Chapter 21

21 August 149 Third Age

Twenty-six of his men lay in repose on the frigid, unyielding stone of the fort’s hallway—silent witnesses to the recently unfolded tragedy. A dozen more, on the brink of death, languished under Alaina’s vigilant care within her secluded, subterranean chambers. These were the most devastating losses Carrack had suffered in his career. Despite the grim scene before him, his thoughts were caught by other, more haunting visions.

His eyes, seemingly detached, lazily skimmed over the aligned corpses shrouded in bloodied linens, his mind adrift in other, tormented seas. His pupils wandered, skimming the outlines of lifeless forms but fixating on the unmarred sections of the floor. His thoughts were ensnared by the harrowing image he perceived within the fiery embrace that had consumed the docks. The face of Adcock, twisted in agony yet strikingly placid and void of emotion, haunted him. The vision mirrored the silent torment Adcock must have endured in the bathhouse.

Why was he plagued by such a vision? Why did his mind force him to witness such torment? Amongst the remnants of this ghostly vision lingered the murky recollections of his seemingly transcendent experience—his journey between life and death. The details of this transient existence were rapidly fragmenting, losing their coherence. But the unnerving fear and the sensation of being unceremoniously yanked back into the living realm—contrary to his desires and the fundamental laws of nature—haunted him and made him feel like a stranger in his own body.

Amidst the chaos, an overwhelming list of priorities tugged at the periphery of Carrack’s mind. The fort needed to bolster its defenses, even as citizens cried out for assistance amidst the city’s flames. The docks, the lifeline to the world, now lay in ruin. The hungry flames, driven by the wind, devoured nearby structures with an insatiable appetite. Even the rain, with its sporadic attempts, could barely quench the raging inferno.

All soldiers had been recalled to the fort—perhaps on the commands of Foeham, Crow, or both. The specifics eluded Carrack for the moment. While every instinct in him rebelled against this retreat, reason recognized its inevitability. As much as he hesitated to admit, he knew they were cornered. With the teamsters’ food stockpile eradicated—what had once been their bargaining chip with the restless populace—and Alaina’s inability to expedite her crop growth, they were precariously perched on the edge of survival. Their dwindling reserves would have to sustain the fort, all the while hoping for salvation to sail from the horizon.

Yet, the most harrowing thought was of the islanders. A dread-filled image took shape in his mind: the beleaguered inhabitants, driven to the brink by hunger and desperation, descending upon the fort. Their sheer numbers and fervor could easily overwhelm the fort’s defenses, unleashing a ferocious wrath, primal, and unchecked.

A stool was Carrack’s compromise—or rather, a dictated resolution from the men who had assisted him, positioned there as opposed to his quarters or Alaina’s chambers. He contended that his wound paled in comparison to those being carried in, that Alaina’s focus should be on them. On another layer of his consciousness, he acknowledged a lack of desire for her scrutinizing gaze or her opinions upon discovering his re-aggravated injury.

He sat in quiet observation, the hum of the passing soldiers and the echoes of orders being his only company. Eyes flickered his way occasionally, seeking guidance or new directives, but Carrack dismissed them with a wave. Word of his survival had been dispersed upon his arrival at the fort, but the reins of command were still in the hands of either Foeham or Crow—depending on who had survived. Carrack, swathed in his thoughts, felt an unfamiliar hesitancy to embrace the responsibilities he had long shouldered.

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His self-imposed isolation was eventually shattered by the arrival of Crow, who walked with a measured calm amidst the organized chaos, looking worn and harboring a heavy tiredness that shadowed his usual stern expression. As Crow’s gaze swept over the bodies lying along the hallway, his jaw tightened, hinting at a fleeting remorse before he addressed Carrack. His words reached Carrack as indistinct murmurs. Taking a breath, Carrack shook off the lingering fog encasing his thoughts, nudging his mind back to the present. He shook his head, asking Crow to repeat himself.

“I asked how you were, sir,” Crow reiterated with emphasized clarity.

“Fine,” Carrack managed, his reply veiled with unconvincing brevity and accompanied by a nod.

“Uh-huh,” Crow retorted skeptically, “perhaps convince yourself first before attempting to convince me?”

Carrack’s glare met Crow’s gaze, his response deliberate and punctuated. “I am fine.”

“Can you walk?” Crow probed.

Carrack bit the inside of his lip, suppressing the surge of pain radiating through his leg as he rose, his movements a facade of normalcy. He masked the agony well, revealing little to Crow, but his subtle hesitations were disclosures enough. Crow promptly signaled for a soldier to assist him.

“No,” Carrack asserted, “I can manage.”

“You’re not trying to impress anyone, sir,” Crow said, shaking his head disapprovingly.

Stubbornness clung to Carrack, sometimes more than he cared to admit. He was in the throes of a psychological battle, grappling with enigmatic specters that clouded his thoughts and perceptions. If he was going to wrestle with these phantoms, he refused to let mere physical pain thwart him—even if it was just a small triumph over his own body.

They stared at each other for a moment, both waiting for the other to blink. Crow was the first to succumb, blinked and sighing, and nodding at Carrack’s assertion that he was fine before he moved on with other pressing business.

“How much do you know?” Crow asked.

“Twenty-six dead—”

“Twenty-eight,” corrected Crow. “Thirteen in the infirmary, three of them on death’s door. If Mage Alaina can keep up the pace she’s been running, they might have a chance.”

“I see …” Carrack processed that information. “What happened out there, the ship, the fire?”

Crow signaled that they should start walking and they did, Carrack doing his best to power through without showing a limp.

“A lot happened on that ship,” Crow explained. “I’m still trying to piece it all together, but the long and short of it is that it was empty, or at least from what we were able to see.”

“Empty?” questioned Carrack.

“Empty, yes. Didn’t make any sense. There were signs people had been there, personal effects and other signs of live … but not a soul. Save for one.”

“Wait, one?” Carrack stopped, taken aback. “You found someone?”

“Yes, sir, one. He was locked in his room. Someone thought they heard moaning, so we busted it open, and found him on the ground. He seemed lifeless, but he was just unconscious, I guess. Had all sorts of personal effects, papers, books, stuff all scattered about, but we didn’t get a good look at it. The smoke and the cries of fire came right as we found him. He was literally the only thing we pulled off that boat,” Crow explained. “He’s down with the rest of the wounded right now. Still out cold.”

“I want to see him,” said Carrack.

“I presumed as much; that’s why we’re en route now,” said Crow. He then shifted his tone, the gravity in his voice becoming more palpable. “You’ve heard about Captain Foeham, haven’t you?”

“No.” Carrack’s eyes widened, his gaze drifting back to the bodies now well out of sight. “He’s not … Is he?”

“Not dead, no. But he … he got caught by the fire while extracting our mystery man from the ship,” Crow said with caution.

“How bad?” Carrack asked.

“We need to see him,” was Crow’s reply, and they proceeded in contemplative silence, the gravity of their thoughts echoing in their steps.