Henry dismissed him with a wave. “And yet you are all fools to consider leaving these suits behind. Whatever plans you have for reaching New Pearlaya, they will not work. There are too many Orc soldiers in that city . . . and with our Selkie numbers far too few.” His gaze glinted with knowing certainty. “The Orcs will win, little Lenny, and then they will send you all back here to begin anew. And when that happens, all your efforts and your father’s death will be for naught. But these?” He again patted the stack of Selkie skins beside him. “These could be of service to some of those other Selkies that you pretend to care for, yes?” Henry’s gaze shifted to each of those standing with Lenny and Tom Weaver in turn. “Or, perhaps, you would use the money these suits will fetch at market for all manner of things. Bribes to pay off guards who will look the other way when smuggling people outside the city walls?” Henry focused on Jemmy T, then looked at Brutus. “Or to pay someone who might help them to find their family? Perhaps to find those who own their loved ones, hmm? Maybe even to buy them back?”
Lenny’s grip tightened on the hilts of his daggers for Henry’s every continued word.
“What of those who lucky few who will escape New Pearlaya to seek their fortune elsewhere?” Henry smiled as he turned on Vasili next. He pulled the Sea Lion suit free of the stack and binding that held it in place. Henry knelt and slid the folded suit across the ice. It came to rest at the feet of Tom Weaver. “You will need money for going ashore and traveling there also, Monsieur Weaver,” said Henry. “If you would leave all these skins behind, there will only be more Orcs to come and return them to New Pearlaya after your would-be Selkie rebellion fails again, as all have done before it. Why should we who have survived their cruelty thus far not profit for our losses?”
Tom Weaver scratched at his cheeks. “I wonder, Henry,” he began. “Would you be saying all this if it was your skin stacked and folded up here?”
Henry shrugged. “I would be dead, Monsieur Weaver. What would I care?” His gaze narrowed. “And I would rather know someone put my death to use, rather than leave it for Orcs to profit from.”
Fire burned through Lenny at Henry’s cold manner and ease of speaking. For all the arguments flying through Lenny’s mind in that moment, he verbalized one of them without thinking. “What if it were Chidi’s suit stacked there, Henry?”
Lenny tensed the moment he spat the words.
Henry’s face and colder eyes darkened like he was a Nomad preparing for attack. “Do not talk about my Chidi,” he growled.
“Why not?” Lenny doubled down. “That change things for ya when it comes to these suits here?”
Henry seemed to not deign the question worthy of a response.
Tom Weaver stepped between them. “Dunno who this Chidi is, but Dolan’s right – someone wore these suits once, Henry. They belonged to people.”
“And now they belong to me,” said Henry, looking out over the faces of all those gathered with Lenny and Tom Weaver, speaking to the others instead. “Say rather, they belong to us . . . and to anyone who would improve their fortune and help us to load the suits onto the train.”
You’re gonna help them, right, Lenny thought of his time ashore with Henry and what few stories Chidi had let slip along the way. And I’ll bet those some helpful people will end up dead before we all reach New Pearlaya.
Henry stalked along the front line of his Leper gang, continuing to speak to those gathered alongside Tom and Lenny. “Despite what others say, I am not a selfish man. Anyone here is welcome to share in the rewards with us, if they are willing to work for their share.”
Tom Weaver shook his head. “No one’s working for anything on this,” he insisted. “The suits are staying here, Henry. You take these suits back to New Pearlaya and sell them to some dealer, then it will just be more people who the slavers bring down and force to wear the coat. Just start the whole process over again. So, I’ll say it like this, for you and all those siding with you – either you all come back with us to the train right now to load up the food and supplies . . . or else you’re staying here to rot. Either way, these suits aren’t coming.”
“Or maybe it will be you left to rot in Bouvetøya, Tom Weaver,” said Henry, fingering the end of his own dagger.
Tom cracked his knuckles. “That a threat you and your boys here mean to make good on, Henry?”
“Oui, for I am no so foolish as to leave these riches behind,” Henry Boucher whispered, his stance straightening in defiance of Tom Weaver and all those standing with him. His eyes glinted when the Lepers with him stood taller also, each of them drawing their own blades. “Come then, Monsieur Weaver,” Henry motioned Tom and the rest of those with him forward. “Test us, if you dare . . . and I will make your Orc son an orphan again.”
