The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  Scat’s own Lantern Liege, on the other hand, had a reputation of protecting her own, and his sailors knew it. But she also had the reputation of a pirate, and decks bloodied by piracy would never wash clean enough for Scat’s new plans. Scat had scuttled her himself. She could never bring him the glory promised by the Trophy Chase.

  John Hand’s stomach knotted. He wasn’t as superstitious about these things as Scat, or as were most other seamen, but he wasn’t anxious to play this scene out either. Ordering men to certain death was never a captain’s highest and best choice. He would dearly love another option. But what? They couldn’t outrun the beasts. They couldn’t outmaneuver them. Could they? “Haas,” he called.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Get Throme into the crow’s nest, will you?”

  “What are you thinking?” Scat asked.

  “He saw a way out of our last jam. Maybe he’ll see a way out of this one.”

  “That was dumb luck,” Scat said darkly.

  “We could use more of that.”

  “Hmm.” Hand had a point.

  Haas scanned the rigging, unable at first to find Packer in the darkness; then he saw the yellow hair. He was working the foretopsail, out of sure earshot. Haas sent a sailor up to deliver the orders.

  Packer Throme. Scat pondered him. The boy had been an omen of a troubled voyage right from the start. A stowaway, besting the Captain. Trust him at your gravest peril, Talon had warned. But the boy had delivered. Scat Wilkins had seen the glow of a million gold coins. He looked up at the crow’s nest. And who was this Packer Throme, anyway? Who was he to take on such a role, braiding his own reputation into that of the great Trophy Chase, like strands of a rope?

  The men worked the rigging, those on the topsails working in silvery moonlight, those lower in yellow lamplight, but all stealing glances at the dark chop behind, catching glimpses of the lightning below the sea, trying not to think about what would happen when the beasts caught them. Their arms and hands and shoulders and legs were painfully in need of rest, aching and trembling as they clung just a bit too tightly, trying not to think about how far out over the sea they hung, how severely the ship was heeled, at what speed, and trying not to think about what would be their fate should they slip from the rigging into the sea with that devil’s pack behind them.

  They also tried unsuccessfully to ignore the activity below them: Lund, the lures, the longboat. But the meaning of it, the desperation of what was being done, shot through the crew like a dark electrical charge. The men on deck were morose, watching the whitecaps slide by the leeward side and splash over the rail, listening to the anguished creak of the masts, trying to discern the tone of the conversation between the two captains, if not the words.

  It took little time for word to spread that Packer Throme had been sent to the crow’s nest; and it did offer a shred of hope. Whatever was true of him—blessed by God as he claimed, or a ghost made up of the witch’s breath as Mutter claimed—he was on their side, wasn’t he? Had he not brought the sea and the wind to their aid in battle? Surely if God had saved them once by Packer, He could do it again. And if it hadn’t been God, well, then the devil had saved them once, and might do it again.

  The lead Firefish surged forward, its want of its prey still growing. The sleek target ran in a straight line, which was always a sign of panic. But this one gave off no sensation of panic, none of the telltale sounds or smells or tactile offerings of a frightened beast. It showed no fear. But fear or no fear, the prey was wounded, running at full exertion, and would tire soon. When it did, the others would expect the leader to send a signal through the water, not much more than a grunt, and then they would fan out to surround the animal. They would attack. And then they would feast. But the lead beast was now working on a new idea.

  It wanted the kill for itself.

  A few of these Fish, the lead beast included, carried outer scars, chunks of fin or tail or flesh missing, that reflected deeper scars yet within, darkened memories of similar attacks, and vague, undefined hopes of even greater feasting.

  The one-eyed leader wanted only to devour the Chase. The pack behind it wanted the Chase and more…these beasts were hoping for the orgy of carnage that was always associated with Achawuk canoes.

  Packer accepted the telescope from the crewman in the crow’s nest and put its leather strap around his neck. The pale seaman quickly disappeared, happy to work the rigging rather than sit and watch helplessly as the Firefish approached.

