The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  Jonas Deal came up from the forecastle, leading his reinforcements, just in time to see Pile fall. He let go a stream of invective, hating to lose a man, not because he cared for any of them but because it was his job to keep them alive and working.

  He worked his way to the gunwale, pulled out his knife, and cut loose a small boat, a shallop even smaller than the one Talon had taken. It would capsize, of course, but at least it would float. The odds were slim that Pile would find it in the storm, but at least he’d have a chance. Such an action was necessary more for the men left alive than for the boy, who would likely die regardless. They needed to know all was done for him that was possible, because none of them knew whether tomorrow he himself might be in the drink.

  One way or another, the job was done. With more than twenty men across the yardarm, with the mast creaking like a great oak and the rigging whipsawing back and forth, they finally had the mainsail struck and tied, and worked their way back down to the deck with no further loss of life.

  Now there was little to do but ride the storm out, and hope for the best.

  The three vigilantes stumbled out of the woods about fifty yards north of the gray tree trunk. “What’s that?” Duck Tillham asked, pointing to the thin plume of smoke.

  Ned Basser cursed. “Some idiots decided to cook their supper, probably.”

  “I don’t see anybody there,” said Dog.

  “Well, let’s have a look.”

  Ned and Duck checked their pistols for the hundredth time. Dog unsheathed his dagger, but for some reason he had a strong sense of danger, a feeling he had not had all day. Something told him that this was the real thing. Duck and Ned could carry all the bravado they wished—Dog knew how dangerous Packer Throme was. And Dog didn’t have a pistol or even a sword, just this short, dull hunting knife. He hoped the other two wouldn’t notice how his hand trembled.

  “I’m going to keep a watch on the woods,” Dog announced. “You two have the pistols. You go. I’ll keep an eye out, make sure it isn’t a trap.”

  Ned and Duck looked at Dog blankly.

  “He could have set the fire and seen us coming. Could be waiting,” Dog insisted. “I’ll yell out if I see anything.”

  Something, whether the force of the argument, the authority of his voice, or the alcohol they had consumed, convinced them. The two kept their weapons aimed at the tree trunk as they wound their way unevenly down the beach. Dog watched after them, ready to rush in and claim a part of the victory, or head into the woods for help, whichever was needed.

  Duck and Ned were almost on top of the tree trunk before they saw the cloaked figure lying by the fire, head and shoulders covered.

  “Is it him?” Duck asked in a whisper.

  “I don’t know,” Ned whispered back. The waves crashing on the shore helped cover their voices, but it was their empty flasks that made them believe they were out of earshot.

  Duck took aim with his pistol.

  “What are you doing?” Ned asked hoarsely.

  Duck looked at Ned like he was crazy. “I’m going to shoot him, what d’you think?”

  “No! They can’t find him with a hole in the back of his head, what would people say? Make him stand and face us.”

  Duck saw the reason in that. They could question him. Make him beg for mercy. Duck’s heart thumped wildly. “All right. Let’s see what he’s made of.”

  “Up now, and be quick about it!” shouted Ned Basser, his pistol aimed unsteadily at the stranger’s head. But the stranger didn’t move. The two armed fishermen were standing with the tree trunk between themselves and the stranger. “You go around,” Ned whispered to Duck, “and we’ll surround him.”

  Duck moved slowly to his left around the fallen tree. “Hey!” Duck said, eyes big, when he was close enough to see the stranger’s face. “It’s a woman!”

  “No…” Ned responded. He lowered his pistol and followed his friend to the other side of the tree. “Is it the pastor’s daughter?”

  “No, someone else.”

  “Well, I’ll be.”

  They looked at each other. Then they looked back at the woman. “She’s foreign.”

  “Look, tracks!” Duck said, pointing to the footprints Panna had left as she went toward Inbenigh. “That must be him.” But neither moved. They eyed the tracks for only a moment, then they were drawn again to the dark-haired woman asleep on the beach.

  Up the beach, Dog watched in gripped fascination. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but clearly they had found someone. Was it Packer? They weren’t aiming their pistols anymore. If they would just give him a sign. But something told Dog the danger had not passed.

  “Wake her up,” Ned ordered.

