Ward nodded. “I’m sorry for what he did to you.”
Panna took a deep breath. “He has paid for that.”
“I suppose he has. But it doesn’t excuse it.”
“I suppose not.” She was uncomfortable with this conversation.
“Nor does it excuse my not helping you. I am sorry for that as well.”
Her dark eyes went darker. He had known all along and yet had done nothing. She didn’t know what to say.
“Well, let’s see if we can get you to safety,” he said, starting up again.
“Safety? Where?”
“To the Army, outside the city.”
“Without Packer?”
He shook his head. “He was taken to the prison.”
“Can’t we find him? Don’t these paths lead there?”
He looked at her, amazed. “Well, yes. But I brought Bench Urmand and four raiders here this morning and couldn’t rescue him. I don’t think the two of us could…” He trailed off as she looked at the pistol he had returned to his belt.
She held her hand out, palm up. “Give me the pistol, then.”
He was dumbfounded. “Can you shoot?”
“I can pull a trigger.”
“No, I’m sorry. I won’t let you get yourself killed doing something rash.”
“Something rash? You mean, like trying to rescue someone from danger? Is that rash? So what isn’t rash—turning away while someone helpless suffers abuse at the hands of someone more powerful? Oh, by all means, let’s not be rash.”
He closed his eyes.
“Never mind, I’ll go myself.”
He looked at her and nodded. Of all the idiotic things he’d done in the last few days, what he was about to agree to do, he felt, might just top the list.
Eventually the citizens realized they were winning. They had to accept it, incredible though it seemed, because there were no more Drammune soldiers left to kill. A few people had actually seen Huk Tuth order a retreat, and pull all remaining men out of the palace grounds behind a line of Drammune who died providing cover. Fewer still were thoughtful enough to consider that not far off the Green, outside the Rampart, the Drammune were likely to be regrouping.
Instead they looked around at one another in mute amazement. They were bloodied, bedraggled, utterly spent, and victorious. Women, old men, lunatics, brigands, vagabonds, many of them wounded, many now wearing ill-fitting helmets and vests torn from their vanquished foes, others proudly brandishing enemy pikes and swords and battle-axes. Among the survivors were priests, a few even wearing snatched-up helmets and armor, most of them carrying some sort of weapon, if only a carving knife. And all as bloody as any around them.
Smiles broke out. Congratulations where offered. But the elation of battle was already giving way to the reality of near-total physical and emotional exhaustion.
“What now?” someone asked.
“They’ll come back with more—many more,” Dirk Menafee answered. The grizzled bounty hunter seemed sure of himself, so everyone nearby looked to him for answers.
“Do we stay? Or do we run?”
A huge man in Drammune armor lay on his back in the main hallway, blood pooled around him. Prisoners lined the cells, watching, but no guards, Drammune or dragoon, were in sight.
Ward tiptoed up to the dead man. “It’s Fen Abbaka Mux,” he said flatly.
Panna looked around. “What in the world happened?”
“The dragoons got him,” one of the prisoners offered.
Panna looked at the prince. Then she looked back at the gaunt face of the prisoner. “What dragoons?”
Prince Mather’s skin was gray and lifeless, beaded wet with the rain, which had now dwindled to a fine mist. Packer closed Mather’s unseeing eyes. Then gingerly, he loosened the rope from the prince’s neck and carefully removed the noose. As he looked at Mather, the evil this prince had committed on earth could not stay in his mind. “He did a noble thing at the end,” Packer said.
Chunk hung his head dutifully, shuffled uncomfortably, nodded his agreement. He had no idea what Packer was talking about. “What now, Mr. Throme?”
“We can’t leave him here.” He looked up, surveyed again the battlefield, the mass of Vast citizens milling about aimlessly. “The Drammune won’t stay gone long. Can you carry him back to the prison?”
“Sure I can.” And the big dragoon very gently gathered his prince in his arms.
CHAPTER 26
Reunion
“Hey, isn’t that Packer Throme?” someone asked. All heads turned. “It is! It’s Packer!” The entire crowd moved slowly over the battlefield toward him. Another voice started the chant again, “For the King, the Prince, and Pack-er Throme!” but it died away as they saw the big dragoon with Prince Mather in his arms.
