The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  But Packer was not in heaven quite yet.

  He floated, barely conscious, aware of the life flowing from him. Talon hadn’t taken his head as she had intended. She had paused for some reason. She had hesitated long enough for Delaney’s sword to find her. But the wound was a razor cut, and it was deep, and it was clean. Blood flowed. He could not stop it. His heart would pump his own blood into the water until there was nothing left for his heart to pump.

  Just a moment more, he thought. Just one calm moment more, and then he’d struggle for his last breath. For Panna’s sake he would not easily abandon this life. For Nearing Vast, that they would not lose another king. For Delaney, and Marcus, and Cap and Hen and Dog and all the rest. He would struggle one more time.

  Then Packer saw the flash, felt the tingle of dissipated electricity. Through the murk he saw the severed head of a Firefish slowly rotate away astern, its eyes still open, its mouth agape, its teeth prepared for a kill. Blood, or something like it, floated from its neck in the water. Then he saw the severed body follow along like a writhing snake.

  Now the Achawuk reached him, jostled him, surrounding him. A strong hand on his back pushed him under. It was not an unkind or heartless act, he felt. It was firm, and knowing. This was the warrior’s duty. Packer held his neck with both hands, feeling the water wash through the gash, stinging from the salt, pulling it open. His hands shook as they clung to his own neck, as a solid mass of warriors enclosed the surface over him, cutting off the light. Then spears echoed, striking the hull of the Chase. To struggle for life now, fighting upward against the Achawuk, would be fatal. To do nothing would also be fatal. But there was nothing left for him to do. He closed his eyes and darkness overtook him.

  The big beast’s momentum took it far behind the Chase, and then it turned, looked down, scanning for more predators. Seeing none, it swam back, looking upward, searching out the Presence.

  The Presence was gone, only the other morsels remained…had the light gone away?

  But no, there it was, descending, separating itself from the morsels. With a flick of its tail the beast was face to face with the Presence, looking up at it from below. But the Presence would not look. Its eyes were closed. Its fins were not moving. The blood was thick. And suddenly, the beast knew…the Presence was dying.

  Packer opened his eyes as he let out a lingering breath. He felt no need for air. He felt only peace. Perhaps he had already drunk in the Sea, he thought. This was a peaceful death, this drowning. Through the bubbles, through the murk, he saw. There was the beast. His beast. That face. It was huge, filling his vision. Its misshapen head, its jaw jutting spiked teeth, its skin glowing yellow—none of these were frightening now. He knew this creature. He knew this face. The questioning, the yearning. The joy. And now, the sadness.

  Packer stretched his hand down toward it, to comfort it, and the beast moved closer in an instant. It flicked its tail again, and the gap was closed. It lowered its head, and pressed its triangular forehead into Packer’s hand. Yellow fire moved around his hand, needles of electricity shot through him, but they were warm, numbing, even pleasant. He put both hands on its head. The scales were soft, somehow, almost silky, amid these fiery needles.

  He closed his eyes, pleased to have been given this moment, here, now, just at the end.

  The touch of the Presence!

  Those little fins, they were unlike any other the beast had ever known. They were alive, intelligent, as though each one had knowledge dwelling in it, as though they were smaller creatures within the small creature. All that was the Presence shone through those fins, came through that touch. A strange joy rose within the beast. Here was the Master. Here was the One it had sought. This was the One it would love and serve forever. Those fins were made to touch the Firefish, and the Firefish was made to revel in that touch.

  Packer’s hands went limp as the bulbous head pressed up into his chest. In the darkness he felt needles go through him, painful, warming. The beast was pushing him up, up toward the light. He let go of all claims, and ceased his struggle. He rested now as the light engulfed him. He saw Panna here, in the light. He saw her face, and he heard her laugh. He touched her hair. He held her, kissed her gently on the cheek.

  And then the light overwhelmed him, and Panna was gone.

