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

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