Then Packer saw a little priest at the front of the weary throng, eyes beaming. The pirest ran to Packer and threw his arms around him.
“Father, what are you doing here?” But what Packer meant to ask was why Father Mooring’s arms and chest were covered with blood.
“The Lord has been moving in mysterious ways,” he said brightly.
“Have you been fighting?”
The priest laughed. “Lord no, that’s not my calling. No, no. I’ve been praying.”
Packer was dubious. Finally, Father Mooring looked down at his own deeply stained robes, the blood on his hands and arms. “Oh, and healing,” he added. “I’ve been healing as best I can.” Packer glanced around and now saw the makeshift bandages worn by several within sight, an arm in a rough sling fashioned from a bloody shirt, a leg wrapped in a shirtsleeve.
Then on the ground behind the priest, near the shattered gallows, Packer saw Bench Urmand. He was barely recognizable, pale and gaunt, eyes closed within black eye sockets. Two of his men knelt beside him. Packer moved quickly toward them, knelt at Bench’s head, and put a hand on his neck.
“Gone,” one of the raiders said simply.
Packer lowered his head. “God sent him here,” he said. “He won the day.” All around nodded agreement and bowed their heads.
When Packer looked up again, Father Mooring was looking back at the prison entrance. His face, always alight, now positively glowed. “Well here’s someone who will be gladder to see you even than I was.”
Packer stood and saw Prince Ward. And then Ward stepped aside and there was Panna, walking toward him. She moved with a grace that was wholly her own, perfect in Packer’s eyes. And she was well and whole, wet hair hanging down across her shoulders, down the front of her robe. She stared only at him. Her eyes were alive and dancing, her expression a blend of gratitude and pure, focused determination. He was undone.
She walked up to him, looked up into his eyes. She put her arms around him, one hand behind each shoulder, and she kissed him. “I love you with all I am,” she said. But before he could answer her in kind, she slapped him on the cheek. This was by no means her wicked, dream-inducing straight right jab, but it was a good bit more than a love tap. “And I’m absolutely furious with you!”
His look was all amazement. Oohs and whistles rose from the onlookers.
“Let me die?” she demanded. “That’s the best you could come up with?”
Packer winced and rubbed his cheek, offering her a shrug and half a smile, searching in vain for any sign of playfulness. “It seemed right when I said it,” he managed, rather lamely.
Her look remained grave. “The one honorable thing Mather ever did, and you try to take his moment of glory for your own?”
“I was just…” he started.
But finally she smiled. There was much sadness wound up in it, but it was an invitation he would not pass up. He kissed her gently. The crowd aahed and someone whistled again, this time hitting a few approving notes.
“Doogan Blestoe!” the priest scolded. “What are you doing here?”
Dog just grimaced. He was standing on his own, no crutch or cane or walking stick, but he stood straight as a board and did
not move his arms. “Heard there was a fight. Sorry I missed it.”
“But Dog—” Father Mooring started.
“I’m fine,” he countered, sounding as ill-tempered as ever. He glanced at Packer and Panna, still embracing. “Just so long as nobody tries to hug me,” he said, adding just the smallest trace of a wince.
“Look, I hate to interrupt these warm reunions, but we really ought to be leaving,” Ward said brightly. “The Drammune shall certainly return.” He surveyed the strewn battlefield. “And when they do, I doubt they’ll be any too pleased with us.”
Packer nodded, then took off the ring Mather had given him and held it out. “I believe this should be yours, by all rights.”
Ward glanced at it, then smiled at Packer. “Mather gave that to you.”
“Yes. But Your Highness—”
Ward waved him off. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now, we’ve got to get everyone out of here.”
Prince Ward led the ragtag mob into the prison, and through the torture chamber, and then into the corridors underground. All of them came. Packer and Panna, at just about everyone’s insistence, took the lead position just behind the prince. Dog was close behind, continuing to walk by himself, but he never strayed far from Father Mooring. It was clear Doogan Blestoe drew strength from his newfound friend.