  The crow’s nest was tiny, a wooden barrel-top three feet in diameter circled by a brass railing eighteen inches above its outer lip. It wasn’t a nest; it was a perch. Scat, in his insistence on vigilance, had ordered that the wooden encasement originally built there be removed. So now the barrel staves surrounding the perch, which would provide some sense of security and some protection in a sea battle, were gone. “I want a clear view for my lookout, and a clear view of him,” he had said.

  The one nod to caution, a short safety rope that ringed the masthead and was then hooked to the lookout’s belt, secured Packer now. The deck a hundred feet below was pitched at thirty-five degrees, which meant the crow’s nest was also pitched at thirty-five degrees—and hanging almost sixty feet out over the water. The sensation was mind-skewing. With the moonlit, whitecapped waves actually closer to him than the lamp-lit deck, Packer felt cut off from the reality of the Chase and her crew. He clung to his perch under the ruffle and snap of the skull and bones as though outcast, as though his first duty were to the sea and the wind, and whatever demands they might make.

  As he had seen others do, he slung his right leg around the masthead and tucked his right foot under his left knee, and then propped his left foot against the railing. Steadied thus with his legs, he had two hands free to hold and focus the telescope. He peered through it astern.

  The Firefish were now five hundred yards back. He couldn’t judge how many there were, but he guessed more than a dozen, probably less than two dozen, their jagged green dorsal fins cutting through the water and then dipping just below it, resurfacing a few moments later. He couldn’t help but be awed by their size, their power.

  He slowly worked the telescope around, three-hundred-sixty degrees. He scanned the waters ahead carefully. He saw nothing. The moon had come out overhead and now offered good visibility. No islands were near, no signs of life anywhere. He looked back at the Firefish, and watched.

  The two bearded, brown-clad huntsmen who preceded John Hand onto the deck were dour and drawn, looking like prisoners at an execution. And in fact, hardly a difference existed between their orders and a death warrant. The longboat made ready and hanging from its hoists would be their gallows. Their nooses were the ropes tied to brass crossbeams, holding the boat above the water. The huntsmen scowled, eyes shifting back and forth among the witnesses.

  They were unarmed. Huntsmen usually went proudly to their duty, somber, noble, their muskets over their shoulders, for show, mostly, but also for pride. But now the pride of the Marchessa, Stedman Due and Gregor Tesh, killers of Firefish, had been stripped of their weapons, along with their dignity.

  “Dangerous maneuver at this speed, don’t you think, Captain?” asked Andrew Haas matter-of-factly, as though making conversation for its own sake. He patted the thick hull of the heavy longboat.

  Hand nodded. “Aye. But the water’s up to the port rail. If we run the bow line forward through a turning block, then lower the boat from the davits stern first, it should work.”

  Andrew sniffed, nodded. It would be dangerous, nonetheless.

  The plan was simple. Once the longboat was lowered to the waterline, the bow line would become a fishing line, the foreward davit arm would become the rod, the windlass the reel, and the longboat itself the bait. The sailors would slowly let out line, sending the longboat backward to meet the Fish.

  The Trophy Chase was about to go fishing.

  “Hope you kill more Firefish than you did Achawuk,” Jonas Deal whispered into Gr
egor’s ear as he held the ladder for the huntsman. Gregor scowled but said nothing as he climbed aboard. Stedman Due followed, similarly silent, but now he raised his head, his shoulders back. He would go proudly. Quickly the two were seated uncomfortably in the boat, with all eyes focused on them.

  “We all knew the dangers of our mission when we signed on,” Scat said quietly, but with a rumble that carried his voice to all on deck and a number still in the rigging. “We thank you for doing your duty.”

  The two huntsmen nodded. Stedman Due opened his mouth to speak. But whatever words he thought of saying hung in his throat, and he looked instead at the faces surrounding him—some hard, some not, but all of them men worth serving alongside. When he caught Scat’s eye he could see the Captain had no time for speeches. He nodded. “An honor, Captain,” he croaked with a salute. When Scat nodded back, a dozen hands took to the windlass, ready to begin lowering the best hope of the Trophy Chase over the side.

  “God be wi’ ye,” Jonas called to them, grinning. “Say hello to ’im for me when ye get there.”

