Guild Wars: Sea of Sorrows

by Ree Soesbee

  “The same way you were. We’re going to use the tide.” Cobiah grabbed a yardarm and swung on it, kicking as hard as he could. The bottom of his boots collided with the woman’s shoulders, knocking her back—but only half a step, and she was swinging her dagger at him even before Cobiah landed on the deck once more.

  By Grenth, was this woman a stone golem?

  “Fool. We bet on more than the tide.” Isaye’s blade swished close to Cobiah’s chest, rending his shirt and leaving a shallow, bloody slash on his skin. Cobiah ducked her second stroke and leapt back from the third, trying to lead her away from the others. Unfortunately, it seemed she was ready for that ploy. Nearby, Sykox and Macha were holding their own against the other sailors, but even with the charr’s ferocity and the asura’s magic, they would soon be overcome by the numbers.

  “Verahd!” She raised her voice and issued a command. “Take care of these trespassers.”

  “As you please, my lady,” said an unexpected voice close by. Cobiah glanced around, trying to figure out who had spoken.

  An elementalist stood on the surface of the water at the ship’s side, staff in hand, his eyes alight with glee. The man was thin to the point of fragility, tall, with long fingers that resembled a bird’s talons, and wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. Red-streaked brown hair hung in thin strands around his head and shoulders, half-covering the man’s narrow face. He did not wear a bright robe, but instead wrapped himself from head to toe in strange, bandage-like strips of black and green fabric, each strip embroidered with magical sigils of power. As Cobiah watched, the elementalist lifted his hands and whispered, and a strong breeze swept through the chaos, filling the half-furled sails. In its wake, the ship’s mast made a soft creak of protest, and once again, Cobiah thought he heard the sound of silver bells.

  Suddenly, a brilliant flash of light exploded nearby and Cobiah smelled the acrid scent of burning ozone. Before he could move, a white-hot bolt of chain lightning ripped from the elementalist’s hand and seared the air, arcing into the main group of combatants. It crashed through them indiscriminately, burning flesh and fur alike. As it crackled and faded, two of the humans had fallen unconscious and a third staggered in shock. Sykox withstood the blow better than the rest, merely sagging to his knees with a dazed, pained expression.

  “Verahd!” Isaye admonished. “Those are our sailors!”

  “Theirs, too,” the elementalist said breezily. He gave her a lopsided, lunatic grin and walked across the water toward the Capricorn. “Magic isn’t always predictable, Captain.” The man’s voice was a soft, breathy whisper. “We must accept the thunder along with the rain.”

  “Brilliant.” Isaye shook her head in resignation. Before she could say more, a piercing whistle split the air. On the beach, men and women dressed in the blue tabards of Port Stalwart’s guard raced down the narrow streets. Among them was a stocky older woman with honey-colored hair tucked beneath a blue-studded chaplet. Cobiah saw her lift the whistle to her lips again for another earsplitting note, summoning the rest of the militia to her side.

  “Watch Commander Pierandra.” Cobiah blanched. “She’ll have us dancing on the gallows if she catches us.”

  “That’s a problem,” Isaye agreed, narrowing her eyes.

  “Truce?” Cobiah offered tensely.

  Mercurial as the sea, Isaye quirked her lips in a wry smile. “Done!” She tossed back her dark ponytail and lowered her dagger, impulsively reaching out to shake his hand. Cobiah wondered if she regretted that gesture afterward; he found it difficult to let go. Isaye spun on her heel and jammed her dagger into a belt sheath. “Cut the stays!” she called out, no longer caring if her voice carried. “We’ll finish this fight later. Set sail toward the open sea!”

  “Aye, Captain!” Sailors put away their weapons, scrambling to obey her command.

  Eager to do his part, Cobiah looked toward his friends. “Sykox! Sykox, get off him!” Cobiah rushed to pull Sykox away from a man he’d been choking. The charr, still disoriented from the lightning, tried to focus his eyes on his friend’s face.

  “I’ll get off ’im when ’e stops wriggling!” Sykox panted, smacking his dazed captive on the face with one sloppy paw. The blow was enough to knock the man senseless, and he slumped in the charr’s grasp.

  Cobiah shook him roughly. “Sykox! I need you to man the poles. Push the ship off the sand. The guard’s coming!”

