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

by Galvin, Aaron

  How do you mean? Garrett asked.

  When last you left me, you swam for the shore and your former life as any child seeking the past and familiar comforts would do, said Cursion. You returned with a different light in your eyes. An understanding that there is no way back. Only forward. I recognized the change in you when you returned to me this night with Atsidi Darksnout. You have proved yourself twice over now, too. Once with your outreach to the Sancul, Kellen. Then, again with your former podmate, Arsen, also. A craven will look at their foe and fear them for an enemy who comes to take all that they hold dear. A warrior seeks the reason and understanding as to why they must fight at all. Only when there is no other way will the warrior take up his blade in defense, or else to avenge their lost loved ones.

  Garrett nodded. And that’s why you gave Arsen over to the Hammers? For them to avenge the boy’s murder . . . or because you saw something in Arsen too?

  In the Orcinian’s eyes, I saw that he was long dead already, said Cursion. I do not doubt he will fear the end when it comes for him, but his choices led him to such a loathsome place over and again. If Silent Hammer will end his pain, it will be a release the Orcinian has long sought after.

  You think Arsen wants to die? Garrett asked.

  I think he does not know how to live, said Cursion. Not truly. Some would say we are all of us trapped by circumstance. Aye, caged by what we do not know, or rather, have no way of ever knowing if another will not show us the way. He shook his head. I do not doubt that most believe such things, your former pod-mate included. Still, one deceives themselves to hold to such blameful ways, rather than they take account of themselves and the actions that led them there and beyond. If one will not seek guidance from others, or else look inward and heed that which they hear within, they cannot hope to survive without. You need look no further than your former pod-mate for the truth in that.

  I don’t understand, said Garrett.

  Cursion nodded. For all that Arsen said, most of what I heard was blame. Whether the Blackfin for brutal guidance, Makeda for rightful discipline, or even you, for providing testimony in account of his actions. Arsen would lay excuse and blame upon others, rather than he look inward and choose a better way.

  But sometimes there is no better choice, said Garrett, reflecting on all the harsh choices forced upon him since coming into the Salt. Whether in Crayfish Cavern with August Collins, or Sergeant Luther threatening his mother, Cristina, if Garrett would not serve the Painted Guard, even the Blackfin and Ishmael bidding him to kill a captive in signal of his loyalties, Garrett wrestled with the reality of all such outcomes.

  Aye, Cursion agreed with his initial assessment. Oft times, one decision is no better than the other. And yet, in refusal to choose, you are deciding all the same by your inaction.

  Garrett sagged at that. So, you’re saying I screwed up when I didn’t kill Arsen . . .

  Cursion placed his fingers beneath Garrett’s chin, forcing him to look the high chieftain in the eye. No, my son. I am saying such choices should never have been put to you at all . . . and when hard decisions are forced upon you, you must then question the intent of the one who placed you there. Aye, and what outcome they hope to win for themselves.

  Garrett’s brow furrowed. What do you mean?

  My father once taught me that a creature snared is the most fearsome sort. If left without a choice to flee, they will fight to the bitter end. And why not? They have nothing but hate or fear of the one who trapped them. Nothing but death or the unknown awaiting them. Why then should a trapped creature not lash out against any and all approaching them? Aye, even if the hand that reaches for them comes in earnest to open the cage and set them free again.

  Garrett frowned. Ishmael wasn’t doing that for me tonight.

  No, said Cursion. He placed you in a cage with no right choice offered to you for release. Instead, like most wise creatures finding themselves ensnared, you rightfully accepted the freedom I offered you instead by my decision.

  But Ishmael made the others doubt me . . . said Garrett. I saw them looking back at me and whispering as they left. Now, they either think I’m weak for not killing Arsen, or else they think I’m more loyal to the Orcs.

  Or, perhaps, the wisest of them saw your mercy, said Cursion. Concern yourselves with how others see and judge you, my son, and soon you will find yourself trapped in a maddening tide, swirling endlessly around and around until the weight of such thoughts drowns you with the ever-changing weight and force of their judgements. A true leader will swim alone against all others for that which is right, if only in hopeful show that others will see and understand such truth laid bare.

