The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  But he moved in the rigging like a great walrus compared to the nimbleness of Delaney and the other seamen. It was impossible for him to ignore, as they did, the exaggerated movement of the ship’s mainmast. It was like an inverted pendulum in the sky, causing him to sway precariously, particularly at the extreme end of each pendulum swing. The occasional jarring movements caused by the wind gusts were devastating, feeling more like cannon shot than any natural occurrence, and these quickly became unnerving, causing him to tense up head to foot and squeeze the rigging in his hands until his fingers, hands, and forearms ached.

  And to make matters worse, because the ship was heeled port, when Packer looked down he saw the sea rushing below him rather than the solid deck. His brain kept telling him he should be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  Within two minutes of Mr. Deal’s orders, all the men but one were on deck and at attention before the Captain. Scat Wilkins stood on the quarterdeck. Packer’s feet touched the planking just as Scat began his address. The novice ran as quickly as he could, but lost his balance and almost knocked Delaney over in his haste to fall in alongside him. Packer was very much aware of the looks, the sideways glances, the stifled laughter.

  Scat ignored it all. “Men, you have shown me again and again the stuff of which you are made. You’re a brave lot, as I saw last night in the rigging. My thanks.” A murmur of pride and appreciation for the words rose and fell again.

  “We lost a good man in Marcus Pile, and he’ll be missed.” Slight pause. “But considering the force of the gale, we’re fortunate not to have lost more.” Murmurs of agreement. Lund Lander, standing with the men, looked for any trace of discomfort from Scat, any sign of remorse or guilt for shooting down the very man he praised. The Toymaker looked in vain.

  “We have the good fortune to have a replacement already aboard, a young man you’ve already met—or at least have seen, both fore and aft of our ship, and tied to a rope.” Some laughter. Packer lowered his eyes, embarrassed. “Packer Throme has paid his dues for stowing away, and in any event will have to pay his passage from here out as a sailor. He should be accepted as such, on my orders. As your mate Delaney can tell you, he’s also good with a sword. As good as they come.” Some nods and grunts. A few stolen glances toward the boy. Delaney winked at Packer.

  The Toymaker and John Hand exchanged looks. Good with a sword? How did Scat know that?

  “And we’ll need every sword this day,” Scat continued, his tone growing somber, “as well as all the courage you can muster.” The men cut glances at one another, questioning. “Odds are very good that before the end of this day…” he smiled a half smile and finished the sentence matter-of-factly, “…there’ll be a fight.” A cheer went up, led by the more experienced warriors aboard, Delaney among them.

  Packer was amazed by their reaction. They didn’t know who they’d be fighting, or why. But it was clear it had been a good long while since last they’d been called to arms, given their broadswords and muskets and pistols and powder horns, and ordered into the fray. They were delighted by the news.

  Scat held up his hands to quiet them. When he spoke again, he was more somber yet. He leaned on the quarterdeck rail. “Listen to me, now. I’ve taken my readings, and the truth is simple. The gale has blown us deep within the Achawuk territory.” Eyes grew wide and a few faces turned white as the blood thirst drained away.

  “We have a good ship, the fastest ever built. We can certainly outrun canoes. The wind is sound, and the weaponry favors us. But the Achawuk attack in numbers. Great numbers. I have witnessed it, and lived. If you witness it, you will also live.

  “Should we be attacked,” and now Scat’s guttural intonation came from somewhere well beyond this ship or this moment, from somewhere within the heart of man’s most martial instincts, “I expect every mother’s son of you to be as brave and bloody a man today as ever you will be on this earth.”

  The men were silent, but it was a fierce and deadly silence. Their Captain’s words had hit their mark. “Vigilance. Precision. Glory. In that order. Now to the armory, Mr. Deal—and battle stations one and all until further notice.”

