"Last Voyage of the Undertow" (A GW2 Story)

[Xerali]

( Part I. )

   Magiere leaned against the railing on the top deck of The Undertow. The small ship felt at home on the river. The current, while rapid, made for a smooth trip, and luck had the wind catching the sails just perfectly. Every so often, a splash of water—still close enough to the ocean to be salty—crept up the vessel's side. Magiere closed her eyes, practically basking in the refreshing spray.

   The brisk wind tugged at her faded clothes, her coal-black hair. The rest of the crew complained about it often, most of them unhappy in anything colder than the warm, tropical temperatures of Lion's Arch and its bordering coastline. Secretly, Magiere felt at home, here, further towards the sea, but still well inland. Rows of lush, tall trees began just off the rocky shore, creeping up, and up. Further back, higher up, the jagged tips of the Steamspur range.

   I could live here, Magiere thought. This is a place worth fighting for—

   Her thought process was interrupted by a man crashing into the railing next to her, pitching halfway over, and retching the contents of his stomach into the river below.

   "Dwayna's mercy, Ander," Magiere said, recoiling sharply away from him.

   The man gagged a couple more times, taking deep, sharp breaths. He spit a couple of times before pulling himself off the railing. He took a moment to regain his composure, brushed his dusty blonde hair out of his eyes, straightened his near-immaculate robes, colored in the trend of the Durmond Priory.

   "Sorry, Mags," the man groaned. "Sea legs haven't kicked in yet."

   "You don't have any damned sea legs," she said. "I told you to stay below decks anyway."

   "You probably don't want to hear it," Ander said, "but sitting hunched in your cabin is rather boring. And reading by candlelight is atrocious."

   Magiere chuckled, shook her head. "I suppose that mess you just let over the side was something I made?"

   Ander nodded. "Yeah, but it's nothing against you, dear. It was great going down." He leaned closer to her on the railing, still taking deep breaths. His elbow nudged hers, and she leaned her shoulder slightly against him.

   "I was hoping for company, anyway."

   "About that," he said, "I was expecting a bigger crew."

   "The Undertow crews light," she said. "We never patrol far off the coast, and most of our assignments take us inland. We've got all the crew we need."

   They looked together down the deck of the ship, where a charr was finishing tying off a series of ropes.

   Anders nodded towards the charr. "You're the only one that seems to give me a single thought."

   Magiere smiled. "Don't take it as an offense. This little Priory gig wasn't part of our schedule, and it's going to put us behind on our regular patrol route." She reached over to give his hand an affectionate squeeze. "It bothers them, more than me. We get a lot of favor from the Captain's Council, and I seriously doubt they'd come down too hard on us for making nice with the Priory."

   He squeezed her hand back. "You're not afraid it looks as if you're playing favorites with the Orders?"

   "I don't give a damn what it looks like." Magiere shrugged. "The Vigil would rather flex muscle at us than cooperate, and the Order of Whispers, well, you can imagine how well they get on with the Council in Lion's Arch."

   Ander nodded. "Yeah, I can about imagine." His brow furrowed, a troubled expression. He was quiet for a few seconds. Finally, he said, "It can't be a coincidence that your ship, your ship, is the one helping the Priory. The crew sent to help me."

   Magiere shook her head, pulled her hand away from his. "Don't go there."

   "You deserve something more—"

   "More what?" Magiere said. "More regal? More important?"

   "We fight for something meaningful," said Ander, insistant. "Everything we do, from, from here, to the Shiverpeaks, to the Maguuma Jungle, all of it is for the good of Tyria." He stared her down, as if demanding a response.

   Magiere's jaw clenched. She remained silent
.
   "You've been on this ship, what, four years?"

   "Five years," Magiere said quietly. "It has been four years since I saw you, but I have been on this ship five years."

   "And five years isn't long enough?"

   She looked him in the eye, finally. "Long enough for what?"

   Ander shrugged, gestured towards the deck of the ship, the sails. "Enough to be tired of this. Sailing around, fighting whose battles? Defending what? A bunch of pirates?"

   The charr on the other end of the deck looked up sharply, his four ears perked up, alert.

   Ander leaned closer, lowered his voice. "A bunch of pirates who saw more profit in an orderly, civilized, town?"

   "Drop it," Magiere said.

   "Lion's Arch is a symbol," Ander continued. "It's a symbol of something old, something that used to have meaning for Kryta." He paused, searching for the right words. "That meaning is gone. As soon as the Lionguard is no longer a profitable venture, where will you be?"

   "Right here."

   "You think Jennah will tolerate the Council's power forever? Or, Gods forbid it, the Ministry, should they come back into power? Think Mags, for your own sake—"

   "I said drop it." Magiere spit the words in his face.

   Ander nodded, keeping his gaze level with hers. "All right," he said. He leaned back, finally, took a deep breath. "Perhaps I was hoping for something that's out-of-reach after all."

   "You had no right to hope," said Magiere. "Do you think I am stupid? Or blind? That I would have devoted my life to something for so long without feeling certain that it is where I'm meant to be?"

   "Don't bring the Gods into this," Anders said. "You can defend your choices, or not, but do not try to escape to the old Gods."

   "I'm not speaking of the Gods," Magiere insisted. "I'm speaking of purpose. United, firm, purpose. I only criticize the Whispers, or the meat-heads in the Vigil for your own sake. Don't think there isn't plenty I could level at your dusty tombs, your scholars, isolated from the world in your mountain."

   Ander sighed. He looked tired, pale. He leaned more heavily against the railing of the ship's deck. "I should have done this with you on solid ground," he said, a faint smile curving his lips. "I'd make a hell of a stronger argument if I didn't feel I was about to puke again."

   Magiere sighed, laughed softly. She felt the tension leave her shoulders, and she reached up to pat him on the arm.

   "I'm sorry," she said.

   "It's all right," replied Ander. "It was wrong of me to broach the subject. Not like that, anyway. I missed you, Mags."

   "And I missed you too," she said. "And your dusty books."

   "I am glad that you're happy, you know."

   She nodded.

   "That selfish part of me won't go away, but I'm glad you're happy."

   "We're both selfish. It's awful, really."

   They stepped closer to each other at the same moment. Their lips came together for a brief, albeit nervous, kiss.

   After, Magiere smiled, pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. "I knew that was going to happen, but Gods, your breath is terrible."

   Ander scoffed. "I suppose. Do you have any more of that awful, what was it, South Island fruit drink? What did you call it?"

   "Mhm. A cask in my cabin. Where you'd better return, if you don't mind. I've got work to do." She smirked, gave his hand another affectionate squeeze. "We'll continue this later, all right? And besides, we need to talk about this assign—"

   "Lionguard Djenor!"

   Ander practically leapt out of his boots when the voice roared across the deck. Magiere simply looked past him, gave a half-assed salute to the broad-shouldered charr that had appeared on the other end of the deck.

   "Captain Darva," Magiere whispered. "My cabin, keep yourself busy for a couple of hours."
She walked briskly across the deck of The Undertow, not a glance backwards toward Ander, who watched her curiously.

[Xerali]

( Part II. )

Magiere followed Darva through the narrow passage into the Captain's cabin. The armored, broad-shouldered charr made the room seem even smaller; low-ceiling, a table that took up most of the center of the room, and chairs taking up the rest.

As soon as they were clearly alone, a wide grin stretched across the old charr's muzzle.

"You see that 'lil pup leap in his boots?"

Magiere leaned against the door-frame, crossed her arms. Two years ago, she'd never have taken such a relaxed posture around her captain, but the years sailing together had delivered a sense of understanding between them.

"He already thinks I'm the only person on board that wants him here," she said.

Darva chuckled, huffed. "He's right. Nobody needs to give a damn about him. What he's after, that's a different story."

She didn't expect anything else, really. Captain Darva was a typically charr flavor of direct, but years in the Lionguard had given a certain degree of tolerance for odd missions.

Like throwing a bone to the Priory, she though.

"Right," Magiere agreed. "And I'd like to give him a decent send-off, once we're done with him."

Darva laughed again. "I'll bet."

Ignoring him, Magiere continued, "You're after a way to start outfitting galleons with something more effective against dragonspawn."

"Aye," Darva agreed.

"And, you don't think—" Magiere stopped, shot him an annoyed look. "Are you going to make me spell out this whole damned thing?"

Darva gestured to a thoroughly detailed map spread across the table—the Sea or Sorrows. "No," he said. "But I've seen the results of enough Priory expeditions to be skeptical."

"Ander wouldn't—"

"And when I say skeptical, I mean doubtful."

Magiere glared for a second, waiting. "Ander wouldn't lead me on a faulty chase."

"Don't feed me some swill about humans growing up in love," said Darva. "I don't care what you think he would or wouldn't do. Results are what I give a damn about."

"He knows, aside from hating having my time wasted, that I would knock his teeth in for wasting this company's time."

Darva huffed again, turned his attention to the map. "Fine. Look here."
Magiere approached table, braced herself against it. Their journey inland had been charted meticulously, as was their destination.

