Guild Wars: Sea of Sorrows (20 page)

“T
he dock’s disintegrating! If we don’t stay together, the zombies will tear us into chum!” Isaye yelled to the gathered sailors, trying to herd them into a smaller group at the end of the dock.

Hideous wights scrabbled across the undersides of the boards. They crawled through broken planking to swing at them with vicious, eager swipes. Cobiah blocked with the broken haft of the spear, kicking one undead creature in the belly hard enough to send it tumbling back into the sea. Already, the way back to the shore was blocked by zombies. There was nowhere else to go. “Follow Isaye!” he called to the others. “Gather at the end of the dock!”

Isaye began their retreat, hacking at withered arms reaching up through the boards to foul their feet. Two of the guards who had been cut down at the shore end of the dock shuffled and rose, given hideous unlife by the power of Orr. As Cobiah watched in horror, they turned upon the still-living soldiers in their group—men and women who had been friends and shield mates only a moment before—and tore out their throats. They, too, were limp for only a few minutes before rising to shamble hungrily with the others. Every person killed by the
Dead Ships or their minions became another soldier for their cause. There was no winning this battle. As the number of living grew smaller, the undead force grew larger and larger still.

Cobiah saw townsfolk fighting on the sand, screaming in terror as the undead slouched out of the sea in seemingly never-ending numbers. The survivors rallied, only to be devastated by a fresh volley of cannon fire. As the undead climbed up the sides of the moored ships or lumbered onto the white-sand beach, the rotting ships fired round after round of detonations. The harbor’s mist had been replaced by the acrid smoke of black powder, and the waves were covered with sludge, tar, and wooden shrapnel from sinking ships. Villagers ran through the streets of Port Stalwart, some fighting, others grabbing what they could and fleeing for their lives into the Krytan hills.

Cobiah, Isaye, and her sailors stood in a cluster on the docks. Isaye still carried the sword she’d used to cut them free; Cobiah held the broken-hafted spear. Verahd had torn off a narrow length of wood from one of the gallows to use as a makeshift staff. Macha had a pistol, and a few of the others gripped broken bottles or other scavenged weapons. It wasn’t much of a defense.

The cannon barrage had destroyed the harbor end of the dock, knocking out pylons and dragging the remnants of the planks into the shallow water. Newly animated creatures shuffled over the damaged dock between them and the shore. There was no way they could swim to safety—not with the dead crawling through the water. Nor could they remain on the crumbling fragments of the wharf. With each pounding wave, the dock wobbled and rotated on its shattered foundations, threatening to collapse.

A few of the scabrous dead pulled themselves from the water onto the timbers and scuttled toward them with greedy, grasping hands. The stench was palpable, a cross between rotted flesh and waterlogged, moldering plant life. Some were dressed in modern clothing. Others wore little more than rags. But a few—notably those debarking from a ship called the
Harbinger
, a strange-looking pilot clipper with wide, triangular scarlet sails—wore armor made of articulated metal that reminded Cobiah of ornately worked and fitted lobster carapaces. It was damascene, but streaked with red, as if blood itself was worked into the steel. He’d never seen anything like it in all his days traveling the sea.

“We can’t fight them!” one of the sailors screamed. “They’re already dead; they can’t be destroyed! We have to make the hillside—run for your lives!” The guards stumbled back, many of them dropping their weapons as they raced toward the shore, hoping to find a way through the undead gathered there. Cobiah didn’t blame them. If you cut off a zombie’s head, it still fought. If you chopped away its limbs, it barely slowed them. No one had ever defeated a Dead Ship before, nor done anything but flee from their undead crewmen. The only saving grace had been that the Dead Ships stayed in Orrian waters, far out at sea . . . but that, it seemed, was no longer true. He watched those who ran, but they didn’t make it very far.

“Cobiah!” Sykox pointed out into the harbor. “Look!” Out in the fetid water, a living ship darted through the bitter fog of gunfire. Her hull was patched and weathered, but the bow was pristine; her sailors leapt with the fire of life, and her cross-rigged sails were whole and as white as a gull’s wings. More important, a low, rhythmic sound resonated from the ship, pulsing beneath the
cannon fire like a bravely beating heart. It was the deep-throated pulse of an engine.

“The
Pride
!” Cobiah cheered, relief washing over him. “She’s still whole!”

“Don’t get too excited,” Macha grumped. “The ship’s out there. We’re stuck here.”

