The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  She shrugged. “They worship the forces of nature, which they visualize as a river. The two highest forms of this force are man, and Firefish.”

  “So I would read it, too. But there’s more here than just nature, it would seem. It’s nature as a sentient being, an intelligence.”

  “A god.”

  “One with a purpose.” He ran a long, yellow fingernail along the document and read again. “ ‘The river is leading to an ending. A great catastrophe will bring a new world, where all shall live in peace. They call this ‘tannan-thoh-ah.’ ”

  “Which, the catastrophe, or the peace afterward?”

  He shook his head. “The term seems to apply to both. Whatever it is, it’s the end of the world. And there’s this…” He found a line. “ ‘When the tannan-thoh-ah comes, man shall become the glory of the beast.’ ” He sat silently for a moment, eyes racing back and forth on the single line. “I do not know what that means.”

  But she was thinking about something else. “Let me read.”

  He handed the pamphlet to her. She went back, found what she was looking for. “ ‘They paint the monster’s image everywhere. Skin and bones and teeth adorn every home and every structure.’ ” She went silent.

  “What is it?”

  “Do you suppose this means they paint the image of skin and bones and teeth everywhere?”

  “That is what it says. Is it not?”

  “But how does one draw an image of skin?”

  “I don’t understand…”

  She read it silently again. “What if this writer is saying that the monster’s image is painted everywhere, and its skin and bones and teeth adorn every structure?”

  Kron nodded. “Pictures everywhere, but also armor in abundance, covering every building. The place would be indestructible—and as valuable as solid gold.”

  She nodded. “If that were so, then these savages kill Firefish. Lots of them.”

  “And they’ve been doing it for a very long time. But can they tame them?”

  Talon shook her head. Then she tossed the pamphlet back onto the pile. “We don’t even know if these are the words of a scholar or of a lunatic.”

  “There is but one way to find out.”

  She stared at her chief minister. Then she nodded. “Prepare the ships.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The Crown

  Without fanfare and with little delay, the Drammune army marched toward the shore, where their tenders would begin shuttling them back to their ships. Packer had taken the words of Huk Tuth seriously, and gave orders to his own army that the Drammune were to be given wide berth. There were few incidents, and most of them involved citizens hurling stones or bones or eggs or epithets from upper-story windows down onto the receding red tide of warriors.

  The war over, Ward sat in cool darkness, contemplating the full mug before him. This had been a long time coming. He had not yet tasted the blissful liquid within it, but he could smell it. He could feel it. His belly burned with warmth just looking at it. Still, he resisted, savoring the anticipation. This was a familiar place, territory he knew. This was home.

  He had watched the king and queen ride away, trailing streams of splendor—the horde that was now the Vast Army. They were a ragtag bunch, and growing worse. Uniforms had become a badge of dishonor. Ill-fitting Drammune helmets and vests were the new insignia of honor, and they adorned both men and women, old and young. All the military regimens with which Ward was so accustomed, and to which he had always been attracted, had vanished overnight.

  The little group of counselors left in that pitiful wake suddenly seemed to Ward to have absolutely nothing in common with one another. Millian and Jameson seemed to have left military thinking behind. Bran Mooring was his usual beatific self, and therefore unapproachable. Dog was surly and uncomfortable when he finally returned from his stitchings. They had nothing to say to one another. Everyone seemed to feel it. No one quite knew who, if anyone, should take the lead. At least that’s what he told himself. It wasn’t quite true, however. The fact was, the others immediately looked to Ward. And he just as immediately bowed out.

  So Ward had taken a walk, looking for just such a spot. It was a short walk. This little dark dive seemed a perfect spot for thinking, and for not being found. There were only two other customers here now, a couple seated at a table across the small room, talking in low voices.

  Now Ward turned the earthen mug around, just to look at it from all angles, and to feel the condensation on its sides. The liquid was quite cool. The head of light brown foam was slowly sinking, concave now across the top. It would be wonderful.

  His problem was not with his fellow counselors, all of whom seemed fair-minded and decent men. The problem was that Ward could not shed this new feeling that the king’s reign was going to end in disaster. Of course, it had already lasted three times as long as the last king’s reign. Mather would forever provide the prime example of royal disasters in all of Vast history, surpassing in a flash even the tarnished legacy of the man he had replaced. But Ward had had nothing to do with Mather’s ascent, or his demise. And Ward had had everything to do with this new king’s fortunes. And so when Packer’s royal ambitions and most likely his life were snuffed out, which the Drammune would inevitably do as soon he preached his version of the gospel on shores where no Vast uprising could save him, then Packer’s demise would be Ward’s legacy.

  For a man who fled from responsibility as though it chased him foaming at the mouth and barking, this was an enormous weight. In contrast, the mug in his hand was light as a feather. He picked it up and poured a great, cool, drenching torrent down his throat, swallowing four times.

  Aaah! Ward licked his lips, savoring every ounce of the flavor. The mug was half empty. That was a sad sight, as he had promised himself he would drink only one. But already, as he felt the liquid in his belly, warm and safe and comforting, he wondered why he would make such a promise to himself.