Dirk Menafee agreed to join the rear guard. This meant staying with the dragoons until every last citizen, lame, limping, carried, or carrying was in ahead of him. “Let’s go, let’s go!” the bounty hunter kept saying irritably, quite sure the Drammune would appear in force before all these charity cases disappeared into the wall of the chamber.
After the citizens came the prisoners, hobbling, leaning on the priests for support or carried by them, but grinning ear to ear almost to a man. “I love this war,” one of them said happily as he limped past Dirk.
The bounty hunter snarled at him.
When Huk Tuth did return to the Green in force, with his soldiers marching six abreast and prepared for mass slaughter, he found it abandoned. The Drammune had blocked the streets. They had posted lookouts. They had trapped the rabble within the palace grounds, up against the Rampart. Where had they gone?
An injured Drammune soldier pointed them toward the prison. “In there,” he said in a pained gasp. “They went in there.”
Tuth grew alarmed. He knew that Fen Abbaka Mux had last been seen entering the prison with Packer Throme.
The soldiers found the double doors locked and barred, but eventually they gave way to Drammune persistence. Tuth and his men entered the prison ready for anything, but found nothing. Nothing except the body of the Supreme Commander of the Glorious Drammune Military, laid out on his back in the torture chamber, with the bodies of four other warriors, the Drammune guards, laid out beside him.
It had been Dirk’s idea to drag them there, the crafty sometime criminal knowing quite well that their commander would be the focus of all their attentions, and the mass of wet Vast footprints might then be ignored until there were so many wet Drammune footprints that the evidence of an exit through a solid stone wall might be obscured.
It worked just that way. As far as Tuth and the Glorious Drammune Military knew, the ragged, rabid Vast irregulars were simply gone, vanished along with the prisoners. And every one of the Drammune knew what this meant. It meant that the second battle for the City of Mann, the Battle of the Green as it would be called, was over. And the Vast had won.
No one in a Drammune uniform now doubted that the rout of the first day had been staged, that it was all a ploy, just as Fen Abbaka Mux had said it was. These were a dangerous people who feigned weakness as they called on their God, whom they credited then for answered prayers. Of course it was all a ploy. Or coincidence. If some Vast truly did believe in this sort of magic, it only gave them strength. The fact was, they knew how to fight, and they fought like dogs foaming at the mouth.
It gave them pause. If the meanest citizenry of Nearing Vast could muster such ferocity in the face of overwhelming firepower, if their dregs could defeat Drammune regulars, take down the Drammune supreme commander, and then disappear without a trace, what was possible from their actual military?
And they all knew that the Vast armies must surely be lying in wait somewhere outside the city, plotting their next move.
The bird flapped onto the window ledge of the Hezzan’s throne room, lit on the floor, and sat still, legs folded under it. Talon studied the pitiful thing carefully. It was exhausted. She rose and approached it. This one was smaller than the falcon she had seen in Abbaka Mux’s cabin, but a Drammune scroll was tied to its leg, and it had clearly traveled a great distance. She knew it came from her Armada.
The bird did not move as she bent over it, nor as she picked it up, nor as she untied the pouch. “Call the falconer,” she told her guard, who left dutifully.
Talon sat back down on her throne and read the words of Huk Tuth, her alarm growing with each sentence, then with each word. The Trophy Chase, draped with impenetrable armor. Firefish tamed by the Vast, attacking on command. A yellow-haired warrior who stood, unarmed, at the prow of the ship, directing the Firefish. There could be no doubt about his identity.
She put the note into her lap. Tuth was not known to exaggerate. The words were simple, the story lean. It rang of truth. But how could it be true? Somehow Packer Throme, with or without Scat Wilkins or Lund Lander or John Hand, had been aided in battle by a Firefish. He had learned something, the Vast had learned something new about these beasts. They had learned not just to hunt and kill them, but to tame them as well. But how?
