Seeker of the Four Winds: A Galatia Novel (25 page)

The charisma wasn’t in him when the humanoids
turned on him like a pack of vicious dogs. Before he could fling
open the Excito Fortitudo, the trainers already had his ankles and
wrists clamped in metal cuffs and chains.

“Can’t be too careful when it comes to the
Galatians,” Slaughterhouse said. “They’re weak one second, the next
they’re strong. They’re slow one second, then they’re fast. But
they’re always crafty. Dread is unpredictable, so don’t let your
guard down.”

Dazed, with blood gushing from his nose and
down his chin, they dragged Lars down the hall. His heart seized at
the sounds of a woman’s screams. Josie! He fought his chains, but
the trainers were ready for this kind of trouble. They shoved him
to the ground, pushing their knees into his back and head until he
stopped struggling.

“If you cause trouble,” Slaughterhouse said,
“You’ll just make it worse for her.”

His body stilled, but his heart was racing as
they yanked him to his feet and made him walk to a closed door at
the end of the hall, the place from which the screams were
emanating.

There, strapped to a table, was the one
person who had kept him going since the loss of Galatians
Bunker.

Red tears streaked her pale cheeks.

Three orange-hot irons, each the size of a
chunky eraser, were arranged in a triangle on Josie’s abdomen. He
could hear her flesh sizzle, making him weak in the knees, while a
ball of fury stormed inside his chest.

“Josie!” He lunged, but was mercilessly
whipped back by the chains. “Josie!”

A bloody mess dripped down the sole of her
right foot. Her right hand was clenched into a fist. At first he
thought she was squeezing a tomato, but it was blood.

“They cut off my toe,” she wailed at the
sight of Lars. “And they’re going to cut off more of me if I don’t
kill Big Clo! But I can’t, Lars. I just can’t!”

“Look at his eyes.” One of the trainers
recoiled. “They’re glowing white again. That means the strength of
his god is in him. Be extra careful!”

“If the gods had any power at all, they’d
have destroyed this sorry world by now. Tell your woman she has to
obey me, Lars,” Mr. Bayloo ordered. “Or she’ll die to regret
it.”

“I’ll kill you sons-of-bitches,” Lars hissed,
trying to attack Mr. Bayloo, but every move was futile; not even
the charisma could snap these chains. “Let her go.”

“I will, once she learns that I’m her
master.”

“We’re Galatians,” Lars said. “We have no
master.”

“I’m your god now,” Mr. Bayloo said, not
cracking the slightest smile. “Displease me and I will make your
life hell. Please me and I will give you a reward.”

A scuffle at the door made him jerk around.
One of the guards dragged Willow into the room by a length of
chain. A delicate wing had been shredded. Both antennae were
crooked.

“Oh, Josie, my proud friend.” Willow hung her
head in sorrow, tears brimming in her green eyes. “I told you a
hundred times to bide your time, don’t rock the boat, and now
you’ve gone and capsized it.”

“When one of our actors refuses to act, Bitch
of Galatia,” Mr. Bayloo explained, “the entire theater company
suffers.”

The goons stepped aside as a full-blood,
full-sized Gargantuan stooped in the door, taking up a quarter of
the room.

“Dort is here,” the goons said, as if nobody
had noticed the looming Gargo. The goons backed up a little,
allowing Dort to take hold of Lars’s arms. The Gargo’s hands were
so big, his grip took up the space from Lars’s elbow to his
wrist.

“Careful there, Dort,” Mr. Bayloo warned. “If
you break my prize-fighter before I give the order, I’ll break your
neck.”

“Let her go,” Lars said. “I’ll fight, do
whatever you want me to do, but please don’t hurt her.”

“You’re not the problem,” Mr. Bayloo said.
“She is. And I’m going to break her spirit if it’s the last thing I
do.”

Dort picked Lars up like a toy, and pushed
his head against a slotted table that looked like a torture device,
the kind that stretched out a body until bones snapped out of
joints and muscles tore. Josie’s fear was washing over him like
waves of fire now. Clenching his fingers around a wooden slot, he
crushed it between his fingers.

“Whoa,” one of the trainers gasped at the
sound of breaking wood. “Dread’s eyes still have the glow—Dort,
hold him tight.”

