The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  And when it went closer in the night, when no one saw, it found there at the head, where the face of the creature should be, no face at all.

  And yet, there was a presence. At night under the stars, a sense of light shone yet. It emanated, though it was not the same. There was a warmth at the head of the creature. And it was good. But it was not the presence the Firefish longed for and remembered.

  And it did remember. It recalled the joy it felt, flying below, then leaping up! Up into the nothing, into the Great Light! Like a flying creature, arcing high above that source of light! Yes, it remembered well the master…and it sought the master.

  And then, as it swam along beneath Deep Fin, with storm creatures all above, a strange thing occurred. Another Firefish, swimming in the same direction, came alongside, too. A sense of desire, a pull, a wanting came with it, a yearning toward a place the Firefish knew, somehow, but did not remember. And so the Firefish went along. And then more Firefish came. They traveled deep, deep under water where no surface creatures ever saw. And up above, Deep Fin swam. It not only swam along, it led! Deep Fin was leading, taking Firefish to the place they must go.

  And other Firefish joined. And then many more. And then the beast grew worried. These others circled underneath Deep Fin. They hunted. And so the beast felt it must protect. It must keep them from Deep Fin. So the beast gave off its clicks and sounds, it warned the others. This was not their prey! And the others heeded.

  The Firefish felt strength. And soon it led the school of Firefish, as Deep Fin led it, to the warm compelling place, where it had never been. It ran on ahead, ahead even of Deep Fin, leading where the Deep Fin led. And all the beasts then followed into these great, still waters.

  And there within the place, the Firefish gathered. And the beast now understood. Now it remembered. It had been here, long before. Long, long ago, when it was very young, and water itself was new, and the feel of the sea on its skin was like lightning and light…there was a place, this place…

  And here the great beast found comfort among its kind. Deep Fin above, its own below. And prey, much prey, other storm creatures, swam above. Feeding would be plentiful. This was a good place.

  Until…the hunger and the poison came at once. The scent of blood changed everything. It drove deep into the great beast, into all the Fish, the red spike in the belly, but with it, poison at the surface, seeping down. Not poison like the burning, not the deadly sickness poison, but bad enough, enough to keep them all away, uneasy, restless, unwilling to attack or kill, and swimming in a great circle, a hunting circle, waiting.

  Then the storm creatures came throwing lighting, thunder. And then the blood came, blood and blood and blood, with poison keeping them all away, holding them all back.

  And then the madness came. At first it was a high and thin whine, a frustration, then a grinding of teeth and stinging barbs into the skin…And then a spike into the belly that reached up to the brain, and it seared, seared with desire, desire that could not be fulfilled. The heat of the kill, fresh meat to eat, blood in the water, poison on the surface, thunder and lightning…

  They would attack. They would all attack. The one Firefish knew this, and it watched Deep Fin. But Deep Fin was now surrounded by the pack. A storm creature on either side, and blood, fresh meat, flowing, pouring down with poison…the other Firefish would not wait. They would attack Deep Fin.

  And then the morsels began to rain down on them. Oh, the feeding! The feasting! Oh, it must begin. It must!

  The beast flew in circles like the others, maddened, but it had one more desire. A desire the other beasts did not, a desire that opened in its mind like the Great Light streaming from above. It circled underneath its master, circling and circling, not to attack, but to protect. It would keep all others away. It clicked, and dove, it lunged, it bit…

  But the madness, the madness grew!

  The beast could not protect Deep Fin.

  And so it rose. It rose with yearning, wanting that light, wanting to warn, to comfort, to find comfort. It rose from the water into the nothingness, and there, there where the presence ought to be…it was!

  But wait.

  There was another presence here. Another face. A darkness worse than all the darkness in the meaty little lump. A great, great darkness.

  And the darkness contended with the light.

  “Speak to it! Command it!”

  Packer saw the beast, the Firefish, watching, waiting. But he did not speak to it. He thanked his God, and closed his eyes and prayed. He prayed again the prayer he’d been given, the good prayer, the simple prayer that was given to him. And this was it: God, reveal Yourself. Show Your power. Make all things right.