  Packer had foretold his own doom. Ward had heard it. The king had said he would go teach the Drammune how the Firefish were controlled. But you said you don’t know how you controlled that beast at sea, Ward had protested there in the pub, around that table where the king and his counselors debated policy and the strategies of peace. I didn’t control it. God did that. Packer had stared into Ward’s eyes while the prince had grappled unsuccessfully with this explanation. Then Packer explained: I will go teach the Drammune about their Creator, the one who does control the beasts.

  So that was the plan. Convert the Drammune.

  It was absurd. Not only would they not convert, they would be deeply insulted. Packer Throme, the Boy-King, Premier of the Pawns, coming to Drammun to speak out against the Rahk-Taa? A salamander trying to convert the Hezzan from the most ancient beliefs of the Drammune? It would have been laughable if it weren’t so utterly hopeless.

  But what could be said against such a plan now, now that the king, defying logic and deifying lunacy, had gotten his miracle? In such a kingdom, words of common sense were nonsense, or worse. They were faithless. Maybe heretical. The world had been turned upside down. He closed his eyes and raised his ale again. Maybe if he turned his mug upside down enough times, it would all make sense. It was worth a try.

  But the mug did not reach his lips. Something tugged at his sleeve. Ward jerked involuntarily, almost sloshing the ale onto the table. A figure loomed over him, dark under a heavy hood.

  “Excuse me,” a soothing voice said from within that darkness. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “No?” Ward asked in something short of his usual good manners, his heart still pounding. “Too bad. I could have complimented your success.”

  “Terribly sorry. It’s just that I just couldn’t help but notice you were drinking alone, and I felt this was somehow not right for one of your…stature. So I thought you might like company.”

  “Who are you?” Ward said, squinting. He could now make out the wrinkled flesh within the circumference of t
he hood.

  “My name is Usher Fell. Father Usher Fell, Elder of the Seminary of Mann.”

  Ward took a deep breath. Another cleric to show him the pathway to God. Sure, why not? “If you’re drinking, you’re welcome here.” Here at least was a good excuse to have that second ale. “Sit down. Have a pint.”

  It was a bittersweet tour. Neither Packer nor Panna were in a hurry, feeling that every moment they had together should be savored. The king and queen walked through the huge building, now their home, with a gaggle of servants in attendance, all of whom had rushed back as soon as the news made it to them. Which was, of course, almost instantly. Stave Deroy was here as well, ever watchful, unsure what ill intent might hide in the hearts of old men and women and young servant girls.

  Packer absorbed it all, memorizing, wanting to be able to picture Panna in each room as he thought of her over the days and weeks to come. He asked many questions. He wanted to know what would happen where, when, and who would be involved.

  Panna answered carefully, with only occasional help from the servants. It allowed her to imagine herself in charge, making these decisions. The conference rooms, the suites for royal visitors, the counsel chambers, the courts where the people’s petitions were heard by judges, then appealed to the Crown…all of these were known to Panna, but she had never thought about them except in terms of distant processes of government. Now she had to think about them as responsibilities, her own responsibilities. And the burden seemed unbearable. By the time they finished the tour, the two were side by side, hand in hand, painfully aware of the enormous gap between their own experience and what was required to manage a palace, a city, and a kingdom.

  More than once, each of them wished that Packer were staying. Together, it seemed as though it might be possible to learn all this, to become comfortable with the complexities and the uncertainties of government. By herself, though, it seemed overwhelming, and Packer sensed it. More than once, each of them wondered where Prince Ward had gone. As long as he was here, so long as he would counsel them, there would be at least one person who truly knew how to navigate these waters.

  But countering the royal couple’s grave trepidation at running the machinery of government was the warmth that now filled the place, flowing from the household staff. Panna had started her tour by guaranteeing employment to all those who wanted it—even those who were uncertain about this stark change in the occupants of the palace. Several of the younger housemaids and servants, particularly those who had been so skittish with her when she had been confined here, confessed they had secretly been proud of the way she had stood up to Prince Mather. They had simply been too afraid to let any of that be known. The older servants likewise let down their guard and dared to tell both Packer and Panna how difficult life had been under the Sennetts, how Panna had been a fresh breeze through the place.

  “Oh, child…rather, Your Highness,” said Millie Milder, the elderly maid who managed the household chores, “how bad we all felt for the way you both were treated. How we prayed for a miracle. And when you broke His Highness’s nose, we just praised God.” Her gentle eyes twinkled.

  Any heartfelt emotion put the cold marble and polished brass, the high arched windows and thick woven rugs, in a very different light. Neither Packer nor Panna had many pleasant memories to associate with these walls, but now they saw that it was, in fact, a beautiful place. And if it could be a source of light for the entire kingdom, a hearth from which justice and rightness warmed the nation, the potbellied stove of the kingdom, then there truly might be hope for a new era.

  Then they entered the throne room. The servants all held back, refusing to cross the threshold. Packer and Panna walked in gingerly, hands clasped. It was not an enormous room, though the high, vaulted ceiling, the pure white walls, and the polished white oak floors made it feel spacious, even cavernous. The king’s chair, however, actually was enormous. It was velvet-covered and sat on a single-stepped white-marble dais. The seat cushion was deeply dented, as though Reynard had just this moment stood up from it and walked away.