Two guards pressed his cheek against the
table and forced a dirt cloth into his mouth. Willow’s head, mouth
also stuffed with fabric, was shoved against the table beside him
so there was only a few inches between them. Unable to talk, his
own horror was reflected back at him in Willow’s wide and worried
eyes.

“Go ahead, Josie,” Bayloo said. “Choose life
or death.” Josie gasped something that Lars could not hear. “Lars
or Willow will die, but which one? I leave the choice to you.”

“I refuse to choose.”

“If you don’t, then both of them will
die.”

“You said it yourself that Lars is your prize
fighter. You paid a lot for him, for me; you won’t kill him. You’re
bluffing.”

“Look here, Galatian. I’ve run across a lot
of actors who say they’d rather die than fight, but as soon as I
threaten to nip off a piece of them here, they have a change of
heart. But every now and then I run across one like you, who means
what she says, says what she means. I respect that, I really do,
but respect don’t pay no bills. I can’t have unprofitable employees
eating my food, taking up valuable space, no matter how much I like
‘em. I’m trying to work with ya here. But I chopped off a toe, I
chopped off a finger, and you still won’t fight. Which is why I am
forced to drag your friends into it.

“You see, me and Dread here came to an
agreement months ago. In return for your protection against the
dogs here who will hump anything with tits, he doesn’t give me no
trouble. The question is do you care about him as much as he does
you? Will you compromise your precious principles to save your man?
Or will you hold onto them and let him die?”

Knowing Josie, Lars closed his eyes and
prepared to meet his end.

“So, who lives—your man or your cell
mate?”

“Both!” Josie said defiantly. “They both get
to live!”

“Not an option.” Mr. Bayloo gestured to
Slaughterhouse and another trainer called Mayhem. Slaughterhouse
raised a large battle ax over Lars’s neck. Mayhem did the same over
Willow.

“Your choice is to leave the decision to me
then, eh?” Bayloo paused long enough to give Josie a chance to
respond. When she didn’t answer, he said, “Very well then. They
both die. On the count of three—one...”

“Don’t hurt Lars!” Josie screamed.

“Are you saying you want me to kill the
Bezon?”

“Y-yes,” Josie said meekly, her voice choking
away into sobs.

Lars watched the Bezon flinch. He felt her
sense of betrayal, followed by bitter resignation. Slowly, Willow
closed her lovely green eyes. It struck Lars how sad it was to know
such beauty was about to disappear forever. The blade came down,
severing Willow’s head in one blow. Lars was still pinned down when
her head rolled against his. Pieces of her hair caught in his
mouth.

“There’s still the matter of Big Clo. Are you
going to kill as I ordered or will I have to take the life of lover
boy in her place?”

In the silence that followed, as the room
held its breath, Lars could almost hear her wrestling with her
conscience.

“God forgive me,” Josie said, her voice weak
and wavering. “Take me to the arena.”

Bayloo offered to get someone to carry her
there, but with a growl, she pushed them away.

“Don’t you touch me!” Lars saw her limp
toward the door, and wanted to shout something encouraging, but his
mouth was still stuffed with the rag.

The echoes of her sobs faded as she walked
toward the arena.

Lars would live to see another day, but his
heart twisted in his chest. How could he live with the fact that
Willow, a woman with three young daughters at home, had died in his
place?

So much for being a hero.

(Larsen Drey Steelsun)

Despite the grisly showdown in the basement,
Lars was brought back to the staging area where he waited for his
turn in the arena. Still suffering from the beating, Lars
contemplated refusing to fight the way Josie had done. But in the
end, she had rescinded her moral position so that Lars might live.
How could he do any less for her in return?

Closing his eyes, opening his channel to the
charisma wider, invisible waves of energy flowed into him, soothing
his pain, filling the emptiness with its divine strength.

“What in the hell happened to you?” Crash
asked on his way in from a victory in the arena, causing Lars’s
eyes to flick open. Crash shuddered. “Your eyes got that creepy
glow thing going on.” Seeing a friendly face brought an unexpected
surge of emotion—Lars’s own anger.

A tear streaked down his cheek and his voice
trembled. “They tortured Josie and killed Willow.” He expected the
other actors, who were eavesdropping, to make fun of his tear, but
all he got was sympathy, even from Crash.

“Oh, son-of-a-bitch, kid. That’s too bad.
Willow was a real good-looking gal, too.”

