Seeker of the Four Winds: A Galatia Novel (23 page)

“I am sorry about the way the Alliance is
treating you,” said the Bulwark contractor who had been sitting
there quietly watching the whole thing. He shifted in his chair to
let out a big fart. The room instantly smelled a shade worse than
manure. I glanced at Father Bob who looked like he was going to
puke. “I won’t be holding you to our contract, but I still expect
payment for the time I’ve put into it.”

“As per the agreement, I will not pay you a
single gem until after the foundation is laid.”

“Great thunder,” the contractor said, brow
furrowed in concern “You’re not going to keep building—are
you?”

“We knew the Alliance would do this sooner or
later. I was hoping for later, but I want you to start prepping to
lay the foundation.”

“You’re a strong people, but your numbers are
puny. There’s no hope of victory against the Alliance. Your money
would be better spent on horses, wagons, provisions for the
road.”

“Do you propose to tell me what’s best for
Galatia?”

“But the Western Alliance has ordered you to
leave.”

“Screw the Alliance. I take it you and your
workers will want to leave before the Summer Solstice?”

“It ain’t nothing personal, but if me and my
workers hang about, our chiefs will expected us to fight on the
side of the Alliance,” the Bulwark responded, glancing down at the
ground. “Not wanting to hurt our generous employer, I think that we
have no choice but to leave.”

“I understand, but once the battle is over,
you will continue your work here where you left off.”

“I would like that.” The Bulwark nodded, then
snorted with regret. “If I were you, I’d get my family out of
here.”

“And go where? This is the land God promised
the human race. You tell your chief that any army that goes against
Galatia, goes against the Creator of heaven and earth. The Alliance
will not win.”

“I’ll do that.” The Bulwark gathered up his
paperwork. “I’m truly sorry you’re all gonna die.”

“Don’t forget to come back after the
Solstice,” Red said, “because we’ll still be here, stronger than
ever, waiting for you to finish what you started.”

“If you’re still here,” the Bulwark said.
“I’ll bend my knee to that god of yours and build him an altar made
of the finest marble in the world with my very own hands.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that, because He
told me to tell you that he wants it done in marble hewn from the
base of Mount Kateroh.” Red handed the Bulwark a piece of paper.
“Here are the dimensions.”

The Bulwark took the note as if it were a
poisonous snake. His eyebrows raised when he read his own name at
the top of the paper, with the drawing of an altar he had just
offered to build, and its dimensions drawn out beneath.

I didn’t know how Red had pulled that out of
his hat, freaking out the Bulwark that way. Maybe Red was trying to
rattle him, because we knew that everything the contractor observed
in Galatia went straight back to his war chiefs.

(Josephine Rose Albright)

The brown stone walls of Josie’s prison cell
were damp and cold. There were only two other female actors and all
three shared a cell. After spending the day at practice beating the
crap out of each other, the three of them spent their evenings
getting along surprisingly well. She especially liked Willow, the
slender leggy Bezon with the long blonde hair. The Bezon’s skin had
a slightly golden hue. Her caramel colored lips were full,
contrasting beautifully with her striking green eyes like
multi-faceted emeralds. However, the most unusual thing about
Willow was her gossamer wings and black antennae. Even though
Willow was in her forties, Josie thought of her as a new best
friend.

Willow came from a race of female warriors
who lived in a gleaming city they affectionately called “The Hive”.
Isolationists by nature, they went to great lengths to keep their
homeland’s location a secret. She had three young daughters at home
and missed them terribly. The fact that they had many strong aunts
to look after them gave her comfort. Surely, her daughters would
learn to fight like proper ladies. Josie was fuzzy on the details
of Willow’s capture, but she had survived the theater company for
over a year now, which according to Willow, was past the expiration
date for most of the actors. Mr. Bayloo liked to keep the show
fresh—it traveled the same circuit annually—so she expected him to
break the stick on her any time now.

“Now that the theater company has acquired
another attractive female,” Willow said. “I am doubly worried, but
I know it’s not your fault, sweetie.”

“When Lars and I make our escape, I’ll come
back for you. I promise.”