  The truth is that I’m like Arsen now though, said Garrett. With enemies on both sides.

  Cursion chuckled. You will make still more if holding to such beliefs, my son. For no matter the choice you made tonight, Ishmael would have found a way of using your answer against you to suit his own needs. If you had killed Arsen, no doubt Ishmael would have argued that you truly have no allegiance to either people for your willingness to slay one of your own kind. That you would do the same to a Nomad hostage too, if you were among the Orcs and with a similar choice forced upon you. Cursion shook his head. While killing the Orc tonight would have earned you some fear among the people, it would be the least of them to honor you so. The wiser ones will laud you for patience and wisdom beyond your years for refusal of Ishmael’s taunts.

  Garrett frowned. It didn’t seem that way with the others that swam off.

  No, said Cursion. But I have often found those with the loudest voices among the people are most often the least of them too. With time comes wisdom, my son, and saner minds prevail more often than not. Just as yours did tonight.

  What about the times when they don’t? Garrett glanced into the above where he knew the other Nomads swam.

  Best to swim away then, my son. Cursion laughed. Aye, as we are doing together now.

  Garrett took his answer to heart, refocusing on their silent swim and diving for still quieter waters. We’ll still have to go back, eventually, he knew, glancing upward to the lighter water, imagining the Nomad horde awaiting them and what whispered words Ishmael shared among them about Garrett’s refusing to kill Arsen.

  Cursion cued on his silence. You are troubled still, my son?

  Yes, said Garrett. I was just thinking that I wish we didn’t have to go back up. That we could just keep swimming down here alone, rather than keep going to the capital.

  Another dream we share, said Cursion. In truth, I have long prayed for a day that we might swim away together and seek out your mother, Makeda, too.

  Garrett sighed. Given that we’re swimming to war against the Merrows and the Orcs, I don’t see that happening any time soon.

  Nor me either, said Cursion. But that is why one should always continue to dream, my son, for dreaming is but another means of escape too. A vision of better days gone by, or else to imagine all those days you hope to bring in the times to come.

  Garrett thought on that a while before speaking again. You really think the day would ever come that you and Makeda could swim together again? That she would forgive you?

  Much as I wish for it, no, said Cursion. Not in this lifetime, rather. But, once we both venture to the Other side, aye, perhaps there, swimming with both her father and me, perhaps then your mother and I might finally come to an understanding of that which drove us apart so long ago.

  You were the one to kill her father though, said Garrett. And if you killed him, then why would he ever help you, even on the Other side?

  Because even though we were enemies, your grandfather was a warrior, once, said Cursion. For all the hate dividing us, Orcin Blacktide was among the most fearsome sort . . . and all true warriors pray for a good death. Cursion shrugged. The wise ones say that in death all things are made new. All the old hurts and hatreds forgotten. All of us made as children are meant to see the world and others in it also. Free of judgement, worry, an
d concern. Nothing left to us but to swim and revel in the green waters with all those gone before. Perhaps there, with eternity on our side to speak and listen with the other, perhaps then Orcin Blacktide and I might settle the old disputes between us. Aye, if only so that his daughter and I might share the life we once craved here and live that dream in the green waters of hereafter instead.

  Garrett thought of Makeda for a moment before he replaced her face with those of Tom and Cristina Weaver. He wondered if they too swam in the place that Cursion and other Salt folk spoke of. He pictured them just so, both swimming together through the crystal waters of Fiddler’s Green that Lenny Dolan had told him of. He was about to ask the high chieftain to tell him more of the Salted afterlife when another interrupted their shared swim.

  A glimmer at first, Garrett thought the shark form looked like a ghost in the elsewise darkened water as it rapidly descended to join them. Nearing both, the Oceanic Whitetip form fell away, leaving only the tail to support the human torso and face of the Night-Stalker leader.

  Cursion called out to the approaching Nomad. Short-Shore . . . what brings you to this depth, my friend?

  More tidings from the above, high chieftain. Short-Shore panted. Our healers and Watawa the Open Shell say that the son of Silent Hammer is likely beyond their aid.

  Cursion frowned. The boy will die, then?

  It would seem so, said Short-Shore, his voice hesitant.

