Mistress of Helena

Chapter 1

13 August 149 Third Age

At the edge of the world, it only rained.

Helena was a fair name for an unfair place. An isolated rock marooned at the edge of the Shattering Sea, officially designated as a coaling station. It served as an oasis in the liquid desert for ships of the Serene Republic of Oren. The official story went that Helena played a vital role for steamships venturing beyond the normal sea lanes. But this was far from the truth to those who knew better. The real motive for its colonization was the relentless game of one-upmanship between Oren and its rival, the merchant republic of Athoas. Oren’s grip on Helena was not about utility—it was about keeping it out of Athoas’s reach.

For such an isolated island, Helena harbored nearly twelve thousand souls, a little over a hundred armed soldiers, a solitary fort, and a burgeoning port city that swelled and drained of travelers with each boat. The island offered its residents a level of security and predictability unattainable on the tumultuous mainland. The inhabitants considered the isolation and relentless storms a fair trade-off for peace, although it still exacted its toll.

Recently, the war drums on Ambria had led to sparse and costly food supplies on the ships that come less frequently of late. To stave off starvation, the island had resorted to rationing and the aid of a resident sorceress, who endeavored to coax life from the barren soil.

Lord Carrack, the garrison commander, spent his days staring blankly at the vast ocean-filled horizon that only made the loneliness weigh heavier on his chest. His jaw was set, his hand gripping a crumpled piece of paper, and sweat trickled down his brow amidst the cold ocean breeze. His steely blue eyes scanned the sea’s expanse, seeking solace. His fatigue was evident; another week had passed without the sight of a ship.

His mind filled with questions and thoughts of beyond the horizon. What could be happening out there? Where was everyone? He was warned of tensions across the continent, raids and blockades from Athoas, but the navy always pulled through.

“They have to pull through,” he murmured to himself.

Carrack was an anomaly in the Orenian realm, a society that boasted a distinct form of republicanism, rejecting traditional aristocratic trappings. In the republic, noble titles were mere decorations, and power lay within provinces and districts rather than keeps and fiefs. Aristocracy was earned, not inherited.

On Helena, however, Carrack wielded power akin to a true lord. His word was the law; he was the final recourse. He bore a resemblance to a traditional Lord, similar to those from Afonland, a realm infamous for its peasantry and backwardness.

Behind closed doors within the island’s fort, Lord Carrack and his advisors held council to discuss what to do about the worsening food crisis. The candlelit room was dank, its stone walls bare of decoration, and a musky stench hung in the air as the rain pounded against the lone stained-glass window.

Four sat around a mahogany table with Lord Carrack at the head. His worn dark blue uniform, still wet from the moments he’d been in the rain, sent a chill up his spine. He had a bald head and a thick white beard, a style opposite to what he’d had before he arrived. An exhaustive battle with fleas on his travels to Helena had forced him to shave his head bald. To his dismay, his hair never grew back, and he often found himself running his fingers across his scalp thinking that it was all still there.

His second-in-command, Captain Foeham, sat with a worrisome look on his face, rubbing his bald head while reviewing the documents detailing their food situation. Carrack’s appointed mayor of the island, Loreman Weis, was idle, calm, and aware of what the documents would do to the jumpy captain. Finally, there was Alaina the Green, a sorcerer who’d arrived here as a refugee when the wars had started on the mainland. Alaina owed much to the island for taking her in and even more to Lord Carrack for protecting her from the suspicious population that was prone to blame magic-users for the ills of the world.

Foeham’s voice wavered as he asked, “Is this all we have left? Two weeks' worth?”

“Two weeks, if we don’t start rationing,” Loreman Weis added calmly.

“We have been!” Foeham snapped back, his face reddening with frustration.

“More rationing, then,” Weis replied, his voice unyielding. “The physicians say this is the most we can cut while maintaining a healthy populace overall.”

Carrack, his words controlled and calm, asked, “How long then? How long until the real difficulty starts?”