“It’s a chance, Macha. If we can get to the ship, we can sail out of here before the Dead Ships block the harbor. They’ve cut down the ships at dock, but the
Pride
’s already mobile. Once we’re away, they’ll never catch us.”

“My poor little pinnace,” Sykox moaned as he gauged the waves. “She can’t reach the dock without slowing down, and if she slows, their cannons will chew her to pieces. It’s too shallow for maneuvers here. She’d be sluggish, unable to tack quickly to avoid their fire, and it’d take time to gather speed again. But she’s still a sight to see.” Sykox waved toward the ship, and on board, dark-furred Fassur lifted a cutlass in the air. “At least they’ve seen us.”

“She’s close enough.” Cobiah turned and grabbed Sykox’s arm. “How far can you jump, Sykox?”

“Farther than you, mouse,” Sykox blustered. Sobering, he followed up with, “Oh, no. I see where you’re going with this.” Eyeing the distance to the
Pride
, Sykox shook his head. “I could get close. Swim the rest of the way, maybe, before they got ahold of me. But there’s no way you’d get anywhere near the ship before the ones in the water ate you alive. Your legs are too short.”

“Then you’ll have to go alone.” Firmly, Cobiah pushed the big charr toward the edge of the crumbling dock. “Get aboard and keep those engines running. We’ll need them full speed to get away.” Before the charr could argue, Cobiah said, “You weigh three times as much as any of us. The dock’ll hold longer if it’s not bearing your weight.”

The dark leopard spots on Sykox’s tawny shoulders rippled as he shrugged in resignation. “Fine. But I’m not going alone. A little extra weight won’t hurt me.” With a smooth motion, Sykox grabbed Macha by the back of her neck, the way a cat would carry a kitten. He lifted the shocked asura and set her on his shoulders, grabbing her legs tight to his chest. Nodding to Cobiah, the charr crouched, lunged forward—and leapt with all his strength. Sykox soared heavily through the air—three times as far as any human could have jumped.

“There’s no way I’m doing that,” Isaye breathed.

“You’re telling me.” Cobiah grinned, feeling the faint lift of hope within his chest.

The engineer landed just short of the
Pride
, crashing into the waves with a mighty splash. Within moments, pikes and boards pushed out from the ship’s deck, offering Sykox something to grab on to. Eager to get out of the sea before the undead swarmed him, the charr sank his claws into the offered leverage and climbed on board. Even from the dock, Cobiah could hear Macha complaining, a sound somewhere between glee and terror, as she pointed back at the dock and took Sykox to task. Cobiah smiled despite the tenseness of his own situation.

“I’ve got an idea.” Turning to her men, Isaye yelled, “We have to chop out the pylons. Use your weapons, cut the stays, and chop through what’s left of the main planking. Keep this area of the dock together as long as you can, but cut it free of the foundation.”

“What? That’ll sink us!” Cobiah grabbed her arm.

“C’mon, you’re the brash one. I’d thought you’d love this plan.” Isaye winked. “We won’t sink right away.”

“And in the meantime?”

“The meantime is all we’ll need. Trust me, Cobiah!”

Despite himself, he did. The sailors around the dock
used their makeshift weapons and knives to cut into the ropes that held the planking to the main dock. They stabbed at grasping hands below, fighting to obey their captain’s orders.

Suddenly, Cobiah understood. “Verahd, tell me you can cast a wind spell.”

With a wicked little smile, Verahd murmured, “So long as I have a staff, Cobiah, I can do anything.” He tamped the length of wood in his hand onto the dock boards and shook thin lengths of reddish hair out of his eyes. “It may take a moment, though. This weapon isn’t exactly what one would call outstanding for the task.”

The boards suddenly shifted and began to float away from the closest foundational pylons. Cobiah reached out to steady Isaye. She leaned against him, and he kept his hand on her arm as the elementalist stepped into the center of the group. Black strips dangling from his arms and legs, the madman stretched out his arms and began to chant. Verahd bent forward like a marionette on loose strings, leaning lightly on the thin rail of wood between his hands. He began to whisper, calling forth the magic of air, channeling the elements through his staff and through his spirit. As Verahd chanted, two of the deck boards beneath their feet collapsed, and one of the sailors was grasped by the undead, dragged down screaming into the sea.

“Hurry!” Cobiah urged.

