The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  As the legend grew with every telling, people came to Hangman’s Cliffs, the hometown of the young hero who could swim under a ship’s length in one breath and outduel an assassin who could outduel a swordmaster. And so Cap recited the stories again and again. Packer wouldn’t speak of these things himself to his own townspeople, let alone to strangers, but all knew he had told Cap everything. The innkeeper’s word was final; he was the loremaster, keeper of the flame.

  Now Cap turned back to Dog, leaned in, spoke in a loud whisper. “Some men in Mann! Only you could find folks who might say such a thing. The boy’s a hero everywhere. And he’s sure a hero here!”

  “Fine. No harm you making a little coin on tall tales. But Tooth and me, we know what’s what.” Dog nodded knowingly at his old drinking partner, Fourtooth.

  “Yeah,” the old man said thickly, “we know what’s what.” But he glanced glumly at the crowd of patrons, all having a better time than he was.

  Packer had been recruiting for Scat Wilkins while wedding plans were being made and a little cottage in the woods fixed and painted. It didn’t take much doing. Winter had been mild up and down the coast, and while the stream through Cap’s little pub in Hangman’s Cliffs had slowed, it had never frozen over. Not just fishermen came, but dockworkers, sailors, farmers, tradesmen, and drifters, all to enroll in the famous Firefish venture. Packer would ask a few questions, write down some names, and send them to the City of Mann, to John Hand.

  As the weather grew warmer and the stories of the Trophy Chase spread wider, men who had no intention of enrolling arrived, then wives and children came with husbands, widows came alone, as did men of means and women of uncertain affiliation. Cap and Hen Hillis had started renting out rooms and drawing up plans to build more. It seemed that everyone wanted to be in Hangman’s Cliffs, to hear firsthand about the voyage, to meet the hero, or if not the hero, then the heroine, the girl who had followed her true love into great dangers and escaped them all, cleared Packer Throme’s name, and won his heart. And whoever they were, however or why ever they came, they all ended up in Cap’s pub. Those who would and could, also ended up in Will Seline’s church on Sunday mornings.

  Not a single fisherman had sailed to find a single Firefish as yet, but the streets of Hangman’s Cliffs were already being paved, if not with gold as Scat Wilkins had predicted, then at least with the footprints of men and women weighted down with the stuff and willing to spend it here, just to say they’d bought ale or cider or soap in a neighborhood of such historic dimensions.

  Now the general clamor in Cap’s pub grew intense, and faces were drawn to the front windows. A few words filtered through the din: “Carriage!” “Royal crest!” and “King!”

  Cap threw his towel over his shoulder and pushed his way to the door. He stepped outside to find a gleaming black carriage trimmed with light blue, mud-spattered but brilliant, parked directly in front of his inn. It was emblazoned with the royal coat of arms: the intertwined initials N and V laid across a ship’s wheel, pierced with a sword.

  Horses whinnied and stamped. Cap felt a surge of panic. He wiped his hands fiercely on his apron as he assessed the sorry state of his little place of business: the warped and mud-trodden boards of his small stoop, the chipped and cracked plaster of his front wall, the faded and peeling sign of the Firefish above the door. He was planning to fix all this, plaster it, paint it up. But now that he had the money, he didn’t have the time.

  And now a royal coach…was it really King Reynard himself?

  But before he could scourge himself as thoroughly as he would have wished, the driver opened the carriage door, and out grunted a very wide man wearing pale-gray silk clothing that looked a lot like pajamas. He had a royal-blue velvet vest trimmed in a sky blue, and he trailed a royal-blue cape. He was perhaps sixty years old, his face clean-shaven, puckered, and pallid, his eyes deeply bagged. His expression was one of either extreme discomfort or unfiltered disdain, Cap couldn’t tell which.

  The man stood unsteadily for a moment, then put a hand to the small of his back, wincing as he stretched. “Awful way to travel,” he said.

  That being a royal sentiment if he had ever heard one, Cap took a knee and bowed his head dutifully. He wished he had a hat to remove.

  “Yokels,” the man said.

