Seeker of the Four Winds: A Galatia Novel

by C. D. Verhoff

  The urge to run away to be alone, away from the tumult of the other prisoner’s emotions, was strong, but he was trapped. If he didn’t learn how to shut off this charisma in the next few days, he might lose his mind.

  “Is it true that you are one of those wandering Galatians that showed up out of nowhere?” Crash asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Your girlfriend snapped three swords during practice this morning,” one of the other prisoners said enthusiastically, standing on tiptoes to peer over Crash’s scaly shoulder at Lars. “Are all female Galatians so strong?”

  Lars shrugged.

  “If the females are that tough,” a Bulwark commented, “can’t wait to see what a Galatian man can do.”

  “We’ll see soon enough,” Crash said, squeezing Lars’s bad shoulder. The pain was intense, and the link with his cell mate’s emotions retreated.

  “Galatian or not, he’s just a kid,” one of the Commoners drawled. “I’ll wager he won’t last two weeks in the arena.”

  Lars could feel the other males’ interest in him, the mysterious Galatian, yet most of them wore expressions of indifference. Pinpointing who was feeling any given emotion was like trying to climb up a slide, instead of going down it. He chose the most intense emotion he could find and traced it to the furry face of the Deerma. He slipped inside, where he saw red everywhere, felt heat—a simmering rage at being captured and confined. Just to see if he could do it, Lars rapidly shook his head back and forth.

  The Deerma did the same.

  Wow, that was too easy.

  A punch on the arm from Crash broke the link.

  “Snap out of the trance, kid,” Crash said. “You’re spooking the guys.”

  “I’m just tired—sorry.”

  “Most of the schmoes here adopt the philosophy that it’s better not to get close to the other actors.” Crash’s voice started out far away, with a hint of sadness that spoke of personal experience, “because tomorrow, friends and enemies alike will have to act each other to death.”

  “But you’re okay getting to know me,” Lars pointed out. “Why?”

  “I like to keep things friendly—makes the time go by nicer. When somebody tries to kill me, or me him, I don’t take it personally anymore,” Crash said. “It’s just fate playing her hand.”

  “Fate, my hairy ass,” another inmate said from across the room. “Don’t let the dumb grin fool ya. Crashing Thunder has survived the stage for two years, which is probably a record. The only reason he’s being so friendly is ‘cause he’s trying to access your weaknesses.”

  “Don’t listen to them, Lars. Round here, you need all the friends you can get. I have a son ‘bout your age. I’ll teach you how to survive as a tribute to him.”

  “Bullshit,” another inmate with a muzzle, fangs, and spots all over his skin warned. “He killed a guy your age just last week.”

  “That guy was a Regalan half-breed snot,” Crash pointed out indignantly, as if it was readily apparent that his victim’s race justified killing him. “So it doesn’t count.”

  For a moment, Lars had entertained the thought that Crash would be a friend, a mentor to show him the ropes. That balloon had popped. He needed to keep his head low in a room full of bullies.

  He hoped Josie was faring better.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  (Larsen Drey Steelsun)

  The next morning, armed humanoids and several Gargoes brought the actors out to the stage where they conducted practices and live shows alike. Lars felt like a matador stepping out into the ring, perhaps more like the bull about to be skewered, but there were no crowds today, just workers assembling the arena, hammer blows echoing. Tall weathered brown sheets of wood separated the stage from the bleacher seating that circled the arena. A large wood sign painted red with bold white lettering hung above the arena: Bayloo’s Traveling Theater & Company it said. Mr. Bayloo’s garish head was painted on the sign, tilted back, mouth opened as if he were laughing at the actors on the stage.

  The real Mr. Bayloo was sitting in an elevated stand above the bleachers, drinking wine with a well-dressed Regalan man. The two of them wrapped their arms around each other like a freshly married couple after the wedding toast. A couple of other Commoner men, dressed like the other trainers—leather vests over bare skin—sat up there with Bayloo, while scantily dressed Commoner women served them food.

