Salt Storm: The Salted Series: Episodes #31-35 Galvin, Aaron (classic fiction txt) 📖

him. For all his wish to let go of the dagger, his mind released a flood of memories from his time among the Orcs. The whimpered cries of Pieter as Arsen and the others tortured him during their initial training, and then again before his slaying. Garrett heard his mother baying with her seal voice too, a similar choice presented to him before Makeda made the decision for him.

With a flick of his tail, Ishmael slowly rounded on Garrett. Do it, Half-Orc, he purred. Kill this traitor to your former pod. Avenger your friend and be done with it.

The corners of Garrett’s eyes stung as he understood the challenge put to him, similar in nature to the one that the seawolves had tried and failed to force him to make outside of Crayfish Cavern and then again in New Pearlaya too.

Garrett looked on Arsen, then, held in front of him by the burly warriors.

Unlike those earlier times before, however, when put to the choice of killing Lenny Dolan or his mother, Garrett could think of no reason as to why his former pod-mate should not die. How the world would not be better served without Arsen’s existence.

Do it. His primal minds urged him also, both feeling the collective tension in the water, the eyes of all those warriors awaiting to see what he would do. You know that Arsen would do the same to you.

He would. Garrett argued with himself the longer he looked into Arsen’s pitiful stare. His fingers clenched tighter upon the dagger hilt, his knuckles whitening as he further imagined what must needs be done next. Both for rightful vengeance over Pieter’s murder and in signal to the Nomads of his loyalty too.

Despite all his reasoning, and for every passing moment, Garrett knew that he could not bring himself to the cold-blooded act. The more he looked at Arsen and his predicament, Garrett imagined himself in the Orc hostage’s situation; one that Garrett had experienced numerous times already. He envisioned the panic Arsen would be feeling. The knowledge that pain and death was soon to come. The wondering of all that to come thereafter, or if there was any hereafter at all.

Please. Arsen begged of Garrett to draw him from his thoughts. Don’t kill me, Weaver. I’ll swim for the shore and never come back. I swear it.

Garrett’s jaw clenched. I asked the same mercy of you, once, he replied to Arsen, his blood warming at the request made and the result that had occurred thereafter outside the walls of New Pearlaya. Forcing himself to not break his stare of the condemned, Garrett’s thoughts turned from picturing himself in Arsen’s place to that of another, more familiar enemy from his past.

Please. Garrett pictured Arsen as if he were Kellen Winstel instead, his old classmate’s haunted gaze begging the same as Arsen did whilst in the grip of the burly Nomads. Don’t do it, Weaver . . . don’t do this.

And then all such thoughts and imaginations were gone, Kellen’s face replaced with the reality of Arsen’s instead. Garrett’s imagination ran with him, remembering when he had killed Arsen’s partner in crime, Xander, before. How the surrounding water had blossomed red and enveloped them both as the life in Xander’s eyes had faded away and then stilled in deathly embrace. Garrett pictured committing the same act again, picturing Arsen’s head lolling forward, his chin covering the bloody smile that Garrett would draw across his neck to feed the surrounding water with its color.

No . . . Garrett’s conscience rose within him to fend off the primal minds of his Orc and Nomad forms. If you kill Arsen now, then you’re no better than him, or Ishmael either.

Garrett blinked, then. He found Ishmael’s dagger still clutched in his hand and at his side, but the blade remained clean and unused.

In front of him, Arsen nodded in thanks for his life.

Garrett averted his gaze, the familiar hatred lingering with the thought of serving rightful vengeance against his former pod-mate. There was the look of Cursion White Shadow too, studying him all the while, and Garrett wondered then if he had failed yet another Salt test placed before him.

More than all, Ishmael’s smile broadened to the point that Garrett wondered if it would break the Nomad’s face in half. Ishmael shook his head, then spoke to Cursion. Pity your Orc-son could not bring himself to act, White Shadow. It would seem he is truly of two minds as to which people own his loyalty.

Garrett shuddered under the other, disappointed looks from the surrounding warriors. They doubt me now too, he understood from the Nomads that sneered and whispered as they swam off in search of darker waters, or others to share the news of his failing with. And now I’m like you, aren’t I, Arsen? He thought, turning back to the captive Orc. Distrusted on both sides of the war to come.

Cursion called him from such thoughts when he placed his hand upon Garrett’s shoulder and squeezed. Perhaps my son is sworn to peace and life, Red Water, he said. Whatever his decision today, I have little doubt you will see where his true loyalties lie when we reach the gates of New Pearlaya.

Ishmael nodded. In time, aye, he said. Glancing over his shoulder, Ishmael motioned toward Arsen before looking to Cursion once more. For now, what would you have us do with this lone Orc captive, high chieftain? If your Orc-son will not slay him, and you will not permit me or any of us here to do so, what then is to be his fate?

His focus narrowed on Arsen, Cursion parsed his words before speaking. This Orc was with those who attacked the Selkies and maimed the son of Atsidi Darksnout. Let the Silent Hammer decide what his fate shall be.

Arsen came alive then, fighting in vain against the Nomads dragging him away in the direction the Hammer tribes had swam. No, please, sir! Don’t give me to him!