Chapter 6

Carrack led his second-in-command to the familiar room where they had previously convened to deliberate the escalating food crisis. The same relentless rain continued its assault on the room’s solitary window. As was his habit, Carrack claimed the chair at the head of the table. Noticing Foeham’s eyes drift toward the seat at the opposite end, Carrack gestured for him to sit beside him. Their soaked clothes made a moist, muted sound as they met the hard wooden seats. For a moment, silence reigned. Carrack lost himself in thought, his fingers absently working at the stiffness in his joints and scratching a small irritation that had sprouted on his neck.

“Cursed itch,” Carrack muttered.

“I had a similar problem not long ago, rash and what not, mainly on my hips and lower back,” Foeham replied, eager to disrupt the silence regardless of the topic.

“I suppose you did the sensible thing—changed your clothes frequently and used Alaina’s herbal paste?” Carrack said and Foeham nodded. “Well, you’re a wiser man than me in that regard. I’ve been neglecting myself, not drying my clothes thoroughly, wearing the same ones too frequently, and so on.”

“We all have our lapses,” Foeham said.

“Hmph,” Carrack contemplated, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling, the words emerging with an unexpected ease: “You had yourself a lapse today.” He turned his attention back to Foeham, who was evidently taken aback. “Telling the public of the execution.”

“Oh,” Foeham stammered, struggling to formulate a response. “What exactly was my mistake in doing that?”

“Why don’t you explain what you believe you achieved by doing so?” Carrack asked, leaning back in his chair, and clasping his hands across his chest.

“What I did right,” Foeham murmured, “well, you instructed us to limit our interactions with the town, so I deemed it prudent to convey all our business to the public at once, instead of risking a squad to spread more unpleasant news. Particularly an execution notice, sir—matters of that sort can instigate a riot instantaneously.” Foeham snapped his fingers for emphasis and exhaled lightly. “Just like what transpired in Mystra a few years ago.”

Carrack raised an eyebrow. “A few years back? If you’re referring to the Mystra Massacre, that was over forty years ago.”

“Regardless of the date—”

“Regardless of the date? Captain, you not only muddled the timeline, but you also missed crucial aspects of why that calamity unfolded in the first place. The Archon declared the execution of the entire city council of five hundred and proclaimed himself king. He then unleashed all his mercenaries—paid for with the city’s treasury—on anyone who didn’t bow down immediately.” Carrack halted himself before he spiraled into a history lecture. “Regardless … there’s little resemblance between what happened here and what occurred back then.”

“It just felt like the right thing to do at the time,” Foeham said quietly.

“That’s the answer I was looking for.” Carrack pointed his finger at Foeham before softening his tone. “You didn’t do the right thing, captain.” Carrack leaned forward and rubbed his tired heavy eyes. “I’m not worried about some riots spawning from outrage over executions. We’ve done enough of them; no one is outraged anymore.”

“Then what are you worried about, sir?”

Carrack remained silent, his gaze drifting into an unseen distance. His mouth turned dry as he delved into memories he had long since locked away. It wasn’t the first time he had revisited old wounds; his mind would often take him there without his consent. But he sometimes chose to traverse into the unsettling memories that momentarily paralyzed his mind. The reasons behind this voluntary dive into pain were beyond him, but he once heard that people are irresistibly drawn to their deepest fears. This time, he redirected his focus, making a last-minute pivot from a particularly painful memory to a slightly more bearable one.

“I’ve seen my fair share of corpses. And I rather not go into those stories,” Carrack said, his eyes blinked and looked to Foeham who silently nodded in agreement. “But I have been on the receiving end of news of the death of many. Battle of the Mirrormere? Heard about that, I’m guessing?”

Foeham’s spine stiffened, his intake of breath sharp upon hearing the mention of the Mirrormere. The very name was known across the continent as the day the old world died. It was where Masovia, a beacon of ancient traditions and chivalry, met the relentless industrial onslaught of Vinterpol. The conflict wasn’t merely a battle, but a haunting demonstration of the modern era’s power to obliterate.

“It’s been only three years,” Foeham remarked with a hint of disbelief. “Were you there?”

