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

by Galvin, Aaron

  The Night-Stalker leader chuckled. Odd that you should only think to tell me now, boy. Not when me and my people found you both when entering the Devil’s Triangle.

  I-I was afraid of you, then, said Garrett.

  Not now though, eh? Short-Shore laughed louder still. Go on, then, Orc. He sneered. Tell me of my kin that Red Water slew and you kept quiet on. Remember those dead ones’ names, do you?

  Garrett’s mind blanked as he tried to recall, his mind clouding with his Nomad father’s body so near. Uh . . . Maou was one of them. He shut his eyes in an attempt to dredge up their names, even as the memories of Ishmael killing all three of their fellow Nomads rose within him. Nigano was another. I can’t remember the last one.

  Short-Shore’s lip puckered. Impressive, that, he said. Likely the last of them were named Long Hands. The three of them often swam together near the pearl city and had some ranged dealings there and beyond.

  Not anymore. Garrett pointed as Ishmael swam toward them. He killed them . . . he killed all three of them, just like he did with my father now.

  Ishmael sidled next to Short-Shore. Admittedly, the boy is right, he said. I did kill them all. And all to safeguard this ungrateful bastard’s secret. Can you believe that, brother?

  Short-Shore shrugged. Can’t say as I blame you for killing that lot, he said Ishmael. I would have done myself if forced to cross the Salt with those three fools.

  Ishmael smiled. Safety in numbers, my friend.

  Fair enough, said Short-Shore in reply. Then, he jerked his head toward Garrett. How you want to do this Orc-bastard in, then? Gut him first, then cut him into pieces and send those on back to his Uncle Blackfin, maybe?

  Garrett retched at the thought of his body being carved apart as he had witnessed done for the Painted Guard corpses outside of New Pearlaya after his banishment. His bile spewed forth in the water before him, then swirled about as he tried to swim away and escape it.

  Poor boy, said Ishmael, chuckling. You really believe that I would allow my friend here to slaughter you now?

  I-I don’t know what you’d do, said Garrett, his gaze trailing off to Cursion’s body.

  Ishmael grinned wider still in answer of Garrett’s claim. No, you don’t have that much imagination, do you, little Orc. No more than your Uncle Blackfin knows what I will do . . . so, it seems that I must send you on with another message for him.

  Garrett’s brow furrowed. What?

  Do you not remember my earlier words when we swam together in The Devil’s Triangle? Of your being one of the only Orcs to ever escape me? Ishmael laughed. It seems you are indeed among the most fortunate of your kind, boy. Your uncle sent your former pod-mate, Arsen, here to deliver a message. I would send a reply to him in fair return. Ishmael drifted forward to within an inch of Garrett. Go and swim back to your uncle now, Orc. Tell the Blackfin that he need no longer be bothered with the White Shadow who slew his father, for I have stolen that vengeance from him. Next, I will take the city so precious to him and his fallen father . . . and when I have taken all else that remains dear to the Blackfin, only then will I come to take his life from him too. Ishmael pushed the dagger he had slain Cursion with against Garrett’s chest, the feel of it cold against his breast. Aye, boy, tell the Blackfin that he need no longer fear the shadow that came for his father. It is a raging tide of Red Water that comes to drown him and his cursed city now. He shoved Garrett away. Go. Be gone, boy, before I change my mind and send you back to your uncle as my Night-Stalker friend suggested.

  Garrett wasted no time in obeying, fleeing from both in true knowledge that Ishmael would make good upon his threat. And yet even as he ascended, he could not help but look back into the below, his gaze lingering a final time on the sight of his fallen father before the shadows came to steal that from him too.

  25

  SYDNEY

  The surrounding salt water that filled her glass cell had consumed all of Sydney’s tears, grief sapping her strength as well. Ever since the traitor trials had begun, Sydney could not help but think of all the others she knew that were likewise put in chains or worse for her decisions and actions. Yet for all their faces swirling in her mind and the horrid memories of watching others she knew like Yvla, Ms. Morgan, and Barb, all of them slain by the Blackfin, it was the marred face of another that Sydney knew would haunt her all the rest of her days.