"We'll set anchor tomorrow," Darva said. He traced from their anchorpoint, inland, to the foothills at the very base of the Steamspur range. "Skeleton crew on the ship, including myself. You'll lead a party to rendezvous with the Priory camp, or what's left of it. Cut through the jungle here," he pointed to their landing point.

"Understood."

Darva hesitated a moment, looking her in the eye. "Your priority is whatever they were looking for. We're not paid bodyguard. We are here for are own advantage."

"A better way to fight dragon champions."

"That's right."

"I understand that, too, then."

Truthfully, she did. From the moment that she'd received Anders' letter, began contemplating how she'd wrangle the The Undertow into a possible rescue pick-up for Priory researchers, she understood. The mission was the hook, and the relics the researchers had been chasing was the bait.

Ground-to-air defensive spells, Ander had said. The records are Dwarven, but we don't know if that's where they originated. Could be further back than that, but we did know where to find them, and that they worked.

"Get that human sorted out," said Darva. "I want him at the head of the party, back in one piece."

Magiere nodded, paused for a moment. "You aren't worried about Risen, Darva?"

Darva shook his head. "Always worried, but nothing's been reported in this stretch, nothing for well on a year. All the same, stay frosty. Everyone back in one piece."

"I'll see it done," said Magiere.

"No trips into the sunset, either," the old charr huffed. "If we find what we're looking for, this could be damned good for the Lionguard." After a moment, he added, "And just maybe we'll start to show the Orders a thing or two about putting down damned dragonspawn."

*

Magiere didn't go down to her quarters—not right away. She brought her weapon kit up from the hold, and went to work on her longsword with a whetstone. Letting her legs hang over the edge of the ship, she stroked the stone along the blade's length without even thinking about it.

The sun had already sunk low towards the horizon, painting the sky hues of fiery orange and violet. Beautiful, Magiere thought. Moments like this, she allowed herself to reflect on her city, her life at sea. Beautiful, she thought again. She thought of Ander, the Priory, another life. She couldn't imagine trading her own for it. Never in all the years.

She'd lost track of time—the sun dipping ever lower—when a charr and norn approached her from behind. Gorr, one of the shortest charr Magiere had ever seen, and Muninn, unusually soft-spoken for a norn.

"That human's locked himself in your quarters," Gorr growled. "He's going to drink all of the damned cider."

"We thought it might be fitting, you throw him out," added Muninn.

Magiere slowed her strikes of the whetstone, turned to half-face them. "He's just a Priory kid. You can't get a Priory kid out of a ship's cabin without my help?"

Gorr and Muninn crouched down on the deck behind her, speaking quieter.

"Darva told us not to mess with him," said Gorr.

"And it's your cabin," said Muninn. "Don't need Raven's eye to see why he's there in the first place."

"Tell me you two have more to worry about than the Priory boy in my cabin," said Magiere. "For instance, a long walk through the jungle after we drop anchor tomorrow—"

"Still," Muninn interrupted. "Still, the subject of tomorrow is the Priory human."

"Damned right," said Gorr. "Captain still ain't told us what the Priory team we're after even found."

"Then we'll find out tomorrow," said Magiere. She planted her longsword on the deck, used it to hoist herself back up. "Might be, we find nothing at all. Because they found nothing at all."

Gorr laughed at that. "Damned Priory."

Magiere smirked. "Damned Priory, indeed. Good money, though."

Muninn nodded in agreement. "Good money."

She never worried about staying in these two's good graces. They were huffy, they complained a lot, but she'd crewed with them sine joining the Undertow. In that time, she'd learned that Gorr, for all of his gruff attitude, was the best open-fire cook she'd ever known. And Muninn, for all his size and boasting, could slip in and out of shadows faster than light itself.

Like her life a sea, she couldn't imagine trading them for anything else.

"So," Magiere said, "if I promise to keep the Priory boy from drinking all of the cider, you'll promise to refrain from giving me hell about him tomorrow?"

Muninn smirked, at that, and Gorr let out a throaty chuckle.

"No promises," the charr said, "but we've got your back."

Magiere nodded, started wrapping her longsword back in protective traveling cloth. "Best I can ask for, I guess." She slung the weapon over her shoulder, started down the stairs, below deck.

"Just be careful," Muninn called after her, quietly. "You're crew. Spirits help us, we're not ready to go on without you, just yet."

*

The sun had been down for hours. Moonlight spilled through the small, dirty window into Magiere's cabin. Her scant few belongings were stacked in the corner, Ander's right next to hers.

The moon did little to illuminate her reading desk; two candles were already burned halfway down, spilling warm light across a map of the Sparkfly Fen region. Magiere sat in front of it, wrapped in a thick wool blanket. Instead of the map, her attention was on a heavily bound book, filled with her own short-hand writing.

In her bunk, Ander stirred restlessly, finally sat up. He rubbed his eyes, ran a hand through his short hair.

"Time of night is it?" he mumbled.

"Late," said Magiere.

"You coming back to bed?"

"In a bit." She reached for the book, her quill, began adding a few more lines.

Ander pushed the pile of blankets off himself and rubbed his bare arms, shivering. "How in the hell aren't you freezing?" he asked, reaching to the foot of the small bunk to pluck up a thick shirt.

"It's nice," Magiere said. "Get used to it, after a while." She turned to glance at him, smirked, slipped the wool blanket slightly to reveal a pale shoulder.

Ander shook his head. "You're crazy." He slipped the shirt on, asked, "What is it you're working on, anyway?"

"Go back to bed."

Ander paused, thinking. "Should I wait up?"

Magiere said nothing, kept writing, turned to the next page, kept writing still.

"You know," he said, "this might be our last chance to—"

"Shush." Magiere pointed vaguely over her shoulder at the tiny room's four corners. "My room, my rules."

Ander stared at her a moment, then threw his head back into the pillow. "All right," he said. A few moments later: "But I can't stop thinking about it, so you know."

Magiere smirked, but kept her attention on her writing.

"It was really good, wasn't—"

"Shh."

A while later, he was snoring quietly again, and shortly after that, Magiere drifted off, too, still in the chair, book open before her, blanket clutched tightly around her.

[Xerali]

(Pt. III)

The crew of The Undertow assembled fast, the next morning.

Magiere was up before any of them, helping Gorr and Muninn lower the shore-skiff into the water. She'd packed light—food, a water-skin, her maps, the the book she'd spent half the night writing in. All stuffed into her old, rugged pack.

Expecting a long day's travel, she left her heavy armor behind, too, favoring a leather hauberk over a worn cloth shirt, cloth breeches, and thick, steel-toed boots, instead. Chainmail weaved through the vital areas of the hauberk, flashing brightly in the sharp morning sun.

Captain Darva oversaw the preparation, leaning heavily against the door to his cabin. His arms were crossed, his eyes wide, alert. Nose testing the air constantly. To Magiere, he looked nervous. Having served under him for years, his behavior gave her a shiver.

Ander came up lugging a pack and an ornately carved staff. His eyes were bleary and red, his hair a mess. Magiere took a glance at him and couldn't help but smile.

"Grenth take me," he chuckled upon seeing her. "You should have woke me. How did you sneak out?"

She heard Gorr and even Muninn laughing behind her, but ignored them. "Quietly," she replied. "Now c'mon. The sooner we set out, the sooner we get back."

He didn't waste any time, rolling up his sleeves and climbing down the rope-ladder towards the skiff before Gorr and Muninn had a chance to say anything.

As Magiere stepped up to follow him down, Gorr laughed. "Thought you were going to throw him out, Mags?"

She fixed him with a knowing stare, smiled. "Shut up, fuzzy."

*

The small crew of the ship was left even smaller after Magiere's party left for shore. Darva remained behind, along with a few additional hands. Magiere, Gorr, Muninn, and Ander were accompanied by The Undertow's two dour-faced sylvari crew members, Eryiln and Gethan.

As they neared the shore, the sun finally cleared the horizon, casting an orange hew across the sand, and a short distance up the beach, the thick foliage glowed beneath the vibrant light.

The party was silent, except for Muninn, who hummed low and quietly as they rowed the skiff towards the shore.

"What is that?" asked Ander, once the norn was quiet. "What is that song?"

"Something I've made up," said Muninn. "A song of good intentions and safe returns. Raven's eye, guiding our passage through dangerous lands, giving us the insight to trace every footstep back to where we started."

"I'd prefer a quick return," said Gorr. "Anxious to get this s**t over, and back on patrol." He turned to Magiere. "How far inland, Mags?"

"Only three miles," said Magiere. "Provided the Priory camp is where it was indicated, hm?" She gave Ander a nudge, and when he looked her way, a smile. "Bird sent out by the expedition indicated they didn't want to risk camping on the shore."

Gorr only snorted, reached back to scratch his mane.

"You should write it down," said Muninn. "My song. You should write it down."

