The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  Even if Panna was dead, if the whole village was dead, and it was all Packer’s fault, God had still let it happen. God was still in charge. God wanted Packer alive, certainly, though he had no idea why. Perhaps God wanted Panna alive too. And Senslar. Maybe Talon had lied about it all.

  And then he sighed. It was too much. He remembered what Panna had told him when he promised to return and marry her. “I’m not holding you to that promise, Packer…There’s too much hope in it.”

  Not only was she beautiful, she was wise.

  Panna watched the ship with anxious eyes, straining, hoping one of the small shapes moving about on deck might suddenly become Packer. At the same time, Packer scanned the shoreline, his stomach an empty pit, unwilling to let hope rise in him.

  She spotted him first. Her heart swelled within her. She waited, fearing that the image she saw would dissolve into someone else as the ship drew closer. Finally she was sure, and a tear drained down her cheek. “That’s him,” she said, pointing.

  “Which one?” Bench asked gruffly.

  “The yellow hair. At the prow.” She blinked away more tears that now rolled down her face.

  And then Packer saw her. At first he couldn’t believe it was her. She was dressed formally, richly, fashionably. For a moment he believed this woman only looked like Panna. But then he saw the tears, the warmth, the love.

  There could be no doubt.

  Packer’s hand was bandaged. Panna’s hands were chained. But with the miles between them dwindling now to yards, and the yards to feet, and the feet to inches, as the promise of a touch, and then an embrace grew larger and larger, the bandages and the chains were already falling away. Healing and freedom were at hand.

  They kissed. Their arms wrapped around one another with gentleness, an almost airy touch born of love tested, hope tried and frayed and pushed to the very edge of black despair, and past, but now proven. In this gentle embrace, hearts were woven like a cord of three strands: Panna, Packer, and the invisible God who had delivered them to this moment, and to one another.

  Panna was safe. Packer had returned. And they were together.

  But there was sorrow within their joy, as they rode hand in hand to Hangman’s Cliffs, inside a gleaming carriage finished in burl walnut, a plush coach furnished by John Hand, hired in thanks for the lad’s many services.

  Panna told Packer her story, one she had told and retold but would gladly tell once more, this time with the ending known, and with the kindled spirit of Packer Throme listening behind those sharp blue eyes, amazed.

  The tale poured forth like a river, rushing frantically through narrows, widening through a quiet pasture, then plummeting over the edge into a boiling cauldron of white foam and terror, only to end in a glistening harbor, serene under a wide expanse of sky. The story flowed from the borrowed cobbler’s clothes and Panna’s flying fists to a gray tree trunk on a sodden beach, a stolen boat and a wild, wild storm, a darkened inn and a bright white coach that carried her toward a desperate hope, a hope dashed in the dying embrace of Senslar Zendoda.

  And here Packer’s eyes trailed unseeing out the carriage window, as he envisioned his swordmaster fighting his final duel, eyes bright and fierce, blade flashing, buying Panna’s escape with his own blood.

  And when her tale was told, they sat together without speaking for a very long while, the carriage swaying over the softened road, the horses’ hooves plodding gently, step by step, closer and closer to home.

  “He made it to the ocean,” Packer said, from far away. “He’s found the sea at last.” And in his mind a great sea turtle swam beneath the sunlit waves, silent and peaceful and free.

  And then he told Panna his story, as though reading aloud from memory the words inscribed there, as though describing images burned deeply there, seared into his heart and into his flesh.

  Panna heard, and saw, Packer’s soul and body torn and marred under the waves, dragged beneath a ship, torn and marred again at Talon’s hands, cut deeply in a duel with Delaney, rent in an aching prayer as he descended from the rigging to a bloody deck, scarred badly by a beast that rose from the depths to devour him, striking with its lightning, only to die with Lund Lander’s lure inside its belly, and with Lund himself. Here was a man Panna knew not at all, would never know, and yet to whom she owed the greatest debt.

  And then she heard, and saw, Packer’s spirit shredded with despair by a single tress of her own hair, a desolation that should have cost him his life but somehow instead cost their great adversary her soul. Or, perhaps, bought it forever. And then the marvelous return of Marcus Pile, a gift, it seemed, from the heart of God.

  And this time in the following silence, amid the soft hoofbeats and blackbirds’ caws and rustle of leaves in the wind, tears came. A single sob at first, from Panna, followed by Packer’s glistening eyes. He put his arm around her. She nestled in close. And here he was! Packer himself, no dream this time, but real, warm, strong, and alive, returned to her at last. And he felt her warmth, Panna, alive and whole, sorrowful and thankful and lovely.

  And when the storm had passed, Packer said, so gentle it seemed like words from a world far away, or from the sweetest dream, “Panna, will you marry me?”

  And she answered, “Yes, Packer. I will marry you.”

  Summer passed. Winter came and went as preparations were made, as invitations were sent north to Mann, and far, far north to the Cold Climes, and as a small rundown cottage in the woods was rebuilt, restored, and made ready.