Carrack chuckled dryly. “Me, an officer of Oren, in the thick of a war we stayed neutral in? No. But there were enough refugees along the roads to spread the word while I was in Southern Masovia.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “There were enough half stories to piece together what happened.” Carrack spread his arms, painting an imaginary landscape with his words. “Visualize vast plains, lined with the amber glow of fresh unharvested grain.”

The Mirrormere was a lake that was as large as a sea that separated Masovia and Vinterpol. Fed by countless tributaries from the mountains and elsewhere it in turn fed the great Seraphine rivers’ southernly flow to the Cerulean Gulf. Once the marshlands surrounding the water was past, it gave way to vast fertile plains that provided enough grain to become the breadbasket of the world, at least in Masovia. Vinterpol was not blessed with the same privilege.

Carrack had once sailed the Mirrormere on a trade mission. He could never forget just how large it was and how deadly it could be when the storms came. The idea of either of the realms crossing it to attack each other just wasn’t a reality he, like anyone, could foresee. But that’s what happened. Vinterpol crossed, their war machine driven by the insurmountable force of coal and combustion that parted the great Mirrormere and trudged them through the Drifoot Boglands and stood at the outskirts of the city of Kolozs.

Carrack snapped his fingers sharply. “In an instant,” he began with a somber tone, “the serenity was obliterated, replaced with unimaginable devastation. Twenty-seven thousand souls, extinguished in less than an hour. The once-pristine landscape was scarred, transformed into a grotesque display of cracked stone, muck, and gore. The mangled remains of iron machines littered the ground, creating a ghastly, alien graveyard. And the remnants of men, once vibrant and alive, were scattered …” His gesture drifted aimlessly, his voice trailing off, “Everywhere …”

“You ever come across the Trench Tribune?” Foeham’s voice was hushed, as if sharing a secret.

Carrack raised an eyebrow. “Can’t say I have.”

Foeham seemed genuinely taken aback. “Really? It started making rounds just before our deployment here.”

“Well, it must have slipped past me,” Carrack admitted.

“It’s like a serial or an anthology. A Masovian soldier who made it through the battle went back after the Vinterpol forces pushed ahead. His mission was heart-wrenching—he wanted to identify every fallen comrade. Though he didn’t succeed entirely, he managed to gather diaries, scraps of paper, even the last whispered words from dying men. He compiled them, creating a haunting collection of personal tales from that day.” Foeham paused, lost in thought. “It’s a chilling read.”

“It must have been like Hell on Earth,” Carrack murmured.

“All the Hells, I’d wager,” Foeham added with a heavy sigh.

“That book might be the only justice those fallen soldiers will ever receive. Imagine the sheer magnitude of the horror: last words whispered in terror, the vacant stare of a comrade’s dying eyes. The sheer weight of that single moment is incomprehensible.”

Foeham looked skeptical. “Where are you going with this?”

Carrack sighed. “I was in Sudbina, right at the southern tip of Masovia. We had been diverted there from our mission in Vodanar.”

“They pulled you out of the Vodanar?” Foeham interjected, eyebrows raised.

Carrack nodded. “After Vinterpol invaded, we were dispatched to assess Masovia’s defenses. Oren was curious about their river defenses, potential threats to trade and what not.” He leaned back, lost in thought. “That night, after meeting with the city council, we were at a local tavern when the city’s bells rang out. Initially, it was chaos. Those bells signaled an attack, maybe a raid from the river, and everyone went nuts. A crowd had gathered in the square, some armed, others draped in mismatched militia uniforms. It would’ve been laughable if it wasn’t so tragic.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

The memories seemed to pierce through Carrack as he continued, “A few of us got to a balcony to escape the chaos. But from that vantage point, we saw a herald step forward, ready to address the crowd.”

With an ominous tone, he imitated the herald: “Tragedy! Tragedy has befallen Masovia! Our king is dead, our army defeated. Vinterpol advances without resistance.”

A voice from the crowd had shouted, echoing the collective despair, “What of our boys? Our Sudbinan Legion?”

Carrack continued, “The herald’s reply was devastating. ‘All are presumed lost,’ he said. The shock, the shared pain was tangible, and the cries that followed—that’s a sound that never leaves you.”

“And then?”