Ander stared at the norn, puzzled. "It's only humming. I'll need words, if you want me to write anything down."

"You guarantee our safe return, I'll give you a song for your books."

A smile began to grow on Ander's face, but Magiere was lost. Muninn and the young man looked at each other as if sharing a secret.

"What are you talking about?" chimed Eryiln. The bark-like grooves in her pale green face narrowed in confusion. "The song has not even been sung, and already you two look wicked as plotting crows."

"Legends in Song," said Muninn, to which Ander nodded.

"It's a book," said Gorr.

Magiere rowed on, looking between the other passengers. "What book?"

"My book," said Ander. "One of my books. Your norn friend," he gestured to Muninn, "seems to be especially well-read."

The norn turned to Magiere. "Your mate's name seemed familiar, after the Captain mentioned it to me. Only after looking through my library—"

Gorr interrupted him with a gutteral laugh, shaking his head.

Muninn's grin faltered, but he continued, "...my library, did I discover the human's work."

Gethan, brightened considerably, said, in his soft voice, "So we've a scholar of some actual worth, this time?"

"The Priory accepts only the best," said Ander. "The most studious, widest published."

"And Legends in Song," continued Muninn, "is one of the most extensive collection of skaaldic verse in existence. I'm shamed to have not recognized his name immediately. There are many hunters in the north who'd pay this human to follow them into the mountains, to record their legend."

"It's not just my book," Ander said. "Two generations of researchers have worked on that series before I got hold of it."

Muninn chuckled. "And you're the only one of 'em to have actually left those dusty old halls. Far as I'm concerned, it's your story." He gave Ander a decisive nod. "Not theirs ."

Magiere continued rowing, staring at Ander with a newfound sense of curiosity. I've never even asked him, she thought. He could be the most widely-read scholar in Kryta, and I would never have known it.

*

As soon as the skiff hit the beach, everyone piled out, slinging packs over their shoulders, checking weapons, sundries.

Muninn and Gorr pulled the boat further up the beach, away from the tide's reach, and dropped the oars into the bottom of it.

The two sylvari looked to Magiere, anxiously. Eryiln had a sour look on her face. "Are we flipping a coin, or what?"

Magiere shook her head. "No, we're not. You're staying with the boat."

Gethan opened his mouth to protest, but Magiere shot him a severe look, silencing him. "You want to stay with her, I won't stop you. Need one, two, to watch the skiff."

"What are we worried about, exactly?" asked Ander. "Pirates? Brigands?"

Magiere shifted her narrowed gaze to Ander. "Everything. Anything."

Gorr chuckled at her response. "Paranoid woman. But she's right."

"I don't understand..." Ander tapped the base of his staff in the sand.

"Nobody holds this area," Magiere explained. "Seraph have no need to patrol this far South, and fewer merchants—that nixes the Lionguard presence. Could be Risen, could be unfriendly natives—hylek, skritt, anything. Could also be nothing at all, but this isn't part of our patrol route. Impossible to tell."

"Kinda why this is way the hell out of our way," said Gorr. Magiere tensed, clenched her jaw. She valued the charr's presence, most days, but his negativity grated on her nerves.

"Captain's choice," she shot back at him. "Captain's orders."

Gorr only grumbled, slung a rough pack over his shoulder, checked his guns. A pair of oiled and gleaming pistols hung from his belt, alongside a wicked hunting knife, the blade of which was easily as long as one of Magiere's arms.

She turned back to the sylvari. "Stay here, then, both of you. Any luck, we'll be back before the sun sets. No luck, after sunrise tomorrow."

Gethan and Eryiln looked nervous, but nodded to her.

"Signal fire if anything goes wrong," said Magiere. "Gods willing, this'll be a short hike."

*

She'd never been so deep into the jungle, before. The heat, she'd prepared for. The rough terrain, the hostile fauna, all expected.

The thick foliage and quick exhaustion were unexpected. All of her patrols around the Tarnished Coast, during all of her Lionguard years, and she'd never stepped this far into the jungle. Shorelines and high-tide, from now on, she thought.

Only two miles into their inland trek, sweat was pouring off their bodies. Muninn and Gorr suffered the worst. The norn's chest expanded and deflated with massive, heaving breaths. If she hadn't known how damned tough he was, Magiere might have been worried about him. Gorr had already shed the riveted leather jerkin he usually wore, looped it over his pack. The charr's quick, stuttered breaths did worry her, but she counted on more excessive whining from him if it ever became unbearable.

Ander, on the other hand, she was proud of. More than. The elementalist rolled up the sleeves of his robes, carried on. The tails of his garb, filthy from the mud and bramble and vines, he made no complaint over.

He's said little at all, Magiere thought. He wouldn't, though. Probably worried about his fellows. And  anxious towards mine.

Spotting a slight clearing in the thick trees, Magiere stopped them.

"Here!" she called out, to catch their attention. She was exhausted, herself—the thick cotton shirt beneath her leather vest felt glued to her skin. As the others approached, she wiped sweaty, thick locks of hair out of her eyes.

"Fifteen of rest," she said to them. "Then we push on to the rendezvous."

The party slumped against the close-pressed trees. Gorr sat on a toppled, dead log, which bent almost to the point of snapping under the charr's weight. He didn't seem to care.

"Longing for the mountains, yet?" Muninn put the question to Gorr between massive huffs of breath. Sweat dripped from the norn like a curtain.

"Mm," the charr grumbled. "Holdin' up?"

Muninn nodded, canting his neck around to stretch, rolling his shoulders. "Holdin' up," he said. "Going to drink that damned ship dry when we get back. I have Bear's thirst."

Magiere sloughed off her pack, pulled her water-skin, tossed it to Muninn. He caught it, gave her a puzzled look.

"Drink," she insisted, gesturing to Ander, who was in the middle of pouring the contents of his waterskin straight down his throat. "He and I can share." Ander shot her a smirk, handed over his waterskin. Magiere drank eagerly.

"How you think to pinpoint a camp in this mess is beyond me," said Gorr. "Easy enough to lose your own ass in here, let alone find someone else's."

"They'll have stayed put," Ander said. "The bird they sent, the message described the landmarks around their camp very specifically. A small lake, ringed with large boulders, thick foliage. Above, a waterfall, feeding into the lake."

"What do you think," Magiere asked him. "Another mile?"

Ander slapped a mosquito hatchling away from his cheek. "Roughly." He pulled one of their maps from his pocket; the parchment was damp, flimsy, but still perfectly legible. "Give or take," Ander added, shrugging.

Gorr grumbled something under his breath, to which Muninn smiled, in spite of his exhaustion.

"Some norn become used to the coastal heat," he said. He gave his head a shake, sweat spraying in a slight arc around him. "Not this one."

"Should be careful," said Magiere. "Shitty way to go, sweating to death."

The norn chuckled, nodded back to Magiere, who was slumped heavily against a tree-trunk. Though Muninn was far and away suffering the worst, she, like the rest of them, was soaked.

"Speak for yourself, girl," said Muninn.

*

The jungle slog didn't become easier as they pressed further in. They were mostly silent while traveling, interrupted only by Magiere or Ander occasionally checking their course, and by Gorr's grumbling.

By mid afternoon, once the sun had dipped back below the high treeline, they finally reached the landmark mentioned in the Priory team's correspondance.

"We're here," Ander quietly announced. Everyone turned, surprised. Just east, through the trees, a shallow pool lapped against a rocky shore. A thin, slow waterfall fed into it from a higher precipice. 

"Damn near would have missed it," said Magiere. She sloughed off her pack, carried it by the straps with one hand. "Let's have a look around."

Ander didn't look the least bit relieved. "They're not here," he said quietly.

Gorr let out a low growl. "What?"

"Not here," Ander repeated. "We weren't quiet. They'd have heard our approach. They'd have been expecting us. They're not here."

Muninn sighed. Curtains of sweat poured from the norn, and to Magiere, he looked exhausted.

"We need to make camp, anyway," Magiere decided. "Take a rest, refill the water-skins. Perimeter search first. We need to find what we're looking for before the sun sets."

Gorr thumped Muninn on the arm. "C'mon. Let's see if we're wasting time."

The norn grumbled his agreement. Magiere motioned to Ander to follow her.

As they made their way down to the pond, Magiere noticed Ander growing pale. She stuck close to him, watched intently.

"What're you thinking?" she asked.

"That I've led us into a trap."

Magiere shook her head. "Don't presume. Could be, someone pulled them out ahead of us." As they neared the water's edge, she gestured to their surroundings. "No signs of a struggle. Even Priory would have put up a hell of a fight, if something came for 'em."

Ander forced a grim smile. "Even Priory."

They walked the perimeter of one end of the pond, Muninn and Gorr taking the other. Nothing at all, Magiere thought. No stone overturned, no blood spilled...

"What kind of trap," she asked Ander.

He shrugged. "As far as I know, myself, you, your captain, are the only people in on this. The artifact, the extraction..."

"Plenty to worry about, in this region. Plenty of reason they might have needed to relocate their camp."