  “Just do your duty, mate!” John Hand cut in gruffly. He turned to the huntsmen. “We’ll keep the ropes taut, and reel you back in when you’re done.” He saw the doubt in their eyes.

  “Aye, sir,” Stedman said weakly. He knew what all the others knew. He would never see the deck of this or any other ship again. Hand knew it, or why not send all four lures at once? Hand wanted to save two, for use once the longboat was lost.

  Packer watched the efforts on deck with a heaviness he couldn’t shake. From as far away as he was, it seemed ceremonial, precise, slow. As though this were burial at sea.

  Behind them in the darkness, the Firefish were now two hundred yards from the ship. And gaining. Through the telescope he could now clearly see the triangular scales on their backs, and the dorsal fins glistening in the moonlight. With an unprecedented sacrifice, the huntsmen might kill one of them. And then what?

  Packer saw the lead Firefish surface. “Dear God,” he said aloud. The beast’s flesh was dark gray and slick in the moonlight, but as clear through the telescope as though it were on top of him. He saw the black socket of the eye, apparently clawed out with a single vicious swipe. But what was big or strong enough to do that, except maybe another Firefish? He saw the other eye, dark and cunning. The beast was measuring its prey for the kill.

  What the Firefish saw as it surfaced filled its misshapen head with awe. This beast had never seen even a modest tall ship at full sail, had never encountered anything like the clouds of white canvas the Chase boasted. This prey was massive! It was much larger above the water than below. And those huge white…wings! They were wings, spreading across the night sky…

  The beast’s lust grew yet again. This was no sea creature. This was a creature of the air!

  And then into the dark mind of the predator clicked an angering thought: The bird was trying to fly away. That was the reason for the straight line, the speed. For the first time, the Firefish felt urgency. It all fell into place in an instant. Only severe wounds, the wounds that created the blood trail, the morsels, could keep such a feathered, plumed, proud thing in the water. The Firefish scanned the creature, looking for signs of its injury. It was crippled, or it would have flown by now. Instinctively it looked for anything ungainly, anything unnatural or awkward. It saw nothing.

  The wind gusted, the flag snapped, standing out at a right angle to the ship. The Firefish saw the face of the prey; black eyes on a white skull. And those eyes seemed to be locked onto it, the predator.

  Packer was amazed at how intelligent, how human the beast appeared. It was little more than a hundred yards away now, but it seemed to have slowed its pace. Was it looking at him? He fumbled for better focus, and as he did his foot slipped from the brass railing. He let go of the telescope and grasped at the ring with both hands, but missed it. His knee was still firmly encompassing the masthead, so the services of the safety rope were not needed. But he found himself hanging upside down, his heart racing like a runaway horse.

  He righted himself, replaced his foot on the rail, and quickly repositioned the telescope, which had dangled and banged the railing, but was kept from falling by its strap around his neck. But when he scanned the choppy waters behind them, the beast was gone, under the water once again.

  The huge Firefish dove, increasing its speed to an all-out sprint. It did not send out the signal that would cause the others to surround this prey, but rather it sounded the soft, easy clicks that held them in pursuit while it stalked. The beast had seen the weakness, an ungainly fluttering just under the face, at the animal’s neck. Surely this was the crippling injury—such awkward movement, obvious in the moonlight, in such a vital spot. The ancient predatory instincts, the beast’s own memories and experience conspired, and a new strategy formed itself in its dark brain…

  Lunging from below the surface…

  Clamping powerful jaws around the animal’s injured neck…

  Pulling the animal, wings and all, down under the water…

  Overwhelming the huge bird, turning it, rolling it, submerging it…

  Ripping the soft flesh…

  Killing it…

  Feasting!

  The strategy became a vision, and the vision became a need, and the need became a craving, and the craving a fiery lust, a lust that it would sate. Now.

  The Firefish swam upward hungrily, measuring its own speed, watching the white wings shimmer through the surface of the water under the light of the moon, judging the distance to its neck.

  It would be possible. It could reach the neck. The beast’s appetite grew ravenous. Its whole being turned to fire with excitement for the kill, and its skin glowed yellow. It increased its velocity yet again, swimming now at an attack speed possible only when fueled by rage and hunger, upward, toward the surface.

