The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  By nightfall, the panic had begun. Someone heard that the king had fled. Someone else heard someone say that the Drammune were already here, had already arrived. Warriors would be pouring into the City in the darkness. Someone packed up his family, and someone else decided to send his family away, and then someone decided to take her children to safety, and then several someones saw whole families leaving, and decided the time had come for them as well, and all those someones began hurrying so as not to be left behind, and many others in turn saw their haste, and in it detected fear, and soon the streets were filled with people and carts and dogs and bags and wagons filled with cherished possessions, all heading out of the City in a great emotional frenzy. And the filled streets filled even more, grew glutted, and the movement slowed to a stop. And that’s when the panic set in. They would surely be killed where they stood! So the push began for the Old City, to get inside the Rampart, where they all would be safe.

  When the soldiers saw the size of the crowds and began to refuse people entry to the Old City, the panic turned to terror, and then to anger, and the trouble began. Punches were thrown, rocks were thrown. Gunshots were heard.

  Packer was awakened by the sounds, went to the porch as he shook dark dreams from his head. Across the landscaped serenity of the palace grounds, the Old City was in turmoil; citizens hurled stones, fought with dragoons, swore at one another. He heard the crack of a pistol, then the sound of muskets. He rushed to the door, opened it, and found it blocked by a dragoon who immediately turned to face him. He held his pike up as though to ward Packer off.

  “There’s trouble in the City,” Packer told him calmly. “I wanted to tell…someone.”

  “My orders are to keep you here, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, get someone else, then!”

  “I’ll do that, sir. Now please, step back inside and close the door.”

  Packer shook his head in disbelief, but he did as he was told. What kind of nonsense was this, to confine him to quarters as though he were dangerous? And how silly was it to post but one guard, if he were in fact dangerous? What was the prince up to?

  And what on earth had happened to Panna?

  Bench Urmand rode the streets as long as he could, trying to calm the citizens, trying to help organize the military. He succeeded at neither.

  When he had shouted himself hoarse to no noticeable effect, and begun to fear that he himself might soon be caught and unable to move, he turned his horse toward the Old City, toward the palace, and ran at an angry gallop.

  Up until this moment, his plans had been going quite well. He had been reasonably satisfied with the work on the defenses of the City. He was working through a well-designed communications plan, a series of proclamations that would result in a well-defended city, evacuated of women and children. The first was read two days ago, with instructions on fortifications for homes and businesses, and how to begin making preparations to send noncombatants away. But the proclamation that was to be read this very evening was the one with key instructions for an orderly evacuation.

  Bench had moved as fast as he reasonably could, he thought, without inciting panic. But the Trophy Chase had arrived with her news one day too early. He had made all the plans, but they were useless now, dust and vapor. The city was in an uproar, and it was beyond his means to contain it. He could only pray that the rumors of an imminent attack were not true, and that this furor would calm down overnight. He needed to redraft his proclamation and get it out to the people as soon as he possibly could. He needed to get to the palace, and to the king’s heralds, so they could get to the people.

  The Armada, now led by Commander Huk Tuth on the Drammune warship Kaza Fahn, furled sails just over the horizon from Nearing Vast. It was approaching sundown when nearly a hundred warships, three fewer than had set out from Drammun, all hove to and awaited orders to land their cargo of warriors on the shores of Nearing Vast, near the City of Mann.

  Admiral John Hand entered Packer’s quarters. Packer stood. He had been seated by the open doorway to the patio, with the night breezes blowing in. The violence in the streets had calmed somewhat, but the turmoil within him had not. He wanted only for all things to be right, and all things, it seemed, were wrong.

  John Hand looked into the eyes of the young man and recognized something new there, a dead calm that was something like the distant, watchful look Packer had worn when walking from the prow of the Chase back to his cabin, after the Firefish had destroyed the Nochto Vare. But this was calmer, stiller, more composed. There was no trace of the torn and tormented soul that had set sail with him but days ago, or even the angry, confused young man who had learned an hour ago that his wife had been held captive by his prince.