“I’m going to destroy this theater company
for what it’s done.”

“Yeah, me too, Galatian. But for now, save
that energy for the arena,” Crash advised.

When Lars stepped out into the bright arena,
the sun hurt his eyes. Instead of walking to the center and doing
the customary fist bump, he was immediately confronted by a
whirling Dervish—a creature with purple scales and eight arms
arranged like two sets of helicopter blades arranged one over the
other.

As Lars planted his feet into the ground,
sword up in defense posture, the sound of Josie’s sobbing haunted
his thoughts. The stream of charisma began to dwindle, making him
falter.
Don’t go there,
he whispered to himself.
Think
only of the moment at hand.
He concentrated on the opponent in
front of him.

The Dervish came closer, rotating and
spinning in a circle of decreasing circumference around Lars.

“Are you a cousin to the octopus or the spin
brush at the car wash?” Lars asked, as he rotated to keep the
creature in view at all time, but of course it didn’t reply.

In each of its many hands, the Dervish held a
dagger. Is this what it felt like to be a banana in a blender? As
it came within a few feet of his body, and those daggers got ever
closer, Lars’s strategy shifted to self-preservation. Simply put,
he ran away.

The trainers came to the edge of the arena,
blocking the exits, threatening Lars with swords until he faced the
crazy thing head on. The Dervish didn’t seem to tire, intent on
turning him into mincemeat.

Turns out, the Dervish had more energy than
brains.

Once the shock of he situation wore off,
Lars’s strategy simplified. He waited until it was a few feet from
him and held his sword out. The Dervish spun itself right into the
blade, chopping off half of its own arms. The crowd clapped
appreciatively.

The fight had gone out of the Dervish as it
bled out chunky yellow blood.

It stopped spinning and retreated toward an
exit, where it was beaten back into the arena by the trainers.

As he was trained to do, Lars looked up to
the special box at the top of the bleachers where Mr. Bayloo sat
surrounded by armed men and scantily clad women serving drinks.

Mr. Bayloo broke the stick.

The Dervish’s round blue eyes pleaded with
Lars—for life, for death, Lars wasn’t sure which until its intense
emotions seeped into him. Sensing its life fading away, the
creature wasn’t afraid. No, it was worn out, so very tired and
alone, and had wanted to die for a long time now.

Lars hesitated, contemplating scrambling up
to the box and taking a shot at Mr. Bayloo instead. That’s when two
guards brought Josie to the front of Bayloo’s box atop the arena.
Her face looked puffy. The partially severed finger had been
bandaged. Her wrists and ankles were cuffed. One of the guards
placed the tip of his knife beneath the soft flesh under her chin,
though Josie appeared more furious than afraid.

Mr. Bayloo gave the breaking-a-stick gesture
again.

“I’m really sorry, Dervish,” Lars whispered.
“But that’s my girl up there…”

“I know,” the Dervish replied, surprising him
with its ability to speak. “Just do it.”

There really wasn’t a discernible neck, so
Lars brought the length of the blade down as hard as he could
between the Dervish’s head and body. Blood splattered like mustard
across Lars’s face and cheeks. Yellow and blue guts, veins and
organs, oozed onto the ground. The smell of dung rose to his nose.
Lars’s gag reflex kicked in as the crowd rose to its feet. Josie
had killed for him, now he had killed for Josie. Bonded in the
blood of their victims, surely their love would last forever.

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

(Larsen Drey Steelsun)

Fights were lined up for the next two weeks,
with a day or two between each. Lars had to wait to learn Josie’s
fate until after the shows were over. When she shuffled past his
cell, he had a good idea how the fight had gone. Sometimes she
looked as strong as ever, other times bruised, limping or holding a
limb. One time she was carried in between two of the trainers, but
as always, she had given him the thumbs up sign.

Time was starting to blur together, but it
had been over a month since that first fight. Today was Mr.
Bayloo’s birthday, so all of the actors were treated to cake during
the break. Josie limped off the training field to join Lars on the
sidelines, which they were rarely allowed to do. The nearly-severed
finger had healed crooked. It no longer straightened and would
never be the same. They stood beneath the awning of the weapons
shed with the other actors. She seemed to be avoiding his gaze. Was
she mad at him or was it life in general?