The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  Talon saw the yellow glow begin, growing out from the eyes. The Firefish’s jaw unhinged, dropping, stretching the scaly skin so that it seemed to be melting downward, pulling on the eyes and making them droop. The rows of teeth framed a gaping jaw so huge she could have stepped into it standing up. It would kill her within seconds.

  The thought jolted her. She looked down at the lure and was surprised to find she was still kneeling over it, surprised further to see that her thumb was still on the flint wheel. She turned it, a spark jumped, and the fuse ignited. She grabbed the ring and with all her strength threw the lure up, deep into the beast’s throat.

  Immediately, the jaws clamped shut, and the Firefish submerged. Again, the electric shock knocked her to the floor of the boat, unconscious.

  Something deep within the dark predator’s brain told it that it had made a grave mistake. Another morsel had been offered, but this one had no substance whatever. It had eaten not what it wanted, but what the shellfish offered. And it was not meat. The intelligence of the shellfish, the lack of fear…the beast’s instincts now buzzed danger, triggering rage; and with that came the demand for retaliation.

  The Firefish dove deep. The shellfish must be destroyed. At two hundred feet, it turned and swam straight up at the shellfish as fast as it could, its body writhing and undulating in a frantic attack. Its eyes were ablaze, its scaly skin glowing bright yellow. This time, shell or no shell, the creature would be consumed—utterly, wholly, immediately.

  Talon lay in the frigid, sloshing water at the stern of the boat, this time on her back. She blinked twice, looking up at a red morning sky. Storm coming, she thought. For a moment, she didn’t remember where she was. Then she felt an odd turbulence below her, a deep rumbling. It was at that moment, as she remembered what had happened, and realized what was about to happen, that the Firefish hit the boat. This time, her quick reflexes would not be enough to save her.

  But something—her quickness, or her intelligence, or her lack of fear, or perhaps her intimate knowledge of death and the kill—something had already saved her. She had bought herself enough time; she had lit the fuse in time, and tossed the brass lure into the beast’s maw in time. And true to Lund Lander’s calibrations, the fuse had burned down in time. As the Firefish struck the boat from below, its huge jaws wide, its swordlike teeth visible to Talon on either side of the hull, the explosive detonated. The beast’s gullet burst, blowing out its jaws, incapacitating its electrical organs, shattering its brain.

  The blast killed it instantly, but the speed of its carcass, carrying tons of hurtling flesh, was not significantly diminished. The remains smashed into the boat from below. Talon—her back still flat against the wooden flooring, with pieces of boat, oars, teeth, skull, and flesh flying around her—rose twenty feet in the air. The long, sleek body of the Firefish pushed up from below like a pylon, like a spear driven from beneath the sea, before all crashed again into the water.

  Talon was barely conscious as she surfaced, gasping for air. Involuntarily she pushed away huge chunks of white meat and gray brain matter and grabbed the largest piece of wood she could find. She knew she should start swimming for shore, for the nearby island Monkey had never seen, and never would see. But she couldn’t make her body respond.

  Around her floated the grail of Captain Scat Wilkins’ quest, the hope of Packer Throme for the fishing villages: thousands of coins’ worth of Firefish meat. But the meat, like the quest of the Captain and the hope of Packer Throme, disgusted Talon. It occurred to her that its legendary strength-giving capacity might be of some help, but she was repulsed by the thought of eating it. She was dazed, her whole body throbbing from the explosion. She couldn’t seem to focus and was afraid she had suffered a blow to the head. She kept bobbing under the cold water as she held onto her small piece of wooden planking. It took great effort for her to return each time to the sunlight. She knew she had little energy left. Panicked, she opened her eyes and saw a larger piece of the shallop, with part of the seat still attached. She swam toward it, seeing it now as a lifeline. She had to reach it, to pull it under her, to climb onto it.

  Panna walked toward the sea, hopeful that just the sight of it, the sound of it, could soothe the troubled thoughts that flowed through her mind. Out there, somewhere, was Packer. She needed him; she needed to be with him. He would understand, if she could just hold him again, if they could just be together.

