Guild Wars: Sea of Sorrows

by Ree Soesbee

  Ships, at least thirty strong. Ships of all sorts, all sizes, as patchwork and haphazard looking as their sails. Their hulls were brightly painted, colored randomly in blues and oranges, the colors changing down their hulls. They seemed cobbled together, as if someone had collected chunks of ships and nailed them one against the other. Cobiah stared, believing at first that he was hallucinating, but as they approached with guns thundering, the nature of the patchwork vessels became more apparent.

  These ships hadn’t just been built in Lion’s Arch.

  They’d been built from Lion’s Arch.

  Every retired boat and schooner, every clipper and galleon that had ever been converted into warehousing or into shops, every building in the city that had a hull and a keel had been pried up, retarred, and sent to sea. Some still had advertisements or names of shops painted on their hulls; others had quickly been refitted with masts of light posts and rudders made of signboard. The ships were ramshackle, afloat with spit and a prayer, but they had one undeniable advantage: they were crewed by the finest sailors in the world.

  Despite the wind that was at loggerheads with them and the wild tides that fought any ship sailing Sanctum Harbor, the fleet out of Lion’s Arch had sails swelled with power. Magic pushed them, hurtling them forward with the breath of a tempest at their heels. The Lionguard elementalists were strong enough to push more than two dozen ships from a standstill to running speed, keeping a powerful wind blowing at their backs through force of will alone.

  As the undead gathered around him, Cobiah’s eye fell on the lead ship. She was a brave pinnace, plowing through the waves ahead of the others at a speed none of them could match. Smaller than the galleons, larger than the multicolored clipper ships, the Pride was leading the way. Even on the distant Indomitable, Cobiah could hear the rumble and pound of a heartbeat in the little ship’s hold, the Pride’s mighty engine pushing her to the fore. She had her guns rolled out and shining, the crew firing on the Orrians as quickly as they could load the cannons, and standing boldly on her prow, his orange fur rippling in the wind, stood Sykox Steamshroud.

  A resounding cheer erupted across Sanctum Harbor at the sight of the makeshift fleet. The cheers echoed from the high cliffs of the bay where the Lionguard manned the city’s artillery, through the brave fortress that stood against the incoming ships, and all across the scattered Krytan vessels fighting bravely in the harbor. As the morning sun shimmered on cool blue water, the blazing cannons of the patchwork navy rained fire and destruction down on the Dead Ships. Even undead vessels could not withstand such a barrage. Fashioned as they were from broken mortal vessels, the will of Zhaitan shielded them and made them powerful—but this new armada was as large as their own, and the sailors were skilled in exploiting the weaknesses of Dead Ships. Between the firepower of Claw Island and the constant volleys of cannon shot from the patchwork fleet, the undead ships began to break apart and founder. The advantage they’d gained was crumbling, and as the tide swept out from the city, it carried with it the broken pieces of many a black hull.

  Aboard the Nomad II, the tide of the battle had turned, too. Isaye’s crew fought with renewed determination, cutting apart their undead enemies and clearing the deck of the minions of Zhaitan. First among them was Grymm Svaard, still in wolf form, wreaking titanic vengeance on the undead. They fought until the deck was covered in torn, rotting flesh and black blood, hurling their opponents into the sea or tearing them apart.

  The Maw, on the other hand, seemed to be delighting in the chaos of battle. It swept through the carnage, eating anything and everything, wherever it found flesh. The jagged teeth of the massive creature crushed hull and keel, shredding sails and dragging sailors to their doom. Nothing was safe from its assault, neither Dead Ship nor living crew. It attacked them all, without concern for the meager weapons leveled by those on the surface. Neither cannon nor land-based bombard seemed to have any ability to cause it harm.

  The Indomitable had taken heavy damage from the cannons of passing Krytan vessels, and her hull was cracked to the bone. Bits of raw flesh clung to her deck, writhing as fire arched from the cliffs of the city and slammed into her wooden core. Captain Whiting turned his green-flame eyes away from Lion’s Arch, cursing in a language that had died long before he was born. “Continue firing on the large galleon . . . what’s this?” The captain turned to stare at Cobiah. “What have you brought me, lads?” The captain’s rotten lips burbled in horrible imitation of his living, fleshly quaver.

  “It’s the deserter, sir.” Tosh dragged Cobiah forward.

