Rupert nodded. “And this brother of hers . . . Quill? Where might I find him?”
“I don’t know,” said Sydney. “We were hiding in Catcher’s Corner for the longest time, but—”
“Catcher’s Corner is no more,” said Rupert. “It was burned down by the Blackfin and—”
The great doors behind them swung open suddenly, and the soldiers crossing the threshold did not bear the same shimmering armor as Rupert did. Those who joined them now came armored in plate black, save for their leader who bore a swirl of white to cut through the darkness of his armor.
Malik Blackfin smiled easily at finding Rupert and Sydney together. “Speak of the devil . . . and he shall appear.”
Sydney shuddered at the sight of him, Solomon, and a host of other seawolves as grim in face and demeanor as their two leaders.
Rupert moved in front of her. “What are you doing here, Blackfin?”
“I might ask the same of you, my young lordling,” Malik replied. “The crowd anxiously awaits the arrival of royalty. The king too longs impatiently to have the princess at his side. Call her pretty face a comforting presence for the awful times that lie ahead.”
No. Sydney thought. He wants to see me suffer too. To see it up close.
The Blackfin continued. “And that is to say nothing of the king’s ongoing concern for his daughter’s safety after her recent disappearance.” He cocked his head to the side, studying Rupert. “If memory serves, I heard a certain horse-lord was with the princess before she was taken, no? Aye . . . all before he was knocked unconscious in the stables by a Silkie slave, I believe. Does that story carry any note of truth with you, horse-lord?”
Rupert grimaced, neither agreeing or disagreeing to the claim.
Malik grinned wider. “Silence is an answer in and of itself, my friend. A word of warning though - with all these trials to come, it would be a shame if any further royal names were added among the list of traitors to king and crown, wouldn’t it, Master Bowrider?”
“It’s Lord Bowrider to you, vermin,” said Rupert. “And you would be unwise to name me traitor again.”
“I’ll name you as I like, boy,” Malik continued forward, even as Rupert reached for his sword. The Blackfin stopped within an inch of him, smiling down on Rupert and Sydney both. “And if you ever think to stand or swim in the way of my orders again, horse-lord, I assure you that a traitor’s trial will be the least of your concerns.”
Malik reached around Rupert, then, their stares never wavering from one another. He took hold of Sydney’s trembling arm and pulled her free of Rupert’s shadow. “Come, Princess,” he said gaily. “We mustn’t keep your father and the crowds waiting.”
What game is he playing at? Sydney wondered, even as the Blackfin’s thumb needled into her arm, warning her to obey or else. He knows the king is not my real dad.
Malik led her back to the threshold of the doors, but stopped before crossing over. He turned back to face Rupert once more, whipping Sydney around with him. “By the by, horse-lord, whatever where you two lovebirds singing about to one another in this cold, dark place? Hmm? No doubt the king will find it most curious you went out of your way to stop my seawolves from carrying out a royal command. I wonder . . . what answer would you have me give to the king for his daughter’s untimely arrival?”
Rupert’s response came without delay. “Before the princess was taken, the king gave his daughter a most special gift – a seahorse of royal stock.”
Malik laughed. “A seahorse?”
“Aye,” said Rupert. “A Tiger-Tail thoroughbred. With all the time the princess has been away, I thought she might wish to know how the seahorse fared in her absence.”
Malik snorted. “Quite well, I’d assume, considering the beast is a gift from the king himself and housed in the royal stables.”
“Indeed,” said Rupert. “Still, I knew the princess would wish to know. They’re quite close, as any true rider should be with their mount.” He looked to Sydney. “Is there anything you would wish for her, Princess?” Rupert’s eyes flashed. “A special ball of that shrimp-paste cocktail you often gave her for a treat, perhaps? A ride around the city to your favorite locales?”
The message, Sydney understood by Rupert’s tone and the way he looked on her. He wants to know what message to give Quill . . . where to look for him.
