Salt Storm: The Salted Series: Episodes #31-35

by Galvin, Aaron

  Garrett . . . Cursion called his attention. Come, my son.

  Where are we going? Garrett asked, even as he followed his father in descending in the opposite direction of where Atsidi Darksnout and his Hammer warriors had gone. Shouldn’t we talk to the Selkies from the boat and find out what they know?

  We will find out soon enough what they know, Cursion motioned toward a ringed collection of Nomad warriors surrounding the boat’s perimeter. And the Selkie can wait, for now. I would rather hear from the Blackfin’s seawolves that were captured by our people first.

  Violovar. Garrett thought, kicking his tail harder to keep up with his father’s fervent pace. Near half a mile before they reached the captives, Garrett’s primal mind scented Orc blood in the water, both sour and sweet, mixing with the taste of briny Salt. The scent urged him to hasten onward or else to risk losing a chance at an easy meal. Garrett fought against the primal urgings, but welcomed the adrenaline surging through him, gifting him further speed and endurance.

  Ahead, a slew of Nomads had swarmed around still more at the center, all huddled around an Orc in raggedy, leather armor who swiped and raged, taunting those who waited to finish him. All the while, the Nomad warriors cheered at their champion in the center, Ishmael easily swimming aside from each blow the Orc meant to end him with.

  The waters were red-stained around them all, the Nomads feeding on the intoxicating frenzy left to them by each additional wound that Ishmael gifted to the Orc. Of their enemy, Garrett witnessed several more former prisoners of black-and-white, and all of them slain. What remained of their bodies were slumped and floating beneath the Salt surface, left to move and spin by the underwater current, or else when Nomads in their full-on shark forms came to nip at the fleshy treasures that the Orc souls left behind.

  Garrett glanced away from the horror and the rising memories within him of having witnessed such a thing before outside the gates of New Pearlaya. He focused instead on the cheers and cries from those surrounding Ishmael and the surviving Orc at the center of their makeshift fighting ring. Long scars were raked down the Orc’s black tail, some of them newly reopened and bleeding for the wounds gifted him by the continued fight. The tattered rags he wore clung to his upper body, the holes in the cloth revealing his arms and shoulders were adorned with strange tattoos and brands.

  Cursion shouted them all down. Enough! He cried, speeding toward the center to break-up the ring and put an end to the ongoing circus.

  Garrett followed the high chieftain to the circle’s middle. He thought to warn Ishmael when the Orc soldier shot forward with his blade raised in a renewed, hopeful attack of ending at least one of the Nomads harassing him. Before he could raise the alarm, Ishmael reacted with uncanny awareness and speed, dodging the attempted blow and catching the Orc by the wrist instead. He twisted the soldier’s arm at the last.

  The Orc cried out at the sudden reversal, dropping his blade for the Salt to drown and keep for the whole of time. Before the Orc could react further, Ishmael craned the soldier’s arm behind his back and drove him forward through the water toward Cursion.

  A gift for you, high chieftain, Ishmael practically sang as he lifted on the soldier’s arm, forcing him to wince and halt in their shared swim at the same time. Ishmael grinned at Cursion. Aye, a gift for you and your son, White Shadow, for we all know how much you both love the Orcs.

  When Cursion said nothing of the taunt, Garrett too endured the titter of laughter and several whisperings from the gathered crowd of another potential fight to come. Rather than listen to the other Nomads, Garrett chose instead to study the Orc captive, a scraggly, if well-built, younger soldier. Still, Garrett could not be certain of the Orc’s age with the rusted helmet shielding the soldier’s true identity.

  Cursion was looking over the Orc prisoner too. Where are the other captives? He asked of Ishmael. The Mako who brought such news to our council said there were several hostiles taken.

  Ishmael grinned. Aye, there were more. He motioned to the slain Orcs nearby. Alas, the others among the pod would not heed me. They learned too late the difference between idle threat and certain death. This one here is the last of them, he patted the Orc soldier on the back. He, at least, thought to make a braver end than his fellows, didn’t you, boy?

  The Orc grunted agreement beneath his helmet.

  Cursion swam forward. Leave him be, Red Water. I would hear what tiding this Orc brings, or at least what commands were given to him.

  Ishmael chuckled. If he be anything like his fellows, I fear your patience will give out before this one provides an answer, high chieftain.

