The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  “Heave my soul to the grave,” Mutter Cabe said aloud, his voice tortured. “He just won’t die!”

  Packer dropped to the deck, stepped out of the chair. “Hold your fire!”

  John Hand stared hard at him. Packer looked around at the faces of the other sailors. He took a breath and strode quickly to the foredeck. “Watch them, Captain. Just watch,” he said panting. “They aren’t after us at all.”

  John Hand looked carefully at the boy, fought the urge to put a hand on him just to test the nature of his flesh and blood. Instead, he turned to look at the sea ahead of them, at the torches in the darkness where Packer pointed.

  “By all that’s above and below,” Hand muttered, when the reality of it finally sank in. “By all that’s holy, boy, you are right.” The Chase, still bearing many of the spears left in her hull by brethren of these savages, slid peacefully through and among the canoes. The warriors didn’t pause, didn’t look up, didn’t pay attention to the weary sailors who stared down in wide-eyed and well-armed amazement, bone-tired and dazed and feeling as though they must be dreaming.

  The Achawuk were paddling stone-faced toward the feeding frenzy the ship had left behind.

  Hand finally looked at Packer. Packer turned to him and nodded, his blue eyes clear as noon. “That’s why they attack. The Achawuk hunt the Firefish too.”

  Hand cocked his head, then looked back at the warriors.

  “They’ve been doing it for generations, probably,” Packer continued. “Storming our ship wasn’t anything personal. Killing us isn’t warfare, not to them. The Achawuk need bait to catch the Firefish. Lots of it. If we’d been a herd of cattle, they’d have killed us all and dumped us into the sea just the same. We mean nothing to them.”

  “But how do they kill ’em?” Andrew Haas asked. The Achawuk had no lures, no ships…

  Packer gestured with his open left hand at the carnage behind them. “Once they get them feasting on blood, they turn on each other. It turns into what you see back there. They let the monsters kill one another.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’m guessing they wait for the survivors to swim off, then move in and collect the remains.”

  John Hand was starting to see it. A smile crept up one side of his face. “You figured all that out?”

  Packer shrugged, looking up at the rigging. “I just saw it…” He couldn’t say why. He had looked into the eyes of the Achawuk, and had seen a lack of emotion he couldn’t understand. He had looked into the eyes of the Firefish, and seen a lust that would not be sated. “They have to kill only one Firefish. Then the others do the rest.”

  “You mean they swim into the middle of them, armed with only spears?” John Hand asked.

  There was a momentary pause of disbelief, before Delaney said slowly, “The spears are tipped with Firefish teeth.” They all looked at him. “The spear tips are Firefish teeth. Cap’n Wilkins noticed it.”

  There was a pause as the ramifications sunk in. Hand nodded. “Of course. That’s why they can penetrate the scales. They kill one, and they all turn on each other. Seems as though even Firefish can’t resist Firefish meat.”

  “That’s why the Firefish are here. The Achawuk feed them.”

  John Hand rubbed his face with both hands. The feeding waters. “But why do they kill Firefish? Just for themselves? Do they sell the meat, I wonder?” Scat had always said the Achawuk weren’t interested in money.

  Packer shrugged.

  “It’s religion,” Mutter Cabe said. All eyes focused on him. The rumors of his Achawuk ancestry gave these words power. He looked down at the deck. “So I’ve heard.” It was clear Cabe wasn’t about to elaborate, having denied his ancestry for his entire life.

  “It’s over, then, boys,” Hand said. “Everyone got what they wanted. Even Scat.”

  “Cap’n Wilkins!” Haas said, remembering their fallen leader. He rushed off, and Packer and Hand were drawn behind him toward the afterdeck, along with the other sailors. The Captain was resting in Jonas Deal’s arms.

  “Have we got a surgeon left?” Hand asked.

  “We’ll need a volunteer, sir. I sent a lot of men down to sick bay,” Haas answered.

  “Well, get him to his cabin,” Hand ordered. “Make him comfortable, send a surgeon as soon as you find one.” A group of them hoisted their leader once more, this time without distraction.

