Seeker of the Four Winds: A Galatia Novel (16 page)

Dozens of humanoids, mostly Commoners, were
running to and fro over the deck. As Lars climbed up the ladder
behind her, men poured over the deck in her direction. She scoped
out the area for a path of escape. A smaller ship was tied next to
the slave ship, its occupants probably looking to barter.

Her wild ride down the river with Buckwheat
fresh in her mind, Josie eyed the Kalida’s water with trepidation,
and its steep banks in desperate longing. Thick tree roots sprouted
from the muddy shore. If only she could get there and pull herself
up...

The other slaves gathered behind Lars and
Josie. As they considered their options, a familiar ugly mug came
toward her, holding his fresh bloody stump, a snarl contorting his
face.

Lars whipped the length of chain he held
around the sword of the nearest sailor. With a tug, he pulled it
out of the man’s hands and deftly grabbed the hilt in midair. John
had managed to find a sword of his own; Lars was happy to see his
fellow prisoner cutting his path through the ship’s crew like a
well-trained swordsman.

“Jump, Josie,” Lars ordered, just as a Gargoe
picked up the two slave girls by the hair and flung them through a
door marked
Captains’ Quarter’s.
How could she leave these
girls behind?

Ducking a sword swing, and leaping over a man
who had dived for her ankles, Josie shouldered her way through the
captain’s door. It burst open into a neatly organized wood-paneled
room with a desk arrayed with metal instruments, for navigation she
assumed, an unlit oil lamp, three corked bottles of wine, two fancy
goblets, and a shelf full of books. The female prisoners were
huddled together on the bed.

“If you want to be free,” Josie screamed,
“then come with me.”

One girl edged to the back of the bed, but
the other one took Josie’s outstretched hand.

“Please,” she pleaded with the girl who slunk
deeper into the bed. “This is your only chase.”

“Let’s go,” the other girl encouraged. “She
has made her choice.”

Josie glanced back at the frightened girl who
was now clinging to the headboard. As much as she would like to
convince her to come, there wasn’t time. She ran through the
captain’s door with the other girl who was more than eager to jump
ship, only to run face-first into a Gargoe’s belly button. She
looked up at a bald head with a single tuft of black hair. The
Gargo had a wide blank face with a tiny button nose and dull eyes
the size of thumbtacks.

“Run!” Josie encouraged the girl with a
shove. “Swim for it!”

The girl broke away and hurled herself over
the rail into the river, while Josie scurried between the Gargo’s
legs. The stupid Gargo tried to follow her through its own legs and
toppled over.

She heard two more splashes. Hopefully,
slaves making their escape. Now it was Josie and Lars against the
rest of the ship.

A muscular middle-aged humanoid with
caramel-colored hair and a handlebar mustache just like a villain
from an old silent movie who got his kicks from tying fair maidens
to train tracks, stood near the railing, sipping wine from a
goblet. He was flanked by two burly guards, who fended off the
fighting when it came too close to their master.

The callous son-of-a-bitch was
laughing—laughing! As if he were having a jolly good time watching
the slaves fight for their lives. Josie frantically looked for
Lars. There he was, parrying with several of the crew. Why was he
still fighting when he had a clear opening to the rails? It
occurred to her that Lars would not jump until he was sure she was
off the ship. Fear of drowning had made her avoid the water thus
far, but she couldn’t fight forever. Smug Handlebar Mustache Guy
wouldn’t be expecting the fight to come so close to him and his
bodyguards, so she decided the best route was directly through
them.

Temporarily strengthened in body, agility and
mental acuity by the charisma, Josie propelled herself at Mustache
Guy. His guards tried to move in, but weren’t fast enough to stop
her from making contact with his glass of wine, splashing it into
his face, sending the glass to the ship’s deck in an explosion of
shards. He cried out in surprise as her foot propelled off his
chest. As she sailed over the side of the ship, she boldly reached
out and grabbed a fistful of his necklaces, breaking them off of
the flamboyantly dressed impresario’s neck. After all, she and Lars
would need something valuable to trade for supplies once they were
free, and that purple cloak and scarlet shirt shot with threads of
gold and silver spoke of a man wealthy enough to afford more. She
was still holding them as her body slammed against the water.

