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  Rave Reviews for George Bryan Polivka’s Trophy Chase Trilogy….

  Here’s what readers and reviewers are saying about The Legend of the Firefish, book one in the Trophy Chase Trilogy…

  “Swashbuckling is the best way to describe Book One of the Trophy Chase Trilogy. Without wasting time, Polivka’s first novel drops readers into a fantasy world filled with action, where chivalry is alive and well, and sword fights are frequent…With the nonstop action that cuts between multiple story lines, readers will be flipping pages eagerly.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “A ripping yarn with the feel of the open sea and glimmers of eternal wisdom.”

  —KATHY TYERS, AUTHOR OF SHIVERING WORLD AND THE FIREBIRD TRILOGY

  “The Legend of the Firefish, first in the Trophy Chase Trilogy by George Bryan Polivka, is a winner…This is a story filled with action, adventure, danger, intrigue, surprise, suspense. It will keep readers turning pages to find out what will happen next…The characters Polivka created are fresh and interesting…A must-read for fantasy lovers and a highly recommended rating for others who want a good story.”

  —REBECCA LUELLA MILLER, A CHRISTIAN WORLDVIEW OF FICTION WEBSITE

  “This was one of the most amazing reads!…I have to put this up there as one of my favorites!…It’s been a very long while since I’ve picked up a book that I literally could NOT put down. My family was clamoring around me for milk, cookies, dinner, but no, all things had to wait because I could NOT put the book down.”

  —BETH GODDARD, AUTHOR OF SEASONS OF LOVE

  “I cannot say enough how much I enjoyed this read…I would rank Polivka’s novel with the elite in Christian fantasy and sci-fi. His is unique, but I enjoyed it just as much as C.S. Lewis’s Narnia, and just as much as Walter M. Miller’s A Canticle for Leibowitz.”

  —BRANDON BARR, COAUTHOR OF WHEN THE SKY FELL

  “George Bryan Polivka has effectively created a lush and rich world of life on the high seas…filled with vivid descriptions and engaging dialogue. Polivka masterfully weaves a story that draws the reader into this mythical setting from page one.”

  —MIKE LYNCH, COAUTHOR OF WHEN THE SKY FELL

  “The plot…moves quickly, full of imaginative twists. The protagonists struggle with real-life issues dealing with guilt in the struggle to obey God but sometimes failing. Although the antagonist seems to embody evil, Polivka successfully brings a sympathetic element to her character as her story unfolds.”

  —CHRISTIAN LIBRARY JOURNAL

  “This book will be a surprise hit for many readers…Highly recommended. Read it or be prepared to walk the plank!”

  —BOOKS-MOVIES-CHINESEFOOD.BLOGSPOT.COM

  “George Bryan Polivka has crafted an extraordinary tale of high sea adventure and peril that grabs on tightly and never lets go. Packer Throme’s breathtaking journey is full of action, suspense, and inspiration, and his character is engaging and captivating. Polivka effortlessly transports readers into a new world of pirates and swordsmen, where evil is frighteningly real, and faith, honor, and love are worth fighting for. Fabulous heroes, creepy villains, scary sea monsters, epic sea battles…this one has it all.”

  —BOOKSHELFREVIEW.BLOGSPOT.COM

  And praise for book two in the Trophy Chase Trilogy, The Hand That Bears the Sword…

  “Polivka’s characters are real. He makes these people come alive; gives them adequate motivation; shows their struggles, failures, successes, fears, hopes…The plot is full of action and suspense, twists and surprises…There is an unending list of what to like in this story.”

  —REBECCA LUELLA MILLER, A CHRISTIAN WORLDVIEW OF FICTION WEBSITE

  “The Hand That Bears the Sword moves beyond adventure…It capably takes its place beside those ageless, classic Christian novels which look profoundly into the deeper ideas of Christian philosophy. Even if you have not read the first story in the Trophy Chase Trilogy, The Hand That Bears the Sword will hold your interest, sending you back to the first one, The Legend of the Firefish.”

  —CHRISTIANBOOKPREVIEWS.COM

  “Filled from the first page to the last with action, adventure, and a beautiful portrait of God’s perfect love. I would highly recommend this book to all fantasy lovers.”

  —FLAMINGNET.COM

  “This book can be enjoyed by any adventure-seeker or those who enjoy reading about life on the high seas. It is wonderful to see that, through a very entertaining story, real truths about God’s existence and faith through trials can be presented.”

  —READERVIEWS.COM

  Wonderful words for the conclusion of the Trophy Chase Trilogy, The Battle for Vast Dominion…

  “Polivka weaves piracy, adventure, fantasy, and faith together in such a compelling manner that readers may not immediately recognize they’re simultaneously being taught biblical theology.”

  —CBA RETAILERS & RESOURCES MAGAZINE

  “This story is fun, unexpected, powerful, satisfying. Of the three books in the trilogy, this one had the most tension, kept me engaged and eager to come back to it quickly, curious to see how it could all be resolved. And it was, in believable fashion.”

