The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  She pondered her own thoughts for a moment. Why did she want to spare Delaney and Mutter? Why did it matter to her? They were good men, sure, but she had killed many good men. Where had her rage gone, her focus, her deep fires? She was the Firefish, forever hunting, alight with electrical energy as she prepared to attack. But that energy seemed missing now.

  It was because Senslar Zendoda was dead, she thought. That was the reason for it. There was a great relief in that. It was the end of a quest, the conclusion of a great hunt.

  She tried not to think about his final moments, about his last words to her, his first and last embrace of her. Since it happened, she had refused to grant it any validity, refused even to consider it. It had been a mind trick; it had been his final, desperate attempt to use the Vast mythology to weaken her, and she would not allow herself to succumb. She would not allow him to prevail in his death, where she had planned for so long to prevail. Where she had in fact prevailed.

  The jolly bobbed closer. She could see Packer’s eyes as he turned to scan the ship; she could hear the water drip from the oars. Still she didn’t move.

  She felt a strong pull toward that moment, Senslar’s last. There was a deep melancholy in it somehow; there was a deep pain she was not accustomed to feeling, deeper than physical anguish, like a deep, clean cut to the soul. Of course, she told herself, that was what Senslar wanted. He would want her to go back there and think about it, relive it, absorb the possibility that truth lurked within his words. Just the idea that light, comfort, and hope might be found there would be attractive to anyone.

  But she would not go. She could not. It was a lie and a trick. And even if it were true, why would she want it? It was weakness, it invited pain on a level she could not begin to embrace, a kind of pain far more destructive than any she had ever inflicted or endured. She hardened herself against it. She was Talon; she was the predator. And she had work yet to do.

  She lost sight of the jolly as it closed in on the Camadan’s hull. She heard its oars splash, then clatter against the gunwales as the men pulled them in, preparing to board.

  Still she didn’t move.

  My little child. Oh, how I have missed you.

  There. She had listened again. She heard the voice in her mind. It had no power. She felt nothing, nothing but the cold mist around her, creeping through her.

  Delaney was able to throw a loop of rope around the anchor fluke, banging it against the hull as he did. Every noise seemed amplified and out of place in the mist. The jolly pitched and yawed and slammed into the Camadan’s hull, grating angrily. Mutter Cabe, despite his whispered misgivings, was now grim and determined. Packer again saw the warrior in him.

  Before the three had time to discuss a plan, Delaney had started climbing the rope hand over hand. He reached the anchor and stood on it, then pulled himself up and over the rail. “Hang on, I think there’s a rope ladder in the bosun’s locker.” They heard his footsteps drift away. After a silence that lasted far too long, they heard footsteps returning. The rope ladder came over the rail, and Packer and Mutter climbed up, Packer one-handed, Mutter struggling with the lanterns.

  As they came over the rail they found Delaney standing with arms on hips, looking up at the sails blankly. “They been struck,” he said. “Someone took ’em down, prob’ly to replace ’em.”

  Packer shrugged. “So?” Seemed logical.

  “Who struck ’em? And why?”

  No one answered. “Well, why don’t we have a look around,” Packer suggested. He held up his lantern. They had climbed over the starboard rail onto the main deck, so the quarterdeck was up to their left, the foredeck and the forecastle up to their right. There was no sign of anyone.

  “I’ll take the fore,” Delaney offered, drawing his sword. He was thinking that the forecastle was likely to present the greatest danger.

  “Fine. I’ll go aft, and I suppose I’ll meet you back here before we go below?”

  “What about me?” Mutter asked.

  “You stay on lookout,” Delaney told him. “If one of us has trouble, we’ll call out, you come to help.”

  John Hand and the crew worked diligently to turn the Chase. She had swept past the Camadan, and they would need to bring her about and catch up again with the drifting ship before an attempt could be made to heave to, matching the Camadan’s negligible progress through the water. But they would be several long minutes gone; it could take as much as half an hour to finish the maneuver.