Instinct told her to move like a frog to the
top, but the charisma was competing with an overwhelming fear of
drowning. The more she flailed, the slower her ascent. Lungs
screaming for air, she couldn’t hold her breath a moment longer.
The first breath burned as her passages took in river water.

Inhaling water was more painful than she had
expected.

Everything faded to black.

The next thing she knew she was on the deck,
sputtering water. Lars was mercilessly dropped next to her like a
sopping wet blanket.

“Bravo.” The impresario clapped
sarcastically. “You two put on a marvelous show. Addressing the
captain, he inquired, “Pray tell, wherever did you find them?”

“North of here. Plucked them right out of the
river, Mr. Bayloo,” the captain said proudly.

“The river—again?” Mr. Bayloo chuckled. He
used his boot to roll Lars onto his back. “What’s the matter—got a
death wish or something?” Lars and Josie were too busy puking up
river water to answer. “How much are you asking for the set?” Mr.
Bayloo sifted through a small velvet drawstring bag and took out a
handful of coins.

“Even I have my principles,” the captain
said, shaking his head. “I don’t sell the females to be slaughtered
for sport. And the young male is already sold.”

That was news to Lars and Josie.

“A slaver with scruples—what a hoot,” the man
mocked the captain. “I’m sure an open wallet will change your
mind.”

“How open?” the captain asked.

“Fifteen hundred meelars?”

“I was offered more than that for the boy
alone. They are tall healthy specimens with good teeth. And the
girl’s bracelet is already spoken for, so unless you’re comfortable
with a one-armed female, you will have to pay me for that as
well.”

“Tell me,” Mr. Bayloo hovered over Lars.
“Where do you come from?”

“No place you’ve ever heard of,” he replied
dryly.

“I knew it,” Mr. Bayloo said, rocking back on
his heels. “You’re one of those wanderers from the...” He cut
himself off and cleared his throat, and held out the stem of his
broken goblet. “How about another glass of wine for your best
client?”

“Wanderers?” The captain tilted his head,
then his eyes narrowed in comprehension. “I’ll be damned: Galatians
or whatever they’re calling themselves.”

“Now, let’s not jump to conclusions,” Mr.
Bayloo said. “I never said anything about them being Galatians.
There are lots of Commoners with ten fingers. They could be from
Hunterdon.”

“Nah,” the captain said, shaking his head.
“It all adds up to them being Galatians. They’re a rare breed.”

“Two thousand each,” Mr. Bayloo offered.

“Eight thousand for both,” the captain
said.

“I wouldn’t pay that much for the King and
Queen of Faladore.”

“Royalty—who cares? But Galatians say they
are human. If true, they are the originals from which all the other
races were born. They could fly, erect buildings that touched the
sky. The ancient books say they destroyed the world once. And rumor
has it they’re born able to read and write. Super men and women are
what they are. Who wouldn’t line up to get a glimpse at that? Make
it ten thousand.”

“Dammit,” Mr. Bayloo said clenched his teeth
and opening his wallet. “You’re a hard-driving son-of-a-Sliven. Six
thousand for the set.”

“Seven thousand.”

“Sold,” the captain said.

Josie watched them shake on it before her
head collapsed back into the deck.

(Larsen Drey Steelsun)

The lights in the school auditorium dimmed.
Lars held his breath as the spotlight landed on a diminutive figure
wearing a white tank top, tiger-print capris, army boots and a band
of fake daisies in her short black hair. On a stool she sat,
strumming a pink guitar studded with glittering white crystals.
That was the first time he had really noticed Josie Rose Albright
and he would never forget it. The girl was a wisp, but her alto
voice came out rich and strong. The old folk song
Hanging
Tree
poured from her soul, filling the audience with a
spellbound hush:

Well, once I met a dashing gunslinger and he
was good to me;

We rode through the valley and o’er the
mountain, young, in love and free; Then one cold night the sheriff
caught up and took him away form me;

Oh, hanging tree; Oh, hanging tree; don’t
take my love away from me. Oh, hanging tree.

