Seeker of the Four Winds: A Galatia Novel (21 page)

(Chief Krom: He Who Rules With An Iron
Fist)

Mining was the lifeblood of Shaldoah, land
of the Bulwarks, home of the greatest warriors to ever to walk the
Earth. Its location east of the Kalida River hadn’t stopped
Shaldoah from becoming a member of the Western Alliance, nor did
the fact that many of the other kingdoms had resisted its
inclusion. That was centuries ago, but Krom would never forgive the
Regalans for their historical vote against Shaldoah’s membership.
The Bulwark political and economic philosophies aligned more with
the West than the East, and more importantly, Bulwarks had human
ancestry. Their children were born—not planted in the ground or
hatched from eggs like the eastern races. And that had been the
deciding factor.

On a map, Shaldoah looked like a big testicle
coming out of the hip of the West. Its proximity to the Great
Kalida River made it a major shipping power. It was Krom’s turn to
host the annual meeting of the Heads of State. Although the
Bulwarks weren’t known for their hospitality to foreigners, Krom
went out of his way to treat the leaders of the Alliance well,
going as far to order his warriors not to burp or fart in front of
their guests. Those strange Westerns didn’t seem to appreciate the
pleasant associated odors the way Bulwarks did.

Chief Krom had arranged for the meeting and
its surrounding activities to be held in Shaldoah’s wealthiest
mountain village, the historic Glandorf Hall. This was where all
the chiefs over the centuries had lived and conducted the affairs
of state. Krom’s predecessors had declared Glndorf the
Wonder of
the West.
In imitation of a palace façade, the stark black
mountainside had been chiseled into shape by talented artisans.
Before that it had been a diamond mine. Famous for its winding
hallways, modified tunnels of the former mine, visitors often
became so disoriented that it took a Bulwark search party to bring
them back again.

The mine’s caves now served as cavernous
banquet halls with the largest as the throne room. Every surface
had been smoothed and gleamed like polished granite. Chunky black
pillars assured that the sweeping ceiling would stand the test of
time. Massive chandeliers, made from the bones of Sliven warlords,
were covered with lumpy candle wax that had built up over the
passing of time.

Bulwark Chiefs had been made and undone here
in Glandorf Hall.

And Chief Krom intended to be remembered as
the chief who pulled Shaldaoh out of economic decline and restored
its former glory.

The room was empty now, but it could hold
thousands of Bulwark warriors. Steps led up to the platform where
Krom ruled from on high. The throne on which he now sat, with his
elbow on its arm and his chin resting thoughtfully in his hand, had
been hewn from the horns and skulls of the legendary Chief
Shaldoah’s enemies. Krom’s other hand had been lost in battle as a
youth, replaced with the iron head of a sledgehammer. He proudly
displayed it like a trophy, using it to bash things when he didn’t
get his way.

The leaders of the Western Alliance had just
left Glandorf Hall. Good riddance, thought the chief. He barely
tolerated them on a good day and this day had ended badly. The only
good part about the meeting is that it had ended in violence, a
nice change of atmosphere from the usual murmured vitriolic banter
and merely symbolic back stabbing. Krom preferred loud arguments
over clever diatribes. And if he was going to stab someone in the
back, he wouldn’t use words, but a real dagger.

Overturned wine goblets, broken plates, and
mounds of splattered food still covered the long tables. After his
guests had stormed out, Krom ordered everyone else to leave,
including his servants. He needed to be alone now, stew in his
juices, think things through.

The meeting had started out peaceable, but
the trouble started as soon as the subject of newcomers in the
Northlands was broached. The decision that the Galatians needed to
leave was almost unanimous, but there were two powerful
holdouts—King Elrod of Tectonia and King Doyl of Regala D’Nora.

Considering that the Galatians were King
Doyl’s nearest neighbors, his position was no surprise. No other
kingdom would be as affected by a possible war with the Galatians
than his beloved Regala D’Nora.

Not much was known about these newcomers to
the Northlands, except for the fact that they owned powerful
weapons. Who knew what secrets the culture might hold? Their wrath
might fall hardest on the Regalans.