Lenny tensed when Tom Weaver sprinted forward, and with Henry and his Lepers waiting to meet the charge. Lenny joined in the fray, then, focusing on the nearest Leper who raced to meet him as well. Nearing his opponent, Lenny had barely drawn his daggers when his foe fell back with one of Jemmy T’s cross-bolts embedded in his throat. The momentum of the bolt sent the Leper fumbling backward and off-balance, the larger man flopping to the cavern floor.
Carrying on to the next attacker, Lenny ducked the ensuing swipe meant to cleave off his head. He replied with a sweeping arc of his blade, slicing behind the knee of his new opponent and dropping him to be trampled by the others. Wheeling in search of a new enemy, Lenny saw Brutus driving his own dagger through the face of another Leper.
Grunting, Brutus kicked the dead man away. “Dolan!” he growled at Lenny. “Stand with me!”
Lenny did as he was bid. Where the larger man went, the little man did also, the pair of them working in deadly tandem to take on and end some of the other remaining fighters in the Leper gang.
Throughout the battle, Lenny glimpsed more than a few from his crew felled by the Lepers too. Like Nomads in a blood-induced frenzy, Henry and his Lepers constantly rallied and raged against their fellow Selkies. For a moment, Lenny feared their side was lost when Tom Weaver cried out in pain – caught off guard and nearly stabbed in the back by one of their foes. The blow fell short of its target, however, Tom Weaver’s life saved by Vasili.
The Russian Selkie dove at the fiercer, larger opponent, driving his shoulder into the other’s belly to thwart his aim of slaying Tom Weaver. Though Vasili succeeded in saving his ally, the opposing Leper shook off the newer, smaller opponent easily enough. Grabbing the back of Vasili’s Selkie coat, the Leper threw the little man away and sent him skidding across the ice.
Henry Boucher seized the moment, descending upon the little Russian before Vasili had come to a stop.
Too far away to stop the coming blow, Lenny shouted in vain. “Henry, don’t!”
If Henry Boucher heard him, he made no acknowledgement. In two moves, the Frenchman whirled his blade around, the tip of it pointed down at his smaller foe. Then, Henry drove both his knee and his dagger into Vasili’s chest to pin him to the icy floor.
Vasili’s arms and legs seized for a moment, then slumped against the ice with Henry still atop him. In an instant, the little Selkie’s face relented of the grimness that Vasili had carried in life. The Russian Selkie never moved again, but Henry Boucher plucked his dagger free and rose to continue his fight.
Lenny howled in equal parts rage and pain at the loss of another he had fought and bled with. Anger drove him on and away from Brutus’s side then, Lenny hurtling toward Henry Boucher with the thought to end his former crewmate. He called upon all the loathsome memories and encounters he’d had with Henry since they were assigned together. From Henry threatening him at the Indianapolis Zoo, to their fight outside the jail where Garrett Weaver was taken, and the bout in Crayfish Cavern. Lenny thought of Henry’s abandoning both he and Declan in Røyrkval too as he closed the distance between them.
But Henry Boucher’s life was not Lenny Dolan’s to claim.
At the loss of Vasili, Tom Weaver had come roaring
back. Nearer to Henry’s position than Lenny, the elder Weaver ran at his friend’s killer too.
Henry swiped at the oncoming behemoth of a man, only for Tom Weaver to block and bat the attempt away. Grabbing hold of the Frenchman, the feral strength that Tom Weaver used was matched by the speed and cunning that Henry Boucher countered with. As Tom drove him back toward the crematorium wall, Henry allowed himself to fall, grabbing Tom in likewise fashion, using the larger man’s momentum to carry him over and dip him face-forward as well.
Henry used their shared speed and impact to his advantage too, flipping Tom Weaver on the flat of his back to steal the larger man’s wind away. The Frenchman arched over, then, rolling so that he landed atop his opponent’s chest. Snarling, he raised his dagger to plunge it into Tom Weaver’s heart, the same as he had done for Vasili.
Lenny struck Henry before he could. The young Dolan threw all his weight into a diving attack, driving his shoulder against his former crewmate, knocking Henry from his perch atop Tom Weaver.
