Chapter 4: Part 12 - Death's Anthem

Jean had made a mistake. He knew it from the moment he stepped onto the deck of the mouldering ship – which some deeply buried part of his brain named as Death's Anthem. It wasn't just the ship itself, either, though that seemed to be on the verge of disintegrating in a shower of splinters. The whole place was crawling with Risen.

Fighting past the first few was easy enough. They were only sparsely spread across the upper deck, easy to spy at a distance – and easy to slow down with ice long before they got to him. It was easy, too, to escape the pair that followed him into the maze of corridors on the lower decks. Their sense of direction, it appeared, had been lost when they died the first time.

Things became more difficult as he descended, though. In close quarters, it was much harder for him to keep the Risen at bay. As soon as he had one under control, another would lurch out of the shadows behind him. Several times, he became surrounded with no immediate way to escape.

It was sheer determination that carried him through. Jean didn't think of himself as a fighter. He wasn't really an academic, either, though he could probably hold his own in a scholarly debate better than in a duel. He was used to bringing up the rear in a battle, always following his sister's lead. Being alone down here, in the dank, dark bowels of Death's Anthem... It should have scared him far more than it did.

Not a fighter – but his competitive streak was definitely coming to the fore. They'd been through so much to advance in Yinn's game, Marissa especially. He wasn't going to let that be in vain.

He stumbled down the last flight of steps, taking a moment to catch his breath. A handful of Risen prowled the room beyond, sluggish and shambling. Jean was certain he could take them out. Well, almost certain. It was good enough.

Because his prize lay in the centre of the room. The chest was almost up to his shoulder at its apex, crusted with barnacles and seaweed. The chest itself hadn't been marked on the map he'd taken from the dead asura, but Death's Anthem certainly had been. Now that he was here, Jean couldn't imagine a better hiding place.

He sucked in one last breath, then attacked. Ice sprayed across the floor in front of him, both drawing the attention of the Risen and slowing them to a crawl. Jean immediately attacked again, with explosions of glittering ice, with shards of razor-sharp rock, with a coruscating wall of lightning. That final element wasn't his speciality, but it was enough to blast three of the Risen into clouds of dust.

Only two remained. The first flung itself at his right arm, grasping for his sceptre. Jean shook it off, the shield of rock around his body expanding outward and flinging the undead into the nearest wall. The second Risen swung a huge, rusting sword straight at Jean's head. He ducked, slamming a dagger of ice into its stomach with enough force to almost cut it in two. It swayed for a moment, sword wavering, then collapsed in a heap.

The silence that followed was absolute. Jean gradually became aware of how hard he was breathing, how sweat was trickling down his spine. It was warm inside the rotting ship, the air heavy and foetid. His hands were perfectly steady, though. Once, a fight like that would have left them shaking. This game had changed him more than he realised.

He was forced to sheathe his weapons to open the massive chest. It took both hands to lever open its heavy lid, weighed down with brass bindings and a thick layer of barnacles. Yinn must have brought an army down here to get it open; the thing was twice the height of the average asura. At least he could be certain no other team had made it here before him. No-one who'd struggled to open this damned chest would have bothered to close it again.

He'd lifted the lid just a few inches when there was a low chuckle. It was the only warning Jean got before the lid exploded open, ripping itself out of his hands and falling away from him with a bang. Jean staggered backwards in horror as another Risen surged from the shadows of the chest.

He got only a glimpse of it – pale-faced and dark-eyed, bloodless lips producing an eerie cackle – before it fell on him. He hadn't even managed to draw a weapon before they crashed into a pillar, the Risen's hands reaching for Jean's throat. The same part of his mind that had known the name of the ship dredged up another from childhood stories – Captain Rotbeard – before shutting off entirely. Instinct was all that remained.

They lurched sideways, Jean almost falling to the floor. He scrabbled for his sceptre and instead got hold of the hilt of a dagger. Even as he drew it, though, Rotbeard closed both bony hands around Jean's throat. The dagger clattered to the floor.

Jean staggered away, pulling Rotbeard with him. The captain's hands loosened a fraction, just enough for Jean to suck in a lungful of air. This time, he managed to get hold of his sceptre, and yanked it from his belt with a spell already forming. Jean jammed the weapon into Rotbeard's stomach with a blast of ice that would have ripped a lesser Risen in half.

The captain, though, was made of stronger stuff. He lurched away with a noise that was half laugh, half groan, and came to a stop against one of the pillars. Jean put his free hand to his aching throat, already preparing another spell – and heard movement overhead.

Not one of the Risen. None of them walked with such a firm, quick tread. This was someone living, which meant they'd followed the same trail he had.

