Guild Wars: Sea of Sorrows (10 page)

“Eat you?” The charr snorted, shaking his four ears disdainfully. “Arrogant mouse! I saved your
life
!”

Suspicious, Cobiah pressed him. “You’re a charr. I’m a human. You had to have a reason.”

The big leopard-spotted charr threw up his clawed hands in frustration. “Pish. The wave’s tossed more fish to the surface than I’ve ever seen before. What do you think that is in front of you? We’ve got plenty of food. We need workers to keep this tub floating long enough to get us safely to shore.”

“So it’s slavery, then,” Cobiah said grimly.

“Consider it indentured service. Once the ship finds landfall, we’ll go our way, and you can go yours. We’re not a slave ship. When that wave hit us, we lost half our crew—and we were running shorthanded as it was. Now we barely have enough sailors on board to trim the sails and heft the rudder.

“More, the ship’s damaged. She’ll never make a southern port, so we’ll have to find a closer one and hope for the best. Which is going to be hard, considering how far that wave tossed us off course. To be honest, I don’t think the centurion has any idea where we are.” The charr’s words were gruff but not unkind. “Your fate’s tied with ours,
human. The sooner you get used to that fact, the sooner we all get out of this mess.” The charr gave Cobiah a long look, his catlike eyes unreadable. With a raspy cough, the creature changed the subject. He flexed his fist, and the claws disappeared under the fur. “My name’s Sykox. Sykox Steamshroud.” The charr held out one paw in an unexpected gesture of camaraderie.

Cobiah stared at the extended paw, noting the sharpness of the claws, the thick fur that covered fingers and wrist. Then, with a sigh, he took the proffered paw and shook it, stumbling over the creature’s strange name. “Sick ox?”

“Close enough, close enough. Sykox. I’m the engineer on this brig.”

“I’m Cobiah Marriner, lately of the crew of the
Indomitable.
Friends call me Coby . . . or they used to.” The words hung heavily in the air. Sethus. Vost. Even bullying Tosh and pompous, self-important Captain Whiting . . . dead. It was hard to believe that he was the only one who had survived.

“Titan’s blood, human, you’re white with hunger. If you don’t eat that soup right now, one of your flower-headed gods is going to show up and take you home, and put all my effort to waste.” The charr’s tail twitched higher, though whether out of amusement or annoyance, Cobiah couldn’t tell. “Eat. I’ll talk.”

Against his better judgment, Cobiah reached out and grabbed the soup bowl, scooting away from the charr to sit on the berth across from him. The soup was thin, but the fish was fresh, and it tasted of strange spices that burned against his tongue.

“Our ship is the
Havoc
, an Iron Legion tub sailing out of the coastal fort south of the Shiverpeaks. My warband, the Steam warband, is one of two assigned to sail her.
We used to be a crew of seventeen,” Sykox said. “But now we’re a crew of seven.” He sighed and lashed his tail. “The Iron Legion’s original goal was to create a naval unit that could challenge Kryta for control of the Sea of Sorrows. Maybe make an assault on Lion’s Arch.” As Cobiah began to bristle, Sykox chuckled ruefully. “What do you expect? We’re at war, human! Oh, c’mon, it’s no use getting your dander up. I bet the whole damn fort’s gone now, town and all, wiped clean by the wave. We’ve been pushed so far north by that wave there’s nowhere else to dock. We’re limping for the shallows around Lion’s Arch and just hoping we can make it that far.”

“Lion’s Arch? Are you mad? That’s the capital of Kryta! If a charr ship shows up there, the crew’ll be hung on the gallows before you can drop anchor.”

Sykox shrugged. “Maybe so, but we’ve no choice. The only other dock that might have survived is Port Stalwart, and that harbor’s too shallow for our ship. What else can we do? Our hull’s damaged, and the mast steps are cracked. Our sails are torn, the engine’s laboring, and we can’t trust the keel to hold if this ol’ brig finds another storm.”

Confused, Cobiah spluttered into the dwindling remains of his soup. “Engine?”

“Yes, boss.” Sykox crossed his furry arms over his massive chest. “That’s my design. The imperator of the Iron Legion wanted us to push the boundaries, so I did. Took one of the experimental engines we’ve been working on and built her into the brig. Coal-foddered pistons propel a turbine beneath her stern, pushing us forward. With that, plus the wind in her jibs, she’ll go half again as fast as one of your human galleons. We can turn ninety degrees and not lose speed. Doesn’t matter what direction the wind’s coming from—we can strike out with it or
against it and still make ground.” The big charr’s smile faded. “Unfortunately, the
Havoc
’s the only one of her kind. We were out of harbor on a test run for the engine when the wave hit; that’s the only reason we survived at all.”