Move! Move! Move! Lenny’s instincts and Declan’s teachings screamed at him as both he and Henry landed together on the cavern floor. Lenny rolled away the moment he could manage, the wind of Henry’s dagger strike to follow missing him by inches. Wheeling, Lenny lost his footing when trying to stand.
A vice-like grip snatched his ankle then, yanking him back.
Lenny angled around, determined to face Henry if only so that he might make as brave an end as Declan Dolan had done.
For a moment, time seemed to slow.
Lenny’s lip curled at the sight of Henry looking down on him, his gaze like a soulless demon, his weapon raised to deal the killing blow.
And then Tom Weaver returned, smashing a rock against the side of Henry’s face and knocking him off of Lenny.
The vice-like grip released, Lenny gasped for air over and again. He was helped to his feet by Brutus and Jemmy T, both of their faces blood-streaked and dripping with sweat despite the surrounding cold. Scouting the area, Lenny’s chest pained at the sight of all the newly dead, both sides near decimated. And for what? Lenny thought, looking out over the pallets of stacked Selkie skins that cared nothing for which side had won. Blinking blood and sweat and grime from his eyes, Lenny used the sleeve of his suit to wipe the remains away.
The echo of constant knocking called him to turn and find the source, finding it in the form of a red-faced Tom Weaver battering a limp and defeated Henry Boucher into a meaty pulp. It took the strength of both Brutus and Jemmy T to haul Tom Weaver off and away from Lenny’s former crewmate. Even then, Henry Boucher did not rise.
Lenny had the thought, then, to wonder if the Frenchman had finally met his end.
Henry’s head lazed to the side, coughing and spitting blood. Still more poured forth from of his nostrils, the twisted angle of it leaving no doubt his nose was broken. His right eye was drenched in blood also. His left eye fluttered open, the iris searching in disbelief at Henry’s suffering loss. Like a newly-made zombie, Henry groaned in a weak attempt to roll over on his side and place his hands under him to rise and fight again.
Brutus met him before he could. With barely an ounce of his true strength, the larger Selkie nudged Henry in the ribs and rolled him to the flat of his back. “Tommy,” Brutus called out, even as he stepped clear of Henry’s reach in case the Frenchman feigned at a weakened state. “What do you want to do with him?”
Jemmy T spat, already fitting another bolt to his crossbow. “Let Jemmy T kill this one for you, eh, brudda? Aye, kill him and be done with it, yeah? Before him rally others to fight again.”
Aye, do it, Tommy, Lenny thought, his body aching with the hollow notion as Tom Weaver approached the fallen Leper. Kill him, so that none of us have to worry about Henry Boucher ever again.
His blade in hand, Tom stalked toward Henry. Kneeling without a word between them, he grabbed the hood of Henry’s Leper suit, then yanked up on it and dragged his defeated foe toward the crematorium.
For all the fight Henry had offered before, he showed little of it now – gasping for air, his hands weakly reaching to flail at Tom Weaver for release. The monstrous Selkie would not relent, however, dragging Henry around the building’s corner and out of sight.
Lenny looked to Brutus and Jemmy T then, wondering if they should follow.
Henry’s screams from inside the crematorium put an end to such thoughts. From pain to rage, and then on to senseless shouting. A minute later, Tom Weaver exited the crematorium alone . . . but the voice of Henry Boucher lingered on, the Frenchman howling and cursing with foreign words.
The red-haired giant’s face showed no sign of remorse or patience for questioning of his actions as he stalked toward the remaining few who had fought beside him.
When Henry continued to shout inside the crematorium, Brutus cleared his throat. “So, you’re not killing him, Tommy?”
“He’ll be dead soon enough,” said Tom, continuing past them. “He’s gonna suffer first.”
Lenny understood why when he saw where Tom was headed. Vasili . . . Lenny’s expression softened when the giant man knelt beside his fallen friend, gathering the slain little man up in his arms like a swaddling babe.
Tom Weaver carried his friend toward the nearest stack of Selkie skins. Then, laying Vasili’s body atop the pile, he added the little Selkie to the remnants of all those gone before. Though Tom Weaver’s broad back served to block the view of all those watching him, Lenny swore that he saw the larger man reaching into the front of Vasili’s suit.
