Salt Storm: The Salted Series: Episodes #31-35 by Galvin, Aaron (read 50 shades of grey .TXT) 📕

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 clucked 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!

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,