Packer paused only a moment, then held the sword hilt toward Delaney. “I hope you came prepared to kill.”
Delaney blanched, as though it was the first time it had occurred to him that Packer might actually not fight. “You’re a young man, with a life ahead of you. You’d die for the Captain, just like that?”
Packer shook his head. “Just doing what’s right.”
Delaney scratched his head. “What’s right? Captain keelhauled you. Witch tortured you.” Another thought occurred to him. “Oh, you’re scared of them, I bet. Well, there’s no need for that. Captain’s captured. Lund Lander, Stedman Due, they’re with us. And Talon’s gone. Just a few officers yet, like that miserable Jonas Deal who shoved you overboard.”
“Talon’s gone? Gone where?”
“Captain put her off the ship.”
Packer’s scalp crawled. His head buzzed as though a swarm of locusts had enveloped him. “Off the ship?”
“Sure, no need to fear her now.”
Packer felt panic. “But where did she go?”
“Easy, sonny. Gone back to shore. That’s why we made free to take over. Without her sword and her witchcraft, why, we got this thing about done.”
“But why did she go ashore?” Packer demanded. He felt the ship move under him.
“Who cares? Captain sent her on some mission or other.”
Packer stepped backward, sat hard on his putrid bench, oblivious to the pain that shot through his shoulder. Talon had sworn an oath to kill everyone who mattered to him. Panna! He had to stop Talon. But how? What was the best path?
“You all right?”
Packer didn’t answer. He needed to think. Should he join up with Delaney and his mutiny? Would that help? No, Captain Wilkins was likely the only person who could command Talon. Packer closed his eyes. How could he make all this stop? It was as though he had started a boulder rolling down a mountain toward his own village, and toward Panna. He hadn’t meant to hurt anyone in the village; he’d meant to help. But the boulder was rolling downhill anyway, and he couldn’t stop it.
He could not stand the thought of Talon leering at Panna, as she had at him. Talon hurting Panna. It was Packer’s fault, irrevocably and absolutely.
“Sonny. There’s a mutiny on here.”
Now Packer smiled at the sailor. It was a resigned smile, because he knew what he would do. He had been willing, in the barrel, to live or to die, however God intended it. When he was keelhauled, he had been willing to let God take him as he drowned. He had been willing to die at Talon’s hand, when God stepped in and bargained for him. And all those years ago, he had been willing to be humiliated by Dog. In each case, though, he had had little choice but to submit.
But in every case where he had had any power, he had used it. He had fought against the priest who had tried to hurt that girl. He had faced down Dog. He had not surrendered to the Captain in the storeroom, not until death was imminent. And now, now he had another chance. He had the clearest choice God could possibly put in front of him. Fight or die. Resist, or resist not, evil. It was obvious what he should do.
But it was equally obvious that he would not do it. He would not submit now, not with Talon loose. Could God stop her? Yes. Would He? Perhaps. But how could Packer not try? How could he not fight for her, stay alive for the chance to save her?
No, he would not let himself be killed. He would resist. He would fight Delaney…for her. Because with all the punishment he had taken, with all the weakness he’d endured in chains, he still wanted to return a hero. Her hero. He didn’t want to die here, even if God would know, even if God would smile down on him for it. God would know, but she would not. And she would weep.
He wanted, more than anything, to go back to the bench in her house, back to where he left her, hold her close again, kiss her again, and never let her go. If he laid down his weapon now, spread his arms wide, accepted Delaney’s sword, all manner of things would change, certainly for him they would change for the better. He would be in heaven. But one thing was sure beyond the slightest doubt…there would be no more kisses.
And in a blinding flash, as though the sun shone on his very soul, Packer knew exactly what it meant to “resist not evil,” and why it was absolutely required. It meant choosing God over all else. It meant sacrificing all things for God, and God alone. It meant trusting that the outcome would be God’s doing, and not one’s own; it meant there would be no doubt that whatever the result, it was God’s hand at work and only God’s hand. It was laying down this life and taking up the next.
“You ’bout done thinkin’?”
