Mistress of Helena

Chapter 26

The Lawtoni River, majestic and wide, stretched its reach across multiple realms, drinking from innumerable tributaries before pouring its vastness into the Shattering Sea. Legends said that when the river’s breadth was at its grandest, spanning nearly two kilometers, its forceful current could move mountains. Yet, as one ventured southward, upstream, they departed the realm of Masovia, ushered into the nascent boundaries of the Vodanar Princedom. Here, the river tightened, its pulse still fervent. Only with the dawn of coal-fired engines did conquering its current become a tangible dream. And Carrack was standing aboard one of these pioneering vessels, beneath the dark blue and gold banner of the Orenian Republic.

A dense fog enveloped everything. It clung to the river’s surface like a ghostly veil, transforming the shores into hazy silhouettes. Sound was a rare companion, save for the rhythmic lap of water against the ship’s hull and the steady heartbeat of the engine. Yet, Carrack felt an undercurrent of emotions, unspoken but palpable. His eyes darted incessantly, tracing the obscured banks, ready to pierce through any anomaly in the shifting mists. His pocket watch revealed two hours to Pillaseccumi, the river’s lone bridge and his charge, along with the safeguarding of the treasured silver ore.

Every soul aboard mirrored Carrack’s vigilance. Soldiers paced the deck, firearms primed, eyes ceaselessly surveying both the river and the obscured land beyond. As hours dwindled, a mesmerizing sight loomed ahead. On either side of the Lawton stood immense stone pillars. Fashioned into cylinders, these monoliths bore no marks, no tales of their creators. They were the “Pillars of the Eternal Earth”, enigmas swathed in layers of legend. For newcomers, their scale was an unparalleled marvel, dwarfing all else. But for Carrack, they bore a foreboding message: they were now deep within enemy lines.

One of the men, his lieutenant, approached with a look of concern. “The men are on edge, sir. They could use something to calm their nerves,” he hinted. Carrack understood the unspoken request, but something within him resisted.

“Now’s not the time,” he said firmly. “We need every man alert, not distracted by the sound of my music.”

The lieutenant gave a nod of acknowledgment, not pressing the matter further. Carrack caught snippets of hushed conversations as the news of his decision spread—whispers of disappointment and unease. He felt a pang of something, regret perhaps, but stood firm in his decision. Something strange began happening to him, though. A bitter taste flooded his mouth, making him spit involuntarily. He felt a tightening around his neck, almost like a noose, and soon stiffness crept into his joints. As he began to walk, attempting to shake off the discomfort, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss.

Perhaps he was coming down with an illness; the symptoms seemed to be warning signs. His throat became parched, and the riverbank, once so close, now seemed to recede into the distance. As he passed one of his soldiers, they exchanged a brief nod. The soldier’s look, however, held an undertone of disappointment, almost reproach. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Carrack tried to center himself. But midway through the inhalation, a whisper brushed against his ear, causing him to jerk around. Nothing. Then another whisper, ghostly and chilling. Carrack cursed under his breath, feeling the weight of isolation press upon him. The river was eerily still, and the engine’s hum was the only sign the boat still moved. But the riverbanks? Vanished. Engulfed by the all-consuming fog.

His unease heightened as he noticed another change. An uncanny silence had befallen the ship. Gone were the familiar footsteps of his soldiers. The deck was deserted, and he was utterly alone.

Overwhelmed by the profound isolation, Carrack’s immediate impulse was to shout, to call out to anyone who might still be present. But an inexplicable force sealed his lips, preventing even the faintest whisper from escaping. Silently, he roamed the deck, each tentative step echoing softly against the wooden boards. Descending to the lower deck, he peered into room after room, but found only the lingering evidence of a crew now absent.

When he eventually reached his quarters, a palpable pull in the air drew his attention. Not to anything out of place or overtly sinister, but to his bed. Kneeling, he retrieved a familiar crate from beneath it and set it atop the mattress. The combination on the lock clicked into place—717—revealing his cherished violin. The spectral whispers grew louder, urging him to take up the instrument.

Emerging back on the deck, an even more profound silence enveloped him. The once-persistent hum of the engine had vanished. The only constants were the ship, the unmoving water, and the all-consuming fog. Even his own breathing seemed eerily muted. An attempt to disrupt the silence with a cough produced no sound. Panic threatened to consume him until a stray movement caused his fingers to brush a chord of his violin. The unexpected note pierced the heavy air, its resonance offering a temporary reprieve from the unsettling quiet.

A newfound determination took hold. Carrack located a stool and began to experiment with the strings, delighting in the notes that broke the oppressive silence. Gathering his composure, he readied his bow, and with a deep though silent breath, began to weave a haunting melody into the void.

With every chord, it was as if hues began bleeding back into the world, while the once-stagnant air danced anew. He couldn’t place the name of the melody that flowed from his fingers, but it was an old tune—one he’d played countless times since he first picked up the violin. It soothed him, enveloping his senses in the familiar cadence. The harmony, at first dominant, slowly melded with the gentle thrum of the world around. Often lost in his music, Carrack played with closed eyes, but the hum of engines and the murmur of voices prompted them to open. The sight met him with warmth: his men, seated in rapt attention, their faces tinged with subtle relief. The oppressive fog had receded, and the water resumed its rhythm around the boat.

The relief was palpable. He continued, allowing the comforting embrace of music to wash over him, not keeping track of time, nor the number of times the same notes poured forth. Part of him wished the moment would stretch endlessly. Yet, eventually, fatigue crept into his fingers and arms. As the final note rang out, resonating into the ether, all felt harmonious.

But when he looked up, the serenity shattered. The deck was drenched, not just with water, but also with a thick, ominous shade of crimson. The men around him, though appearing as though they’d just enjoyed a serenade, were smeared with fresh and drying blood, oblivious to the chaos around. The horizon was ablaze, an inferno consuming the banks and replacing the fog with thick plumes of smoke. Worse still, the river, previously a sanctuary of peace, now bore the weight of lifeless bodies, their forms darkened against the lurid backdrop of the fires that raged.

Frozen by the gruesome spectacle, Carrack was consumed by shock. When he glanced at one of the men in his audience, the man seemed unfazed, even by the blood droplet that dangled from his nostrils. Noticing Carrack’s gaze, a hint of concern crossed his face.

“Play it again, sir?” the man’s voice, ghostly and faint, broke through.

“I’m sorry?” Carrack replied, his voice trembling.

“Please, sir,” the man implored, “play it again.”

Abyssal blackness, then a sudden surge of consciousness. Carrack’s eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the feeble light emanating from the dying embers of a nearby fire. A clammy, cold sweat clung to him, soaking both his body and the bed linens. Breathless, he tried to grasp the tendrils of the nightmare that had tormented him, feeling them slip away like sand through fingers, as dreams often do.

Understanding the fleeting nature of his recollections, Carrack leapt from the bed, making a beeline for his desk. He threw open his journal and, pen in hand, scribbled frenziedly, attempting to ensnare any fragment of the dream before it vanished. Images of a boat, blood, flames, and haunting strains of music materialized on the paper. But there was an aching void, a sense of something forgotten, something pivotal.

His gaze landed on the open case, revealing his violin. A shiver, uncannily familiar, skittered down his spine. With a sudden urgency, he snapped the case shut. Checking his watch, he realized nearly nine hours had elapsed in restless slumber. Despite the lingering remnants of the nightmare, he felt a touch more revitalized than he had in days. With that meager consolation, Carrack took a deep breath and began preparing himself for the day’s challenges.