by Ree Soesbee
In the harbor, the xebecs were making thin lines toward the Indomitable, apparently aware of the flagship’s distress. With sails of flame, they cut through the billowing waves, leaving a trail of white foam and black ash behind them. “Cobiah!” Isaye yelled. She pointed with the blade of her cutlass. “Something’s under the water!”
Past the Indomitable, a shadow moved beneath the waves. At first, Cobiah dismissed it, thinking it nothing more than the monstrosities he’d already seen, the kind that clawed their way up the Nomad II’s hull or walked on the sandy beaches beneath the white-foamed waves. But this one was different. It wasn’t just the sheer size—though large, the mass could have been made up of sunken ships or a crowd of undead moving across the ocean floor. But this one moved in a way that was unlike the others; it was no ship, no swimming human or near-human form. The purplish shadow moved like an eel, undulating and twisting in the current that pulled the Nomad II toward the island in the bay. As it rose toward the surface, the long shape took form—flippers, each as large as a small ketch; a tail as flat and massive as the deck of one of the Krytan galleons. The head that broke the waterline was triangular and long, with sleek rivulets of hardened flesh to shunt the water from the creature’s black, beady eyes. Its mouth was wide and long like a shark’s, and rows of teeth—each the size of a man—slit the water into bloodstained froth. Cobiah stumbled as the ship tilted, water rushing before the monster like innocents before an invading tide. He knew that creature.
It was the Maw.
“Eyes to port! Watch for a ramming blow from beneath us!” Cobiah yelled in warning. The leviathan rose farther, a bellow trumpeting from its rotting jaw. Once its leap lifted most of the monster’s body above the water, Cobiah could see it more clearly—and it was not entirely as he remembered. The monster was as dead as the ships of Orr, its black flesh rotted and fouled by disease. Barnacles clung to the creature’s fins, and putrid green spittle blew from its thick, fleshy lips. The thrashing tail slashed through the current. Water rushed through holes in the creature’s flesh, revealing bones etched with salt pitting and bloodsucking remoras the size of a lifeboat writhing in the behemoth’s innards. A long, pale scar in the creature’s cheek marked an old wound where a cannonball had once rent a bloody hole in sensitive flesh.
“The rule of the living has ended,” Captain Whiting said mockingly. “This is the time of the Elder Dragons. Thus begins the time of Zhaitan and of Orr. The day of their ultimate victory is close.”
“Close,” Cobiah said through gritted teeth, “but not today.” He spun to look toward the city and saw the fort at Claw Island growing nearer and nearer still. Cobiah could see the Lionguard manning its walls, turning their cannons toward the sea battle. The flag of Lion’s Arch whipped in the wind above its highest tower, and the sandy beach outside the wall held two trebuchets standing ready with balls of flaming pitch. “We’re here,” he breathed, a smile spreading across his features. “We made it.”
As if in answer, the fortress opened fire.
The morning sun played over the high stone walls of the island fortress, illuminating sandstone and granite barricades—and the heavy black iron of cannons on its gunnery emplacements. The boom of the guns rolled like thunder, pounding heavy ammunition in waves, one immediately after the next, onto the Dead Ships of the Orrian armada. The cannons’ muzzles glowed like red eyes, and the smell of powder smoke swirled in acrid plumes around the fortification. The foam on Claw Island’s sandy beach should have been white, but instead it was stained red with blood spilled from the ships at the mouth of the harbor. The fortification’s cannons cracked a sharp, near-constant retort, and the bombard guns on the cliffsides above the city echoed with the fire of continued gunnery, but while they could destroy the Orrian ships, they could do little against the Maw.
Even with the fortress and city gunnery, the Dead Ships still had an advantage. They outnumbered the Krytan vessels by more than three to one, and the magic of the two Orrian xebecs continued to raze smaller ships. They raced here and there amid the battle, unfettered by tide or wind, shattering clippers with rock-hard buffets of air or setting them alight with the inferno of their blazing scarlet sails. They knew better than to come close to Claw Island, and with magic enough to give them motion and direction against the tide, the guns were of little use against the Orrian xebecs.
The Balthazar’s Trident remained away from the main swell of the battle, using her long-range guns to aid ships that were suffering under the Orrian attack. Cobiah was glad to see Edair was helping, but happier still to see that the ship was safe. For now.
