by Ree Soesbee
Yomm huddled under the edge of the captains’ table, pulling his glittering golden robe close about him. “I thought you said you could fight!” Cobiah mocked him, charging toward the battle.
“I can fight!” the shopkeep whimpered. “But it’s madness out there!”
Krokar, Grimjaw’s second, bore down on old Captain Moran with a vicious-looking hooked knife. Moran blocked the blow, cracking his forearm against the charr’s wrist midthrust. The captain was not all he had been in his youth, and the blow did not make the charr drop the knife. Instead, it slashed through Moran’s guard, sinking deeply into the old man’s shoulder. With a yelp of pain, Moran pulled out the knife and then resheathed it in Krokar’s chest.
To the side, Captain Hedda took on three charr at once. She’d picked up a heavy oak bench, her arms rippling with massive strength beneath the softness of her chubby body. When all three charged her, Hedda set her feet and held the bench crosswise in front of her chest, setting her entire weight against it. Even with all three charr pushing as hard as they could, the buxom norn woman walked forward step by step, shoving them back with each stride. When she reached the edge of the pavilion, Hedda gave a roar and slammed the bench back even farther, pinning all three squirming soldiers against the wall.
Nodobe’s hex left his hand in a blaze of sickening greenish light as he finished the spell. It swirled through the air, leaving a trail of smoky ash in its wake, and then cascaded toward the captain of the charr. When it reached them, it exploded into a buzzing mass of insects, biting and digging into Grimjaw’s skin and expanding to encompass those nearby. Immediately, all three charr started howling in pain, scratching at their skin. They scratched so hard that their claws tore away hunks of fur. “Necromancy?” one of the charr roared toward Nodobe. “You disreputable human scum!”
Fighting the urge to continue tearing at his itching skin, Grimjaw raised his pistol and fired toward Nodobe, but the shot went wild. The ball of iron careened toward Tarb and caught the asura warrior in the ribs. Tarb gasped but didn’t falter, swinging his war hammer like a striking hawk. The heavy iron of the weapon’s head cracked solidly into Grimjaw’s knees. The charr howled in pain, staggering, but fired the pistol again. The second shot hit Tarb’s forearm, and within moments, the asura’s sleeve was covered in blood.
Cobiah slashed at Grimjaw’s pistol, trying to cut off the arm that held it. Grimjaw blocked the strike using the dagger in his other hand, then raised the same fist to punch Cobiah in the jaw. Spinning, he kicked Tarb in the belly with the same motion. The charr’s boot struck the asura’s hip and knocked Tarb sprawling. The asura climbed back to his feet slowly, never losing his grip on the war hammer. While he was recovering his balance, Cobiah stepped in to deflect Grimjaw’s next blow. Cobiah bullied the charr backward, away from Tarb, keeping Grimjaw’s weapons engaged and his line of fire to the asura blocked.
Nearer to the door, Isaye and Henst continued their combat. Isaye’s leg was bleeding from one of Henst’s attacks, pale skin and a red wound showing through a long cut in her breeches. Henst taunted her with each exchange of blows, drawing Isaye ever closer to the pavilion door. Cobiah understood why. With the bomb still somewhere inside the building, Henst was trying to escape so that he could set it off himself, leaving the rest to die. Although she was good with a sword, Isaye was not a match for Henst. She was surviving on sheer anger and dexterity, but eventually her luck would run out, and Henst’s skill would determine the victor.
Cobiah pushed away his instinct to leap to her defense and tried to focus on Grimjaw. He ducked as the charr ferociously lashed out with his dagger, trying to force Cobiah away. Tarb, still behind Cobiah, swung over Cobiah’s back and slammed his war hammer into Grimjaw’s elbow. While the charr captain was shouting and flapping his arm in distress, Cobiah seized his chance. He grabbed the charr’s massive horn and wrenched Grimjaw’s head to the side. When Grimjaw stumbled, Cobiah kneed him in the stomach, but the charr’s return punch knocked away Cobiah’s sword. The weapon clattered to the ground at their feet, but Cobiah couldn’t afford to let go of Grimjaw’s horn, not with a pistol still waving in his enemy’s hand. Rather than pick up the sword, risking a gunshot wound, Cobiah bent over and grabbed one of Grimjaw’s four ears in his mouth. He bit down viciously.