The other holdout was King Elrod, who had
befriended a Galatian physician named Simon Steelsun, and credited
the man with saving both of his sons’ lives during the
epidemic.

“I think it is a mistake to treat the
Galatians this way,” King Elrod had said. “If they are humans from
another age, as they claim, that means they are the seed from which
the rest of us have sprouted. Dishonoring them is dishonoring our
ancestors. And according to the writings of Prophetess Zabella, no
good can come of it.”

Chief Krom didn’t know who the hell Zabella
was, no doubt one of the numerous Commoner deities. Every kingdom
seemed to have its personal favorite. Chief Krom suspected someone
long ago just made them up, but he wasn’t dumb enough to say it at
the meeting. King Eldrod’s victories were many, his enemies
smoldered in the grave—but his fondness for the Galatians and his
belief in made-up gods made him soft in the brain.

“If they are truly human,” King Doyl said,
“then First Rights belong to them.”

“Which would mean they have legal ownership
of any land they desire,” Krom replied dryly. “Including
yours.”

“The Blood Map, combined with the provisions
of the treaty, puts us all at risk,” the Queen of Faladore joined
in. “But as my late husband used to say—treaties are made for
breaking.” That brought a chuckle to those in attendance. “On a
more serious note, am I the only one brave enough to come out and
say it? Human or not, we cannot allow the Galatians to prove they
are rightful ownersl of our kingdoms.”

“Hold on a minute,” King Doyl interjected,
“my ancestors signed the treaty in blood. I will not dishonor its
provisions. Besides, the Galatians aren’t asking for any of our
kingdoms, just a portion of unoccupied land where they can live and
die in peace.”

“For now they’re not asking for our lands,”
the Deerma leader said in his irritating nasal way that made Krom
want to club him in the mouth. “But who knows what tomorrow may
bring?”

“Our unbending laws have created this
situation,” King Eldrod pointed out. “The Galatians have worked
through the proper channels at every turn. Barrett Fade did when he
requested a piece of land, any piece of land, to settle nine years
ago. In our generosity, what did we offer him? We told him to take
his people and go back to wherever it was that he came from.”

“I let them settle the edge of Regala
D’Nora,” King Doyl reminded everyone.

“Keep your friends close, and your enemies
closer?” the queen asked with a questioning lift of her brow.

The young commander of Hunterdon joined in.
“And in the meantime, King Doyl, the Galatians taught you about
hybridization, and crop rotation, and how to run water under the
ground for drinking and irrigation. And later, when they refused to
teach you about their thundersticks—the only thing they refused to
do—how did you respond?” The Regalan king’s right ear twitched as
he sent the cocky commander a vexed frown. “Oh, I remember now, you
ran them off of the land with the pointy ends of your sharp
arrows.”

“It had nothing to do with the
thundersticks,” the Regalan king claimed. “The second and larger
group of Galatians arrived in the Northlands, bringing their
numbers to dangerous levels.”

“But they are small in number even with the
addition of the second and larger group,” King Elrod of Tectonia
pointed out. “A mere twenty thousand or so compared to the five
million citizens in my kingdom, which makes this whole conversation
ridiculous.”

“As you well know, their numbers exploded
overnight. And nobody knows where exactly they came from. What
assurance do we have that another wave of Galatians isn’t on its
way?” the queen inquired.

“Exactly my point,” Chief Krom said. “It
would be better to slice them down while we still can.”

“If not the Northlands,” King Loyl said.
“Perhaps we can offer them another suitable place to settle—there’s
that unoccupied island at the tip of the Southlands.”

“We’ve been through all of this before with
Barrett Fade,” Krom replied. “Every piece of land in the West is
spoken for—even the islands. The Galatians can go East or to the
Midzone. I do pray that we will have your cooperation, King Elrod.
You too, King Doyl. As you know, failure to uphold the decision of
the Alliance on a military matter will be considered a betrayal of
the Alliance. In an already suffering economy, can you really
afford a long trade embargo? And are you willing to risk going it
alone should the Slivens decide to attack either of your
kingdoms?”

