The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  Her swordsmanship was creative, intelligent, and masterful. He began to understand that he would not defeat her through mere superiority of skill. So he began to focus on her courage, her will to win, her temper. Her swordmastery.

  He needed to know something more than her name and reputation to affect the outcome of this duel. He needed to know what drove her in this assault, this moment. Was it politics? He may have been lured here, but this was no assassination.

  “Ema zien enmanteras,” he told her. I am not the enemy.

  “Enmateras aziz demincarcera.” You are the enemy incarnate. Talon kept the core of her being cool, a flowing stream of simple willpower, letting her body follow the lead of her most immutable desires. She was the bird of prey, unruffled in the turn, the dive, the kill. She was the Firefish, with no capacity for remorse, for fear, for pity or self-doubt. She was calm, even serene about her business. Perfect in design.

  Senslar was struggling. Too many questions, too few answers, too little time. The Swordmaster felt the burn in his forearm, his shoulder. This opponent was younger, stronger than he, exceedingly ferocious, immensely talented, and extremely careful. He had ridden all night without rest; but even had he been completely refreshed, he couldn’t outlast her. He began to realize he would lose to her. What drove her? In the answer to that question, behind that locked gate, was victory. He needed to find it soon.

  “Una aziz?” he asked. Who are you? Her answer, if she would answer, would reveal how she identified herself. It was a direct thrust, rarely parried, into the heart and soul. If the answer was a name, then lineage was most highly valued. If a title, then honor. If a post, then occupation. If current task, then expedience. If any other answer came, then a greater revelation came with it.

  She smiled. She understood why he asked. She knew his writings, his teachings—all of them. She had planned for this. “Eyneg…ema…aziza.” I am the darkness within you. “A rifal emo trumvala.” And I shall be victorious.

  The sense of the words in Drammune was that she was somehow a part of him, she was one with him; but she was the ignoble part, that which lay buried deep within. I am the darkness of you. I am the evil within you, and the evil within you has come to defeat you.

  Senslar was more puzzled yet. Everything he knew, all he could see, and now what he heard told him that she was driven in this moment by nothing more than the desire to defeat him, to mock him, to win against him; this was her identity, and now was her moment. It was a hatred born of culture, country, and competitive spirit.

  But why? Why come so deep into the very heart of Nearing Vast? The Drammune were not stupid, and they were not suicidal. It occurred to him that she might be one of the Zealots of her homeland. They hated Nearing Vast and the Christian religion with a great passion. He had converted to Christianity, and would be their natural target. But she was a woman. The Zealots held no place of honor for females, and did not follow the ancient custom of the woman warrior, the Mortach Demal.

  “Una aziz?” he asked again.

  She was pleased with the urgency behind the question this time, urgency he did not intend to convey but could not help but reveal. She let their swordplay dwindle to a pause. She lowered her sword, let its tip hover a foot above the rough planks of the floor. He was panting. That was fine; he could recover his breath. Talon spoke in her native tongue. “I am the daughter of a Vast harlot,” she said with venom, “and a young Drammune sailor, named…” and now her voice dropped an octave…“Senslar Zendoda.”

  Senslar felt his strength wither. Internal fires that burned in him hissed and steamed from this dousing. Was she lying? Surely she was. And yet, as a young man he had been as reprobate as any of his kind—sailors on leave, left to their own devices on foreign shores. Only in his mid-twenties had he responded to a higher calling and left his baser ways, along with his native land. If he had fathered a child by a prostitute, it would have been roughly thirty years ago.

  A child born of his sins could be this woman’s age.

  As Senslar studied her face, searching for answers, she waited, prepared for the final attack, the thrust that would kill him. As the dawn of recognition broke over him, as soon as he realized the truth of her words and knew that before him stood his own daughter, at that moment she would attack. At that moment he would be changed, open, vulnerable, desiring suddenly something far different than a duel to the death. And at just that moment he would die. She had rehearsed it in her mind again and again, practicing his death in darkness and in silence. She waited for what seemed an eternity.

