Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The fortress halls, layered with unyielding brick, stone, and mortar, echoed with the relentless drumming of the rain outside. The damp muskiness was a constant companion, no corner of the structure immune to it. Yet, to men like Carrack, who had made this fortress their home, the dank smell had become part of their lives.

Carrack wandered these echoing corridors frequently, attending to his men, hearing their complaints and grievances. Familiar stories of hunger, cold, and discomfort filled his ears, but each conversation invariably ended with a grateful admission that their current situation was preferable to the entanglements of the mainland.

A small, cluttered room served as one of Carrack’s sanctuaries—the radio room. The radio in this room connected him to the lighthouse on the other side of the island, a symbolic link between the isolated fort and the outside world. Tensions with the islanders precluded Carrack from visiting the lighthouse in person. And so, he often found himself filling in for some weary soldier on duty, ignoring the protests of the senior officers who worried about disruptions to the duty roster. After all, this was his fort, his island, and his men.

Private Walter Pugh was at the radio when Carrack entered, his eyes heavy with the weariness of listening to hours of static punctuated by the occasional radio checks from the lighthouse. Pugh, lost in his thoughts, jumped in his seat, his breath catching as Carrack laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Sir!” Pugh greeted, his eyes wide. “Luminary’s Ass! You scared the shit out of me.”

“Let’s not take the Gods’ Messenger name in vain, soldier,” Carrack admonished lightly, settling into a chair next to him. “I know this duty can be mind-numbing, but you gotta stay alert. If you had been asleep, well, that would’ve been a different story.”

Pugh nodded, his attention returning to the static-filled speaker. He knew the consequences of falling asleep on watch all too well.

“When did you last check in?” Carrack asked, pulling out a flask of strong Orenian whisky. He took a small sip, welcoming the warmth it offered against the chilly dampness. He had to limit himself to just a swig; anything more would dull his senses, especially on an empty stomach.

Pugh paused, trying to remember.

“Your log should have the details,” Carrack reminded him, a note of seriousness creeping into his voice.

“We don’t have any paper left, sir,” Pugh admitted, casting a worried glance at Carrack. “The last of it was used, both sides, nothing left.”

Carrack dismissed his statement with a wave of his hand, standing to leave. “There must be some left in storage.”

“No, sir,” Pugh said nervously. “The storage room ceiling … It leaked, badly, in the rain last night. By the time we discovered it, the paper was ruined.”

Carrack murmured curses under his breath, his demeanor shifting between frustration and the necessity to remain composed. He sighed deeply before rejoining Pugh at the radio station. “Since I’m here, let’s check in, shall we?”

“No problem, sir.” Pugh nodded, quickly tapping out the familiar radio code. The reply from the other end was just as prompt and formal.

“Hm,” Carrack murmured.

“What is it?” Pugh turned to Carrack, curiosity sparking in his tired eyes.

“He sounds pretty tired as well,” Carrack replied, his brow furrowing in concern.

“How can you tell, sir?”

“His voice carries a tinge of irritation. As if we’d interrupted him mid-nap.”

Pugh’s eyes widened as he stammered a defense for his counterpart at the lighthouse, but Carrack stopped him with a raised hand. “Ease up, lad. It’s close to the end of his shift. Besides, Weis oversees that station, and trust me, he’s stricter than I am. Once I had to restrain him from tossing a poor guy off the lighthouse just for yawning.”

“By the Saints,” Pugh shook his head, disbelief etched on his face. “What makes him act like that?”

Carrack propped his boots on the table, his gaze wandering to the ceiling. “Fear, Private. Fear does strange things to people. With the food shortage, persistent storms, and a restless town, it’s no surprise.”

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“You … You’re worried too, aren’t you, sir?”

“Of course,” Carrack admitted, his candor catching Pugh off-guard. “Every day brings worsening circumstances. People are scared, angry, hungry … And there’s still no ship in sight. I worry every single moment.”

“Sir, that’s not … comforting to hear.”

Carrack shrugged. “It’s the truth. When people ask, I tell them what’s really happening. I won’t sugarcoat it. We’re in a dire situation, and it’ll persist as long as the port remains empty. Wouldn’t you rather hear the truth instead of some soothing lie?”

“Lies can be comforting,” Pugh admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

“True, but they can also be deadly, like a slow poison,” Carrack replied, meeting Pugh’s gaze with a solemn look. “Where were you posted before here?”