“Yes. I’m ready.” Packer now understood Adam in the Garden, with Eve and her apple. Eve was there, in great need, in great danger, with the juice of the forbidden fruit still dripping down her chin. She was alone, completely alone, and frightened. Adam had to make a choice: separate himself from her forever, or separate himself from God. He knew he should refuse to eat the fruit. He should choose God above all. But he also knew that such a choice would crush her, completely. She would never understand why she was condemned to a living death in a fallen world without him, in isolation and in pain, while he lived on in glory.
Packer, as Adam, would choose to separate himself from God, would choose his own personal mutiny, in the dim hope that he might bond for a short time more with Panna, in living death perhaps, but in love. Packer would not have holiness. Not just yet. He would not have heaven. He would have hardship and trial and struggle and pain. But if he could just see her once again, he would most certainly also have the kisses of the one he loved.
Perhaps in Adam’s mind, as in Packer’s now, even as he bit the apple, as he stood and lifted his sword, feeling its balance, preparing to use it, there was hope that God would forgive, would somehow make it right anyway, would show mercy, even through fire and flood and pestilence.
Packer looked at the sailor carefully. “I don’t want to kill you,” he said simply, because it was true, and he felt it deeply. What was left unsaid, but what was said most clearly, was that he certainly would kill Delaney if he had to.
Delaney grinned. “Not much chance of that, sonny, though you’re welcome to have a go!” Here was a man who loved a good fight. The sailor moved into his fighting stance, his sword tip tracing little circles in the air.
Somehow, Packer felt better, seeing Delaney’s appetite for the contest. Packer nodded, appreciative.
It was better now than it had been with Dog. The odds were all stacked against Packer this time, rather than against his adversary. This felt good. Packer had an unfamiliar blade, a bad shoulder, and a very long time in chains with no food and little water. He had an unknown adversary who was strong and willing, and who knew how to kill.
There was a very good chance that Packer would die here. Packer found comfort in that thought. He would give it all he had, for Panna, and if it wasn’t enough, so be it. Death would come from the hand of God, through Delaney, and it would all be over. Or Packer would win, and there would be one more chance to return to Panna’s bench. And perhaps, one more chance to know God’s overriding mercy.
Delaney continued to grin. He stepped away, providing Packer a reasonable space to engage in combat. Packer nodded his appreciation. Then Delaney swung his sword several times through the air, and advanced on Packer.
As Delaney closed in, Packer turned and assumed the familiar guard position. His left shoulder screamed at him as he lifted his left hand behind him for balance. The sword in his right hand felt slow and awkward. This heavy, hacking tool, this cudgel of a blade, the stiffness of his body, the searing wounds at his back, his chest, his shoulder, all conspired against him. So be it. And as Delaney approached, Packer focused only on the fight at hand; it was a gleaming, bright thing in his mind now, pure in its own way: the duel to the death.
Delaney swung at him twice; both strikes stopped quickly by Packer. Delaney’s eyes grew colder, harder, recognizing the skill he faced. Packer, too, knew this would not be
easy. The man hit hard, and quick. He was difficult to read, not easy to predict. He moved almost awkwardly, but with little or no signal of what his next move would be. Packer’s own parries seemed horrifically slow to him. The second parry had allowed Delaney’s blade to glance into Packer’s hand-guard.
Delaney swung again, and then again. He was an unschooled swordsman, a self-schooled one, but very good. Packer deflected both beats and started to feel some control, even though his left shoulder was still hot with pain. He also started to gain some respect for the pirate’s weapon of choice. The stronger and quicker the man, the better advantage he would have with this short, heavy blade.
Packer felt surprisingly strong at the moment, but he didn’t know how much he had in him, how much endurance. Delaney was on the offensive. Slash, slash, thrust, slash; Packer deflected them all, and waited. Delaney wondered. Cut, thrust, cut, cut, thrust. Packer parried these as well. Frustration grew in Delaney’s eyes. Cut, cut, slash, thrust, hack, hack. Delaney was already losing patience and technique. Packer calmly and carefully defended each blow, apparently with greater and greater ease.