  It would never be like it was, like it could have been. He now served on a pirate’s ship, and she was a fugitive. They were both outlaws now. But if they could hold one another, none of that would matter. She caught a glimpse of the sea through the trees, shimmering red with the morning sun, and it gladdened her heart, lightening her burden.

  She did not know that at that moment, someone was struggling to get ashore, on a mission to find her. And it was not Packer Throme.

  CHAPTER 10

  Brotherhood

  Packer awoke to the sounds of voices and footsteps nearby. He kept his eyes closed. He heard the creak of the ship, and recalled that he was aboard the Trophy Chase. Slowly, his multiple failures settled into his chest like a dull pain, and into his stomach like a sickness. All the trouble behind him, and all the trouble yet to come…all his fault. Transfixing it, holding it all together, like steel claws piercing through every layer of the fabric of his life and deep into his flesh, was Talon in flight, headed to shore.

  Packer listened to the creaking of the ship. It occurred to him that he felt no movement, no rocking. Were they at port? His heart beat quicker. He opened his eyes and saw the polished ceiling planks of the small stateroom moving slowly above him in the dim light, left to right, then back again, right to left. They were not at port. He was in a hammock. His moment of hope faded again, and went darker yet.

  He closed his eyes, wanting to return to the oblivion of sleep. But what came to him was the face of Talon, swearing vengeance on all he held dear. And then he saw the face of Panna; saw fear in her eyes as she watched Talon approach with that long knife drawn. His heart cried out, pierced as surely as if it were skewered by Talon’s blade.

  He wept before God, as a child weeps to his mother.

  Will Seline had given up conversing with the crowd of well-meaning visitors packed into his living room. He was their pastor, and they were his flock, but he couldn’t speak with them. He was sick at heart, and their consolations only made him feel worse. Too much conjecture, too many guesses. He left them talking, chattering to themselves, gathered like sheep huddled together for safety, and climbed the stairs to his room.

  He locked the door behind him and sat on the bed, his heart raw and aching, his mind clouded and thick. Panna was gone. Gone into a cloud of unknowns, with no warning, no note, no explanation. Gone on a night when some violent brigand was known to be loose, someone who had beaten a simple fisherman senseless. Almost anything was possible, of course, but he was sure Packer was involved somehow, that only her love for him could have pulled her away like this.

  He thought of his wife, Tamma, of her illness, of losing her so slowly over those months that stretched into years. He had thought anything would be preferable to that long agony, but now he was not sure. What if he never knew? What if Panna was just gone, forever?

  He put his head in his hands. Almost involuntarily, he slumped to the floor, turned toward the bed, and buried his face in the quilt. He would pray. He could go looking for her, but he would not. He would stay here, locked in his room, with God and God alone. There was nothing he could do that God could not. No human on earth could find her, keep her safe, bring her home, if God did not will it. No human on earth could kill her, or hurt her, if God did not allow it. And no human, Panna herself included, could keep her from walking back through his own front door if God wanted her to walk in that door. No, God held all the keys, as He always did. Will would spend his time where it mattered, dealing with the One who could, and would, determine Panna’s fate.

  Will would stay on his kn
ees, on his face, for as long as he needed to, forever if necessary, and cry out to God. He would plead. He would beg. He would listen. He would read Scripture. He would offer up all he had in this world and the next. He would do all these things, and whatever else came to his heart. He would prepare himself to die, he would offer Panna up in his heart, a sacrifice like the one Abraham made with Isaac. He would offer himself to God in Panna’s place. But he would leave it all to God, and do nothing else, unless God told him, in a Voice that could not be questioned, that there was something else he must do.

  Suddenly there was a knock on the door that jarred Packer from his dark laments. “Yes?” Packer wiped his eyes quickly. He knew he sounded as startled as he felt.

  “We’ve come to see you!” the voice said. It was a familiar voice, a welcome sound.

  “Come in.” Packer dabbed his eyes with his sleeve. Delaney entered, followed by a young man Packer did not recognize. Packer tried to sit up, and winced. He had moved well enough last night, but now he was stiff and aching.