A sharp pain to his jaw startled him awake.
Lars’s eyes flickered open to a frog-like humanoid sitting on its
haunches. Its neck was as thick as its shoulders, while its comical
eyes were half-spheres atop its head. The humanoid grinned from ear
to ear. Or was that its natural expression? Lars had no idea.

Unable to speak, still struggling to get his
bearings, Lars noted the ceiling, walls and floor were made of
brown stone. A door made of bars served as the cell’s only
entrance. His stomach felt like a dead fish sinking to the muck at
the bottom of a pond. This certainly wasn’t a slave ship, but it
was still a prison. Benches were bolted to the wall. Filthy-looking
blankets were wadded up haphazardly in the corner. The air smelled
like stinky feet and excrement. All manner of species filled up the
tight quarters—the amphibian, two Bulwarks, one Regalan, tons of
Commoners, and a group of reptilian creatures built like gorillas,
but with rainbow scales and flicking forked tongues.

The green frog dude continued to hover over
Lars with interest.

A loud bang made both of their heads jerk
around. A Deerma stood on all fours in front of the barred cell
door. He kept ramming the bars with his antlers, pausing just long
enough between head butts to yell through the bars in a bleating
language Lars didn’t understand.

“That fool.” The frog shook his head. “Those
bars are strong enough to stop ten charging Gargoes. I asked you a
question—where ya from?”

“Uh...north of here.” His first thoughts were
of Josie, but he could see only males in the cell. “I arrived here
with a young woman.” Lars pushed himself to his feet. “Have you
seen her?”

“Yep. She’s within shouting distance, though
I don’t recommend it, in the females’ cell down the hall.”

Lars could feel the tension flow right out of
him, but the well of worry ran deep. “Where am I?”

“Welcome to Mr. Bayloo’s Traveling Theater
& Company. My stage name is Crashing Thunder,” the frog said in
a voice deeper than any human baritone. Lars did a double-take as a
thin membrane bubbled out of Crashing Thunder’s neck, going in and
out as he spoke. “But friends just call me Crash.”

“Uh, hello—Crash. I’m Lars.”

“For now—but Mr. Bayloo will assign you a new
name.”

“The woman I came here with—is she okay?”

Crash laughed, a deep resonant sound like one
might hear from a bass drum. “Your woman is more than all right,
she’s just what this theater company needs. She did real good out
there in practice today. The girl is raw, lots to learn, but Mr.
Bayloo thinks she’s gonna be a gold mine.”

“So she’s healthy?”

“Oh, yeah.” Crash’s chuckle spread to the
other inmates. “Just ask Tance over there.” A young Commoner with
two black eyes and his arm in a wooden brace frowned balefully at
the entire room. Could Josie have done all that? “They say you and
your girlfriend took down an entire slave ship—is that true?

“Maybe,” Lars replied, careful to keep his
replies vague for fear the tiniest bit of information would be used
against him. “You said something about a theater...I thought we
were to be slaughtered in a fight?”

“Listen carefully. This ain’t a place of
slaughter; this is a stage production and we are actors. This ain’t
no prison cell—it’s the men’s dressing room. People don’t die here,
they’re just acting. And that ain’t blood you bleed, it’s props.
And you know why?”

“Nnooo.”

“Because there’s international laws against
kidnapping people and enslaving them. Anyone found doing it risks a
hanging. But times are hard. And Bayloo pays his taxes with real
cash money. And money has a way of making everybody actors. Good
citizens come to the show acting like they think the killing is
just pretend. For a piece of the fatted calf, the tax collectors
report back to their kings that everything is on the up and up,
when it’s really on the down low. And nobody questions because
everybody is a little richer on account of the show.”

Crash’s words confirmed what he already knew.
If he and Josie were ever to get out of this place, the authorities
weren’t coming to their rescue. They’d have to do it on their
own.

Other humanoids were gathering around to
check out the new guy, and Crash elbowed one in the ribs who stood
too close to the conversation. Now that his own emotions were
leveling out, he was beginning to feel other people’s emotions
creeping in—sadness, frustration, discontent, anger and something
that wasn’t exactly grief, but a big hole created by a recent
death, and competitiveness for the vacant position.