  Jun . . . Sydney imagined her brother as she remembered him in life. The last she had seen of her brother, Jun was playing videogames in his room down the hall from hers. Sydney had always hated the noise. Over the last few years, Jun’s face was either buried in his phone, or computer screen, more often than not.

  Now, Sydney wished more than anything that she could see him lying on the couch in their home in Indiana, his face illuminated by the ever-changing glow of whatever game he happened to be playing. For every time she attempted to picture him safe in his room, Sydney saw only the cold, pale corpse of the nearly decapitated Nomad hostage that the Orcs had cast inside the holding tank of the traitor trials. The wounds upon the captive’s face had been beyond any clear recognition. Had it not been for the slain, Merrow guardian who the Orcs had also delivered, Sydney gathered she would not have recognized her brother at all. All the doubts that Sydney held were banished the moment that Malik Blackfin and his Orcs placed her mother’s friend, Barb, next to Jun’s body.

  And it’s all my fault . . .

  Sydney’s body spasmed, her strength hollowed at the continued realization that everyone she knew and loved had come to ruin or worse for her decisions. She endured the grieving pains coursing through her, the emptiness inside liken to the oubliette pit of darkness that her cell hung poised over. Though Sydney could not see them in the blackness below, she again imagined the bone litters of the oubliette’s former occupants at the watery bottom. How long? She wondered, placing her hand flat against the glass base as if she could reach into the oubliette below and pluck up the bones to ask them her question. How long until me and Mom, Owens, Amelia, and everyone else from home are nothing but bones and dust too?

  Sydney startled when the heavy, old wooden doors leading into the prison she was held in slammed against the stone walls. Pushing off the glass bottom of her cell, she swung around to see which of her captors had come for her.

  A single torch cast its fiery glow upon the two-toned face of Malik Blackfin as he ventured in alone, ordering all of the seawolves that he had left to guard her to leave the room.

  Why did he send them out? Sydney wondered when the Blackfin closed the oaken door behind him, leaving he and her as the only two within the dungeon cell. What’s going on? Sydney cowered against the furthest reach of her glass cell. What’s he planning to do to me now?

  Malik Blackfin smiled at Sydney’s movements as he approached her cell. “And how are we tonight, Princess?”

  Sydney’s lip curled at his mocking her. She kept quiet, however, if only for the hope of dashing a bit of the glee that lived in Malik’s gaze.

  Instead, her silence seemed to only fan the flame in him. “Angry with me for today’s events at the trial, are you?” Malik asked.

  Not just today’s events. Sydney thought to herself as he placed his torch in one of the four lanterns standing outside her tank. And it’s more than anger . . . she furthered the thought when Malik stood in opposite of her outside the glass tank that held her. I’ll hate you forever, Blackfin.

  Malik barked a laugh at her continuing to ignore him. “Yes, I suppose you are angry with me,” he said, stepping back from her cell, meeting Sydney’s stare a long while before choosing to speak once more. “Really, though, you ought to be thanking me.”

  For what? Sydney spat, unable to help herself. For killing my brother? My godmother? Which murder should I be thanking you for?

  “Quick deaths, I would imagine,” said Malik. “There are any number of ways to make such pain linger before the end.”

  Sydney leered at him. “Yvla’s death wasn’t quick.”
>
  “No . . .” Malik admitted. “It wasn’t.”

  Sydney screamed then, pounding her fists against the glass over and over to no avail.

  Throughout it all, Malik Blackfin stood on the opposite side watching until Sydney could not keep up her fight or hatred. “Still,” he said when she had finished her pointless tirade. “I did grant merciful ends to both of your mother’s friends. The old hag, yesterday, and the other one from the trial this morning.”

  “Barb,” Sydney said. “Her name was Barb. And the other you killed was Ms. Morgan.”

  Malik shrugged. “Whatever their names, I gave them quick deaths. Much faster and cleaner than your beloved horse-lord and his father would have done for them anyway.”