Grimjaw howled in pain. “Marriner!” he shrieked. “You don’t fight fair!”
“I fight like a charr!” Cobiah retorted through clamped teeth.
While the charr’s attention was diverted, Tarb swung his war hammer behind his body. He twisted forward and swung the hammer in an underhand arc, first down and then up—straight between the charr captain’s legs. Grimjaw’s shriek transformed into a guttural, choking sound. His pistol fell from numb fingers, and his legs clamped together. He fell to his knees, and Cobiah scooped up his fallen sword and cracked Grimjaw across the back of the neck with the hilt. With a whimper, Grimjaw crumpled to the ground.
“The concept of ‘fair’ relies on an inaccurate understanding of physics,” Tarb sniffed. “And I fight like an asura, thank you very much.”
“Marriner!” The voice was shaky, but it was clearly Moran. Cobiah spun and saw two of Grimjaw’s warband facing the old captain. Moran had raised a guardian shield of blue magic, but the energy was flickering and fading as the charr pounded on it with their weapons. Losing its cohesion, Moran’s shield finally crumpled and dissolved.
“No!” Cobiah screamed, starting toward them, but he was too far away. One of the charr thrust his sword through the last shreds of Osh Moran’s magic, spearing the gray-haired captain with the full length of his blade. The other slashed at Moran, intending to cut off the human’s head before help could arrive—but before the blow could land, Tarb’s assistant, Gamina, chucked a flowerpot from the far side of the room. Her aim was true, and her arm was good. The pot caught that charr dead in the muzzle, knocking him unconscious to the ground. Gamina lifted another pot to her shoulder, a solemn, grim look on her face, and Tarb shot her an approving smile.
Just then Cobiah reached them. He leapt onto the still-standing charr, enraged and slashing wildly with his cutlass. The soldier fell back from Cobiah’s onslaught, surprised by the attack. Cobiah knocked him back farther and swept his cutlass twice, ending the charr’s life in a quick instant.
Dropping his sword to the ground, Cobiah knelt next to the old captain. “Moran . . .” Cobiah’s voice broke with sorrow. It was too late to help him. The old captain’s eyes were already fixed in death.
Swords rang as they clashed together, Isaye still pressing Henst to his utmost. Her first mate was falling back now, struggling to keep up with her last wild blows, and Isaye knew her time was running out. She used every dirty trick in the book to gain an advantage. First she toppled a chair, kicking it at him; then she spun low and slashed at his ankles, forcing Henst to defy gravity if he wanted to keep his feet attached to his legs. For his part, the black-haired man fought determinedly, refusing to admit defeat even when Isaye’s sword cut a deep gash across his chest and arm.
Isaye tried for another, hoping to spear him with her sword. Henst dodged to the side, spinning out of the way of her blade, and caught her shoulder with his hand. He jerked her off balance, his weapon hurtling through the air to cut her open in a single slash. Isaye saw the danger and pulled her weapon down to block it, ending up inches from Henst with the two swords crossed between their bodies. They paused there, steel on steel, locked in a battle of will and strength.
With a shout of anger, Isaye drove the heel of her foot into Henst’s instep and shoved with all her might. It may have been that he was growing weary or that Macha’s similar move in the alley outside the pavilion had already injured that particular foot, but Henst staggered, suddenly overbalanced. His arms pinned by the weapons, Henst toppled, his sword slipping away from Isaye’s. With a sickening crunch, he landed amid the broken chairs and pottery, scrambling to find his footing in the mess. Isaye raised the sword in her hands, ready to fin
ish Henst while he was off balance, but her surety flickered, and her blade wavered in the air above his chest. He was her first mate, after all.
Nodobe, on the other hand, was in no way conflicted. Chanting, the Elonian captain extended his hand, and a sickly green miasma rose from his fingers like steam on a summer day. The smoke whispered from Nodobe’s fingers and clung to Henst’s fallen form, slipping around the Ascalonian’s arms and legs, creeping into his nose, ears, and mouth as he screamed. Henst thrashed as the spell lifted him from the stone floor of the pavilion, and gurgled as his throat closed. Isaye stepped back and lowered her sword, horrified, as Henst’s skin paled and his flesh rotted from the inside out. Retching and clawing at the air, Henst writhed back and forth, trying to rid himself of the awful sickness, but his body only grew more withered and more desiccated with each passing second.
