Seeker of the Four Winds: A Galatia Novel

by C. D. Verhoff

  Two teen girls came running with a stretcher held between them, allowing Michael to set Lindsey down on it.

  “Bring her straight to the hospital!”

  “Hurry up,” an old man with a white beard waved at Josie and Lars with his staff. “I need you two to come with me.”

  “Oh, my god, is that Red?” Josie gasped.

  Lars squinted. The birthmark was there, but the middle-aged man was gone, replaced by someone twenty-years older.

  “Mike,” Red was saying, “Bring Dante to the southwest wall and put him in charge. Simon, I leave the battlefront efforts in your capable hands. Do you still have the walkie talkie?”

  Lars’s dad held up a black radio.

  As the wall started to crumble like a circle of cascading dynamos, Bulwarks helped it along by smashing it with their hammers.

  Lars saw his brother Luke with Isaiah and Ryan. They all had crystalline swords. A dark red substance flecked with shards of light began to spread from the hilts of their swords into the transparent blades like delicate curling tendrils. Indescrible thirst parched his throat at the sight of them.

  “What’s that red stuff in their swords?” Josie asked Red.

  “Blood and soul.”

  Four Deermas leapt out of nowhere to surround the mayor.

  The first one rammed him with his antlers, but Red lifted his staff just in time to cleave the Deerma in two. Guts came spilling out. Josie jumped on the back of the second Deerma, and ran her sword through the back of its neck. Lars broke off its antlers with a swipe of his blade. The last Deerma leapt away like a stag in retreat.

  “Sick!” Josie said as if it were a compliment. “That’s a real cool weapon you have there, Mayor Wakeland!”

  “And now that I hold it, I am no longer mayor of Galatia, I’m her general.”

  Regalans began to stream in over the pile of rubble left by the fallen wall, their sharp eyes going left, and then right, searching for something or someone. One of them resembled Prince Loyl, with a similar mane of hair and ivory complexion, but his face was more lined. Lars knew it must be Prince Gerard. Prince Loyl had talked of his oldest brother often.

  Prince Gerard’s green eyes fell on them both. He raised his clawed hand and his archers lined up in an arc, aiming their arrows right at them. “Lohowin daborlhoth elle bandor!” Prince Gerard yelled. “Josie Albright zel aber Lars Steelsun.”

  “They know about the map,” Lars had immediately sensed their desire to take it away, but they didn’t know which of the two had it.

  A wave of Galatians armed with crystalline swords spread over the area, overwhelming the archers. At this close proximity, the Regalans were forced to trade their bows for swords. The Galatians’ angelic blades flowed with the blood and soul of their owners, dominated every weapon they came up against. Cutting the heads off Bulwark hammers, breaking antlers, snapping Regalan blades. As the enemy soldiers surged into the city, the angelic blades shredded them like cabbage against a grater.

  Red pushed Josie and Lars along, ordering them to come with him.

  The three of them hurried deeper into the city, where Lars was taken aback by the tall buildings lining the street. The city had sprung up like a cornfield overnight. They came to a white poured-cement edifice.

  “That’s the National Building,” Red said. “We’re heading to its rooftop.”

  As they entered the National Building, Lars reached back to take Josie’s hand. Even if he died, at least for a while he had been part of something bigger than himself. They ran over hallway floors made of gray marble. The walls were hewn from a similar material, but halfway up, they changed to white plaster. A colorful mural of an ancient Earth city with skyscrapers, commercial jets in the air, parks filled with balloons and kites, and a beautiful suspension bridge in the distance was half completed. He and Josie followed the mayor down to the end of the hall, where he flung open a set of double doors to the stairwell. They sprang up several flights and burst onto the roof top.

  Gizmo froze on the spot with an armload of extension cords. Electronic equipment was set up on dura-shelves. An elderly man in blue jeans, with a crystal sword laying on the ground beside him, was down on all fours, plugging cords into a power strip.

  “Grandpa Nathan?” Lars questioned. The elderly man’s head jerked around. His eyes widened and a smile of recognition lit his face.

  “Lars!” he stood and threw up his hands.