“My loyalty to the Alliance is not in
question here.” King Elrod thumped the table with his fist. “You
are hoping Mayor Wakeland will refuse to leave, giving you
justification for looting Galatia’s coffers.” He held up a gold
ring with a large ruby set around by diamonds. “I sent a
representative to Galatia for this. He said there is a vault of
hidden treasures even better than this one, inlaid with gems of
every color, shape and size.” He twirled the ring between his
fingers, letting everyone admire the way its huge ruby glowed under
the candlelight. “Isn’t that what this is truly about—you speak of
treaties and laws, when all you really care about are riches and
weapons.”

“I resent that accusation,” the Deerma leader
replied.

“I don’t,” the Queen said. For a Commoner,
she made a lot of sense. “I’ll admit it’s a factor but not the only
one.”

“And who do the Galatians think they are?”
the Deerma asked. “Defying the Western Alliance at every turn? If
we let them stay there, it will set a bad precedent.”

“Agreed,” said the queen. “The only really
question is how can we split the plunder without splitting each
other’s heads?”

“I care not for gems,” said the leader of the
Hunterdons, a young Commoner in military uniform, who went by the
title of Commander Renault. “All I want are the thunder
weapons.”

“If it comes down to a war, I demand control
of Galatia’s port,” King Doyl said. “My kingdom is geographically
closest, so it makes sense.”

“As long as I get the jewelry,” Chief Krom
said, “I’m okay with your request. Unless Mayor Wakeland has
already spent it all. In that case, I want my fair share of the
thunder weapons.”

“But I want the thunder weapons,” Commander
Renault said between clenched teeth.

Tempers flared over how they would divide the
spoils of war. The room erupted with violence. Fists were raised,
faces were punched, and swords were drawn. Shouts echoed throughout
the banquet room and down the hallways. Krom got so angry he rammed
Commander Renault’s stomach with the top of his head, though aiming
to avoid killing the man with his sharp horns.

“Let’s not do anything we cannot take back,”
King Elrod shouted over the madness. “Put your weapons away and sit
down!”

The room fell into silence; the voice of a
man used to command on the battlefield carries well in a banquet
hall. As the leaders looked at each other with distrust, they
slowly put down their weapons and returned to the banquet table.
After five minutes of rational discussion, the shouting resumed,
while King Elrod sat there with disgust written over his face,
crossing his arms over his chest. The Regalan king just leaned back
in his chair and raised a goblet to Elrod.

The only thing anyone agreed on in the end
was that the discussion wasn’t over. They would resume talks again
some other day. The annual meeting ended early, with everybody
walking out angry with one another.

This did not bode well for the peace of the
West.

Nonetheless, Krom couldn’t stop thinking
about the Galatians’ secret treasure vault as peace was hanging
from a spidery thread. Looting Galatia seemed like the surest
solution to keep his kingdom fed. The trouble was that he wasn’t
the only leader to think so. What if one of the other leaders
decided to send an army ahead of the collective forces of the
Alliance? What if there was nothing left for the Bulwarks when they
arrived? That’s why the Bulwarks must get to Galatia first.

(Michael Penn)

Naked lumber jutted upward like fingers
grasping eagerly at a brightly wrapped package. The smell of
freshly-sawn wood wafted down the cobblestone streets. Newly
erected street signs were carved in both English and Commoner.
Foundations had been laid all across the city, including the
outskirts reserved for family farms. Arrows pointed the way to
places like North America Lane, Ohio Park, Pacific Ocean Inn and
the Building of National Affairs where the mayor and the Circle of
Elders conducted Galatia’s day-to-day affairs. The National
Building was four stories high and the only one in the city made of
poured concrete. Its construction had tested the limits of human
and humanoid ingenuity alike.

Our engineers held numerous powwows with the
humanoid builders and had come up with a formula for cement,
something unknown in this future world—a way to mix it, a way to
transport it, a way to pour it. The National Building’s smooth
white exterior was a marvel to behold. Despite the threat of war, a
group of curious Regalans came from Regala D’Nora to check it out.
Sheriff Barrett was furious with Red for letting them enter the
city, but Red pointed out that thousands of humanoid workers came
in and out all the day long—so what did one more group matter?