  “I’m taking the Chase and the new Fleet, such as it is,” Hand announced, “out to open waters.”

  “When?”

  “Now. We sail tonight.”

  Packer’s jaw tightened. “I can’t go with you.”

  John Hand smiled. “Well, you don’t have a choice in the matter. But as it turns out, you’re staying here.”

  Packer nodded, but now he wondered. “On your orders? Or his?”

  “His.”

  Packer’s expression did not change. “What do you know about Panna?”

  John Hand met his gaze. “More than I will tell you.”

  “Did she hit him?”

  Hand was silent.

  “Was it Panna who hit the prince?”

  John Hand was silent again. And Packer knew the answer.

  “What did he do to her?”

  “He is the Prince of Nearing Vast, Packer. And I am the Admiral of the Fleet. You do not get to ask all the questions.”

  “Because I’m just an ensign. That’s what matters here, isn’t it? Power? Power to take what you want, to abuse those who have no power, for whatever purpose seems good at the moment?”

  “Are you talking about the prince? Or about me?”

  “I’m talking about the prince.” Packer reached into his shirt and pulled out the Drammune cap. He held it out to the admiral. “If I were talking about you, I’d be talking about greed.”

  John Hand, without missing a beat, slapped Packer hard, backhanded, across his right cheek. Packer’s eyes widened, but he took it. Then he stuck out his chin and pointed to his left cheek. “Don’t forget this one.”

  Now John Hand smiled. It was a cruel smile. “I was an honest businessman, doing honest business for king and country. The Drammune bought, and we sold. And they paid a reasonable price.”

  “I’ll bet they did.”

  “The king got his taxes. It was no secret to the Crown. But that’s over now. Times have changed. There’s a war to fight. It’s not the prince’s war. It’s not my war. You may not like everything that I’ve done, or that he’s done. You may have good reason for that. But it’s your country under attack. It’s our war, Packer. It’s yours just as much as mine. And your country needs you. Will you fight for your king? Your prince? Your kingdom?”

  Packer dropped the cap on the floor. “That’s why you came in here, to find out if I’m still loyal? What do you want, a promise that I’ll keep your secrets? His secrets? No matter what you’ve done to your country, or what he’s done to my wife, I should swear allegiance and keep my mouth shut?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because anything else is treason.”

  Packer waited a long while before answering. But during that time John Hand saw no faltering in the hardness of Packer’s blue eyes. Finally, Packer said, “I am not the betrayer here. I am the betrayed. This nation has been betrayed.”

  John Hand just laughed. “Bravo. Nice performance. Son, your ethics are well-honed. You would do well, however, to sharpen them to a more practical edge.”

  “I’ll leave that to you. You seem to be good at it.”

  “It’s called strategy. And I’m very good at it.” And with that, Hand walked away. But he paused at the door and turned back to P
acker. He simply could not leave on that note, with those words hanging in the air.

  “Packer, I don’t believe what you believe. If there is a God, I don’t think He cares who wins wars. If He’s there, I would hope He’s bigger than to send Firefish to fight for one side over another. I don’t really know what happened out at sea, why that dumb beast did what it did. And neither do you. If you want to let others believe it was because God favors you, that’s your business. But when you start believing it yourself, start putting yourself above your country, then that’s my business. The simple fact is, you can’t be trusted. For you to turn against your kingdom, on the eve of war on our city streets? It would be a crushing blow. It would hurt us more than anything you’ve done so far has helped us. The people need to take heart, not lose it. But don’t worry, you’ve got one chance left to help your country. Heroes make the very best martyrs.”

  Packer sighed, ignoring the threat. “You don’t see it, Admiral.” Now he spoke more gently, now that the parting was done, now that the cards were all on the table. He felt no need for anger. Sides had been taken, decisions made. So be it. “But there truly is a Kingdom that matters more than this one.”