  The two of them flung themselves into an embrace. Squeezing Lars tight, Grandpa patted his back, stroking his head as if Lars was the most precious object the world.

  “Sorry to rain on the family reunion, Mr. Steelsun,” Gizmo jabbed a cord impatiently at Grandpa Nathan. “But I still need your help.

  “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something, kid?” Grandpa growled, wiping his eyes with his forearm.

  Red impatiently cleared his throat. “Help the engineer out, Nate.”

  “Okay, okay. What else do I need to do?”

  Gizmo barked out instructions and everyone frantically strung wires, plugged them in, and arranged equipment. When they were through, eight metal speakers shaped like megaphones were up on wooden poles, facing out in every direction.

  “We’re running of time,” Red said, looking nervously toward the southern front, sweat beading on his forehead.

  “But I haven’t run a test for the speakers hidden out in the fields. And I need to finish the...”

  “Test or no test, we have to do this now.” Red said. “Begin.”

  Grandpa Steelsun held a plug expectantly in each hand. “Ready for the juice, kid?”

  “Okay, okay, okay.” Gizmo was panting like a woman in labor. “Everything is going to work.” He pressed a few buttons on his control panel and said, “Okay, Mr. Steelsun. Do your stuff.”

  Grandpa’s hands began to glow with blue light. The air sizzled all around him. The sound of a huge explosion vibrated the entire city and probably beyond. Even though Lars had his ears firmly covered with his palms, the sound went right through them, making him scrunch his eyes in pain. Another louder explosion followed, shaking the building, and probably the whole damn planet.

  Gizmo rushed to adjust the volume. “Heh, heh—sorry about that. Now for something completely different. How about a little Zeppelin?” The speakers came to life again, this time with a man’s wailing cry, as John Bonham’s drum riff rolled over the land like a train thundering through the mountains.

  “The Immigrant Song rules,” Josie said as Gizmo banged his head along with the music.

  The mayor, er....general, pulled out a military-style walkie talkie—or was it a phone?—from the pocket of his flannel shirt and texted someone below.

  A reply appeared from Doc:

  I’m on the wall. Music coming through loud and strong.

  Enemy confused. Fighting at a standstill.

  Let the music play on.

  At General Red’s command, Gizmo switched to an instrumental version with choir accompaniment of Johann Sebastian Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring. A minute later, his father messaged the general again:

  Calm and quiet on every front.

  Now is the time. Now is the time.

  Gizmo handed the mayor a microphone. Red began in English, but later reports claimed every soldier on that field heard Red Wakeland speaking in his or her own tongue.

  “I am the General of Galatia, one of the last survivors of the human race. Before the first Deerma, before the first Regalan, before the first Bulwark, and before the first Commoner took a breath—I was here and so were my people.

  “According to your own laws, that makes this land ours, your land ours, and the whole world. But we don’t want the whole world, just the piece of it we have here. After all, you are our descendants, our legacy, and we wish you health and happiness. It is my hope that someday we can come together in peace and love, united as the family we are meant to be.

  “That being said, you have demanded that we prove ourselves the
rightful heirs of the Northlands under the law set forth by the Western Alliance. That is why we have gone to great length to secure the Blood Map. As I speak, it is here in my hands. So, I cordially invite the leaders of the nations’ armies surrounding us now to come inside our walls, to witness the truth, and ratify the Galatians right to settle these lands.” Josie reached for Lars’s hand as they gazed toward the front, wondering if the general’s words were having effect. “Kings, chiefs, queens, generals, commanders, princes and princesses—you have fifteen minutes to enter our gate with no more than two witnesses of your own choosing.”

  Red handed the microphone back to Gizmo. “Now play something soothing and uplifting.”

  A women’s choir began to hum Pachelbel’s Canon in D, their voices disappearing into a symphony of strings. The gentle sound drifted across the city and surrounding countryside. Josie looked up at Lars, her blue eyes searching his face. Did she see what he saw reflected in her gaze—their lives stretching together into the horizon?

