The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  “Courage must be measured by the yardstick of wisdom,” Millian interjected, “wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes, very much so. But hear me out,” Hap answered easily. He touched his middle finger to his thumb. “Faith. God may be trusted regardless of where the Fleet is sent. But to go where the dangers are so great will certainly test our faith.”

  He touched his ring finger. “And then, there is forgiveness, the greatest gift we are given, the greatest gift we have in our possession to give. Bear with me here, but the question I must ask is, how might we best forgive our enemies, the Drammune? And how might we best forgive those among the Achawuk who have slain our missionaries, attacked and burned countless of our ships?”

  Dog shook his head, amazed. Forgive them? Were the military leaders of Nearing Vast seriously taking advice from a preacher?

  Hap leaned forward, and his voice dropped. The others around the table leaned in to hear. “To forgive, one must have the power to forgive. We all know that Firefish armor is invulnerable to the best weaponry in the world. Imagine with me, envision a future, a very near future, in which Nearing Vast holds the key to such earthly superiority. God has given us the Firefish. Imagine that we harvest the things by the hundreds, drape all our ships in their hides, all our men in their armor. Imagine that we are invincible.

  “Once the Drammune submit, what nation will stand against us? Imagine Nearing Vast with all the power in the world. Imagine we use that power to do good. With all the nations bowing to us, we can then teach them. We can reach them. Envision Judah under David, Jerusalem under Solomon. The City of Mann as the City of God. Imagine it, my friends. With the power God has given, we may teach them the ways of truth and help them to find forgiveness. We are talking here, gentlemen…” he nodded at Panna, “ma’am…we are speaking here of the means by which God may, if we have but the faith and the fortitude, let our fair city shine as a lamp on a lamp stand, a beacon to the heathen. A city on a hill that cannot be hid.”

  All were silent, envisioning just such a time.

  Hap had them; Panna could see it. It was a dazzling display of…something. Leadership surely. Persuasiveness undoubtedly. He wove a powerful vision.

  “Prince Ward, you have yet to speak,” Panna interjected, breaking the spell and bringing the others back to the moment. Panna hoped he might offer a counterpoint, but what came forth shocked every guest, and her majesty as well.

  Ward’s dark look seemed to vanish in an instant. He looked at the wine in his glass, as yet untouched, then held it up. “I do have an opinion,” he said brightly. “But first let me say this. I vowed to avoid this liquid until the war was won. I can’t say that I upheld my vows religiously, but I gave it a good try. Still, I hereby declare victory, and if what we have now is not victory, I hereby declare that it’s close enough for me.” And he closed his eyes and drank the wine down in a single swallow, savoring the taste. He then beamed at those around the table, suddenly feeling a bit invulnerable himself. “Now, as to my opinion. Thank you for asking, by the way,” he nodded at Panna, to his right. “Your Highness. Queen Panna.” He bowed his head low toward her, then made a point of looking across the table at Hap Stanson. Ward was sure he was not the only one who had noticed that the High Holy Reverend Father, always eager to be draped in his own golden titles, could manage only to call Panna “ma’am.”

  “I have promised you, my liege,” he said to Panna, “promised both you and the rightful King of Nearing Vast, your husband, that I would always tell you the truth as I see it. So here it is.” He raised his chin. “I believe it makes not one whit of difference whether you send the Fleet or keep it near, or chop it up and sell it for firewood.” He did not look at Moore Davies or either of the generals, but only at Panna as he spoke. “Because it is not a Fleet; it is a collection of merchant vessels with big guns stapled to their decks. If they can fish, let them fish. If they can hunt a valuable quarry, by all means let them do so. But we all know that the only way they could stop the Drammune is to double them all over in laughter.”

  Now he looked around the room. “Say, I’m particularly dry here,” he interrupted himself, holding his glass toward the steward, who came running. “Ah, thank you,” he said as the wine poured.

  “Prince Ward,” Panna said gently.

  “You may order me to be silent, my queen, but short of that, I’m bound to give you my advice.”

  She held her tongue.

