Guild Wars: Sea of Sorrows (42 page)

But the hammer never landed.

Behind the brigand, Gamina’s blades flashed like lightning strikes. First one and then the other plunged deep into the thug’s back. The bandit warrior staggered, hammer tilting forward and falling out of his hands as he collapsed to his knees. Gamina twisted her blades and jerked them out with a disdainful snarl. He fell lifeless to the ground.

“Sorry I’m late.” Gamina smiled into Cobiah’s slack-jawed stare. “There were two more up on the dock, and they slowed me down.”

“No problem. Looks like . . . you were . . . just in time,” Cobiah managed to say. Waves rolled up around his boots, splashing gently against the silver buckles and dark soles. Something struck him, some memory he couldn’t quite place. Cobiah’s knees gave out, and he fell, sitting in the tide. He felt Benedict’s hand on his shoulder, saw the worried look on Gamina’s features, but before Cobiah could ask what troubled them, everything went dark.

“Y
ou’ve got to stop acting like this, Cobiah. Gallivanting about after saboteurs half your age, risking your life in scraps with bandits out at the dock. You’re not as young as you used to be.”

Cobiah grimaced. “A charr’s scolding me about being too eager to rush into combat. What’s the world coming to? Look, it’s been three weeks since that fight. I’m fine.”

Sykox grumped, folding his arms over the lighthouse rail and enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun. “You know I appreciate a good fight as much as anyone, but you’ve always been the one who leapt before you looked. In the Iron Legion, we don’t leap until we’ve built three sets of siege engines and a tank to go in ahead of us. If Isaye were here, you know she’d say—”

“Yeah, well, Isaye’s not here.” Cobiah shot him a dirty look. “So can we stop bringing her up already?” Below them, the streets of the city were splayed out like a thick rug, with citizens traveling here and there, huddled in their cloaks as though afraid that simply being in the open would put them in danger. Although Edair’s ships were still far from the city docks, the Krytan prince’s bullying presence could be felt throughout Lion’s Arch.

Sykox sighed. “A pity, that. She’s the only one who can
talk sense into you when you get like this.” Understandingly, the charr changed the subject. “So, what’s Edair up to now?”

The old friends stood on the balcony of the tall lighthouse at Lion’s Gate, looking out over the bay and into the Sea of Sorrows. From here, they could see the Krytan fleet surrounding the mouth of the harbor, gold-and-green flags waving atop both high-masted ships of the line and swift scout vessels. All of the ships bristled with armaments. Cannons glistened on the decks and through portholes in rows of ten, twenty, and even thirty, metal gleaming amid the oak hulls of massive ships.

Cobiah raised his sextant again, peering through the scope toward Prince Edair’s massive armada. “Not much. They ran off two trade vessels early this morning that were trying to sneak through the barricade. Since then, it’s been quiet.” Two ships in particular drew Cobiah’s eye. One was the sleek
Nomad II
. The other, sailing beside her, was the burliest galleon in the group—probably the largest ship in the world and easily the fattest and slowest glutton of a boat Cobiah’d ever seen. He could read her name in gold letters on the ship’s stern:
Balthazar’s Trident.
From the crown that ornamented her prow and the long pennants of green silk flowing from all three of her masts, Cobiah guessed the chubby warthog bore a member of the royal family of Kryta.

Edair.

“The ships won’t take action until he’s ready. Edair’s not the kind to let someone else claim his glory.” Cobiah snapped the sextant back into his hand, closing the delicate instrument before pushing it into his pocket. The activity stretched the skin across his ribs, and he flinched instinctively. The wound on his side had been slow to heal, leaving a long mark across his ribs where the
brigand’s knife had sliced him open. He still bandaged the area, applying a healer’s salve to numb the ongoing pain. Sykox was right: when he’d been a young man, such things barely slowed Cobiah down. Lately, things were different. It felt like everything in the world had sped up—while he was standing still.

The blockade had been in place nearly a month, and the city was suffering. Krytan Seraph gathered on the roads to the north, threatening land routes; though they’d been unable to fully block the roads as yet, incoming trade had stagnated. Warehouses along the docks tightened their guard in fear of rioting over food supplies. The Lionguard were working long shifts, going house to house where necessary to keep the peace. The fire had destroyed more than 80 percent of the ships at harbor that night, along with all of their wares and stores.