  Scat’s own iron, his fire, had given them all strength. The men lined up at the armory, took their swords, muskets, and pistols, then moved quickly to their positions, all in silence. Packer ran to the stateroom where he’d been quartered to fetch his sword. Then, from the armory, he took a pistol, a weapon with which he had little experience. “Just tuck it in your belt,” Delaney said with a nod. “You’ll be glad you have it.” The sailors stood mainly along the gunwales, although some men had positions in the rigging, and two were assigned to the crow’s nest. Packer stood alongside Delaney on the port side, and watched, and waited. The creak of mast and flap of sail that moments ago had seemed vibrant sounds of the good life at sea now sounded ominous.

  “Run up the battle flag, Mr. Deal,” Scat ordered. He had waited until all else was ready. This was a ritual for him his whole career, and one he was unwilling to give up simply because he was no longer a pirate.

  Jonas Deal took this responsibility personally. He took the heavy roll of black cloth from the binnacle, draped it over his shoulder, and retied his belt over it, front and back. Then he climbed into the ratlines and up to the mainsail. The men all watched as he climbed past the maintop, the maintopgallant, and past the skysail to the crow’s nest. From there he climbed up to the truck, the highest point of the mast. He then tied the grommets of the flag to the staff. When he let it go, forty square feet of black cloth, overlaid with a white skull floating above crossed bones, snapped full into the wind.

  The crew, all but Packer Throme, cheered lustily.

  Talon sat on the deck below the sail of her tiny vessel, watching Panna bail the bilge water over the side of the boat. They had ridden the storm most of the night, northward along the coastline. Talon was pleased with herself. Not many sailors could have survived a night running with those winds, especially with a green hand at the tiller.

  It had been rough, to say the least, and dangerous. She had navigated by staying, as much as possible, within sight of shore. She had lost its outline in the rain and wind only a handful of times. With strength, luck, and courage, she had ridden the very brunt of the gale, avoiding both the rocks of the coastline and the unknowns of the open sea. She knew she was running far north of Inbenigh, toward the City of Mann, which was not according to her plan, but she had no desire to turn back. She had no desire to stop flying on the back of this storm until the storm itself deposited her wherever it would.

  Talon felt like she had crossed a threshold. She had been freed from the power of Scat Wilkins, from the authority of any human. Since then she had defeated the Firefish; she had killed, and she had beaten death. She had ridden the storm, fearless before the lightning, the waves, the wind, and the rocks. Earth, wind, fire, and water were hers to command. She owned the elements; she felt as though she had been released into the dark power of the universe itself. She felt invulnerable.

  Panna, on the other hand, had spent the night utterly terrified, once again feeling helpless and inadequate. The woman had not only kept them sailing through a horrible storm, but laughed merrily at the most dangerous moments, times when Panna was certain the boat would capsize, or run aground, or simply come apart with the stress. It was hard for Panna to believe this was the same woman who had been at death’s door at sunset. It was as though the howling wind and danger that had caused Panna’s heart to falter instead strengthened and energized this woman. Panna had counted the hours of the night in minutes, sometimes in seconds, as they climbed up a wave, dashed down the other side, and in between were thrown high into the air.

  Panna’s muscles had been knotted and burning within an hour, and after two hours she’d had no idea how she even managed to keep her grip on a tiller she couldn’t feel beneath her cold hands. When it had become too much, when her shaking body simply gave out, there was Talon, screaming fierce words in a foreign tongue, m
anhandling her, slapping her, until Panna found the strength to continue for a few more minutes. And somehow, those few more minutes tallied up, until finally, light came from the East.

  By the time the wind had finally died down, just before daylight, Panna was shaking like oak leaves in an autumn wind. And when she collapsed onto the floorboards, sitting in a foot of cold water that sloshed around her, she was finally beyond the capacity to care.

  Talon just laughed. She ducked below and returned with a small wooden bucket. “If you must sit, at least bail.” She threw the bucket into the water at Panna’s side.

  Panna was exhausted, cold, and hungry. She stared at the woman.

  “Bail! You understand?”

  Panna eyed Talon coldly. But with trembling hands and shaking arms, she filled the bucket from the seawater around her, and with a great effort emptied it over the side. The bucket was far too heavy, amazingly unwieldy, but Panna struggled until it was full again, and then emptied it once more.