  Quick or no, it doesn’t matter, said Sydney. They’re still dead, the same as my brother and all the rest too. And for what? They had nothing to do with everything going on down here anyway!

  “Aye, no more than you,” said Malik. “Did you ask your mother to breed with a savage and give birth to you? No . . . no, to that crime, at least, you are as innocent as those I slew.” Malik nodded. “And yet there are innocents who die worser deaths every day in the Salt, girl. Just ask your beloved horse-lord the next time you speak with him.”

  I don’t love him. Sydney clenched her jaw. And you’re lying still. Rupert would never have killed them, she said, reconsidering a moment later. Not like you did anyway.

  Malik barked a laugh. “Oh, come now. Do give the young Bowrider some credit, at least. In time, he might do.” He shrugged. “Then again, and for whatever your thoughts on the matter, killing often proves more troublesome than one might imagine. I find the difficulty rises when one’s heart is not quite up to the task.”

  Is that why murdering them fell to you, then? Sydney asked. You’re always ready for a bit of torture and killing, aren’t you?

  Malik sighed. “Say rather that I do not shrink from my duties.” He rested his hand upon the pommel of his sheathed sword. “When I was a boy, my father took my sister and I to witness the execution of a traitor. Unfortunately for the condemned, the executioner floundered at the task.”

  I don’t want to hear your stories, said Sydney.

  “He had failed to sharpen his blade, you see,” Malik pressed on, scratching at his cheek, lost in a memory. “And his aim was unwieldy with the weight of it from the start. In truth, I remember the executioner’s gaze grew ever more fearful when he understood the death that he was meant to dole out would not come easily, nor quick.” Malik’s eyes widened for every recollection. “Bloody fool. Believe me when I tell you, girl, that the original executioner would be there still, hacking endlessly away while his victim screamed and bled out. The crowd shouted right along with the poor traitor too, as I recall. All of them screaming for mercy on his behalf, if only to end the voice that would haunt us all forever after. ‘Mercy’, they cried.” The Blackfin’s brow furrowed at the word, even as he spoke it softly again. “‘Mercy.’”

  Why does he sound so sad? Sydney wondered when the Blackfin took a moment, chewing on his lip, the shaking of his head subtle, but there.

  Malik snorted. “All those merciful cries from those who had not moments before been whistling and cheering to see a stranger meet their end.” He shrugged. “Fortunately for all, my father was there to stay the executioner’s tired swings and to brush the foolish lad aside at the last.” Malik drew his sword from its sheathe, turning its blade in the firelight as if it were a mirror for him to look into the past. “In one fluid movement, my father put all to rest with a single swing and taught me the true meaning of mercy and justice.” Malik’s gaze flickered back to Sydney. “Care to know that original executioner’s name, girl?”

  Sydney trembled. “I don’t care what his name was.”

  “You should,” said Malik. “For whether it be the last gaze the condemned will ever see, aye, the one to swing the sword, or else to build the scaffold, anyone condemned to die should wish to know whose name it will be to give them their end.” Malik sheathed his sword once more. “My father taught my sister and I both that day the value in dealing death to others. Aye, and the kind of experienced killer that we should welcome to give us our own noble death one day as well.”

  Sydney looked at the hilt of his sword, the pommel silvery and well kept. Give me your sword and I’ll give you that death now, Blackfin.

  Malik laughed, long and loud. “I doubt you could even lift this sword, girl. You would try though, no doubt. And, like the lesson that the young Prince Darius was meant to learn when his father passed him the sword not so many years ago to swing upon the condemned, you too would learn what it is to fail. To wish for another, stronger hand to take over instead and bring a swifter end to silence such woeful cries. Aye, and especially if that hand were meant to be the one sending your soul off to swim the green waters.”

  “The king?” Sydney cocked an eyebrow. “Darius was the executioner?”

