The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  Packer knew of whom she spoke. “Your father was a good, good man.”

  She thought for a moment, looking away again. “Why would God take him? I still don’t understand that. He would have been so proud of you. He could have helped us so much. The world needs men like that.”

  “Yes. But the world doesn’t want them.”

  She thought about that, and knew it to be true. She thought of her father, that laughing bear of a man, and she pictured him in heaven, serving his Master, the Great High Priest of his order, never to be sad or hurt again. “But God does. God wants him.” She shook her head. “And so the world is left to people like King Reynard and Prince Mather and John Hand and this Hezzan.”

  Packer was surprised by her tone. “But there is hope, Panna. God does work in the world. He takes away power, and gives power. He put us here. And even Mather, for all the bad things he did, repented in the end.”

  “ ‘He hath put down the mighty from their seats, and exalted them of low degree,’ ” she quoted. Then she turned her head up toward her husband again. As he looked at her, she seemed saddened to her soul, empty, as he had seen her only twice before, each time just before he left her. “Packer,” she said in a whisper, “if you leave, what good man will make the right decisions here at home? Who will protect the innocent? Who will trust God, and pray?”

  “But Panna, I can’t stay. You know that. The Drammune…they think I control the Firefish. I have been given this chance, this one chance to tell them, to teach them they have a Creator, and He alone controls everything, and if we’ll just—”

  “The Drammune are schemers, too,” she interrupted, with tears spilling from her eyes. “They will deceive you if they can, Packer, the way Talon deceived me. Please, please be careful. Promise me you’ll pray. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  Packer closed his eyes. Now, finally, he understood. “You’re staying.”

  As she looked up at him through her own darkness she now saw the pain in him. His eyes were closed, and his face was pale. She suddenly knew how he must have felt in the Blue Rooms of the Palace, when she was sure she should go to sea with him, and he knew it could not be…or how he had felt back in her father’s house on that bench, when he knew they had to part and she did not.

  How terrible it was to be the one who knew.

  “You are the king,” she whispered. “If you order me, I will go with you. But this time, Packer, I know I need to stay. And this time I know why.”

  Packer, eyes still closed, now knew why as well. Who would he put in charge if both of them left, and what power would he need to leave that person? No, Panna was the queen. She would protect the helpless. She would keep the innocent out of prison and the guilty locked away, and she would act with mercy when she could.

  Suddenly he felt her hand on the back of his head, then her lips on his, soft and gentle. He kissed her. And in that kiss was the sadness and the heartache and the longing that has been bound up for countless ages, deep within the fabric of the world, on the dark and dusty side of the locked gates of Eden.

  Orders to the troops were simple: rest and remain quiet, and stay within the defined perimeter, the square itself and two blocks in any direction. A significant portion of the soldiers were quite content with these orders. That portion was quickly dozing on sidewalks or under porches or in the shade of the few small trees. But many others were too restless to rest. Some of these climbed buildings to get a look at the Drammune troops filling the fields, and were suitably impressed. Others pushed their way to the edge of the perimeter for the same purpose, only to be disappointed there was little to be seen. Once all the curious had their curiosity sated, the milling about became focused on the few shops here, in what after all was the main business district of the town.

  All it took was a few soldiers emerging from the grocer or the miller or the chandler or the general store with a jar of preserves or a cake of honeyed oats or a sack of tea lights or a box of matches, and very quickly every store was packed, and then almost as quickly, completely cleaned out of whatever goods it stocked.

  Shop owners were at first delighted, then dismayed, and then outraged, not so much by the lack of decorum but by the lack of any payment corresponding to the value of the merchandise. More than one shopkeeper waded out into the streets in a loud, complaining search for some officer who would restore order—defined as either returning merchandise or providing reasonable restitution. A third definition, less satisfactory but still acceptable, would be the arrest of the actual thieves, or short of that, any soldier who had about him or her anything that might perhaps have been inside a store at some point a very short while ago.