  And then the moment came. His eyes opened, his face went slack. He could see himself in her, in the jawline, the nose. And in her eyes he could see…Lydia. He could see her!

  Talon’s sword was a bolt of lightning, a flash of powder, an electrical charge that exploded from nowhere and flew to his heart. He reacted too slowly, as she knew he would. But his movements were her movements, her lightning was his, born of his flesh, and he was able, at the last possible moment, to redirect the thrust. Talon’s blade bit deeply into his left shoulder, just missing his heart but puncturing the muscle and tendon at its very strength. He pulled away, falling backward as he did. He spun to his left, landing on his knees with his back to her. Knowing his vulnerability, he rolled under the clerk’s desk, then jumped to his feet on the far side of it, poised again.

  Talon’s eyes flashed at the missed moment, but he didn’t see them. When he looked at her again, she laughed, her eyes merry. “Bleed,” she said happily. “I have enough of your blood for the both of us.”

  His chest and shoulder throbbed. His left arm was almost useless; worse than useless, the pain of movement made just by breathing was difficult. She had wounded him badly.

  “Who is your mother?” he asked, still searching. But he knew the answer.

  She shook her head. “No one worth more than a fifth of a coin for half of an hour. But she had the black misfortune of being unable to forget you. And that misfortune she passed on to me. But I will destroy you and all you have built.”

  Senslar moved out from behind the desk, realizing that if he died, when he died, the young woman Panna would be in great jeopardy. He had to find a way to save her, if at all possible. He hoped Talon would forget about her for a moment. As Senslar circled, Talon’s back was to Panna. Panna stood in agonized silence, and pressed herself back against the wall.

  “I do not fall for your mind tricks, or the tricks of your religion, your pretense at weakness as you call on God to protect you. I am not weak. I am strong. And I am what you unleashed in the integrity of your youth. I have come to put an end to the deceit of your old age.”

  Senslar Zendoda was heartbroken. He understood now her purpose. It was to destroy him. That was all. And yet she was his daughter, a child he’d never known. There was something stirring in him, a paternal pride, and with it a great paternal sorrow. “Your strength is undeniable, Talon.”

  “Yes. Yes it is.” Now she shunned her native tongue, so Panna could understand. “And your weakness is undeniable. Tell me your God will save you from me. Tell me He will save this weak girl. I will kill her, just as I killed her lover and your protégé, Packer Throme.”

  Panna’s gasp was a convulsion. Black darkness made her head swim; nausea overcame her. She spread her hands against the wall behind her to keep from falling.

  “And then I will return to the Kingdom of Drammun, and will not rest until the Drammune make war on Nearing Vast, that we may kill all the other puppets you have fashioned here in your deceptions.”

  She laughed again, but this time low and murderous. “Here we have the sum total of your life, Swordmaster of Nearing Vast.” She paused to let the words bite deeply into the man before her. And then she said, “I, and I alone, shall be your legacy.”

  Senslar seemed to shrink. That Talon could or would carry out each of these threats was not only possible, it was likely. The physical wound she had inflicted was only to his shoulder, but in the context o
f this duel, it was fatal. She would kill him the next time their swords met. She had found his weakness and exploited it. She had turned his own teachings against him. He glanced again at the frightened young woman behind her. Perhaps he could still save her.

  “Panna,” he said softly, “I know you did not intend this. Do not give up hope.”

  Panna shook her head slowly, feeling hollow as a tree trunk. Tears flowed down her cheeks. “I…only wanted to find Packer.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Talon cooed. “The poor little mouse was only following her heart.” She spat out the next words. “This is the weakness you create with your lies. She has a strong back, but she could not see death and destruction though it rode with her in a white carriage.”

  Panna could not stop the sobs that came to her.

  “You must leave, Panna,” the little man said flatly, almost lifelessly. “I will give you the chance. It will only be a moment. But you must take it, and run. Do you understand?”

  “Oh, no,” Talon countered, “I think you will not have even a moment.”