  In his mind now, as he prayed, he saw the cup again. But now his own hand no longer poured it. Talon’s hand was gone as well. A light shone down, all around, and no ship burned, no cauldron boiled. The crucible was water, red from blood that poured, but turning clear. Another hand now poured the cup, a hand pierced through, scarred jagged by a spike. And on the cup the names were gone, and instead there was an inscription. The words were in Drammune. The first was large, carved deeply into the wood. It said, “Ixthano.” And then three words Packer did not know, smaller, were carved beneath:

  “Anochter Nem Omas.”

  And the blood that poured calmed the waters. The blood turned the dark, stained water clear, and pure. And the beasts settled to the bottom, scattered, and disappeared. The blood cleansed the water.

  Talon screamed with rage. “Command it, now!”

  Packer turned to Talon, his hands sliding easily from under hers as he stood balanced on the bowsprit. She stepped back. Her eyes were wild. “What are you doing? Command it!” Spittle flew.

  He looked at her calmly. She was not in control of herself. And at that moment he knew, absolutely, that he could defeat her.

  He turned toward the beast.

  Then he turned back to her. He held up his hands, held them out by his sides, palms up, balanced on the bowsprit. “No,” he said, and shook his head. “Only God will command this beast.”

  Without a conscious thought, her knife was in her hand. “You will!” she ordered him.

  Packer felt sorrow. “I will not.”

  Talon saw the pity. It enraged her further. She raised her knife backhanded, bringing her right fist to her left shoulder; she paused for only a moment, the idea flashing in her mind that she would kill her path to power. But now she knew he would not provide that path, and she would need to find it on her own.

  “Fool!” she sneered. And then she swung the blade at his throat.

  Packer saw Talon’s blade, like a musketball let fly, like an arrow shooting from a crossbow. He saw it coming, but he did not back away. He raised his head, exposing his neck. He closed his eyes, obeying not Talon, but God. Resisting neither God, nor Talon. Understanding now precisely what it meant to turn the other cheek. To wait on God, to persevere, to live by faith. To die by faith, faithful to the end. To humble oneself, even unto death.

  Packer felt the sting of the blade. It was a deep cut, as a mishandled paring knife slices through a finger to the bone. He heard a tear, a garment ripping, and a gasp. He opened his eyes. Talon stood before him, her eyes wide, locked onto his, as though accusing him of some horrible crime. She held her blade out to the side, in her right hand, point up. He looked at it. It dripped his blood. Packer put his right hand to his neck. He felt the warmth of his own blood cooling on his fingers. And then Talon looked down at her belly.

  Packer saw the blade of a sword, a stained and marred broadsword, red now, protruding from below her ribs, below her heart. And then it disappeared.

  Talon dropped her knife. It tumbled to the waves and was swallowed silently by the sea. She put her right hand on her open wound. She cupped her hand, and it filled with blood.

  “Eyna tchomal,” she said, her voice a breath escaping. My child.

  At that moment the ship was rocked. A Firefish struck the Trophy Ch
ase.

  The beast did not strike to destroy, not with the light shining. It would not destroy, not even with the darkness swallowing the light. But in that moment, wanting the master’s light, needing the Deep Fin to flee, it reacted. In frustration it flicked its tail, and struck Deep Fin a thundering blow.

  And the presence fell. The morsel of light plummeted downward. Immediately, the beast followed.

  Under the water, the beast smelled the blood.

  Talon fell onto the deck, landing with an ugly thud on her back. She lay in agony, her face contorted, her eyes tightly closed. Father Mooring knelt beside her, his hands already at the wound, ripping away the leathers. Delaney stood at the rail close by the bowsprit, red sword in his hand, peering forlornly overboard at a few small bubbles, a pocket of smooth water and, below the surface, the scaly skin of a Firefish disappearing underneath the ship.

  “I believe the blade has pierced your kidney,” the priest told her gently, his calm voice near her tortured face. “But it missed your womb.”

  Her pain seemed to subside some. She wondered how he knew about the child. But of course, she had cried out. Talon opened her eyes, saw Delaney turning toward her from the rail. His look was grim, and deadly. She’d underestimated him. No, no, she had not. He was fully capable. She knew that. But she had given him the opening. She had been distracted. A lapse in vigilance.