Packer waited again. Then he saw the opening. He now knew how to defeat Delaney. Whenever Delaney tried a thrust, the sailor lunged too far forward, requiring a small step with his lead foot before he could recover. As he stepped, he was off-balance. All Packer needed to do was to bring his own blade across Delaney’s from underneath, right to left, effectively pulling Delaney forward at the instant he was off balance, then counter back beneath the thrust. It would need to be timed well, of course, but for a fraction of a second Delaney’s entire midsection would be exposed.
“Fight!” Delaney demanded. His guard was up; his eyes were wild. Packer shook his head. Delaney then lit into Packer with a furious series of blows, each of which Packer parried neatly. The second and third parry, however, Packer mistimed by a fraction of a second, and caught too close to his hand-guard for his own comfort. It was not something Delaney would likely have noticed, but it was a sign to Packer that he was nearing the end of his own stamina; he might err at any time now, and the battle would be suddenly lost. It was time to end this. At Delaney’s next break, Packer would make his move.
Delaney slowed, breathing heavily. Then he stopped, clearly frustrated. During all his hacking and swinging, Packer hadn’t budged, had barely moved his feet.
Packer appreciated the earnestness of his opponent, his complete lack of pretense—now in his frustration as in his previous delight. So Packer struck not with steel, but with words. His voice was quiet, his face grim, his tone a warning, but not without compassion. “Delaney. You’re a good swordsman, but you know I’m better. When I begin to fight, you will die.”
“Easy words,” Delaney countered defiantly.
Packer needed a way to prove it to him. Then a thought occurred. “I’m guessing you’ve already got a scar or two on your belly from blades you’ve crossed.”
Delaney’s eyes went wide. He put a hand to his chest. “How do you know…?” but then he realized how Packer knew, and his heart sank.
Packer nodded. “You leave it exposed. I’ve seen the way in.”
Delaney could not doubt Packer now. The younger man had not been toying with him, but studying him. Delaney swallowed hard, and glanced around the room as though looking for help, or a way out.
Packer didn’t relax yet, however. Now was Delaney’s moment of decision, and Packer took full advantage. “I don’t want to kill you. Put down your sword, and we’ll talk. Swing it again, and they’ll bury you at sea today.”
Delaney was trapped. If he fought, the boy would kill him. If he surrendered…He broke out in a cold sweat, unable to move.
CHAPTER 9
The Beast
The Firefish had smelled the blood in the water from more than a league away. It moved at full speed, snaking its body through the water like an eel, its ninety-foot length moving in serpentine fashion at almost forty knots. It came to feed. It found only a snack, the body of the Ox, and it devoured that in one bite. Its electrified teeth snapped down on the bloody corpse, sending its signature flash across the ocean.
Dawn was breaking. Talon and Monkey faced directly into the rising sun. Its first rays reflected deep orange and red in the water, obscuring the beast’s brief underwater show of lightning, which was now far behind them.
The thing swallowed its morsel undetected, circled once, and easily picked up the scent again. Ox’s blood had been spattered on the oar of the shallop and across the hull on Talon’s side where he had gone overboard. These minuscule droplets were all but invisible, but to the Firefish, they were meat sizzling on a spit, wafting an open invitation to dine.
“Surrender or die,” Packer pressed. But something in the man’s eyes told Packer he wouldn’t quit. “Drop the sword,” Packer implored. “Live another day.”
Delaney shook his head. His face softened, grew sad. Then he smiled, a gentle look that surprised Packer. “We’re all born to die.”
Packer saw and felt that Delaney held him in high esteem; the man who would take his life was to be respected. Packer wanted to return that respect. “Sir. There’s no shame in admitting defeat when you’re beaten fairly. I’ll accept terms. You’ve got no reason to fight me to the death.”
“Ah, but I do.” He smiled again, content with his choice. He raised his sword. “If you’re ready.”
Packer swallowed hard, then lowered his own sword. He was not ready. He felt a bond, a strong bond with this man, who had fought fairly and well. “You’re a good man,” he told Delaney. “Why end it with bloodshed? I’ll put you in the shackles.”