  Captains and majors and lieutenants did their best to sort out the ensuing chaos. “Everyone was takin’ stuff,” these officers heard again and again from their remorseful troops. “I thought they was just givin’ it all away. You know, patriotic-like.” There were very few actual thieves among them, and so eventually most of the merchandise was restored, most of it mostly uneaten, unopened, or unbroken. And along with the merchandise, much, though certainly not all, of the goodwill between soldiers and shopkeepers was restored as well.

  Eventually, tedium finally reigned, and troops once restless now grew listless. They dozed, played cards, and smoked and chatted, content to wait further orders. This glorious state ended abruptly when the prince and the dragoon and the little priest departed for their appointment across the field, document in hand. Everyone came awake, and the rumors started in earnest.

  Some soldiers someone knew had very reliable information that the Drammune commander, a general named Hush Tuck, or possibly Hank Tush, or maybe Chuck Tooth, was coming to the square. One utterly authoritative source had it that the enemy commander would bow down to the King of the Vast and surrender unconditionally. This led to discussions about how best to colonize Drammun, and whether the Drammune should become citizens, or whether they had any beaches worth visiting, or if their ale was worth a trip across the sea. Another story, equally verifiable, said the Drammune commander would duel with Packer at swords, winner take all. This led to a discussion on the merits of broadswords versus rapiers, the inevitable conclusion being that the King of the Vast could be beaten by no one in the world, and the discussion about Drammune real estate and ale continued. A third story pooh-poohed both of those, claiming, on highly dependable information, that the Drammune general was simply being invited to have a drink and use a privy.

  But regardless of which version of which rumor was heard or repeated or believed, the stores were emptied of people, sleeping soldiers were kicked awake, some accidentally, card games were interrupted, and the population of the square swelled again with men and women on high alert, now awaiting the appearance of the notorious Drammune leader.

  And sure enough, a squad of armed and armored Drammune warriors walked onto the square, led by Prince Ward and the priest and the dragoon. The foreigners eyed their gathered enemy with a great deal of animosity. In the midst of the contingent was a bent old man, thick as a tree stump, scraggly white hair visible under a crimson helmet. Four of the six Drammune warriors waited outside the tavern while the old commander and two others went in.

  The Vast said not a word, but watched in fascination. The only sounds on the square were birds, the wind, and the clump and creak of the wooden porch under Drammune hobnails. And, just as Huk Tuth stepped into the tavern, one loud, long, and fertile raspberry.

  Followed by gales of laughter.

  Packer and Panna stood and collected themselves when they heard the silence outside and the footsteps on the worn planks approaching. Ward entered first, made sure his king and queen were prepared, then stepped aside to allow the Drammune commander to approach. Packer had explicit instructions, given by Ward before he left on this errand, not to bow or to speak, but to stand tall and await the appropriate acts of submission required of dignitaries visiting a foreign king. But the embarrassing sounds from outside drove everything from Packer’
s mind. He blushed and stepped forward, then bowed, saying, “You are welcome here, Supreme Commander Tuth.”

  Ward looked at the floor and rubbed his forehead. But when he looked up, the old warrior was bowing deeply. Ward was astonished. Apparently, the gesture from the Vast king was so generous that it left the commander little choice but to return it, and then some. Packer glanced back at Ward, not knowing what to do next.

  Ward raised an open palm and shrugged. You’re on your own.

  Going on instinct and sheer fishing village etiquette, Packer walked up to Huk Tuth and extended a hand. “Glad to see you.”

  Tuth’s own Vast was rudimentary, but he understood Packer’s intent easily enough. He also recognized the gesture, the Vast sign of greeting, and of agreement between equals. Surprised but willing to go along, he put out his own hand in return. Packer took it, and shook it firmly. That bit of unpleasantness concluded, Tuth closed his fist and then rubbed his fingers with his thumb, managing to resist a strong urge to wipe his hand on his tunic. He was no Zealot, but that didn’t mean he relished touching an Unworthy.

  “Commander Tuth is willing to sign the document as written,” Ward informed Packer, holding up the roll of parchment. “But he has a single question, which he will ask only you, and which apparently only you can answer.”