“What made it?” asked Cobiah. “The wave, I mean.”

The big charr shook his furry head. “Nobody knows. One minute the ocean was quiet, and the next, we were sweeping before a sheet of water higher than the Great Northern Wall!”

Taking a long breath, Cobiah ran one hand through his hair and tried to remember. “We’d just passed Malchor’s Fingers, headed toward Orr. Our ship was in combat with some sort of creature. It wasn’t going well. I was in the rigging, trying to free the broken mast, and I got tangled. When the ship went down—” He halted, wiping his sweating face with a torn sleeve. “I saw beyond the wave as it caught us. I thought . . . I thought I saw land.”

“Land? Out there? There’re no islands that deep in the Sea of Sorrows.” Sykox furrowed his brow. “You didn’t imagine it? A fever dream, maybe, while you were shipwrecked?”

“It wasn’t a dream,” Cobiah said firmly. “I saw mountains. A black plain and high peaks beyond. Ruins and . . .” He paused. “People. Things that looked like people, at least.”

“Now I know it was a fever dream.” The charr shook his head. “Hurry up and finish your soup, mouse. I’m ordered to bring you on deck to meet Centurion Harrow, and that’s the last thing you want to do on an empty stomach.”

After the soup was gone, Cobiah followed Sykox out of the berth. It was clear from the moment he set foot on deck that the
Havoc
wasn’t like any other galleon Cobiah’d
seen. To start with, it was smaller from stem to stern than human galleons, but wider through the middeck and the rear. Two masts stood side by side on the ship’s open deck rather than stretching stem to stern. Their sails were triangular and oddly rigged, ropes running to the fore rather than square-blocked to the mast. A strange musky odor hung in the air—not that of wild animals or feral cats, as he would have guessed, but rather a thick sulfurous smoke. None of the furred sailors seemed distressed at the smell, and he assumed they knew their ship better than he did, so Cobiah tried to put it out of his mind. It must have been the scent of the
Havoc
’s engine.

The ship’s main deck was crewed by seven sailors—a pitifully small number, even with Sykox’s brag that they needed fewer to run the ship. There was a high forecastle and a rear quarterdeck, but no captain’s quarters and no decorative brass. It seemed the centurion—whoever he was—slept with the men, somewhere in the main berth. Above the rear of the ship rose two short cylindrical chimneys of iron that chuffed out streams of grayish smoke. A thumping, uneven rhythm emanated from the area below the quarterdeck, matching the ship’s strangely jolting movement forward against the sea.

Worse, it was filled with charr. White-furred ones, as well as brown, black, and tawny, many marked with stripes or spots amid their tufted fur. They moved about the deck with ease, claws sinking into the wooden floor to hold them steady in a swell, and clawed, pawlike hands working rigging as deftly as any human sailor. Just like Sykox, they all had horns, four ears, and long waving tails, but each was nevertheless distinctive. Some were brawny, some slender; one had shaved most of his mane away, leaving only a stiff crest, while another had waxed braids woven through his, giving the charr a fierce, bristling
appearance. A slender charr, one that Cobiah guessed might be a female, sat on her haunches near the ship’s bow, playing a low, mournful rhythm on a drum. Others repaired injury done to the hull by the mighty wave. Even though few of the beasts turned to look at Cobiah, he could feel their attention riveted on him, the way he’d seen stalking felines in Lion’s Arch pretending not to notice an injured bird before they pounced. Cobiah took a deep breath to settle his nerves, then immediately regretted it. The whole ship smelled like wet cat.

Sykox took Cobiah to the forecastle, ignoring their pointed gazes and low snarls. Cobiah felt his hackles rise at their stares and thought immediately of Tosh. If he picked a fight with these bullies, it wouldn’t matter if Cobiah got in a few good hits. He’d be dead. The thought chilled Cobiah’s usual daredevil nature, and he stayed close to Sykox. They passed a black-furred beast with narrow yellow eyes sharpening a long, wicked-looking knife against a leather strap, the
swish-swish
echoing in time with Cobiah’s steps. Another, his fur streaked with gray and his body slightly bowed from age, lowered his head and growled a warning as the human walked past.

“Hail, Centurion Harrow!” Sykox’s bellow almost made Cobiah leap out of his skin. An even larger charr at the bow of the ship turned his head to regard them thoughtfully. His title might have been centurion, but Cobiah recognized the stern aura of a captain without any need for explanation. This soldier was in charge.