“He can’t hurry.” Isaye balanced on the edge of the planking. “If the spell misfires, it could kill us.” She chopped at a rotting sailor trying to claw their ankles through the floating boards. Cobiah drove the butt of the spear against it, trying to shove it away from the plank, hoping to salvage some time. There was a tremendous creak as part of the raft broke away beneath the wight’s
hand, disintegrating under their feet. Sheepishly, Isaye said, “You heard him, Verahd! Hurry up!”

Verahd’s words resonated with power, shuddering through the broken boards and rippling the waves. His long, thin fingers stretched out in strange patterns, moved by the flow of power. He lifted the staff. Black straps fluttered, shining with eerie green sigils as the wind rose in a whirlwind of force and movement around their shattering raft. The energy stiffened Verahd’s body, puppeting his arms up, up, above his shoulders, over his head, lifting him in the wind. Caught in the ecstasy of his spell, the elementalist’s voice grew stronger and surer until it resonated with the ring of absolute command.

An uncanny wind swept against the remains of the dock, swirling around them with such force that Cobiah felt himself falling forward into the thrust of it. Like a leaf swirling in the eddies of a fast-moving stream, the raft skittered across the water, pushed by Verahd’s magical wind. The small crew grasped the boards, clinging to their tattered island of wood with desperate fingers. Only Verahd, his eyes glowing the same sickly green as the mystic sigils, seemed calm. His thin reddish hair swaying back and forth over his shoulders, he chanted, hovering over the center of the floating boards.

“Wait! Wait for me!” Watch Commander Pierandra raced up the last of the dock, trying to catch the raft before the wind swept it out of reach. She and three of her guards gathered at the edge of the crumpling dock pylons, weapons still clutched in their hands. “You can’t leave us to die!” But there was no helping them; the raft was already far beyond their grasp, and there was no way to return to the dock before the boards fell apart completely.

From his place in the center of the floating debris, Verahd fixed the watch commander with a crooked,
marionette smile. “All you have to do is jump, Commander,” he crooned softly. “Maybe you can swim away.”

Unable to aid the soldiers on the dock but unwilling to watch them die, Cobiah turned his face away. He could hear the planks collapsing, exploding under the concussion of another cannon volley from the Dead Ships. Pierandra’s scream of terror reverberated across the waves along with the din of shattering lumber. Better that, Cobiah thought, than the sound of zombies rending her flesh from her bones. He struggled not to think about the watch commander’s fate as the wind brought them ever closer to the
Pride
.

Without warning, the wind spell ended. The flurry and giddy whirl of air around Cobiah’s body slowed and ended, and water began to splash coldly against his ankles. Something slammed into his shoulder. They’d struck the hull of the
Pride.

“Get aboard!” Cobiah knitted his hands and offered them to Isaye. She stepped into his palm and he lifted her up to the ship’s rail. Hands reached out from above, grasping the survivors and drawing them aboard even as the little raft gave way for good. The undead beneath the waves closed in upon the debris, ripping it apart in violent frenzy, seeking flesh amid the boards.

“Officer on deck!” the call went out. Cobiah pulled himself over the railing, feeling hands thump his back and shoulders in welcome relief. The sailors parted, and Fassur stepped forward. “I stand relieved.” A knife-edged grin slid across the first mate’s muzzle. “Welcome aboard, sir. Care to call all hands to inspection, maybe tour the decks, or are you of a mind to get the hell out of here?”

Laughing, Cobiah reached out and grasped Fassur’s arm like a brother. “As you were, Mister Fassur,” he declared. “Full speed ahead.”

“Aye, Cap’n.” Straightening, Fassur bellowed to the assembled sailors of the
Pride,
“You heard ’im, boys! Set the rudder and make for the open sea. Don’t worry about those Dead Ships killing you”—the massive charr presented his claws, squaring his shoulders with a roar—“because if they catch us, I’ll bloody well kill you first!

“
Move!”

The sailors rushed to fulfill their orders, scrambling up the rigging and unfurling every square inch of sail. Cobiah looked at Isaye with a wide smile. “We made it.”

“We’re not out of the roughs yet, Cobiah.” Isaye pulled out the strap of leather holding her ponytail, running her hands through the mane of dark hair. Her voice was low and quiet, meant just for him. “I told you. I know the tide . . . and by this time of morning, the current’s turned. Whoever’s in command of those Dead Ships had a plan. They attacked during the outgoing tide and held the harbor locked down while it changed. Now the tide’s drawing in to the shore; ships can’t leave.