  “General Wakeland, you’ll want to get down here with the map STAT,” Lars’s father’s voice came over the walkie talkie. “The cease fire is holding—none of the leaders want to be left out of the proceedings here. But Prince Gerard was hit in the head by a war hammer; my stretcher bearers are loading him up now. Chief Krom is here. Things are pretty tense between Chief Krom and the Regalans, but Prince Loyl just arrived to sort things out. And that warrior princess from Cantowin is hissing at me...hey, princess, is that really necessary? And here comes Prince Valdor.”

  “Put Mike in charge and attend to Gerard. Remember, our relationship with his father will have a large impact on Galatia’s future, so don’t let him die.”

  “Understood.”

  “I’ll be down there as quick as I can. Over-and-out.”

  Chapter Fifty

  (Josephine Rose Albright)

  On the general’s orders, Josie and Lars went to the baseball diamond with Gizmo, where they set up an old opaque projector. Grandpa Nathan waited by the pitcher’s mound ready to power it up. As the elders from the council, the leaders of the alliance and their two chosen guests, began to gather on the diamond, all non-essential personnel were shooed away behind the chain link fence. That included Josie and Lars who opted to watch from the bleachers behind first base. Holding hands in the nosebleed seats, they hungrily eyed the tables of food spread out near the batting area.

  White boards were affixed all the way up the height of the fence behind home plate. Gizmo had told them the boards served as a widescreen for free public viewings of old movies. It was always a grand old time with popcorn, fruit punch, and fried corn crispies sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon.

  Josie sighed, hoping that the future held more of the same. For now it was nice to have a temporary respite from the chaos, however short-lived the lull. The sun was rising, but hazy gray clouds were rolling in fast. Not mystical clouds, just ordinary rain clouds with a strong front wind, stirring up the dust. She shivered, not from the cold so much, but nerves.

  So much was riding on the map. What if it didn’t work?

  A motley group of proud-looking Westerners were milling around the bases, with the horned Bulwarks at First Base, the cat-like Regalans at Second, the human-looking Commoners at Third, and the velvety brown Deermas grazing out in right field.

  Josie picked out the infamous Bulwark leader by his sledgehammer hand. Chief Krom. He had a long tuft of black under his chin. His horns were decorated to the top with jewelry, a sign of his many achievements. Hogard had said Chief Krom was a great leader, but the way he was snorting and stamping, he reminded Josie of a spoiled child having a temper tantrum. A wound on his cheek was still bleeding and he kept dabbing it with a lace-trimmed hankie.

  Prince Loyl was there among the leaders. Josie waved, but he pretended not to see her. How rude. A Commoner princess dressed in full armor, except for a tiara on her head, was busy picking brambles out of her hair. The leader of the Deermas was limping and a piece of antler twirled by a fiber as he walked tiredly down the main aisle on all fours. There must have been a hundred leaders and their most trusted companions in all, in an interesting range of humanoid races. Josie strained to hear their conversations, but couldn’t make out anything useful.

  In front of one of the dugouts, chubby ole Hannah and her staff kept the buffet table stocked with grapes, berries, cheeses, crackers, breads, cookies, meats, wine and juices. Gizmo said she had recently opened a cafe/bakery in town and the food was friggin’ fantastic. Josie’s mouth watered as the table overflowed with snacks. Gizmo was up near the front sucking on a salty soft pretzel as he adjusted the projector.

  “Do you think Red knew that we would return with the map in the nick of time?” Lars nudged Josie in the ribs with an elbow. “Or was he just covering his bases?”

  Josie burst out laughing at his pun.

  He smiled at her reaction, something neither them did enough of anymore. She patted his hand and snuggled into his side. The conversations taking place all over the baseball diamond hummed with nervous energy.

  “I can feel everyone’s anxiety,” Lars murmured, “The Western leaders are worried this is a trap to lure them into one place, where we can kill them off in one fell swoop.”

  “Maybe that’s not such a bad idea,” Josie grumbled. “My god, Lars, what if we’ve placed our faith in the Blood Map for nothing?”