Willow smiled as if she liked the idea, but
didn’t really believe it.

“Hokey Pokey,” Josie’s other cellmate, Big
Clo, said for the tenth time in the last hour.

“Maybe later,” Josie replied, while Willow
showed her annoyance with an eye roll.

The gulf between Josie’s cellmates couldn’t
be much wider. Whereas Willow was a graceful and sophisticated
Bezon, Big Clo was a half-Gargo simpleton with putty-colored skin.
She preferred grunting and pointing rather than using actual words.
Her shoulders were wide, and her body mostly torso, as if legs were
an afterthought.

Big Clo was probably half their size of the
full-blooded gargoes she had seen on the slave ship, only a
mere
eight or nine feet of solid muscle, but she was still a
damn imposing fighter. Once she left the arena though, Big Clo
became a docile little lamb, childlike in her simplicity, eager to
be
one of the girls
as if prison was one long slumber party.
She loved it when Josie combed the tuft of black hair on her head
and rewrapped in its decorative bone. It was cute how Big Clo
wanted the bone placed just right—a finger-width above her scalp,
perfectly horizontal, with a few inches of tuft sticking straight
up.

“You look just like Pebbles,” Josie said,
examining her handiwork. “Or is it Bam Bam? I can never remember
who’s who.”

“Bam,” Big Clo replied, smacking the floor
with her hand, sending up clouds of dust. “Bam, bam, bam.”

“How long has Big Clo been here?” Josie asked
Willow.

Willow shrugged. “She was already here when I
arrived.”

Come to find out, Gargoes and Bezons were
natural enemies. At first Willow had hated Big Clo, but her stance
had softened over the course of their confinement.

“It’s hard to hate someone who’s too stupid
to hate you back,” Willow explained.

That comment made Josie laugh, but there was
some truth in it.

The three actors spent most evenings together
on the cold stone floor of their cell, nursing scrapes and bruises,
playing cards and smoking fat brown stogies. Big Clo couldn’t grasp
the rules of any game, so mostly she just watched the other two
play and enjoyed a smoke.

Stogies were used as rewards by the trainers
as incentives. Josie had finally mastered the back flip, so she
received two stogies. Even though Josie knew the health risks, when
she was looking down the pointy end of a blade every day, anything
that took the edge off her miserable existence won out over the
future possibility of emphysema. But nobody in the whole theater
company loved stogies the way Big Clo did. Her black thumbtack eyes
would close halfway as the pleasure transported her away to some
happy place. The Gargo’s thin purple lips would gently maw at the
plump stogie until Willow would complain about all the smacking
sounds.

“I’d rather listen to Bulwarks having sex
than you making out with that thing all damn night. So cut it out,
Clo!”

Big Clo’s head tilted in confusion as if she
understood Willow was angry, but the reason why eluded her. Tears
welled up in her small uncomprehending eyes as the smoke billowed
from Big Clo’s mouth, nose and even her ears. Was there any gray
matter in between them at all?

“Josie,” Willow’s voice suddenly became
somber. “Your first fight is coming up. Have you thought about what
I said?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I will not kill someone just because Mr.
Bayloo wants me to.”

“Surviving is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Even if the other person doesn’t deserve
death?”

“If it’s them or me. I choose me.”

“What if some day Mr. Bayloo pits us against
each other or Big Clo?”

“May the best girl win.”

The cell suddenly felt colder. An involuntary
shiver wracked her body.

“Hokey Pokey!” Big Clo begged. Oh, how Josie
regretted teaching her that song and dance. It’s all she wanted to
do now.

“I can’t take another night of Hokey Pokey.”
Willow rolled her eyes with disdain, reclining on her side to prop
her head up on an elbow. Batting at a yawn, she suggested, “How
about singing us another song, Josie? I enjoyed that one about West
Virginia—wherever that is.”

“My sisters never cared much for folksy
country songs. It’s nice to find another fan.”

“I wish I could understand the words, but
it’s enough to know it’s about a person longing to return home.” A
faraway look crossed over the Bezon’s features. Both Josie and
Willow sighed at the same time, while Big Clo sat there with a
blank expression.