  Something’s wrong, Garrett thought then. But, why is he afraid to tell us?

  Cursion too cued upon the Night-Stalker’s hesitancy. Speak on, old friend. What troubles you?

  Many things this night, high chieftain, but Red Water most of all, said Short-Shore. My warriors have heard him spreading word among the people that your Orc-son is a spy sent among us by the Blackfin. Aye, that Garrett Weaver were sent to cause civil war among our tribes and divide us before we ever could reach New Pearlaya. Also, that the Orc attack on the son of Silent Hammer were meant to distract us. All so that Garrett Weaver might swim away and rejoin his brethren seawolves before returning to his uncle with news of our plans.

  Spy? Garrett cried out at the accusation. We’ve been through this already! Ishmael is the one who brought me here! If I was a spy—

  Cursion quieted him with a motion of his hand. Patience, son. He glanced at the Night-Stalker leader. For I gather our friend has not yet told us all.

  No, high chieftain, said Short-Shore. There is much and more, I fear. It were also heard that Red Water claimed we should all be better served if the son of Silent Hammer were to die from the wounds given him by the Orcs. Aye, that the death of his son might serve the purpose of all to light the fires long-cooled in the heart of Atsidi Darksnout and bid him to give up his cry for peace. All that he might call his warriors to war with our other tribes.

  Cursion’s lip curled. He wished the boy to die?

  Short-Shore nodded in silent reply.

  Cursion frowned. And here I had hoped after all the long years of his banishment, Red Water would take up his father’s mantle and restore honor to his people and his name. Instead, it seems he would rather keep to a legacy of betrayal and cast its shadow further upon the Bull Nation.

  Aye, high chieftain, said Short-Shore. Forgive me for bringing such ill tidings.

  It was not you to stir them, my friend, said Cursion, clapping Short-Shore on the shoulder. Come. He turned to motion Garrett too. It seems our peaceful swim is over for now, my son. Much as I would rather remain with you, I must—

  Garrett winced when the high chieftain cried out in pain.

  Cursion’s tail stiffened, his arms flailing outward before reaching back to grab at what had struck him from behind. As the high chieftain wheeled around, Garrett saw a coral dagger driven nearly to its hilt, deep in Cursion’s back, just beneath his left shoulder. No sooner did the high chieftain turn to meet his assailant, Short-Shore offered him a second wound – driving another of the daggers that once lined his belt into the high-chieftain’s belly. And when Cursion grabbed hold of the Night-Stalker leader, Short-Shore plucked both of his daggers free and stabbed at the high chieftain over and again.

  Father! Garrett shouted, using his tail to send him rocketing into the crimson-stained water that swirled around the Nomad pair.

  Short-Shore continued to stab at Cursion, even as the high chieftain’s hand clamped around the throat of his assailant to strangle him.

  Snarling, Garrett flung himself at Short-Shore, striking him in the middle of the chest and driving him backward and away from Cursion. For all his speed, the Night-Stalker leader then used the force of momentum against him.

  Short-Shore grabbed hold of Garrett’s bicep with one hand, the other wrapping around his midsection. Garrett’s skin tingled with the brief, cold kiss of an iron blade upon his back. The next he knew, the frigid, flat of the blade was gone, Short-Shore opting instead to again use their shared momentum to throw Garrett away and off of him, into deeper water.

  Garrett tumbled end over end. By the time he managed to right himself, Short-Shore had swum between him and Cursion.

  The Night-Stalker leader’s lip curled, his blade at the ready in the event that Garrett chose to swim at him again.

  Beyond the Night-Stalker assassin, Garrett saw the Nomad high chieftain bleeding out.

  The cloud of crimson surrounded and tracked with Cursion as he swam a stilted, meandering path toward Short-Shore. His hand weakly reached out as if he meant to ambush his enemy in the same manner as he had been attacked. Before the high chieftain could reach his assailant, however, a trident came raining down from the water above. Skewered by the unseen attack, the blow spun Cursion around as the three, razor-tipped trident blades shot through his flesh. To judge the rasped sound of his immediate Salt breath thereafter, one of the trident blades had punctured the high chieftain’s left lung.