  My patience lasts longer than yours, Red Water, said Cursion. Remove his helmet. I would know this Orc better.

  As you command. Ishmael smirked in eager reply before turning over the captive to a pair of warriors from Cursion’s tribe. When both had laid hands upon the Orc captive, Ishmael used his tail to drift upward and pluck the helmet off the Orc.

  Garrett’s eyes widened in recognition of the face beneath. He had thought nothing of the long, fresh scars raked down the hostage’s black tail, but he well remembered his former pod-mate from the Painted Guard for the distinctive white patches encircling the captive’s eyes. Both made the Orc appear larger and menacing.

  Garrett recalled having once feared the wild Orc captive too, their first meeting having been after the events in Crayfish Cavern when Makeda had thwarted the Blackfin’s seawolves. Their time training together in New Pearlaya had only furthered Garrett’s loathing of his former pod-mate.

  Arsen . . . he thought of the captive’s name, glaring back at the traitorous prisoner when both locked eyes.

  Cursion cued on the look between them. You know this Orc, my son?

  I do, said Garrett. He’s one of those that tried to kill me. He thought of his mother, then; of Cristina Weaver, weeping in the sands before her own death. Glancing at his Nomad father and seeing the rage in Cursion’s eyes, Garrett thought to press the matter further. Arsen is one of those who betrayed Makeda too.

  A dead traitor, then, said Cursion, his gaze narrowing on Arsen as he plucked a dagger off his belt. Though the manner in which your death comes will rely on your next choices, Orc. Sing for me now, and pray that I approve of your answers. What fool madness brought you to betray your pod mother and my son? Aye, and to attack my people too with so few of you in number?

  Arsen’s voice shook, despite the calm in which he managed to maintain as the Nomads tightened their grip on him. Wanted to breathe a while longer, didn’t I? Not madness if you’re trying to live, is it?

  Cursion frowned. It is madness to believe you would survive after making enemies on both sides. A betrayal of your people and then to attack mine as well.

  Well, I didn’t have much choice in either, did I, sir? Arsen replied. Not had much choice at all in my poor, miserable life, I don’t mind telling you.

  Garrett could not tolerate that, the face of another former pod-mate flashing in his mind, and begging words he muttered at his end. No choices, huh? He demanded of Arsen. Like when you killed Pieter? You didn’t have a choice there, Arsen? Because I remember it seemed like you enjoyed twisting the knife at Pieter’s end.

  It were a favor I done that poor lad, so it was, said Arsen. Better the death I gave him, then one that the Blackfin would have given him. Aye, a better and swifter end by my hand than the one your people here would give ours too, for that matter. Her jerked his head toward the other Orc dead, their bodies still being nipped at by the ongoing, frenzied shark feast. If you offered me that same end, here and now, as the one I gave that whiny bleater from our pod, Recruit Weaver, truly I’d take the iron kiss I offered him in half a heartbeat.

  Cursion nodded. You might just get your wish, boy. Answer my questions honestly and it might be I grant you a swift and easy end. Again, the choice lies with you, Orc. Now, what brought you here and led you to betray your pod mother, Makeda?

  Arsen cringed as if fearing the blade fall
to come. Meaning no offense, sir, but it’s not loyalty if I never swore the pod mother allegiance, is it?

  My son says you were a pod-mate of his, both of you in service of the Painted Guard. . .

  Aye, we were training to be, but neither of us chose to join, did we, Recruit Weaver? He looked to Garrett for validation. Receiving none, Arsen turned back to Cursion. It were the Blackfin I served all along, sir. Not that I made much choice in loyalty to him either. ‘An Orc without his pod is nothing’, sir. I didn’t have no pod, nor name either, ‘fore the Blackfin took me in. Named me hisself, he did. He takes in all what he finds alone, or the Painted Guard won’t keep, sir. All on account of he knows what it is to be cast out, the Blackfin does. Same as was done for him in favor of his sister after you murdered their father, sir. Arsen shook his head. But I didn’t never swear no allegiance to Makeda. When the Blackfin saw we would lose our fight against her outside of Crayfish Cavern, he chose me to swim off and be taken in by the Painted Guard. Knew his sister well enough that she and her lot would force me in recruitment for them, he did. In truth, he only sent me to keep eyes on that one there. He pointed at Garrett. Aye, wanted to learn if it were his nephew or not.