The fire had also cut off the city’s hope for a rebuttal against the blockade. The ships that survived were a motley assortment of frigates and carracks—none outfitted for war. If the Krytans hadn’t torched the docks, Lion’s Arch might have been able to punch through the blockade. Now there was little hope of defeating the Krytan armada, and the citizens of Lion’s Arch were rapidly losing morale.

With little choice and plenty of reason to fear, every wagon and cart in the city had been commandeered. They’d loaded each wagon with women and children, and then, under a flag of truce, the caravan was sent along the northern road toward the Shiverpeaks. With luck, they’d reach the mountain passes before the first icy rains of the season made the road too treacherous to travel. The Seraph agreed to give them an escort. If they made it that far, the caravan could reach the norn waycamp known as Hoelbrak before winter. From there, the refugees could
travel via active asura gate to Divinity’s Reach, the Black Citadel, or Rata Sum—anywhere safer than here.

Cobiah looked out at the sea again, the bright light of the setting sun glinting like a river of silver. Without the sextant’s clear view, the armada gathered on the horizon looked like ravens clustered on a tree branch, waiting for the city to die so they could pick its bones clean.

“C’mon, Sykox. Let’s take the lay of the land.” The old charr nodded, matching his stiff, slightly limping stride to the commodore’s. Down below the lighthouse, they entered the city streets. While the city had yet to be physically harmed by the Krytan blockade—other than the docks at the landing, of course—it had clearly wounded its spirit. Desperation hung like a gray shroud over Lion’s Arch.

Forsaking his typical cheery greetings, Cobiah nodded briefly to those he passed as his mind spun through every possibility. Could they bribe the Krytan captains? Pay Prince Edair a high price to keep the land? Would he even consider ransoming Lion’s Arch’s freedom like that, or was he dedicated to the idea of ruling the city? Nodobe had already given good reason not to request the intervention of one of the charr legions, but what about the norn? Were there enough mercenaries in Hoelbrak to take on the Seraph?

Every option seemed worse than the last.

“A word, Commodore.” Sidubo Nodobe’s smooth voice was impossible to mistake.

Sighing, Cobiah slowed his pace. He muttered an old saying: “Think too hard on Grenth, and he’ll come riding on your coattails.”

“What’s that?” The Elonian fell into step with them, his forehead creasing with confusion. Cobiah waved the comment away, and Nodobe went on. “I hate to interrupt your concentration, but I have bad news.”

“Worse than the harbor fire?”

Nodobe paused to consider, and Cobiah immediately regretted the question. “Perhaps not that bad,” Nodobe said at last. “But not particularly auspicious.”

Cobiah pinched the bridge of his nose. “What is it?”

“Yomm’s missing.”

“Missing?” Sykox tilted his head and snorted disdainfully. “Hiding, more likely.”

“Possible, but I don’t think so. One of the merchants in the plaza saw light on the asura gate platform, just before dawn. It was active this morning.” Nodobe lifted his hands in an elegant gesture. “We’ve checked. It’s not working now. Whatever—or whoever—turned it on managed to turn it off again before the Lionguard reached the platform.”

Cobiah blew out a long breath of air. “That weaselly little traitor. I guess he did find a way to resurrect the . . . discombobulated . . . fidgit-casters. Or whatever the hell was keeping those things closed.” Shaking his head, Cobiah met Nodobe’s eyes grimly. “Check his shop. There’s a chance he’s hiding under his desk, but it’s likely we won’t see him again unless the city’s recovered. At the least, you can take a tally of whatever stores he’s got left at the mercantile.”

“Aye, aye, Commodore.” Nodobe gave him a dignified bow and strode off toward the plaza.

Sykox grumbled, “This just keeps getting worse. If we don’t catch a break soon, we’re sunk.” Cobiah didn’t respond. There was no need to restate the obvious, and the charr’s tail was already thrashing like an angry serpent.