  He was dreaming now. He must be, because now he saw his mother. She was young, and radiant. She sat on a beach, on a big blanket in the sand. The sun shown down warm, illuminating the radiance of her face, and he walked toward her. No, he rode toward her. He was on his father’s shoulders, holding tight. He was a small child with his little arms wrapped around his father’s head, his tiny hands pressed into his father’s forehead as the great and laughing man beneath him boomed and bounced and rose up out of the sea. He carried Packer high, and now little Packer laughed, the sun shining down, the breeze cool on his skin, his mother waiting happy, laughing on the beach, her eyes bright. Packer tasted the salt sea, smelled his father’s matted hair, and rested his chin on top of that great, strong head. And the world was utterly right and perfect. Nothing was missing. Nothing was broken. All was in place, just as it should be. Joy filled his little heart, his mind, his lungs. And he laughed.

  Here, finally, this was what he longed for! This was what he sought. Just this, and nothing more. All good. All right.

  The beast rose from the water.

  Achawuk warriors made way, sliding away, swimming backward in sudden panic. A man with the Firefish. Rising from the sea. Rising with the beast.

  The Achawuk were stunned. They ceased attacking, and stared.

  “Tannan-thoh-ah!” one cried, halfway up the hull of the Chase, his foot on one spear, his hand on another. Delaney shot him through the neck. He tumbled to the water. No warrior took his place, as all now watched man and beast. Delaney turned to see.

  The beast rose higher.

  Packer rode high in the air now, the breeze cold on his skin within his sodden clothing. His eyes fluttered open. Where was he? He was on the Firefish. He was holding it tight, his arms around the crown of its head, his hands on its forehead, his feet against its dorsal fins. He kept rising, ten feet, twenty. The fire from the beast…he couldn’t feel it now. But he felt alive, awake, and alert. But surely it was a dream.

  The Presence!

  Oh, the Presence rode high now, in honor! A crown of glory!

  A thrill went through the beast. The light was strong again, the Presence was powerful. The Firefish carried the Presence on its head, just like Deep Fin had done! And within the Presence, draped around the beast, filling it, was all the strength of light and all its joy. And now, here, wrapped around its head, this tiny morsel seemed not small at all. It was enormous, as large as all the sea, as great as all the world, brighter than the Great Light from above. The Presence, it now knew, should be raised up, must be raised up. It must be raised as high as Deep Fin raised it.

  And so the Firefish, its body undulating below the waters, rose still higher.

  And it reveled in its moment.

  The man had become the glory of the beast.

  And the Achawuk knew it.

  “Tannan-thoh-ah!” cried another warrior. This was Zhintah-Hoak, the elder. He could see it. He could feel it. The beast gloried in the presence of the man. “Tannan-thoh-AHH!” he called, a ringing cry this time, his voice clear and full and pristine. The thunderous sounds of the Firefish attack on the Vast and the Drammune faded away behind. The rampage of the beasts had ended. Silence engulfed them all, silence except for the single phrase that echoed across the mayak-aloh.

  And now every Achawuk warrior on the hulls of the Chase, on the Marchessa, and on the Kaza Fahn, every warrior who saw, ceased climbing, ceased fighting. Instead, they dove back into the sea. Every warrior in the water, on shore, all who heard, swam toward Packer and the beast. Every one of them repeated now the phrase.

  “Tannan-thoh-AHH! Tannan-thoh-AHH!”

  Packer watched as the phrase was spoken, shouted, repea
ted, rippling outward, turning every head, focusing every eye on him, and on the beast.

  Dayton Throme saw it. He heard the chant. He stood. He felt dizzy. He sat again. But he did not take his eyes off the scene below. Dayton Throme, the rek-tahk-ent, knew exactly what this meant to the Achawuk. The beast rose, stately, as though it knew precisely what it was doing, and why. This was the Mastery. The master-knowing.

  On the beach he saw warriors lighting torches. He heard them repeat the words, the phrase, the master-knowing. They had seen it; they were witnesses. They spoke the words, not in a chant, but each man, each woman, each child reciting it alone, isolated, but merged together into a murmur, a fluid, lilting, lyrical sound that was almost a song, but was not quite. And as they did, they took their torches into the canoes. They sat, one man, or one child with a torch in each canoe, canoes already laden with that black substance, so full they barely floated. They paddled these canoes out into the waters, taking the fire with them.