Weis leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as he gathered his thoughts. “Well, this will buy us a few more weeks, max five, considering we’ll have to account for spoilage. After that, we’d have to start prioritizing.”

“Prioritizing. Choosing who lives and who dies, essentially?” Foeham asked in barely a whisper.

“A grim situation, Captain, but it will be catastrophic if we start losing our nerve. The Republic relies on us to operate our fueling station and lighthouse,” Weiss said to the collective eye-roll of the others.

“Is there still no word from the continent? Or from any ships?” Alaina queried.

Weis turned to her with a disdainful glare. “No one has uttered a peep on the radio, and our signals have never been powerful enough to reach the mainland. You know that.”

“Surely someone on Kraidan can hear us? They’re but a few days’ sail away?” Alaina continued, unperturbed by Weis’s curt tone.

“Silence from there as well. Storms might be causing havoc on their array like last time,” Carrack interjected before Weis could retort.

“Maybe our array can be strengthened, if you would allow me to—”

“No magic, dammit!” Weis barked. “It’ll fry the circuits, and then we’ll be totally blind.”

“Calm down, Weis,” Carrack commanded. “Alaina, focus on the farming techniques. How have they been going?”

“The crops are growing, but it’s delicate and slow. The enchantments only help growth outside of natural conditions, but I haven’t found a method to make them grow faster. If our circumstances become as desperate as we fear, I can’t ease the strain for the whole island. I can only hope to keep the garrison fed, barely.”

“Subpar food—anyway, no taste,” Weis scoffed.

“Enough! I have enough to worry about without you, my chief civil servant, throwing snide comments like a child at my resident mage. Understood?” Carrack’s tone was ice-cold.

“Yes, sir,” Weis mumbled, his gaze dropping to the table.

As Carrack rose, the rest of the table followed. “Enact the rations, Captain, and send the herald to announce the news to the town … under guard.”

“Before that, sir, the business in the courtyard,” Foeham reminded him.

Carrack swore under his breath for forgetting the final act of the day. “Is the rain at least letting up?” A booming thunderclap in the distance answered him in a cruel twist of fate.

“Unlikely, sir,” Foeham said.

The courtyard was a battlefield of mud, with makeshift wooden planks laid down to form a rudimentary walkway. Soldiers worked to maintain the paths, but the relentless rain transformed their efforts into a futile task. It took merely a few days before the wood was swallowed by the muddy quagmire or decayed beyond use.

Five soldiers stood in a line, their bolt-action rifles gripped tightly in hand. Mud clung to their uniforms, heavy and cold, sticking to their bodies like wet cloaks. At the yard’s end, a man stood against the stone wall, blindfolded and defiant, no more than twenty paces from the soldiers. His hands were bound behind his back, his simple clothes soaked and soiled from standing outside in the downpour for over an hour.

The courtyard fell silent as Lord Carrack entered, only the steady rhythm of the rain daring to break the hush. Soldiers turned to watch their commander as he ascended to a wooden balcony, the perfect vantage point from which to oversee the dispensation of justice—his justice.

“We are here to ensure that justice is served and that this island remains a beacon of order amidst the chaos of the sea. I, Lord Carrack, being charged by Doge Rodrigo and the Orenian Senate to safeguard the order of Helena, stand here to administer the justice of the republic,” Carrack announced, his voice cutting through the rain. “Roger Harrier, you have been charged and found guilty of your fourth act of robbery,” Carrack took a deep, measured breath. “For that, you are sentenced to die. May the Luminary guide you to a warm embrace.”

At a slight nod from Lord Carrack, Captain Foeham issued the fatal command. The soldiers obeyed, their rifles echoing with five unified cracks through the rain-soaked courtyard. Harrier’s body slumped and slid slowly to the ground, his lifeblood seeping into the mud. Blood and mud—that’s all this place had been for Lord Carrack.

“Death after four robberies,” a soldier manning the wall murmured to his companion.

“The commander’s gone soft. It’s supposed to be after the third.”