Guild Wars: Sea of Sorrows

by Ree Soesbee

  Directly below, Cobiah watched as the Krytan captain swung his mace and knocked Aysom to the ground. Weary and wounded, the young charr still struggled to rise, but with another swipe, the captain’s weapon cracked against Aysom’s skull. The golden-maned charr fell limply to the deck.

  Fassur roared in fury. The grizzled old captain glanced down at the unconscious stripling and stepped over Aysom, lifting the mace as though to level another blow at Fassur’s snarling muzzle. Cobiah saw Henst charging toward the captain, but the human was not close enough—or, perhaps, wasn’t motivated enough—to get there in time to save the charr. There was only one thing he could do. With a yell, Cobiah let go of the knife and dropped the last several feet, landing squarely on the Krytan’s shoulders. As they tumbled onto the deck, Cobiah managed to wrest away the man’s mace, sending it skittering across the dark boards. Henst kicked the weapon through the open hatch toward the hold.

  The two captains grappled, rolling together across the deck. Cobiah’s fist cracked against the Krytan’s jaw. The man threw Cobiah off and shook his head to clear it, reaching for another weapon. Cobiah attacked furiously, forcing the captain to defend himself rather than prepare for his own attack. Grasping the man’s wrists as he struggled to stand, Cobiah brutally kicked the other man in the shins. The Krytan cursed a blue streak, falling to his face on the deck once more. Cobiah jumped on him, launching a quick one-two series of jabs to the man’s face, but the older man wasn’t finished yet. A strong right hook thumped into Cobiah’s cheekbone with a shock of pain.

  Suddenly, the Krytan froze in Cobiah’s grasp. A sharp length of steel slid past Cobiah’s shoulder, its finely honed point pausing a mere breath above the Krytan captain’s throat. With a rabid grin, Henst snarled, “Can I kill him?”

  The Krytan captain glared and raised his hands in surrender.

  “No.” Cobiah let go of his enemy and leaned back. “There’s no reason to kill anyone, so long as the captain surrenders his vessel. We aren’t here for blood.” To the Krytan, he said more soberly, “You have my word on that. None of your crew will be injured.”

  Slowly, the gray-haired Krytan nodded, and the tension eased from his body. “On my word of honor, I and my ship yield to you. But I tell you this, pirate—if you go back on that promise, we’ll fight ’til every last one of us has cut his name in your sorry hide.”

  “I’d expect no less.” Cobiah rose victoriously. “Henst, go free Fassur and make sure Aysom’s all right. Then go tell those overeager norn that the battle’s over. We’ve gotten a formal surrender from Cap’n . . .?” He reached down to offer the Krytan a hand up.

  “Moran. Captain Osh Moran.” A sour look on his face, the older man took Cobiah’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. “Ten years younger, and I’d have had you.”

  “Ten years younger, and you’d have been fighting a stripling kid with no sea legs at all.” Cobiah smiled, but the image of himself so many years ago brought back a painful memory. As he always did after a victory, Cobiah touched the old rag doll that was now tucked into the pocket of his vest. Biviane, he mused inwardly. Has it really been ten years?

  “Cobiah!” Macha called from the Pride, interrupting his reverie. She waved her arms and augmented her voice with magic so that he could hear her clearly. “We have another problem.” She flapped her arms, half dancing on the bowsprit. When she saw him looking, the asura began to jab her fist to the north as if trying to shake something horrible off her sleeve. Staring at her curiously, Cobiah turned to look where Macha was pointing.

  A third ship was approaching through the tall, jagged rocks of the ruined island chain. It was easy for Cobiah to recognize, despite the weariness of battle and the reflection of sunlight from the waves. He’d seen this vessel only once, but there was no other like it on the open sea.

  An ancient pilot clipper with scarlet sails.

  “It’s one of the Dead Ships.” The blood drained from Cobiah’s face. “They found us.”

  A   lthough the sailors on the Salma’s Grace did not recognize the ship with scarlet sails, the men and women aboard the Pride certainly did. Isaye spun the tiller, boldly calling out commands to the sailors aboard the pinnace. With their captain and first mate on the deck of the Salma’s Grace, the crew of the Pride could have fallen to pandemonium had Isaye not taken a firm hand. Although they had little reason to listen to her, Isaye was used to command. Her orders were sharp with the ring of authority—and with Verahd at her side to assist, the well-trained sailors of the Pride were quickly responding. Cobiah could see his distant crew shouting and racing along the deck. As he watched, the pinnace adjusted her sails and turned her broadside away from the crippled Krytan vessel, pointing her guns toward the newcomer.