  Cap looked up, startled.

  “Stand up, man! I’m not the heavin’ king.”

  Cap struggled to his feet.

  The stranger eyed Cap carefully, then spoke in confidence. “He’s much fatter than me.”

  Cap nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m his herald.” The man said it as though the job had been punishment for some offense. “You have ale inside, I hope?”

  “Yes, sir. Sure do. Good ale, too. Come in, come on in!”

  The pub hushed as all eyes followed the royal visitor to the bar. He ignored them as best he could, even as they made way for his bulk. Cap hurried around behind the bar, filled a mug, and handed it to his guest. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Mmm,” the man shook his head as he drained the drink in three swallows. He set the mug down, and put both hands on his stomach. He paused, then belched deliberately. “Not bad.”

  “Thank you.” Cap was pleased. “Another?”

  “Hmm.”

  As Cap refilled the mug, the man turned around to look at his audience. He nodded, then sniffed. “Any of you Packer Throme?”

  Each man shook his head silently. Except for Dog, who rolled his eyes.

  “Well, anyone know where I can find him?”

  They all nodded, but no one spoke. The man looked at the floorboards, apparently willing patience into himself, then looked at Cap. “I know you can speak.”

  “Sorry, sir, we’re not used to having men of such…high esteem as yourself around here. We’re just poor fishermen who rarely—”

  The herald cleared his throat.

  “Yes, Packer Throme. Well. He’s a bit indisposed at the moment. Well, more than a moment really. And more than a bit. You see, he’s just gotten married. Two weeks ago or so I guess it’s been now, right, Hen?” Hen nodded, the flesh of her face jiggling in vehement agreement. “Right,” Cap continued, “but he’s still in his honey month, and there’s not man nor woman here who would interrupt him unless—”

  “He’s in his what?”

  “His honey month. It’s a tradition around here. After the wedding, the bride and groom, ah, well, they need a bit of time to themselves, you know? Most of us can’t afford to go off on a grand trip, so we all pitch in and make sure they have food brought to their door. And other than that, we don’t expect to see them. For a while.”

  For the first time, a trace of a smile crossed the herald’s face. The smallest tip of the corner of his mouth crept slightly upward. “A month?”

  “Give or take.” Cap smiled sheepishly. “I guess we’re not so busy out here as you are in the city.”

  “Sounds like the Thromes are plenty busy.” Laughter filled the pub. The king’s messenger raised his mug, squared himself, and suddenly looked quite regal. “Well, then…here’s to Packer Throme and his new missus,” he boomed, “and to this village! Greetings and honor to you all, direct from Mann and His Majesty the King!”

  The room erupted into relieved and delighted cheering. They all raised their mugs and drank, inspired by the power in the herald’s voice, and the sudden prestige that had engulfed them all. Even Dog drank, before he remembered himself.

  The herald raised a hand, which silenced them. “I have a royal proclamation to read to you, which I shall do one hour from now on the front stoop of this fine establishment!” The pub erupted again, this time into an excited buzz as the herald turned back to the bar, motioning Cap close. “I’ll need Mr. Throme here at that time.”

  “But…”

  The herald stared, his eyes suddenly hard. “Orders, directly from Crown Prince Mather.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cap said. “One hour.”

  Hen Hillis,
appointed to be the messenger of the messenger, waddled up the winding path to the Throme cottage. She did not like this task, not one bit. In her hand was a basket covered with a bright red cloth, with fresh baked bread and hot turtle soup inside. She carried a bottle of wine in her apron pocket. But she felt these were tokens. Bribes. Her mind raced, trying to find the right words, which simply would not come. She had a terrible feeling. It was never a good omen when a honey month was cut short. She did not like being the one doing the cutting. Not at all.

  “I was not arguing,” Panna said evenly.

  Packer smiled. “Well, you weren’t agreeing.”

  “I was simply expressing my views. Because mine don’t agree with yours does not mean I was arguing. You cannot count that as our first argument.”

  He thought, tapped his chin, then nodded. “Okay. It wasn’t an argument.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  “But then this is our first argument.”