Ander pursed his lips, shook his head. "Still not right. Not a single sign they were here in the first place."

From across the water, Gorr and Muninn waved, shook their heads. Nothing there, either.

"s**t," Magiere said. "Like it or not, we're making camp. We can make a few close sweeps around the area before the sun goes down."

"And that's all we can do?" Ander asked.

She nodded. "Until morning, that's all we can do."

[Xerali]

(Part IV.)

The search yielded nothing.

Magiere and Ander swept east of the site, Gorr and Muninn west. Just as they'd found at the pond, nothing indicated the presence of any previous travelers in the area. No trampled ground, buried fire scraps. Nothing. As the sunlight began to vanish from the sky, and shadows started to fill in the jungle, they returned to the pond and began making camp for the night.

Muninn managed to gather a good armload of dry timber, and built a small fire. Magiere crouched near to him, unpacking dry rations.

"I could get us back," he quietly said. "In the dark. By Raven's eye, I'd rather risk it than spend the night here."

Magiere shook her head. She untied a small cloth sack, full of dried meats. "We need something to show for this. The captain—"

"To the Mists, with Captain Darva," Muninn said. "What will he do, report us to Captain Magnus? Huh?" Anger took over the norn's tone, as he continued. "We're off course, off the patrol, and this isn't Lionguard business. It's Priory business."

Sparing a wary glance at Ander, she nodded. He sat some distance away from the fire, cross-legged on the rough ground, pouring over a map. Open alongside it, she recognized a hand-copy of the letter the lost Priory expedition had sent.

"We aren't going back tonight," she said. "Because there are only four of us. Besides, we don't know what's out there."

"Something," Muninn said. He stared, distraught, into the darkness of the surrounding jungle. "I don't doubt that there was a Priory team here. But things aren't as they seem."

Down at the water's edge, Gorr stood up, carrying the refilled water skins.

"How so?" Magiere asked.

The norn only shook his head. "Something has my hackles up."

"What?"

"Don't know. Something hidden."

Muninn's words sent a shiver down Magiere's spine. She grabbed a handful of dry rations, and one of the waterskins, as Gorr approached the fire.

"Somethin' ain't right," the charr said.

"Tell me something we don't know," she said.

Ander looked up from his reading as she approached, his expression grim. "This has to be it," he told her. "The distance from shore, these landmarks..." he gestured down to the pool, the barely-visible waterfall pouring into it some distance away. "It doesn't make any damned sense."

Magiere sat down next to him, handed over food, water. "This artifact. What they were out here for. Tell me about it."

Ander gave her a puzzled look, took a bite of the dried meat. "I don't know much about it. Just that it's—"

"A weapon. Something dwarven, right? To fight dragon champions." She looked him in eye, steady, said, "What aren't you telling me, Ander."

He paused, mid-drink. "What?"

"What did you tell Darva," she said. "What did you tell my captain that you didn't tell me?"

Ander calmly set down the waterskin, looked at her a few quiet moments. Magiere knew she'd struck pay-dirt, knew that the anxiety she'd seen in the captain of The Undertow hadn't been false.

"We don't know where it's from," said Ander, finally. "The explorers who found it weren't even able to decipher it, not completely." He sighed, leaning closer to Magiere, sparing a glance now and then over her shoulder, at Muninn and Gorr.

"It's not dwarven. It might be pre-dwarven. We don't know."

"So that letter," she nodded to the open, hand-copied letter near the map, "that's a bunch of s**t?"

Ander shook his head. "No. Just bits and pieces left out."

"Why?"

"Because of its importance," said Ander. "We have to keep it out of the hands of the enemy."

"Zhaitan?"

He nodded. "Zhaitan. The rest of the Elder dragons. The Order of Whispers, Gods forbid. The Vigil."

Magiere scoffed. "Not this s**t again." Behind her, Muninn and Gorr laughed about something. Facing Ander, she continued, "Your Priory are no different. Ferreting away something so potentially useful to everyone. Everyone."

He laughed grimly, ignoring her frustration. "It's not that simple, Mags."

"I think it is."

"You want it to be."

She pursed her lips, glared. "What I want doesn't matter. Hasn't mattered." Pointing over her shoulder at Muninn and Gorr, she continued, "My crew matters. Keeping them in the know, that is very simple."

"I'm sorry."

"Doesn't cut it, Ander." She looked away from him, down at the map that lay between them. "So, where is your little Priory camp? Really, I mean, so long as we're finally getting to the truth."

"Don't know. They should be here. Some sign of them should be here." He pointed down to the letter. "Way it was arranged, they had a number of artifacts with them. Some magical, some not, nothing else even comparing in importance to the new find."

Magiere shook her head. "I trusted you."

"You didn't—"

"Mags!"

The charr's shout gave them both a start. Muninn and Gorr were on their feet, pointing to the jungle, where three figures in Priory garb were emerging from the shadowed trees.

Magiere let out a sigh of relief, hauled to her feet. "Kormir bless us," she muttered. She spared a glance at Ander—wide-eyed, in shock—before striding towards the Priory explorers.

"Where in the hell have you been?" she asked. "My crew has been sweeping the damned jungle for hours."

The three Priory were in horrid shape. The tallest of a three, which Magiere figured for a norn, wore his robe barely held together by scraps of thread. Dirt and grime coated almost every inch of him, and his beard, his hair, were wet and plastered to his large head.

The other two, both human, one man, one woman, wore equally mauled clothing. The man, a short thing that barely came up to Magiere's shoulder, swayed unsteadily on his feet. The woman, who strode forward ahead of the other two, was the only one whose face looked relatively clean. As she approached, the glowing firelight reflected in her eyes.

"We had to run," the Priory woman rasped. Her voice was raw, strained. "Took the cargo, had to run. Ran as far as we could, to get away."

"Get away from what?" Ander stood close to Magiere. She glanced at him, saw that same strange expression.

"The undead," said the norn in Priory garb. "They—" A choking cough took over him, and he bent at the waist, spitting. Something wet oozed from his mouth.

"...came out of nowhere," the Priory woman continued, while the norn coughed. "Came out of the ground, out of the water, out of the sky..."

"We had to keep the artifacts safe," the man behind her added. He pulled a large satchel from his shoulder, took a few steps forward, and set it on the ground. "Look," he said. "See, look. Safe from the Risen."

Ander stepped forward, warily picked up the satchel. He handed it to Muninn, standing behind him. "Open it," he said. "Tell me what you find."

Gorr peered over the norn's shoulder, looking at the contents. "Books," he huffed. "Books, trinkets a few bits of stone, and..." he trailed off. His lips curled back into a snarl.

Magiere spied something silver and glinting within the contents of the satchel. Something larger than the rest of the contents. The norn grabbed it with one large hand and pulled it from the satchel. Dark etchings and emblems covered most of its surface, which was otherwise pristine. In between the dark carvings, Magiere could almost see her reflection in its surface.

"This is it," said Ander, leaning closer. "This is what we came for."

"Tell us," the Priory woman said. "Can you translate it? What does it say?"

"It's not Dwarven," Ander said, peering closer at the artifact. He brushed a finger across the surface, playing at the mysterious language carved into it. "And I'm no metallurgist, but—"

"Pack it up," said Magiere. She kept a wary glance on the three Priory members, canting her head towards the fire. "Gorr, douse the fire. Muninn, you still think you can get us back?"

The norn nodded, moved to pack up a few belongings near the fire, which Gorr was scooping dirt onto.

The Priory members didn't move from where they stood.

"Ander, you have the relics." She put a hand on his shoulder, reassuring. "And stick close."

"We could examine it here," the Priory woman said. "The Risen are long-gone. We've already been running through the dark..." She gestured behind them, into the jungle. "Don't make us do more of it. Please."

Behind the woman, the norn coughed more violently.

Magiere felt a hand on her wrist. Ander's, pulling her away. She looked to him, and saw stark fear.

"What is—"

Under his breath, he whispered, "Get your sword."

"What's going on?"

Ander gave a quick nod in the direction of the Priory members. "Out of the corner of your eye. Look at them."

She glanced. From the corner of her eye, dirt became gore, and torn cloth revealed gaping, mortal wounds. Dead flesh.

Oh s**t s**t s**t...

"Arms!" Magiere shouted, and ran for where her weapon was propped against her pack. Ander ran for his staff, Muninn and Gorr looked up, startled, but the charr was already pulling his pistols from their holsters.

Behind her, movement, and in the space of time it took Gorr to draw down and fire, a flash of searing light smashed into him, knocking the charr clear over the fire.

As Muninn let out a ferocious war-howl, Magiere reached her sword. She whirled, took stock of their enemies.

The woman had a fiery glow about her hands—Magiere pegged her for the spellcaster that hit Gorr. She unleashed another fireball, but Muninn easily stepped out of the way, gathering sickly green necromantic energy from the ground around him as he did so.

