Guild Wars: Sea of Sorrows

by Ree Soesbee

  “Captain!” the female first mate, Nicola, shouted as she reloaded one of the deck guns. “We’re reaching the last of our powder!”

  Moran yelled back, “Ready the guns and hold your fire!” The old captain grimly set his jaw and clenched a hand around his heavy mace. To Cobiah, he said, “Our guns are twice as powerful as those on the Pride; that’s why you pirates chose to board us. If we can just get one solid hit on that red-sailed blighter’s hull . . .”

  Watching avidly, Captain Moran waited for the Pride to swoop past, cutting off the Harbinger’s wind so the Orrian ship would be an easy target. Instead, the faster Harbinger turned her scarlet sails to port, staying between the Salma’s Grace and her companion. Moran cursed. “Clever bastards. They’ve seen what your elementalist can do, and they don’t like it. We need Verahd’s gale to get through that flame shield, but so long as we’re on the opposite side of the Harbinger, the wind’s always pushing us away!”

  “And stopping our shot from getting anywhere near that Dead Ship,” Fassur added, helping Nicola load a heavy cannonball into the muzzle of the gun.

  Verahd’s wind flared again, pushing down the flames on the far side of the Harbinger. Waving his arms broadly above his head, Cobiah managed to catch the elementalist’s attention. Frowning and pushing his reddish hair behind his ears, Verahd released the spell, and the Orrian flames roared back to life again. Cobiah could see him speaking to Isaye, pointing curiously across the waves at the Salma’s Grace. “All right. The Pride can’t bring that shield down for us, so we’ll have to do it ourselves.” No longer pushed away by the gale, the Salma’s Grace’s punctured sail swelled and the galleon began to gain speed. Cobiah leaned over the side once more, shouting belowdecks. “Engineer Sykox!”

  “Aye, sir?”

  “I need you to turn on every bilge pump we have. Work them as hard as you can down there; I want ’em pumping full bore.”

  “But, Cap’n, the deck’s near dry down here,” Sykox said.

  “Then put the ends into the sea!” Before the charr could ask any other questions, Cobiah yelled, “Just do it!”

  Sykox relayed the order to the crew in the ship’s hold. Long rubber hoses slid out the holes in the deck, sinking into the ocean at the ship’s side. Within minutes, the sound of chugging water redoubled itself as more sailors grabbed the pumps and labored to move the levers that worked the bilge. Seawater flowed up from the ocean, through the hoses, and out the other end—back into the sea. “Water’s flowing, sir,” the tawny charr assured him confusedly. “I don’t know what your plan is, but I don’t think we’re going to drain the sea out from under them.”

  “We won’t have to.” Cobiah waved to Nicola and Fassur and pointed toward the Harbinger. “Ready the cannons, and send a team of sailors down to hold the bilge hoses. We’re going to need them.” They quickly did as they were told, and soon the crew on the guns were awaiting the order to fire. Leaning on the gunwale, Cobiah waited with bated breath until the Salma’s Grace was within forty yards of her enemy. Thirty . . . twenty . . . He could feel the heat of the Harbinger’s flame shield scorching the galleon’s hull. “Now, Sykox! Point the bilges to our starboard side and spray for your lives!”

  Up went the hoses, and the pounding bilge pumps shot massive arcs of water toward the Harbinger. The shower struck the fire shield, hissing and steaming as the flame was doused.

  “Give ’em hell!” Cobiah commanded.

  The galleon’s cannons thundered a full broadside, pounding out their ammo so violently that the great ship shuddered with animosity. Cobiah saw more than half of their shot make it through the superheated steam, crashing heavily into the Harbinger. At this close range, and without a magical shield to protect them, the Orrian vessel was brutally damaged.

  The crew of the Salma’s Grace let out a great cheer as they saw the red-sailed clipper twist and shudder. The Harbinger’s protective flame shriveled away, and on the far side of the Orrian ship, the Pride unleashed another blast of cannon intended to seal their enemy’s fate. Their assault crashed through the xebec’s hull, magnifying the damage done by the Salma’s Grace, and a great flood of water rushed into the Harbinger’s shattering hulk. The volley had gone through the ship’s boards and destroyed the mast step. The foremast tipped forward with a mighty crack of timber. As it fell, the keel of the xebec splintered beneath the twisting weight, and the ship’s deck split open like rotten fruit.

