from the two men, walking back toward her own chair, cocking the pistol in her right hand as she did. Then without pausing she turned and fired, a direct hit to Vasla Vor, mid-chest. The explosion was deafening and echoed in the high vault above them, ringing in their ears. The General Commander of the Hezzan Guard, Talon’s most loyal supporter, took several steps backward, putting both hands to his chest. But when he lowered them, there was no damage.

  Talon looked around the table. A blue haze hung before her. Amazement, fear, and relief filled the faces of the Twelve. “Vast merchandise,” she said. “There on the floor you will find the slug,” she added, to Vor.

  The commander looked down, and then picked up a round, flattened piece of lead. It was hot, and he bounced it from hand to hand, then set it on the table. After a moment Pizlar Kank picked it up carefully, blew on it, then passed it around so each member of the Twelve could see.

  Talon raised the pistol in her left hand and cocked it. Now she looked at Zan Gar, the satisfaction of the kill already pulsing through her, evident to all in the room. “What do you think, Minister? Is Drammune armor worthy, or is it not? Who speaks treason, and who speaks the truth? Shall we find out?”

  Zan Gar hated this woman with every ounce of energy within him. She wanted him to show fear. But he would not give her the satisfaction. “You demean your ministers with this show,” he snarled, his voice a ragged whisper. “You defile the office of the Hezzan. You praise the Pawns and slander the Drammune. You are Unworthy. Our people, our weapons and, yes, our armor are superior in every way—”

  She raised the pistol and fired. The gunshot ripped through the room as had the previous one, leaving a trail of blue smoke and an ear-shattering echo. Zan Gar took two steps back, his hands over his chest, an iden
tical reaction to that of Vasla Vor. But when Gar looked at his trembling hands, blood covered them.

  “Superior in every way, perhaps, but one.” She turned her back on Gar as he slumped to the floor with a moan. She nodded at Vor. “Thank you, Commander. You may remove the minister. His services will no longer be required.”

  Vor clapped his hands and two guards entered, wearing crimson hauberks. He waved them toward Zan Gar. They stood over the minister as he twitched once, then lay still. They picked up the lifeless body and carried it away.

  “Now,” Talon said, taking her seat for the first time at the head of this table. She put the pistols, one of them still smoking, on the table before her. “I would like to explain precisely how the Vast managed this achievement.”

  She had their undivided attention.

  Momma bear was angry. And she did not have the least bit of respect for her fallen predator’s spiritual accomplishments. She came at a run, over the crest of the hill faster than the fastest man could run, huge forelegs and massive hind legs covering as much distance in a stride as a cheetah, four-inch claws ripping up the earth. She roared her fury with teeth bared, spittle flying.

  The High Holy Reverend Father could only cower, flattening himself to await the end. The bear hit him with an explosion that sounded like rifle shots and felt like a thousand pounds of muscle, bone, claw, and tooth. It was nearly that.

  And then it rolled over him, sprawled onto the ground, and lay still.

  Hap looked down at his chest, saw the gashes in his good travel robe, blood seeping through. He put his good hand on the wounds. They were not deep. He looked at the bear. She lay still, but she was breathing hard, wheezing. And then she exhaled once, and was silent.

  Hap Stanson looked heavenward, at the dark canopy above him. What had just happened? Was it a miracle? How could the bear be dead?

  And then into view came a man, a woodsman with a wide-brimmed felt hat pulled low over his eyes, a bushy moustache, and a plug of chewing tobacco in his cheek. He held his long musket in his hand by the barrel, stock down, like a walking stick. Smoke still curled from the bore.

  “You alive?” he asked. Then he spit, not averting his cold, insistent eyes.

  “Yes,” Hap replied. “Yes, I’m alive.”

  Another man just like the first appeared. But he had no moustache, just a small bunch of hair at his chin. Neither man had shaved in several days, and the civilizing effect of their facial hairstyles was gradually disappearing. “Better’n I can say for the bear,” the second man said. He also held a smoking long rifle in his hand.

  “Looks like she hit the rock there instead a’ you.” The beast had careened down the hill and been shot from the side, two rifle balls to the brain. But her head had indeed hit a lip of rock, one of the two between which Hap was wedged. Blood and bits of brain matter dripped there.

  “You better get outta here,” the first said. “There’s a fire headed this way, y’ know.”

  “That would seem the prudent choice. But I’m injured here, and I wonder if I might ask for a little assistance.”

  “You just got it. But you want more, we can do that, too,” the mustachioed man said. “Dall Hammersfold. This here’s my brother Stub.”

  “Pleased to meet you, I’m…” somehow the whole lengthy title didn’t seem appropriate at the moment. “I’m Father Stanson. You can call me Hap.”

  “Hap, then,” Dall said, and spit tobacco juice again. “Let’s get you gone.”

  Getting Hap Stanson gone took some doing. After taking a closer look at his injuries, Dall went to work fashioning a litter they could use to pull the injured man to safety, while Stub took care of the litter of cubs that played near their mother’s carcass. He did this in the only humane way he knew. “Couldn’t stand to have ’em burnt to death,” he said afterward, wiping their blood from his big hunting knife. “Just a shame we don’t have time to skin ’em.” He looked longingly at the carcasses. “Great waste a’ good meat. Whatcha think, Dall? Do we have time for a strip or two a’ bear steak?”