Magiere rushed for the other two, heard Ander's boots on the ground behind her. The Priory norn—or, the thing that used to be, held a massive sword of is own. She raised her hand ahead of her charge, concentrating—a swirl of blue-hued guardian magic followed her fingers' tracing. The elementalist dove out of her way, too busy trading spells against Muninn. The one behind her, the man, spun with a dagger as she charged, but Magiere brought her skinny longblade up in a deft parry that nearly cut the thing's hand off at the wrist. Behind her, Ander chanted quietly—another explosion of elemental energy, and from the corner of her eye, she saw the Priory thing retreat.

Leaving the norn.

Magiere pressed her charge to her opponent, detonating the small guardian spell she'd drawn in front of her with a flash of blinding light. She spun to the left, hoping to surprise her enemy, but its own sword clashed hard against hers. She doubled back a couple steps. Energy surged in her veins as she assumed a defensive stance, waiting for her opponent to make its move.

It was clumsy, as she had suspected after hearing it hack and wheeze, earlier. Ignoring her defenses, it came at her with a hard, downward slash. Magiere parried the blow, slipped easily inside the reach of its sword, and drove her blade up into its chest.

As she ripped the sword out, the norn collapsed to its knees. She'd fought Risen before. Finishem them always made her stomach churn.

She brought her sword across in a hard slash, removing its head.

Ander's opponent was little more than a smoking husk, when she turned. His own robes bore a few slashes from the thing's dagger, but he seemed otherwise unharmed.

The other Risen, masquerading as the Priory woman, was on its knees, gasping. Muninn simply watched the thing as it bled and grew soft and rotted before his eyes. Magiere had never become used to the way the norn fought; necromantic energy always unsettled her.

"Gorr," she said, quietly.

*

The charr was barely conscious. The magnitude of the Risen's spell had left Gorr's arm ruined, seared to the bone in places.

Muninn knelt next to his friend, chest heaving. "Gorr," he said firmly, trying to rouse him.

Magiere knelt on the other side of the charr, leaned close to examine the extensive burning. "I can ease the pain," she said quietly. "But I can't heal this."

The norn bowed his head. "I know."

Ander appeared at Magiere's side, his own pack and the Priory satchel already slung over his back, staff in hand. He put a hand on her shoulder.

"We should go."

Muninn looked up at him, and Magiere tensed, but the norn eventually only sighed, nodded.

In the darkening distance, they heard the sound of something crashing through the trees. Dozens of pairs of feet.

"They won't take him," the norn said, groaning to his feet. He looked to Magiere. She saw sorrow in his eyes. Grim determination set in his jaw.

She knew better than to argue with him.

"Do you want me to tell you that we'll come back?" she asked.

Muninn shook his head. "I do not." He looked to Ander. "You are responsible for my legend. You will speak of this, I hope?"

"I will." Ander nodded firmly.

The norn returned to his friend, one hand placed on the charr's shoulder.

Magiere took Ander's hand, got to her feet. She collected her pack, her longsword.

"You can get us back?" he asked.

"I have to. Can't stay here," said Magiere. She looked Ander eye-to-eye, took a deep breath. "You ready to run?"

[Xerali]

( Part V. )

Magiere and Ander rushed headlong through the jungle, the reversal of their previous path coming easily. The scholar aided them with his staff, igniting the top end of it in a soft, fiery glow, giving the pair enough light to see a few feet in front of their faces, as they ran.

Having taken the lead, Magiere looked about frantically for landmarks indicating their progress—nearly impossible due to the encroaching darkness. Time lost meaning as she pushed aside branches, nearly tripped over twisting vines.

Ander called out, after some time, "I need to stop."

Magiere halted, lungs straining for enough air. "Give me the pack," she said, holding out her hand. "C'mon. I can carry it a while."

The elementalist shrugged off the heavy bag, setting it down. "Just rest a minute," he said. "They might not even be following."

Magiere glared at him, wiped sweaty hair out of her eyes. "And you wouldn't know if they were following until they're on our asses. They're undead, Ander."

He shook his head, hands on his hips, breathing hard. "All right," he conceded.

She didn't say anything, but Magiere needed the breather just as badly. "We can't be too far," she said. "Feels like we've been running miles."

Ander cocked an eyebrow at her, frowned. "Feels like?"

She hefted the pack of artifacts over her shoulder. "We should keep moving."

*

Though the fear never left the back of her mind, Magiere did not hear the sound of any pursuers. No multitudes of footfalls through the jungle, no breaking tree limbs—nothing to indicate a horde of rotting monstrosities pursuing them.

All the same, she was unwilling to let their pace slow. Even as late-evening turned to night, the jungle growing oppressively dark around them, she pushed ahead. When they passed through the clearing they'd stopped at previously, earlier in the day, Ander gave a sharp cheer behind her.

"Thanks the Six! Didn't doubt you for a second, Mags."

Stopping momentarily, she turned to face him. He gave her a grim smile, shrugged. "We need to make it out of this. Knew you'd get us back."

She nodded at him, surveyed their surroundings a few seconds. "We should keep moving."

"We will," he said. "Just...are you all right?"

Magiere gave him a puzzled look.

"Muninn," said Ander. "Gorr." He seemed to struggle to find the right words. "We're not going back to them, are we?"

"Of course we aren't," said Magiere. She looked back in the direction they'd come from, straight into the darkness. "Muninn made his decision to stay. His friend was dying, and he wouldn't be parted from his side."

Ander nodded, somber. "I didn't know him."

Magiere hefted at the packs slung over her shoulder. They'd grown beyond heavy, but she tried not to think about it. "And you're worried about what he asked of you, hm?"

"I take it seriously," said Ander. "To a norn, story is everything. Legend. I don't know where to begin, for this one."

She pursed her lips, let out a sharp sigh. "You might begin by keeping it in the back of your mind until we're back aboard the ship."

In the distance, the sharp crack of a large branch. Rustling foliage. Magiere and Ander both snapped their attention back to their surroundings.

"You're right," he said, gripping his staff tightly. "Later. Of course." He began walking in the direction they both knew, now, led back to The Undertow.

"Hey." Magiere stepped into his path, face-to-face. "We'll get out of this, and I'll help you." She leaned closer, pressed her lips to his, briefly. After separating from the kiss, she said, "Once the Captain, Gods-forbid the council in Lion's Arch, finds out we had casualties off-patrol, I'm going to be losing a lot of favor." She shrugged. "You might get your wish after all, hm?"

Ander nodded. "Let's just get out of here," he said. "I'll kiss you better when I can stop thinking about..." he gestured behind them, "...this."

*

Ominous silence overtook their rush to the beach. Magiere listened closely for signs of pursuit, heard none. No jungle sounds, either. Silent birds, silent everything, aside from all the noise the pair made as they ran.

Moonlight washed over the beach, pale illumination revealing a troubling scene as soon as Magiere and Ander crashed through the treeline.

The skiff, pulled up on the sand. The remains of a small fire, burning low, further down the beach. Eryiln and Gethan nowhere in sight.

"Where are the sylvari?" Ander asked.

Magiere looked up and down the beach, anxious. "The beach is clear. Their fire...I don't understand."

They walked closer to the skiff, the small campfire. As they neared, a mess of bootprints in the sand became visible—all up and down the beach.

"We should go," Ander muttered, quietly.

Magiere was quiet. She knelt, examined a few of the prints. Bare feet, boots, claws...certainly more than anything two sylvari would have left.

"We're out in the open, here," Ander continued. "We can't wait. Grenth's damned clutches if I know a thing about defense, but this beach is not defensible. If the undead—"

"I know," said Magiere. She stood, started for the skiff. "Now, quickly."

Eyes darting between the treeline, both directions up and down the beach, the water, the two piled their kit into the skiff, Magiere setting the artifacts gently in the middle of it. They pushed the skiff down the beach, leaping in quickly once in deep enough water. Ander clutched at an oar as if it were a weapon.

"Row," Magiere ordered. "And pray to the Six that no undead have made their way out to the ship."

The Undertow was clearly visible, still anchored some distance off the shore, in the deeper water. Moonlight gleamed off her decks, sails—a beacon, for better or worse, amidst the placid water of the ocean inlet.

After a few minutes of hard rowing, Magiere's oar thumbed against something hard. She looked down, startled.

A body, floating face-down. Lionguard leathers. Rough, bark-like skin, leafy hair.

"Eryiln," Magiere muttered. "s**t."

"And the other," said Ander, pointing to a floating object a short distance off their bow.

"s**t," Magiere repeated. "Eryiln and Gathan..." She let their names hang in the air, momentarily. Her mind immediately sprung upon the last time she'd spoken to them: sternly, ordering one or both of them to guard the skiff. 

I did nothing to prepare them, she thought. Nothing to guard them from the terrors waiting for us in there...

"Can we even go back to the ship?" Ander asked. "If their bodies are this far off-shore—"

"Just wait," said Magiere. She stared intently at The Undertow, in the distance. No movement on the deck. Nothing through any of the small cabin windows...