  Spring came, and Packer and Panna kissed again. But this time when they parted, Will Seline said simply, “What therefore God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

  And Packer took Panna by the hand and, both dressed in white, they turned to face their friends, their family, all the faces gathered with them in the small, familiar church, now strewn with daisies, violets, and honeysuckle, sweet on an April breeze flowing through open windows.

  Packer looked out to the many who had gathered to witness their vows. Here was Smith Delaney, grinning ear to ear, still more gum than tooth, pulling an offending collar with unthinking fingers. And beside him, young and lanky Marcus Pile, his shock of wild, wheat hair parted poorly in the middle and plastered flat with oil, so that he looked like an otter with a bad haircut. But he beamed a joy so unrestrained that Packer laughed out loud.

  And here was Cap, red in face, jolly as he ever was, raising an invisible mug to toast the moment. A friend always. His Hen was here beside him, utterly unseeing for the tears that filled her eyes, rolled freely down her cheeks, and then found refuge in the folds of all her chins. She dabbed at them with a sodden cloth that had started out this day a dainty handkerchief.

  And others were here too. Andrew Haas, and Fourtooth. Riley Odoms, nicely recovered from his beating, almost as nicely from the shame of being this young woman’s punching bag. Panna had befriended him, and sent him cards and notes and breads and pies, until finally he succumbed to her heartfelt, culinary charms. “It was the rum cakes did it,” he had said.

  Dog Blestoe came, though he sat glumly in the farthest pew, lips pursed, holding out a vain and distant hope, now dashed, that someone would speak a reason that this couple should not this day be wed. And others from their village, from Panna’s past and Packer’s childhood, friends and family, old and young—all here, all sharing in this hard-won, long-delayed, delightful moment.

  But some were not here. Packer’s father, Dayton Throme—how he would have loved to be here—and to know that his stories of the Firefish were now proved true, stories that a year ago were fanciful as fairies and fierce dragons, and were now the latest news, spread far and wide. Packer looked up to the rafters, and beyond, hoping his father was here this day, somehow, looking down as his boy wed the only girl anyone who knew him could ever imagine would be his bride.

  And Senslar Zendoda. Packer nodded upward, in silent tribute to his swordmaster, thankful for all he’d learned, grateful for the sacrifice that had given Pa
nna her escape. What that good man had imparted would endure as long as Packer lived. And somehow, he felt his swordmaster would be well pleased with that.

  Panna laced her arm in his, and the two began their walk back down the aisle amidst a warm sea of teary eyes, pausing only once when Packer took the hands of his frail mother, who had traveled the long road south from her people far away, to be here for this day. Nessa looked up at her son with shining eyes. And Packer kissed her cheek. And then he wrapped his arm around Panna’s waist and walked her down the aisle.

  Will Seline stood still, in his familiar place at the altar, watching. His smile was as bright as the sun.

  The people poured from the small church, straight down the street toward the tiny pub. But this celebration would not be held indoors, not on a beautiful spring day like this. Tables were set out and ready, and nearly half the chairs were filled with well-wishers from neighboring villages, joined by the now-accustomed stream of visitors, strangers seeking Firefish, here to join the venture, or to simply bask in the bright ray of glory that shone down on the little village on the cliff. Doorposts dripped with white bunting. A fiddle and a bass viol, cymbals and an accordion rested casually on a storefront stoop, waiting for their turn to add their music to the day.

  Cap ran ahead as best he could to serve his finest ale and freshest cider from his little pub’s front stoop. Hen hurried after him, sweeping linens off the trays of bass and cod and duck, uncovering plates of fresh fruits and vegetables, laying out the modest feast that graced her serving tables. Children ran and whooped and laughed, little girls in Sunday best, but in their hearts each one a Panna in a white wedding dress, all chasing little boys who bore aloft their gleaming, sharpened swords, which to older eyes looked a bit like sticks.

  The town’s main street grew raucous with toasts and music, talk and laughter and plenty of good, good food. And in the center of it all the newlyweds sat quietly, hand in hand, watching, surrounded by so much goodwill, soaking it all in, humbled by their good fortune. And waiting patiently for the moment they could say goodbye and venture off to the quiet little cottage in the woods.

  Dog sat with Fourtooth, also watching, but his talk was not of Packer or of Panna, or Firefish or the Trophy Chase. He watched the village priest. It still stung him that Will Seline seemed not the least embarrassed by his actions during Panna’s trials. That the man had shown himself to be weak and pitiful, that he’d collapsed in the face of hardship, that he had given in to all his fears and hidden himself away—all this was undeniable, and hard for him and many of these rugged cliff dwellers to bear.

  But little by little, a few more each Sunday, they had returned to hear him speak. And they had to admit, at least all but Dog, that the priest’s sermons were perhaps more powerful than they had been before.

  “Whatever he needs to tell himself to get to sleep at night,” Dog said, having drained his mug. “That Panna, though,” he wiped his mouth, “she’s got real backbone.”

  “Aye.” Fourtooth’s grin turned quickly to a leer. “And it’s in quite a pleasin’ size and shape.”