  “It’ll take me another minute here,” Dall answered, looping a length of vine around one of the two poles he had cut and then pulling it tight. “You think you can get a loin strip from the momma, you go right ahead.”

  That was a challenge Stub was clearly ready to tackle.

  “How did you ever find me?” Hap asked.

  “You left a trail like a stampede a’ cattle,” Dall answered easily. “We could tell you were no horseman, and seein’ as how you was ridin’ into the fire, ’stead of away from it, we figured you didn’t know which one was the rear end a’ your horse. Sorry to think such. Didn’t realize you come by your ignorance of such things through devotion and study.” Dall seemed not to mean any harm by his words. Hap had the impression he had no idea he’d even insulted him. “Also,” Dall continued, “didn’t know we’d find you laid up here, messin’ around with a mother bear.”

  Hap was now nonplussed. “I assure you I was not messing—”

  “Stub, how far do you think that horse is gone?” he asked his brother.

  “Long gone. Miles.”

  “Let’s follow her tracks, though. She’ll know better’n us how to find a trail that’ll keep us all from gettin’ broiled.”

  “Okay, got the meat!” He held up a bloody strip as wide as his hand, just as thick, and about three feet long. Hap Stanson almost passed out.

  “Good. Time to get gone.”

  And so the spiritual leader of the Church of Mann was painfully, without protocol or sympathy, picked up and laid on the makeshift stretcher. Then he was carried by two men with long rifles and loaded knapsacks strapped to their backs at a pace that was nearly a dead run, through the Hollow Forest.

  For the clergyman, every step his rescuers took was painful. Every bounce was agony. And there were many, many steps and bounces ahead for the High Holy Reverend Father and Supreme Elder of the Church of Nearing Vast. Dall and Stub Hammersfold dropped him to the ground only once, spilling him from the stretcher while attempting to maneuver a slippery hillside at high speed. Then they stopped and tied him in securely.

  “Does a whole lotta groanin’, don’t he?” Stub asked his brother by way of making conversation. “Do all priests do that?”

  “Don’t know. But I wouldn’t worry. He’ll pass out from the pain if it gets bad enough,” Dall assured him.

  And soon, Dall was quite right.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Unworthy

  The tavern was empty but for the king and queen. Their counselors had left them: the generals to manage their growing list of discipline problems, Prince Ward and Bran Mooring to deliver their carefully worded document, just now drafted, to Supreme Commander Tuth. Panna and Packer awaited official word as to the end of the war.

  Panna watched her husband pace, watched his eyes stare blankly out the window. Then she moved a chair closer to his. When he looked at her, she put a hand gently on the empty seat. She was oddly calm, and her gesture irresistibly inviting. He sat down beside her, and she wrapped his right arm around her own shoulders, then laid her head back on his chest. This was how they had sat together that day in the carriage when Packer had proposed marriage. It was how they often communed about things of importance, large and small. Packer felt instantly relieved, and he relaxed. He hadn’t realized how tense he had been until he had a reason to let that tension go.

  “You’re going to Drammun.”

  “We have to. Don’t you agree? It’s the answer to our prayers.”

  Panna waited a few moments and then said, “Once Huk Tuth signs that parchment, I don’t know how much time we’ll have. I don’t know how fast things will happen.” Her voice was silvery and smooth, but it did not have that quicksilver, laughing quality that always reminded him of water over stones in a stream. It was the same sound, pure and true, but more melancholy now, as though the stream had grown deeper, and now moved slower.

  “But this time, finally, you can
come with me.”

  She was silent.

  “It’s a diplomatic mission after all,” he added, expecting confirmation, “and not a battle. Besides, I’m the king. I get to decide these things now.” Finally, here was some advantage to this title.

  Still she was silent. She snuggled in closer. She took a deep breath, and he heard it catch. This alarmed him. “Panna? What is it?”

  She waited a moment, then said, “Today when you were speaking, when word came that the Drammune were surrounding us…a messenger brought the news to General Millian. He would have stopped you. He would have sent everyone out to fight, right then.”

  “But you stopped him.”

  “Prince Ward would have gone along, too.”

  Packer didn’t doubt it. They were both silent for a moment as each pondered what might have happened if the troops had not knelt, but rather had gone out to fight. Would the falcon have flown its message to Huk Tuth? Or would the sounds of muskets and pistols, the shouts of battle, have scared it away? They were both quite sure of the answer.

  Panna sighed again. “Twice now, I have wanted nothing more in all the world than to go with you. And twice you have gone away without me.”

  “And twice, God has saved us both, and brought us back together.”

  “Yes. Now I can see the reason we had to be apart, even though I couldn’t see it then. You learned to kneel and pray in the midst of battle, and to trust God for the outcome. I didn’t understand until today, really, what that means. But now I do. God has been teaching you that. And he’s been teaching me things. At least, He’s been showing me things. I have learned…I have seen what happens when men trust only in themselves.”

  Her voice grew cold, remembering. “I have seen men order others around as if those people were put in the world just to serve them. Men in power acting as though the law doesn’t apply to them. As though the rules of honesty and kindness exist only to help them manipulate people. I’ve seen powerful men kill the weak.” She looked up at him. “They kill the innocent, Packer. They kill the upright.”