  She almost laughed at herself. She had wanted all the power in the world, the weapon that would rule mankind. And she had forgotten, for one moment, the damage one idiot could do, one fool with a single blade. And now he had done it. And he had undone it all.

  Delaney loomed over her, bloody sword still dripping in his hand. She saw no mercy in his eyes, no regret.

  “Ye stupid witch,” he said. “You’ve kilt the king. You’ve kilt us all.” And with that he pulled his pistol.

  “Not here, Delaney,” Father Mooring said, looking up from the fallen woman’s wound. He pushed the barrel away with a stubby finger, so it was no longer aimed at Talon’s head. He waved him away backhanded, as though shooing a small child.

  Delaney grimaced, but relented. “Missed her heart, and that’s a pity,” he said, wiping the blade on his pant leg. “Size of a butter bean anyways, I wouldn’t doubt.” He stuck his sword back in his belt. He was content to let her die slowly.

  As Delaney went back to the rail to look again for Packer, Father Mooring ripped the hem off his own robe, tore that in two, and folded each piece into a cloth he could press against her bleeding wounds, front and back.

  Talon closed her eyes, and nodded as this strange little priest of the Vast God administered mercy where it was least deserved.

  The pack could not be stayed. It attacked now, almost as one. Drawn to the blood that poured from above, from Achawuk, Drammune, and Vast, maddened by prey that beckoned and poison that repelled, the Firefish gave in to frustration and their need to feed. One flew upward, then another, and then they were all on the attack, each one a predator lunging at its prey like a falcon diving on a lamb in a pasture.

  A hundred Firefish flew upward, and in their ravenous madness, they went straight for the strength of the pack, the heart of the herd, eschewing the stragglers, attacking both Drammune and Vast where ships were gathered thick and close. They flew straight up. They angled upward, streaks of yellow fire. They drove for their prey horizontally. They hit hulls amidships. They struck fore, they struck aft. They came cracking up through decks. One after another they hit in rapid succession, each strike a crash of thunder, booming across the waters. They were cannon firing, fireworks throwing off sparks and debris, one, two, three, four, then two at once, then three at once, then half a dozen simultaneously, then too many to count.

  They ravaged what was left of Rake’s Parry, Danger, Candor, destroying decks already picked clean of souls by the Achawuk. They demolished the bloodied and deserted decks of the Hezza Charn, and Ganda Flez, Chammando, Herza Ko, Devah Lak, Zoray Dando…all ghost ships already, now ground to splinters. They struck Campeche, and Swordfish, Wellspring, and Poy Marroy. Gasparella, Homespun, Bonny Ann. Zuka Lohr, Exandam, Fendo Maron. All had come to prey on the beasts, and all were destroyed by their quarry. Men leapt from decks, seeking safety. But there was none.

  A dozen Drammune warships, mighty vessels, were churned to flotsam in this mad rush for satiation. The Firefish struck and kept on striking, sailing through canvas, flying into the air amid the rigging, snapping masts, flashing lightning and throwing off a hail of wreckage that rained down even as the beasts did, crashing back onto decks, through hulls, into dark, agitated waters. Their return to the seas threw off walls of foam and liquid, thick with blood and men and ruin.

  The beasts consumed the dead; they inhaled the living.

  Dayton Throme watched, an overwhelming sense of horror finally settling into bleak, dark misery, a despair from which he felt his heart would not recover. His fever, he knew, had returned. But he was not hallucinating.

  He had predicted this, somehow. He had been the harbinger. He was in truth the rek-tahk-ent. The foreteller, the one who comes before. This was his prophecy, fulfilled. Somehow, as he watched, he felt this was his doing, as though, if he had but died, if he had not been spared when all others aboard were killed, this would never have happened. If he had not fought. If he had not pulled the tooth and wielded it as a blade, he would have died, and none of this would have come to be. If he had listened to his wife. Dear Netessa, his beloved. She had tried to tell him. His fellow fishermen. Dog, a wiser man than he’d known. If only Dayton had never sought the Firefish…

  He closed his eyes. Nothing could repair this damage. No grace could cover such great tragedy. The world was indeed ended.