  Talon watched the girl carefully, as she had all during the night. There was much here to be admired. The girl didn’t whine, didn’t ask questions. She just did what was necessary. These were unexpected traits in a female whelp of Nearing Vast. A young woman with such strength was unusual enough in the Vast wasteland. More unusual yet, her knuckles were bruised and cut as they could only be if she had fought. A deep bruise along her left wrist showed there had been a struggle. And yet her face was unmarked. It was as though this young woman had inflicted a beating.

  Stranger still, she was wearing a man’s clothing. Not that this was much of a disguise. Her shirt and pants were long since soaked through, clinging to her. Her long hair was limp and lay wet across a bosom that was impossible to hide. This one would be very hard to mistake for a man.

  “That’s enough for now,” Talon ordered in her thick accent. She was afraid the whelp’s shaking hands might drop the bucket over the side.

  Panna wiped a tress of wet hair from her eyes with cold and trembling fingers. She stared up at the woman, and waited sullenly for another command.

  “You are an outlaw,” Talon said simply.

  Panna nodded, wondering how she knew.

  “But you are not very good at it,” Talon added, just as simply.

  Panna looked confused.

  “Tell me what you have done.”

  Some clarity returned to Panna, enough that she was aware of the danger that might result from her answer.

  “I am not the law,” Talon assured her. “I cannot help you if I do not know what you’ve done.”

  Panna’s heart beat quicker. The woman wanted to help! “I…may have killed a man,” she replied quietly, with more defiance than remorse. She felt horribly weak, but did not want to be seen as such. Talon raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. But I’m sure a lot of people are searching for me.”

  Two fewer than Panna knew. “If they are searching where I found you, then I believe you have escaped. You are a long way from there now.” Panna nodded. This was certainly a true statement.

  Talon drew her knife, looked at it carefully. “So. This man you attacked. Did you hurt him with my knife, with the weapon you stole from me?”

  “No!” Panna was shocked by the charge. The wind gusted suddenly. Neither woman paid it any mind. “I didn’t steal it. And I certainly didn’t use it to…” Panna did borrow the knife, but only to get a piece of canvas. To steal a piece of canvas. She had borrowed the knife to steal…she closed her eyes, trying to get past the sudden confusion.

  Talon watched with hidden satisfaction as the force of her simple accusation worked on the girl. Panna was ignorant of Talon’s crimes, of course, she knew only the extent of her own. Panna had attacked a man; Panna was hunted; Panna had taken the knife; and Panna had tried to steal the canvas. With a single question, a verbal slash as quick and perfect as her knife strokes had been, Talon cut deeply into Panna’s conscience, left her struggling to defend herself.

  “I didn’t use your knife to hurt anyone.” Panna shook her head for emphasis, trying to think of a way to convince the woman. “I thought you were dying. I needed canvas to keep you dry.” Her words sounded so empty.

  “You are an assailant. You are a thief. Why should I believe you are not a liar as well?”

  “I’m not lying.” Panna said it with conviction, but knew she couldn’t prove it to this woman’s satisfaction. Instead, she looked at the water sloshing around her over the floorboards. “I’m not lying,” she said quietly.

  Talon nodded, the duel over. Panna was disarmed. The Drammune swordswoman toyed with the knife blade in her hand. The girl had the strength of her youth, but she had the naiveté of the Vast. That such a girl should be considered dangerous to anyone was absurd, another evidence of the weakness of this Christian kingdom.

  Now, finally, Talon allowed an ember of empathy into her voice. “How did you become such a desperado, little one?”

  Panna looked up quickly, jumping at the small spark, ignoring the condescension, wanting the ember to grow. “Yes, I am desperate, I suppose. If I’ve become an outlaw, it’s because I’m searching for the man I love. I intend to find him, and to let no one stop me.” Panna felt the power of her mission once again.

  Driven by love. The girl’s foolishness knew no bounds. And certainly, this was Packer’s girl, Panna. How could it not be? They were perfect for one another.