“Burano, sir,” Pugh answered. “I was stationed along the highway, keeping watch for smugglers and ensuring the roads stayed safe.”

“Ah, Burano.” Carrack’s face softened with nostalgia. The city was a quiet haven nestled in the heart of Oren, shielded from most external threats. But it bore its own burdens—the notorious Drifoot Swamps, home to hostile creatures and perilous marshlands. “Compared to Burano, this place should feel like a paradise—no bugs, refreshing sea breeze, and no cryptics.”

“Indeed, sir!” Pugh’s eyes lit up at the comparison. “Damn crypts.”

“I take it you’ve had your fair share of encounters with them?” Carrack offered his flask to Pugh, who accepted it gratefully.

“Fair share is one way to put it,” Pugh responded, taking a hard swig from the flask that ended in a round of coughing. “I mean, we usually saw them from afar, silhouetted against the bogs. You could always sense their watchful eyes, though.”

“Ever had a close encounter?” Carrack probed.

Pugh nodded, his expression hardening as he recalled the experience. “Once.” He took another gulp from the flask, seemingly bracing himself for the memory. “It was a Marshfang attack. About half a dozen of them stalked a caravan before pouncing.”

“A group of Marshfangs that large? It must have been a bloodbath,” Carrack observed.

“Indeed, it was. Those scaly bastards tore a whole caravan apart. By the time we arrived, there was hardly anything human-looking left,” Pugh shared, a grimace tugging at his lips.

“Taking down that many Marshfangs is no easy job. How did you manage?” Carrack asked.

“We didn’t have to deal with all of them, thankfully,” Pugh admitted, handing the flask back to Carrack. “When we arrived, there was only one left, engrossed in picking over the remains.” His voice quieted and his gaze became distant as if he were seeing something only he could perceive. “It’s uncanny, sir. When they’re walking upright, they almost seem human. But the moment they fix those glossy black eyes on you, they transform into nothing less than rabid beasts. We lost two of our men before we could put it down.”

“Damn,” Carrack muttered under his breath.

“Hard to imagine fighting two, let alone six,” Pugh said, shaking his head at the thought. “What about you, sir? Ever tussle with any cryptics yourself?”

“I’ve been spared that pleasure,” Carrack responded dryly, his mind wandering into more somber recollections. “My enemies have always been men.”

“That sounds like a blessing,” Pugh observed.

“It does, doesn’t it,” Carrack mused. His voice was laden with irony, and it tasted sour in his mouth, like a long-forgotten memory resurfacing against his will. An uneasy silence hung in the air between them, punctuated only by the static hum of the radio. Carrack’s fingers started to drum nervously against his thigh as he cautiously navigated around the edges of memories that he would much prefer to leave buried. A faint pain throbbed in his head at the thought of those memories, forcing him to stop his dance with that part of his past. Carrack made to rise, ready to take his leave, but was halted by Pugh’s faltering attempt to continue their conversation.

“Wh— Wha— Where were you before this, sir?” Pugh asked, his voice a mix of caution and nerves, painfully aware that his timing was off and had interrupted his commander’s attempt to leave. “If it’s not too much to ask.”

“No,” Carrack said, settling back into his chair. “It’s no trouble. I’ve been all over, mostly assigned to coastal areas and outposts. Before this, I was stationed in the capital. Administrative work. Nothing too thrilling.”

“Sounds like a cushy gig.”

“It was,” Carrack conceded. “A nice change of pace.”

“Must have had a pretty rough assignment beforehand to get transferred to a desk job.”

Carrack chuckled, amused by Pugh’s simplistic perspective. “You could say that,” he agreed. Seeing Pugh’s expectant expression, he decided to reveal a bit more, even though the words seemed to stick in his throat as he struggled to recall certain things. “I was in Vodanar.”

Pugh’s anticipation morphed into a regretful understanding as he recalled the infamous location. “I see …”

“Yeah,” Carrack said, forcing a normal tone into his voice, though he had no intention of saying more on the topic as his head began to throb when he thought back to the memories of before. “But those days are my own to remember … I’ve distracted you long enough. It’s time I took my leave for the night.”

“Sir,” Pugh called out as Carrack was about to step out. “We all lost something along the way.”

Pausing in the doorway, Carrack lightly knocked his hand against the wall. “Some of us lost a great deal more, I think.”