  The captain hissed, stepping to the banister, and all eyes turned to Cobiah. The mighty guns of the Indomitable fell silent, and Cobiah felt a massive, weighty presence focus on him, something greater than the ship or the captain; something far away, and impossibly strong. “The deserter . . .” Captain Whiting drooled eagerly. “Come to reclaim your commission, Marriner?”

  “Never,” Cobiah said loudly, his answer evoking hisses from the crew.

  Captain Whiting’s eyes fell on him with pleasure. “We’ll see about that,” he snarled. His once-soft face had been eaten through by maggots, and his eyes were empty pits lit by flickering green flames. “Give him what-for, lads, and see if that takes some of the wind out of his sails.”

  The zombies obeyed, leaving their posts at the cannons and masts to attack Cobiah with raucous, mindless glee. Cobiah fought back, punching and kicking with all his strength. His right forearm ached and bled where Vost’s tentacle lashes had injured him, and the wound in his side spilled a trickle of blood. But despite the pain and the fear, Cobiah kept his gaze on the Balthazar’s Trident, ensuring that he kept them busy while the king’s ship—carrying Isaye’s son—sailed toward the slapdash armada of Lion’s Arch. At last, she was out of range of the Indomitable’s cannons. The distraction had worked, and the Balthazar’s Trident was safe.

  A tremor rocked the Indomitable. Her black sails swung limply and then tore free, rippling and whipping into the fierce wind. The bronze figure on the ship’s prow began to glow with a sickly green light, her eyes and fingernails blazing with eager malice. The ship trembled once more, then began to sink. “The ship’s taken too much damage. We must return to Orr.” The captain eyed Cobiah scathingly. “Throw Marriner into the brig. We’ll make sure his punishment lasts a very . . . long . . . time,” the captain commanded. The undead crew was quick to obey, grasping Cobiah’s shoulders and wrists and dragging him bodily forward as seawater began to splash over the sides of the ship. The Indomitable began to move—down, into the waves.

  “Cobiah!” a voice screamed defiantly from the Nomad II. “No! I won’t let them take him!”

  Isaye. He focused his will on the sound. While the Balthazar’s Trident had been in danger, he’d been content to take a beating, possibly even die, so that Isaye’s son would be safe. But now, with the ship out of combat and the Indomitable threatening to submerge, Cobiah’s survival instinct surged to the fore. He had to fight, had to find a way to get free of the ship before it dove beneath the waves and returned to Orr. He had to get back to her. Again, he heard Isaye calling frantically, refusing to give up on him. No matter what had passed between them, Sykox had been right. Cobiah still loved her. He always would.

  The lines that stretched between the Nomad II and her prey, designed to keep the Indomitable from separating, now stretched to their limit. The weight of the Indomitable’s descent pulled at the Nomad II with ponderous strength. The smaller clipper, weighed down by the force of the towering ship of the line, began to lurch dangerously to starboard. Bosun Rahli leapt from the quarterdeck, leaving behind three fallen Orrians. Blade ready in her hand, she hacked at one of the thick hemp ropes. “Captain!” she commanded. “We have to cut the stays! The Dead Ship’s submerging—she’ll drag us to the ocean floor!”

  Isaye pulled her blade from a defeated enemy and turned toward the Indomitable. Her dark, silver-touched hair blew around her face like a thundercloud threaded with lig
htning, and her eyes were filled with fear. “Cobiah!”

  “We have to free the Nomad, or it’ll be the death of us all! Captain!” the bosun screamed. “Your orders?”

  “Cobiah!”

  Cobiah’s blue eyes met Isaye’s hazel ones, with a hundred dead men in between. There was no time for words, nor could she have heard him over the furor and combat between them. Instead, he nodded to her, absolving her of the decision. Tears streaming from her eyes, fists clenching on the ship’s rail, she called to Rahli, “Cut the ropes.”

  “Aye, Captain!” Rahli did not pause even for a second. “Sever the lines! Free the Nomad before we find ourselves in that monster’s gullet!” Sailors rushed to obey her orders, but the press of undead kept them from the heavy ropes. Rahli was attacked by two hideous, scrabbling wights even as her blade sank into the hemp, and she was forced to pull her sword from the task to defend her life instead. Back on the Indomitable, Captain Whiting laughed. The dragon’s will infused the Orrians, coordinating their response—defending the ropes even as the black-hulled galleon pulled them all into the sea. The Nomad II was far too rich a prize to abandon.