  Why? Cursion asked. The Blackfin is as much a purist as they come. Why should he concern himself with a half-bred nephew, if not for his own ill wants?

  I don’t know, sir, said Arsen. Honest, I don’t. The Blackfin don’t tell me much, and I don’t ask. Learned when I was young it’s better if you steer clear of him, sir. Just do as your told. Same as the rest like me that he brings in and makes for his Violovar.

  Rapists, traitors, and murderers is what he brings in, said Garrett, reminded of finding the other Violovar spy, Xander, as he assaulted their female pod-mate, Vanya, after Pieter’s death.

  Aye, Arsen agreed with Garrett’s assessment. But let you grow up as we did. See how you turn out, Recruit Weaver. It’s not all of us so lucky as you to have royal ties and live our days safe upon the shore. I tell you true, I’d have given up all my days below for a single one of happiness above.

  Ishmael chuckled. Maybe you should’ve ran ashore when you had the chance, then, boy. He mussed Arsen’s hair, leaving it to flow in the underwater current.

  Might be I should’ve, said Arsen. Or give me a chance now, sir, and I will. Aye, swim for shore this very day, I will. Swallow the anchor and never come back.

  You could have done already, said Ishmael. I gave you that chance to live and carry the tale of crossing currents with Red Water when we met outside of New Pearlaya. The same as the day that your former pod-mate here swam away with me.

  Beg pardon, sir, said Arsen. But you didn’t tell me to run for shore. Asked me to deliver your message to the Blackfin, and so I did. Not that it would have mattered if I hadn’t done. The Blackfin and my brother seawolves would’ve come ashore to hunt me down anyways if I had fled without reporting back. He’s a monster what don’t forget or forgive nothing. Anyway, it was a message you told me to deliver, sir. Not to run for me life.

  Ishmael snorted. Such the loyal pet, aren’t you?

  Cursion stirred. What was this message passed between you, then? He looked between Ishmael and Arsen. These words meant to reach the Blackfin?

  The Orc was the first to give him a reply. He told me to say the whole of the Devil’s Triangle would rejoice with the prodigal son’s return, sir.

  Cursion cocked an eyebrow as he looked on Ishmael. Prodigal son?

  Ishmael shrugged in boyish answer. Admittedly, I have always shown a flair for the dramatic. He looked on Garrett. And I thought the Blackfin should like to know where his nephew would be delivered. Or, say rather, to whom his nephew should be delivered. Ishmael gave a mocking bow to Cursion. For your son is the prodigal one returned, no?

  Garrett sneered. You weren’t talking about me, then, he thought to himself, his interactions and journeys with Ishmael leading him to know better now. You were only ever thinking about yourself.

  The high chieftain too ignored Ishmael’s words in favor of Arsen instead. If your message were delivered to the Blackfin, why have you come here, Orc? Why do you attack my people?

  Told you that the Blackfin sent me, sir, said Arsen. Sent me in punishment for not being brave enough to die when facing Red Water like my brothers-in-arms. He said that I were a bloody fool once to deliver him such a message. That I might as well be a dead fool to deliver an offer in reply.

  An offer, you say? Cursion asked.

  Aye, sir. The Blackfin said if you’ll send his nephew back to him, safe and whole, then he’ll set his sister free to swim back to you in fair return. A prisoner exchange, if you will.

  Makeda? Cursion’s voice broke in naming her. She’s alive?

  Aye, sir, said Arsen. Alive and well, for now. Last I seen anyway, even if she were in chains.

  Garrett looked to his Nomad father, doubt creeping in his mind at what the high chieftain’s response would be. Don’t send me back. Garrett prayed, well remembering his encounter with the Blackfin outside of Crayfish Cavern. The mandate put to him of killing Lenny Dolan to prove his loyalty to the Orcs and the Violovar. He had no knowledge at the time that the Blackfin was his uncle, but the thought of being wanted by him now and in exchange for Makeda’s freedom set Garrett’s teeth to chattering. Why does the Blackfin want me so bad? Garrett wondered. What does he intend?

  Cursion drew closer to Arsen, his hand reaching for the dagger at his belt. The Blackfin confuses me with his own desires. I believe you had it right from the start, Orc, he drew the dagger and raised it to Arsen’s throat. The Blackfin sent you here to die.

