Salt Storm: The Salted Series: Episodes #31-35 by Galvin, Aaron (top 5 books to read TXT) 📗

Kanaloa asked. What true concern are they for those like us who live beneath the Salt?

Their fishermen prey upon my ancestors and the truest of our kind, Deep One, said Ishmael, his gaze shifting from Kanaloa to glaring at Kellen once more. In mine own journeys upon the Hard, I have witnessed the Drybacks’ defilement of my ancestors’ honor. They catch those of our race who have made the final change into the purest of forms. Then, the humans carry their bodies ashore and mount my ancestors’ corpses upon their walls in supposed triumph over my people and the Salt. I might forgive some of them for their thrill and lust of the hunt, had I not seen others of their kind do worse. Some of their fishermen carve off the fins of my ancestors for trophied prizes alone, then cast them living back into the Salt to bleed out and die a wretched death without honor.

Kellen would not be halted then, swimming around Kanaloa that he might meet Ishmael’s stare. The same fate you showed me . . .

Kanaloa cocked an eyebrow. Is this true? He asked of Ishmael. Are you the one who wounded him in the above?

I slew one with the likeness of him, said Ishmael. And would do again if that Selkie slave were here now, Deep One. Any who would show mercy to the monsters defiling my ancestors will receive no such kindness from me.

Kanaloa smiled. Spoken like a true warrior. He glanced at Kellen again. Are you certain it was he to maim you, my child?

Kellen nodded. It was him.

He wrongs me, Deep One, Ishmael pled to Kanaloa. It were a simpleton and a Selkie slave I slew. Not this one of your noble kind that swims before me.

But it was me, Ishmael, said Kellen, snarling. I was that Selkie slave you threw into the water and left for dead . . .

No, said Ishmael. None could have survived the wounds that Red Water gives them.

I did, said Kellen. And now I’ve come back. You talk about the fishermen, but you did the same to me when I was your slave . . .

No, said Ishmael. If that were true, you would be dead and not swimming before me now. How else would this be possible?

Kanaloa chuckled. Because my favored one is the lantern, Salt Child . . . aye, he is the light from your dream. He gave a lazy wave in Kellen’s direction. The Doom-Bringer has risen to see your vision realized. Your people restored as the ghost of your father guided you to come witness.

How then? Ishmael asked. How might we see my father’s hopes and dreams realized, Deep One? What must we do?

Join us, said Kanaloa, opening his hands to the council and then toward Cursion White Shadow too. Aye, align your armies with ours once again, White Shadow. As our two peoples swam together in the days of old, we should make a mighty, Salt alliance once more. Together, we shall renew this world to its proper form. Who better to rule and bring the whole of this world beneath the Salt, as was always meant to be? For so was it once, so shall it be again.

Garrett looked to his Nomad father, Cursion not speaking in consideration of the offer.

Others among the council were not so hesitant.

Aye, Deep One, Ishmael crowed. The Bull Nation will join you.

And the Night-Stalkers too, promised Short-Shore.

Garrett cringed when the others added their voices to the rest, the vast majority of leaders in the tribal council wasting no time in agreement. All save for the few that Garrett looked to for guidance most. Where the others grinned and cheered, Watawa the Open Shell had been cowed into silence, his one good eye awash with horror at those who surrounded them. Atsidi Darksnout too had kept to himself, his fingers clenched around the weapons on his belt, his face like a stone-carved statue in watch and wait of the ongoing proceedings.

Something’s wrong, Garrett read into their shared silence and his Nomad father’s too. They know this is wrong. He thought, glancing to Cursion White Shadow as the Nomad high chieftain considered the offer.

Kanaloa smirked. And you, Salt Child, he asked of Cursion. Does the shadow not speak?

The shadow listens, Deep One. Cursion bowed his head in respectful show.

And what does it hear? Kanaloa asked.

Agreement from some, but not from all, said Cursion. As the chosen leader of our collective tribes, I must ask you for time, Deep One. Time that I might seek to learn and understand the reasoning of all before I would commit the whole of our people to another shared cause.

Kanaloa’s face turned to stone. You are the chosen leader, he said. Can you not speak and decide for all in honor of the power granted you by the others?

One who decides and speaks for all without he listens first is no true leader, Deep One, said Cursion. Aye, and will find their power quickly vanquished also. Our tribes hold a loose alliance already, our hunger and common enemy the only ties to bind us all, for now. I would not sever our collective joining with my own impulse.

It may not fall to you to sever such ties, said Kanaloa, his tentacles opening and closing in the water around Cursion. In such trifling times as these, some do not look on patience as a virtue.

Cursion held his head high. Then, I count myself fortunate, Deep One, to speak now with those who have long kept their own councils hidden. Aye, the same as those who kept their might shrouded in the dark and deep to await the proper time to reveal themselves once more to this world and our common enemies also.

Garrett’s chin raised, his shoulders squaring at Cursion’s words and the reaction it drew from the Sancul leader.

Kanaloa’s tentacles dropped the threat of them away from Cursion. Descending beneath him, their movement ushered their owner forth to lay his hands