Seeker of the Four Winds: A Galatia Novel (18 page)

“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
bastard 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.”

(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.

Despite some really bad moments, as the weeks
wore on, Lars found himself looking forward to leaving the prison
cell every morning for practice. It was a break from wallowing in
self-pity, plus he was free from the deluge of unwanted emotions
coming from the other prisoners. Instead of longing for home, he
focused on learning combat moves. It was a time when the other
actors’ emotions quieted as well.

In the evening, when returned to his cell, he
learned a trick to keep other’s emotions at bay—pain. So he
inflicted it upon himself in little ways. When their emotions
started overwhelming him, he pricked himself with a tailor’s pin
he’d found in the practice arena. The flash of discomfort was like
a bomb against the assaults of invasive emotions. The respite
didn’t last forever, but the relief helped him cope.

The next month was more of the same, waking
to the voices of the guards, being ushered out for practice, hours
of ruthless training, to return to the cell at twilight where the
men played cards, cussed, and fought with each other. The only
activity that drew Lars into interacting with his cellmates was the
weekly poker games. Able to use his charisma to track his fellow
players’ emotional reactions to their hands, he won nearly every
hand. Sure, it was cheating, but it got him extra food and extra
comfort items like a shaving kit, wash rags and this world’s
version of toilet paper—a pile of yellowish leaves that stayed
supple even when dried out.

Once the men fell asleep, it became his
routine to pull on the door’s bars, using the full strength of his
charisma. They were made to hold in Gargos, so they never budged.
Still, it was good practice in calling upon mystical strength. Some
nights he’d lean against the wall, eyes closed, and enter into a
Mind Wander. Each time, he’d travel a little further than the last,
but there wasn’t much to see outside the cell—guards playing cards,
theater employees doing general maintenance, sweeping, cooking,
dishes, etc. He hadn’t found Mr. Bayloo’s lodgings yet and was
starting to think the theater owner didn’t live on the
premises.

The highlight of the mystical trips was when
he stopped at Josie’s cell down the hall. He called her name,
though she could neither hear nor see him. He sighed in
frustration, feeling like a star-crossed lover. Once again they
were close together yet far apart. If only he could prearrange a
time to meet her in the Mind Wander. For now, he had to content
himself with watching her sleep. The only other times he saw her
was out in the practice arena. And it was the rare day when they
were allowed to talk without permission.

One day after practice, when the first stars
were popping over the misty blue horizon, the actors were being
shuffled off to their separate cells. Josie was only five people
ahead of him, so he risked a shout-out in English.

“Josie Albright, meet me at midnight in a
Mind Wander!”

“Your cell or mine!”

“Mine!”

One of the trainers thumped Josie on the
shoulder. Lars got a spear jab to the back of the knee, causing him
to stumble forward into Crash, who reacted by turning and shoving
him into the antlered Deerma, Illorah. Lars bounced to the ground.
Deermas, Lars came to learn, had a more difficult time being
confined than most, and Illorah had become slightly insane. The
Deerma’s buggy eyes rolled back in his head. He tried to spear Lars
into the stone slab floor. Lars rolled left just in time to miss an
antler to the gut. Broken tines twirled in the air as the Deerma’s
horns collided with the flagstones.

“Cut that out, Illorah!” one of the trainers
shouted.

Illorah reared up and poked the trainer
straight through the gut. As Lars scrambled out of the way, the
other trainers fought back. The Deerma madly shook his head back
and forth, tearing the trainer apart the rest of the way.

Swords came out and Illorah was hacked to
pieces.

Blood pooled at Lars’s feet.

The prisoners shrank back, talking in excited
hushes.

“Unless you want to end up like Illorah,” the
trainers warned, “shut up and move along.”

............................

Emotions were tumultuous back in the cell
because of what had happened to Illorah. The poor Deerma bastard
used to spend his evenings circling the small cell, clomping around
in a nervous obsessive-compulsive way, muttering under his breath
how he had to get home to help his ailing mother.

At least he was at peace now.

When supper was served, Lars held out his
bowl through the bars of the cage. The delivery boy ladled the
mystery slop into his bowl—the same bowl that had been issued to
him on his first day—the same bowl that hadn’t see soap or water
since. Disgusting, but a guy had to eat. This evening, more meat
chunks than usual were mixed into the gummy brown sauce.

“What is it?”

“Beats me,” the boy said with a shrug.

Lars sat down next to Crash on a bench and
took a big chunk. It wasn’t as rubbery as usual.

“Pretty good for a change,” he said.

“That’s because it’s fresh,” Crash said,
slurping the broth. “That’s Illorah in there, ya know.”

Lars choked and went around the cell trying
to spit out the taste of his former cell mate.

Everyone laughed.

“You’re just fucking with me, Crash,” Lars
accused.

Crash shook his head. “It’s him, all right,
but what’s done is done, might as well make the best of it.”

“Some things are just wrong!” Lars said,
wiping the back of his mouth.

Feeling like Jesus turning of the money
changers’ tables, he went through the cell, knocking the bowls from
everyone’s hands, earning him some shocked and dangerous looks from
his cellmates.

“What the hells-a-matter with you, Galatian,”
one of the Commoners protested, “Illorah tried to kill you. I’d
think you’d enjoy giving him this final humiliation.”

“Well, I don’t. He was a person I slept
beside, ate with, and fought with—a humanoid with hopes, fears and
dreams—the same as us all.” Lars picked up a bowl of stew, scooped
up a chunk of meat, held it high and let it fall back into the
broth with a splash. “He deserved better than this. For once in
your miserable lives, take a stand for humanoid dignity. Isn’t
holding on to your convictions worth more to you than one
meal?”

Several of his cellmates looked down in
shame. Others looked like they were about to jump Lars and kill him
until Crash spoke up.

“The Galatian is right. That could be any of
us in the bowls here. If that was me in there, I’d want someone
like Lars to stand up for me. We don’t have much say as to the
working of the theater company, but we gotta show ‘em there’s just
some lines they can’t cross. Turning us into slop is one of those
lines.”

“Hear, hear,” said a Regalan, who went over
to a shit pot, where he dumped his supper. “Just because Mr. Bayloo
treats us like animals, I refuse to become one.”

The other men nodded in agreement and
everyone dumped their food into the shit pots in a show of
solidarity, though some watched wistfully as their dinner drained
away.

Hungry, but feeling like he had managed to do
some good, Lars poked himself with his pin to break the charismatic
link with his cell mates, so that only his own emotions remained—
anxious and hopeful about Josie.

Right now she was with the woman actors,
probably eating the stew, blissfully unaware of its true content.
Come midnight, if Josie showed up in the Mind Wander, Lars didn’t
plan on telling her about it. Some things were better left
unsaid.

..............................

At what Lars guessed to be 10:00 p.m., he
began to go into the Mind Wander every few minutes. No sign of
Josie hovering around in spiritual form. The only movement came
from Dregg who had gotten up to take a whiz in the shit pot. But he
didn’t want to chance missing her visit. Before he realized it,
sleep had taken over. He didn’t know how long he’d been dozing,
when a he felt a kiss so faint on his cheek that he couldn’t be
sure it happened at all. According to everything Lars knew about
Mind Wanders, it wasn’t possible to transfer touch from the
mystical realm to the physical, but could it be Josie?