  Panna’s mouth dropped open, and she hammered Packer’s shoulder with her fist, laughing.

  “Hey, watch the coffee!” he said with a smile, holding the mug away from her.

  “Our first argument will not be an argument over an argument! We have to do better than that.”

  Packer laughed and put his cup on the small table that sat between them. The sun streamed in through the open bay window of their bedroom, catching his wife’s hair from behind. Shadows from high leaves rippled across the sun, making her seem to be in motion. He moved a strand of hair from her cheek, tucked it behind her ear, let it fall on the thick white cotton of her robe. He looked into her eyes, those deep brown pools, the ever-present fire behind them all alight.

  He was about to concede her point, when Hen knocked on their front door. It was an odd, intrusive sound. They stared at one another, listening. Food and drink had been left for them twice a day, morning and evening, for more than two weeks, but in all that time no one had knocked. A broom handle left leaning against the window was the only sign that a visitor had come and gone.

  They heard the knock again. Then a voice drifted up from below. “Panna? Sorry to bother you two. Really sorry. It’s me, Hen. Hen Hillis? I have a message.”

  Panna closed her eyes and shook her head. Packer laughed. “It’s for you.”

  Their discussion, which may or may not have been an argument, was entirely theological. Like most disputes of that nature, though, it had highly practical ramifications. They were talking about the need for work. In the Garden of Eden, man and woman had lived in bliss. On this, Packer and Panna were in harmony. But Packer’s position was that even before the Fall of Man, people had worked. Work, whether it was naming animals or tending fruit trees, was in the nature of human beings.

  Panna’s stance, however, was that Eden was bliss, but work was not, and therefore could not have been part of life before the Fall. However, since redemption through the blood of Christ meant reconnection with God, then through God’s grace the descendents of Adam and Eve were given permission to return to such innocence, if only for brief times. A honey month, she felt, would qualify as such a time. They could let the cottage, and the dishes, and the dusting go.

  It wasn’t that Packer wasn’t content with the way the last couple of weeks had gone. The contrary was true; it had been beyond any human happiness he had ever expected to be possible. The truth was, it had taken Packer a long time and much contemplation to accept the full measure of this good fortune. He knew what he deserved, and it was not this. He had presumed on the grace of God and joined up with pirates, putting in motion events that had led to catastrophe and near catastrophe. In full possession of the truth, knowing the path he should take, he had chosen disobedience, as thorough an act of anarchy as Adam had ever committed.

  And yet, here he was. Alive. Blessed beyond measure. Living in the very Garden of Eden, revisited.

  Packer looked at his marred right hand, now permanently curved into a clawlike grip. His entire palm and the inside of his fingers were a smooth, hardened mass of scar tissue. At the heel of his hand was the white circular scar where the Firefish had struck him with its lightning. He could use this hand for most things, but it throbbed constantly, and stabbed him with pain at the most awkward moments.

  Often when it hurt him and he looked at it, as he did now, a scrap of Scripture would stray into his head: “Ye are not your own. Ye were bought with a price.” He had begun to see his hand as the sign of that truth. These scars were a brand, a mark of ownership.

  He was grateful for it, to the depths of his soul.

  “What is it, Hen?” Panna asked through the cracked door. Her heart was light, and the worry creasing Hen’s face couldn’t reach her.

  “I’m so sorry,” Hen answered, chins quivering. “I’m just bringing the message.” She held out her colorful basket. “Here.”

  Panna took it. “This is the message?”

  “No, no!” Hen flushed, pulling the bottle of wine from her apron as she tried to find the right words. “Here, take this too.”

  Panna accepted it. “There isn’t a message in the bottle, is there?”

  “Land sakes, no! I’m just bringing you the soup and the wine along with.”

  Panna waited a moment. “Along with what, Hen?”

  “Why, the message!”

  Panna smiled, waited, but finally had to ask, “Which is…?”

  “Well, there’s a herald in town. From the king.” Hen’s eyes were wide, awaiting Panna’s reaction.

  Panna felt a twinge of alarm, but smiled through it. “Yes?”