  “We did it!” Captain Moran said disbelievingly. “We sank them! It’s over!”

  Cheers rose from the sailors aboard both living vessels. Cobiah stared grimly, saying nothing as the Harbinger’s red sails stained the water like pools of blood. While the others celebrated, he watched a shadow spread beneath the Dead Ship’s decayed and shattered husk, moving toward the other vessels with malicious purpose.

  “We may have sunk them,” Cobiah said, staring intently at the waves, “but it’s not over.” Raising his voice, he yelled loudly enough to be heard even aboard the Pride. “The undead are moving under the waves. Make sail before they board us!”

  A bitter wind swept fiercely over the open sea, driving the waves beneath it. The gale chased them through the broken shards of islands, over washed-thin beaches and high coral reefs, giving the tide no quarter. Between the rocky fragments, two ships hove into view. One was small, a lightweight pinnace with rippling, strangely rigged sails. The other was larger, damaged, lumbering like an old and weary man.

  The Pride, and the Salma’s Grace.

  They left behind the waterways that threaded amid towering lumps of stone, sailing with desperate speed through narrow straits. A shadow spread through the wreckage in their wake, but too slowly to catch the ships once they reached the open sea. Some of the wights made it aboard, but between the eager norn and the vicious charr, none survived long enough to impede the ships’ escape.

  “Too bad we didn’t get to go aboard,” Bronn grumped to his brother as he cleaned rotten flesh from the edge of his sword. Grymm nodded in agreement, and the bearded norn continued. “Could’ve learned a lot from poking about on that Orrian tub.”

  “Learned . . .?” Old Grist cocked his head, his yellowy eyes glittering with suspicion. “What are you, some kind of scholars or somethin’?”

  “You could say that,” Grymm answered the gray-furred charr. “My name’s Grymm Svaard. This is my brother, Bronn. We’re explorers for the Priory. We wanted passage on the Sea of Sorrows, and King Baede offered to pay if we’d keep an eye on his gold. Learning all we can about these Orrians—that’s our real mission.”

  “The Durmand Priory?” grumped Grist. “I’ve heard of you lot. Refugees from Lion’s Arch, hiding up there in the mountains with salvaged books and things. Odds and ends. What are you out here to learn?”

  Bronn sheathed his greatsword in a scabbard across his back. “How to kill them all.”

  “That’s one thing we can agree on,” said the rugged old charr with a smile.

  Both ships remained under full sail as anxious sailors watched the Ring of Fire Islands fall back against the horizon—and, long before nightfall, vanish from view. Once the ships were out of danger, they slowed and pulled side by side. Sails were furled, ropes were thrown between them, and the planks were placed to allow free passage from one ship to the other. Sailors shook hands and congratulated one another on their victory, relishing the fact that they’d lived through a hard-won battle. Cobiah paused once again to touch the little doll in his pocket, thanking the gods—and his watchful angel—that his life had once again been spared. Through all the horrors he had witnessed and all the dangers he had faced, it was more than his crew that stood with him. He could feel Biviane’s presence as well.

  “So, Cobiah.” Captain Moran interrupted his reverie, reaching to shake his hand. “I suppose this is goodbye.”

  “Good-bye to you, sir.” Cobiah winked and clasped the old captain’s hand. “But not to that Krytan gold.”

  The grizzled old captain grima
ced stubbornly, but after a moment, the frown faded, and he sighed. “You’re right. We made a deal, and I won’t shine you out of it after you and yours saved our lives. You could have left us for dead, and fighting with us is more than most would have done in your place.” He ran a hand through his short gray hair and sighed again. “I’ll tell King Baede you held me at swordpoint and spirited away the fortune. He’s already got his asura gate. It’s the Colleges of Rata Sum who are out a pretty penny.”

  “Don’t underestimate the asuran capacity to pass the buck, Captain,” Macha said. She stood on the board between the ships, waiting to greet Cobiah. “Your king’s in for an earful.”

  Moran laughed. “I suppose you’re right, little one.”

  “ ‘Little’?” she huffed. “I may be little, but I’ll have you know I’m the one who tracked your ship. I conjectured the mathematics of your speed and the latitude of Rata Sum versus the longitude of your port of origin at Port Noble. If it hadn’t been for me—”

  “Ah, so we can blame the asura!” Moran interrupted, eyes twinkling.