  He swallowed half the glass. “Now, where were we?” He settled back in his chair. “Yes, the Fleet. Send it or save it, it doesn’t matter. The issue on the table is not Drammune or Achawuk, armor or firepower. The subject at hand is not about these things at all. None of them. It is all about power, pure and brutal. Gussied up, as I believe they say in the fishing villages, or tarted up, as they say in slightly more refined circles, but still raw, cold power.” Now he turned to Hap Stanson. “The issue on the table is really your power, sir, to be more precise.”

  Now the table went dark, as though candles had been snuffed. Father Stanson blanched, then shrugged breezily, the way one might when singled out by a clown hired to perform at a picnic.

  “Ward,” Panna warned.

  He looked at her. “I have not yet given you the truth as I see it. Nor have you ordered me to be silent.”

  “I ask you to consider your words carefully.”

  “Oh, I have considered them. Now, I would like you to consider them as well. I have watched my father do this man’s bidding my entire life.” He pointed at Hap Stanson. “I have seen this man pull secret strings on everything from taxes to the choice of tapestries that adorn these very walls. Why did my father care nothing for his throne, there at the end? Why did he sink into the soft comforts of lazy disillusionment? Because he had long ago lost his throne. He had lost it not to Mather, but to the High Holy Reverend Father and Supreme Elder of the Church of Nearing Vast!”

  “My dear man,” General Millian started.

  “I will be silent for the queen, but not for you,” Ward said, turning on him. “Nor for any other man here.” He waited. No one spoke. Eyes darted, stealing glances at the queen. She was stony, but silent. Ward nodded. “And here he sits again, weaving visions of dominance, drawing us all in, so that we might follow along. And for whom does he do such things? For the king? No, he won’t even call Packer Throme by that name, much less deign to bless his ascension. For the queen? Don’t be ridiculous. ‘Ma’am’ is the best he can do when addressing his monarch. For the Church? Ha! For God? Think again.”

  “Ward…” This time it was Father Stanson himself who warned the prince. His tone was fatherly. “I beg you, don’t say things here you will regret.”

  “Hap,” Ward countered, imitating his tone. “I promise you, I will not regret anything I am about to say. Let me ask you directly. For whom do you seek power? No, I can’t stand to hear you lie in front of these good people. I’ll show mercy, and answer for you. You seek it for yourself.” Now Ward looked around the table again. “Why did Mather not tell the Church that he had ascended to the crown? Why did my father not mention that little fact to the Supreme Elder himself? I’ll tell you. They kept it from him because they knew what I know, that this man poisons everything he touches, as he drags it into his lair, and puts it under his spell, and calls the evil result holy.”

  “You poor man,” Hap said gently. “In the words of St. Paul, ‘Being reviled, we bless.’ I forgive you for this delusion.”

  “I don’t want your forgiveness. It is no delusion.”

  “But my dear prince, I have never harmed either you or this kingdom.” Hap looked around the table. “I don’t need to defend myself here.” He looked at Panna, who did not come to his rescue. He grimaced. “I have always and ever advised kings and princes earnestly and with all the godly wisdom within my meager reach. My robes are spotless in this regard.”

  “Your robes.” Ward shook his head. “Sir, you sent your henchman to me, to convince me to undermine the king
and this queen.”

  “What are you talking about? I have done no such thing—”

  Ward stood suddenly, angrily, banging the table with his thigh, knocking over his water glass. “Look me in the eye and tell me that Usher Fell is not your toady! Tell me he doesn’t do everything you order him to do, good, evil, or in-between.”

  “Father Usher Fell is a respected teacher, and an elder of the seminary.”

  “And obedient to you.”

  “Of course, I am the Supreme Elder—”

  “Thank you for not lying. He’s your henchman.”

  “ ‘Henchman’ is a very strong word.”

  “Is it? He tried to convince me that you—no, that God wants me to take back the throne for the Sennetts.” All eyes swung over to Hap Stanson, whose look was serene. Even sorrowful. The poor prince, Hap’s demeanor suggested.