  Garrett cried out when Cursion no longer swam upright, his body and tail lain out sideways in the water, the trident still embedded in his shoulder, its handle angled downward into the Abyss.

  Cursion raised his hand toward him. G-Garrett . . . the high chieftain muttered. Sw-swim away . . . my son.

  Garrett saw that he could not. Short-Shore’s gaze had yet to leave him since their initial tussle. Were Garrett to try and flee for the surface, a worser sort waited for him in the above.

  Ishmael grinned as he descended. The Sancul were wrong - it seems the White Shadow does speak after all . . . Ishmael stopped just beyond the reach of Cursion. Then, as now, you speak up too late, high chieftain.

  Cursion whispered defiance as the other assassin from above came to swim at his level. Traitor . . .

  Traitor? Ishmael toyed with the word. No. I would argue my actions here prove the lengths that I will go to save my people from such ignorance.

  Garrett started forward, then, attempting to swim around Short-Shore.

  The Night-Stalker leader met him there too though, cutting off Garrett’s attempt to reach his Nomad father.

  Ishmael laughed at Garrett, but his gaze remained on the fallen high chieftain. Your Orc-son wishes to join you in the green waters I think, White Shadow. Shall we send you both on together to await your lady love, Makeda, also? Aye, that you and your bastard son might both know a bit of that peace you prattle on about wanting to protect and shape for all the generations to come. He frowned. Pity you will not live to see the true future. I find that is the problem with dreams; one must always wake to face reality once more.

  Cursion attempted a weak swipe in Ishmael’s direction, one easily dodged. Coward . . . he said.

  You confuse me with yourself again, high chieftain, said Ishmael. You feared what the Sancul offered our people. Ever looking toward the future, you ought to have taken what lingered right in front of you. For what happens if one does not live to see that better tomorrow that they had hoped to shape, high chieftain? What if they spend all their life toiling for tomorrow, and yet never appreciate the gifts offered them today? Ishmael cl
ucked his tongue. No, White Shadow, I am neither the coward, nor the great fool that you are. I know the way forward for our people and will not hesitate to lead them there. He whispered. Time and age have made you weak, forgetting that which the youth know well – that for all your wisdom and calculated moves in this dangerous game we play, there is no counter for when someone flips the board such games are played upon.

  Garrett’s hands were shaking as he watched Ishmael taunt the fallen high chieftain. Do something, Garrett told himself all the while, but found he could not move with Short-Shore watching and waiting for him to do so.

  Ishmael clucked his tongue again. Truly, high chieftain, I think it a pity your vision failed you here. In truth, I fear it were another fault of yours to not consider Short-Shore and his fearsome Night-Stalker clans as among the greatest of our tribes. Why would you dishonor them with border patrol, rather than grant them a place with the likes of the Bull Nation and the Hammer tribes? Arrogance, I name your decision there. A false leader who neglected those other tribes he deemed as lesser by his actions and his choices. Ishmael drew a dagger from his belt and showed it to Cursion. But, no matter. You may sleep well now and swim the green waters in peace, old friend . . . for unlike the shadow you were named for, I swear to you that I will lead our people to a greater legacy. Our enemies will rename the Salt as ‘Red Water’ by the time we and the Deep Dwellers are done. And then, like the fallen shadow beneath me now, I will see the Sancul vanquished too.

  Garrett howled when Ishmael ended the life and rule of Cursion White Shadow with a swift and merciless twisting of his blade.

  Cease your weeping, boy, said Ishmael quietly, using his free hand to close the eyes of the murdered high chieftain. Do your father honor now. Let you try and look upon us bravely, at least, as White Shadow did at his end.

  Garrett trembled at the words, knowing he could not hope to defeat both of Cursion’s killers. As Ishmael plucked his dagger free of the murdered chieftain, Garrett forgot his grief. His mind raced for anything to use as a weapon, finding none. He looked to Shore-Shore in front of him, finding no pity in his eyes either, the crazed look he saw from the Night Stalker leader reminding him of several others that he and Ishmael had traveled across the Salt with. Short-Shore, said Garrett, his voice quivering. Ishmael killed some of your people too. Did you know that? He murdered three of them before we got to the Devil’s Triangle!