  Hen nodded vigorously. “He wants to see Packer.”

  “That’s kind of him.” Everyone who came to town wanted to see Packer.

  “No, but he commanded. He has a proclamation he’ll read in little more than half an hour. Packer has to be there. That’s what he said, child.”

  “I see.” Panna spoke gently into the beehive of worries that was Hen Hillis, but she couldn’t keep the alarm within her from growing. “It’s all right, Hen. Packer will be there. We’ll both be there.”

  “But your honey month…”

  “Just a short interruption. I’m sure we’ll be right back here afterward. Please don’t worry.”

  Hen nodded, much relieved. “I want so much for all to be well with you two, after all you’ve been through. Everyone does.”

  “Everyone has been so kind. Especially you. Thank you, Hen. We’ll be fine, really.”

  Panna said her goodbyes and closed the door. But the inside of their little cottage seemed less cozy somehow. Darker. In need of attention. She carried the basket and the bottle upstairs in one hand, holding her robe closed at the throat with the other. She felt quite anxious, suddenly. She felt like there was work to be done.

  “Now hear this! A message from King Reynard of Nearing Vast, to all citizens of the Kingdom!” The herald’s voice rumbled like thunder. He stood atop a small polished black dais of three steps, created and brought with him for the purpose, placed in front of Cap’s inn. The carriage had been rolled to one side, where impatient horses stamped and whinnied. He held a scroll of parchment in his hands. His mammoth girth now seemed built for this work, an enormous bellows that blew his words with effortless efficiency to the farthest reaches of the crowd, which at the moment numbered considerably more than the population of the town.

  His face beamed purpose; its pallor was gone, replaced with a burnished red glow. The tucks and puckers of his jowls and cheeks now seemed as noble as a flag’s folds waving in the breeze.

  He was the Crown. He was the nation.

  “Be it known to all present,” he began in a low rumble, “that naval ships of the Kingdom of Drammun have, in most heinous fashion, attacked the marked and flagged ships of our Royal Navy, the Navy of Nearing Vast.”

  The townspeople gasped in unison. Packer and Panna, hand in hand, looked at one another in astonishment. They stood at the very back of the crowd, having lingered on the wooded path just in sight of th
e tavern until they saw the herald climb up on his small stage. They had, until this moment, been laughing quietly together about the uncomfortable nature of their clothing. But now the herald had their attention. Their hands clasped together more tightly.

  The herald waited for whispers to die away. “In dark deeds well documented, the Emperor of Drammun, known in his nation as the Hezzan Shul Dramm, sent last summer an assassin deep into the very heart of our beloved capital, the City of Mann, who did seek out and kill our beloved Swordmaster, Senslar Zendoda.”

  “Oh, dear God,” Panna breathed out. Packer closed his eyes. What was this? Talon was a lot of wicked things, but she was sent to shore by a pirate, not an emperor.

  “In response, we, King Reynard of Nearing Vast, dispatched our peaceful envoy, under protection of several vessels of the Royal Navy, to the shores of our neighbors across the sea. This we did in order to make known with both civility and strength our grievances, and to seek peaceable redress.”

  The herald looked up at his audience, saw a decided lack of comprehension. He cleared his throat and spoke less formally. “He sent a few ships over to ask some questions.” Several within his audience nodded appreciatively. The herald went back to his parchment.

  “On arrival,” he boomed, “in open waters, our royal ships were surrounded by forces superior in number and, while under the white flag of parley, were fired upon, overrun, burned, and sunk.”

  Gasps and moans of shock rippled through the narrow streets.

  “Our noble and God-fearing sailors and marines, the sons and brothers and husbands and fathers of our beloved land, were without exception killed or captured.” More gasps. “Those captured were subjected to the most degraded and inhuman conditions.”

  The crowd boiled with murmurs.

  “This news has now reached us with full confirmation, from brave souls who at great risk effected their own escape, and whose tales of mistreatment at the hands of the barbarous Drammune would, were they to be repeated here, chill the very blood of all Christian men and women!”