  It broke the surface moving much faster than the Chase herself, with easily enough momentum to carry it to the crow’s nest. Water poured from it as it opened its huge jaws, baring uneven rows of jagged teeth, its yellow skin ablaze, its aim perfect.

  This would be a satisfying, exciting, powerful kill.

  The longboat’s prow hovered eight feet from the rushing water. The huntsmen’s eyes were astern, watching the Firefish behind, preparing for the rushing water to meet the prow. The beast broke the surface twenty yards away.

  The two captains and the crew on deck stood at the railing, their eyes riveted, their mouths open, necks swiveling upward in unison as the beast rose from the water. The head of the thing, jaws gaping, teeth bared, approached the crow’s nest. Its yellow, scaled body snaked through the air, slowing to a standstill as it reached the apex of its leap. Its tail, hooked like a shark’s, was visible below the dark surface of the sea for any who cared to look. Its whole huge body was now in view, all glowing yellow. This beast was easily more than a hundred feet long.

  The crewmen at the windlass forgot their duty. Their hands, like their jaws, went slack. The windlass spun wildly, unwinding the ropes to the longboat and dropping it to the sea.

  Packer Throme felt the presence before he heard it, and heard the churning of waters below before he saw it. He dropped the telescope and looked down at the vision that rose to meet him, jaws wide enough to swallow a small house and all its inhabitants, teeth in row after row top and bottom, throat an open black pit, its scaly, slick snout a brilliant yellow, its scarred eye socket a permanent, evil wink.

  Packer responded instinctively, from deep within him. Before he could think about it, before he could consider the absurdity of it, his sword was in his hand, and he had spun himself upside down again, this time poised to strike. The enemy was huge, powerful beyond reason, and bent on destroying him and the ship. Packer was small and powerless.

  But in that brief moment, as time slowed to a crawl, Packer felt a supreme sense of confidence. He knew what he had to do. God had saved them from the Achawuk. If He wanted them to be destroyed by Firefish, then that wa
s His choice, and He would do as He pleased. But this was not an attacking army; these were not other men created in God’s image. Packer had no moral conflict here. This was a beast. This was a natural phenomenon, a storm at sea, a hurricane, a tidal wave, a thunderstorm, a bear at the cottage door.

  Below him on deck were the men God had protected through the battle, men with wives and children and mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters who might still see their loved ones come home. Even if it were a futile gesture, Packer would do all in his power to shelter them, to protect them, to cover them from the storm. And what he could do was draw his sword, and strike. What happened after that was God’s own pleasure.

  From deep within him came a war cry, certainly as much fear as rage, but more of victory than of defeat, a cry that intertwined the desire to protect and the desire to kill in order to protect. He thrust his sword downward at the rising beast, meaning, somehow, to stop it.

  It was, of course, a ludicrous, impossible effort. A hundred swordsmen and a hundred swords couldn’t stop a Firefish intent on its feeding. But Packer Throme could do nothing else. He saw the jaws closing, felt the hot, fetid breath, saw the teeth like knives, the Achawuk spear points. But he never saw what happened next. It was his last conscious effort before all went dark.

  The windlass spun freely, and the heavy wooden hull of the longboat smacked the sea loudly, producing an instant spray of whitewater. The two huntsmen were knocked flat onto the floor.

  The crew saw Packer Throme’s sword, tiny and absurd, thrust downward toward the gaping mouth, heard him roar at the monster. But at that moment, as Packer’s desperate lunge stabbed the air, as the beast neared its target and unhinged its jaw to engulf its kill—at that instant the Firefish felt and heard the smack of the longboat below and to its side.

  An attack! The hard slap of water so near, and so close to the prey’s body where its greatest strength would be, where its pincers or claws would be, was a startling and unexpected sign of a counterattack. And this came just as the Firefish was most exposed, most vulnerable, least aware, and least capable of maneuvering. The startled beast reflexively arced its body away from the sound. The flinch cost it its prey. The great jaws snapped shut with a rush of air that blew Packer’s hair back. Its teeth missed his sword by inches.