  “Promise me, Panna. Promise not to give up hope. For me, for Packer. For God. Promise me.”

  Panna couldn’t.

  Talon cackled, and Senslar raised his sword, stepping toward Talon so that she could not afford to make a move toward Panna. “Find Prince Mather, Panna, at the Palace. Tell him all you know. Hold nothing back. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes,” she managed. Her head throbbed; she didn’t know what to believe anymore. She understood his instructions, but didn’t know if she could follow them.

  “Go! Run!” Talon mocked. “Run to the Prince of Nearing Vast.” She laughed again, the same cackle Panna had heard on the boat during the storm. “She’s not going anywhere but where I send her. And I will send her to the bloody gates of your sterile heaven.”

  Will Seline had not eaten in three days. He had left his bedroom only to take some water, or to make some. He had slept little. His face, however, was not haggard or drawn, but calm. He had refused all visitors since Dog had brought him Panna’s knapsack, her bloodied cloak. He had determined he wouldn’t leave his room, or his knees, until he knew Panna was safe at home, either with him or with God.

  The Spirit of God would have to work. God’s power alone could right the terrible wrongs now plaguing his little village. If Panna was dead, then God had taken her. But if she wasn’t dead—and he did not believe in his heart that she was—then God could still protect her. No man, good, bad, or in between, could stop the power of God. And Jesus himself had said that if you have faith as a mustard seed, a mountain could be thrown into the sea. He also said that some demons could not be cast out without fasting and prayer. Will did not know the extent of his own faith, or whether he could move mountains. But he could fast and pray.

  Now, once again, he felt deeply the danger that Panna was in. He took joy in it; he knew she was still alive. But once again he cried out, offering himself up in her place, not just asking God if He would, but placing himself as an offering on the fiery altar of God, bearing her very burdens, her fears, taking the dangers on himself, if that were possible, so they would pass from Panna.

  “Whatever mercy you have shown me, dear God, give that now to Panna instead. Let me take the pain, let me bear the fear, let me hurt, let me die, but let her live.”

  Talon did not turn, would not take her eyes from Senslar. The deep pain faded in Panna, and in its place grew something more full and angry and cold than she had ever felt before. She wanted to hurt this woman. She wanted to kill her. It took Panna a moment to recognize this pain for what it was. But then she was able to give it a name. It was hatred.

  Talon moved in on Senslar, still smiling. When she began again, her strokes were quick as a sparrow, heavy as an oak. The Swordmaster’s parries were slow, and weak. She nicked him on the forearm, then the ribcage. He stepped backward, trying to open a space for Panna to escape. But the swordswoman before him was too much, too great an enemy for him now. She saw what he wanted, and blocked Panna’s exit. She cut Senslar’s cheek, then sliced his thigh. She laughed again. She was toying with him.

  Senslar Zendoda saw the approach of death as clearly as if the woman before him were robed in black and carrying a scythe.

  His mind raced back three decades and more, to wild, pleasure-filled days on the shores of Nearing Vast. He had no doubts. There was only one woman who could have cared enough to carry his child, who could have carried such a fire for so long. She was a strong, quiet, intelligent woman who should never have fallen to prostitution. He had thought of her over the years with real affection, real yearning; not constantly, but now and then. He had even wished she were other than she was when he had met her.

  He felt shame now. Shame like he had never felt, even in his darkest moments. His heart ached with the thought of her pain over so many years, ached with what might have been, with what had been, with what he had missed, what was his all along without his ever knowing. Home, family, wife, children—all things he had never known, and would have dearly loved to know. The weakness in him utterly overcame his strength. There was no way out.

  But then, suddenly, there was a way in. Senslar felt the pounding of the waves, the salt spray, the current, the undertow. Like the sea turtle, Senslar had reached his sea. His time had come. In his heart, he gave himself up to God, regretting the depth of his sin, accepting his own death, accepting a forgiveness so extreme that only the crucifixion of an innocent man in his place could assure its justice. He knew what he must do.