  Beside the throne was a glass-fronted cabinet. Within the cabinet was the king’s crown, a heavy, jeweled circle of gold. Beside it was a scepter, three-and-a-half-feet long, flared and fluted at the top where was set a single blue sapphire the size of a ripe plum. Beside the scepter was the queen’s crown, smaller, narrower, but also jewel-encrusted gold.

  Packer looked around for a few moments, not venturing closer. This room felt like a museum to him. The royal jewels seemed like ancient artifacts, strange emblems from some distant past. They carried history and weight, and he knew that they were immensely valuable, both monetarily and in the power of their symbolism. But none of that connected, in his mind or in his heart, with leading the people he knew. He turned and looked at Panna.

  And at that moment Panna saw something in Packer she had never seen before. She saw now a man every bit as big as the priceless pieces in this room. She saw a heart that was bigger than all this, that found meaning in things far higher, more noble. She saw, for the first time, a king.

  She squeezed his hand, and then they turned and walked together out of the room.

  Prince Ward looked hard at the craggy old man across the table from him. “You look familiar,” he said. Actually, it wasn’t Usher Fell’s appearance that triggered Ward’s memory as much as it was the voice. Or maybe it was the aura that surrounded him. Regardless, Ward couldn’t place him.

  “You took lessons with me once, many years ago. Theology.”

  Ward shook his head, still not remembering. This man was not one of his teachers. He remembered all of those quite distinctly; each name and face always came to his mind with a gauge, a ranking based on how thoroughly he had abused them, how thoroughly he had disappointed them. Usher Fell was not among that honorable, dishonored brigade.

  “Father Stube was ill,” the priest said, looking through yellowed eyes that hovered above sagging lower lids. “Dyspepsia. I filled in for two class sessions.”

  Now the memory came back. “You let me off taking an exam,” Ward nodded. And the aura of the man returned. He’d had a tender look and kind words that somehow created dark misgivings in the young prince.

  “I did just that,” Father Fell nodded, appreciating that he was recalled. His voice grew more melodious. “Though it was only a quiz.”

  “Still,” Ward answered, “that happened rarely in my academic career.”

  “I felt you had earned it,” the old priest explained. But before he could elaborate the barmaid brought him his own pint. “To your royal youth,” Father Fell offered.

  Ward nodded. “Cheers,” he said simply.

  “I have followed the events of the past days with great interest,” the priest began when he had wiped his mouth. “As have all those in your kingdom.”

  “Not my kingdom,” Ward corrected.

  “So it would seem. A very unselfish move, which many would applaud.”

  “So it would seem,” Ward echoed, taking a short sip. The two men looked at each other until Ward dropped his eyes to his mug. Then he raised them again to search Father Fell’s face. “Who, by the way, would not applaud?”

  Father Fell gave Ward an appreciative look. The prince may have been a poor student, but he was not without intelligence. “There are a few of us who believe that the divine right of kings should not be usurped by mere men. Theology.” He waved his hand dismissively.

  “Usurped? Packer Throme usurped nothing. This was thrust on him.”

  “Oh, I did not mean to imply that. I’m sure that’s quite true. The usurper would be the one who chose instead.”

  Ward’s throat went dry. “You accuse my brother?”

  Father Fell laughed easily. “This is not an accusation, my dear Prince. It is a theoretical discussion. But let’s look at it, since you’re interested. God chooses kings through family lines. This has ever been the case, both in Scripture and in our own humble practice in this poor kingdom. There are
exceptions, of course. King David, notably. But those exceptions were accompanied by the clear voice of God speaking through His prophet, as He did with Samuel. Perhaps I simply wasn’t close enough to the current situation, but it seemed that your brother’s rash act could have been, should have been, undone. Packer Throme sought to relinquish what he knew in his heart was not his to take. And yet the crown was thrust upon him anyway.”

  The aura of Father Fell now engulfed the prince like a shadow. He remembered it fully. The smooth voice dragging him down into some hidden, shameful wellspring deep within. “You’re talking about me. You’re saying I did this selfishly.”

  “I wasn’t there. And I can’t pretend to know your motives.”

  Ward went dry as dust. He poured ale into his parched mouth and swallowed it, with no appreciable relief. So he did it again.

  Father Fell leaned in. “I do not mean to trouble you. I am one who would always give you a pass on difficult tests, were it in my power. I am a simple clergyman and only mean to speak what is in my heart, praying it will help guide you aright.”

  Ward didn’t know what was in Usher Fell’s heart. He barely knew what was in his own. But whatever shred of understanding he did have told him that this old man’s message meshed seamlessly with his own strong foreboding that Packer’s reign would end in disaster. It also told him precisely why he preferred to drink with military men.

  “You have been told by others that you did an unselfish thing,” Usher Fell continued, driving deeper into that vulnerable place he now saw as clearly as an archer sees a bull’s-eye. “But ‘the fining pot for silver, and the furnace for gold; so is a man to his praise.’ ”