  According to Crash, the theater didn’t stay in one spot forever. It traveled the West and portions of the Midzone by wagon train, stopping at the same seven locations each and every year. When ticket sales dwindled at one location, the company moved on to the next stop in the circuit. The entire stadium was mobile, but not so the holding cells. Therefore, Mr. Bayloo chose his stops carefully. This particular location was home to an abandoned prison stockade, which he needed as lodgings for his actors, who hadn’t exactly joined the theater company voluntarily. When the theater had first opened for business, actors escaping in the middle of the night had been a real problem for Mr. Bayloo. Over the years, he had gotten security down to a science. Crash claimed there hadn’t been a successful attempt in years.

  “How far is this place from Tectonia?” Lars asked.

  “About two hundred miles due south, I’d guess,” Crash said.

  Lars’s mind went over how long it would take to get there and start searching for the Blood Map again. Weeks or months? Regardless, Galatia was counting on him.

  “If Bayloo decides to make you a star attraction, you probably won’t act in this venue because you’ll need to train a while before you’re up to snuff.” Lars was getting used to the way the membrane in Crash’s next bubbled out whenever he spoke. He wondered if a needle could pop it like a balloon. “Your first show will probably be at the next arena, the one between here and Tectonia. But don’t think you’ll get to relax. The training is grueling, and if you live to tell about it, you’ll come out one hell of a fighter.”

  “I’m already good with a sword.”

  “I’m not talking just swords, kid. You’ll know how to punch, spear, rope, whip and club. You’ll know how to fight both pretty and dirty. Men will fear you. Woman will want you. If we were paid to do this, it would be a great gig.”

  “But we’re not.”

  “And there’s the rub.”

  “Have you ever tried to escape?”

  “Once, with a bunch of other guys, but never again.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ain’t worth it.”

  “Why—what happened?”

  Crash’s buggy eyes lost their comical flair. Lars could feel his regrets resurge, spinning around him like a dust devil. “Don’t ask me that again.”

  “Sorry.” Lars swallowed hard and changed the subject. “How long until the theater company moves to the next venue?”

  “We settled into this venue for the winter, but in another two months we’ll be heading north to Roanoke.”

  “And after that?”

  “To a place just outside of Tectonia.” Crash said, telling Lars exactly what he had hoped to hear. “Lots of city people come out for the show. It’s our most profitable venue. If you’re any good, Mr. Bayloo will want you and your woman well-prepared before we get there.”

  As twisted as it was, Lars found the idea of learning to fight both pretty and dirty rather compelling. A fantasy about returning to Galatia as a badass warrior, showing up all those people who made fun of him at the Fight Club, began to roll through his head.

  “In case you don’t know it, Mr. Bayloo has the third best-selling show in all of the land, beaten only by the Acrobats of Algora and Nim’s Naked Nymphs. And who can hope to compete against dancing naked nymphs? No finer green beauties in the land...” His voice grew wistful as he lost himself in some old memory. Clearing his throat, Crash added, “But Bayloo has it in his head that you and your woman will push him to the number one spot. He told the trainers to go rough on you today--wants to see if you’re worth the shitload he paid for ya, figur
e out how you’re gonna fit in the show, and what kind of training you’re gonna need in the weeks to come.”

  A mixture of relief and worry filled Lars when he saw Josie enter the arena through a different set of doors on the sidelines. Her jeans were hanging in shreds, T-shirt torn so that everyone could see her pink sports bra. Although tattered, she hadn’t lost that bright-eyed inquisitive expression of which he’d grown so fond. Someone who didn’t know her so well might mistake her for a regular girl. Lars, however, knew she was always observing, taking notes of things others failed to see. He could almost see the wheels of an escape plan turning in her head, which gave him a spark of hope. Right now she was biting her nails, leaning on a metal spear as she intently observed trainers sorting through a rack of swords, maces, spears, and other tools of the trade.