All around the Nomad II, the Maw laid claim to anything that floundered or fell behind. The monster rose from the waves and bared huge rows of teeth, snapping a clipper ship in half. The screams of sailors were soon drowned in the gargantuan creature’s wake. Chernock began clambering up the mast, her clawed hands sinking into the thick wood. On his high yardarm, Tenzin let go of the harpoon gun and drew a pistol from his belt, trying to get a bead on her, but the clever wight dodged and hid behind flaps of sail. As she climbed, she snapped rigging lines with her claws, causing the canvas to sag and shift and cover her from his keen aim. Tenzin skittered higher and higher, trying to find an opening for the shot, but to no avail.
On the deck, Isaye’s crew fought valiantly against the undead from the Indomitable, swords flashing and pistols thundering. They were outnumbered, but the narrow deck kept the Nomad II’s sailors from being overrun. They clumped together, pressing back-to-back to defend one another against the horrific enemy. Amid the shambling zombies and shuffling undead, the monstrous Vost laid about with whiplike tentacles, drawling blood with each crack and snap. He didn’t bother to choose his targets, lashing the living and undead with equal enthusiasm. Pushing past those in his way, Vost inexorably drew closer and closer to Cobiah.
At last, Cobiah found himself trapped between Vost and a pile of netted cargo secured to the quarterdeck. On the Indomitable, Captain Whiting stood with one foot on the gunwale, laughing at the brutal carnage. His eyes lit with green fire as he relished Cobiah’s desperate situation. “Well done, Bosun,” he oozed. “Thirty-nine lashes, if you please.”
Vost struck, tentacles slicing through the air with a hiss that could be heard even over the clanging of swords. Cobiah caught the first strike on his sword, cutting through one of the tentacles with the sharp edge of his blade. He stabbed forward, but the blade of the cutlass turned against Vost’s hard carapace. The slicing sword was simply unable to pierce the rocky armor of the undead bosun’s barnacle-covered skin. More tentacles flailed out where Vost’s arms had once been, wrapping like wet seaweed around Cobiah’s weapon. With a sharp tug, Vost jerked the sword out of Cobiah’s hand. As it crashed to the deck, Cobiah lunged to trap the blade beneath his foot before the weapon slid overboard in a wash of water.
The undead bosun’s second strike cracked over Cobiah’s shoulder and across his back, tearing through his coat, his shirt, and his skin. Long red welts of blood sprayed up in its wake. “Cobiah!” Tenzin yelled from above. “Catch!” He tossed his pistol down through the rigging. Desperately praying to Dwayna, Cobiah lunged—and caught the butt of the gun in his outstretched hand.
Unbalanced, Cobiah fell to one knee and jerked the pistol around. He squeezed the trigger, and shots rang out, piercing Vost’s rocky skin. The carapace cracked, barnacles fell away where the bullets had entered, and the bosun staggered, bloodshot eyes turning red. He lifted a hand to touch the brackish blood seeping from the wounds and gave a withering smile. “Nice shot, but your bullets are too small to do me significant harm, Coby.” Vost chortled, a sticky sort of sound. “Shall we continue with your lashes?” he snarled, and the undead bosun’s tentacles whipped out with murderous intent.
Tossing away the empty pistol, Cobiah put out his hand and allowed the tentacles to strike his forearm. Skin flayed beneath his twisted coat sleeve as the tentacles wrapped about his arm. He clenched them in his hand,
gritting his teeth, and then pulled with all his might. At the same time, he flipped his sword upward with the toe of his boot, grabbing the handle with his other hand and praying to Grenth that he still had some luck left.
Unprepared, Vost toppled forward—and Cobiah targeted the area of the carapace where the bullets had broken through. The sword point caught in one of the bullet holes, splitting open the hole with an audible crack. Cobiah tugged again, squeezing Vost’s tentacles in his free hand and jamming the sword in farther with the other. The barnacle covering around Vost’s flesh fractured farther, allowing the sword to slide in even more. Letting go of the tentacles, Cobiah clutched both hands around the sword hilt and shoved it upward, shattering the rough covering and splitting Vost’s torso in half.
Vost shuddered and collapsed, the hideous light fading from his eyes. As the monstrosity crumpled to the deck, Cobiah tore the tentacles from his arm. Blood oozed from long cuts where skin hung like scraps of sail. He flexed his hand to see that all the fingers still worked, then twisted a scrap of cloth tightly around the wound and turned back to the fight.