  “And then you spread lies about me,” Ward went on. “And that would be fine, because you could hardly make up enough of them to do justice to the many indiscretions of my life. But you went too far when you drew this young woman,” he pointed to Panna, “your queen, into your web. Yes, I know all about the rumors you started, spread from your sickbed. While you were soaking up the hospitality of this fine, Christian woman, you were at the very same time spreading your disease among the good citizens of this city, convincing them that she was somehow…involved…with me.”

  “Ward!” Panna was aghast. She had not heard this rumor, and this accusation seemed preposterous. Perhaps Ward had come unglued after all.

  But now the prince ignored her. “You would stain her good name in the vile ink of my own reputation. Tell me you did nothing of the sort. Go on. Tell us all.”

  “I did nothing of the sort, of course. Clearly, you wrestle with a guilty conscience—”

  “And just as clearly, you do not, to your shame.” He pulled from his pocket a scrap of parchment, folded over, stained with ale from the tray of a clumsy barmaid. He turned to Panna. “Here is his note to Usher Fell. It fell from that man’s pocket during my last meeting with him. It was found after he left the pub, after he had bought me ale and assured me of his undying loyalty to my bloodline. Shall I read it aloud? Or should I pass it around the table so that all may read it from your own hand?”

  Now the armor of the High Holy Reverend Father showed its first crack. “I know not what is written on that paper, but I assure you it is not from me, or if it is, there is nothing there to shame either myself or the Church.”

  “Perfect! Then I shall read it aloud with the confidence you are not ashamed of your handiwork.” Still standing, Ward threw the last of his wine down his throat, and ran his fingers through his hair once. His hands shook. “ ‘Father Fell, the rumors you have planted within the palace are succeeding in abundance, blessed by His Almighty hand. I have overheard workers here in the hospital say that the queen and the prince are secretly in love. If such is the talk in here, I can only imagine what they must be saying in the pubs.’ ”

  Ward glanced at his audience. “ ‘The rumors you have planted’!” he repeated. The expressions on every face were now of shock, or of disgust, as though some repugnant smell had just circulated through the room.

  Ward continued reading. “ ‘A further idea strikes me…you might remind the citizens of the many weeks our newlywed queen spent in the palace without her husband. Perhaps Panna’s devotion to Ward, and Mather’s resulting jealousy, would explain Mather’s clumsy advances? But you know better than I how to squeeze all the juice from such plums. It is a God-given talent, and I am grateful that you employ it in His service. As always, burn this note immediately upon receipt. Yours, HS.’ ”

  Stanson now sat upright, ramrod-straight. His face was almost as red as his wine. Ward held the note up. “For once, your toady did not do all you asked. The note survived. I think I shall pass this around the table now, sir, so that all here may see the flourish of your initials. They are a thing of beauty, by the way, the ‘H’ grand enough to stand for all of Hell, the ‘S’ for all that is Sinister.” He handed the paper to Panna, and sat down heavily.

  Panna looked at the note, scanning it quickly as though it might harm her if she lingered on it too long. She looked up, feeling ashamed, and not knowing why. “Did you write this?” she asked Hap.

  He was silent, brooding. Ward took the note from her and passed it to his left, to Moore Davies. Each guest reread the parchment in silence. All waited for the High Holy Reverend Father and Supreme Elder to say something, either to confess his remorse or to counter the claims, but he did neither. He sat stock-still, sweat beading on his brow, waiting his turn to read the note as though he were but another interested party. But as each man looked at it, Moore Davies, then Dog, Mack Millian, Zander Jameson, they looked up at Hap Stanson with an air of condemnation, the likes of which the cleric was thoroughly unaccustomed to receiving.

  “Do you admit that this is yours?” Jameson asked, turning to Hap on his left.

  “I have not seen it,” he answered.

  Jameson held it out to him. Hap took it, and immediately put it into the flame of the nearest candle.

  “You devil!” Ward exclaimed angrily, and dove across the table to wrench it from his hand, pulling the tablecloth, spilling wine and water everywhere. Once he had it in his hands again, he slapped the flame out against the tablecloth, and pocketed the paper.