  Packer glanced once at Panna, who did not take her eyes off Tuth. “Tell him he may ask it,” Packer said.

  Tuth spoke, and Ward translated. “Your document demands agreement to details about returning your gold, and demands promises of safe passage in Hezarow Kyne, and that you be allowed to leave at any time you wish. These are foolish demands, to which I easily agree.”

  “Foolish?” Packer asked, not sure the translation was correct.

  “Silly is perhaps a better word,” Ward assured him, “but you get the idea.”

  “Why are our terms foolish?” Packer asked. Ward asked Tuth.

  Tuth glanced at his translator, a lieutenant who was here to assure that the Vast cowards were not attempting deception. Then the commander shook his head. “If you think us less than honorable, why should we become honorable when words are written on a paper?”

  “Your signature on that paper is a promise from you.”

  Tuth smirked. Then he looked as though he thought Packer a great fool. “You are a king, and yet you agree to travel to Drammun yourself.”

  This gave Packer a moment of misgiving. “I was named on the list sent by your Hezzan. Was I not?”

  “Circumstances have made the Hezzan’s terms contradictory,” Tuth responded, “demanding only an emissary here, but the king by name there. Yet rather than negotiate the point, you chose to travel across the world and into the lair of your enemy to make peace. It carries with it the odor of desperation.”

  Packer was at a loss. He didn’t need to go? He turned red.

  But Panna spoke. “And what would the commander have done if the Vast had refused to send Packer Throme to Drammun?”

  As Ward translated, the old commander showed his gray teeth. “The woman does not know her place. But she knows more of diplomacy than her husband. You would have refused our terms, and I would have rained shells on your heads. And then cut your army into small chunks of salamander meat.”

  Packer swallowed, his embarrassment turned to anger. “What is the question you came here to ask me?” he demanded.

  There was a long, silent pause during which Huk Tuth stared into Packer’s eyes. It was a look as grim and deadly as any Fen Abbaka Mux had ever given him. Then the commander spoke. “Azu kark skovah Sankhar koos?”

  Ward’s eyes went wide. He had not been told what question Tuth would ask, and this one was dangerous, very dangerous. He looked at Packer, who waited darkly for Ward to translate. Still Ward said nothing. It would be just like Packer to speak the whole truth in answer. But any answer now except an ardent “yes” might undo everything—everything—right here at the end. There could be blood on the floor in this very room.

  Ward felt suddenly parched, his throat constricted. He sucked some moisture into it and said softly, “He wants to know if you…” he glanced at Tuth’s translator, knowing he couldn’t shade this in any way, “he wants to know if you do in fact control the Firefish.” Ward nodded slightly, eyes wide, trying to will a simple affirmative into the young king.

  But Packer saw the trap clearly enough. He looked away from Ward, back to Tuth. The Drammune commander had wanted to fight rather than to treat, that was obvious all along. Tuth was looking for an excuse. At this moment, all that separated Nearing Vast from the bloody dominion of the Hezzan was Huk Tuth’s belief that the Vast held the secret to dominating the Firefish. In fact, the literal translation of Tuth’s question was, Do you own the dominion of the Firefish?

  Ward was right to fear. Packer was not prepared to start lying now. He looked to Panna, who was still standing to his right. She had the same concern Ward did, the same unspoken question about what he might do. But she showed nothing but confidence in his answer. He looked at Father Mooring, who was serene as a cat on a sunny porch. Then he took the roll of parchment from Prince Ward’s hand, and unrolled it. He held it up, his right hand at the top, a fist with his royal signet prominent.

  “If you sign this document,” he said softly to Tuth, but with great earnestness, “we will teach you all we know about Firefish, as friends. If you do not sign it,” and here he rolled it back up, “then you will learn all we know about Firefish out at sea, as enemies.” He stared calmly into Tuth’s dark, deadly eyes, and held out the parchment to him. “You choose.”

  Tuth kept his eyes locked on the king’s as his lieutenant translated the answer. The boy had some strength in him after all. Now in the commander’s head images rose, their ship, the Nochto Vare, brutally, mercilessly, utterly annihilated by the beast from beneath the sea. At the beckoning of Packer Throme.