  —SPECFAITH.RITERSBLOC.COM

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Cover by Left Coast Design, Portland, Oregon

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  BLAGGARD’S MOON

  Copyright © 2009 by George Bryan Polivka

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Polivka, Bryan.

  Blaggard’s moon / George Bryan Polivka.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-7369-2537-2 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-6738-9 (eBook)

  1. Pirates—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3616.O5677B55 2009

  813'.6—dc22

  2008045617

  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 Weeks and Lag, and Eeker, for Rodge, for Mark and Dan, and Jimmy, and for all the fellow pirates of my youth.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to acknowledge all the wonderful folks at Harvest House Publishers for their support.

  Specifically, Bob Hawkins, president of Harvest House

  LaRae Weikert and her excellent editorial team

  Barb Sherrill and her fantastic marketing department

  John Constance and his energetic sales department

  Gary Lineburg and the creative guys in design and layout

  Jenn Butenschoen and the very efficient production staff

  And all the behind-the-scenes people at Harvest House who work hard to make a book successful.

  A special thanks to Paul Gossard for his invaluable input on copy and story

  And to Aime Polivka, for her nautical knowledge and know-how

  And to Nick
Harrison, whose editing and encouragement are always energizing.

  CONTENTS

  Rave Reviews for George Bryan Polivka’s Trophy Chase Trilogy

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  1. Onka Din Botlay

  2. The Defender

  3. A Woman of Secrets

  4. Savage Grace

  5. Avery’s End

  6. Aces over Queens

  7. Hell’s Gatemen

  8. Tranquility

  9. Piracy, Incorporated

  10. Skaelington City

  11. Pirate’s Poker

  12. Widows Might

  13. Slow Slim’s Revenge

  14. The Cleaver and Fork

  15. Success

  16. Shalamon

  17. Mumtown

  18. Autumn

  19. The Hants

  Epilogue

  What happens next?

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  The Lord hath made all things for himself: yea, even the wicked for the day of evil.

  —THE BOOK OF PROVERBS, 16:4

  CHAPTER ONE

  ONKA DIN BOTLAY

  “ON A POST. In a pond.”

  Delaney said the words aloud, not because anyone could hear him but because the words needed saying. He wished his small declaration could create a bit of sympathy from a crewmate, or a native, or even one of the cutthroats who had left him here. But he was alone.

  It wasn’t the post to which he’d been abandoned that troubled him, though it was troubling enough. The post was worn and unsteady, about eight inches across at the top where his behind was perched, and it jutted eight feet or so up from the still water below him. His shins hugged its pocked and ragged sides; his feet were knotted at the ankles behind him for balance. Delaney was a sailor, and this was not much different than dock posts in port where he’d sat many times to take his lunch. He was young enough not to be troubled with a little pain in the backside, old enough to have felt his share of it. No, the post wasn’t the problem.

  The pond from which the post jutted was not terribly troublesome either. It was a lagoon, really, less than a hundred yards across, no more than fifty yards to shore in any direction. He could swim that distance easily. He peered down through the water, past its smooth, still surface, and eyed the silver-green flash of scales, lit bright by the noonday sun.

  The piranha, now, they were somewhat vexing.

  “Nasty little fishies,” he said aloud. They were a particularly grumpy strain of the meat-eating little monsters. They were so grumpy that he wasn’t even sure they were piranha. Each one was about the size of a bluegill, not much bigger than Delaney’s hand, and each boasted an impressive set of teeth. But where piranha were flat side to side, these were flat top to bottom. And while piranha had small mouths and a few sharp teeth, these had wide mouths, all the way around their heads, and their teeth were triangular and interlocked, like little bear traps. They could use them, too, as he’d just witnessed. That had been a gruesome show, put on by the pirate captain just moments ago. Now the irritable little critters were swimming around his post like angry bees. Wanting more.

  But even the piranha were not the worst of his troubles.

  Belisar the Whale.

  Delaney did not say those words aloud. Belisar Whatney was the rotund pirate captain, soft of jowl and hard of heart, wide of girth and narrow of purpose, who had left his sailor here.

  “Big in his britches, maybe,” Delaney told the fish, “but small in…” he groped for the words, “…other ways.” He thought a while longer, then said, “Low enough to raise a man to the top of such a pole.” He nodded once, content. And it was a low thing, he felt, low and wrong to sentence a man like Delaney to such a mean and calumnious end. No, he would not say that man’s name aloud.

  So instead he said, “Monkeys.”

  He said it with a release of breath that seemed to let steam out of his soul. His narrow shoulders sagged. And then he rested his chin on his calloused palm, and he pondered the word, and the world that could harbor such beasts. Here was what troubled him most. Not the post nor the pond nor the piranha nor even the pirates, but the monkeys. And not the furry little creatures that clambered around humorously and screamed maniacally in the jungle canopy in the woods. No, he was not speaking of them.