  “You wake her up,” Duck countered.

  Ned stepped closer while Duck lingered back. “Hey. You awake?” Ned asked. There was no movement. He squatted next to the fire, at her head, his flintlock resting on his knee. He quickly lost his balance, almost put a hand into the fire. He cursed.

  The single word reached Talon’s brain, drawing her awake. But she didn’t stir. She wasn’t startled, but was pulled from a deep pool of dark dreams toward a bright surface filled with dangers. Her instincts and her intuition told her that she must wake up, quickly and carefully, but she found it hard, much harder than usual, to collect her thoughts, to fully assess her situation. But with great force of effort, she succeeded. Eyes still closed, she felt the heat of the fire, heard it crackle, sensed the presence of enemies.

  “Well, if you swearing at her didn’t wake her up, nothing will,” Duck said with a laugh.

  This voice was not much of a threat. Its owner was several feet away, off his guard, and stupid with drink.

  “She’s an outlaw, whoever she is,” a nearer voice said, ragged and edgy. The man who owned this voice was more dangerous, close by and with a purpose. But he also was off his guard, and drunk. “She’s in cahoots, is my bet.”

  Now Talon heard the rustle of clothing and felt the man’s hand on her, pulling away a blanket, something heavy, that covered her. “Not a bad catch, eh, Duck?” His voice now had the edge of lust.

  The man whipped the blanket off her, shook her shoulder. “Hey you, wake up. You have crimes to answer for.” The voice was hungry now, aggressive. Talon wanted to reach for her knife, her sword, her pistol, but she couldn’t risk it. Once this man knew she was conscious, he would be on his guard. Right now he felt in control.

  “She’s out cold,” said the far voice, the one called Duck, almost gleefully. “What do you want to do with her?”

  There was a pause—breathing. “Well. Let’s take a closer look,” said the near voice. “Then we’ll decide.” The aggressive, hungry edge was now in the fore, overtaking all else.

  Talon still didn’t know what weapons she had within her reach, but she clearly smelled the faint odor of gunpowder. The moisture in the air made it stand out. The man was likely holding a flintlock pistol. She had the element of surprise. She had no doubt about the outcome of the next few seconds.

  Ned Basser reached for her jacket, his mouth working involuntarily.

  The rain came in buckets.

  From where he stood, Duck Tillham saw the first huge drops hit her face, and then he saw Talon’s eyes open. He started to smile, thinking that this was good; she had awakened, and now they could question her. But before he could speak, or move, or take another breath, Ned Basser was dead.

  As she opened her eyes she reached for her knife; it was not in its sheath. She saw at the same time, however, the flintlock pistol that her attacker held against his knee. She simply reached out and took hold of the pistol by its barrel, turned the muzzle toward the man’s face, and pulled it upward. She didn’t bother to take it away from him; she didn’t need to. His finger was on the trigger, so the sudden movement caused it to fire.

  Ned’s reactions were slowed by drink, but they would never have been quick enough had he been sober. He never saw what killed him. The musket ball caught him
under the chin. He fell backward, dead before his head hit the sand.

  The sudden, blowing rain obscured his vision somewhat, but Dog Blestoe saw Ned fall backward, head jerking violently. For an instant, he thought for sure he had heard a shot, but it was drowned in a clap of thunder, and he couldn’t be certain.

  Duck had enough time to quit smiling, but not enough to absorb what had suddenly happened to his friend. Talon was on her feet, sword drawn. Duck stumbled backward instinctively, trying to get out of her range, and as he did he raised the pistol in his hand. But the heel of his boot hit a root, and he went down. The pistol discharged.

  Talon saw the smoke and fire, heard the crack of the powder and the whistle of the projectile. She slowed, knowing now that the wide-eyed man sitting before her in an ungainly heap had effectively disarmed himself.

  Dog Blestoe saw a figure rise in an instant, as though appearing from the mist and the rain, and he saw Duck go down. He saw the powder flash. This time he heard the report clearly. The dark figure slashed at Duck’s throat, and then plunged the sword blade deep into him.