  Dog gave Fourtooth a look that wilted his enthusiasm.

  “You wait till those two have children,” Cap Hillis fairly sang, walking by at just that moment with his huge earthen pitcher. He refilled Dog’s mug cheerfully, if with less than stellar aim. Cap was blind to Fourtooth’s mug, though the old man raised it hopefully. “Panna’s children by Packer Throme,” Cap said, looking over at the couple. “Won’t they be something? Sons and daughters of the hero of the Achawuk battle, the conqueror of Firefish, the pride of the fishing villages—”

  “All right, all right!” Dog cut him off, shaking the excess ale from his hand. “I was talking about the priest. We hear enough about that boy around here already.”

  “All I mean is, there’ll be some bold traits passed on to Will Seline’s grandchildren,” Cap said, clearly pleased to be twisting the knife. “Sure enough, sure enough.”

  “Hmmph. We’ll just see about that.”

  “That we will,” Cap chirped. “Lord willing, that we most certainly will.”

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  THE HAND THAT BEARS THE SWORD

  Copyright © 2007 by George Bryan Polivka

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Polivka, Bryan.

  The hand that bears the sword / George Bryan Polivka.

  p. cm. — (Trophy Chase trilogy ; bk. 2)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-1957-9 (pbk.)

  I. Title.

  PS3616.O5677H36 2007 813'.6

  —dc22

  2007002494

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  Dedication

  For all those whose Kingdom is not of this world

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I offer heartfelt thanks to Nick Harrison, without whom the stories of Packer and Panna would still be known only within a very tight circle centered on a dusty space on a study shelf. His innate understanding of, and respect for, the various people of Nearing Vast has helped to guide their paths and shape their destinies such that, if they could know, they would be forever grateful.

  Lifelong thanks to Jim and Nancy Polivka, out of whose nurture and from whose nature grew worlds of possibilities, the joy in the fight, glory in victory, perseverance in defeat, and solace in the rich mercies of hearth and home, regardless.

  And eternal thanks to Jeri, my life’s partner, my great, true love, my earnest and best critic, who has seen the worst and believed the best, soldiered on when obstacles eclipsed consolation, trimmed the wick when enthusiasms overflamed judgment…and whose heart has always, always sailed with true devotion, destined for faraway shores where good remains untarnished, where the spirit rejoices only in the truth, and where love and peace reign on as natural as sunrise—those shores that some bright morning we will raise at last, visible over a familiar, scarred, and sea-worn bowsprit ever pointed true by the firm and loving hand of our immortal Captain.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Maps

  1. The Proclamation

  2. Commandeered

  3. Muster

  4. Broadside

  5. Parley

  6. Predators

  7. Warrior

  8. Prey

  9. Flight

  10. Dead Reckoning

  11. Revelations

  12. Fight

  13. Bloodstained

  14. Power

  15. Sacrifice

  16. Escape

  17. Protected

  18. The Quarto

  19. Prayer

  20. Harbor

  21. The Siege

  22. The Fall

  23. The Gallows

  24. The Hangman

  25. The Turning

  26. Reunion

  Maps

  Doubt swells and surges, with swelling doubt behind!

  My soul in storm is but a tattered sail,

  Streaming its ribbons on the torrent gale;

  In calm, ’tis but a limp and flapping thing:

  Oh, swell it with thy breath; make it a wing,


  To sweep through thee the ocean, with thee the wind

  Nor rest until in thee its haven it shall find.

  —GEORGE MACDONALD, DIARY OF AN OLD SOUL

  CHAPTER 1

  The Proclamation

  “He never even fought.”

  “Never fought!” The friendly innkeeper just laughed, and kept on pouring. “You don’t give up easily, do you? He bested a hundred warriors, maybe more. Rolled ’em off the decks!”

  Dog Blestoe shook his head, watching his mug fill again with amber liquid. “I just got back from Mann. Met some men who were on that ship. And they say he hid up in the rigging until the fight was over. Never did draw his sword.”

  Cap Hillis set down his pitcher, wiped his bald head with a tattered dishrag. He glanced around the tavern to be sure no one had overheard. No one had. Laughter and loud conversation filled the small space. His inn was packed, every table full, more standing. It was a godsend.

  “Hey, Cap!” a fisherman yelled from across the room. “These folks here want to know how Packer stabbed the Firefish!”

  “You tell it!” Cap called back with a dismissive wave.

  “No, I can’t remember. Someone got eaten, right? Come on, Cap!”

  More voices joined the chorus. “Aye, tell it!” “Tell the story, Cap!” Then someone added, waggling an empty mug, “And we’ll all buy another round!”

  Cap grinned and nodded. “Be right there!” His guests laughed and raised their mugs in toast. “Hen, more ale by the windows!” Hen Hillis hurried toward the appointed table, a clay pitcher sloshing in each hand.

  It had been this way, more or less, since early spring, since news got around the kingdom about the Trophy Chase, the victory over the Achawuk, the slaying of the Firefish, the duel with the assassin, and most of all, the great school of beasts that Scat Wilkins would pay men in gold to go hunt.