  Her eyes bulging with annoyance, Macha protested, “That’s not what I said!” But her words were drowned out by the laughter of the crew. “Fine.” She put her hands on her hips in defiant pride. “But if you pass that on, be sure to tell them that my invention will revolutionize—sailing—forever!” She hopped up and down on the board for emphasis, and it creaked dangerously. Sykox quickly scooped the asura up and hoisted her aboard the galleon before the plank could break and dump her into the sea.

  Cobiah’s eyes were irresistibly drawn to the figure standing at the rear of his cheering crew. Isaye. The wind blew her dark hair in loose strands about her face and shoulders as her hazel eyes found his. Before Cobiah could call out to her, Henst thumped his way across the planks and strode to Isaye’s side. The Ascalonian hugged Isaye closely, thumping her back in relief and telling her of their side of the battle in loud, too-eager tones. Cobiah was relieved to see that her greeting in return was significantly less enthusiastic. They were friends, then. Not . . .

  Cobiah suddenly noted a dried stain of blood on Isaye’s shirt. “You’re injured?” Cobiah strode across the planks to her side.

  “One of the Harbinger’s deck guns hit our rear quarter. It splintered the wood, and a piece of flying board caught my side.” Stepping closer to Cobiah, Isaye lifted the edge of her shirt to show him the wound. It had already been wrapped in a thin bandage of canvas and showed no sign of seepage. Lowering her shirt, Isaye reached out and put her arms around Cobiah’s neck and hugged him in a gesture much warmer than the one she’d given Henst. Cobiah grinned smugly at the Ascalonian’s surly glare.

  “I’m glad you’re all right, Coby,” Isaye said quietly. “I tried not to let them shoot up your ship. We just weren’t fast enough.”

  Cobiah breathed in the scent of her hair and felt her warmth against him. “It’s all right. The Pride will manage. Scars give her character.” He looked down and placed his forehead against hers in a gentle gesture. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.” Isaye gave him a smile of relief. When she slid out of his arms, she kept her hand on his, twining Cobiah’s fingers with her own.

  Laughter bellowed among the burly charr transferring four chests of coin from one ship to the other. Cobiah saw Aysom and Fassur struggling to carry one across the planking, arguing about how much weight the board would bear. Fassur had taken the Krytan flag from the Salma’s Grace, draping it over his shoulders like a king’s cloak. “Look at all this gold!” he announced, thumping the side of the chest. They set it down on the Pride’s deck and pulled open the lid to show a wealth of shining gold. Fassur raked his claw through the coins covetously. “How do we split it up, Cap’n?”

  “That’s Krytan gold.” Isaye sobered, staring darkly at the four iron-banded chests.

  “First,” Cobiah said, “a share to Isaye and her crew. Enough that they can buy a ship of their own—and get the heck off ours.” He chuckled lightheartedly. Verahd studied his staff as if it contained something more interesting than gold. Henst frowned and looked toward Isaye.

  “No, I can’t,” Isaye protested. “I won’t make a profit on Krytan gold.”

  “Isaye,” Cobiah said to her before she could go on. “When the Harbinger attacked, you and your friends risked their lives to save ours. You could have left us on the Grace, but you stayed to fight. I know you weren’t in favor of robbing King Baede’s vessel, but I want to reward you for that courage, at least. Take a share of the money and give it to the people of Kryta. That way, if the king taxes them again, they’ll have plenty of extra to give him without hurting themselves.”

  Isaye brightened, her eyes widening. “You mean it?” He nodded, and she hugged him again in gratitude. “I’ll do just that.”

  “If you’re headed to Kryta, we can take you there, miss.” Captain Moran gave her a stiff sort of bow, prompting Isaye to manage an awkward curtsey in return. “Assuming Captain Cobiah permits the Grace to sail home after he’s finished looting our hold.” Moran’s tone was sober, but his gray eyes twinkled with mild amusement. “If . . .”

  “I’m keeping the flag, snub nose.” Fassur’s tone seethed with suspicion.

  “Wasn’t the flag I was after,” Moran said evenly. “Marriner, I’m looking to allow any sailors who want to, to disembark from the Grace and sail to another port with you. Once the tale gets out in Divinity’s Reach that we’ve been fighting beside pirates and charr, some of them won’t be welcome home again, no matter what the reasons. Me, I’m a mad old coot; I can get away with anything. But some of these boys are mighty young to have the stain of it on their reputations.”