  Panna stood to avoid the spilled wine, now spreading with a surge across the table, staining all it touched. With the queen standing, the rest of the men stood as well. All except the churchman. He could have managed to get up, with great effort, but the injuries both to his leg and his reputation conspired to keep him down.

  “God works in mysterious ways,” he said serenely. “And so does the Church. I appeal to you men,” he said, looking up at them. “Forget my methods for a moment, if you can. Look at the ends for which I have labored. Packer Throme is a good boy, I’m sure. He’s brave and humble. But he is in no way fit to be king. And this woman cannot even keep a dinner party from turning riotous. She is no queen. ‘A fine Christian woman,’ Prince Ward called her. And she may well be that, I do not know. But I would be surprised if the prince could recognize one. Most of the women he has known have been, shall we say, well known before.”

  “I will not allow you to talk like this—” General Millian began, but Panna cut him off.

  “No, let him speak. Let him have his say.” She didn’t say it in mercy, however. She knew he was hanging himself. And if any others here by chance agreed with him, then they would hang themselves as well.

  “Thank you…ma’am,” Hap’s voice dripped sarcasm. “As I was saying, this land needs a king who will rule, if not uprightly from his own moral sense, then at least by listening to reason, by taking good counsel from those who will respect God-given institutions. Those who will protect the Church.” He pointed at Panna. “This young woman has refused to protect the Church.”

  “From what?” Ward asked.

  Hap appeared to ignore the question, but in fact he only ignored the questioner. He also ignored the servants who now worked quickly between the standing guests to sop up wine and water with thick towels, and to remove broken glass. “Packer Throme lays claim to the blessings of God. Don’t you see what that means? He has short-circuited God’s holy plan, which He has laid out so clearly in His Scripture. Throme is not an elder. He is not a pastor. He has none of the gifts listed in our sacred texts. He is not even the lowliest of priests. He holds not one single credential that would justify his claims that God is with him. And yet he has the entire kingdom on its knees.”

  “If I recall, the same accusation was made against our Lord,” Ward countered.

  “And so the reprobate is now a theologian,” Hap said dryly, then ignored him again. “The knees of our citizens should bow to the king in submission, and to God at the altar, guided by His appointed and His anointed. If the Crown usurps the power of the Church, as happened in Varlotsville, then the Crown
will have the power to enslave the nation.”

  The servants now gave up on restoring order to the table, and began removing all the dishes, the candleholders, the centerpiece, and then folding the tablecloth up over the remaining mess.

  “But the ‘city on a hill’ you just described,” Millian interjected. “Jerusalem under King Solomon. What is that, if not the union of Church and State?”

  “But God must do it, you see? God’s man must be the king. And herein lies the problem. And the opportunity.”

  “Packer is the problem because he has no credentials?” Ward asked.

  Hap nodded.

  “But the opportunity…why, you could be king,” Ward offered. “You are God’s anointed, with more credentials than will fit on a scroll as long as your arm.”

  Hap said nothing. Millian nodded, as though finally understanding the situation. He looked at Jameson, who looked at Panna. Panna watched both men, and waited. “Excuse me,” General Millian said, and left the room abruptly.

  “He’s seen many physical battles,” Hap said, watching the general leave, “but apparently he hasn’t the stomach for spiritual warfare. And that’s what this is. God saved me from the beast and the fire for this purpose, gentlemen, marking my own trials,” here he pulled aside his hair to show the nasty scar, still scabbed, above his left ear, “marking my head to counter the claims of that pretender and his scarred right hand. God did this that I may come before you now, and appeal in His name that you do the right thing.”

  “And what is the right thing, pray tell?” Ward asked.

  Still he would not look at Ward. “Depose this woman and her absent husband. What say you, General Jameson? Admiral Davies? With your help, with the strength of your army, and what navy we can muster, tomorrow will bring a new day, the dawn of the City of God.”

  General Millian returned just then with Stave Deroy and two fellow dragoons. He stood silently as Stave walked up to Hap Stanson and took him by the arm. “You’re to come with me, sir.”