The Dead Ships in the harbor were taking a pounding from Claw Island’s cannons, and one of the mighty xebecs had a sail listing in its traces. But the rest of the Orrian armada still harried the Krytan ships—and three of the black-hulled vessels were drawing close to Prince Edair’s flagship. Cobiah saw Isaye’s eyes worriedly following the distant motion of the Balthazar’s Trident, fearing for the waddling ship of the line.
At the center of the Nomad II’s main deck, a ferocious battle was raging. Grymm, rising up to slash with steely claws, struggled against his brother’s sword. Bronn’s laugh was burbling and rank, filled with the cloying sickness of Orr. Where his sword cut, it left a black trail in the air like the bullets of Captain Whiting’s pistol. Already, Grymm had a long gash in his side. Bronn had suffered as well; claw marks trailed across his face, there were bites in the meat of both shoulders, and dark blood flowed over the muscles of his chest. The wounds would have killed a mortal man. Against the undead, they did nothing but add to Bronn’s horrific appearance.
Bronn slashed at his brother, sword flying through the air viciously. Grymm sidestepped the blow and roared, the anger in his bestial tone shaking the deck. He lunged closer, clasping Bronn’s shoulders in his wicked claws. Bronn howled, unable to move his sword, as Grymm’s terrible, wolflike head bowed closer.
“I’m sorry, brother. I tried,” Grymm whispered.
“I’ll slaughter you!” the undead Bronn roared, fighting to draw a dagger from his belt. The blade slid free of its sheath, on a path toward Grymm’s heart.
Grymm didn’t give him that chance. Savagely twisting his head, he dug long canines into his brother’s throat and ripped it through. Bronn choked. His back arched as his muscles continued to try to fight the enemy, forcing the body to struggle even against such a horrible wound. Then, with a terrible wheezing sound, he fell to the deck, truly dead. The norn in beast form raised its head toward the last stars of morning and let out a sorrowful, heartbreaking howl.
Cobiah had never seen a wolf cry before. He never wanted to see it again.
The cannon barrage from Claw Island continued to batter the Orrian ships, but now several of them had begun to hammer the fortress with broadsides of their own. The island was taking damage, and smoke rose from the fortress where buildings inside had been set alight. The gunnery emplacements were taking a toll on the Dead Ships, but it simply wasn’t enough to make a serious dent in the Orrian assault.
The ship taking the most significant damage was the galleon in the lead: the Indomitable. She was closest to Claw Island, and despite the Nomad II’s cover, the fortress had concentrated two of its cannons solely on the prodigious galleon. Areas of the Indomitable’s hull were completely staved in, and the ocean swirled around the bones of her keel and lower decks.
Captain Whiting saw it, too. Instead of ordering more sailors forward, he was focusing on the bilges, struggling to keep his ship above water so they could finish the fight. The Nomad II’s lines prevented them from avoiding the island or using the current to get away from the guns, making the Indomitable a sitting duck for the fortress’s artillery. Unable to flee or fire effectively against Claw Island, the Indomitable turned her guns toward the most notable target behind the Krytan line.
The Balthazar’s Trident.
Cannon fire rang out in furious tandem, white plumes rising from the far side of the Indomitable. The Balthazar’s Trident was too close, harried by three Dead Ships. Cobiah saw them turn and work together, driving her toward this fate without any sign of communication. It was as if the minions of the Orrian dragon thought with one mind, capitalizing on every advantage that occurred along the battlefield. Those three smaller ships would keep the Balthazar’s Trident from retreating farther into the city’s harbor. If the Indomitable kept firing, the prince’s ship would break apart and sink—or worse, like other injured ships, become chum for the lurking Maw.
Cobiah thought quickly. If he could distract the crew of the Indomitable, they might stop firing on the Balthazar’s Trident. The king’s ship could escape the galleon’s guns. But how? He frowned, considering his options. There was only one thing that the undead sailors on the Indomitable wanted more than the destruction of Krytan ships.