Except a faint light from the captain's cabin. And after peering a while, she imagined a shadow crossing through the light.

"We have to know," Magiere said. "If anything's off, we can take the skiff further inland. But we have to know."

Ander said nothing, only looked at her, gripped his oar tighter.

"I know you don't like it," she said. "I don't either."

*

The calm surface of the sea inlet did little to put either of them at ease. The rest of their rowing was done in silence, each of them watching The Undertow like hawks, the galleon looming as it grew closer.

"There," Magiere said, pointing to a rope ladder hanging next to a tie-off for the skiff. They steered the boat in, and she made quick work of securing the small vessel. She nodded to the ladder, "Follow me, stay close. I don't feel all right about this..."

They slung their gear, again—Ander carrying the artifacts—and ascended the ladder. Magiere reached the deck first, hopped deftly over the railing.

Nothing out of place. No signs of struggle, signs of life, or signs of the undead.

"I think we're okay," said Magiere, while Ander pulled himself over the railing.

"I think I'm over all of the 'seasick,'" he said, quietly.

"Captain's cabin," said Magiere, nodding in its direction. A light did gleam from the small window looking into it. Merely a candle, she figured.

The ship's deck creaked, slightly beneath their boots. Magiere became aware of every sound, sensation. The ship's slight movements, a breeze picking up across the inlet. Cold. She shivered a bit.

"Captain Darva?" she called out. Her response was a muffled charr shout, the sound of steel-on-steel, and the door of the cabin being ripped open.

"What in the hell is this?" the charr roared. He looked back and forth between Magiere and Ander, eyes fierce. "Skulking back in the middle of the night...did you find—"

"Yes," Magiere cut him off, assertive. "We found it. The rest are dead."

Darva's lips curled back in a toothy snarl at the news. "How?"

"Risen," Ander said, stepping forward. He shrugged off the pack, set it gently at his feet. "Dozens of them, sounded like. They'd already killed the Priory expedition."

"It was a trap," Magiere added quickly. "Set for us."

The charr grumbled, eyes narrowing. "Undead setting traps, when they already have what they came for?" He looked towards Ander. "Enlighten me, boy."

Ander kneeled to open the pack, withdrawing the strange, metallic artifact. "We know that the dragon seeks out magical artifacts. We know that the creature has little trouble locating them, acquiring them." Ander looked toward Magiere, anxiety plain in his face. "And that it has little trouble infiltrating its thralls where they might not be expected."

"So, what?" Darva questioned.

"So," Ander continud, "the undead were unable to identify this particular artifact." He hefted the strange, runed metal. "Dwarven, human, norn...it never has trouble discerning the purpose of anything magical. Except this."

Darva huffed, growing impatient. "So what in the hell is it? Where is it from?"

Ander shrugged. "I don't know. I don't suspect the Priory expedition did, either, not really."

"Well, where in the hell does that leave—"

Darva was cut off by a wave rushing against the side of The Undertow. Ander almost fell, already unsteady on his feet, while Magiere and Darva shot each other alarmed looks.

"What was that?" asked Magiere.

The three hauled across the deck. Ander stashed the artifact within the pack.

The sea on the other side of the ship, in the deep water, stirred and sloshed in a whirling turmoil.

"Not a whirlpool," Darva growled, confused.

The water churned on, whipping against the side of the ship even harder. Slowly, it began to form into a visible vortex, deeper into the water than any of them could see.

Sudden realization dawned upon Ander, and his face grew slightly pale. "Oh no..."

Magiere turned to him. "What? What is this?"

He white-knuckled the deck-railing, staring futilely into the frothing waters. "Bone ship," he murmered.

As if on cue, four long, skeletal appendages—each as tall as the sails of The Undertow—erupted from the middle of the vortex, curling upward and towards the Lionguard vessel; dead fingers reaching to envelop the living.

Darva let out a roar and rushed back towards his cabin. Ander wrinkled his brow in confusion, looked to Magiere.

"What's he doing?"

Magiere's breaths came ragged and sharp, her gaze still focused on the emerging undead vessel. From inside the cabin, a sharp bell rang.

"Arming himself," she said, pulling her longsword free. "And rousing the very few we have below decks."

As slowly as the bone-fingers had reached from the water, the emergence of the rest of the ship seemed to happen in a flash. A rotting hull of bone, wood, and warped tissue ripped its way out of the sea—a massive construct nearly as big as The Undertow. A massive wave rolled off the bone-ship, crashing into the Lionguard ship, spraying across the decks. Magiere winced, let the cold water wash over her, while Ander nearly slipped and fell.

"Six save us..." Ander muttered.

"Darva!" Magiere cried out, backing away from the railing.

Even before the spray of seawater had settled, Magiere could see movement on the ship's deck. Risen. Dozens. Spindly, ghastly things, crawling across the ship's surface. Behind those, lumbering behemoths of rot, flesh, and bone, wielding massive, jagged metal blades. All of them roaring, calling for blood, and death with whatever words were left in their rotting husks.

The vision was so unreal that Magiere found it difficult to react.

"Darva!" she called out, again. "Fuzzy ass out here, now!"

The charr emerged from the cabin clad in full plate armor—gleaming gold of the Lionguard. A massive broadsword, balanced over one shoulder, a shorter blade at his hip, and the largest pistol Magiere had ever seen on the opposite hip.

"Let them come," he snarled.

From the ship's hold, three weary figures emerged; a sylvari, two human women. Magiere hardly recognized them, especially in the dark—all new, rotated into the ship's crew within the past two weeks.

Lyren, she remembered the sylvari's name. Meryl and Therese. Magiere had consistently gotten them mixed up, since The Undertow took them on. The fact that she couldn't put the right names to them, now, made her stomach sink.

The crew watched in horror as the skeletal appendages extending from the top of the ship began curling downwards, toward The Undertow, Risen clinging to the spindly bone, waiting to be deposited on their target. Others dove into the water, swam with unreal speed towards the Lionguard vessel. Magiere could hear them scrabbling against the hull, claws trying to find purchase in the wood.

"We're being boarded," Darva snarled to the new arrivals, barely audible over the roar of the undead. "You've all been drilled on Risen. Even if you cubs haven't seen one yet, you know how to deal with them."

The charr drew his broadsword, metal gleaming under the moonlight. Ander and Magiere shared an anxious glance. He reached out for her hand, gave it a squeeze. As they parted, he gaze the base of his staff a slam upon the deck of the ship, igniting the enchanted tip into bright flames.

Magiere pulled her own sword, let her eyes slip closed for a split second, focused her energy. She felt magic coursing through her limbs, let the symbols for her spells flash through her mind's eye.

The monstrous roaring of the dragon's monstrosities made it difficult. Magiere felt in no way ready for the fight ahead.

When she snapped her eyes open, the first undead were already scrabbling at the top of the deck-railing. Ander snapped his staff forward, the enchanted head of it splashing fire across the rail, igniting undead fingers, arms. Two fell back to splash into the sea below, before a larger figure—norn, when it was alive, Magiere figured—crunched through the railing on its way up.

She rushed forward with a hard cross-slash to its head, but her sword stopped halfway through the things desiccated neck. Ripping her sword free, she backpedaled, the Risen rising to its full height in front of her. As she began to draw a rune of protection, though, a powder-blast discharged off to her left, and the thing's head exploded.

Darva immediately began reloading his massive pistol, holstered it, took up his broadsword again.

The skeletal arches loomed over the deck of The Undertow, and a few Risen fell from the reaches to land on the deck.

Lyren, Meryl, Therese went to work on these Risen, swinging swords and maces, attempting to cut them down before more crossed over.

Magiere and Ander backed away from the edge of the deck as more undead pulled themselves up. The creatures immediately began picking targets, two heading for Magiere, another for Ander. She tried not to look at their faces, what was left of them, their clothes. Past lives hanging in tatters from rotted limbs.

Assuming a defensive stance, she waited for the first to come at her before slapping its rusted sword away with sharp parry, slashing it straight up the middle with her own, taking off its chin with the end of her blade.

The other came at her with bare hands. Magiere gritted her teeth, rushed shoulder-first into the thing, knocking it back against the railing. Her sword came down as soon as she was able to pull away from the undead, taking off its head.

Heat washed over her as Ander defended himself with staff and spell, elemental fire spinning and flashing through the air to set Risen aflame. Magiere spared him only a glance, as two more Risen climbed the side of the ship behind the two she'd already put down.

They advanced on her as sloppily as the first—something she'd been trained to expect from weaker dragon minions. A few deft parries got her inside their defenses; a sword under the chin and a slash to the neck dispatched both of them.

[Xerali]

(Part V.next)

A piercing scream tore Magiere away from the edge of the ship's deck. Whirling, behind her, she saw Meryl—or was it Therese—on her back, screaming, hand clutched against what was left of her shoulder.