"Here!" Jean tried to shout, but the word came out cracked and hoarse. "Down here–"

Rotbeard was gone. Jean hadn't seen the captain move, but a scabby arm suddenly wrapped around his throat from behind, pulling him into the shadows. Jean's shouts were cut off, his sceptre waving uselessly in front of him and his feet kicking against the floor. The low chuckle came again, right in his ear this time. On the other side of the room, the massive chest slowly began to close.

Jean's vision swam. Rotbeard was going to choke the life out of him. It wouldn't even take long. Jean lifted his sceptre with weak fingers, aiming another spell over his shoulder. There was a brief sizzle; the spell had bounced off a wall. Rotbeard didn't even twitch.

What a way to die. The thought came to Jean, sudden and ridiculous, as his chest burned and the world faded to black. Alone in the belly of a wrecked ship, squeezed to death by a Risen pirate captain. Death's Anthem was a good name for the place, he found himself thinking. There hadn't been any singing, though, and the captain didn't even have a beard.

The blast of gunfire made Jean flinch. For a moment, he thought he was the one who'd been shot. He slumped forwards, suddenly released by Rotbeard, and fell to the floor gasping for breath. There were pounding footsteps, more gunfire. There was a pain in Jean's chest where the bullets had struck. No, not bullets – he was lying on the crystal tip of his own sceptre.

Jean rolled over, coughing and spluttering. He hauled himself upright, holding onto the wall. Rotbeard lay slumped and unmoving in the corner – and there was Vasha, appearing as though out of a dream. A dream Vasha might have been less dishevelled and caked in river slime, perhaps, but the real one was still the most beautiful thing Jean had ever seen.

She eyed him warily. "Are you all right?"

"Perfectly well, thank you." Jean managed to get his sceptre back into his belt. He rubbed his aching throat. "Though it's odd what you think about whilst you're dying."

"Not me, I hope," Vasha said.

Would she be flattered if he lied? Jean wasn't sure he had the strength. "No. Just my situation. Thank you for saving me."

"You're welcome," Vasha said, stowing her pistols. "I didn't do it for you."

Of course not. Jean didn't want to contemplate whether Vasha would have saved his life in other circumstances. If there had been no prize, would she have left him to die? Had he really caused her that much pain?

He took a few stumbling steps closer, resisting an urge to reach for her hand. "Come on. Let's see what we've won."

They lifted the chest's lid together, Jean trying not to flinch. It was empty this time, save for a single white envelope in the very bottom. Jean didn't like to imagine what trials Yinn's staff had gone through to hide it there. He hoped they were being paid well.

Vasha carefully retrieved it, turned it over in her hands a few times, then stepped away. Jean's limbs seemed to have lost all strength; he had no choice but to let the chest lid fall with a thump.

There were several moments of silence before Vasha spoke. "This is mine."

"What?"

"Marissa took the prize in Tarir," Vasha went on, her voice growing stronger, "and I just saved you. I deserve this win."

Jean swallowed painfully. His throat was going to hurt for weeks. He couldn't dispute Vasha's argument, though. She did indeed deserve this prize. Either Marissa taking the last one or Vasha saving his life now would have been enough on their own. Together? Vasha's conclusion was irrefutable.

"All right," he said, at which she blinked in surprise. "Can I see what it is?"

Still wary, Vasha nodded. She pulled a single sheet of paper from the envelope, smoothing it open. "A map," she said slowly, her forehead creasing. "I think."

She allowed Jean a few seconds to study it, but only that. The page did indeed have the look of a map, but it was covered in strange circles that looped round one another. A path up a mountain, perhaps? A route down into a valley? Either way, it didn't look like any part of Tyria he'd ever studied.

He stepped back, hands raised, indicating that he was relinquishing the prize as promised. Vasha nodded, carefully folding the map again and tucking it out of sight.

"We should get out of here before..." Jean gestured to the damp room around them.

"Yes." Vasha hesitated a moment, then nodded towards the stairs. "After you."

Jean went, though there was a strange tugging sensation in the middle of his chest. Nothing to do with his injuries, this time. This was pain of a different sort.

The old Vasha, the one he'd known and loved in Divinity's Reach, had never been talkative. She, too, would have looked embarrassed if he'd showered her in gratitude. Jean couldn't help thinking she would have greeted him differently, though. More relief. More satisfaction at her own abilities. Perhaps even a smile.

This Vasha, though... There was a single-minded determination in her eyes that would once have been out of character. It was an expression Jean associated with his sister, or even with a cold soul like Yelazar. This Vasha had come here to win, personal feelings be damned – and she'd do whatever it took.