“It must end as it must, sonny. But I thank you.” The sailor lowered his sword and took on the air of a teacher. “I don’t hold it against you. It’s but one life you take, and I know my rest. Now, I trust you know how to end this quickly.”
Packer shook his head, an involuntary motion. But Delaney was not going to waste any time about it. The sailor drew back his arm for one more thrust of his sword. He did it with gravity, but without any defensive protection, and little offense. He was not fighting any more; he was giving himself to Packer’s blade. He had made his choice to die in battle.
As Delaney’s blade plunged toward him, Packer knew what he had to do. He brought his blade across, from underneath, drawing the sailor forward, just as he had planned. Delaney stumbled, off balance. And then Packer hit him hard in the head, slamming his hand-guard to the man’s left ear, hard enough, he hoped, that there would be no opportunity to keep fighting, and therefore no shame. Delaney crumpled to the floor.
Packer knelt beside him, tossing his own and then Delaney’s sword aside. “Why not surrender?” Packer asked the groggy man irritably, not expecting a response, as he looked around for something he could use as a compress. He untied Delaney’s bandana from around his neck, folded it, and put it to the man’s bloody head. Delaney was semiconscious, unable to hold the bandage himself.
Packer knew little about the treatment of wounds, but he knew enough not to leave Delaney flat on his back, bleeding from the head. He managed to get the dazed man to sit up, but had to sit beside him to hold both him and the compress.
Packer tried to work out what had just happened. Delaney’s situation wasn’t hopeless. There were rules of engagement about these things, and Packer had offered an honorable end. Delaney wasn’t rabid with rage, like Dog had been; he was an experienced fighter who in all likelihood had been taken prisoner before. Packer would have accepted almost any conditions Delaney suggested. But he wouldn’t surrender, insisted on fighting to the death, though he clearly didn’t want to die. It was as though he were under orders. But who could have ordered such a thing, if there was a mutiny aboard ship?
Packer pieced it together at almost the same time he heard the footsteps coming toward him. Scat Wilkins walked from behind the façade of crates, scratching his grizzled beard, a bright smile on his face. “You’re a better swordsman than I have seen in s
ome time.” Maybe as good as Talon, he was thinking. And he liked that thought.
Packer’s mind churned as he grasped the meaning of all this. The Captain had seen it all. He had been watching the whole time. That explained Delaney’s actions completely. Packer stood up, keeping a hand on Delaney. “Help me get him over near the hull, if you would, sir,” Packer suggested. When Scat Wilkins didn’t move, Packer looked him in the eye. “Please,” he added.
Scat considered the boy and his request. This wasn’t begging, and it wasn’t ordering. It was a simple request, and the boy seemed willing to wait for the Captain, as long as it took, for him either to help or to refuse to help. Scat smiled slightly. A smart young man. He helped Packer drag Delaney over to the side of the ship, where the two propped him up at an angle.
Delaney’s bleeding had slowed considerably. “Do you have a surgeon on board?”
The Captain walked over to the lantern, picked it up, brought it near Delaney’s face. “Aye,” the Captain replied, pulling Packer’s hand away from the sailor’s head so that he could more clearly see the wound. “That was a nicely delivered blow.”
Packer looked again into the eyes of the Captain. He could find nothing he wanted to say. The idea that Scat sent Delaney to fight to the death just to test Packer told him more than he needed to know. Scat had fully expected either his prisoner, with whom he had just struck a bargain, or his own sailor, an obedient man with a good sword, to die.
Scat read Packer’s disapproval, smiled, stood up. He pulled a cigar from a pocket, bit off the end, spit it out, then walked to Delaney’s lantern and lit it. He took several long pulls, examined the glowing tip. When he was satisfied, he said, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I wouldn’t have had him killed for taking the coward’s way out. That was his choice.”
Packer shook his head and looked at Delaney. He tied the bandanna around the sailor’s head. He did not look at the Captain. “I might have killed him, and for no reason.”
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 13