  “Yeppers,” Crash said, “your girl is a born fighter, but she don’t got no technique. I’m sure the trainers are gonna break her of the sloppiness, teach her the fancy moves. Hopefully, she’ll learn fast, ‘cause Mr. Bayloo gots no patience for feeding dead weight. She’s got one thing going for her though. Girl fighters are hard to come by. He’ll give extra time if she’s promising. On the other hand, boys are a meelar-a-dozen. Better show him something special or he’ll break the stick on you the first fight.”

  “Give me a sword and I’ll show him something special.”

  Crash laughed and a couple of actors who had been eavesdropping laughed as well.

  “What’s so funny?” Lars asked.

  They just shook their heads and laughed some more.

  When Josie spotted Lars walking onto the field, she acknowledged his presence with a slight wave. He did the same, wanting nothing more than to run to her arms and dash away from the madness together. Her hair, cropped so short in the bunker, had grown past her shoulders. Although she was constantly running her fingers through the strands in an effort to tame what proved to be a wavy mop, without a comb it always looked messy.

  A group of actors were already sparring, sword and shield against sword and shield, and they looked pretty impressive. The clang of metal whacking metal reverberated through the stadium.

  A second Bulwark came out onto the field with a net and a sledgehammer. He walked with his snout in the air toward Lars’s group. He was older than Hogard, with a wide body, thick arms, dark fur and horns sharpened to lethal-looking points.

  “That’s Melwick,” Crash called out to Lars. “He always goes for the head first, and as soon as you try to roll away, he’ll net you, and splatter your brains out.”

  “Melwick is one bad motherfucker,” one of the other prisoners said. “So get ready.”

  A rotund humanoid with coal-black skin and two faces, one on each side of his bald head, handed Lars a sword and a shield.

  A Commoner in a black helmet pounded a metal gong.

  “Fight’s started,” Crash shoved Lars forward. “I’m rooting for ya, Galatian.”

  Lars resisted the shove. He would walk forward on his own recognizance, slow and steady, with dignity, despite his legs feeling like wobbly gelatin.

  Melwick’s black eyes were filled with calculated fury toward Lars.

  Raising his metal sledgehammer, Melwick let out a battle cry and charged. Lars turned around and sprinted the opposite direction—so much for dignity. The Bulwark gave chase but wasn’t fast enough to catch him. And now that Lars was on the run, he didn’t know what else to do.

  The other actors laughed at the spectacle, but the assistant trainer, a seasoned Commoner named Rupkey, stopped the fight as Lars was about to finish his third circuit of the corral.

  “If you keep running around the circle like that, I’ll chop off your toes. Be glad my boss didn’t see that—Slaughterhouse would chop off your nuts, force you to eat them, and then make you go back out into the arena to finish the fight!

  “Now, go back out there, meet Melwick in the middle, clunk fists like you’ll do in the live show, and fight like a real warrior.”

  “You can do it, Lars!” Josie tried to be encouraging, but it only served to make Lars feel more embaressed at his cowardice. Sucking in a deep breath, he walked out the center of the arena, where Melwick was snorting and stamping his feet in the dirt like a bull.

  “What did I ever do to you?” Lars asked, biding his time to open his body to the charisma.

  “You stepped into my arena,” Melwick said, gnashing his teeth and lowering his horns for the charge.

  Lars jumped to the side, narrowly missing being gored. Melwick turned on his heel and brought down his hammer. Not expecting the Bulwark to be so quick, Lars barely got his shield up in time to protect his head. The force of the hammer was tremendous, crashing like thunder, traveling down his arm, rattling his entire body.

  Melwick swung at Lars’s knees this time, trying to break them.

  The charisma allowed Lars him to see the world moving in slow motion while his thoughts and reflexes remained at regular speed. He jumped backward, doing an awkward backward flip, ending up on all fours, instead of upright as planned. It wasn’t graceful, but it got him out of the way, and hopefully impressed Mr. Bayloo.

  Melwick’s hammer hit air, spinning the Bulwark in a complete circle.

  “Way to go!” Josie whooted from the sidelines.