  Those left ashore took burning branches, logs, anything ablaze, down to the water’s edge, and there they doused them in the mayak-aloh.

  And the Achawuk swam, they all swam toward the man, and toward the beast. And they spoke the phrase. They invoked the end of the world.

  But the other Firefish, Dayton wondered…where did they go? They had ceased their merciless attack. They went back under the surface. But why? Dayton Throme worried. They would not be gone for long. Nothing stopped them when they fed, until there was nothing left on which to feed.

  Huk Tuth lay prostrate and dazed on the defeated decks of the Kaza Fahn. An Achawuk spearhead protruded from his skull behind his left ear, still attached to two feet of shattered wooden shaft. He had been cut or nicked in twenty places before one warrior had buried a spear in his shoulder, stopping him just long enough for another to deliver this one to his head. Tuth had fallen to the deck unconscious, just as a Drammune sailor severed the Achawuk warrior’s head as penalty for his misdeed.

  Huk Tuth, however, was as hardheaded as any man alive, and had lived through horrors that would have killed six other men by now. He was not ready to part with life just because a spear had pierced his skull. He opened his eyes, and looked dimly out over the sea from where he lay. He was tired, bone-tired with a deep exhaustion to which he longed to give himself. But before he could, he had to know the outcome. What had happened? Did Talon live?

  He saw the yellow hair. He saw him riding atop the Firefish. The commander closed his eyes. He opened them again. He saw the same.

  Knowing the import of this, understanding in a primal way the devastation such a thing would wreak on his homeland, the Vast commanding Firefish, he forced himself awake. He spat out blood. He sat up, wheezing, wincing in pain. He felt the weight on his neck, something pulling on his head. He found the spear with his hands, pulled it from his skull. He looked at it, saw blood on the blade. He tossed it aside. He held stubby fingers to the wound. Fighting dizziness, he looked through the rail, saw Achawuk swimming toward this King of the Vast. They were lauding this vile, simple, ignoble youth who tormented Huk Tuth’s very spirit.

  Tuth turned his eyes to the great Vast ship, the Trophy Chase. He blinked, and winced. It seemed to be listing, angling toward him. But few sails were set, and those that were set, luffed in the breeze. Good riddance, he thought. He blinked blood from eyes he could no longer trust. He scanned the Chase’s decks for Talon, but he did not see her. Dead, he hoped. But somehow he doubted.

  He looked around his own decks. Drammune and Achawuk bodies lay scattered. The few living were all Drammune, and now they gathered, limping, bleeding at the rails, watching. The Achawuk had not finished the job.

  “Charnak!” Tuth mumbled, blood and spittle dripping from his lower lip. He was surprised at his own lethargy. Why was he so tired? Why couldn’t he get his mouth to work? And why didn’t his men shoot the yellow hair? “Charnak,” he said, trying to speak more loudly. But it came out more softly yet, barely a breath. No one heard.

  He lowered himself back to the deck as black spots flooded his vision, growing into deep, empty holes. Dizziness overcame him. Charnak, he thought. He put his forehead on the deck, and a dark, warm rest washed over him.

  The feeding frenzy started just astern of the Chase, where the severed head of the Firefish floated to the surface. It started with a single splash, water churning as it might if several children played tag near a shore. A Firefish tail flipped up, then fell, and then great jaws took the head, and pulled it under.

  And suddenly, chaos erupted.

  The smell of this new blood, the blood of one of their own, brought the other beasts in a mass. It stopped them where they were, ended their attack on the storm creatures. The beasts that had attacked the ships and had then wallowed in their wreckage and their tatters, that had crushed and crunched these storm creatures, that had strained the surface of the meaty morsels, were not yet sated.

  And now, this scent drove them to a higher plane of frenzy.

  CHAPTER 21

  Ashes

  Father Stanson entered the chapel, and limped quickly to the altar rail. He felt almost giddy. He was safe now. Not even the queen would dare to pull him from this place. He had sanctuary! He had escaped. He knelt, and put his elbows on the rail. He bowed his head.