  Would that the Salma’s Grace could do the same.

  “Captain Moran!” When the Krytan captain stared at him in befuddlement, Cobiah jerked the man by the shoulders and spun him toward the west. “Do you see that ship?”

  “Aye.” Moran looked hopeful. “Bad luck for you, pirate, if that’s a Krytan vessel. Once they’ve freed us, King Baede will hang you on the gallows in Divinity’s Reach.”

  “I’ve been hanged before,” Cobiah said offhandedly. “It didn’t take.” Pointing at the incoming vessel, Cobiah traced the shape of its odd sails in the air. “Ever seen a Krytan ship with sails like that, Captain Moran?” Knowing the man’s answer before he spoke, Cobiah pressed on. “I’ll bet all the platinum in your hold that you haven’t—not unless you’ve sailed beyond the Orrian Veil.

  “It’s a Dead Ship, Cap’n, and she’s called the Harbinger. I saw her strike Port Stalwart as part of an armada crewed by walking corpses. They left Stalwart in wreckage and now they’ve come after us. It’s your bad luck they caught up to us right now . . . or maybe good luck. If that ship’d found yours alone at sea, I assure you, they’d make no promise to spare your crew.”

  “Dead Ship?” Moran squinted. Suddenly sober, he stiffened in fear. “By the Six Gods. If that’s true, they’ll sink us both, pirate—”

  “Cobiah.”

  “—and raise our flesh as rotting husks once we’ve been drowned!”

  “That’s no good for me, Moran, and I’m betting it’s not your favorite idea, either.” Cobiah released the man’s jacket, and Moran stumbled backward. He was caught by a sturdy paw. Blood matted the fur at Fassur’s wrists as the black-furred charr helped the captain to stand. The grizzled captain flinched as he realized he was leaning against a charr, but to his credit, Moran said nothing. He nodded a simple thank-you and turned his attention back to the Dead Ship.

  “Damn it, we have to go back!” Henst cursed, every muscle taut as he watched the Pride readying to engage the Harbinger. “Isaye’s on that ship!”

  Cobiah knew exactly how the Ascalonian felt, but he didn’t have the luxury of panic. Instead, he kept the Krytan captain’s attention and kept his voice even and firm. “We have to work together, Captain Moran. The Pride can’t handle that vessel alone, and in these narrow corridors, we can’t outrun her. That’s why we attacked your ship among these rocks.”

  “No matter where we are, son, we can’t defeat it.” Moran’s voice shook despite the gruff old man’s militant bearing. “I’m a servant of the church and a captain of the Krytan navy. I have faith in the gods.” He made the sign of Dwayna in the air. “But that ship’s anathema to all things sacred. It can’t be defeated, and it can’t be destroyed. Nobody’s ever beaten one! There’s only one sane thing we can do—turn the Grace while that ship’s fighting them and leave the Pride to die. I don’t like leaving men and women to their deaths, but there’s no other choice. Their sacrifice will be remembered in the halls of the Zaishen.”

  Cobiah’s face darkened. “Leave my crew behind? Not today, not tomorrow, and damn well not ever. We’re going to fight, Captain Moran—and we’re going to win. You’ve got to believe me.” Moran met his eye dubiously, and Cobiah lowered his voice. “That pinnace is our home.
It’s all we’ve got. The Pride’s not defenseless, either—it’s got an astonishingly powerful elementalist, a mesmer with a brain the size of Mount Maelstrom, and the finest pilot on this whole shade-spawned sea. More than that, it’s got me.” Cobiah let go of the Krytan and turned to point at the four charr.

  “Sykox! Check belowdecks and make sure this crate is still seaworthy.

  “Fassur! Ready the cannons and deck guns and give me a full accounting of our firepower.”

  “We’re fighting?” Sykox’s four ears shot up in delight and horror. Fassur looked impressed as well. Behind them, old Grist was holding up the still-woozy Aysom. All four of the charr stared at Cobiah.

  “Of course we’re fighting.” He nodded curtly. “We’re charr.” As the others broke into wide grins, Cobiah started giving orders. “Grist! Get Aysom belowdecks and find him a berth; then get back up here and help Fassur and the others.”

  “Yes, sir!” A sharp grin creased old Grist’s muzzle. “Get us close enough, and we’ll tear that blood-covered ship apart with our bare claws.”