  “Ah, the Kingdom of God.” Hand smiled a crooked smile. “And that’s your allegiance, is it? Well and good. But wait and see what happens to that Kingdom, to all its churches and its choirs and its little lambs, all its humble believers, once the Drammune get hold of this one.”

  Packer remained silent.

  John Hand’s look softened. Despite his best efforts to the contrary, he couldn’t help but like Packer Throme. “I’m glad I knew you, Packer. I mean that. Truth is, I would be happy if this world were actually the one you think it is. But unfortunately, it’s just not.”

  “Goodbye, Admiral.”

  As the Admiral left, he nodded to the dragoons who waited outside the Blue Rooms. They entered, four of them, heavily armed, brandishing swords and pikes.

  Packer was escorted with respect to his new quarters. The dragoons bade him well, apologized for doing their duty. The door clanked. The straw was fresh, but the smell was not. It was the same dank cell that had last seen Father Will Seline.

  The two prison guards watched the dragoons leave, then turned to look at one another. The sallow one’s raised eyebrow and the frowning one’s pursed lips said the same thing. A prince who would jail a sick priest and then Packer Throme had something to hide. So maybe all the rumors were true.

  As the dragoons walked away, Packer looked across the aisle at a stony-faced, shaggy prisoner in the opposite cell. This man showed little surprise, but felt a significant amount of it just the same.

  “Afternoon, Commander,” Packer said to him grimly.

  Abbaka Mux said nothing.

  By nightfall, the crowded streets were still packed, but at least they were moving: a teeming mass of citizens putting as much distance between themselves and the Drammune as they could. Dog Blestoe and his fellow citizen-soldiers had finally ceased their toils. Most had been given a musket or a pistol or at least a decent saber, several rounds of ammunition, and were placed inside the sandbagged redoubts that peppered the streets. It was just possible, Dog thought with some satisfaction, that he would finally have a chance to prove his mettle. When the shooting started, he would show these fat, lazy regulars what ferocity looked like.

  But right now he, like them, simply watched the thick river of humanity flow by. He checked his musket’s flint once more. Satisfied, he relit his pipe.

  If it was true that the Drammune were coming tonight, this would be a night to remember. Dog Blestoe would make it memorable for a few Drammune, anyway.

  Candles lit the inside of the chapel, surrounding the coffin that lay on the floor before the altar, under a wooden cross. A young woman in priest’s robes entered from the nave, and stopped at the back of the tiny sanctuary. She looked behind her at the smallish priest who had brought her here. His glistening eyes could not contain his sadness, which now rolled down his round and ruddy cheeks. She turned away, and looked again at the rough pine coffin, open where it lay, a gray-robed figure within it. She looked up at the altar, glowing with thick white candles, their flames in a gentle, silent dance, and then she looked up at the cross. Moving slowly at first, so as not to stumble, feeling transparent and ethereal, weightless, as though any small breeze might take her away, she walked toward the altar. Halfway there she broke into a run, and fell upon the gray form, burying her face in his robes, her body racked and trembling. There she knelt, sobbing, embracing him, feeling the coldness, the stillness in the great girth that should be shaking with laughter and drawing her close, or rising and falling with deep, sonorous snores. All this was wrong, everything was askew and twisted, all was now hope crushed, and ruin.

  Words unformed and unspoken fell within her tears and soaked into the cloth of her father’s robes. Why, why cannot all be well? Why must this dark world never cease to hurt and maim and kill? Why does joy lead to grief, and why do hopes live like tenuous candle flames within so deep a valley of shadows? And when, when will You put all this to rights?

  And then a touch on her shoulder brought her back. “We must go,” Father Mooring implored her. “You must not be found here.”

  She looked at her father one more time, his face peaceful in the flickering light. He was not here, she knew suddenly. He had gone away, and would never return. He was with her mother now. He was with his Tamma. She said goodbye, and kissed his forehead.

