Mistress of Helena

Chapter 17

Sentries reported that there were only a few people on the dock and that there was an eerie silence about the first people who arrived on the docks. Gaunt, they shuffled quietly amidst the remains of the earlier carnage, their shadowy forms barely discernible in the rain, sporadic lightning flashes granting them a ghostly illumination. They combed through the fallen, grasping for anything of value, their examination of each body meticulous and eerily respectful. From the shelter of the warehouse, the sentries told of what they saw.

“Poor bastards,” one of the watchful soldiers muttered to Carrack when he reported the sightings. But Carrack knew there was nothing pitiable about these figures—they were the “Stew Men”. Lured in by the promise of food and companionship, these unfortunate souls were enlisted by the teamsters. Their task was to collect bodies in reasonable condition and process them into a stew peddled to the desperate as “mystery meat”. It was doubtful anyone was truly oblivious to the “mystery”, but people could convince themselves of anything if it meant clinging to some shred of their dwindling humanity.

Once the Stew Men finished their grim task and disappeared into the storm’s embrace, a new wave of islanders descended upon the dock that Carrack saw before him. Gone was the paralyzing grip of fear; in its place, a steely determination had taken root. As the tempest roared above, mournful wails cut through, echoing the heart-wrenching pain of those who had lost their kin.

The once-silent docks soon buzzed with frenzied activity. Islanders, united in grief, assisted one another in the sorrowful endeavor of collecting their dead. In a particularly poignant act of defiance, select bodies were hoisted high, becoming symbolic standards that heralded the crowd’s advance, much like banners leading a battalion into battle.

Angry chants rippled through the masses, each word a dagger aimed at the wearied defenders huddled within the warehouse. From behind the barricades, the soldiers kept vigilant watch, their eyes darting around the mob, expecting a charge. Carrack noticed the men’s grips on their rifles tightening, their hands shaking, and feared that their nerves were waning.

Carrack rallied his troops, ensuring rifles were primed and positions fortified. From the stronghold of the warehouse, they braced themselves for the inevitable confrontation with the agitated mob outside. The storm, in its relentless fury, seemed to echo the unrest below. Voices, trembling with urgency, bellowed commands for the crowd to stand down. But their cries vanished into the wind, lost against the defiant march of the islanders.

“Men, ready to fire a warning shot! Let’s give them something to think about!” Carrack’s voice rang out, its sharpness piercing through the cacophony of the storm and the rising din of the crowd. “Aim high! And … fire!”

The sudden volley from the warehouse shattered the air with resounding cracks. Bullets hissed overhead, tearing through the rain-soaked curtain of the storm, their trajectories clear against the darkened sky. The immediate vicinity below the shots saw a ripple of hesitation, with some in the crowd instinctively ducking or glancing upward in startled reaction. But the collective momentum of the mob persisted, the swell of bodies pushing forward, undeterred, and seemingly even more determined in the face of displayed firepower.

Doubt began its insidious crawl into Carrack’s mind. He felt an acrid taste, like bile, rising in his mouth, and a cold shiver tingled down his spine. As he scanned the crowd, every face he saw was etched with the unmistakable mark of vengeance. Rapid calculations darted through his thoughts: the number of the angry mob versus his own limited forces; the flimsy barrier that the warehouse offered against such overwhelming odds; the firepower at his disposal and the limited reserves of ammunition.

He turned the scenarios over and over in his mind, assessing each potential outcome of the confrontation. But no matter how he twisted and contorted the possibilities, the grim conclusion was always the same. If they clashed, it would be nothing short of a bloodbath.

“Sir,” Crow interjected, his voice carrying the stark finality of someone who’d seen it all. He extended a canister—an incendiary grenade—toward Carrack. “We could set the warehouse aflame and use the chaos to escape into the sea.”

Carrack’s eyes widened, and his initial reaction was sheer disbelief. “Have you lost your mind?” he exclaimed. But then, after a beat, his tone softened, betraying a hint of desperation. “How many of those do you have?”

“Two,” replied Crow, his gaze unwavering.

Carrack grabbed the canisters. “The rain is too heavy; the fire won’t spread enough to provide a proper diversion. More likely, we’ll end up suffocating in smoke.” He took a rain cloak from a nearby soldier, using it to conceal the incendiaries. “However, the mob doesn’t know that.”

Crow’s brows knitted in confusion. “So, what’s your plan?”

Carrack’s eyes darted around before settling on the despondent figure of Captain Foeham, who seemed lost in his own morose world. With a brisk step, he walked up to Foeham and delivered a swift kick to his shin, jolting the captain from his trance. “Pull yourself together! There will be ample time for self-pity later. Now, listen closely.”

Rubbing his shin, Foeham met Carrack’s intense gaze, the fog of despair lifting slightly from his eyes. “Tell me what to do,” he croaked.

“Gather up your men, strip your equipment of anything that isn’t your rifles. Start funneling out the back and into the water.”

“Rough waters out there, sir,” Foeham added.

“You’re not swimming to open seas. Use the storm as cover, you can only see so far out there if the wind and rain ain’t acting like needles on your eyes. Hug the dock, slow and steady back to the mainland once you’re there you get yourselves back to the fort.”

“And what about you?” Foeham’s voice quivered with a mix of fear and concern.

“I’m facing that mob.”

“To what end? A noble death?” Crow’s skepticism was palpable.

“Dying isn’t on today’s agenda,” Carrack replied, though there was a tiredness to his voice. “My guess is that the crowd’s puppeteer will want to talk. Probably Franzen.”

“You think he’s orchestrating this madness?” Foeham questioned, doubt lacing his words. “It’s chaos out there.”

“Nothing happens on this dock without the teamsters’ blessing. If that mob’s here, it’s on Franzen’s orders. He’d prefer a conversation over a lynching.”

Crow frowned, “And if they’re not in a conversational mood?”

“Crow,” Carrack began, sounding almost fond, “Your wisdom comes from years in the shit, I know. But today, I need decisiveness. Our choices are limited, and none are good. If we don’t act, we’re dead.” Crow gave a resigned nod. “Once I step out, start moving.”

“Good luck, sir.” Foeham saluted before Carrack left to confront the oncoming crowd.

Torrential rain continued its relentless assault, blending with the fury of the crowd as Carrack stepped into the open. Holding his rifle aloft in a universal gesture of non-hostility, he began his tentative approach. The cacophony of the crowd’s anger and hatred felt almost tangible, every shout and scream biting into him more fiercely than the rain itself. It was as though the weight of their collective rage bore down on him, each step growing heavier than the last.

Suddenly, a misstep on the slick wood of the dock caused Carrack to falter with a sharp pain rippling up his wounded leg, but he quickly regained his balance. He continued, every step filled with uncertainty, each breath a testament to the tension hanging in the air. He found his thoughts drifting to the legendary Green Blade Knight, Dresden, and his storied last stand against the fearsome dragon, Saria. Facing insurmountable odds, Dresden had met his destiny with the courage for which Carrack now yearned. Drawing from the memory of the knight’s words, Carrack felt a tranquility wash over him. He straightened his posture, determined to meet the oncoming storm—both literal and metaphorical—head-on.

And then, just as abruptly as they’d come at him, the crowd stilled. The howl of the wind and rain was the only sound, a sharp contrast to the angry shouts of mere moments ago. The cold embrace of his drenched uniform sent shivers down Carrack’s spine, but the uncertainty inside him was far more chilling. This sudden stillness, where every second felt stretched into an eternity, was pierced by hushed murmurs. The crowd began to part, revealing the very man Carrack had anticipated—Franzen.