Carrack looked grim. “The herald knew he had to get out. Not for the bad news he delivered, but for announcing a new conscription notice. The grief turned to rage. You see, those people weren’t just given a devastating blow; they were handed it coldly, without a hint of empathy. Then demanded more sacrifice.”

Foeham glanced at the tabletop, eyes fixating on his own hands. He flexed his fingers, tapping the wooden surface tentatively. There was a weight behind his voice when he finally spoke. “Did I become as callous as that herald?”

Carrack’s voice softened, understanding the guilt that plagued Foeham. “There are parallels, but the situations aren’t identical. Here, we have a community on edge—starving, restless, and looking for any outlet for their frustration. The announcement of an execution alone wouldn’t incite chaos. Even combined with news of rationing, I’m not sure it would push them to riot.”

Foeham’s brow furrowed. “So you were concerned about …”

“The raw agony someone feels upon hearing of their loved one’s demise from a detached voice,” Carrack filled in. “That day in Sudbina still haunts me. Ever since, I’ve made it a personal mission to inform families directly if their kin fell due to my commands or actions. That’s why I’ve visited the families of those executed here.”

“Well, that does clarify things,” Foeham said, clearing his throat slightly. “My intention was merely to spare you potential danger, especially with the rationing news potentially exacerbating tensions.”

Carrack gave a nod, understanding in his eyes. “I should’ve been clearer about my reasons for personally delivering such news.” Reaching across, he placed a reassuring hand on Foeham’s shoulder. “What’s done is done.”

A knock interrupted their conversation. Alaina, looking both irked and drowsy, stood at the entrance.

“There you are,” she murmured, her voice a blend of exhaustion and annoyance.

Carrack, ever the gentleman, rose as she entered. “Alaina, I apologize for the disruptions tonight.”

She sighed. “Apologies won’t bring back my sleep. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to ask why they’re still here?”

Carrack’s brow furrowed. “Who do you mean?”

“The family of the deceased,” Alaina stated.

Exchanging a glance of confusion with Foeham, Carrack replied, “They left with the body a while ago. Perhaps you saw townsfolk looking for supplies?”

Alaina shook her head emphatically. “No, I just came from the gate. The guards are going back and forth with a woman claiming to be the wife of the deceased. You need to get over there before things get out of hand.”

The fort’s gate had transitioned from a welcoming portal to a point of tension. In bygone days, islanders regularly traversed its threshold, interacting freely with the soldiers. They offered a plethora of services—from trade and laundry to food provision. Even some clandestine activities, discreetly labeled as “personal care”, flourished until Carrack discovered and promptly outlawed them.

But those harmonious times had faded. As desperation gnawed at the islanders, acts of theft and violence surged. Clashes with the soldiers became alarmingly commonplace. Recognizing the escalating peril, Lord Carrack imposed restrictions, barring civilians from entering the fort unless he explicitly permitted it.

Now, the once hospitable gate stood as a stark demarcation, separating the simmering unrest of the islanders from the wary soldiers inside. Whenever tempers ignited at this border, the shadow of imminent violence loomed large.

With the dissonant clamor of the uproar guiding them, Carrack and Foeham hurried toward the gate. Every shout and cry resonating from the stone walls only intensified their pace. As they approached, they saw the gate slightly ajar, revealing a handful of soldiers standing guard. Each soldier’s stance was tense, weapons poised and ready, the weight of annoyance evident in their postures. Streams of rainwater traced paths down their hoods.

One soldier, distinguishable by the glowing ember of his cigarette, stepped forward to brief the officers. Drawing in a deep drag, he began, “Lady out there is demanding the prisoner’s body. We told her it had already been claimed and she’s a bit … annoyed by that.” Before he could finish, a raw, anguished scream from the other side of the gate punctuated his words, underscoring the woman’s rage.

With a reassuring touch to the soldier’s shoulder, Carrack stepped through the gate, wanting to assess the scene firsthand. Before him stood a tall, emaciated woman, her simple attire marred by the relentless rain and clinging mire. Her lengthy raven-black hair, plastered to her face and back by the downpour, gave her an almost ghostly appearance. As he neared her, she momentarily shifted her burning gaze from the guards who were attempting to placate her to him. The ferocity in her eyes was piercing; it felt as if she weren’t just looking at him but through him, seeing every inch of his soul, dismissing its worth, and picturing her fury engulfing him.