Sydney cleared her throat, her mind racing for what to say and not give herself away to Malik. “No special place,” she said in answer to Rupert’s question. “Just tell her that I miss her very much and I’m sorry that I’ve been away.” Sydney tried to buy herself more time with the non-descript response, all whilst trying to think of a truer message for Rupert to pass on if finding Quill. “Tell her . . . tell Roselani that I hope to see her again very soon.”
And please understand that when I say Roselani, I really mean Quill . . . she thought to herself.
Rupert nodded. “I will indeed pass along your message, Princess.”
Malik clucked his tongue. “Run along, then, horse-lord. You have your orders. I have my own,” he said in such a way that set Sydney to shivering all over again. “And the traitor trials await.”
Then, he was marching Sydney away once more, bound toward the clamoring crowd awaiting them at the tunnel’s end.
11
LENNY
Huddled in near darkness inside one of middle train cars, Lenny Dolan rocked back and forth with the train’s movement as it sped through the underground tunnel toward the station of Bouvetøya. Lined in a row with several other Selkies, Lenny and each of those with him had manacles placed around their wrists in blatant signal of their prisoner status.
But the locks of Lenny Dolan and his fellows were for show alone.
Not for the first time, Lenny toyed with the unlocked, broken ends of his manacles to ensure the lock catches of both remained free for the ambushing plan of attack awaiting them. His freedom reassured, Lenny’s hand drifted to the dual hidden blades in his Selkie pocket too, nudging the hilts of both with his fists.
In front of him, Tom Weaver’s little friend, Vasili, stood as tall as he was able, his shoulders back and Baikal Seal hood drawn in the event he needed to morph his Salted form.
Behind Lenny, the shadowed outline of the former tavern owner Jemmy T, lingered over him in protecting watch. Other than the few times Lenny had asked to be alone with his thoughts, his father’s friend had refused to leave Lenny’s side. Then, as now, Jemmy T gave Lenny a comforting nod when finding himself glanced back at. “Everything be fine, little brudda,” he whispered. “Jemmy T be your guardian angel, mon. Aye, him be watching over you always . . . but keep them blades handy, yeah?”
“Will do . . .” Lenny replied, feeling for the hilts of his hidden daggers once more.
The train wheels screeched beneath him, the cabin shuddering in tandem.
Lenny’s heart thundered against his chest as he turned back to face the bolted, wooden door in front of him. Where the wood slats had rattled with the train’s constant speed, the sound of it had lessened in the wake of the Sailfish train beginning to brake.
From the forefront of the train-car’s locked doors, a hulking shadow growled. “Steady, lads,” the brogue voice of Brutus commanded from beneath the visored guard of the Painted Guard helmet he wore. Brutus, along with Tom Weaver and several others of the largest Selkies, had taken on the Orc armor to wear for their own. Their identities and Selkie suits hidden by black metal plate, the brutish guard of Selkies kept naked blades in hand as they surrounded Lenny and the others, the entire train-car full of Selkies all playing out the roles assigned to them.
Beneath them all, the frost-covered floor shuddered as the train car eased into the slow stop that had begun a couple miles out. A rampant hiss came from somewhere outside the train car, with shouted voices and scattered movement alongside as the train came to a full stop. In the darkness around him, Lenny heard clinking chains as others gathered their courage to face whatever came for th
e Selkies next.
Patience, son. Lenny imagined his father preaching to calm his nerves. Patience.
Outside the train car, the clumping of heavy boots atop frozen boards approached the train car to unlock the catch keeping all the Selkies inside.
Lenny’s vision narrowed and focused on what little firelight filtered through the wooden slats. He counted several large and shadowed figures, each of them bearing torches to light the way for the one freeing open the door.
The lock removed, the latch lifted, Lenny winced as the heavy door slid open on its hinges.
Beyond, the wall of taller folk impeded his vision, yet Lenny estimated that it was Brutus to lead the group of supposed Painted Guard soldiers out of their car. The moment the train car door began to open, Brutus shouldered out in front to gain access to the platform and to keep the real Orc guards there from shutting the Selkies back inside the train-car once more.
Brutus shouted all the while, waving Lenny and the others to come out with their seeming Orc captors. “All right, move out with you, Selkie scum! Come on, then. Haven’t got all day, have we?”
