Guild Wars: Sea of Sorrows (52 page)

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 eyes 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 . . .

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.