Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Lord Carrack hurriedly navigated Helena’s labyrinthine streets, urgency evident in each step, the soft patter of rain around them punctuated by the heavy breaths of his men trailing close behind. Every sense was heightened; a tingling sensation spread from the tips of his fingers to his toes, and a cold prickliness touched his cheeks—telltale signs of adrenaline surging as they ventured toward potential danger.

His men, undoubtedly, felt the weight of the situation more profoundly, given their initial reservations about entering a rumored haven of illicit activity. Foeham had been particularly insistent on recruiting more soldiers, but Carrack, resolute in his decision, overruled him. The irony wasn’t lost on Carrack: he was charging ahead on a course he’d usually caution others against. But in this moment, the voices of reason seemed distant, drowned out by the urgency driving him forward.

“There was no time to wait for reinforcements!” he had barked to end the last confrontation with Foeham. “They’ll slither into the shadows when they see the garrison marching in.”

Upon reaching the main square, the group paused, offering a brief respite especially to the younger soldiers gasping for air. The square was a hive of activity today, unusually dominated by a large throng gathering around a stand showcasing a rare bounty of fish—a testament to the bravery of those who dared venture into the tempestuous seas recently.

But their presence—a group of garrison soldiers panting and dashing—was distinctly out of place, drawing numerous curious glances.

Carrack, however, had no time for distractions. With calculated nonchalance, he began navigating toward the entrance of Ponzin Street. As he gestured for his men to hang back, he became acutely aware of the intense scrutiny from certain members of the crowd. Not just curious locals, but the keen, evaluating eyes of the teamsters, whose responsibility was to maintain order in such crowded situations.

One of the teamsters, positioned close to the bustling fish stand, forcibly nudged a few bystanders aside to get a clearer view of Carrack. The scene at the stand itself offered yet another surprise. Besides the displayed fish, two large pots emitted welcoming plumes of steam, with men eagerly scooping out their contents to serve the clamoring crowd.

A brief, electric silence hung between Carrack and the teamster, their gazes locked in an unspoken conversation, a challenge. Then, with a grunt of resignation, Carrack broke the contact, signaling his disinterest in whatever transaction the stand had to offer. Not missing a beat, the teamsters directed the crowd’s attention back to the stand, leaving the soldiers be.

“Sir?” Foeham’s voice cut through the murk of the tense moment, drawing Carrack’s attention back from the teamster. “What on earth is happening over there? Where did they get such a haul of food?”

Carrack, his thoughts still jumbled from the previous encounter, brushed him off. “Fish.”

“Yes, but those pots?” Foeham pressed, not willing to be deterred by Carrack’s impatience.

“Fish!” Carrack repeated with a snarl. “Keep your head in the game. We’re nearing the washroom.”

His sharp glare silenced Foeham, who, after casting an uneasy glance back at the teamsters and the steam-filled pots, beckoned the other soldiers to fall in line. But as they entered Ponzin Street, Carrack couldn’t help but steal one more look at the crowded square, noticing a particular teamster, still fixing them with an intent stare. Beside him, Foeham, too, shot a lingering, curious look.

Ponzin Street led them to the former glory of Helena—the once-revered Moon Drops Bathhouse. Established by retired Orenian merchants who had fancied a dream of recreating the luxurious bathhouses of antiquity, it thrived during their lifetime. But time, being the relentless force it is, took its toll. With the demise of the elderly merchants and no heirs to inherit their legacy, the bathhouse had fallen into decay. It eventually became a refuge for the city’s outcasts. Carrack chastised himself internally—he should have seen the connection between “washroom” and “bathhouse”. A lapse that was uncharacteristic, but one he was determined to amend.

The bathhouse, even in its decline, stood distinct from the surrounding edifices. Unlike the neighboring brick and stone constructions, this one boasted of plastered limestone, reminiscent of ancient ruins reimagined for a more modern age. Though its size aligned with the conventional structures on the street, its façade showcased intricate moldings and friezes, etched with an artist’s flair, conveying an aura of the exotic. What stood out the most to Carrack was the familiar cart that was parked outside of the building.