Vasili started forward with Tom Weaver as his supposed captor.
Lenny tensed when another Selkie brute’s grip tightened on his arm to lead out onto the platform and join the others. Keeping his head down as he imagined any wise prisoner would, Lenny was at least able to peek beyond the lip of his Selkie hood and glimpse a little of what lay ahead as he marched out of the train car. His pulse thundered against his chest at finding his Selkie group outnumbered the Orcs who awaited upon the platform.
“Oi! Hold up!” One of the real Orcs was saying to Brutus. “What’s this, then? What are these Selkies doing here? Who are you?”
“Who am I?” Brutus growled back, then rapped the Orc with his armored fist. “I’m the one who’ll clap you and your friends in chains, boy, the same as I did for these Selkie fools here if you and yours don’t fall in line and clear this filth off my hands. Now, get these other doors opened up and all these prisoners out on my block for counting!”
The Orc guard rubbed the side of his head, but would not relent his position. “Your block?” he argued with Brutus. “What are you on about? You’re not from here. What’s your name?”
Brutus back-handed him hard enough to send the Orc reeling and then falling to a knee. “Speak to an officer like that, will you, boy? Our Lord Blackfin would have had your head for that. Say nothing of impeding my duties and keeping to his schedule!”
Lenny’s fingers closed around the hilts of his hidden daggers, waiting for the real Orcs to unsheathe their blades and the attack to begin.
Staggering to his feet again, the Orc guard muttered an apology at the conviction Brutus bellowed with. The other, true Orc soldiers followed suit, all backing away from Tom Weaver and the Selkie brutes whose identities remained shielded by the Painted Guard armor.
Brutus moved out in front of the Selkie pretenders, then pointed up the train’s length and shouted at the true Orc soldiers. “Now, I want all these cars opened up, you lot! Bring all the Selkie scum out where I can see them and start them counting off, see? And don’t you lot harm a one of them either! The Blackfin has special plans for these here. He’ll want his counts matched when we’ve landed too!”
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the Orc who had been back-handed. “But we’ve nowhere to put these prisoners, let alone the rest you got tucked away inside. We weren’t expecting no shipments from the South, sir. We’ve been full-up to bursting for weeks already with those the capital keeps sending down for us to manage.”
“Well, you best make room, haven’t you, boy?” Brutus shouted back. “Get on with it, soldier!”
“We can’t, sir,” the Orc blustered. “Honest. Commander Pohl would—”
Brutus swung and then raised the tip of his sword to point an inch away from the Orc guard’s eyes. “Run along back to him then, boy. Fetch your precious commander and bring him here to answer for this sordid mess.” He waved his sword away, then wheeled on the others. “The rest of you move along and get my Selkies out here! Double-time, now! Any of you ruins a single one of my slaves and it’ll be your hides I come for next! The Blackfin asked for these prisoners special, he did. Now, move! Move!”
His palms sweatier by the second, Lenny’s grip slipped upon his hidden blades as the Orcs obeyed, fanning out along the platform to open up the other train cars down the line. One by one, the doors were opened. For each car opened, Lenny saw most of the Orc soldiers freeing the doors were quickly taken unawares by the awaiting Selkies within. Most of the Orcs were brought down quietly and dragged into the accompanying train cars. A few, however, were struck down, their cries for help and attempts to warn the other Orcs dying as swiftly as their Selkie assassins put an end to them. All were yanked into darkness, their demise shielded by the noise and wave of seeming prisoners and their captors emptying onto the platform.
Breathe, Len, he urged himself to do, his body stiff, his gaze a constant swivel with the notion their ruse would end and more Orcs would come sweeping in for war. Just breathe.
From the corner of his eyes, Lenny caught sight of further movement from the rear of the train – Henry Boucher led a mixed group of Lepers and Selkie brutes to sneak off the platform, hiding and fanning out among the shadows and stalactites nearby the train platform’s end.