  The feeding frenzy was a good four hundred yards behind them now, and retreating with every passing moment. Packer and Captain Hand stood at the railing, waiting and watching in silence. They wanted to see what the Achawuk would do, but the darkness and their speed would prevent it.

  “Lund!” Hand exclaimed suddenly. “Where is he—he should be taking note of all this.”

  “Captain.” Packer shook his head. “Lund’s gone.”

  Hand looked quizzical.

  “Lund set that lure, sir.”

  Hand studied Packer’s solemn face, then looked up at the broken mast. He turned back toward the feeding frenzy. “He saved us, then.”

  “Aye, sir. He did.” Packer remembered the hard-edged sense of duty in Lund’s final moments.

  John Hand turned back toward the sea. “They’re just waiting,” he said, speaking of the Achawuk, watching their torch fires ring the melee. He turned away. He had had enough of Achawuk and Firefish for one day. “Well, Packer Throme,” Captain Hand said with a weary smile, “what do you say we get on to port?”

  “Which port, sir?”

  “The City of Mann. We need a rest and a refit.”

  Packer nodded and set his jaw. “That sounds good, sir.” But he was thinking of Talon, and of Panna.

  CHAPTER 18

  Bounty

  Not long after dawn, Panna stepped up into a white one-horse carriage. She was attired in the finery of a young woman of great means. She wore a modestly cut but ornately embroidered dress the color of a robin’s egg; it reached to the floorboards, puffed out with satin petticoats.

  Her hair had been cut and dressed, wrapped high around her head and held with silver combs. Tallanna had insisted on the styling, and had supervised it personally. Panna’s earrings and necklace were small, perfect pearls. She carried a dainty white parasol to protect her from the sun. She was perfumed and powdered and poised. She had seen herself in a mirror after the maidservants had finished with her, and she had been amazed.

  Tallanna, the servant, wore a severe black dress that buttoned tightly from her throat down to her boots. She carried a black parasol, longer than Panna’s, but slimmer—except where the ribbing fanned out at the handle. This accommodation allowed the black cotton material to cover the small bell of a hand guard. Talon’s plan was to locate Senslar by noon, see him by mid-afternoon, and be back to sea by dark. She expected to be traveling quite alone by then.

  Panna studied the hard features of her mistress-master. Her “lady lessons” of the previous day had not been difficult. They had worked hard, though, all day, in an elegant sitting room, under the tutelage of one of Madam Lydia’s professional consorts. Panna found it quite easy, actually, to put on a show of elegance, once she knew a few simple rules. She just needed to move slowly, smile coyly, and not be afraid of long pauses in conversation. When in doubt, she learned, she could raise her chin, keep eye contact, and wait; others would quickly move to fill the silence for her.

  Tallanna had been hard to please, but she had never let Panna forget their purpose: to find Senslar Zendoda. Twice, Panna had questioned the need for so much deception. Couldn’t she simply go find Senslar as herself, and ask him to come to her aid, and the aid of a fellow native of Drammun? But Tallanna had been dismissive. They could not take the chance; Panna was an outlaw, and this would prevent even those who knew her from recognizing her and sending her straight to jail.

  And Tallanna was clear that she wanted to look Master Zendoda in the eye to plead her case with him. “A Drammune warrior hidden somewhere out of sight is quite different than a fellow countryman w
ho stands eye to eye, in need.” Panna doubted whether their approach would have the desired effect, shrouded as it was in so much illusion. But Tallanna ignored her concerns as though they were mere naiveté, and Panna was bound to accept that judgment. Besides, Panna had made her bargain. She needed to find Packer, and if this elaborate ruse failed, at least she’d have found Master Zendoda, to whom she might confess all in exchange for his help. So Panna had accepted the role, and even learned to enjoy the playacting.