  Dog knew now that both Duck and Ned were dead. He was in the woods as quickly as his feet could move him, panicked that the swordsman would see him and come after him. There could be no doubt now about who it was. There could be no doubt now about who’d hurt Riley Odoms, who’d abducted Panna Seline, and who had now killed these two fishermen. Dog had seen it with his own eyes. He’d recognized the stance, the posture, the movement; he was sure of it. This was the swordsman who had humiliated and wounded him at the inn.

  This was Packer Throme.

  Duck’s eyes, wild with fear, went dim, and he slumped backward and to his left. Talon let the man’s weight pull her sword free.

  She looked around her, up and down the beach, alert to any motion, any other sign of life. She looked directly at the spot where Dog had darted into the woods, but saw nothing through the heavy rain but leaves blowing in the wind. Confident she was alone, she moved quickly. She cleaned her blade on the cloak, and returned her sword to its scabbard. Then she rounded up items that would be of use to her. She examined both pistols, and settled for Ned’s, the one that had fired true. She did not take the time to reload it, a useless effort in this rain. She tucked it into her belt. She buttoned up her jacket and slung Ned’s powder horn over her shoulder. She tied his bag of ammunition to her belt. She stuffed half a loaf of his bread into her jacket. From Panna’s knapsack she took only the wineskin, half full of water. Talon looked around again, hoping to find her knife. She quickly surmised that the strange girl had taken it.

  She would leave these bodies to be found as they were. No one now alive had seen her, she was sure, no one but that stupid young thing who had almost let her die. Talon could not be connected to these deaths by anyone but that girl.

  She looked at the tracks of the fishermen, but didn’t take the time to sort them out. She wanted the girl. The rain had pelted the footsteps to pieces, but at the edge of the woods she found what she was looking for, a set of footprints, smaller and lighter, headed south. Without looking back, she followed Panna toward Inbenigh.

  Captain John Hand entered Scat Wilkins’ saloon to find the young man, yellow hair and blue eyes, seated at the table, gripping it with both hands. Packer stood as Hand entered.

  “Sit down,” Hand said quickly, and seated himself across from him. He noticed that the boy had a sword tucked in his belt. “You’re the stowaway?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.” The boy didn’t look at all apologetic.

  “Quite a gale.”

  “Yes, sir.” The violent pitching of the ship made small talk seem smaller than usual.

  John Hand looked him in the eye. “What are you up to, son?”

  “Sir?”

  “We’re sailing into Achawuk territory on your advice.”

  Packer lowered his eyes, suddenly feeling ashamed. “I told Captain Wilkins that my father believed the Firefish feed there.”

  The wildness of the ship’s movements were going to cut this interview short, John knew. It was hard to concentrate on anything else. Both men now gripped the table tightly.

  “Is that true?”

  Packer glanced up. “My father believed it.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Packer Throme.”

  There was a pause as the older man eyed the younger. “I’m John Hand, captain of the Camadan.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “What do you know about the Achawuk, son?”

  “Not much, sir.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  Packer already liked what he saw in this captain. Here was a careful, intelligent man who was not quick to condemn, not rash, but not afraid either. He was clearly not the volatile sort that Scat Wilkins was.

  “It’ll be rough on the ship’s crew until this weather blows over,” Hand said. “But it’ll be rougher when it does. I hope you can use that sword, son.” He stood. “You can get back to the forecastle, I’m through with you.”

  Packer stood. “Sir, I’ve been confined to quarters.”

  “Get back to quarters, then. I’ll speak to the Captain, get you assigned to Jonas Deal’s watch.”

  “Sir,” Packer said, clearly alarmed. “Jonas Deal?”

  “What of him?”

  Packer wondered if this was punishment, to be assigned to Jonas Deal. But he didn’t know how to ask. John Hand deduced the problem. “Ah, the keelhauling.” He smiled. “Andrew Haas, then.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Packer stood firm, still holding the table for balance.

  “Go on, now,” Hand ordered. “And watch your noggin on the way. We’ll all be needing clear heads when the weather clears.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Panna arrived at Inbenigh as the rain did, a dark, heavy squall from the southeast that blew away anything not nailed or tied down. She was wearing only Mr. Molander’s clothing, which the cold rain quickly soaked through. A piece of canvas, she thought, how hard could that be? Every boat was covered with a tarpaulin, and several were flapping at the corners, inviting her to help herself.