  Delaney swung his lantern through the darkness of the forecastle. Shadows played along the hammocks and hooks, but it was empty. “Ahoy! Anyone here?” he asked, his voice hoarse and quiet in the flickering light. “This is Delaney, from the Chase.” The forecastle had not been abandoned hastily, he noted. Most of the crew’s gear was gone, and what was left was packed neatly away, as though its owners might reappear at any moment.

  He thought he heard footsteps in the hall. “Ahoy! Anyone there?” He went to investigate.

  Packer went through the officer’s quarters aft before heading for the Captain’s quarters, his sword drawn in his left hand, the lantern in his bandaged right. He realized after poking a lantern into three or four doors that whoever was aboard, if there were someone aboard, would most likely hole up where the comfort and the rum were most plentiful. That would be the Captain’s cabin, which opened out onto the quarterdeck.

  Packer looked around the decks as he climbed the companionway steps to the quarterdeck. Mutter stood where he had been left, holding the lantern and looking out to sea for the Chase.

  The Captain’s quarters were dark; no light came from around or under the hatch. Packer paused outside to listen. Hearing nothing, he slowly pushed on the door, swinging his lantern in as the hatch groaned. Nothing and no one. He entered. Captain Hand’s quarters here were smaller than Scat’s on the Chase by a wide margin. He had no saloon with accompanying table, no storage closet for wine and ale and spirits. Other than some additional square footage of floor space, little here recommended it over any of the other officer’s quarters.

  It had a bunk, which had been left unmade, the bedclothes in a heap at the foot. A map table stood in the center of the room, little more than a writing desk. A small wooden cabinet with a glass front containing two swords and a musket stood on the near side of the bunk. On the far side was a shelf of books, and a smaller shelf of bottles.

  But Packer was drawn to the desk. He held the lantern over it. The chart of the seas still lay open, showing the course of the Camadan plotted into the Achawuk waters. Nothing since. The captain’s log lay beside it, also open. The last entry read, “Docked safely at Port of Mann. Expect one to two weeks for refit. Crew given leave. Fenter left on guard.”

  It was initialed BD. It was dated yesterday.

  Yesterday? Had the ship simply drifted out to sea? Or had it been stolen?

  Then Packer heard a whining sound, followed by the deep thud of a heavy object plunging into the water. Something, or someone, had gone overboard. There was a creak, a crack, and a groan, and the ship shuddered. And then all was quiet and still.

  Packer ran down the stairs to the deck. Mutter was gone. His lantern stood on the floorboards where it had been standing a moment ago. Packer’s heart pounded in his chest. He ran to the gunwale, glanced behind him to be sure no one was near, then looked over the rail. The jolly was gone. How had it…? Then he saw the anchor rope, taut and trailing into the sea. Chunks of wood, planking and hull, floated behind them in the water.

  Packer spun around again, expecting an attack. There was no one. “Mutter? Where are you?” he asked. Someone had let the anchor’s windlass spin free; that was the whining sound he’d heard. The anchor had plunged into the ocean, and then the jolly, tied securely to it, had been pulled under by its weight, creaking and finally breaking as it went under.

  Packer waited a few moments, during which he realized the full extent of his predicament. He didn’t know where Mutter or Delaney was. If they were in trouble,
he needed to go help them. If he went looking for them, he’d be inviting a sudden attack from almost anywhere on this dark ship. The Chase was now visible, but still several thousand yards away, and anyway it had no more boats to send.

  “Packer!”

  He heard the muffled cry coming from below deck, perhaps from the forecastle. There were other words, but he couldn’t make them out. He couldn’t recognize the voice; it sounded like Delaney, but he couldn’t be sure. He started for the forecastle deck, sword in one hand, lantern in the other. He left Mutter’s lantern behind.

  The darkness beyond the light of his lantern seemed absolute. He was easily visible to any foe; any foe was utterly invisible to him. But he didn’t dare put his lantern down. He didn’t know the ship; he didn’t know the hiding places and the alleyways and the doorways where an attacker might conceal himself. He needed the light, it was his only hope, even though it made him completely vulnerable.