What’s he doing? Lenny wondered, but did not say, the answer revealed a moment later when Tom Weaver removed his hand from the inside of his fallen friend’s Selkie suit. Lenny glimpsed the leathery thongs of a simple necklace then, the untied pieces spilling across the back of Tom Weaver’s hand before the larger man tucked all away in his own Selkie pocket.
None voiced any reproach for what the big man lifted from the body of his fallen friend. Nor did any raise a word against him when Tom Weaver fetched up one of the torches that Henry’s Lepers had used to light their way as they worked. Beginning with the stack he had placed Vasili upon, Tom lit the makeshift pyre on fire and lingered long enough to watch the flames catch.
For a moment, Lenny thought to step forward and stop Tom from burning the others; all to keep to their original plan of leaving evidence for others to come after. To see and know something of the same horrors as they had witnessed. In the end, neither Lenny Dolan or any of those alongside him did anything to say or sway Tom Weaver’s actions. As the fiery tendrils began to lick the stack, and then flame in full around Vasili’s body, Lenny’s chin quivered in remembrance of the one he had left upon a pyre of ice in the City of Song. So many . . . he thought over and again as Tom Weaver lumbered on to attend the other, fallen Selkie fighters who had bled with them in battling Henry’s Leper gang.
For each and every fallen comrade, Tom Weaver lifted and carried the bodies himself. He placed each of those onto a Selkie stack all their own, then lit each makeshift pyre in turn. The Selkie giant did not stop his efforts until all of the fallen Selkies were attended. Even for those who had fought among Henry’s group, Tom Weaver ensured that none of the Selkie dead were abandoned to rot.
A Dolan doesn’t leave others behind, Lenny thought of his father’s words and Tom Weaver’s work when the other flames began to take all the other piers too. All while Lenny’s gaze scanned the uncountable number of Selkie fallen whose remains had been stacked and tied together. How are there so many?
As the last of the pyres were lit, Lenny again thought to speak out against Tom’s actions. To save a few of the stacks and remind the elder Weaver of their earlier, shared decision that the Selkie skins should remain as evidence – a testament to all those slaughtered at the hands of the Blackfin’s Orcs and the Merrow king’s orders.
His mind suggested there would be proof enough for any willing to press further into the cavern and bear witness to the thousands of corpses sti
ll strewn among the ice-covered, stony fields and hollowed out, makeshift ditches.
It’s better this way, Lenny told himself then, his resolve and reason lessened for every stack lit in tribute by the crimson-haired giant. Listening to the crackle of flames overtaking the pyres, Lenny’s mind again turned to the unburnt one he had left to freeze in the Ancient City of Song. Forgive me, Pop. Lenny prayed, wincing at the singes and pops made by the flames, almost as if the various pyres sought to give all of the fallen Selkies a final, fiery song of sendoff from the element itself.
Beside him, Jemmy T bowed his head and whispered the same prayer he had offered at Declan’s funeral. “Go now, my bruddas. Aye, and all my sisters too. Swim off to Fiddler’s Green. Don’t dive below, to them depths unseen.”
When the last of the pyres were well and truly blazing, Tom Weaver cast his torch aside and returned to stand vigilant guard over the flaming one that he had rested Vasili upon. In his heart, Lenny knew that Tom would remain watchful until the pyre had burned to ash, a final show of respect to his little, fallen friend.
Among the remaining few survivors from their initial group, Brutus was the first to stir. “Come on, lads. He’ll be along shortly. Let’s get the rest sorted back at the train.” He said softly. “We’ll need to shove off soon.”
Jemmy T nodded, slinging his crossbow and adjusting the weight of it over his shoulder before heading out.
Curiosity held Lenny back. Though reason suggested he follow the others, Henry Boucher had continued his muffled, shouted threats all the while from inside the crematorium, his voice dampened somewhat by the fiery song and its billowing, smoky chorus outside. Turning back, Lenny ventured toward the factory. Cautiously, he dared to slip on inside.
With the massive kiln fires ceased, the cavern’s natural cold had already seeped through the factory walls to steal away the former warmth brought about by the fuel once offered from the Selkie barrows. The conveyor too had stopped, the walrus pairing that had served as its motor and pulley having been already freed of their yokes. In their place, Tom Weaver had offered another to the wheel of burden and the watery, circular ditch it lay within.
Salt Storm: The Salted Series: Episodes #31-35 Page 35