Ascending a set of stairs brought them to the main entrance. The doorway, once a testament to craftsmanship, bore detailed carvings—visual stories of age-old fables. Now, however, the wear of time had left its mark. Water stains marred its beauty, while the etchings of the city’s underbelly—propaganda, professions of love, and the disjointed ramblings of lost souls—distracted from its former grandeur.

With deliberate steps, Carrack approached the door, his pace now measured by caution. His hand rested unwaveringly on the grip of his pistol, while his other hand tenderly traced the door’s worn surface. Beneath the marks of time and countless other hands, the remnants of an ancient tale beckoned him. Deep down, he recognized it.

It depicted a revered moment from an age-old epic: the journey of Revan into the underworld, his mission to cast the malevolent demon Kornal into the scalding waters of Sillstrom, a place rumored to hold the power to annihilate the demon. Yet, in a twist of fate, those tumultuous waters did not end Kornal. Instead, they stripped away layers of sin and corruption, revealing underneath not a monster but a fallen angel, tainted by the collective sins of mankind. Emerging renewed, the cleansed angel then soared to the heavens, taking its rightful place amongst the stars. A fitting depiction for a bathhouse.

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With gentle pressure, Carrack tested the door, finding it resistant but not locked. A soft click echoed as the latch yielded. Ever so cautiously, he cracked it open, peering into the inky void. An unexpected rush of cold air stung his eye, carrying with it the scent of stagnation. As his vision adjusted, the contours of the lobby emerged from the obsidian abyss.

Whirling around to his comrades, he silently conveyed a message of caution and signaled the upcoming entry. The nods he received in return were resolute. Foeham quickly drew his pistol, while the other two tightened their grasp on their rifles, the sound of their grip almost imperceptible in the thick atmosphere. The earlier uncertainty etched in their faces had been washed away, replaced with a steely resolve, prepared for whatever challenges lay within the depths of the bathhouse.

Carrack entered first. As darkness gave way to clearer sight, the dilapidated innards of the once majestic lobby came into focus. A stagnant heaviness saturated the air, a potent blend of decay and sharp, acrid chemicals that immediately assailed their senses. Instinctively, Carrack draped the fabric of his shirt over his nose, a futile attempt to block the overpowering aroma.

His men followed suit, their muffled coughs, and stifled grimaces a testament to the overwhelming stench. Their steps were deliberate, navigating the layers of grime and refuse that marred the once-pristine marble floors. Faint remnants of murals, once vibrant, now hung faded, stained, and chipped, bearing silent witness to the bathhouse’s decline.

Together, the party tread softly, each step a calculated choice to minimize noise, their ears straining to detect any hint of movement or life within the cavernous space. Yet, in this quiet dance, the only rhythm that prevailed was the distant patter of rain and the mournful drip of the decaying structure.

In the inky darkness, Carrack occasionally shut his eyes, trying to recalibrate his night vision as they delved further into the maze-like bathhouse. With two paths obstructed by untouched debris, their route funneled them down a singular corridor. The tight, twisting halls created a claustrophobic march, often forcing the group to pause, senses hyper-alert, bracing for whatever lay beyond the next turn. Single file, they moved, Carrack leading, while the others vigilantly covered the flanks and rear.

Soon, distant murmurs broke the stifling silence. Echoes of unintelligible chatter, both male and female, echoed down the hallway. Amongst them, Carrack could discern the familiar sounds of the women from the fort, contrasted with the gruff accents of an unfamiliar man. The occasional clinking of metal and glass hinted at some focused activity in the distance.

Their progress became even more deliberate when a light’s fickle dance painted the walls. Every heartbeat felt magnified when an elongated shadow emerged, likely matching the gruff voice, performing gestures in tandem with the echoed discourse.