Moments later, the corpse fell to the ground. It was shriveled and dried to the core.
Revolted, Cobiah turned away. As the others lowered their weapons and accepted the surrender of the rest of Grimjaw’s warband, he walked back to the table and placed his hand on the arched back of Macha’s chair. She sat with her head bowed, staring down at her bound hands. “I’m sorry it came to this, Macha. I’ll do everything I can to make sure you have a fair trial. No one is going to forget that you helped us today.”
Quietly, the asura whispered, “I’m sorry, too, Cobiah. I just wanted you, and the Pride, and all the wonderful adventures we used to have. Every day, this damn city eats more and more of your soul. I can’t be like that, Cobiah. I need to go on wandering. Inventing. Solving problems. All I do is sit around on an empty ship and think about how things should have been. I can’t do that anymore. Not even for you.”
“You’ve always been welcome by my side, Macha. You could have come into the city and helped . . .” Cobiah suddenly noticed that the asura was sitting completely still. Her lips weren’t even moving. “Macha?” He reached out to touch her. As his fingers passed through the asura’s shoulder, the entire illusion gave way in a delicate wash of smoke and twilight, revealing beneath it only Moran’s sash tangled on the seat of the chair. “Macha!”
Her voice murmured sadly into his ear, “Good-bye, Cobiah. I’ll see you soon.”
The lie was a cutting reminder of a day on the docks when he’d made his sister the same promise. Cobiah bowed his head and he unashamedly let tears roll down his cheeks. “Good-bye, my friend.”
In the quiet aftermath of the fighting, Yomm’s voice rang out from a hidden cubby at the back of the room. “Hey, everybody!” he yelled. “Guess what? I found the bomb!”
—
“From the sacred text of Lyssa, goddess of love: The road may be long, but you can walk it together. / There may be storms, but you can shelter one another. / The cold may come in winter, but you can be each other’s warmth. / Each companion to the other: two souls, united. / May no weapon sever the bond that holds your hands together, / And may no word sever the love that keeps your hearts as one.”
The priest tied a red wedding cord around the couple’s wrists and made the sign of the goddess over their joined hands. “I now pronounce you, Cobiah and Isaye, married in the eyes of the Six Gods and within the laws of Lion’s Arch. Congratulations.”
Isaye pulled Cobiah’s face down to hers, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “Hello, husband,” she murmured. The crisp morning wind ruffled the long sheath of her white dress. Her dark hair, long and unbound, rippled like a banner, and summer flowers had been braided into a thin circlet atop her head.
“Hello, wife,” he said in turn, his heart light with pride. Standing tall in one of the new captain’s uniforms designed for Lion’s Arch, Cobiah beamed down at her with joy.
A great cheer went up from the crowd gathered on the docks. Guns were fired into the air, both pistols and a few of the carronades from ships in the harbor, echoing like celebratory thunder across the sparkling waters of the bay. Sailors waved their hats and citizens waved flags in bright shades of blue and gold.
Waving to salute the crowd, Cobiah continued to hold Isaye’s hand as he addressed them. “The city of Lion’s Arch stands as a monument to the resiliency of the people of Tyria—no matter what race and no matter what their background. Although the city was destroyed, it has been rebuilt. Where lives were lost, new families will be raised, and new futures will be found.
“On behalf of myself and my wife, Isaye, I want to thank all of you for being part of our joyous day.” Cobiah smiled. “It was in the spirit of cooperation that Lion’s Arch was founded. Our hope was to create a safe haven for all races, but we must also ensure that the city is prosperous. I am proud to announce that we will be breaking ground on a new project: a bank to help our citizens raise money, store valuable items, and further our city’s future.” The crowd applauded warmly. Cobiah could see Yomm beaming from the porch of his shop.