  Looking down past the fish, he saw under the green water piles of broken white bones lying on the bottom. The biggest pile was heaped up around his post, just where it met the floor. Piranha couldn’t do that. No sir. No little fishies, not even ones with big teeth, could break bones into splinters and chips, shards of skull and scraps of jaw, slivers of hips and shoulder blades and ribs. Here were arm and leg bones split lengthwise, the marrow eaten out. The bones of men. Something far more powerful than a fish’s jaws had done this. Something had come here to feed, fearing no fish. Something strong enough to crack and split human bone. Something with arms and hands like steel. Something with claws.

  Sea monkeys.

  Delaney had never seen one. And he wasn’t the sort of man who could imagine such things on his own. But the pictures had been carefully, even ruthlessly planted in his head, just last night. The local natives, the Hants, had spoken of all this in solemn voices as they sat around their cooking fire sharing their strong drink, their andowinnie in the little wooden cups, and passing around their big hoobatoon pipes. They had conjured sea monkeys with their words in such a way that no man who heard could unconjure them again. Now he saw them in horrific detail, and he couldn’t stop seeing them. His mind had an eye that he couldn’t shut.

  Oh, he saw them.

  The mermonkeys swam toward him underwater from their submerged caves, with their skinny but powerful arms held back at their sides, squinty white faces puckered like skin too long in a bath. Near the post, they reached out with wrinkled hands and he saw the steel sinews of their forearms, the fanning rods of bone that were their hands, their fingers long and crooked, curving claws where fingernails ought to be as they grasped the wooden pole in slow, deliberate movements. One, two, three mermonkeys—six hands sinking pointy hooks into the hard flesh of the wood.

  And then they climbed. Those claws bit deep, and tore out little chunks of post that swirled away under the water. And then the wrinkled flesh of their scrawny hands broke the surface, gleaming white and dripping, and then pale arms with muscle writhing under the skin, and then pasty, doughy faces, white and hairless monkey faces. And then he saw the dark intentions behind those blind, slit eyes, which were white like an overheated poker, and he felt the ravenous hunger of the screeching maws behind those wicked, pointed teeth.

  Delaney shuddered.

  Mermonkeys. That’s what the crewmen called them. But in their own tongue, the Hants called them Onka Din Botlay.

  Rippers of the Bone.

  “Stories to scare the kiddies,” Delaney said aloud with a sniff. He was hoping that these words, spoken by his own mouth here in the warmth of a fetid forest where lazy dragonflies buzzed the surface of a serene green pond, would sound believable. But they did not. They did not reach from his head to his heart; they caught in his throat, barely squeaking past. And then those words just made him seem smaller, more alone, on his post in his pond.

  He looked down at the marks, the chunks ripped from the aged, gray wood, some fresh, some faded, above and below the waterline. Triangular punctures not much bigger than what an iron nail might leave, leading up, up, up to where he sat, to the crimson-black stains that colored the open grain of the wood…

  Yes, this was what worried Smith Delaney. This was what he found most troubling. Onka Din Botlay. They attacked only in the blackest darkness. Nightfall was hours away, but it was coming. And tonight, there would be no moon.

  After a while the images faded and Delaney’s heartbeats slowed. A man can think on his own gruesome death for only so long, he concluded. He rubbed his nose, then shifted from one buttock to the other and back.

  He wished
he had his knife. Belisar the Whale had wanted to leave Delaney with a knife. Not that it would save him. Pirates should die fighting, is all—so Belisar believed. But that lamebrain Lemmer Harps had botched the throw, careening it off the post, where he’d meant to stick it within Delaney’s reach. Lemmer had thrown it from the shallop, the small ship’s boat that had brought him here. He’d thrown it from only a short distance, close enough to be sure not to miss, but just far enough away that Delaney couldn’t try anything other than maybe to throw it back again from his awkward perch.

  But Lemmer had missed. Now it was useless, a good knife gone, ker-plunk. A true shame, too. He’d bought it in the Salmund Islands, the ones that ring the Sandavale nation. They could make a knife, the Sandavallians. That blade would hold an edge. It was balanced and hard as diamonds, sleek to look at and sharp as a razor to cut with. Delaney ran a hand over his stubbly chin, and felt a pang of sorrow that he’d never feel its cool steel on his whiskers again.

  Lemmer had paid dearly for that poor throw.

  Delaney didn’t want to think on it, but as the events were fresh they came into his head anyway. He didn’t mean to remember, but when he started thinking about his knife, and then about Lemmer, well, what Belisar had done just came next like a wagon follows a team of mules. Hungry piranha feeding on a live man’s hand was not a good thing to think on. He closed his eyes against it, but his mind rolled on anyway, and now he saw Captain Belisar Whatney’s bulk in the back of that little boat, making the prow point upward like a scolding finger, and he heard the pirate captain’s words.

  “There’s the knife right there, Mr. Harps.” Belisar’s was a high-pitched voice, with just a touch of a whine.

  “I don’t see it, Cap’n,” Lemmer answered, peering down into the dark waters. His chin shook a bit as though he already guessed what was coming, and it made his jutting beard quiver. His eyes were small and sharp, and they were placed close in, right next to the thin bridge of his long, crooked nose, so close in fact that Delaney often wondered if Lemmer saw everything like he was looking from two sides of a wall at once.