  Someone coughed, a sick sound, full of phlegm. He looked to his right. There at the rail, tucked in next to the wall, was a young man in a ragged priest’s garb. No, it was a student’s green robe.

  “Son, are you all right?”

  The young man raised his head. He looked with hollow eyes. “I’ve done it, Father. No food, and little water. Much prayer. I have fulfilled my mission.”

  “What mission was that?”

  His eyes searched Hap’s. “The one you gave me.”

  Hap furrowed his brow. “The one I gave you?” He shook his head. The young man was clearly not in his right mind.

  And now the boy’s look caved in, as though a great sorrow took him. “The burning forest. I…drank bad water. I walked until I couldn’t walk…I crawled. I prayed for hours every day. I have eaten nothing. I have spoken to no man. Am I…purified?”

  Hap Stanson looked around him, hoping some priest would appear to help rid him of this crazy person. He doubted now that the boy was even a student here. “Well, bless you in your hour of need.” Hap bowed his head again, to pray in thanksgiving that he had been rescued, had found sanctuary.

  The boy coughed again. He laid his cheek on the altar rail. “Have I fulfilled my mission?” he croaked.

  “Only God knows,” Hap said sweetly.

  And then Lester Mine collapsed, rolling onto his back. His breathing was labored. The High Holy Reverend Father and Supreme Elder stood, glanced around, then walked to the boy. He knelt over him. And now, finally, the memory came back. The boy who had come on horseback, with the message that Packer Throme had ascended to the throne. The one who fought on the Green for Packer. Stanson hardly recognized him as the same young man. “Poor wretch,” he said. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

  He thought about going to find help, but he could not leave the altar. Only at the altar was there sanctuary for him. As he looked at the young man, he felt for the first time that he might be somewhat accountable here. But instead of calling out for help, he prayed for the soul of the boy, hoping in a quiet, darkened place deep in his heart that Lester Mine would simply die, and release them both from his suffering.

  There were hundreds of the beasts at the surface, hundreds more below. And they all rushed now for this new feast. As they did, they jostled for position. One bit the carcass, another fought it for a share and bit into the first one’s hide. The first one turned to bite and gashed a third. And as they all converged in hunger, then in anger, they also joined in the fight.

  There were Vast and Drammune sailors still alive in the water. They had been there, panicked, terror-stricken, waiting for the tail or the teeth that would end them, and then suddenly they were unw
anted. The Firefish left them. The Achawuk ignored them, swimming away. They had no fight in them, nor had they been ordered to fight one another even if they had. Re-energized, they swam for all they were worth for shore. Any shore.

  The beast with the fair-haired crown of glory saw the melee begin. It looked past the three storm creatures still afloat, past the great Deep Fin. All its instincts told it this new danger was unlike any other. Here was Firefish against Firefish. Nothing would be safe. They would attack the beast. The Presence would be in danger. Suddenly the beast felt vulnerable. The Presence should not be here. The Deep Fin, that’s where the Crown belonged. And so the beast moved forward in the water, rose, and approached the head of Deep Fin.

  It rose up to the bowsprit. Packer leaped easily. His body felt light as a feather, hard as granite. He landed with easy grace on the jutting prow, grasping the guy lines for balance. His head was clear, his eyes sharp. He turned, and the beast looked at him one more time, eyes wide. Packer saw both joy and sorrow there. He reached out his right hand and touched the beast once more, a stroke between its eyes. It bowed its head, moved it back and forth against his hand. He felt no needles, no sting, just warmth. Packer pulled his hand away, and the beast sank down, disappearing below the waves.

  Packer stood again at the prow, but this time there were no cheers. Most of the sailors did not see him. They were gathered at the stern, watching the brutal display of the feeding frenzy. But some aboard did see. Delaney. Stitch. Mutter Cabe. And of course, Father Mooring. These all stared at him. They would forever swear that he glowed with the fire of the beast, that his skin blazed just as bright and golden as any Firefish scales.

  Delaney, pistol still in his hand, sword stuck in his belt, watched with his brow furrowed into crags, shaking his head. But when Packer caught his eye, Delaney grinned. It was him—it was Packer after all, and not some apparition. “Welcome back,” he said.