  But now, in the dusty and bumpy ride into the city, it all seemed too real, too dangerous. She was leading this unknown person to Senslar Zendoda, a very important man in Nearing Vast. And what if Tallanna really was a spy, sent to do him harm? She certainly was in disguise, like a spy would be. Panna wrestled with her doubts. What could go wrong, really? Tallanna was unarmed, Panna was certainly not a threat to him, and Senslar Zendoda was a great swordsman who could protect himself. Besides, they would be in and among many people, which was the whole reason for these disguises.

  “You are concerned, little desperado?” Tallanna asked, startling Panna.

  “A little, I guess.”

  “What worries you?”

  Panna looked out the window. Then she looked back at Talon. “You do, I guess.”

  “Me, why?” Talon smiled, but all her instincts were immediately summoned to the potential that the girl would not go through with this, and if that was the case, this mission would need to be ended abruptly. In such a fine carriage, it would need to be a bloodless end.

  “I guess I don’t really know who you are.”

  There was a pause, then Talon softened. “What do you want to know?”

  Panna thought a moment. “How does a woman become a warrior in your country?”

  “It does not happen in Nearing Vast?”

  “No, it certainly doesn’t. At least not in the fishing villages.”

  “All Drammune are raised in the art of war. Those who show abilities are identified at a very young age. Boy or girl, it doesn’t matter.”

  Panna blinked. It was a startling thought. “Who raises your children, then?”

  “Oh, not all women are gifted as warriors. Most grow up to raise children, much as they do here. Female warriors like myself are rare. They have a name for us. In our tongue it is Mortach Demal. Warrior Woman.” She smiled.

  Panna looked out the window again at the passing countryside: a rolling green field covered with corn, an ox pulling a wagon loaded with hay, a round-shouldered farmer trudging in front of it. She took a deep breath. “Here, all women are assumed to be weak.”

  “You must find that a tremendous advantage.”

  Panna showed her surprise. “How?”

  “It is deep in your mythology. The God who became man.”

  “Oh, that’s not mythology. It’s true.”

  Talon smiled again. “Yes, of course. But to take on a cloak of weakness, to appear weak, even to teach weakness to others, provides rich opportunities for the strong and fearless.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “This man you attacked…did he believe you were weak? I would guess you had an advantage, the advantage of surprise, because you were a woman and he did not expect strength.”

  “Well, he didn’t actually know I was a woman. But I think I see what you’re saying. I was the one who surprised myself. I thought I was weak, so I attacked him really hard, like a man would, so he wouldn’t guess who I was. And he just…”

  “He what?”

  “He kind of crumpled.”

  Talon smiled, a genuine smile now. “You see? The guise of weakness is a powerful tool. Just as your Jesus pretended to be weak, when in fact he was, as you teach, all-powerful.”

  Panna blanched. “No…he didn’t pretend…”

  Talon raised an eyebrow as Panna searched for some counterargument. When she found none, Talon continued. “It is all based on deception, your religion. In truth, power is power. You cannot be powerful if you are weak. You cannot be alive if you are dead. It is nonsense. Your religious leaders know this, and they use it to disguise their true intent, to cloak their drive for power.”

  Panna shook her head, feeling like the ground was quaking beneath her. “No. No, that’s not it. My father is a religious leader. He doesn’t do anything like that. He prays; he trusts God. That’s what he truly believes and truly teaches.” Her eyes blazed her certainty.

  “And is he a powerful man?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Does he do great things? Does he have great power to direct events, to change people?”

  Panna swallowed hard. “No. He trusts God for that.” She knew that God had not delivered on most of the things her father prayed for. At least, He hadn’t delivered yet.

  Talon smiled. “Then perhaps your father really does believe what he teaches. And perhaps he is really not a leader of your religion, but a follower, who teaches others to follow.”

  Panna turned away, looked unseeing out the window. Her heart was stabbed by these thoughts. Talon watched her. Foolish girl, she thought. This one had strength, certainly. But she was hopeless to use it, growing up as she had in the very nest of the Vast religion.

  It didn’t matter, of course. Panna had no cunning, and therefore no ability to recognize it in others. Here Talon sat in the guise of a servant, telling the girl in so many words that she was hiding her strength in order to deceive, but she couldn’t see it. She couldn’t piece it together, because the myth had seeped into her, she was steeped in it, her father taught her to be weak and to trust a powerful God. She had fought once, had experienced the simple power of power, but it was not enough to shake her confidence in the muddled belief that weakness is strength.