  “Guard?” Sykox’s eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “Commander Pierandra? Here?” Dropping the unconscious sailor, the tawny charr roared to his feet in terror. Around them, sailors rushed to unfurl the sails—but as they reached for the stays, the sound of bells grew stronger, changing from tinkling amusement to a throatier chime of warning.

  “Pierandra will be here any minute, you lunk. We—have—to—move!” Punctuating his words with shoves, Cobiah half pushed, half guided the charr toward the stern of the ship. “Macha, hide the Capricorn! Do it now!”

  “Um, Cobiah . . .” The asura’s voice came from the forecastle. “I don’t think our plan’s going to work. There’s a problem—”

  “Macha, stop arguing with me!”

  The watch commander and her guard raced up the shore, anger radiating from her with every step she took toward them. The soldiers rushed into the water, eager to reach their quarry even as the Capricorn’s sails swelled and snapped the last ropes of her mooring.

  Desperate to help the ship leave shore, Cobiah snatched up a ten-foot length of pole lying by the ship’s railing. He dropped one end into the water, feeling it thump solidly against the sand below the waves. “Sykox! Help me push.”

  The charr and the human leaned into their task, shoving the pole hard into the sand. Isaye grasped the pole as well, her hands above Cobiah’s, and added her slender weight. The warmth of her body pressed against his made the task seem less arduous, and even in their dire straits, Cobiah couldn’t stifle his grin.

  “I’d advise you to stop doing that, Captain.” Macha’s voice was sharp, almost brittle.

  “What? We’ve almost—”

  “I said stop,” Macha keened, her voice breaking with panic on the high pitch. Again, Cobiah heard the ringing sound of bells, but they were no longer soft or delicate. Instead, they intensified, erupting into angry peals.

  “Cobiah?” Macha yelled, and his eyes were drawn to the front of the ship. Hovering over the Capricorn’s forecastle was a wraithlike image whose regal demeanor spoke of ancient days. It was human from the waist up, though blue-skinned and transparent, as if made of wind and smoke. The creature’s legs were entirely mist, rising from the ship’s prow as smoke and fog cascaded over the water. “Remember that story about the Istani djinn? Turns out it’s . . . kinda . . . true.”

  The mist crept over the Capricorn, rolling like morning fog from the djinn’s ethereal body. It stretched a hand toward Macha with a stern glower. Before the fingers touched her, the asura scampered back and summoned magic of her own. Chains of light wove from her scepter and struck out toward the djinn, trying to capture it in their embrace. With a faint, wry smile, the creature shifted in the air. Macha’s chains passed through its transparent form like a net through water.

  Isaye’s mad elementalist, Verahd, hissed in menace. Keeping his bright eyes fixed on the djinn, he lifted a clawed hand from his staff and whispered an invocation of air. More lightning crackled about Verahd’s outstretched fingers, playing hide-and-seek through the strips of black bandage woven around each of the mage’s arms. At his call, whirling gusts of wind swirled through the mist, attempting to force it either to dissipate or to coalesce and be tangled in Macha’s writhing chains.

  In response, light flowed through the djinn’s ethereal form. There was a flash like the sun through clear water. The sea around the Capricorn swelled, rising in great waves against the ship’s hull, and with each crashing wave, the boom and toll of chapel bells reverberated through the deck. Cobiah felt them echo deep in his body, shaking his bon
es with each furious peal. All around him, Isaye’s sailors were knocked into the water as the sound swept the ship’s deck clean. As they screamed, the djinn’s smile grew.

  “What is it?” Cobiah howled, grabbing a yardarm rope to keep his balance. The peals continued, so loud he thought he would be deafened. The sail tossed madly above them, torn between Verahd’s gale and the buffeting swell of the djinn’s magic. “Macha! Make it stop!”

  “It’s the ship!” Macha shouted, her voice barely carrying through the music and the wind. “The djinn is the Capricorn. The ship’s alive—and it doesn’t want to be stolen!”

  The ringing of the mighty bell rose even farther, and as the sound rippled over the ship, Macha’s chains shattered into thin motes of spinning light. Verahd’s tornado of wind dissolved as well, delicate wisps of smoke collapsing into nothingness. The djinn gestured with a flick of its hand, and as it did, both magic-users were tossed over the side as if they were made of straw.