“Me.” Cobiah’s mind rushed through a thousand options, settling at last on the tactic he’d always preferred—he’d have to attack. Grasping a loose line of rigging in his uninjured hand, Cobiah ran backward to get a head start. He raced forward, hurling himself up and swinging wildly on the line as he had done in his youth. The line stretched, lifted him from the deck, and swung him toward the enemy ship—but as the rope played out to its full reach, Cobiah’s strength failed. One arm was not enough to hold him aloft, nor were his muscles as powerful as they had once been. Instead of sailing gracefully to the Indomitable’s yardarm, Cobiah found himself tumbling down onto her sticky black deck. He slid, scrambling, and slammed up against her mizzenmast. The sky spun above Cobiah as he struggled to catch his breath. Something tumbled from an inner pocket of his coat. Instinctively, Cobiah grabbed the limp bundle, barely recognizing the little doll. He stared into its lifeless button eyes and tried to understand how she could still be wearing that stitched-on smile. The sails above him flowed in the wind, black and foul, the purity of long-ago days washed away by the horrors of Orr.
The Indomitable.
The horrors of his last moments aboard the galleon rushed into Cobiah’s mind, blotting out his purpose with cruel memories. This time, there were no charr to save him, no Havoc to draw him from the sea. He was alone with the shades of his past.
An all-too-familiar figure loomed over him. Although its pockmarked skin was filthy with mold and the limp ponytail slick with rotting kelp, the narrow brown eyes laughed cruelly down at him. It was Tosh—or what was left of Tosh. “Co . . . bi . . . ah . . .” The broken jaw worked, struggling to get out the word. “Still . . . the pretty little . . . dolly.” Tosh’s hands closed on Cobiah’s shirt, and the reek of his fetid breath filled the air. His fingers clenched the linen clothing with a stronger grip than any living man could possess.
Something primitive snapped within Cobiah’s spirit at the sight of his old rival’s dead face, and he flailed, punches striking in punctuation with his screams. Other undead sailors clustered tightly around him, their hands grabbing at Cobiah’s flesh, jerking him to his feet with avaricious, scrabbling fingers. Shuddering backward against the mast, Cobiah tried to push them away. Another zombie pushed ahead of the rest, a crooked smile rupturing his ruined face.
“Good ol’ Coby,” Sethus whispered, his voice like the whisper of fog on the sea. Sour, greenish cankers oozed pus across the remnants of his skin. “Why’d you leave me? I thought we were friends.” The words struck Cobiah like a physical blow, robbing him of air. He gaped and fell back against the rotted mizzenmast as Sethus murmured darkly, “Together again.” Sethus’s undead ey
es glinted. “For Zhaitan. Forever.”
“Take me to the captain,” Cobiah said grimly, chills running up his spine. “I’m ready to do my duty.” The undead shuffled and smiled, their fetid mouths gaping open in jawless, dripping pleasure. More and more of the undead crew gathered to watch the spectacle as Tosh shoved him forward, heading toward the green-banistered stairwell of the quarterdeck. Taking his time, hoping that more undead would gather—leaving their posts at the cannons to see the captive walk the deck—Cobiah strode solemnly through the clustered, horrific mass of wights. He had to keep their attention, give the undead a reason to focus on him rather than the Balthazar’s Trident.
Holding fast to his courage, Cobiah glanced up at the ruined sails, and an old, familiar memory returned to him. Angel’s wings. Biviane’s wings. He took a deep breath of air laced with sulfur and rot. You’ve always been with me when I needed you most, little sister, Cobiah thought. I hope you’re watching now.
Isaye’s voice cut through the roar and blast of battle. “Coby!” she screamed from the Nomad II’s quarterdeck. He saw her fighting her way across the other ship, heading for the ropes that tied the two gunwales together. Before she could reach them, another shout drew her attention upward.
“Isaye!” Tenzin’s voice echoed from the high yardarm of the Nomad II. “By Lyssa’s veil . . . Isaye, look!”
“I have to help Cobiah!” Isaye screamed, pointing with her sword. Her eyes were wide and her motions frantic with worry.
“The fleet!” Tenzin yelled again, overriding her concern. “Look!”
Beyond the fortress of Claw Island, beneath the wide arch of the Gangplank Bridge, sails were fast approaching. They came in every size, every shape—some were little more than bedsheets sewn hastily together, while others looked like canvas that had been taken half-finished from the weaver. Still, the sails were attached to yardarms, which hung from masts, which were attached to . . .