Again, Lenny wondered after the plan he and the others had concocted during the ride into Bouvetøya. With the platform Orcs either taken or killed, he fought the urge to begin the next phase of their plan; calling for Henry and the other Selkies to spread out and create havoc throughout the cavern while they had the opportunity to move unnoticed. His gut twisted with every passing second of waiting for more Orcs to come, his mind wondering how many there would be, or if Lenny and his fellow Selkies could truly take on the remaining soldiers and win.
To divert his mind, Lenny focused on the torches blazing further in and throughout the cavernous area. As best as he could tell from his vantage point, the Orc soldiers had packed the Selkie cages further inside the cavern to standing room only. The front lines of the trapped Selkie slaves had been pushed against the iron cars of their shared cages, their haggard faces pressed against the gaps in between iron bars, glowing with frost. Of the captives, Lenny didn’t know whether to feel sorry for the frostbite already darkening the prisoners’ cheeks, or whether they were thankful for the air. At least those against the bars can breathe, he thought, wondering how the prisoners in the middle of the cage fared since all were packed so tightly together.
Lenny redoubled his efforts to gain a better hold on his blades when catching sight of emaciated women and children among those inside the frost-covered cages. Who are all these? Lenny wondered, not remembering having witnessed any women and children prisoners from the first time he had been brought to Bouvetøya. Why would the Merrow king have Selkie women and children sent down here?
A combination of horror and fury rose within him at the moans and cracking of whips echoing further inside the cavern from hidden places that he could not see. His mind racing with the idea of the things being done further in, Lenny’s resolve for the Dolan family mantra to not leave anyone behind strengthened in his mind for each passing second.
Then came the marching of heavier boots from further inside the cavern.
In answer to those approaching, Brutus’s voice carried to all those like him and Lenny, playing at prisoners and their captors upon the platform. “Steady lads . . . wait till they’re lured in first.”
Lenny clung to the memories of his father’s voice too as a beastly Orc commander marched at the head of several soldier columns, all headed toward the train platform. Patience, Len . . . patience, son . . .
The Orc commander stopped some twenty yards away from the platform. With a nod, his soldiers obeyed a wordless command, each fanning out like a picket-line along the train platform to keep any already upon it from leaving. Safely positioned behind his wall of Orcs, th
e commander surveyed those upon the platform, his gaze settling on Brutus. “Right. Who are you, then?” he asked.
“Oh, just another loyal soldier in his majesty’s service, sir.” Brutus fired back. “You’re running this place, then, I take it? Commander Pohl, your soldier said?”
“Indeed,” said the Orc leader. “And I would prefer to have your name as well. Also, the truth as to the meaning of this . . . unscheduled and surprise shipment from the south?”
“Brutus is my name, sir,” he answered honestly. “And the Warden Zane in Røyrkval sent us, Commander. Gave orders we was to vacate these poor Selkies from the City of Song, so he did.”
Commander Pohl’s brow furrowed. “Vacate, you say? Zane was just sent down not two weeks ago to clean up the disorderly operation there and procure a lost item for the king. If he’s succeeded at both already, why then would he order this rabble sent here and not deal with the Selkies accordingly?”
He knows. Lenny clamped down on his daggers. This guy knows we’re lying, Brutus.
“Deal with them, sir?” Brutus asked the Orc leader.
Commander Pohl drew his sword. “Aye,” he said. “I would have thought Warden Zane’s directives were quite clear, soldier, especially as he and I discussed in private how best to expedite the king’s orders and meet the Blackfin’s likewise demands.”
Lenny startled at the immediate clanging of swords unsheathing, the Orcs all drawing their blades as one without any command given from their leader. Lenny’s throat parched when the Orcs formed ranks, creating a shield wall in preparation to advance. We have the high ground, Lenny’s throat parched, adrenaline racing at the escalation of unfolding events. And they still don’t care. He thought, judging the look in Commander Pohl’s steely gaze. They’re coming anyway . . .
Commander Pohl leered at Brutus and all the others standing with him. “I’ll ask you again, soldier,” he spat in the direction of Brutus. “Who are you really? And what is the meaning of this unscheduled southern shipment?”
Salt Storm: The Salted Series: Episodes #31-35 Page 17