  “He was meant to be,” Malik snorted. “Until his repeated failures led my father to take over. The wisest say history often repeats itself. I’ve thought long on the wisdom of such words during these traitor trials. To my mind, it ought to be your father passed his judgement and justice both from the moment he questioned your mother’s fealty. But now, as then, he would rather me, or your feeble horse-lord, carry out the verdicts and the consequences for his judgement instead.”

  Sydney’s pulse quickened as Malik grew still and quiet. Is that why you’ve come here tonight? Her tail swooped from side to side. To carry out his judgement?

  “No. There is no true justice, nor trial, to be weighed on you, girl. No true justice upon the queen either,” Malik nodded toward her shark tail. “All the proof one needs concerning your mother’s guilt is there, as I could have easily shown to the crowds to condemn you and the queen whenever I chose during these past days.” He grinned again. “Let you ask yourself why I did not.”

  So, you have come to kill me, then, Sydney stuttered. Just like you killed my brother and all the others?

  “Quite the opposite,” Malik chuckled. “And I didn’t kill your brother.”

  Yes, you did, said Sydney. I know it was you. I knew the second I saw my brother’s body.

  “More proof of just how little you know, then, girl.” Malik approached the tank, delight dancing in his eyes. “For how do you claim to know it was truly your brother’s body I presented to the crowd? Why not some other doomed and nameless savage to take his place instead?”

  Because you had Barb too. Sydney’s brow wrinkled. And . . . and I saw him. You had your Orcs put Jun’s body inside the tanks on display for all to see.

  “You saw what I wanted you to see, girl,” said Malik. “Just as the king swallowed the same sad story my Orcs and I sold him and all those in the crowd today also. Truth be told, I believe I nearly had your mother sold on the lie as well. But then, she would be the only one to know the real truth of all those who bore witness today.”

  Sydney choked. You . . . you’re saying Jun is alive?

  “I think it likely,” said Malik. “My Orcs found his guardian, but, to her credit, the Merrow guardian proved more cunning than my Violovar thought of her. I gather she must have wizened to my seawolves tracking her somehow. Either way, your mother’s friend, Barb, cast herself upon the nearest sword, rather than she allow my Violovar to question her for the prince’s whereabouts. A brave Merrow, that one. No wonder your mother left the guardianship of the prince in her keeping.” He shrugged. “Then again, no doubt your mother warned all of those watching over your brother that someone should come to look for him, in time. Still, whether his guardian hid your brother, or sent him elsewhere with others loyal to your mother, I do not know yet. Either way, my Violovar continue to seek him out.” His face darkened. “And they will stop at nothing until they find Prince Jun, I assure you.”

  Sydney shook her head. No. You’re lying. This is all just another one of your sick games. Why would you tell me all these thi
ngs, if they weren’t just more lies to torment me?

  Malik laughed. “Why would I wish to torment you, girl?” He asked. “What purpose would that serve for me to taunt an ignorant, spoiled whelp that I already own as my prisoner and have long known to be a fool already?”

  Sydney ignored the slight. I don’t know, she said honestly. But I don’t know why you and the king dress me up as a princess and keep pretending that I’m still his daughter either. Or why you’re keeping me in this tank at all, if you already know that you’re going to kill me.

  “Perhaps the king has not truly decided what to do with you yet,” said Malik. “Or, say rather, perhaps he’s waiting for me to tell him what to do.” The Blackfin chuckled. “Yet another sign of the king’s incompetence and cowardice. Make no mistake, child, if you were the daughter of my mortal enemy, you and your mother would already be long dead.” He patted the pommel of his sword. “Aye, and by my hand and blade too. Despite all that has been done to him, however, all the wounds given him by those he loved, King Darius the Sweet remains now as he was on the day that I saw him given a different traitor to execute. All these long years, and still he is weak and broken to such action and willful resolve.”

  Sydney sneered, the image of Darius idly watching the trials and executions burned into her mind.

  Malik cued on her silence. “You doubt me?” He scoffed. “That’s fine. That you still live is a testament to my words, girl. I did not come here to debate our thoughts on the king though. I came here with an offer in earnest for you. An escape from this prison, if you would like.”