Seeker of the Four Winds: A Galatia Novel Read online

  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.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  (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?

  Several names were proposed for Galatia’s capital. Wakeland City was at the top, but Red vetoed the idea. People would accuse him of nepotism, glorifying his family, and so on. In the interest of the new nation, he wanted to avoid unnecessary controversy. Therefore, I made it my personal mission to campaign for the name ‘Zena City’.

  Naturally, some people were opposed to naming the capital of our nation after a dog, but she had as much to do with humanity’s survival as anyone. The votes were counted and 75% of council approved. In Red’s office, the Circle of Elders gathered to officially bestow the name, while I held up my glass and toasted her memory.

  “From this day forward, as Washington D.C. was to the United States of America, Zena City will be to Galatia,” Red proclaimed.

  “May your tail wag in peace as you look down upon us,” I said, voice thick with emotion, “faithful friend.”

  “To Zena,” Nathan said, raising his glass to clink it with mine.

  “To Zena!” those in the room joined in.

  “In Commoner, it means ‘shining on a hilltop’,” Red replied. “Which is fitting, because God told me that one day I would build a nation, a beacon of light shining in the darkness, and today His Words have come to fruition.”

  Nobody said anything, but there were murmurs of approval.

  “So,” Red continued, “this seems like a good time to tell you how God is calling us, the people of this holy nation, to fast for three days as a testament of our trust in Him. It is in His strength and goodness, not ours, that we are sustained.”

  Deafening silence followed, until Joise’s mother spoke up.

  “A three day fast—” Veronica looked over her wine glass at Red as if he had just set down from Mars. “As in not eating anything for three whole days?”

  “God said bread and water are okay.”

  “You heard God speak to you...with your ears...using actual words?” she tested.

  “Yes.”

  Everyone glanced at me as if they expected me to provide a sensible explanation for Red’s comment about fasting. The wine turned to vinegar on my tongue. I trusted Red, but I didn’t know how to spin this in his favor.

  “The Summer Solstice will be here before we know it, brother,” Barrett addressed Red in quiet tones etched with deep concern. “Last time we talked, the game plan was to continue accumulating swords, training for warfare, and making bullets. Now, you’re telling us that fasting is the solution to preserving Galatia?”

  “Ridiculous,” Professor Sweet added.

  “And not very smart,” Veronica said. “Our soldiers are already at a disadvantage. Fasting will only make them weaker.”

  “God knows what will preserve us,” Red said, “but how can He help us when you refuse to listen to His messenger?” He stormed out of the room, clutching the blueprints to his chest.

  The elders broke out in hushed conversations. I didn’t want to hear anyone disparaging my brother’s faith in God, so I quietly slipped out of the building. As I walked along the wooden sidewalks, the smell of baking bread hit my nose, making me forget about the troubles in the mayor’s office for a moment. A tap on my shoulder got my attention. It was my brother, Bryce.

  “Mike, can we talk somewhere?”

  “I don’t want to talk about what happened in there,” I said, holding up a palm.

  “Me neither,” he said. “It’s about something else.”
<
br />   “I’ve been meaning to check out the new bakery. How about we talk there?”

  Bryce was a shorter, less chiseled version of Barrett. His voice wasn’t as commanding, but he had the same lively blue eyes and chestnut hair. Whenever I looked at either of them, I saw the stern face of my stepfather looking back at me. He had died of natural causes in the bunker six or seven years ago. Can’t say that I missed him.

  Bryce was the quiet and nervous type, but we usually got along. Other than his video hobby, he rarely took the initiative to do anything, even something as small as asking me to take a walk, so I suspected that his request to talk with me had been influenced by someone else.

  As soon as I opened the door to the Northlands Loaf House, my somber mood evaporated with the wholesome smell of baking bread, cinnamon, and a hint of vanilla. The oak floors were polished to a sheen. Small round tables with gingham tablecloths were set up in the eating area. A chalkboard sign indicated that the Loaf House also sold imported coffees and teas, and sandwiches made from both locally grown and imported ingredients. Today it was ham with farmer’s cheese on your choice of wheat or rye. Being homeless for so long, the little comforts in life filled me with gratitude, and I felt the array of baked goods before me was a great sign that Galatia had come into her own.

  A glass display case showed round sourdough loaves with slitted tops, long pretzel-top loaves covered with poppy seeds, fat loaves bathed in sesame seeds, and an oblong loaf striped with dark pumpernickel. Prices were displayed next to each little beauty, in meelars. I reminded myself that a meelar was similar to a dollar and a meelee was something like a penny. In the interest of promoting free trade, the Council had abandoned our old money system and adopted the West’s.

  I’d already used much of my startup money on seeds, tools and oxen to work the land my family had been given, as had all Galatians, and although I’d gotten a bumper crop of grains, I had little spare cash for the breads so mouthwateringly displayed. Yes, I had my jewelry collection, but even from my youth I knew that it really never belonged to me. Every meelee it brought in belonged to Galatia to be managed by the leadership. As I sniffed the yeasty aromas, I was proud to know some of the ingredients were the fruits of the Penn family’s labor.