  “What, sleepin’ till noon?” Delaney feigned disapproval, and then the familiar grin appeared. “You’d think you were the one who got himself cold-cocked.” He jabbed an elbow into his companion’s side. “Look at him, like he needs to rest up, when it was him who sliced me to ribbons and then flattened me with a single blow, like I was no more’n a fly buzzing around his head!”

  Delaney’s companion—a boy, tall and slim, not a day over sixteen—laughed, but his eyes blazed with amazement, as though in the presence of some legendary hero. His hair was wild and thick like the top of a sheaf of wheat, and the color of amber ale. His face was freckled, sunburned and peeling, his clothing almost white. He was new to the ship, Packer guessed correctly, perhaps new to any ship. He carried in his bony hands a covered pot about the size of a loaf of bread.

  “We brought you food,” the boy said, holding the pot out. Packer had already caught the aroma. It smelled wonderfully like beef. Now Packer sat up, this time simply ignoring the pain, and threw his legs over the side of the hammock, losing his balance and almost falling. Delaney’s hard hands caught him, then helped him to the floor. Blood had seeped through the bandages on Packer’s chest and back and colored the hammock.

  Delaney spoke gently, looking at the blood. “I kidded you, but forgot you were keelhauled. Not to mention tortured. All the more amazing what you did to me.” He nodded at the boy again.

  Packer liked the teasing better than the apology. “I’m fine. How’s your head?”

  Delaney grinned again and pointed to the red, swollen cut above his left ear. “No worse than last you saw it. Throbs a bit, but I’ve been hit harder.”

  “We brought you this,” the boy said, again holding out his offering proudly.

  “Sit, let’s feed you,” Delaney commanded, maneuvering Packer to a wooden bench built back into the wall. Packer sat and accepted the pot. It was warm. He put it in his lap. He took off the lid, and the sweet steaming aroma of beef stew rose up to greet him. His mouth watered as the extent of his own hunger hit him. He didn’t know how to ask whether they had brought a spoon. He thought about raising the dish to his mouth and gulping it down, and would have if it hadn’t looked so thick. He didn’t want to waste a single bite by sending it down his shirtfront.

  “It’s not Firefish, this time,” Delaney told him. “But it’ll still help.”

  “This time?”

  Delaney grinned. “What do you think I fed you last night? Crab cakes? Nothing puts fight back in a man like Fireflesh.”

  Packer absorbed that thought. Packer had felt better almost immediately after eating the morsel. So at least that part of the legend was true. He had now eaten Firefish.

  “This here’s Marcus Pile,” Delaney offered up into the silence. “New hand, but shows promise. He’s apprenticed to Cane Dewar, the ship’s carpenter.”

  “I’m sorry about my manners, I’m Packer Throme,” he said to the boy, holding out a hand.

  The boy shook it happily. “It’s my first real voyage. But I know a good bit about boatbuilding and carpentry already.”

  Packer nodded. “Well, I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Packer.” Delaney repeated it to Marcus. “Told you he had a name; I just didn’t know what it was.” He looked back at Packer, satisfied, then put a thumb to his chest. “I’m Delaney.”

  “I remember,” Packer told him. Delaney kept smiling, and so Packer put out his hand to Delaney as well. “Good to see you again.” Delaney shook it vigorously.

  “Why…why did you bring this?” It was all Packer could think to ask.

  Delaney’s smile vanished. “You don’t want it?”

  Packer laughed at the absurdity. “It may be the best gift I’ve ever been given.” This restored Delaney’s smile. “Captain Wilkins confined me to quarters, so I thought I wasn’t supposed to have visitors.”

  Delaney nodded, then spoke in a confidential whisper, “Some rules was just made to be broke.”

  Packer looked down into the stew again, took a deep breath in through his nose, savoring it. “Thank you.”

  Delaney suddenly looked troubled. “Marcus, did you bring that spoon? How’s he supposed to eat it?”

  Marcus blinked, then started patting himself. He found the wooden spoon stuck in his belt. Packer no sooner had the spoon in his hand than it was in the pot, and in his mouth. It tasted every bit as good as it smelled. “Wonderful,” Packer told them through a full mouth. Then he caught himself. “Want some?”