  Ward could barely keep from grinning. The old tree stump could do nothing now but bow down before the green sapling.

  Tuth took the document and unrolled it, then plucked the quill from an inkwell held out by his lieutenant. He scratched out his signature at the bottom. He looked at Packer one more time and said in Drammune, “Keep your salamanders away from my men, or we will skewer them and cook them for our dinner.”

  Tuth turned and left the tavern, followed by his entourage.

  Out in the sunlight, the Vast army stopped and held its breath. On the porch of the pub Commander Tuth paused, put his hands on his hips, and stared at them all, meeting eye after eye, watching them recoil. They were such weaklings. They were such cowards. So Unworthy. He turned and walked away.

  Behind him he heard raspberries again, this time in short bursts, in time with his every step, followed by howls of laughter.

  “Storybooks,” Talon said aloud. Her tone was derisive. Sool Kron sat across the table from her, deep within the Archives far beneath the palace. Lamps and candles lit the chamber, but could not ward off the chill, nor the sense of darkness barely kept at bay. Dust was heavy. Yellowed scrolls and ancient tomes sat along shelves, but on the table were only small, weathered, and aged parchments, hardly more than notebooks. “From the pens of madmen and poets,” Talon concluded. In Drammun, the two words were variations on the same root, “sooma.” Insane.

  “Certainly nothing our best minds would ever study,” Kron agreed, rubbing his tired eyes. He had been poring over these tomes for hours. “But in spite of our fine show for the Court, we don’t have much on which to build an industry.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. After the demonstration with the hauberks, they had convinced the Twelve of the dangers of Firefish by reading from Huk Tuth’s narrative, the destruction of the Nochto Vare and the Rahk Thanu. “That show will keep the Quarto in line for some time. Do you disagree?”

  Kron was suddenly not the least bit tired. “Not at all. I was referring only to the statements I made regarding these documents.”

  She eyed him carefully. Yes, of cours
e that was what he meant. Kron had then assured the Twelve that the Archives contained hidden secrets, formally deemed Unworthy, books that would be reopened so they would have their own knowledge of the Firefish, and not need to lean on the Vast.

  Talon turned her eyes back to the table. It worried her, the killing of Zan Gar. Not that he didn’t deserve it; he did, and all she had done was to add more drama to the moment than was customary at an execution. What worried her was that it presaged difficulties ahead. The Quarto could not be won over. She could intimidate them for a moment with shows of force, demonstrations of power. But she knew such actions would only inflame their hatred of her, drive it deeper, make them more determined to stand against her. And these four would be far more devious than the blunt and stupid Zan Gar. Perhaps they would even be as crafty as Sool Kron.

  She needed to crush the Quarto. She needed the full strength of the army to do it. She needed Huk Tuth and the Glorious Drammune Military. She did not say that, however, not to Kron.

  “We need the Trophy Chase,” she said instead. “And we need what the Vast have learned among the Achawuk.”

  “Yes, and most particularly, we need this Packer Throme,” Kron added, glad to have skirted his mistress’s ire. His finger ran down the page of a pamphlet in front of him, and he missed the flash of her eyes at the mention of that name. “He seems to have pulled all these strands into a single braid. Here, let me read this—” and he turned the pamphlet to its cover, “from something called ‘Savage Religion,’ a document officially deemed Unworthy over one hundred years ago. It was written by we know not whom, but the man claims to have traveled among the Achawuk.” He flipped back to where he had been reading. “Here’s what the madman says:

  “ ‘These people worship not the monster, though they paint the monster’s image everywhere. Skin and bones and teeth adorn every home and every structure. Their god is a flow of water, an invisible fluid coursing through every living thing, giving life and energy, making alive the currents of the sea, and the currents of the air, and the soil deep under the earth, finding its highest form in two equal, opposite incarnations…’ then he goes on and on about the meaning of the term incarnation, and here he concludes, ‘the equal incarnations are monster and man.’ ” Kron looked up at Talon. “How would you interpret that?”