  Talon’s half-smile was one of derision. “Who is he? What is his name?”

  Panna was encouraged. “Packer Throme. He went to sea three nights ago. I believe he’s in danger, and I want to find him.”

  Talon’s smile vanished momentarily, then returned, slightly more genuine but also less friendly. Though she had expected it, the sound of that name was to Talon the sound of a curse. “Go on.” Talon’s voice showed no change of emotion.

  But Panna caught the falter in Talon’s smile. She didn’t understand it, but it reined in her spirit. “That’s all, really. And how did you come to be washed ashore?” Panna asked Talon instead.

  Talon’s mind worked behind blank eyes. She knew the ways of the Vast sheep well enough. Theirs was a peculiar but very powerful mythology of procreation, one that intertwined all their notions of fate, of faith, and of flesh. They called it love. It was notoriously easy to manipulate.

  “That is my business. You are an outlaw,” Talon answered without emotion. “I am asking you about yourself because I am not yet sure I can trust you.”

  Panna swallowed, recognizing again her own weakness, hating the feel of it. But she was exhausted, and out of answers. Tears rose to her eyes and she wiped them away ruthlessly, almost violently. The woman was right; she was no good at being an outlaw.

  Talon smiled again, but this time she was genuinely entertained. “What is your name?” The ember of compassion glowed again. She sheathed her knife.

  Panna wanted very much to fan the ember. “I’m Panna. Panna Seline,” she said gently.

  There was a pause. “I am…Talon.”

  Panna misheard it. In her ears, unaccustomed to the heavy accent, it sounded very different. “Tallanna,” Panna repeated. “That’s…a pretty name.”

  Talon suppressed a smile. “It is Drammune for…bird.”

  And the two women smiled at one another.

  “You need rest.”

  The words were a featherbed to Panna’s soul. “Yes,” she told Talon. “I’m very tired.”

  “Go beneath. There’s no bed, but there’s a shelf where you can lie down. You may even find something dry. Fishermen of your country know how to prepare for the sea.”

  “Thank you,” Panna said with all sincerity. “But where are we going?”

  “I know where to dock. It won’t be long.”

  Under the deck, the small cabin provided a welcome surprise. Bound up in a canvas, tied tight against the moisture, Panna found a blanket rolled around a few candles and a handful of matches. She stripped off her wet clothes, wound herself in the blanket, and was fa
st asleep within minutes.

  Talon sailed on, looking for a particular cove she knew, near the Bay of Mann. Plans were already formed in her mind. A young woman attached to one of Senslar Zendoda’s protégés could be granted access, under the right circumstances, and with the right story to tell, almost anywhere. Even to Senslar himself.

  Scat ordered grapeshot into the cannons. Powder was loaded, shot rammed home, ignition powder poured. Torches were lit to provide the spark. Muskets and flintlocks were loaded. Seventy men stood ready, eyes scanning the seas. Within a few minutes, their vigilance paid off.

  “Land ho!” Southeast of them, off the starboard bow, a small island could be seen. Men pointed, and whispered.

  “Nor’east ten degrees, helmsman,” Scat ordered. He did not order an accompanying change in the angle of the sails, a fact which went unnoticed by precisely no one. Clearly, the need for vigilance now outweighed the need for precision, in Scat’s mind. Vigilance. Precision. Glory. In that order. Scat wanted to steer clear of all islands if possible.

  “Land ho!” came another call. Another island was now visible off the port bow.

  “Steady as she goes, helmsman,” Scat ordered. He hoped the next island that appeared was not dead ahead. They’d find themselves surrounded, and by their own navigation.

  “They overrun you,” Delaney told Packer in a whisper. “Hundreds of ’em. They say they appear like ghosts.” The two were leaning on the port rail, watching the sky where it met the horizon. Delaney’s eyes darted anxiously, looking for spirits to materialize before them.

  “What are their weapons?” Packer asked.

  “Spears. No guns, no arrows, no swords. Spears and fire. That’s all.”