  Shaking his head, Cobiah contradicted the gray-maned elder charr. “Don’t be so sure. Orrian wights fight better than sailors, I assure you, and they’re far less afraid of guns and swords. We can’t fight them one-on-one and hope to survive. We need to get to work and—”

  “You can give all the orders you want, pirate,” Moran interjected. “There’s more of us than you, and without your ship firing on us, my sailors can sure as Grenth’s frozen underworld overcome you lot. If I give the command to turn this ship, we’re turning.”

  “You gave your word.” Cobiah’s tone was sharp. Silence fell between the two, and you could have heard a pin drop on the deck of the Salma’s Grace.

  Moran looked as if he were being forced to eat glass. “Balthazar break your bones, you wretched thing.” Setting his shoulders stubbornly, the Krytan captain asked, “Do you really think we can do this?”

  Cobiah swallowed the lump in his throat and answered boldly, “I know we can.”

  “Fine. Nicola!” Moran roared, glancing across the deck toward a female sailor whose formal military coat had the epaulets of a first mate. Hesitant to approach the charr, she nevertheless stepped forward and saluted. “Ready the ship for another assault. Turn her broadside to that red-sailed scum.” Under his breath, Moran grumbled, “If that Orrian ship sinks us, at least we’re saved the indignity of explaining to King Baede that we were boarded by pirates.”

  Cobiah grinned.

  “Nicola, help them take that injured beast down to the hold and get him bandaged. Show the dark one where the guns are and bring out as much extra ammunition as we have left aboard. Get ready to shoot the ballast out of the cannon, if we have to, but keep those guns loaded.”

  “Yes, sir!” she said. Fassur, Grist, and Aysom followed her down through the open hatch. Henst put away his swords to help Captain Moran call together the human crew—from both the Pride and the Salma’s Grace alike—and set them to task.

  Sykox clapped him on the shoulder. As the others scattered to their duties, he paused. “Reminds me of the time we rammed the Disenmaedel,” the engineer said fondly. “One minute we’re two crews fighting, and the next, we’re one big dysfunctional family all looking to you to keep us alive.”

  “I don’t know if I can do it this time, Sykox,” Cobiah said softly.

  “But you said . . .” The charr’s smile waned. “Ah. I get it. You’re slipperier than a greased grawl, Coby. Must be how you did so well at Ackle-Denth.” He nodded, placing one big paw on Cobiah’s shoulder. “C’mon, Coby. Who raided the Xunlai warehouses near Lake Bounty? Who bluffed our way out of the Splintered Coast with three broken bottles and a handful of flash powder?” Sykox crossed his arms and flicked his ears back. “Whose idea was it to sail right into the middle of a krait deeps just to rescue a cook?”

  “In my defense, his chicken pie was amazing.”

  “You,” the engineer said. “You’ve turned crazy, reckless courage into a career. You’ve got a gift, Cobiah. A gift for bringing people together even against their better judgment. If anyone can defeat a Dead Ship, it’s you. Even if we die, I’m proud to have had you as my captain . . . and as my friend.” Sykox shrugged nonchalantly, making the leopard spots ripple in his tawny fur.

  “Same here, fuzz face.” Touched, Cobiah thumped Sykox’s shoulder. “Keep the bilges going,” he said. “If we sink before they blow us to the heavens, I’m blaming you.”

  “Aye, sir.” Sykox winked. “Off I go to see what’s beneath Salma’s skirts!” With that, he ambled toward the hatch, sliding rapidly down the ladder toward the galleon’s lower decks.

  From a distance, the boom of cannon fire thundered in the air. Cobiah’s skin crawled, and he looked instinctively toward the Pride. Smoke rose from the pinnace’s guns as she fired on the Orrian vessel with reckless abandon. Isaye and the others were fighting for their lives—and he was stuck here, without any way to help them.

  Magical fire swelled from the Orrian vessel like a twisting serpent of flame. As cannonballs passed through it, they melted into liquid, falling harmlessly into the sea. The shimmering inferno flickered and swayed, flowing in protective circles around the Orrian ship. Cobiah thought he heard a chanting aboard the Pride. The wind rose, swirling through white foam and whipping the waves into a frenzy. The rush of air approached the Harbinger, tamping down the flame, pressing the Orrian fire closer and closer to the ocean in an attempt to quench it with the waves.