After the speeches were over, Cobiah made his way through the crowd, shaking hand after hand. Isaye stayed behind to help with the great feast that had been planned in the city plaza. It seemed as though everyone in the city wanted to give him their best wishes, stopping him every few feet to pat him on the back or invite him to stop by their shops, eager to gain his attention. Word of the fight at the pavilion had also spread over the last few weeks, and the story had grown larger with each retelling. He’d saved the city from a takeover. He’d defended the captains against an assassin sent by King Baede. He’d stood up to an angel of Balthazar, come to force the city to return to Kryta. On the day of his wedding, especially, everyone wanted to shake his hand.
It didn’t matter if Cobiah had wanted this future. He was the master of this ship, and he couldn’t leave Lion’s Arch midsail. He’d become indelibly linked to the city’s spirit of freedom and hope for independence. A symbol of its future. Some of the citizens had even begun calling him “Commodore.” He was flattered by their trust, and he planned to live up to it. He’d moved all of his belongings from the ship into the house he was building for himself and Isaye. It was a tall manor built from the hull of a ship, with sails in the Lion’s Arch style and a wide view of the inner harbor. They could raise a family there. The thought made Cobiah smile, but it faded when he reached one of the gangplanks on the dock.
The ship moored there was the Pride, and she was readying to sail without him. Cobiah cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, “Ahoy, the ship! Permission to come aboard?”
Aysom leaned over the rail and waved enthusiastically. “Permission granted, Commodore! Come aboard; Cap’n Fassur’s been waiting for you.”
“When do you set out?”
“Soon,” Fassur answered, shifting uncomfortably. “The tugs are already here to take us into the harbor. We sail on the next tide.”
“You’ll do well. You’re ready for command, Fassur. You have been for years. I’m just glad you didn’t have to kill me to take my place. There are some charr traditions I’m not eager to take part in.”
Fassur chuckled but quickly sobered. “It’ll be tough without our little mesmer. I still can’t believe . . . I mean . . . I knew Macha was unhappy, but I never would have guessed . . .” Awkwardly, the charr shook himself as if to dismiss a bad feeling.
“She made her choice. We can’t focus on it. We just have to move on.” Cobiah reached out and clapped the big charr’s shoulder, changing the subject. “Take care of my ship, Legionnaire. Take care of my crew. I expect them all to return in one piece, with profit enough to share.”
Fassur laughed. “You’ll get a share, Commodore. I promise you that. I may be the Pride’s commander, but you’ll always be master of her heart.” He seized Cobiah’s wrist in a fierce clasp, his claws wrapping gently around Cobiah’s forearm. “Steel won’t yield, my friend.”
“Steel won’t yield,” Cobiah repeated, giving Fassur the traditional handclasp of the Iron Legion. “I’ll see you when you return.” With a sigh, Cobiah stepped away. He walked down the gangplank, calling a fond
farewell to the sailors aboard the clipper, and leaned on the dock railing as the Pride lowered her sails to half-mast and cast away her lines. Slowly, gracefully, the clipper slid into the harbor, a blue-and-gold flag with the new symbol of Lion’s Arch fluttering above the crow’s nest on her highest mast.
“She’s always been a handsome ship.” A burly, rust-colored charr leaned next to him on the dock’s crossbar, his leopard spots dark against the unruly softness of his fur. “Scarred up here and there, but like any charr woman, that just makes her prettier. Too bad her captain’s so ill tempered.”
Cobiah started in surprise. “Sykox! You didn’t go with the others?”
“Bah.” The engineer shrugged humbly. “Fassur’s got a good crew, both human and charr. I even think he talked Grimm Svaard into going with them. The ship’s engine is running so well, an Iron Legion apprentice with two wrenches and a hammer could manage it, and anyway, I’m needed here. They’re building a bank, you know,” he said conspiratorially. “I bet it’s going to have a vault. With turny-cogs and leveraged suspension, weight-balanced for a door as heavy as three dolyaks, and probably even some sort of mechanical locking device.” He smiled dreamily. “Somebody is going to have to build that beast of a thing. Can’t trust just anyone to do it.”
“That’s true.” Grateful, Cobiah ruffled the charr’s orange mane.
“Anyway, you’re still the Pride’s representative on the Captain’s Council, so you’re going to need a second.”
“I thought you hated council meetings.”
“Yeah, I used to. But I heard they’ve gotten more interesting lately. They have brunches and combat.” Sykox winked.
Cobiah couldn’t help laughing out loud. “Thank you.”
