Chapter Four: Land of the Salt God

75th year of the 4th Recording of time, Month of Sun

Ryan awoke abruptly, his face sheened with sweat. His breathing came in deep huffs as the lingering visions of the nightmare slowly dissipated. It was the same dream he always had, but that did not make it any easier, a dream of a boy lost in the vast waters, tossed by the waves, alone and half drowned.

Ryan sat up on the small straw cot he called a bed, shaking his head as if that would rid him of the images floating inside. He looked outside the window of the modest room and saw that the sky was just starting to lighten, meaning he had not slept long. He laid back down, closing his eyes as if to sleep again, but he simply was not tired. Ryan sighed, rolling over onto his side, and then onto his back again, before sitting up in defeat.

“Well, I guess if I’m up, I’m up.” He said to himself. Ryan got out of bed and stood up, letting the blanket fall off his bare skin. He was young man, almost full grown, and he was lean and muscular, the body of a boy who worked to eat. His hair was black as night, and he would have almost appeared as a Melcanian, if it were not for his tan skin, and his dark, mud colored eyes, common traits amongst the sand nations to the West.

Ryan pulled on a simple pair of pants and a shirt, not bothering with shoes, and went to the window. He looked out over the city, high above its streets from his third story perch, watching a sleeping world wake up with the first rays of sunrise. This was his city, the proud city of Britva, capital of Mirratroy. Ryan breathed deep, taking in the smell of the salt filled air, of the booze that flowed freely in the streets, of the blood and fish and unwashed denizens, the smells of a free nation. He loved it.

Ryan climbed up onto the sill and swung out of the window, landing gracefully onto the slate roof of the building beneath him as he had done a thousand times before. He ran the length of the building, hopped down onto the ledge of a second story balcony, dropped off, catching the side with his hands before letting himself fall to the street below his feet. The whole process took no more than thirty seconds.

An old woman in a dirty shawl was sweeping the street in front of the door Ryan had just landed next to. She looked up momentarily, not slowing her rhythmic side to side sweep, and then focused back on the cobblestones.

“Morning Mrs. Walsh.” Said Ryan, giving the woman a quick smile. Mrs. Walsh merely grunted, shaking her head at the young renegade. “You got any bread in the oven? Or maybe some stales from yesterday? Could use something for breakfast.” Ryan continued, undeterred by the woman’s cold shoulder. When she continued to ignore him, he went to the door of the bakery, but before he could touch the handle, the broom swung around unexpectedly, smacking him on the hand.

“We’re closed, business not open til sixth hour, you know that.” barked Mrs. Walsh, glaring at him with her one good eye, the other eye looking at crab vendors down the street. The old hag pointed a gnarled finger at him, clutching the broom like a weapon. “Besides, you still owe me for yesterday, and the day before. Three Brits, three! I don’t run a charity, now run along until you get me some money!” She harrumphed, getting back to her sweeping, but keeping between him and the door. Ryan shrugged; he’d have to find breakfast somewhere else.

“Well, you have a good day now, Mrs. Walsh.” He said, smiling, walking away to some other vendor, some other store.

Ryan continued a rather shiftless stroll, the streets becoming increasingly busy as people got on with their morning. A man bustled through the growing crowd, overburdened with baskets of fruit. As he pushed past Ryan an apple fell from one of his baskets, but he did not notice and kept walking. Ryan snatched the fruit out of the air before it hit the ground, grinning at it as he looked it over. He gave a little wave at the man who had unwittingly given him a free breakfast and then bit into the apple with a satisfied crunch. He finished it rather quickly, throwing the core down an alley, and then went to see if anyone else had dropped anything to go with it.

…

Ryan walked until he came to a part of town most smart people avoided. The buildings here were dirty and damaged, with shattered, boarded up windows and walls that were vandalized with paint and knives, depicting the symbols of various gangs. A cat was rooting through a pile of trash across the street, it hissed when it saw Ryan, and then ducked down into the pile.

Ryan came to a brick building with a burned out second floor and turned down the alley next to it. He stopped in front of a sturdy, iron reinforced door that had a red kraken painted on the wall next to it, the symbol of the Crimson Terrors. Ryan looked around to make sure no one was keeping too close an eye on him, then he hit the door twice with his fist. A slat opened up and a pair of green eyes looked out at him.

“Oy, what’s the password?” Said the eyes. Ryan gave them a tired looked.

“Just let me in Jim, you know it’s me.” He said.

“Cap’n Reis tells us we need to be getting the password or we’s not to be letting peoples in.” Insisted Jim.