  Nearby, the Maw circled the two ships, its huge mouth snapping up anyone who had the misfortune to fall into the waves. The more their valiant ship listed, the more the living had to fight just to stay aboard—and the more easily the undead, whose clawed feet and bone-spur fingertips bit deeply into the wood, could keep them from severing the lines.

  Spying a fallen weapon caught in the Nomad II’s cargo nets, Tenzin yelled down to the deck, “Rahli! Throw me that rifle!” Tossing down the harpoon gun, Tenzin caught the long gun when the bosun hurled it into the air. Balanced lengthwise on a yardarm, he drew steady aim on the ropes, planning to shoot them free.

  Then Chernock struck.

  The wight had been biding her time, moving cautiously among the rigging, all but forgotten in the press of combat. When Tenzin turned his attention to the ropes, she seized her opportunity. Leaping out from behind a spiderweb of ropes and mast, the wight landed on the yardarm, sinking her claws into the Krytan’s back with a vindictive glee, her leathery face stretched into the vile semblance of a smile. Tenzin screamed in agony, rifle firing uselessly as she ripped into his flesh like a cat sharpening her claws. Chernock shrieked her bloody victory to the sky, raising one hand to lop away the Krytan’s head.

  Cobiah saw it all happening from the deck of the Indomitable, where the undead dragged him toward the lower hatches beneath their captain’s approving gaze. Seizing an opportunity, Cobiah tore a pair of pistols from a zombie’s belt, turning them toward the Nomad II. He could have used them to end his life before the ship submerged, or to fire on Captain Whiting—but Cobiah never even thought of himself. Instead, he fired across the gap between the two ships, and the bullets ripped through Chernock’s body. The impact pushed the wight back, inch by inch, with the pounding force of repetition until at last, she collapsed in final death and fell into the sea. “Now, Tenzin!” Cobiah yelled, desperate to see the Nomad II safely away. “Cut the lines!”

  “Aye, Commodore!” Despite the agony of his wounds, the sharpshooter raised his rifle and fired, reloading with incredible speed to fire again and again. With each shot, a hemp line snapped. It took eight shots, emptying Tenzin’s belt pouch of ammunition—but at last, the Nomad II pulled free.

  The clipper rocked to her port with the sudden release of liberation. Water splashed in thick, blood-touched foam around the Indomitable’s gunwale as the sudden sway of the Nomad II’s release hurled the Dead Ship to its starboard. Taken by surprise, the undead were toppled left and right—and Cobiah found himself suddenly free. Leaping up, he thrust an elbow into Tosh’s face, cracking the undead sailor’s jaw and hurling him aside. Cobiah’s foot caught another zombie in the kneecap, and the monster crumpled to the tilting deck, sliding rapidly toward the edge of the ship. With a scream, the sailor tried to grasp the rotten boards, the railing, anything that would keep him from the water, but his clawed hands caught nothing, and he slid into the waiting jaws of the Maw.

  Still holding the pistols, Cobiah clocked one of the undead with the hilt of an empty gun. He laid about with abandon, pounding squishy flesh and raw muscle, breaking bones and shattering barnacles that covered rotting, putrid skin. With rugged determination, he fought his way to the railing of the Indomitable’s deck and stared across the steadily growing chasm between the two ships. The Maw still thrashed about between them, snapping its teeth in the air where tantalizing shadows fell across the sea. One jump, one massive leap, and so long as he didn’t fall, he’d be safe aboard the Nomad II. He saw Isaye rush to the railing on the other side, her hands reaching desperately over the gunwale. “Jump, Cobiah,” she yelled to him.

  Suddenly, pain exploded through Cobiah’s body as a knife dragged its way between his ribs. “Escape? No. You’re a deserter, Marriner.” Captain Whiting twisted the blade savagely before letting go. “And now you will die.”

  Cobiah turned, grasping the hilt of the dagger. Rage overwhelming the pain, Cobiah pulled it out and reversed the blade, raising it to thrust the edge into Whiting’s fleshy throat. The captain’s bone fingers clenched around his wrist as the wight struggled to escape the slowly piercing blade. Cobiah grinned wickedly, forcing the dagger to cut through bone and enchantment as the greenish flame in Captain Whiting’s eyes quavered in sudden fear. “Deserter? No. The word you want, Captain, is ‘mutineer.’ ” With a fierce twist of the dagger’s long blade, Cobiah severed the captain’s spine, cutting the monster’s head from his rotting body.