  Something about his predicament seemed right to him, and gave him comfort, though he didn’t have the time or the inclination to ponder it. He did ponder, at least briefly, what God had done in just the last few days. He did think about the power God had showed when Packer had put away his sword. He did think about his need to trust God now as he had in the barrel, as he had in the rigging, and not to take up the sword as he had with Delaney in the hold. He wasn’t sure he could do that now. His heart was pounding and his blood was high.

  He wanted God to do whatever God wanted. Packer prayed he would do no harm, unless that was what God intended. He prayed he would have the courage to do the right thing, the selfless thing, to sacrifice himself in order to help Delaney and Mutter, and not just to protect himself. But protecting himself right now was the overwhelming instinct of his entire being.

  “Packer!” The voice was urgent, and though it was still muffled he felt certain now it was Delaney calling out to him.

  “I’m coming!” Packer called back. He moved as quickly as he could to the forecastle deck, and then, swallowing hard, he started down into the forecastle itself.

  “Packer, it’s Talon! Talon is on board this ship!”

  The words were icicles to his soul, putting every hair on end. But he did not slow as he moved through the cramped passageway toward the voice. He also did not cease to look both behind and in front of him, ready for the swordswoman to spring out at any moment.

  “Where are you?” Packer called.

  “In here! She’s locked us in the brig!”

  Both of them were alive when he found them, and for the most part, well. The brig was a dank eight-foot-by-eight-foot cell in a dank room of about twice that size. The cell was a panel of iron bars fronting a bench and a pot. The place smelled like urine. Mutter sat on the floorboards and leaned against the bench, holding the back of his head. Delaney stood at the bars, embarrassed and frustrated, but uninjured.

  “What happened?”

  “She surprised me in the dark,” the sailor said glumly, and clenched his jaw. “I never had a chance. She led me here with a knife at my throat, threatening to slice me open if I even breathed loudly.”

  “Is he all right?” Packer asked as he shook the great padlock that clasped the iron bars together at its entrance.

  Delaney shook his head. “She must have cold cocked him from behind. I don’t think he knows yet what hit him.”

  “Did you see what she did with the key?”

  “No. Took it with her, I think.”

  Packer swept the damp room with his lantern, but other than the two men’s swords, which had been left on the floor just out of their reach, there was little here: a small writing table without drawers, an empty cabinet built in the wall, an empty peg above it that might have been where the key was kept.

  Packer kicked the swords close so Delaney could reach them. “These will help if she comes back. But I’ll have to find her.”

  “It’s what she wants.” He frowned deeply.

  “She said that?”

  Delaney shook his head. “She could a’ killed us both. But she didn’t, and she let us call you here. She wanted us to call you. She’s waiting, Packer. Probably not far.” Delaney was silent. “I’m sorry, brother. All a sudden, she was there.”

  “It’s not your fault. The Chase will be back soon. I could just—” He heard a distant crack, or a pop. “What was that?”

  They listened again, heard another soft pop, perhaps more distant.

  “Sounds like gunfire.”

  “No, it’s not.” They both looked at Mutter Cabe. He did not open his eyes to look at them. He seemed to be speaking in his sleep. “It’s fire. You can smell it.”

  Sure enough, Packer could now smell the smoke; very faint, but very real.

  The ship was burning.

  She sat and thought as the ship burned. She sat at the foot of the stairs to the quarterdeck. The quarterdeck and everything above and behind her was aflame. Across the main deck, the forecastle was also alight. She had set the fires. As soon as she saw Packer disappear below, she had gone to the ship’s supply of lantern oil and poured it out fore and aft, leaving only the main deck for her final fight.

  She thought about that, her final fight. It would happen here, now. She could have chosen deception; she could have put on the mantle of her old role, put herself at Scat Wilkins’ service, made herself out to have simply returned from her mission. She could have hidden what she’d done to the Swordmaster of Nearing Vast, could have lied about how she came to be afloat here on the Camadan, alone. Scat knew nothing about her accomplishments of the last few days.