“Of course he did.” Muttered Ryan. He rubbed his face with his hand and sighed. “The password is jellyfish squalls.” The slat clacked shut, and the sound of multiple locks being undone could be heard. A minute later the door opened, a young boy, barely 20 years of age, waving him in. He was a good deal shorter than Ryan, and must have been standing on a box before. “For fucks sake, Jim, you know who I am.” said Ryan, ruffling the boy’s hair as he came inside.

“By the way, Ryan, Cap’n Reis says he’s lookin for ya, wants to talk or somethin, I guess.” Ryan’s face became perplexed. It was not that uncommon, he had seen the man before, even talked with him, but it was still a surprise.

“He wants to talk to me? You’re sure?” Jim just shrugged.

“Alls I knows is that I’m supposed to send you back, parently he’s already been waitin a good hour, so if I was you, I’d go see what he wants.” Jim shut the door to the outside and began locking it up. Ryan gathered his bearings and made his way to the back of the building.

The place was nearly as run down as the outside, with dirt, dust, and other debris littering the floors. The walls had exposed studs and large holes all the way through in some places, so you could see through to the other side. Of course, every window and wall that faced outside was properly boarded up, barred, and reinforced, effectively turning the place into a semi fortress. Captain Reis would have nothing less, only the best for the Kraken’s Den, headquarters of the Crimson Terrors, though his definition of quality was rather lacking considering the smell of mildew and rat shit.

Despite the sun now being high in the sky the place was dark, the covered windows letting in very little sunlight, and Ryan squinted in the low light provided by the candles placed precariously around the space. He walked past an open door to the left were three grumpy looking men with kraken tattoos on their shoulders sat at a table counting stacks of Brits and other currencies. He stood gawking a minute, before getting a look from one of the men, and hurried past.

Ryan passed a closed door to the right, and could hear the sounds of people knocking boots, a woman crying out in pain, or pleasure, or both. “Well, I guess someone’s early at it.” Muttered Ryan, not staying to listen. He made it to the end of the hall, where a large man, a full head taller than Ryan, and four times as muscular, stood guard, a large dagger at his side, and a pistol Ryan could see hidden in his vest. The man had a long scar down the left side of his face, the eye that used to be there covered in a black patch. On his neck was a tattoo of a red kraken, the man proudly wearing the symbol of his gang in plain sight, unlike most who kept it on their arms, chests, or backs. Bull Shark Jack, Captain Reis’ right hand man. He had gutted more people than anyone else in the gang, and he was fucking good at it. Ryan looked up at the man, doing his best to not seem intimidated.

“Hey Jack, I’m here to see Captain Reis, he should be expecting me.” Said Ryan, shifting from side to side. Jack just looked at him, never having been one for conversation, and grunted when he was sure the boy was not carrying any weapons, stepping to one side to let him through. Ryan opened the heavy wooden door and went inside.

It was much brighter in this room than the rest of the building, large candelabras lighting the room on either side of a large, ornate desk, obviously stolen. A beautiful, but rather dusty, Kendorian rug laid out on the floor, and paintings held in gold and silver frames hung crookedly along the walls. But, the most prominent feature of the room was the massive man sitting at the desk in a plush, high backed chair that was dwarfed by his immense size. Captain Reis, the Giant of Britva.

If Ryan thought Jack was big, Reis was a good two heads, almost three heads, taller than that, and built like an ox, wide and incredibly powerful. Dressed head to toe in semi formal captain attire, the large man commanded respect without question or compromise. Ryan had heard tales about him, that he had once torn a man’s arm off with his bare hands, and beaten him to death with it, over a bad game of cards. That, and many other stories, spoken in hushed whispers over rum and drink.

Ryan closed the door behind him and stood in front of the desk. Reis looked him over, scowling, his face hard and weathered, a man who had been through many a storm. He leaned forward in his chair, bringing his face closer to Ryan’s. Finally, he slapped the table with his hand, startling Ryan, and laughed, a deep, hearty laugh common amongst pirates.

“How are ya Ryan, me boy? Things treatin you good here in the Terrors?” The man mountain sat back in his chair, grinning. Though the captain was in a good mood, Ryan knew Reis was known for a quick temper, and that his mood could change faster than the weather during the Month of Storms. Ryan returned the man’s smile, trying to seem relaxed, but it just came off awkward.

“It’s been treating me very well, Captain, I feel that I have become a part of this crew.” Reis laughed at the boy’s stiffness, slapping the desk with his meaty hand again.