Towering over her was a Risen hylek, mouth gaping with freshly bloodied, unnatural teeth. Darva, hearing the screams, broke away from the Risen he'd been fighting to swipe his broadsword with unnatural speed across the hylek's face. The creature fell away in pieces.

"Meryl!" the other woman, still standing, called out! She swung her mace into the chest of an approaching undead, crunching everything still contained in its skeletal chest. She knelt next to Therese, whose screams had faded into dull, quiet shock.

"Mags!" Ander's shout called her back to the front, another wave of heat flashing over her as the charred body of an undead crashed to her feet. Risen pulled themselves aboard the ship further down from Ander. Another hoisted itself to the deck in front of her, carrying a broadsword that rivaled Captain Darva's in size—the creature was taller even than the norn she'd already killed.

Wary of this new foe, Magiere backed away, sword up and away from her body, a prepared defensive stance. She concentrated on a rune of shielding in her mind's eye, let energy course through her body, into her hands, where a faint, blue glow emanated.

Another strangled cry, behind her, but Magiere couldn't risk taking her eyes off her towering opponent, as it advanced.

"Stay fast!" Darva called out, behind her. "We're two down compared to their twenty! Stand fast!"

Magiere gritted her teeth together in anger, worked to force thoughts of the dead crewmen from her mind. As the tall undead in front of her took another step, she rushed forward into a whirling slash, allowing her back leg to fold as she slashed low at the thing's legs.

It moved faster than she could ever have expected, blocking her longsword with its own, rough blade, and lashing out hard with its foot, where she crouched. She caught the worst of it in her sternum; the air rushed from her lungs as she was tossed backwards, trying her best to keep a one-handed grip on her sword as she tumbled.

Having seen the monstrosity attack her, Ander shifted his attention away from the far deck. He swung his staff chest-level with the monster, the crystal tip igniting fire-orange when it struck home, sending the Risen flailing at elemental fire spreading over its body.

Ander immediately moved to help Magiere up. She shook her head fiercely, trying to regain her focus. In her heart, she knew, then, that they were too strung out to win.

"We need to move," she rasped at Ander, still trying to catch her breath. "Retreat. We need to retreat."

The elemantalist whirled his staff, striking down a lesser Risen, its remains splashing into the sea below.

"Where?" he spat, "There is no retreat." For a split second, he glared daggers at her, then returned his attention to the fighting. As more Risen approached them, she took up her sword, parried an incoming blow, and dove back into the fray.

Moments later, she'd already cut down two more Risen, when Darva roared in pain. Sparing a glance, she saw her Captain on one knee, tossing his smoking pistol aside. Blood stained the gleaming gold of his Lionguard armor—she'd no idea if it was his, undead, Meryl's, Therese's. At Darva's feet, the sylvari, Lyren, eyes open, deathly vacant.

The shaking of the ship's deck announced the return of the monster that Ander had burnt, and Magiere was forced to turn away from Darva. Its chest still smoking, the undead smashed its sword against the wood in a fury, sending up splinters.

Magiere tried to steady her breathing, call up another rune of warding as the creature charged. It sapped at her strength, but she felt the familiar energy flow through her limbs. When the creature attacked—a massive forward thrust meant to impale her, she focused on pouring the energy into her longsword, then slammed her weapon against the attacker's blade.

The blow caught the monster off-guard, sending it reeling; energy from Magiere's magic crackled along  the smoking husk of its body.

She turned to Ander, found him hard-pressed. Stepping to his side, she blocked an attack that might have struck him, and sliced the fragile Risen from collar-bone to hip.

Ander slammed his staff into the face of another attacker, felling it. He shot Magiere a quick, exhausted glance, a nod of thanks, then his eyes went wide and he rushed in the direction she'd previously been fighting.

His staff caught the first swipe from the huge Risen, recovered yet again. The force of the blow knocked him backwards into Magiere, and they both fell against the railing of the ship.

Its first slash deflected, the undead thrust its sword forward again, past Ander's defenses.

Magiere opened her mouth to cry out, scream, all the remaining strength in her arms working to push him out of the way, but the creature's sword slammed home, stabbing straight through his middle. As she tried to push herself away, a searing pain exploded in her abdomen. Black spots exploded in her vision and she felt herself go rigid, looked down—the tip of the undead's sword had pierced straight through Ander, into her.

Her mind reacted almost automatically—runes of protection, healing, flashed through her mind's eye, even as her body was pulled forward, the Risen ripping its sword free of her and Ander. She felt warm blood run over her hip, down her leg—somewhere in the distance, Ander, screaming in pain.

The magic affected her almost immediately—she could feel the bleeding slowing, the edges of the wound healing.

Ander hunched over in front of her, blood spreading across the deck of The Undertow, beneath him. Magiere felt almost separated from her body. The Risen slashed forward again—so fast—Ander leaned back, raised his arm to block it.

She closed her eyes, felt drops of warmth splash across her face. Blackness faded over her concentration; she had trouble even opening her eyes. Grabbing desperately for her sword, a reflex more than anything, Magiere felt the monstrous presence closing on her, heard the footsteps.

Another loud roar flooded her mind, snapped her eyes open. Darva, broadsword leading his charge, slammed full-body into the huge Risen, running it through nearly to the hilt. Looking past him, Magiere could see another figure on the other side of the ship. Her vision cleared, slightly: Muninn, bleeding from a dozen wounds, more of his body red with blood, than not. Necromantic energy swarmed about the norn, causing even the Risen to claw at their own skin as they rotted away.

Am I dying? Magiere wondered.

She felt for the wound in her stomach, hands coming away red. She looked down—shirt torn, soaked red, the stab had almost closed, before her spell had failed.

Her hand closed over her sword-hilt, and she pushed herself to her feet, still unsteady. The wound in her abdomen was an anchor, attempting to pull her back to the ground.

Darva leaned over his sword, breath coming in short gasps.

"Run," he gasped, eyes fixed on Magiere. "Just run—"

The charr's life gave out mid-breath.

Muninn caught sight of her, standing, from the other side of the ship. He rushed towards her, swaths of black energy following his footsteps.

As he reached her, she gripped her sword anew, finally took stock of their situation. The Risen on the deck were fairly occupied by the norn's necromancy, but she could hear more, snarling, roaring shouting, all around them.

"How did you...?" she murmered, trailing off.

"We're going," said Muninn. His voice was a rasp, barely a whisper. He hooked one of his large arms beneath Magiere's, hauled her fully to her feet. He then turned his attention across the ship, to a fallen undead, clambering to its feet.

The norn fixed an intense stare on the rotting thing, and the Risen stared back.

"What are you—" Magiere started, but forgot the rest when the undead burst into flames.

"Powder keg," Muninn said, simply. "We have to go. Now."

Magiere's last sight, as Muninn dragged her off the ship's deck, was the flaming thing running towards the ship's lower decks, its arms flailing.

She didn't recall hitting the water, but it felt as ice, tried to get into her lungs, until Muninn pulled her up, gasping.

"Swim," he ordered, almost pulling her along, his massive arms cutting through the seawater. Sheer reflex took over, and Magiere felt her arms moving, her tired legs kicking harder than she thought possible.

Time became lost, and Magiere's mind nearly wandered into unconsciousness, pulled back only by Muninn shouting "Swim!" in between strokes.

A deafening explosion came from behind her—the sound separated seconds apart from the blast that struck them moments later, pulling them both beneath the water.

Powder keg, Magiere thought, before she felt strong hands looping beneath her arms, and her mind finally turned to black.

[Xerali]

(Part. VI)

A dream. Memory, maybe.

She was on her back, in the dirt. Hand gripping wooden handle—training sword. Soft hands gripped her own—pulled to her feet.

A few yards away, the boy who'd put her on her back—quarterstaff out front of him—defensive.

Hands leaving hers—Mellin—mother.

"No tears," she said. "Grit those teeth and press him until he relents. If he doesn't relent, put him in the healer's tent for a few days."

Magiere took a deep breath—looked at the boy—tousled red hair. Paler complexion than hers.

Eyes burning—Mellin glaring at her—disappointment—another deep breath—

She woke to her own coughing, lungs dry, aching for air. Her eyes took their own time opening, and when they did, blackness surrounded her.

No, Magiere thought, her vision swimming into focus. Stars. And off to her right, resting against a tree, Munnin.

"Are we—" she started, hoisting herself up on her elbows before an explosion of pain in her abdomen forced her back down. Much of it came back—the ship, the explosion, swimming.

Ander.

Muninn noticed her waking, tree-trunk legs carrying his weary body over to her. Dried blood still coated much of his bare skin.

"Still," he rasped at her. "Catch your breath, don't move." He knelt next to her, placed a massive hand on her shoulder. "You healed most of your wound. Ugly thing. I bandaged the rest."

Magiere looked down to her stomach—bandaged  with a torn cloak all the way around, from her navel to the top of her ribcage. Deep red had already soaked through where it covered the stab wound, but much of the blood was dried.

"That should have killed you," said Muninn, matter-of-factly.