Silently, Carrack formulated an approach, strategizing each movement in his mind. He would spearhead the advance, remain inconspicuous, inching closer to the source. His men would cover the rear, guns trained on the corridor’s bend, ready to respond at a moment's notice. Depending on the room’s layout, Carrack would then signal them forward. The impending confrontation required swift, aggressive precision—anticipating that their guns would sing first and neutralize any threat.

But fate had other plans. Adcock, overwhelmed by the smells, released a sharp cough. Time seemed to freeze. The once animated shadow went rigid, the background chatter silenced instantly. A crushing weight of dread settled in Carrack’s gut, immobilizing him. The element of surprise, their crucial advantage, had been lost.

The tension was palpable. As the far-off group conferred in hushed tones, the distinct male voice seemed to seek familiarity in the dark expanse, calling, “James?” No one in Carrack’s squad replied. Each member seemed paralyzed, unable to respond or even mimic a possible “James” that the man might be expecting. The voice grew more agitated, echoing twice more, each utterance more impatient than the last.

Receiving no answer, the man whispered something to his companions before making his way into the adjacent corridor. The shadow gradually sharpened, delineating a figure armed with an object, steps deliberate and resonant. Carrack’s pulse raced. The rhythmic thud amplified in his ears, matched only by the short, sharp intakes of breath from his crew. He felt a communal sense of anxiety, as if their hearts were synchronously drowning in fear.

The instant before confrontation dragged on, suffocating the air. From just beyond the bend came the faint but unmistakable sound of a weapon being primed. What followed was an ungodly, sinister declaration: “New threads, new chords, you dare interrupt our symphony!” The figure surged forward, discharging two shots in rapid succession. But it was the third shot, originating from behind Carrack, that proved decisive. Adcock, fueled by adrenaline and fear, had managed a direct hit to the man’s chest, dropping him in one swift motion.

The corridor then erupted in disarray, the residual voices transitioning from shock to panic, followed by the hasty retreat of footsteps and the clattering of doors in the distance. Carrack’s squad braced themselves, weapons raised, expecting another attack. But it never came. Instead, silence reclaimed the decrepit bathhouse, save for the muted patter of the rain outside.

Carrack’s footsteps reverberated sharply as he hastened toward the corner. Swinging into the room beyond, he was met with a chaotic display reminiscent of an era gone by. The space, once a changing room in the bathhouse’s glory days, was now transformed into a makeshift laboratory. Tables stood laden with a mixture of crude and refined apparatuses: beakers, test tubes, and makeshift Bunsen burners. Buckets emanating a vile stench stood amidst tattered clothing and miscellaneous debris. Lanterns dispersed throughout the room threw a warm, jittery illumination, making the myriad shadows seem alive.

Foeham’s expression turned to one of distaste as he surveyed the scene. “Drug lab,” he remarked. “What are they making? Lumin?”

Studying a dish containing green-hued crystals, Carrack replied, “Novarin, to be precise.”

Foeham's brow furrowed. “Isn’t that the drug rumored to kill hunger?”

Carrack, while sifting through scattered papers using the tip of his pistol, responded, “That’s one of its many effects. It numbs the senses mostly, like a super pain killer. You’re so numb and out of it that you can drown in a puddle. You’ll stare at a wall contempt with the boredom while your body starves to death.”

Adcock, rubbing the back of his neck, looked around the grim room. “The folks we ran into seemed too active to be under its influence. They were on edge, not spaced out.”

Carrack paused, focusing intently on the scribblings of ingredients. “You’ve got a point. If they were smart, they wouldn’t use their own supply. But coming down from a Novarin high? That’s when things get nasty. An addict can get unpredictable, even violent. Likely why our friend outside was so trigger-happy.”

Harper, who had been quiet, broke his silence, his voice a bit shaky: “That voice we heard earlier, it felt … fucking haunting.”

“Yeah …” Carrack’s eyes scanned the room’s shadowy corners. “Unsettling.”