  But eventually, she would be found out. She was an assassin. She had been seen, and could be identified. She was a killer, but not a coward. She would deceive to kill, but she would not deceive simply to protect herself.

  So she was determined that this was the place, and now was the time, to play it out to the end. She did not think about what would happen when it was done. Somewhere in the burning ruin of the Camadan, when Packer Throme was dead, she would make her escape. A way would open up. It always had.

  She felt now, deep inside her, that her mission was at an end. There would be a new mission, surely. But the ceaseless, ravenous desire at the root of her being was dissipating. She knew that now. She hadn’t killed the two crewmen, hadn’t even wanted to. The gale that had always blown hard into her sails had blown over. She did not know what it meant; it was not something she had anticipated. But there it was.

  So she thought about how here, now, tonight, when Packer was as dead as Senslar Zendoda, she would prove, finally, the folly of believing that a weak God was somehow powerful. And proof, she had to admit, was now needed. The boy had escaped death at her hands. The girl had escaped her too. Her full intention in both cases had been to kill them. She had the will, she had the power, and she had had the opportunity. But both of them trusted in this broken God, and both were still very much alive. From one point of view, certainly from their point of view, these escapes would be seen as evidence that they did not believe in vain.

  Senslar Zendoda had not escaped her, of course. But his death had not seemed entirely within her control either. It was not as she had expected it would be. And now, there was this twist of fate that put her directly into the path of the Chase, and brought Packer to her very feet. Did their God do this? Or was it simply a strange sequence of events, a coincidence? There would be one final test. She would kill Packer. Her strength would be shown to be far greater than his strength; that she did not doubt. But she needed to be sure that her strength was also far greater than his weakness.

  As she prepared to test the very heart of the mythology of the Nearing Vast religion, she thought about their sacred stories. She thought of the ravenous lions that could not kill the prophet Daniel. She thought of the fiery furnace that could not kill three helpless devotees of their God. She thought of iron bars that burst open, that could not hold disciples when great forces were arrayed against them. And she thought of the greatest victor
y of weakness over strength in the mythology, the resurrection of the tortured and crucified weakling, the meek Prince of Peace.

  These were all just tales, of course. They played their role in the mind control of Vast leadership. But if in fact there were, by some chance, a great God behind them, a Being stronger and more powerful than the Firefish, than the storms, than Talon, than death itself…if she were somehow wrong, and the fools and idiots were somehow right, she would like to know before she died. If the Vast leadership used such religion to their own ends, and yet in that religion was truth, which they abused, she would like to know that as well.

  Even knowing, she would raise her sword in defiance to such a Power. Surely she would. But she would like to know with whom she had contended these many years.

  The time had come. Packer descended the steps from the forecastle deck, his sword in his hand.

  “Let the others go,” he said as he approached. He unwrapped the bandage from his right hand. He would fight her in his strength. But ice seemed to wrap his heart as he watched Talon sitting there, watching him, waiting, the ship burning above her. Packer fought against an unreasoning fear. “You want me, I’m here. Release Mutter and Delaney. They’re good and loyal crewmen.” He put his sword in his right hand, felt the pain, fought through it. He moved toward her.

  She just watched him approach. He stopped ten feet from her. She did not stand, did not draw her sword. Instead she reached into her jacket and pulled out a tress of hair, tied in a ribbon. She tossed it at his feet. She pulled out a red beret, with a dark stain on it, and threw it at his feet as well.

  Packer picked up the items, keeping his eyes on Talon, and looked at the evidence she’d brought just for him. The long lock of hair was Panna’s, pocketed while the girl’s hair was being cut and styled. She had intended to put the girl’s blood on its ribbon, just as she had bloodied the beret of the Swordmaster after his death. But no matter; Packer couldn’t know what had or had not been her plan.