  So before sunset she would be dead. Talon relished that thought. Senslar Zendoda would be dead. Packer’s girl would be dead. No deity would protect either of them from Talon, and the religion of Nearing Vast would be shown to be the lie it was. And Talon would be free to return to Drammun. If only she could kill Packer on the way home, her mission would be perfectly fulfilled.

  “Fret not, little desperado,” Talon said gently. “It is my way to question these things. You have hope in the next world, and I do not. For that, I envy you. I wish I could believe as you do.”

  Panna smiled, and nodded. “But you can!”

  Talon was satisfied that her lie had the desired effect. Panna would be compliant for the few hours Talon yet needed her. Of course, Talon would have to put up with Panna’s attempts at evangelism in the meantime, but that was a small price to pay.

  The horseman was tired; he had ridden all night to get back to the City of Mann, but there would be no rest now. He was in danger. He slowed his horse. He had been followed at a distance for almost three blocks, and now two men in dark clothing blocked the street ahead. Their faces were in shadow, but he could see the red glow of a matchlock pistol held by one of them. As the gray horse stopped, so did the echoing footfalls of heavy boots on cobblestones behind him.

  “Hello!” the little man called out, close enough now to see the faces of the two men. His gentle voice was unperturbed, even friendly. His confident air and his immaculate grooming suggested that he belonged to the upper levels of Vast society, though he dressed in a style unusual for the streets of Mann. He wore a dark crimson beret over close-cropped hair; a gray suit buttoned to the collar; a black cape; boots above the ankle, then gray woolen stockings to the knees. His face was clean-shaven except for a generous salt-and-pepper goatee. He had a dark complexion, that of a foreigner.

  “We’ll be taking that pouch,” stated the man on the right. His grizzled black beard grew through a heavily scarred face. “And that sword strapped to your side, and whatever coins you carry.” The man who spoke raised his right hand into view so the horseman could clearly see the pistol aimed at his heart. The red glow came from the match, or wick, which was pinched in the pistol’s hammer mechanism. Once lit, it burned there continuously, a red ember poised to ignite
the powder when the trigger was pulled. By the standards of the wheellock, or even the flintlock, the matchlock pistol was a weapon of crude design. But it was effective enough and, so long as it wasn’t raining, very reliable. It was a cheap weapon stocked by almost every street-corner merchant in the City of Mann.

  “The pouch contains no valuables,” the little man said, friendly and gentle, unfazed. “I carry no coins. And the sword is something you do not want.”

  The man behind him continued to move slowly closer, imagining he was undetected.

  “Oh, really now,” said the grizzled one.

  “Yes,” the little man answered with a smile. “Now if you’ll kindly step aside, we won’t be having any trouble.”

  The two men glanced at one another, then laughed. “He’s a polite one, ain’t he?”

  The footfalls behind went silent, no more than six feet away.

  The other man who blocked the street, lean and bony, produced a matchlock pistol from his cloak. He bowed and spoke. “Begging your humblest pardon, but if you’ll kindly hand over the merchandise, we won’t be rammin’ a musket ball through your thick little skull.”

  Both men laughed again.

  Senslar Zendoda shook his head. He wished now that he had not come this way. It was the quickest route to the palace, and he was in a hurry to deliver the contents of the pouch, but he knew these streets grew dangerous after dark. He chanced it because it was so near dawn; he hoped that even highwaymen would have packed up by now and gone home to bed.

  Well, shortcuts are rarely short, he mused. The swordmaster took a look behind him. The man who had been following was a huge, lumbering thing, as Senslar had already determined from the sound of his boots, and he carried a blackjack in his right hand. He was clearly not the brains of the outfit. “Yes, I believe I understand you quite clearly.” Senslar’s tone was unchanged. “However, I must repeat that the pouch contains no valuables, I have no coin, and you do not want this sword.”