  She looked up and down the docks, and at the pathway from them up to the dilapidated village. No one was in sight. Who would be out in this weather? She supposed that some of the boats might have fishermen inside them, but it wasn’t likely. All would have sought the comfort of the inn by now, trusting the storm to keep prowlers away.

  Panna picked out a boat about halfway up the dock, away from eyes in the village, but close enough that she would need to wrestle the canvas only a short distance up the pier. The canvas of her chosen boat was already flapping pitifully.

  She looked at the knife in her hand. It occurred to her that she was about to commit another crime. It wasn’t as bad a crime, true; stealing canvas from a boat in order to protect herself and another from the rain was hardly equal to smashing a man’s face. So why was the pit of her stomach so empty?

  She had no time for such thoughts; they only slowed her down. This was the path to Packer. She took a deep breath, steeled herself, and ran quickly to the foot of the dock, rocked by the wind-whipped rain. She was cold and wished she had her cloak, but of course she had needed to leave it behind. She moved slowly out onto the wet docks, leaning into the rain that now pelted her like sleet, being careful of her footing. Finally she squatted down by the chosen vessel. It was tied with its bow inward, on the north side of the dock. She looked around. The docks creaked and groaned, the boats tossed. But there were no fishermen to be seen.

  Talon ran stealthily, catlike, along the edge of the woods. Her braid was coming loose, so she clawed at it as she moved, until it was undone and her hair was out of her way, hanging behind her.

  She felt an elation she had not felt in a long time. She was in her element, on the hunt. Only now did the events of the afternoon return to her in their full power. She had defeated the Firefish.

  She remembered its eyes, its intelligence, its delight of the
hunt, its passion for the kill. And she had killed it. She had now also defeated two armed men, who had encircled her with weapons drawn while she was unconscious. And now she was tracking more prey, again the predator. The delight of the hunt energized her. Four corpses lay behind her in her trek toward Senslar Zendoda. The girl would be the fifth. She would die as quickly and as silently as had Ox, and Monkey, and the two drunken men on the beach. Packer Throme had set her loose, and she would wreak her vengeance with power.

  Out on the dock, the wind swirled and kicked so that it was impossible to tell from which direction it was coming. The rain lashed at Panna. A sudden gust almost knocked her off the planks of the dock. She steadied herself against a post near the vessel she had marked out, then grabbed the flapping canvas and peeked under it. Darkness. She took the knife to a rope-tie that held the canvas fast to the gunwale on the port side of the vessel, and was surprised, almost shocked, by how easily the blade slid through the hemp. It was the sharpest knife she’d ever wielded, sharp as the finest razor. She cut four more ties, all the while holding the canvas tightly, hoping that once it was loose it wouldn’t be blown out of her hands.

  But as soon as she had cut the last tie on the dock side, another gust of wind blew the canvas completely off the boat and into the water. The tarpaulin was held fast by the ties on the starboard side, but most of it was now submerged. She would need to get into the boat to pull it out of the water. She stepped over the gunwale and into the bilge. The boat rocked crazily. The aft of the vessel was open, the fore was decked, and an open hatch led to a small cabin below. The boom was tethered, but it whipped back and forth with the movement of the boat. If she wasn’t careful, it would knock her down. She kept low, beneath it, and peeked into the cabin to be sure it was empty. It was.

  The sailboat’s mast gyrated wildly above her. She grabbed the tarpaulin and started to pull it toward her. It was hard work. She had to put the knife down in order to use all the strength of both arms and both hands, all the muscles of her back, knees pressed against the gunwale, to pull the wet canvas back into the bilge. When she finally got most of the canvas inside the boat, she couldn’t find her knife. The rain picked up yet again, pelting her painfully, and the boat rocked like a seesaw. The knife was under the canvas somewhere; it had to be, on the planking of the bilge. She moved the canvas around, careful not to lift it high enough that the wind would catch it again. But she couldn’t find the knife. Frustrated, she thought that perhaps she could untie the knots. She looked up at the gunwale, and was shocked to see, beyond it, the buildings of Inbenigh drifting away from her.