  “No no, we’ve eaten. That’s all for you.”

  Packer took two more bites as his benefactors watched with satisfaction. Then Packer’s manners returned once more. “Will you sit, at least?”

  “Why, thank you,” Delaney said, and flopped onto the floor at Packer’s feet. Marcus followed suit. They both sat, looking up at Packer and grinning.

  As Packer began to eat again, there was another knock at the door. Marcus reacted with something akin to panic, but Delaney just stood, put a finger to his lips, and opened the door a crack. “What is it?”

  “Excuse me,” a tremulous voice said from the other side, “but the Captain gave strict orders. You must leave!”

  “Must I?” Delaney asked, sounding baffled. “Or what will happen?”

  “Well, the Captain will be notified,” the voice said, shrill and parsimonious. The nasal tone was that of the Captain’s steward, Deeter Pimm.

  “Well, you just go on and notify the Captain,” Delaney told him. “And you know what will happen then, Mr. Pimm?” There was silence. Delaney stuck his head far out the door, and spoke in an urgent voice not much above a whisper. “Here’s what will happen. I will be flogged for bringing this poor prisoner some soup.”

  “You will have earned it!”

  “No denying that, Mr. Pimm. At least twelve, no more than two dozen lashes, I’d guess. And you know where you’ll be, Mr. Pimm, while Jonas Deal is raking my back with his cat-o-’nine-tails, and chunks of flesh are flyin’ off a’ me, and my blood is flowing in rivers onto the deck?” There was silence. “You’ll be standing right by my side, a’ course. As my accuser, that’ll be your rightful place according to the laws of this ship. I will have earned it, yes sir, very true. And I won’t think less of you for it. And there you’ll be, standing so close that your shoes will be stained red, and your shirt spotted with little red dots. But I won’t blame you. You’re an honest man, taking an honest man’s path. I’ll respect that.”

  “Heavens,” was all Packer heard. Marcus Pile grinned at Packer.

  “So you do what you must,” Delaney continued. Then he said, more gently, “Now, if perchance you don’t tell the Captain, here’s what happens. Absolutely nothin’. I wait till the boy finishes his bowl, take the empty, and go my way.”

  There was another long pause. “Well,” Pimm said finally, with a sniff. “If I come back by here in thirty minutes and you’re not here…Well, I’m not at all sure I could even remember this conversatio
n. My mind isn’t what it used to be.”

  “Ah, but your heart is good as it ever was,” Delaney said, with genuine warmth. “Good morning to you.”

  “Hmmph.” Pimm padded off.

  Delaney pulled his head back into the cabin with an impish sparkle in his eye, and closed the door, bolting it this time. “Now, where were we?”

  “Is that true?” Packer asked. “Would you be flogged?”

  “Hard sayin’. Few lashes maybe. But I’ve had that before.” Marcus looked worried again.

  “You should go then. Why risk it?” Packer felt humbled and self-conscious.

  Delaney looked shocked. “Why risk it? Mr. Packer, sir, if it weren’t for you, I’d be dead! You saved my life!”

  Packer was confused. “How did I do that?”

  “Why, by hitting me on the head rather than killing me. That’s a debt worth a few stripes, I’d say.”

  “But wait…if it weren’t for me, you would never have…” Packer trailed off. The two stared at him, waiting. “I mean, if it weren’t for me there would have been no duel between us to begin with.”

  Delaney frowned, as though Packer spoke nonsense. “But there was a duel. And you bein’ what you are with a sword in your hand, I should by all rights be dead, except for who you are in here,” he tapped his chest with his forefinger, “which is what saved me. And asides that, Captain sent me to kill or die, and I didn’t do neither one, and yet Captain is perfectly pleased. That, sonny, is a miracle. No, I owe you. I truly do.”

  Packer smiled warmly. Delaney was wrong, of course, but he spoke with such certainty it was impossible to even want to debate him.

  “May I ask you something?” Marcus addressed Packer hesitantly.

  “Sure.”

  “Are you a Christian?”