  Arsen winced and cried out the moment the iron touched his skin. Please, sir! Don’t kill me. Please . . . let me swim for shore. I’ll swallow the anchor, sir. On my honor I will.

  Garrett sneered at the pitiful act. You don’t have any honor, Arsen. He looked to Cursion when the high chieftain glanced over at him. I begged him to not kill our pod-mate, Pieter, outside of New Pearlaya. He chose to do it anyway. Garrett glared at Arsen. He enjoyed killing my friend.

  I didn’t though, Arsen whined. Honest, I didn’t. He were a weakling, that one. Would’ve been killed anyway in the first battle he went to. Aye, and gotten others of our pod killed too, no doubt. Maybe even you, Weaver. All it takes is one weak link in a chain to break it. Pieter was ours.

  Our pod was already broken, said Garrett. And you were one of those to break it.

  Ishmael whistled lowly, drawing the attention of all. All of this talk of Orc pods and killing has set my blood to boiling . . . he played to the Nomads surrounding them before settling his gaze on Garrett, a wicked gleam in his eyes. Aye, and wondering where certain loyalties lie.

  What do you mean? Garrett sneered back at him.

  You and this hostage were once recruits of the Painted Guard, no? Ishmael posited. And you say this Orc here killed one of your friends, yes?

  He did, said Garrett, even as his gut needled at him for every word uttered by the Nomad that he had crossed the Salt with.

  Ishmael smiled. It seems to me then that Lady Fate has offered us all an opportunity this day. He drew his own dagger, then, spinning it easily around in the palm of his hand so that he might hold the blade’s end and offer the hilt for Garrett to take hold of instead. Aye, quite the opportunity. Vengeance for your slain friend and former pod-mate, his smirk widened. As well as the chance to show us all where your true loyalties lie, Garrett Half-Orc.

  Garrett hesitated to reach out for the blade, even as Ishmael continued holding it out in offer. He glanced at Arsen, his face pale and eyes flitting back in forth in careful watch. Garrett looked back at Ishmael. You want me to kill him?

  Who better? Ishmael challenged. You know this Orc hostage, and what murderous acts he has committed against his kindred. Also, both our wise leader and the Blackfin have already doomed him. Did this Orc not claim to wish for a swifter, cleaner death at our hands, rather than be returned to the Blackfin and face his tortures? Is
hmael lifted the hilt again in further, urgent offer. Give this one the end he seeks, Garrett Half-Orc. Or make him suffer, if you would rather. Either way, let you prove where your loyalties truly lie now – to your proud father and us Nomads all, he glared at Arsen once more. Or refuse, and swear yourself to the Orcs that you abandoned and claim to loathe.

  Shivering beneath the careful watch of all the surrounding warriors, Garrett took hold of the hilt, his fingers closing around it. Garrett lowered the dagger as soon as Ishmael released the full weight of the blade unto him. For all his wish to let go of the dagger, his mind released a flood of memories from his time among the Orcs. The whimpered cries of Pieter as Arsen and the others tortured him during their initial training, and then again before his slaying. Garrett heard his mother baying with her seal voice too, a similar choice presented to him before Makeda made the decision for him.

  With a flick of his tail, Ishmael slowly rounded on Garrett. Do it, Half-Orc, he purred. Kill this traitor to your former pod. Avenger your friend and be done with it.

  The corners of Garrett’s eyes stung as he understood the challenge put to him, similar in nature to the one that the seawolves had tried and failed to force him to make outside of Crayfish Cavern and then again in New Pearlaya too.

  Garrett looked on Arsen, then, held in front of him by the burly warriors.

  Unlike those earlier times before, however, when put to the choice of killing Lenny Dolan or his mother, Garrett could think of no reason as to why his former pod-mate should not die. How the world would not be better served without Arsen’s existence.

  Do it. His primal minds urged him also, both feeling the collective tension in the water, the eyes of all those warriors awaiting to see what he would do. You know that Arsen would do the same to you.

  He would. Garrett argued with himself the longer he looked into Arsen’s pitiful stare. His fingers clenched tighter upon the dagger hilt, his knuckles whitening as he further imagined what must needs be done next. Both for rightful vengeance over Pieter’s murder and in signal to the Nomads of his loyalty too.