This was the pale-furred beast who had threatened him when he’d first come aboard. Harrow was shorter than Sykox but even more muscular, with white fur marked by gray and a sharp, fierce cast to his muzzle. He had many scars lacing his fur and face, and his left leg below the knee had been replaced by a thick peg of iron.
He wore clothes like a human, but far less than most sailors Cobiah’d known: leather straps to hold his weapon to his side, and a simple pair of breeches; no hat, no shirt, and no shoes.

Cobiah’s knees shook, but he locked them together, conscious of his pounding heart and the expectant silence that fell over the rest of the animals. As he struggled to show no fear, Cobiah found himself wondering if the charr’s leg was strapped on or if some awful surgeon had fused the metal directly to the stump of the centurion’s bone. However it was on there, the leader of the charr clearly considered it a wound worthy of pride, for as he came closer, he made no effort to hide his sullen limp. Suddenly, Cobiah was glad he hadn’t worn the single boot.

The centurion tapped the fingers of one clawed hand against a piece of parchment tucked into his belt. He waved away the other charr clustered about, and they obediently backed off a few steps so that the centurion could take a good look at Cobiah.

“The human’s awake, sir.” Sykox spoke altogether too cheerfully for Cobiah’s comfort.

“So I see,” growled the centurion, unamused.

Another charr, this one a thick-limbed, tawny beast, gave an indignant snarl. “What is this foolishness, sir? We’re not a menagerie! I told you, the human’s useless . . . unless we’re planning to toss him over the side as bait to catch our dinner.” A soft rumble of eager laughter coursed through the other sailors on the deck. Cobiah gulped nervously, acutely aware that he was the only one without claws. One of the centurion’s paws shot up, fist clenched in an unspoken command, and the crew fell into instant, obedient silence. Lowering his hand, the leader gestured to Cobiah’s escort.

“Cobiah Marriner, this is Centurion Harrow Shroud-weather,
leader of the Shroud warband and captain of the
Havoc.
” Sykox stiffened into a salute. “Sir, this is the human who washed up on our hull. He tried to attack me with a pillow, but he settled in well enough once I told him what’s what.”

Unflattering,
Cobiah thought with a wince,
but true
.

Centurion Harrow rocked back and forth on his peg leg. Rather than being offended by Cobiah’s apparent show of defiance, the captain looked vaguely pleased. “Going to take on an entire charr crew with a pillow, were you, mouse?” A titter went through the troops, and Harrow silenced them with a glare.

“Yes, sir.” Cobiah lifted his chin and met the centurion’s tawny eyes. “I recommend you all surrender now. You have no idea the things I can do with a handful of chicken feathers.”

A loud burst of laughter erupted from the gathered charr. Surprised, Centurion Harrow’s eyebrows shot up into his mane, and he snapped his teeth together with amusement. “You’re a bold one, you are!” He chuckled, the sound rumbling through the centurion’s broad chest. His lips curled back from his sharp white canines, and Cobiah realized that Harrow was smiling. “Good. I like a little spirit.

“Sykox argues that my ship’s better off with you on it, and alive.
You’re
certainly a sight better off in that case, so it’s to your advantage that you prove your worth. Understood?” The last words were barked with a curt, military precision.

Cobiah jumped. He stood at attention and stammered, “Y-yes, sir.”

“Good.” The centurion raised an eyebrow. His lips curled into a faint, wicked smile. “While you are here, you are a soldier on this ship, a gladium, with no warband
at your side and the lowest rank aboard. You have two duties on this ship, Gladium Cobiah. The first is to do any job you’re told, and the second is to obey any order you’re given. We’re shorthanded, by the claw, and you’ll pull your weight or you’ll be ballast!”

“Y-yes, sir,” Cobiah managed to say. He had no idea what a “gladium” was, but he wasn’t going to ask questions. Not when all the charr around him were staring like hungry cats over a roasted haunch of dolyak.

“And here I was hoping he’d make a mess of things.” Grist Fellsteam, the oldest of the charr, chuckled, wheezing slightly. “Ah, well. He’s skinny. Probably wouldn’t make a meal anyway.”

“So we might as well work ’im hard, eh, Grist?” The charr leader nodded his head in agreement, ears flicking back and forth beneath his coiled horns. Turning back to Cobiah, Harrow raised one clawed hand and rubbed the fur on his chin. “When we arrive in Lion’s Arch, you and Sykox will take one of the lifeboats and row to the docks. Tell them we come in peace. If you don’t convince the Lionguard to let us dock and make repairs, Sykox kills you. Then the humans at the port will kill him.