"Thank you," Magiere mumbled. She pushed up on her elbows again. The pain was still there, but she was ready for it. She paused...something on the air...

Smoke.

Muninn kept his hand against her shoulder, shook his head. "We have escaped, for the time being," he said. "But I cannot carry you any farther. When you are ready to walk, we should go."

She nodded, taking stock of their surroundings. Dark, quiet jungle. The screaming of Risen echoed in her mind.

"Ander?" she said, looking up at the norn.

He shook his head, solemn. "They are all dead, save you and I."

Magiere had known it, of course. The moment she'd regained consciousness. The dream.

Ander—the sword—raising his arm up—

Between the pain and the guilt, she felt as if she might be sick. Instead, she swallowed hard, began pushing herself to her knees, to her feet.

"We can wait a bit, yet," Muninn said, stepping away from her. She could read the exhaustion in the way he stood, the slump of his shoulders, swaying a bit on his feet.

"No," Magiere said, insistent. "The longer we're still, the easier they'll catch us. Get to a merchant camp, another patrol route, anything, then we can stop. Not until."

Muninn nodded his agreement. "I am glad you're not dead, Magiere."

Her eyes began to burn, ready for tears that weren't coming. "Me too," she said.

The norn gave a loud cough, then pointed off in the distance. "North," he said. "It's the only direction to go. With Raven's luck, we'll find one of the merchant trails." Kneeling, Muninn picked up a sword—Magiere's. "Strong enough?" he asked.

She took the sword, even though its scabbard hadn't survived the trip. "Have to be," she said. "Let's go."

*

For the first few hours, she feared pursuit. Every branch cracking, animal crying out, had Magiere looking wildly over her shoulder, wary of an impending ambush.

Nothing came. She told herself it was only the dark, but even in silence, her mind would not quiet memories of the violent chaos that had engulfed The Undertow in a few short minutes.

"How did you make it back?" she asked the necromancer, ahead of her.

"I stayed long enough only to ensure that Gorr received the death that he deserved," said Muninn. "After, I ran. You and the boy were easy to follow."

"Ander,"

"Yes," said the norn. "Him. My apologies. I reached the ship just as the attack came. The undead vessel very nearly pulled me underwater, but I managed to get aboard."

Magiere had other questions, but she remained quiet, the oppressive darkness of the jungle at night focusing her attention on their surroundings.

What will we tell the Captain's Council? Will the Risen find the artifact? Will Ander be some walking thing, stalking the shores—

She slammed her eyes shut for a few seconds, halting, forcing the thoughts from the front of her mind.

Muninn heard her stop. "Don't," he called out, sharply. "You have years ahead of you to relive it. Do not do it now."

Magiere gritted her teeth, and they moved on.

*

When the sun began to break over the horizon some time later, they both breathed easier. They had yet to find any recognizable trails, but the sun's rising at least confirmed the direction they were walking.

"We should stop and examine your wound," Muninn said to her, as the light cut through the trees.

Magiere was finally able to take stock of them both, realized they looked little better Risen. Humidity and sweat had mixed with the blood covering their clothes, their skin. Any skin that wasn't deathly pale from exhaustion was marred with grime.

"I will be all right a bit, yet," Magiere said, her voice not betraying her doubts.

If we don't find help, this will kill me.

"You are unable to heal it any faster?"

Magiere shook her head. "It's closed," she said. "Try to push it, I might pass out." She sighed, used her sword to cut away a low-hanging vine blocking her path. "I'm no use to you off my feet."

The norn suddenly halted, in front of her, holding up a hand. For a moment, Magiere only heard distant birdsong, the rustling of wind through the trees.

Then...running water. And talking.

Muninn glanced back at her, held a palm low, gestured for her to follow. Stay low, stay quiet.

They crept through the weeds, around trees. The sea inlet became visible through the trees, and Magiere caught a glimpse of a few figures milling about on the shore. Muninn did, too, and he held up a hand again, four fingers.

Magiere watched intently, through the thick of the trees. Three men, a woman. All human. Her optimism flared, when she saw the color of their leathers, the golden, lion's head insignia burnished upon their coats.

Lionguard.

They both rose from their hiding, and walked through the trees, hands out front of them, except for Magiere's sword, which she held loosely at her side.

The assembled crew on the shore caught sight of them almost immediately and reached for their weapons. Beached, behind them, was a small boat, also bearing the Lionguard insignia.

"Wait!" one of the men called out, halting the other three. He was tall, bald—difficult to take stock of due to the large leather coat he wore. Looking back towards Magiere and Muninn, his fingers resting against the wooden grip of a pistol tucked into his belt, he raised his voice. "You like like the dead, but I doubt you are. Name yourselves." The man spared a few wary glances at Magiere's sword-arm.

Muninn nodded to the man, a friendly gesture. "Muninn, of the Lionguard."

"Magiere Djenor." She addressed the man directly, curtly. "We're crew of a ship, The Undertow. It was overrun by Risen some distance to the south."

Many of the crew shared wary glances at mention of the Risen, but the bald man addressing Magiere and Muninn did not seem phased.

"And you're all that's left?"

Magiere nodded. "The ship is down. The rest of the crew is dead."

The man looked back to the rest of his crew, a moment's glance, before turning back to Magiere. "And what was your cargo?"

She practically felt the norn tense beside her. Her gut ached. Something was wrong.

"No cargo," Magiere said. "Regular patrol."

The man pursed his lips, eyes flicking between Magiere and Muninn. Finally, he sighed, fingers wrapping around the grip of the pistol.

"You are not Lionguard," Muninn said. The man simply shrugged at the accusation, pulling the pistol from his belt. Muninn continued, "You are thieves, picking the bones from the dead."

As the bald man lifted his pistol, Muninn was already moving. Magiere dove opposite, to the right, a rune of deflection already flashing through her mind's eye as the pistol discharged in a spray of smoke and fire. She hit the ground hard, the pain in her abdomen real and unbearable all over again.

She'd lost track of Muninn, but knew he was still moving when a streak of necromantic magic boiled the air on its way to the man with the pistol, lighting upon his skin and making him scream.

Magiere took stock of the remaining three, as the man fell to the ground, clawing at himself. The woman held a long-rifle, fired it in Muninn's direction. The smoke from the pistol cleared enough for Magiere to see the norn take the shot, falling to his knees, his hands. She pushed herself off the ground, sword gripped tight, rushed towards the three.

The woman swung the rifle around, but Magiere loosed the deflection spell in a flash of blue energy, dropped, felt the bullet from the rifle shred into the rune, ripping through the air above her.

She came up in the face of the nearest man, startling him. He tried to parry her hard forward thrust with a short-sword, but she was already inside his defense, easily deflecting his sloppy swing. Her sword sank into his chest, and she ignored his scream, ripping the weapon clear, intent on putting the remaining thief between herself and the woman with the rifle.

The second opponent was better-prepared, and came at Magiere before she could take stock of him. She managed to slap aside a quick thrust of his sword, but he barreled toward her, his shoulder slamming into the center of her chest. She stumbled backwards, gasping for breath, tripping on the dead man behind her. She hit the ground hard, and he was already on her, sword-point stabbing downward—

His boot. Knife.

She parried the attack, the thief's blade passing inches in front of her face. Rolling to the left, the man pursued her, sword out in front of him, but Magiere reversed her momentum—leg out straight, knee locked—and the hard heel of her boot cracked into his knee.

The man cried out, his leg buckling. Magiere took the advantage from her pone position, snatching the dagger from the lip of the man's boot, used her remaining strength to push to her feet and ram the blade upward through the bottom of his jaw. His body went rigid, shook. She left the dagger there, and let him fall.

The woman with the rifle stared at Magiere wide-eyed. "Yield," she said, setting the rifle down in the sand and rocks. "I yield. Please. I was just following orders."

Magiere spared a glance toward Muninn—the norn was face-down, the ground beneath him red with blood.

She felt her body tremble. Unable to focus. Think. Couldn't stop making the connection—the woman firing—Muninn hitting the ground.

Magiere barely gave the woman time to react. She charged, the woman turned to run, Magiere kicked her feet out, sword down—point into the top of her spine. The woman gasped, and was dead before she hit the grond.

*

Muninn was dead.

Magiere lifted hard, rolled him over, prayed to the Six that he was still breathing, still alive. His face was no longer recognizable, after the rifle shot.

Her heart sank into hopelessness, and as she knelt next to him, time was lost.

Later, that morning, she searched the dead thieves.  She took the rifle, the pistol, one of the swords. It took a while to get Muninn into the boat, and she covered him with the largest of the Lionguard coats the thieves had stolen.

She looked through the scant few sundries the thieves had—bandages among them. She removed the bloodstained cloth from her abdomen, washed the wound, redressed it.

The three dead men, the woman, she left on the shore.

As the sun crept closer to its noon position in the sky, Magiere pushed the small boat off the beach, and began rowing it north, towards Lion's Arch.

[Mixxi]

Damn you, Xer. I get to read this and cry all over again.