  Delaney turned to watch as the seas erupted, mesmerized as a hundred streaking missiles battered the ships astern, flying through them into the air, echoes booming across the sea.

  “What’s all that thunderin’ racket?” Stitch asked, raising his head from his bloody work. The old surgeon had joined Father Mooring’s thus-far-futile effort to stanch Talon’s bleeding. The entry wound was wide and ragged. Delaney’s blade had ripped her open from behind, pelvis to ribs, as it sought her heart. Stitch had stuffed his pile of rags into the wound, but there was little left to do.

  Delaney’s voice was low, resigned now to defeat. “That, sir, is the sound of the end.”

  “The end of what?”

  “Well, of everything, I reckon.”

  The beast trailed the morsel of light, watching as it bobbed under the storm creature, underneath Deep Fin. And the morsel trailed blood. All its instincts warred against all its greatest desires. This was prey. This was food. This was the Presence. This was Deep Fin. The beast came close, drawn by every base impulse to devour. But the closer it came, the brighter the sense of the Presence.

  It saw the attack begin. Firefish from below were flying upward. It swung its head downward, eyes scanning, scanning, looking for the Firefish that would dare attack Deep Fin, dare accost the Presence. And one came…a smaller one, young, separating itself from the pack, not wanting to compete for meat, thinking Deep Fin a straggler. It was quick and nimble, streaking toward the belly of the great storm creature. This little one sensed the morsel, smelled the blood, and veered straight for the Presence.

  Angered to fury in a moment, the great beast propelled itself with one enormous arcing of its body, and circled to intercept, gaining speed in a fraction of an instant, now coiling, now striking out horizontally. It met the small one, caught it in its great jaws, caught it just behind the head. The smaller beast’s bones crushed easily. It came in two.

  And then the big beast turned again, looking upward, seeking once again the tiny, light-filled creature. The Presence floated, facedown. Many swimming morsels, other tiny creatures, now surrounded it.

  Delaney looked down into the water, saw the Achawuk approaching. They were finished with the Kaza Fahn. A few Drammune fought on, but not many. The Achawuk were on the move.
Ignoring the destruction astern, they were intent on their next victims. The Chase had drifted away some, but not enough. The warriors were in the water, a solid mass of them headed toward her. They were almost on her hull now, swimming hard.

  Now, finally, Delaney saw Packer’s back as it rose to the surface, saw his friend and king floating face down. The Achawuk would reach him in a moment. He pulled his pistol, aimed at the nearest one and fired.

  “Get me a line!” he called. “Packer’s down there!” And he climbed the rail. If he could jump in, he might save Packer, if someone could fish them both out quickly.

  But Mutter grabbed his shirt. “Ye ain’t goin’ down there, Delaney.”

  He looked around the decks and saw only blank, dark looks, sailors torn asunder within by the scale of the destruction astern, the demise of their king, the devastation of the Achawuk off their rails. There was no hope in them. No one shouted any orders. Andrew Haas was not on deck, nor was Stil Meander. Those who had kept their senses fired down into the Achawuk. Those who had not, watched, or knelt, or wept, praying for the end.

  Delaney looked back down, and saw the Achawuk overtake Packer. They pushed him under. Just another body, another small nuisance. They swam over him, swarmed over him.

  Delaney’s heart cried out. His king was gone.

  The hammering of spears began.

  “Knowed it!” Delaney complained morosely from the rail. Still with one leg hooked over the gunwale, he reloaded. His eyes swam, his fingers trembled. But he, at least, would go down fighting. “Knowed it, knowed it, knowed it. I blame knowed we’d lose as soon as Packer started listenin’ to that witch.” He rammed a ball home, his anger bringing him out of his darkness. He considered putting this musket ball right through Talon’s skull. He saw her eyes closed tight, her body trembling. He would not cut short her agony. Hezzan, aye, sure…he thought. ’Bout as much Hezzan as me. Then he aimed over the rail, squinting through bleary eyes, and pulled the trigger, sending the ball through the brain of an Achawuk warrior. He began to reload again, straining to see. He would shoot until they were on him, and then he’d fight until his sword arm gave way. And then he’d see Packer in heaven. The sooner the better.