  As Whiting fell, the Indomitable shuddered to its core, and the brass figurehead on the bow let out a long, keening wail as if it, too, felt the blow of the captain’s death. The Maw surfaced with a roar of its own, and from every Dead Ship left in the Orrian armada, a cry of unified anguish rose from slavering orifice and torn jowl, as if the dragon itself were screaming.

  “Cobiah!” On the Nomad II’s deck, Isaye called to him desperately as the gulf between them grew ever wider. He could see that the clipper was dead in the water, one mast collapsed and the other ravaged by grapeshot. Even though the Nomad II was free of the Indomitable’s pull, Isaye’s ship could not give chase, nor even remain alongside the black vessel. Her sailors rushed about, trying to save the Nomad II from sinking, but that was the most they could do.

  The Indomitable was crumbling around him, her black masts cracking from deck to high tip, keel twisting as though the ship was writhing in agony. Cobiah watched the deck boards collapse, creating gaping holes in the upper deck, yawing open to reveal sickly, mold-covered holds below. The smell that rose from within the ship was noxious, like decayed flesh and rancid blood, threatening to choke Cobiah with every breath.

  Behind him, another voice whispered, “Coby . . . You were right about Orr. It’s so beautiful. The ancient cathedrals, the palace of the gods, the magic . . . Remember how we used to talk about all the riches it contains, all the secrets waiting to be discovered? Come with me, Coby . . . I’ll show it to you . . .” Sethus’s voice was plaintive, and he extended a rotting, pustule-covered hand. The Indomitable was settling into the water, plunging lower with each sweep of the waves. Cobiah remembered the dreams of their youth, the long hours they’d spent talking about just such things. Promising to go there together. “Stay with me . . .”

  “Good-bye, Sethus,” Cobiah choked out, his wounds aching with a cold more biting than the seawater. He dropped the dagger and clutched Biviane’s doll tightly in his one good hand. “Good-bye.”

  His wounds bleeding, his body wracked with pain, Cobiah looked over the twisted deck railing at Isaye, meeting her eyes across the widening gulf of water between them. Never losing sight of her, he put his foot on the Indomitable’s gunwale and leapt into the sea.

  The ocean current spun Cobiah around and around, dragging him after the sinking Indomitable. He fought against it, but his wounds were grave and his body weary. He could barely even kick h
is feet through the water, struggling to stay alive despite all the odds. The Maw’s tail slid past, but the creature was too eager, the sea too full of lashing bodies and sinking wreckage, and it missed Cobiah by several feet. Just as he was beginning to give up, fearing the light above him was no longer the surface of the waves, Cobiah felt something snag on his body, dragging him out of the sea. It was too hard to be an arm: wooden, tipped with metal. A boat hook, then. One of Isaye’s sailors?

  But as he broke the surface of the chopping waves, Cobiah realized the Nomad II was too far away to be his savior.

  “Ready? Heave!” The boat hook dragged Cobiah back against the side of a massive galleon, the wood cracking against his shoulder painfully as he was pulled up her hull toward the topside of the ship. He spat water, kicking off his soaked boots to lighten the load, and clawed his way through the rail onto the deck boards. Once safely there, Cobiah untangled himself from the boat hook and stared up into a white-faced group of Krytan sailors. He was aboard the Balthazar’s Trident.

  “Is he alive?” Prince Edair put his hand on Cobiah’s shoulder. “Commodore—are you injured?”

  “Yes.” Cobiah blinked salt water out of his eyes, shivering from the cold of the sea. “If you’re going to make me a prisoner, I’d rather you just kill me now. I’d rather die on deck than drown in the bilge like some kind of . . . of . . . stowaway skritt.” His stomach churned with sea-water and disappointment.

  Edair’s brown eyes softened. “I’m not sending you to the brig, Commodore, though I do intend to have strong words with the individuals who took it upon themselves to countermand my orders in that regard.” Edair flashed an indignant glance at Livia. “Nevertheless, I watched what you did on that great black galleon—leaping across to face the undead captain one-on-one? I’ve never seen anything like it.” The prince of Kryta grasped Cobiah’s hand and pulled him to his feet, supporting Cobiah with his shoulder when the older man’s knees failed to gain balance right away. “Your actions saved my ship from destruction. I . . . may have misjudged you.”