  Isaye held on to the last. Silhouetted by magic, her grip on the mast slipped, and she was flung into the air by the pulse of the djinn’s bells. Without thinking, Cobiah reached to catch her. Their fingers wrapped tightly together, and he clenched his other hand about the yardarm rope. Isaye’s ponytail snapped in the gale-force wind, and Cobiah heard the masts creak and groan with the weight of the Capricorn’s ire.

  Turning to face the djinn, Cobiah ignored the rope biting savagely into his palm. Blood ran down his wrist, and his pale hair lashed at his eyes, nearly blinding him, but Cobiah stubbornly refused to yield. He raised his voice above the din and yelled, “As captain of this vessel, I order you—” In that instant, the mast line snapped.

  Cobiah and Isaye tumbled, end over end, into the ocean.

  The next few moments were a chaotic jumble. Seawater splashed everywhere, churned white by the forces that whipped it into a frenzy. Terror gripped Cobiah. Old memories stirred in him: another ship, a great wave, and a hundred sailors lost beneath the waves. He hadn’t realized how clearly he remembered that day until it was echoed, and he was once more flung into the sea by a storm-wind. Unable to control his rising panic, Cobiah thrashed wildly, fear choking him as certainly as the ocean could.

  A gentle hand gripped Cobiah’s arm. He tried not to struggle as it dragged him upward. As his head broke the surface, there was another grip, this time on his shoulder. With monumental strength, a massive paw hauled him out of the undertow and dropped him unceremoniously onto the sand. Isaye waded out of the water beside him, managing a smile.

  Cobiah pulled himself to his hands and knees, coughing up water through a raw, salt-rough throat. Forcing open his stinging eyes, he looked out at the lagoon and saw the sleek shadow of the Capricorn sailing—without wind or crew—back to her harbor in the shipyard. “I couldn’t get to you, Cap’n,” Sykox lamented. “Lucky thing that girl grabbed hold and pulled you up. She’s a real scrapper, isn’t she?”

  Isaye lay on the beach beside him, panting in exhaustion. Her sailors were scattered up and down the beach, crawling out of the tide or collapsed on the dunes. Cobiah could hear the two magic-users spluttering and arguing somewhere nearby. It seemed that they’d all survived their humiliating withdrawal from the Capricorn.

  Sykox slumped down onto the sand. The charr was waterlogged again, his fur sticking out like a half-drowned bilge rat’s. All four ears hung limply, and a long strand of seaweed was tangled about his horns. The expression on his bestial features was somewhere between exasperation and despair. He looked up at the approaching watch guard. “No use running, I suppose.”

  “None at all,” Cobiah agreed.

  Watch Commander Pierandra marched up to them, sword in hand. From the tip of her jet-black boots to the top of the tabard over her glittering metal armor, Pierandra radiated fury. Her honey-colored hair was damp, and her skin was flushed with anger. Without hesitation, she lowered her sword and pointed the sharp edge into Cobiah’s face.

  “Good morning, Watch Commander Pierandra.” Cobiah tried not to move, lest her sword waver and cut off his nose.

  “You’re all under arrest for grand larceny, piracy, and illegal commandeering. Surrender yourself to the guard for immediate execution of justice.” She bit off the words angrily, her breath heaving from the effort of the run. Ten more guards moved to surround them, and more were headed toward them from the town. Cobiah held up his hands in surrender and watched the others do the same.

  “I . . . aaah . . . eeeerk . . . can’t stop . . . have . . . to . . .” Sykox shuddered. Before anyone could move, he started to shake violently, unable to control his instincts any longer. Water flew off the charr in thick splatters, drenching Cobiah, Isaye, the watch commander, and most of the others. When the urge finally left him, Sykox let out an aggrieved sigh.

  Cobiah hadn’t thought it was possible for Pierandra to appear less amused, but he’d been wrong. Dripping from head to toe, the watch commander clenched her hand on the hilt of her sword. “That is enough. By the authority given to me as watch commander of Port Stalwart, you are all found guilty of piracy. You will be hanged from the gallows until you are dead.”

  “Not many spellcasters have the intellectual fortitude for a spell of that magnitude. The cosmogony of the sigil matrix has to be incredibly precise. Are you quite sure it works?”

  “Extremely. I’ve done it on numerous occasions. You can rely on symmetry to stabilize it so long as the structure is ethericly ideal.”