Then she wondered. Had they found the feeding waters? Had Packer spoken the truth after all? And as soon as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer. He had told the truth all along. The Trophy Chase had ventured into the beasts’ very lair, their home, perhaps their spawning grounds, and there had discovered some secret that could turn them, that could tame them. And if they had learned such a thing, if they had taught a Firefish to attack on command, what would that mean to this war?
Her heart pounded. If they could tame one, why not two? Why not a dozen? And even one Firefish could destroy an Armada. This was what came of letting Packer Throme live. And yet, she found that even now she did not want him dead. She did not regret, could not regret that he had bested her with weakness. He had shown her the true nature of power in the universe. What might that boy be capable of accomplishing, humbled as he was before his all-powerful God? Weakness, utter weakness, clothed with perfect, absolute power from above…
Talon looked across the room at the sword that hung on the wall, in a place of honor. It was Packer Throme’s sword, the work of Pyre Dunn, left behind when Packer had dropped it on the decks of the Camadan. She considered all these things at once: his sword, his Firefish, his God. The beasts had provided defensive armor, and now they were providing an unstoppable offensive threat as well.
Talon called for her scribe, the late Hezzan’s scribe. “Write these orders.” She began dictating, the scribe working diligently, dunking his quill and gliding lines of ink onto the parchment as Talon spoke.
Satisfied after reading over it, she called for the falconer. “I want that falcon to take this message back to Huk Tuth, just as soon as she has rested enough to make the journey.” The falconer put out his hand for the scroll, but Talon shook her head. “When she is recovered, come find me. I will send her across the sea myself.”
The empress of the Kingdom of Drammun sat alone on her throne, one thought consuming her. Whoever controlled the Firefish controlled the world.
John Hand found that hunting Firefish was easier than commanding his new Fleet. He had taken the Trophy Chase and her crew, hoping to escape the Bay of Mann and skirt the Drammune, avoiding any encounters until he could organize and attack on his own terms. In this he had been successful. He had also hoped to put his fledgling Fleet through a few brief maneuvers, quickly getting the captains of the sixteen other vessels into ba
ttle formation, making sure they were comfortable with receiving his orders through signals and flagmen, so that they were ready to pounce on the flanks of the Drammune Armada. In this he was not so successful.
He found that, while these ships were well-maintained and seaworthy, and their captains were good and seasoned seamen, their lack of experience with the discipline of naval warfare left them far short of a fighting force. There seemed to be as many reasons for this as there were ships. The Blunderbuss was the slowest tub John Hand had ever personally seen at sea, so much so that he was sure if he went aboard he would find her crew mired in molasses. The Wellspring was captained by a man who apparently felt he could improve on any order given, and prided himself in taking the initiative. The vessel Danger was only such to herself. And Forcible was anything but. Candor was ever needed, rarely found. Bonny Anne, Gant Marie, Gasparella, and Black-eyed Susan discussed the admiral’s orders among themselves before responding, and then politely made suggestions about their preferred approach. Rake’s Parry, on the other hand, anticipated orders, rushing ahead without them. Homespun had a fire break out aboard. Poy Marroy struck a reef that damaged her rudder. Only the Swordfish, Campeche and, of course, the Marchessa responded quickly, with anything like discipline, and with anything close to precision.
Hand scanned the seas with his telescope, shaking his head. Andrew Haas stood beside him, glumly awaiting orders. The men in the rigging, including Smith Delaney, and the men on deck, including Marcus Pile, watched forlornly as the Vast ships wove to and fro, almost colliding, then veering far from their appointed spot in the ranks. Delaney chewed his lip, then spoke to no one in particular. “Just get in a billowin’ line. How hard is that?”
Mutter Cabe, the only one who heard him, responded. “Well, we better get to battle soon, that’s all I know. Otherwise, that Fish is going to start makin’ dinner of one of ours instead one of theirs.”
“No great loss, I say.” But Delaney scanned the seas. The Firefish was nowhere in sight, and hadn’t been for days. Delaney was glad of that. He did not like to think what might happen if that beast rose up at the prow again, and Packer Throme wasn’t there to look it in the eye.
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 85
