Seeker of the Four Winds: A Galatia Novel
was the boasting
rings. Bulwarks who proved their courage in battle or their
craftiness in business affairs, were rewarded with rings for their
horns by a commander, business associate or chief. T he more decorated the horns—the greater a Bulwark’s status.
Hogard had more boasting rings than the handful of Bulwarks Lars
had met, but if he wanted to impress the squad, he ought to start
by getting some manners. The guy emitted a cacophony of farts,
belches and other eructations all day long. At least Lars was
downwind from him this morning.
    Lindsey Burning, the opposite of the Bulwark
in every way, rode directly in front of Lars. Clean, gorgeous, and
smelling of wild berries—her silky curls bounced along her back
with each stride of the horse’s trot. Since her fight with Josie,
she hadn’t said a whole lot, but Lars felt the occasional strong
emotion coming from her—regret, but mostly embarrassment.
    As for Josie, for the first couple of days
Lars had felt red hot anger boiling from every pore of her body.
Gradually, it had turned to steam and dissipated into the air.
Today, he felt nothing coming from her at all. After all of these
years, her guitar conspiracy theory had been vindicated. It was her
time to simmered in a stew of smug justification. Lars was sure
that Josie would eventually forgive Lindsey. Did it mean they would
be friends? Nah, he couldn’t see that, but Josie’s brother-in-law
had been wise to let them get the bad blood out in the open and
fight it out.
    In camp that evening, Lars stoked the fire
under the stew pot suspended from its tripod of sticks. Rolf had
caught a hogbit, which was a cross between a pig and rabbit. Dante
commented that the meat tasted like old billy goat. Lars disagreed.
Compared to the rubbery pseudo meat they ate in the bunker, it
melted on the palate. When mixed with the wild onions and herbs the
girls had foraged, Lars found himself in food heaven.
    Waiting for the others to get their fair
share, Lars hoped there would be enough for second helpings. He
watched Dante fill his bowl to the brim before carefully sitting
down on a bedroll near the fire. Like Rolf, the big man had lived
on Future Earth for ten years before the Wakeland Group had
arrived, and has acquired an arsenal of survival skills. But after
the conversations they’d had with him sitting around the fire at
night, Lars understood that Future Earth still didn’t feel like
home to him. Despite all the muscle, and fierce looks, Dante was an
intelligent and gentle soul who missed the old way of life. In the
bunker he had been a computer geek, a gamer, a devoted husband and
father, who was working his way to a top position as systems
manager. Then the earthquake struck, disrupting his happy little
family. Regardless, the man was a wealth of information about the
new world.
    Tonight the conversation turned to the
variety of intelligent life here, and Dante commented that at least
on Future Earth, skin color had faded to the least of the reasons
for discrimination. Deermas didn’t trust any race without antlers
but were persecuted because they walked on four legs instead of
two. Bulwarks looked down on the non-warring races. And Regalans
thought all other races were complete ignoramuses...at least until
the humans came along. But the prejudices were endless. One must
constantly be on guard because hatred could rear up in unexpected
places. That’s why Dante had spent his years on Future Earth honing
his fighting skills.
    “My father says you’re the best swordsman in
all of Galatia,” Lars said to Dante as Josie went around camp
adding an extra ladle of soup into everyone’s bowls. The broth was
thick with meat and greens. Loyl passed around a salt shaker, which
he reminded them to add sparingly.
    “I’m not the best,” Dante chuckled, his eyes
reflecting inward. “That position belongs to Dr. Simon Steelsun—I
mean your father, Lars. He has the mind of a sage, the reflexes of
a teenager, and the
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