  “Fine work, your elementalist.” Moran had recovered his mace from below, holding it tightly in one hand. “You might have noticed, we’ve no offensive magic aboard the Grace. All we’ve got here is me.”

  “It’ll be enough,” Cobiah assured him. Moran gave orders to the crew in gruff tones, and slowly, the Salma’s Grace began to turn. Cobiah leaned on the ship’s gunwale, staring at the combat unfolding on the sea.

  “Cap’n Marriner!” Startled, Cobiah looked over the gunwale and saw Fassur’s dark head peering out from a hole between the boards of the ship. “Her hull’s compromised, but it’s all above water. As long as she doesn’t hit roughs, the ribs’ll hold. But . . . that’s not the problem.”

  “What, then?”

  “Some jackass got a lucky shot during the Pride’s volley. Landed straight in the main hold. The twice-blasted thing set fire to the dry stores and nearly lit up the ammunition. Sykox turned the bilges on the armory so it wouldn’t blow us all to the Mists . . . but now the gunpowder’s swimming in brine.”

  Sighing, Cobiah rubbed his temples, trying to think clearly. “Can we fire the guns?”

  “Aye . . . some. Whatever’s out there already is the last of the powder. Two, maybe three shots each? The rest won’t be dry for hours.”

  “Great,” Cobiah groused. “So what can we do?”

  Fassur grinned up at him hopefully. “Board them and fight one-on-one?”

  “See?” Grist wheezed enthusiastically somewhere inside the lower hold. “That’s what I told him!”

  Cobiah slapped his hands to the sides of his head. “Who taught you guys this stuff?”

  As one, the charr answered, “You did!”

  Cobiah groaned and raised his palms to his forehead.

  Another voice rang out across the deck. “You’re going aboard that Dead Ship?” Raising his head from his hands, Cobiah saw the two norn standing behind him, listening to the argument between him and the charr. Their wide grins were a matched pair. “I like your gumption, pirate,” Bronn said, leaning on his broadsword.

  Behind his brother, Grymm tugged his hard-leather sap gloves tighter around his knuckles. “Looks like we’ve got some real fighting to do, eh, brother?” Grymm beamed.

  “About time,” Bronn agreed. “I was starting to get bored with the warm-up.”

  “Goddess Dwayna, forgive whatever I did to deserve this.” Cobiah gazed up at the heavens in exasperation. With a sigh, he lowered his eyes and surveyed the sea before th
em. The Salma’s Grace was barely moving, sailors shifting her sails to try to catch the wind once more. Over the waves, he could hear Isaye giving orders, the Pride working valiantly to obey as it engaged the red-sailed Harbinger. Longing struck him, and fear. That was his ship fighting out there.

  Without him.

  “Just keep her alive,” Cobiah whispered, looking down once more.

  Fassur, whose ears were far better than any human’s, peeped out through the hole below. “You mean the Pride?”

  “Yeah,” Cobiah replied, turning away from the rail. “The Pride.”

  —

  The Salma’s Grace rode low in the water, a wallowing dolyak when compared to the nimble Pride. The rocky lumps of island surrounding them proved a blessing, for the Salma’s Grace would never have caught the other two ships had they been on the open sea. Even with the rocks hemming them in, she had a hard time keeping up with the lighter, more mobile crafts.

  The Orrian xebec was nimbler than the Pride, easier to turn, but the pinnace’s engine made her faster in the straightaway. Each time the Harbinger tried to close in for an attack, the smaller ship warded her away with volleys of booming cannon fire. Over and over, the two vessels swooped and passed one another like bristling fighting fish. Guns roared, and wind and flame struggled over the water, a testament to the magic at work on either side. At one point, the Harbinger expended a full broadside, only to have it blown into empty waters a few yards from the Pride’s bow, and Cobiah saw Verahd’s willowy form hovering above the pinnace’s deck with a pleased little smile.

  Despite Verahd’s efforts, the Harbinger’s fiery shield maintained a near-constant protection around the xebec. Verahd tried to use the wind to dispel it in pieces, pushing it aside so volleys from the Pride or the Salma’s Grace could make it through to their enemy on the far side of the flame. Cannonballs tore through the Orrian ship’s red sails and impacted the xebec’s deck with explosive force, but in return the Harbinger’s guns did significant damage of their own, roaring easily out of their fire shield and impacting on the smaller ship with massive concussions. The booming of cannon fire from both ships shook the tall stones throughout the narrow island straits.