  Melwick tossed the net.

  Lars saw it coming at him in slow motion.

  He log-rolled out of the way, pleased by how fast his body worked when connected to the mystical ocean fueling his moves. Mortal danger, he was beginning to realize, increased the flow of the charisma.

  The Bulwark snarled and leapt at Lars who was still on the ground.

  Holding up the shield, he blocked the blows raining down on him. The shield began to bend under the pressure. If Lars didn’t do something quickly, his brains would soon be scattered across the arena.

  A rush of power surged through him as he opened the Excito Fortitudo to maximum. The arena faded away and he was looking at a peaceful ocean unlike anything on Earth. The water reflected the colors of the rainbow, gently swirling, waiting to give of itself for those who asked. He couldn’t do anything except surrender.

  Another hard swing from Melwick returned Lars’s focus to the arena. He slammed both feet into the Bulwark’s chest. The Bulwark flew back at least ten feet. As soon as Melwick stood, Lars tossed his shield like a Frisbee straight into his face. Before the Bulwark could recover, Lars gripped a horn with each hand and flipped him overhead. Melwick must have weighed a good three hundred pounds, but tossing him had been as easy as lifting little sister Gracie. The momentum carried Melwick through the air to arc him into the ground like a bag of potatoes.

  Upon impact, a loud cracking sound rent the air.

  The Bulwark wasn’t moving. No, not at all.

  Lars gulped when he realized what he had done.

  Rupkey ran out into the arena while the other humanoids cheered.

  “The Galatian broke Melwick’s neck,” Rupkey said in disbelief.

  “I-I-I didn’t mean to kill him...”

  “Nice work,” Rupkey said, giving Melwick a kick in the arm. The Bulwark didn’t respond. “Yep. He’s dead all right.”

  While the actors celebrated the death of Melwick, and Mr. Bayloo was smiling in his perch, clinking glasses with the other spectators, Lars’s spit turned to dust. He glimpsed Josie who was holding her cheeks in an expression of horror. Her strong repugnance rode in on his charisma. He also recognized her feelings of sympathy. Unsure if they were toward him or the dead Bulwark, he averted his eyes to the ground.

  The charisma instantly left and so did his strength. He was sickened at the thought that they were all victims, even mean old Melwick, all trapped in a situation beyond their control in the name of profit. Angry tears licked at the rim of his eyes.

  Crash came running out, cheering as if Lars had just won the lottery. He patted him on the back so hard it knocked the breath out of him.

  “My second week in the theater company, that b
astard Melwick killed my best buddy. I’m glad I was here to see him finally get what was coming to him. Way to go, Galatian.”

  “Mr. Bayloo paid a lot for you and your woman,” Rupkey said. “We figured he’d been drunk or something. Now, we know why. You two are gonna fill his pockets with gold.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  (Larsen Drey Steelsun)

  Rupkey had given Lars and Josie the most grueling workout of their lives. Not only were they learning to use all manners of weapons, they were being forced to learn tumbling moves.

  “In a real battle only an idiot would toss his sword in the air or do a back flip,” Rupkey said, “but Mr. Bayloo demands it from his actors because the crowd goes wild for stuff like that.”

  For over an hour, Rupkey forced them to somersault off a tall pile of hay bales, until Josie twisted her ankle so badly she had to stop. When Mr. Bayloo came out he was livid—not with Josie, but with Rupkey.

  “I haven’t made one meelar off the girl yet!” Mr. Bayloo’s entire body shook with rage, while he foamed at the mouth. “How will I earn back what I shelled out for her if you get her injured before the first show?”

  “But you told me to teach the Galatians fast, teach the Galatians hard, teach the Galatians without mercy,” Rupkey said, backing away as Mr. Bayloo took out a whip.

  “You gotta learn to read between the lines,” Mr. Bayloo said.

  Lars and Josie had to stand there and watch while Mr. Bayloo shredded Rupkey to bits with his whip. Were the trainers slaves, too? Lars wondered.