  Suddenly, Senslar pressed the attack with a determination and resolve that surprised Talon. He stepped toward her, countering all strikes that might cripple him, protecting only his head, neck, sword arm, and heart. She moved backward, perplexed at this sudden, iron resolve, fearful that somehow he had in fact found an inner strength that would turn the fight against her…fearful even, deep within, that perhaps the Vast God who lurked in weakness was real, and would somehow overcome her even now.

  But Senslar looked for no opportunities to strike. That was not his plan. He left his midsection vulnerable, so obvious a target that even a novice swordsman would see the failure in his defenses. And still he pressed the attack.

  For a moment, Talon believed it a feint, and stayed away, fighting for victory in all the places Senslar still protected fiercely. But it quickly became clear that he was truly exposed, immensely so, that he could not possibly parry even the simplest thrust to his centerline, as unguarded as it was. Once she accepted the truth of this weakness, she didn’t think past her own victory, hers now for the taking.

  The meticulous killer who had schooled herself to have no capacity for remorse or pity, who had taken the greatest of pains to sever from herself any of the weaknesses that might grieve her as they had grieved her mother, had also schooled herself away from any capacity for self-sacrifice, and therefore she could not see it in others. She was utterly blind to her opponent’s purposes.

  She thrust her sword through his belly, just below the sternum, burying her blade to the hilt. She followed it in so that her eyes, on fire now with victory, with the moment, were locked onto his, her face inches away. Now the rehearsals would pay off, and she would see what she had come to see. She would watch him die, watch him writhe in agony, watch for the very moment his light was extinguished forever. The Firefish, eyes and skin ablaze, watched her quarry, relishing the kill. “Rifal…ema…trumvala.” She twisted the blade.

  “Yes,” he said, his breath leaving him in a rush of pain, his cheeks and chin quivering. Blood seeped between his teeth, outlining them in red. He looked into her face, but he didn’t see the Firefish. He didn’t see the killer. Senslar Zendoda, Swordmaster of Nearing Vast, being so near to heaven’s bloody gate, was granted a vision, given a glimpse of his great, lifelong desire, now fulfilled. He did not see the swordswoman, the pirate, the predator. He looked past the witch and the wanton, and saw only the little girl. His own daughter. His heart leapt with joy,
and his eyes stung with tears. His sword fell as he took her in his arms and embraced her. He pulled her head toward him with every ounce of strength remaining in him and more, with a supernatural power, and cradled her head between his cheek and his shoulder. His grip was iron and velvet, gentle and loving, impossible to resist, impossible to deny, as though she were an infant and he was her doting father.

  “My little child,” he said into her ear in Drammune, with a kindness beyond reason, a love beyond human capability, his cheek pressed tightly against her forehead. “Oh, how I have missed you!”

  Talon was horrified. She struggled, but felt helpless to free herself from his grip. She fought it with all she had, but she could not escape the warmth, the sense of pure light and love that wrapped around her, that enfolded her in a way she had never felt, that reached into places she didn’t know existed. Finally, when his last breath escaped him and his arms released her, she pushed him violently away, leaving her sword buried in his belly. She watched, still filled with horror, as his body pirouetted slowly downward, almost gently, as though he were being lowered carefully to the ground by unseen hands.

  Senslar Zendoda lay on the worn plank flooring, on his side, with a forearm under his head and a calm expression on his face, as though sleeping peacefully. But her sword remained in him, piercing his very being.

  Talon stared in anguish, in pain, her teeth bared like a wounded animal, her breaths panting and hard. And then something crashed around her, blinding her, knocking her to the ground. She staggered to her feet, growling aloud, and stared down at the dead man as though he could have struck her yet again. But he lay there peacefully yet. Then she wrenched her eyes away.

  The girl! The chair, which the girl had fallen over, now lay on the floor beside Talon. The stupid little girl had hit her with a chair! And now Panna was gone, the door still ajar from her escape. And someone with heavy boots was approaching on the wooden porch. Talon kicked the door shut and shot the bolt closed violently with one hand.