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

know, Cursion motioned toward a ringed collection of Nomad warriors surrounding the boat’s perimeter. And the Selkie can wait, for now. I would rather hear from the Blackfin’s seawolves that were captured by our people first.

Violovar. Garrett thought, kicking his tail harder to keep up with his father’s fervent pace. Near half a mile before they reached the captives, Garrett’s primal mind scented Orc blood in the water, both sour and sweet, mixing with the taste of briny Salt. The scent urged him to hasten onward or else to risk losing a chance at an easy meal. Garrett fought against the primal urgings, but welcomed the adrenaline surging through him, gifting him further speed and endurance.

Ahead, a slew of Nomads had swarmed around still more at the center, all huddled around an Orc in raggedy, leather armor who swiped and raged, taunting those who waited to finish him. All the while, the Nomad warriors cheered at their champion in the center, Ishmael easily swimming aside from each blow the Orc meant to end him with.

The waters were red-stained around them all, the Nomads feeding on the intoxicating frenzy left to them by each additional wound that Ishmael gifted to the Orc. Of their enemy, Garrett witnessed several more former prisoners of black-and-white, and all of them slain. What remained of their bodies were slumped and floating beneath the Salt surface, left to move and spin by the underwater current, or else when Nomads in their full-on shark forms came to nip at the fleshy treasures that the Orc souls left behind.

Garrett glanced away from the horror and the rising memories within him of having witnessed such a thing before outside the gates of New Pearlaya. He focused instead on the cheers and cries from those surrounding Ishmael and the surviving Orc at the center of their makeshift fighting ring. Long scars were raked down the Orc’s black tail, some of them newly reopened and bleeding for the wounds gifted him by the continued fight. The tattered rags he wore clung to his upper body, the holes in the cloth revealing his arms and shoulders were adorned with strange tattoos and brands.

Cursion shouted them all down. Enough! He cried, speeding toward the center to break-up the ring and put an end to the ongoing circus.

Garrett followed the high chieftain to the circle’s middle. He thought to warn Ishmael when the Orc soldier shot forward with his blade raised in a renewed, hopeful attack of ending at least one of the Nomads harassing him. Before he could raise the alarm, Ishmael reacted with uncanny awareness and speed, dodging the attempted blow and catching the Orc by the wrist instead. He twisted the soldier’s arm at the last.

The Orc cried out at the sudden reversal, dropping his blade for the Salt to drown and keep for the whole of time. Before the Orc could react further, Ishmael craned the soldier’s arm behind his back and drove him forward through the water toward Cursion.

A gift for you, high chieftain, Ishmael practically sang as he lifted on the soldier’s arm, forcing him to wince and halt in their shared swim at the same time. Ishmael grinned at Cursion. Aye, a gift for you and your son, White Shadow, for we all know how much you both love the Orcs.

When Cursion said nothing of the taunt, Garrett too endured the titter of laughter and several whisperings from the gathered crowd of another potential fight to come. Rather than listen to the other Nomads, Garrett chose instead to study the Orc captive, a scraggly, if well-built, younger soldier. Still, Garrett could not be certain of the Orc’s age with the rusted helmet shielding the soldier’s true identity.

Cursion was looking over the Orc prisoner too. Where are the other captives? He asked of Ishmael. The Mako who brought such news to our council said there were several hostiles taken.

Ishmael grinned. Aye, there were more. He motioned to the slain Orcs nearby. Alas, the others among the pod would not heed me. They learned too late the difference between idle threat and certain death. This one here is the last of them, he patted the Orc soldier on the back. He, at least, thought to make a braver end than his fellows, didn’t you, boy?

The Orc grunted agreement beneath his helmet.

Cursion swam forward. Leave him be, Red Water. I would hear what tiding this Orc brings, or at least what commands were given to him.

Ishmael chuckled. If he be anything like his fellows, I fear your patience will give out before this one provides an answer, high chieftain.

My patience lasts longer than yours, Red Water, said Cursion. Remove his helmet. I would know this Orc better.

As you command. Ishmael smirked in eager reply before turning over the captive to a pair of warriors from Cursion’s tribe. When both had laid hands upon the Orc captive, Ishmael used his tail to drift upward and pluck the helmet off the Orc.

Garrett’s eyes widened in recognition of the face beneath. He had thought nothing of the long, fresh scars raked down the hostage’s black tail, but he well remembered his former pod-mate from the Painted Guard for the distinctive white patches encircling the captive’s eyes. Both made the Orc appear larger and menacing.

Garrett recalled having once feared the wild Orc captive too, their first meeting having been after the events in Crayfish Cavern when Makeda had thwarted the Blackfin’s seawolves. Their time training together in New Pearlaya had only furthered Garrett’s loathing of his former pod-mate.

Arsen . . . he thought of the captive’s name, glaring back at the traitorous prisoner when both locked eyes.

Cursion cued on the look between them. You know this Orc, my son?

I do, said Garrett. He’s one of those that tried to kill me. He thought of his mother, then; of Cristina Weaver, weeping in the sands before her own death. Glancing at his Nomad father and seeing the rage in Cursion’s eyes, Garrett thought to press