  “It’s more of a stain to fight beside charr than it is to be sunk by a Dead Ship?” Grist shook his grizzled head. Scornfully, he snorted, “Ridiculous humans.”

  “I’m sure Captain Marriner will make them welcome on the Pride.” Isaye smiled, ignoring the charr’s jibe. Cobiah gave the gray-haired Krytan a solemn nod. “As for your other offer,” she said, “thank you, Captain Moran, but no. Henst and the others might take you up on the ride, but as for me . . .” She looked up at Cobiah. “Once I’ve finished distributing the gold, I’d like to remain aboard the Pride . . . if they’ll have me. This ship could use a good pilot.”

  “Indeed, we could.” Joy swelled Cobiah’s heart. “You’re welcome to stay among us, Isaye.” In the background, Cobiah heard Macha’s snort of derision and Fassur’s sly snicker, and ignored them both.

  “I’ll stay as well,” Verahd murmured, pushing a curtain of reddish hair out of his eyes. “Isaye’s been a good friend to me. I prefer to work in her company.”

  Cobiah met the elementalist’s eyes and nodded gratefully.

  “Me too, I guess,” Henst added with a surly grimace. Although Cobiah knew the man was nothing but trouble, Henst had pulled his weight aboard the Grace when he was needed most. Cobiah nodded again . . . perhaps a bit less gratefully.

  “So what about the gold?” Fassur belligerently crossed his arms. “That still doesn’t tell us what the split’s going to be. There’s enough money here to pay for five vessels the size of the Pride—or to carve your grinning face on a mountain if you wanted.”

  “We could buy an asura gate,” Aysom teased.

  “Or acquire a laboratory the size of a palace and build a gate of our own.” Macha managed a grumpy smile, and Sykox thumped her shoulder, nearly knocking the little asura over in amusement.

  “We could buy gold-plated pistols and swords with diamond-studded hilts!” Fassur guffawed. Old Grist whistled at the thought.

  “Or we could build a city,” Cobiah added.

  “Exactly! Well, a town, maybe. We could call it ‘Port Cobiah’!” Sykox’s laughter died as he noticed the solemn look on his captain’s face. “You’re not kidding.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  Cobiah leapt onto the high step of the quarterdeck and called the crew to attention. “Sailors of the Pride!�
�� he shouted over their enthusiastic banter. “Today you not only bested King Baede’s finest ship of the line, you also made history. Together with the fine men and women of the Salma’s Grace, we achieved something never done before. We sank an Orrian ship.” The celebration shouts from the crew drowned out his voice as they roared in approval.

  Cobiah raised his hands, calming them again. “Everyone said it was impossible. They said the Dead Ships are unbeatable, that the plague of undead assaulting us was as unstoppable as the tsunami that brought them to our shores. That the only thing we could do was run away.

  “Well, no more.” He looked down at his crew proudly. Eager faces shouted and called his name, but he felt the most pride simply looking into a single pair of hazel eyes. “Our ship stood against every one of the Harbinger’s weapons—guns, magic, and more—and we didn’t just survive. We won.” A great cheer went up among the assembled crew. Some of the charr shot their pistols into the air, roaring their approval, and even Macha smiled. “Settle down, settle down.” Cobiah chuckled. “It’s a victory—and a big one. But it’s not enough.

  “They call the beast in Orr a ‘dragon.’ A big one, like the tales of Primordus from my grandfather’s time. When that monster rose from the sea, it took Lion’s Arch from us. Since then it’s ravaged a dozen other towns along the shore. What’s next? Rata Sum? Port Noble? The Tarnished Coast or the eastern shores? Well, I say Orr’s tyranny stops today. We draw the line with the fall of Port Stalwart.

  “First Mate Fassur’s right. We could use this money to live comfortable lives for a year or more. Maybe even longer. But I have a better idea. I say . . .” Cobiah took a deep breath and plunged onward. “I say we build a port of our own. We build it, and we defend it against Orr. We make it a free port, not beholden to any nation, open to anyone who sails the sea. We’ll teach others how to fight against the Dead Ships, using charr weaponry, asuran innovation, and human courage.”