  Everyone quieted when an elderly Galatian woman with black hair heavy with gray strolled in toward the pitcher’s mound. She wore a velvet maroon robe—a genuine bathrobe—and a pair of fuzzy pink slippers. In one hand, she clutched an over-sized gavel with a silvery stem as long as her forearm. Its crystal head was the size of a Ball canning jar. A dozen Galatians with magnificent angelic swords surrounded her, including Isaiah, Michael and Josie’s very own mother.

  “How come they all got cool swords and we didn’t?” Josie moaned. “Even my mom, and your grandpa have one, while the two humans who actually know how to use them sit here empty-handed.”

  “Is that Elizabeth Fade?” Lars asked.

  “Don’t ask me,” Josie said, folding her arms across her chest with a humph. “All I know is that a miracle happened in Galatia and the Red Squad missed it. Then, after all we did for our country, we’re told to shut up and save the snacks for the visitors—the visitors, who may I remind you, were trying to kill us a minute ago. I don’t care what Hannah says, I’m going to get me a cookie.”

  “Josie, the fate of Galatia is still up in the air. Give everything a chance to settle down and I’m sure you’ll get your cookie. Maybe two, if you’re a good girl.”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Yes.”

  She sulked some more, but Lars was probably right. Patience had never been her strong point.

  Professor Sweet climbed onto the stage to stand behind a podium, every hair in perfect place as he adjusted his reading glasses on the end of his nose. The microphone squeaked, startling the visitors.

  “That jerk got a sword, too?” Josie muttered in disbelief.

  When the professor’s voice boomed too loudly, the Westerners looked like they were going to crap their pants, but Gizmo adjusted the volume to a more comfortable level.

  “Nothing to fear, folks,” Professor Sweet gave a nervous laugh, tapping on the microphone. “It’s a mechanical device that amplifies sound waves. There’s nothing magical about it.” The audience’s blank stares hinted that it was time to move on. The professor gestured with a wide sweep of his arm toward the woman in the bathrobe making her way to the projector. “I introduce to you, highly esteemed representatives of the Western Alliance, the newly ordained leader of Galatia, Judge Elizabeth Wakeland.”

  The visitors looked to Red, who directed their gazes back to the woman in the bathrobe with a hand gesture.

  “Behold, the new leader of Galatia.”

  The Western leaders broke out into more conversation.

  “Due to recent events,” Pro
fessor Sweet quickly explained, “Galatia’s hierarchy has been rearranged. At the top sits the judge. Below her is the General of Galatia, our former mayor, Red Wakeland. Next to the General sits the Bishop of Galatia, a position held by Father Bob...er, Robert Donovan.”

  Murmurs went through the crowd, but the new hierarchy seemed right to Josie.

  “We have procured the Blood Map in its entirety,” Elizabeth’s aged voice rose loud and clear. “You cannot all handle the map, it’s too delicate a treasure, but I will allow you to send up your experts, one per race, to weigh in on its authenticity.”

  Frustrated, Josie pulled Lars down the bleachers to get a closer look at the proceedings, sneaking their way onto the baseball field, stopping at a buffet table near second base to grab a handful of cookies and a cup of fruit juice.

  “Snickerdoodles,” Josie said as the taste of sugar and cinnamon danced on her tongue.

  “I got peanut butter,” Lars said through a mouthful, adding more to the stack of cookies in his hands. The light from Gizmo’s projector lit up the big white board behind home plate. The Westerns recoiled, gasping in shock at the huge image of the Blood Map on the white board.

  Professor Daynor, the Galatians’ map expert, took the podium. Prince Loyl sent up one of his own scholars, Lady Sandora of the Bountiful Vineyards, who confirmed to all in attendance that Judge Wakeland’s Blood Map was genuine.

  “Now that we got that out of the way,” Judge Elizabeth said. “Someone tell me how this damnable thing works.”

  That brought out a few outraged expressions, but mostly it was snickers all around.

  The Regalan, Lady Sandora, assumed a tenured academician’s pose before the microphone.

  “In theory, every time we take a breath, every time we touch the earth, every word we speak, every action we take, leaves a piece of us behind in the world forever. Even more so for an entire species. Over time races have come, races have faded away, and even if history should forget, the Earth does not, and the collective conscience remembers. The Blood Map reads the collective conscience.”