  “Ideal?” The asura blinked. “How do you make that kind of a matrix conform to an ideal? By definition, its points of light are randomized—”

  “Not randomized,” Verahd corrected Macha gently. “Not arbitrary or accidental, either. Only inconsistent. Subjective. Once you take into account the factors that misalign the sigil’s plane, you can predict the pattern.”

  Macha clamped her palms to her head. “But your theory precludes thousands of potential algorithms!”

  “It’s daunting at first, yes, but you get a feel for it.” Verahd shrugged, pushing his reddish hair behind his ears. It didn’t stay there long, fluttering down around his face again the moment his hand fell to the drawing. “If only I had my staff. It’s really quite relaxing to do once you know how. A pity magic can’t be done without weapon-focuses. This really is much easier to understand if you simply see it done.”

  “I’m sure if you ask, Pierandra will gladly give you back your staff so you can teach. Maybe she’ll give me back my pistols, too. I’m in the mood to hand some ‘education’ of my own to those guards,” Cobiah grumped.

  Exchanging a wearied look with his friend, Sykox leaned against the cold stone wall and rubbed a paw through the salt-clumped fur at the back of his neck. “Well, at least someone’s having a good time.” In another cell, the dark-haired sailor, Henst, sharpened a loose stone against the wall and grunted in bored agreement.

  Their prison was underground, beneath the watch commander’s station house. The walls were made of hewn earth reinforced with thick oak beams. Iron bars separated four large cells, with a small central hallway where prisoners were led down from above. There were two wooden cots in each cell, as well as a chamber pot with a lid. Thin windows, only six inches tall, allowed a fillet of morning light to illuminate each cell. The floors were hard-packed earth with a light covering of straw. Comfortable and humane, really, for a prison, thought Cobiah. They’d been here only a couple days while the guard readied the gallows. He’d stayed far longer in far worse.

  The prisoners from the Capricorn debacle had been separated into three cells. Macha, Cobiah, Isaye, and two of her crew were in one of them. Verahd, Henst, and the other sailors were in the second, and Sykox was alone in the third. None of the thin cots could hold the charr, so he sat on the ground amid the hay and mourned his fate.

  Two days. They’d been rotting in this cell for two days, with no sign of escape or release. Cobiah stood on the cot in his cell, leaning morosely against the shelf of his narrow, barred window. Yesterday had
been sunny, and he’d been able to glimpse the Capricorn under full sail. All hands on board were waving and yelling during the casting-off celebration on the docks. Today, on the other hand, was dawning gray and cold.

  “It’s not so bad, Sykox,” Cobiah said, trying to cheer him up. “At least they’re feeding us.”

  “Human food.” The charr slumped, and his tail smacked rhythmically against the floor. “What I wouldn’t give to eat something that kicks when I bite it.”

  “. . . You could apply the same aspect-ratio ideology to astronomical calculations, too,” Macha was saying excitedly. She and the elementalist Verahd sat at the shared bars between their cells, heads bowed together as they drew in the dirt with bits of hay.

  “I suppose you could,” Verahd agreed. “Take the sigil plane and apply it to Tyria’s horizon. Then find two points to triangulate instead of simply measuring the singular aspect of the sun’s verticality . . .” Macha stared, utterly absorbed by the patterns he’d drawn in the earth.

  Upstairs, the thick oak door to the dungeon cells creaked on its hinges. Heavy boots lumbered down the stairs. Four burly guardsmen carrying lengths of rope tromped down to stand in the central hallway. Behind them came Watch Commander Pierandra, thin lips twisted into a satisfied smile. “Tie everyone securely before you take them from the cells. As for the charr . . .” She drew a large pair of iron manacles from her belt and tossed them onto the ground in front of Sykox’s cage. “He’s too big to hang. Clap his arms and legs in irons, and throw him into the sea.”

  It was a relatively simple task to hold the human crew and Macha at swordpoint and tie their hands—simple, that is, when compared with the effort required to manacle a charr. By the time the guards were finished, their tabards were torn, their armor dented, and their faces bloodied by swipes of Sykox’s claws. One had a concussion; another’s head was wedged tightly between the cell bars; a third cursed energetically and hobbled on a twisted ankle. Though he fought valiantly, Sykox was finally cuffed and chained.