Intending to defuse the tension, he began, “I’m Lord Carrack,” and with a calming gesture of his hands added, “Commander of—”

“I know exactly who you are!” Her retort was so swift and sharp it felt like a blade’s edge, taking Carrack by surprise.

Momentarily unsettled, Carrack cleared his throat, trying to maintain a semblance of authority. “Very well. Since you’re acquainted with me, might I have the privilege of knowing your name?”

The woman’s eyes, alight with pain and fury, drilled into Carrack’s. “Elenore Harrier,” she declared, her voice raw from the harsh weather and her cries, but the clarity of her words was undeniable. “Third daughter of Ramsey Michi of Celestia. A mother to two beautiful children. The cobbler of Helena everyone goes to. And the bereaved wife of the man you ruthlessly took from this world!”

A bolt of shock raced through Carrack’s body, causing him to recoil. Elenore’s declaration bore the gravity of sincerity, and each word she uttered was like a sledgehammer to his conscience. He had encountered similar reactions before—the visceral anger and despair that flowed from grief.

“Elenore Harrier?” Carrack echoed, seeking confirmation amid his dawning horror.

Her reply was a scream of frustration, the vocal strain fraying her words into a ragged shout, “Yes! Over and over, yes! These imbeciles have been refusing to listen. Now tell me, where is he?”

One of the soldiers tried to clarify, “Sir, we only mentioned that he wasn’t present; we didn’t discuss … the others.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Others? What others?”

Grappling with a sinking feeling, Carrack ventured, “Aside from your children, do you have any other family on this island?”

She seemed taken aback by his query, her fiery demeanor momentarily breaking. “No!” she exclaimed, her tone equal parts confusion and outrage.

Under his breath, Carrack cursed softly, “Damn.”

Catching that, Elenore snapped, “What did you just say? Speak clearly, Lord Carrack.”

A heaviness settled in Carrack’s chest as he cleared his throat. “Earlier today, the body was released to two women who came here.”

“Why would you do that?” Elenore’s voice carried a tone of disbelief.

“One of them introduced herself as Elenore and was accompanied by another who claimed to be her daughter, Mary,” Carrack admitted.

Elenore’s eyes darkened with realization. “My daughter’s name is Mary. Someone pretended to be me … and took Roger away?”

Carrack nodded solemnly, his mistake pressing down on him. “I deeply regret it. I believed I was acting in good faith.”

The world seemed to collapse around Elenore. Her face contorted with a mixture of shock, grief, and betrayal. She staggered momentarily before her knees gave way, and she crumbled to the ground. Muffled sobs wracked her body, echoing the depth of her anguish.

Soldiers exchanged uneasy glances and looked to Carrack for guidance. With a somber gesture, he motioned for them to give Elenore space. Tentatively, Carrack lowered himself next to her, allowing her to grieve while he wrestled with his own guilt. This was his burden to bear, and he could not run from it, not today despite how much he wanted to. He carefully put a hand on her back to console her.

The gentle touch was an attempt at solace, but it met with Elenore’s hushed whisper. “Get away.” Her body shivered, another deep breath took over her, and she shrieked, louder this time, “Get away!” The forcefulness surprised Carrack, pulling his hand back as if he’d been scorched. Elenore’s subsequent whispers, however, were more heart-rending as they merged with her sobs. “Just … get away.”

Rising to his feet, Carrack ran a hand across his face, attempting to make sense of the situation. Memories from the past, the face of the deceased, the impostors who came earlier, and finally the searing eyes of Elenore haunted his thoughts. He felt a palpable ache in his chest, his mouth dry with bitterness. “Dammit,” he mumbled under his breath.

Reaching the gate, he found Foeham, who seemed on edge, waiting. “You, me, and two others. Now.” Without hesitation, Carrack pointed to a soldier, indicating for his sidearm. “Have someone bring her inside. Let Alaina try to soothe her.” Carrack’s voice held authority.

Foeham, picking two soldiers for the task at hand, shot a questioning look. “What’s the plan?”

Carrack’s resolve hardened. “We’re getting that body.”