Mistress of Helena

Chapter 16

Scarcely had a few moments elapsed when Carrack, spurred by urgency, bolted from his chamber, and hurtled down the tower, barely noticing the persistent ache in his leg. Adrenaline proved a potent pain killer, numbing the pain and propelling him into the fort’s shadowy courtyard.

A handful of soldiers, already on high alert due to the breathless arrival of the messenger, stood poised and vigilant, their eyes scanning the area for signs of impending danger. As Carrack swiftly equipped himself with the necessary gear and weapons, the messenger wasted no time in briefing him.

Captain Foeham had spearheaded a unit to investigate a warehouse near the docks, acting on suspicions of the teamster’s hoarding food. Their suspicions proven correct, the discovery of the cache had unfortunately led the teamsters to rally an angry mob. Now, Captain Foeham and his team found themselves cornered inside that very warehouse.

“How many are we up against?” Carrack inquired urgently. As he rallied troops for the imminent rescue, he internally chastised Foeham for breaking his orders.

“Two, perhaps three dozen were making their way to the docks when I departed,” the messenger conveyed, catching his breath. “Captain Foeham is accompanied by merely half a dozen men.”

“Only six?!” Carrack’s voice laced with disbelief. “And what of our patrols? Could they be of assistance?”

The messenger hesitated momentarily. “No, sir. Captain Foeham ordered their return to minimize the footprint. He believed a smaller unit would operate more discreetly. His primary objective was to ascertain the stockpile, not to claim it.”

Carrack’s frustration was palpable. “Damn it all! Rally a platoon, immediately! Rouse any resting men; I want them at the ready!”

Soldiers from all corners of the fort sprang into action, their urgency palpable as word spread of their brethren’s dire situation. In what felt like mere moments, the entirety of the garrison was roused and ready for action. But Carrack, always a tactician, recognized the potential vulnerability of an undermanned fort with a potential revolt on the horizon. With reluctance, he turned the majority away, choosing only a select team for the mission.

Once his rescue unit was solidified, they bolted from the fort’s confines, their boots pounding against the storm-swept, muddied earth. The city’s silhouette loomed on the horizon, normally a steady half-hour’s distance. The wind and rain battered them, pulling at their spirits, threatening to curb their drive. But then, a beacon of urgency: a crimson emergency flare burst forth, arcing high over the dockyard. The sight, a stark contrast against the stormy night, steeled their determination, propelling them onward.

As they breached the outskirts, the port city of Helena flashed by in a frenetic whirl. Their feet transitioned from the treacherous mire of the fields to the hard, reassuring cobblestones of the city streets, spurring them forward even faster. The storm’s ever-present hum was suddenly punctuated by a distant riotous clamor, signaling the unrest they were racing toward.

Suddenly, a deafening crack reverberated through the air, echoing off the city’s stone structures. Instinctively, the soldiers scattered, seeking shelter in any shadowy alcove, behind upturned carts, or against the solid facades of the looming buildings. Carrack’s voice, edged with pain and urgency, cut through the tension: “Where was that shot from?”

A symphony of hushed, uncertain murmurs replied.

No sooner had the question been posed than another gunshot, and then another, punctuated the air. These rapid-fire detonations were interspersed with shrill cries of terror and pain-laden roars, each evoking chilling visions of the brutal confrontation they were hurtling toward.

“To the docks!” Carrack bellowed, an undercurrent of panic just barely discernible in his otherwise authoritative command. The palpable desperation in his voice galvanized the soldiers, binding them together as they readied themselves for the storm of conflict awaiting them.

A lone silhouette in the distance made the regiment halt in their tracks. Its uneven gait seemed eerily out of place amid the charged atmosphere, and even these battle-hardened soldiers found themselves momentarily transfixed. As recognition washed over Carrack, a cold weight settled in his chest, temporarily overshadowing the urgency of their objective.

Drawing closer, the figure’s identity became gut-wrenchingly clear: a young boy, fingers futilely clutching a bleeding wound on his abdomen. His clothes were now marred by a spreading darkness, drenched both from the storm and from his own blood. His pallid face, etched with pain and exhaustion, seemed unnaturally old, and his gaze was eerily detached, as if he had already surrendered to his fate.

Whispered inquiries circled around Carrack, but he remained rooted in place, a dark foreboding weighing him down. And then, the inevitable: the boy’s faltering steps ceased altogether as he crumpled to the cold cobblestone. The silence that followed his fall was as profound as the boy’s initial appearance. But the cruel hand of time continued to tick, and reality intruded once more into Carrack’s grim contemplation. Shaking off the haunting ghosts of the past that this scene had dredged up, he snapped back into the immediacy of the present. Every moment counted, and they had a mission to accomplish.

The docks, once the pulsing heart of the island’s commerce with the outside world, now resonated with an unsettling stillness. Like the skeletal fingers of a long-deceased giant, the wooden and concrete piers jutted into the vast, relentless ocean, conspicuously devoid of the regular ships that once danced around their edges. The usually bustling warehouses and cranes now seemed like abandoned relics, their dormant structures a stark contrast to the dynamic past.