“Good, good, that’s what I like to hear, all the boys have good things to say about you.” Reis scratched his chin, cracking his neck either way before continuing. “I’m thinkin it’s bout time we got you your mark, make you a full brother to the gang.” Ryan contained a sudden wave of excitement, getting his tattoo, or mark, as it was referred to, meant he would become a part of the Crimson Terrors for life. It was something that came with respect, money, and brotherhood. Reis held up his hand, cutting him off as if seeing his fantasies. “But first we got to do one last job, a test of sorts. I haven’t worked out all the details yet, but it’s gonna put the Terrors in a good place, get us a bit more respect in this city. For now just keep up the good work and make us some money. Jack’ll find you when we’re ready to move.” Reis took a tankard off his desk and drank the contents deeply, waving Ryan away with his other hand.

“Aye, Captain!” Said Ryan, exiting the room. The big man set the tankard down hard on the desk, his face returning to a much more serious scowl.

…

In the back alleys of Britva, away from the busy streets and markets, a sizeable crowd was gathered around a young man, and a table board he had set up on a bucket. He sat there on a small wooden box, moving cups around on the board, a confused man sitting across from him trying to follow along. Ryan smiled at the people watching, shifting his hands deftly, far too fast for anyone to see.

“Come on now, you look like a smart man, surely you got this. Where’s the shiny Brit? Is it this one, that one, or, or, or, this one over here?” Said Ryan exuberantly, the man across from him looking dizzy. Ryan stopped the cups, putting his hands out. “Which one is it in?” He said, smiling. The man scratched his head, having completely lost the coin’s location. He moved his finger over the top of the cup, and finally decided on the one to Ryan’s left. Ryan put his hand on the cup, the entire crowd waiting earnestly. He paused, feeling the tension build in their watching eyes, and then pulled the cup off to reveal a silver Siren, a second place winner, meaning the man had broken even. The man cursed his luck and took the coin. Ryan looked out at the throng. “Who’s next? Who’s got a Siren to test their luck on the cups?”

Several hands went up, each man and woman wanting to get in on the game. Ryan looked out at them, searching for the next player. He spotted Jim standing behind a tall man with a missing arm, lifting the coin pouch off the man’s belt. The boy was so small that no one even noticed him slinking around, everyone focused on Ryan’s showmanship. Ok, so not him, thought Ryan, looking at the one armed man. Jim pointed at a woman with arms covered in tattoos, signaling a good catch. “How’s about you, miss. Come test your luck.” Said Ryan, motioning her over.

This was a common hustle that Ryan and Jim did for the Terrors, and as long as they did not take too much they would be long gone before anyone noticed their purse was missing, and even then they would find someone else to blame. It was good money, but most of it went to the gang, leaving the boys with just enough to pay for their needs. But still, it was better than paying a tax to the government.

The island nation of Mirratroy was founded by pirates in days long past, and that same spirit of freedom, opportunity, and joy still reigned in the hearts of the people who lived there. Many still held onto the old beliefs, practicing piracy, smuggling, pillaging, and other acts deemed unsavory by other nations, led by the teachings of a harsh and nameless god of the salt. Still, despite this, all citizens of Mirratroy are expected to pay a tax on all income, including stolen goods and treasure. A harsh 20% that most would rather not pay. It was for this reason that, in spite of being a nation of pirates and cutthroats, that the Salt Gangs formed, embittered sailors and ruffians that felt that the only way to truly be free and live to the Salt God’s ways, was to carve their own path, and reject the government’s rule. Gangs like the Crimson Terrors, the Salt Hooks, and even the infamous Black Blades that had operations as far as the shores of Melcania.

After another hour or so, the crowd began dying down, the day waxing late, and Ryan picked up the board, stowing the cups in a burlap sack and tucking everything neatly under his arm. He pulled his purse out and dumped the sirens into his hand, counting the silver coins. He looked up to see Jim walking up to him, a childish grin on his face.

“To the Salt God emself, a good haul today says I.” Said Jim euphorically, elated by the day’s success. Ryan frowned, shifting the coins around in his hand.

“Eh, not as good as yesterday.” He said, sliding the coins back into his purse. Jim just shrugged.

“Not like they’s goin anywhere. We’ll pick up more tomorrow.” The boy said the words carelessly, flippantly, not concerned with the risks of the job. Ryan smiled, ruffling the boy’s hair.

“Well, I guess you’re right, we can always make up the shortage. Now, how about we go grab something to eat? Maybe get a drink? I have to pop by Mrs. Walsh’s anyway.” The pair bagan walking back to the main street.

“Mrs. Walsh? You mean that old witch who thumped me good for tryin to lift a roll?” Asked Jim, his eyes wide. Ryan chuckled.

“Yep, I owe her some money, and if I ever want to get my favorite breakfast spot back, I better pay up.” The pair laughed, casually walking through the market as the setting sun sank ever further beneath the horizon.