  The streets were a river of people fleeing, and the uncertainty of war did not allow for planning, nor for waiting, not even for one day. Messages to, and then from, the High Holy Reverend Father, dean of the Seminary and head of this order, were succinct. FR. Will Seline was to be buried tonight, immediately, and in an unmarked grave on the Seminary grounds. A more suitable resting place might well be found when safety and security reigned in the City once more, but only the days ahead could tell.

  And so a phalanx of priests carried the big coffin to the very corner of the Seminary, where the two great walls of the Rampart met. Guards looked down from the parapet in puzzlement, watching as the pine box was set deep beneath the earth, buried alongside the cornerstone of the City’s earthly fortifications.

  Whether this rite and the death it commemorated would secure the City’s foundation or undermine it, Bran Mooring thought, only the days ahead would tell.

  By eleven, the stream of evacuees had become a trickle, and the streets had attained something close to their usual level of quiet. But the scene itself was not usual in many regards. Not only had most of the citizens left for the countryside, Vast troops—such as they were—patrolled casually, or watched groggily, or dozed openly at their posts. Among the customary characters of the night, the inebriated and those who would steal from them one way or another, were a dozen men dressed in garb typical of those around them, except that they appeared far less dangerous than the brigands who flitted from shadow to shadow, following drunks home. These were Drammune scouts, a dozen spies who spoke perfect Vast, had lived in the City for long stretches in the past, and who now spread out through the City, noting every cannon placement, every earthen barrier, every posted guard.

  By midnight, a common coach pulled by four plodding draft horses had left the palace gates, curtains drawn tight. On top, rough hemp ropes tied down a soiled canvas that covered bulky trunks and bags. Inside the carriage were four occupants accustomed to somewhat higher standards of travel: Princess Jacqalyn, Queen Maeveline, King Reynard, and the High Holy Reverend Father and Supreme Elder Harlowen “Hap” Stanson.

  Following this coach was another, equally common. Inside it rode two garrulous household maidservants, an elderly valet already fast asleep, and a very wide, exceptionally grumpy herald. Before and behind the two coaches rode a contingent of armed horsemen, dragoons in civilian dress, protecting the advance, the rear, and the flanks of the royal family.

  Also by midnight, the spies had reached their rendezvous poin
t, reporting their information to Huk Tuth himself, who, surrounded by his generals, consulted maps and drew up new battle plans, dashing out orders and sending them back in small, dark boats to tall, dark ships that had moved silently into position and stood in blackout at anchor near the Vast shoreline, but outside the Bay of Mann. Then nearly a hundred ships began lowering hundreds of boats, packed with men and gear. The great troop ships unloaded bloodthirsty warriors into enormous tenders built to ferry thousands to shore. They disgorged their cargo as efficiently and as effectively as the great Drammune fishing boats caught and ingested theirs.

  By five in the morning, fifty thousand Drammune troops were on the ground, all moving silently toward the City like a seeping, steady flood. With the information gathered by their spies they quickly, silently, and mercilessly overran the outermost guard posts and watches, small squads stationed here to provide early warning, to prevent precisely what was now happening.

  These Vast outposts were completely surprised by the attack. They had been told that the Drammune would likely not move in the night, but would gain a beachhead in darkness, in a single spot to the north of the Bay of Mann, perhaps as far away as Split Rock, massing their troops for a daylight march and then a prolonged onslaught. The assault was expected to take days. These, in fact, were the battle plans captured by John Hand.

  But Huk Tuth had made no small adjustment, assuming his commander’s strongbox had fallen into enemy hands. He changed everything. He landed his boats in a hundred different spots. Then he used his spies to guide his officers. He was particularly concerned about the cavalry. He recognized that as fierce as a man on horse was in battle, his greatest value was in reconnaissance. A single horseman could gain knowledge of his enemy’s position while in full stride and take that news to his commanders with enough speed to turn a battle. Or a war.