The two continued their trek through the city, from the empty shopping areas, past the blackened dock, toward the fort on the far side of the gangplank. There,
several young men and women of the city were training ferociously with weapons. Although they’d likely be little match for the Seraph (if it came to that), it gave them something constructive to do, and Cobiah approved of their initiative. He could make out Captain Hedda and her husband, Bronn, in the middle of the pack, schooling four eager young sailors with training swords.

Too young, he thought as he watched them, far too young to be at war. Although he’d been the same age when he boarded the
Indomitable,
surely he’d never been so fresh-faced and naïve. “Commodore!” One of the boys waved toward him. Long brown hair, an eager smile, and loping, slightly bowed legs. Cobiah couldn’t make him out. Surely it wasn’t . . .

“Sethus?”

“Who, sir?” the young man asked cheerily as he trotted out of the glare. “It’s me, sir. Benedict. Remember?” The young man smiled and reached to shake his hand.

“Benedict.” Relief washed over Cobiah. Sethus had died more than thirty years ago. How could he have made such a ridiculous mistake? “What are you doing out here?” he asked.

“After our little adventure, sir, I figured it was time for me to learn how to use a sword.” Benedict reddened, rubbing his forehead with a nervous hand. “If I’d been trained—if I’d known how to fight, sir, that fight might have gone better. I could have protected you.”

Benedict? Protected him? Cobiah chuckled and patted the youth on his shoulder. “You did fine, young man.” Still, although the words hadn’t been meant badly, they stung a bit: another reminder of Cobiah’s age. “Are you healing up all right?”

“Completely, sir. Just a few scars to help me remember
the tale.” Benedict showed Cobiah his upper biceps, where a few thin white trails marked the otherwise tan and muscular arms. He’d healed rapidly, another perk of being young. That was a blessing, Cobiah thought, considering that the outcome of their fight against the saboteurs could have been far worse.

“He’s doing very well.” Bronn followed the youth, carrying his massive greatsword in one hand. The norn didn’t appear to have aged a day since Cobiah had first met him aboard the
Salma’s Grace
, though now he and Hedda had children of their own. Three sons: Geir, Tryggvi, and Kaive, all of whom were among the pack of young people learning weapons on the field—but who clearly had the advantage, even against charr and humans their own age. Bronn saw Cobiah’s gaze and said proudly, “Warbands fight as a team, so charr learn group tactics from a young age. Humans prefer to negotiate, so they instinctively concentrate on defense. Norn are taught from birth to be heroes.” Bronn smiled through his lush beard. “So we fight as heroes!” He laughed with good-natured pride, rich and hearty. It had been a while since Cobiah had heard the sound, and he smiled in gratitude.

Cobiah tousled Benedict’s hair. “You’re a brave lad. Get back to your training. Apparently, you’re representing our entire race out there.” He winked at Bronn. “Pay attention to Hedda’s lessons. She’s a hell of a fighter, and you’d do well to remember what she teaches you.”

“Yes, Commodore. I will.” Grinning, Benedict hurried back into formation, practicing his slashes and thrusts as Hedda called out each move.

“He’s none the worse for wear.” Bronn chuckled, shoving Cobiah with his shoulder. The norn’s blue eyes lost their twinkle as he asked more quietly, “Can you say the same, old friend?”

Before Cobiah could answer the question, he noticed two burly charr marching across the Gangplank Bridge toward the training plaza. Sykox, whose eyes were keener, recognized them first, and all four ears pricked forward in glee. “Fassur! Aysom!” With a wave, the engineer bounded forward to clasp their wrists in greeting. “You old blackguards. How did you get here? The
Pride
was at sea!”

Bronn greeted his old companions with a bellow of goodwill, thumping their backs even as Cobiah gave them a somewhat more restrained greeting. Though the cunning old charr’s fur had gone from black to darkly tarnished silver with age, Captain Fassur’s grin was just as sharp as ever. Sykox and Aysom burst into challenging, friendly roars, each determined to outdo the other in the ferocity of his greeting. At last, Fassur raised a hand to ask his friends for silence. “I bet you’re wondering how we managed to sneak the
Pride
through the blockade.” Fassur snickered and brushed his claws through the fur on one arm, so pleased with himself that he might as well have been about to spit up a canary.