As the rescue party approached, the briny bite of the sea wind assailed them, ruffling collars, and tousling hair. Almost magnetically, their gazes were drawn toward dock number seven. A motley group of figures shuffled around in a confusing display, surrounded by what appeared to be dark, lifeless forms scattered across the ground. The looming warehouse at the end of the dock beckoned as their primary objective.

Drawing nearer, the indistinct shapes hauntingly transformed into the unmistakable forms of lifeless islanders, victims of the recent conflict. The wandering figures were survivors, dazed and numb, moving aimlessly amidst the fallen loved ones. The grisly scene featured people from every facet of island life: young and old, men and women, all united in death. Carrack felt a cold shiver of horror at the sight. But his tactical mind immediately recognized the vulnerability of his stationary men.

“Move, move!” Carrack barked, his voice cutting through the shock. “Get out of the open! Secure the warehouse!”

Carrack’s urgent order jolted most of his men from their horror-induced paralysis. Pushing ahead toward the warehouse, they rallied their slower companions, urging them forward. The ragged relief of the two soldiers stationed at the entrance was unmistakable as they caught sight of the reinforcements. “Back up’s here!” one shouted, a flicker of hope rekindling in his eyes. The presence of Carrack and his squad seemed to instill a renewed vigor amidst the harrowing scene.

From the murky depths of the warehouse, Captain Foeham emerged. The weight of the ordeal was evident in his distant, haunted eyes and the blood-soaked cloth he pressed against his forehead. He locked eyes with Carrack for a brief, heavy moment, communicating a world of unspoken words before retreating back into the shadows. As Carrack’s team spread out to bolster defenses and secure the perimeter, he took a determined breath and ventured into the dimness after Foeham.

Carrack discovered the captain leaning against a barrel, looking so drained that he hardly acknowledged the approaching footsteps. Their quiet presence spoke volumes of the situation’s gravity. After what felt like an eternity, Carrack took a deep breath and voiced the question looming over them.

“What in the world happened here, Captain?” Carrack’s voice trembled with a mix of anger and disbelief.

“We had planned everything, sir. We took every precaution,” Foeham replied, his voice a weary whisper.

“What did you do?” Carrack’s tone was more accusatory, with a sharp edge.

Gesturing with a weak nod toward the nightmarish scene outside, Foeham murmured, “The locals believed we were hoarding the discovered food supplies. The teamsters stirred them up. Everything spiraled out of control.”

“Spiraled? Spiraled!” Carrack’s rage was palpable. “People are dead, Foeham! Can you even comprehend what you’ve done?”

Foeham stared vacantly, blood slowly seeping from beneath the rag pressed to his temple. He gave a slow nod before his voice emerged, barely more than a rasping whisper. “I saw them … in the crowd.”

Carrack leaned in closer, eyes narrowing with confusion. “Who did you see?”

Swallowing hard, Foeham met Carrack’s gaze, his own eyes betraying a stark terror. “Demons.”

Carrack frowned. “Demons? Foeham, what are you rambling about?”

“Demons,” Foeham repeated, his voice eerily distant, “surrounding them. Their shadows, stirring, writhing.”

“Shadows … stirring.” Carrack echoed, a shiver of recognition passing through him. Those words—shadows, stirring—they had been Harper’s enigmatic last words. An uneasy feeling settled in Carrack’s stomach, but he quickly pushed it aside, attributing it to the stress of the situation. He straightened up, gazing down at his wounded captain. “You’re in shock, Captain. We’ll address your breach of my orders once we’re out of this mess.”

Carrack called forth whomever was second-in-command of Foeham’s party. From the shadows, a familiar silhouette emerged: Crow. Stockier and bearing more years than most of the men present, his military haircut contrasted a well-groomed slick of black hair on top. Although his demeanor was stern, there was an undeniable wisdom in his eyes—a wisdom born of countless battles and skirmishes. Carrack had often heard of Crow during his mainland assignments. While Crow had consistently turned down officer commissions, preferring the grit and grind of enlisted life, he was often in Carrack’s considerations for leadership in crisis situations.

After a fleeting glance at Foeham’s condition, Crow’s piercing eyes met Carrack’s. “What’s our next move, sir?”

“Command falls to me now,” Carrack stated firmly.

Crow gave a terse nod. “That much is clear. Time to make our exit?”

“With haste,” Carrack concurred, eyeing the warehouse’s entrance warily. “Any wounded amongst us?”

“Just the captain’s injury—probably a brick or a piece of debris from the mob,” Crow detailed, scanning his men. “We can be ready to move in five.”

Carrack clapped a reassuring hand on Crow’s shoulder. “See to it.” As he assessed their surroundings, his gaze settled on barrels and containers branded with symbols indicating their contents: ale, grain, oil, and more. A curse slipped from his lips. Their cover was blown. Pretending ignorance of the teamsters’ illicit stockpile was no longer an option. As that realization sank in, a shout echoed from one of the sentries, pulling him from his thoughts.

“They’re coming,” the sentry warned. The ominous shuffle of a crowd grew louder.

Conflict was no longer a matter of if, but when.