Clearing her throat, she began to sing about
a country road in a land that didn’t exist anymore. Her voice had a
rich and buttery quality as it carried through the bars, echoing
down the corridors. The guards often told the prisoners to shut up
when they were being loud, but even their chatter went still at the
sound of her voice, and they never ordered her to stop singing.
Knowing Lars was down there somewhere, she hoped he was listening.
The song was her way of saying
hello, I’m okay. I hope you are
well
.

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

The day of Josie’s first fight in front of a
paying crowd had come and she wanted to vomit. It was Lars’s first
day too, but his act came later in the show. They would not be
allowed to watch any of the other acts except their own. Maybe it
was better this way; watching Lars fight for his life might be more
than she could handle.

The trainers ushered all three of the female
actors from their cells, brining Big Clo and Willow to Backstage
One, and making Josie continue on to Backstage Two, a dim place
with walls made of stacked rock that reeked of sweat and fear.

Being sent to different staging area meant
that she could potentially be facing Willow or Big Clo in the ring,
making her feel sicker than ever. Now she waited. Her hands were
shaking so hard that she could barely sheathe the sword the
trainers had given her for the battle.

“Don’t I get my daggers?” she asked, because
she had discovered during the training that she had a natural
talent for throwing weapons and lodging them into any chosen
target.

“Before every performance, Mr. Bayloo checks
off the weapons each actor is allowed to carry for that
performance. The only one he’s checked off for you for this
performance is the sword. Oh, by the way, he’s finally assigned you
a stage name.”

“Yeah?” She was hoping for something cool,
not that she would live long enough to enjoy it.

“You are hereby called the
Bitch of
Galatia.”

Her mouth fell open with indignation.

“That’s an awful name. I refuse to be called
that!”

“You don’t have a choice,” the guy smirked.
“
Bitch
.”

The trainer walked away as he shared a laugh
with another trainer who had heard the conversation. This day was
just getting better and better—not!

Her costume looked like a white sheet cinched
with a fake gold locket. The head of wardrobes was a handsome
Regalan friend of Mr. Bayloo’s, Seleth. His golden mane fringed
with black reminded her of a lion. He placed her hair in a thick
metal band right smack on the top of her head, making it come down
like a fountain.

“I look stupid,” she said, glancing at her
reflection in a fellow actor’s shield.

“The theater company doesn’t waste money on
fancy costumes for newcomers. If the crowd warms to you, and you
win a few fights, then the clothes get upgraded. All your bruises,
cuts, sprained tendons, and twisted ankles are for this moment,”
Seleth said. This moment that she was dreading. “Make it count,
honey.”

“Seleth, Mr. Bayloo wants you.” A Commoner
woman in a tight dress came up to Seleth to whisper something in
his ear. He frowned and shook his head. “That’s what he gets for
refusing to drink the herbal tea I made. Tell him I’ll be out there
right away.”

Seleth followed the woman out of the staging
area, leaving Josie’s hair half-teased. She returned her attention
to the other actors flexing their muscles, hopping around, even
growling to get themselves fired up to kill. She glanced around,
hoping to catch a glimpse of Lars before she went on stage, but he
was nowhere in sight—probably because he was going to be the last
act of the show, while she was the second. She tried to squash the
moths flittering in her stomach by thinking about anything other
than who or what she would meet in the arena.

“You’re on deck.” One of the trainers gruffly
pushed her toward the wooden doors.

The crowd seemed bored when she walked in.
This was her first real show, and she had heard that Mr. Bayloo
enjoyed being the master-of-ceremonies, but right now Seleth was
the one standing in the center of the arena. He lacked Mr. Bayloo’s
flair, but he was eloquent enough to get the job done.

“Said to have dropped from a kingdom in the
clouds to land in the northlands,” Seleth’s voice echoed across the
arena, “we present to you today a warrior like no other. A word of
warning to the audience. Don’t look directly into her eyes, because
she will hypnotize you into doing her bidding. Now, a nice welcome
for one of the prettiest warriors in the land, the Bitch of
Galatia!”