Call of the Colossus: An epic fantasy novel (The Mindstream Chronicles Book 2)

by K. C. May

  Finn blinked a couple of times, his head slightly cocked.

  The enforcer opened a drawer under the table and picked out a leather disk that had teethmarks on it. “Want it?”

  Finn nodded, and Gruesome untied the gag. “What about my wife?” he asked. “What did you forget?”

  “I’m not s’posed to tell you,” Gruesome said. He shoved the disk into Finn’s mouth then leaned close to Finn’s ear. “But it’s not good news.”

  Jora was so angry, she trembled. They hadn’t told Finn what happened in Kaild. They let him continue thinking his and Jora’s family was still safe and healthy, carrying on with their lives, that his wife and daughter were waiting for his return. And here was this cur taunting him with the information, like a sausage held over the head of a starving child.

  “Here we go,” Gruesome said, adjusting Finn’s hand on the table’s edge. “Don’t flinch or I’ll miss and break a knuckle, then I’d have to do it again. You wouldn’t want me to end up crushing the bones. A clean break will heal better than crushed. Understand?”

  Finn nodded. His nostrils flared, and his breathing grew heavier.

  “It’s best you look away.” Gruesome set the mallet against Finn’s third finger, then raised it, lowered it slowly, and raised it again, measuring the blow. He slammed the mallet down hard. A crack split the air, followed immediately by Finn’s muffled scream.

  “Good,” Gruesome said. “That’s one. Just one more to go. Need a rest, or do you want to get it over with?”

  Finn shook his head.

  “No rest. All right. You’re tougher than you look.”

  Gruesome took the same measure with the mallet on Finn’s middle finger. When he slammed it down, another crack and scream filled the room, but this time, blood spurted across the table. Sharp edges of bone jutted from the wound.

  “Oops,” Gruesome said. He tossed the mallet down and started digging around in the drawers, pulling out lengths of stained cloth.

  Finn’s face went pale. For a moment, he stared at the wound in shock. Then his eyes went glassy. They seemed to lose focus just before his lids closed and his chin dropped to his chest.

  Jora watched with tears streaming down her face while the enforcer wrapped Finn’s hand in bandages. He unstrapped the belts holding Finn in the chair, his movements growing more hurried and desperate, while blood continued to gush from the wound. “Don’t you die,” he muttered. “Milad will have me whipped for sure.”

  At last, he got Finn free and pulled the limp body up over his shoulder before running up the hallway toward the stairs, calling for a medic.

  Jora closed the Mindstream, not wanting to Observe Finn’s death. She hunched over, sobbing, the pain in her chest too great to bear. Her entire body felt like glass that had been struck with a mallet, cracks shooting across the surface and deepening with her every breath. Finn, her only remaining brother, had been taken from her. What had she done so horrible to deserve this? What had her family and friends done besides love her and try to do their best to mold her into a compassionate, hard-working adult?

  She rocked back and forth, crying, whispering apologies to Finn and to everyone else whose death lay across her shoulders. The world looked bleak and dark to her now, the last rays of the sun behind her. She was alone. What would her days be worth going forward? How could she struggle through the boring books on law or listen to Bastin prattle on about processes that no longer mattered? A world where family members were killed by people trying to control her was too gloomy to live in. A country that would lie and deceive and stab its own citizens in the back was not worth her loyalty. A war where young men died so that the rich became richer had to be stopped. If the king wasn’t willing to let everyone have the godfruit, then there was only one way to end this war.

  Let no one have it.

  Chapter 25

  Jora dove across her bed, shoved her hand down into the narrow space between the mattress and wall, and grabbed her flute. She scrambled back to her feet and looked around, judging the space in her room to do what she had to do.

  It would suffice. She might knock into something, but it was no matter. This had to be done.

  She opened the Mindstream, lifted the flute to her lips, and began to play.

  “Open way betwixt and gate between helix and its twin.”

  Nothing happened. The darkness before her, the whispering of movement there in the Mindstream was no different to her than it’d always been. What was the matter? It was dusk, wasn’t it? She looked out the window, but the view faced east. She couldn’t tell whether the sun had fully set.

  Maybe it wasn’t quite dusk yet. She paced in her room, waiting for the minutes to tick by and the sunlight to wane further. Doubts started creeping into her mind. She’d never done this alone before. When she first commanded Po Teng, she had Sundancer to guide her. When she wrestled the water creature, Zhokaw, she was with the two men from Three Waters. When she dragged Elder Sonnis through the gate, Korlan was there.

  It would be fine. She knew how to do it. No one had actually helped her but Sundancer, and Sundancer was gone.

  Jora lifted the flute to her lips again and paused, remembering Hebb pulling her from the water while she flailed and choked. What could go wrong here in her room? Returning from the ’twixt in the middle of a piece of furniture.

  Maybe she should enlist Arc’s help. There in his shop would be safer. Ground floor, little furniture. Yes, that would be better.

  She slid the flute into her robe under the belt, kicked off her sandals, and pulled on her boots. With her red hat hidden in her robe, she opened the door, casting an annoyed glance at Korlan sitting in the hallway across from her door. He scrambled to his feet and followed her.

  “Going to see your friend?” he asked, falling into step just behind her as she skipped down the stairs.

  Of course. Where else would she be going at this time of the day? She didn’t bother to answer.

  The side gate wasn’t yet locked, and so she yanked it open and strode down the street, stripping off her robe as she walked. With the hat on her head and the robe growing ever more purple under her arm, she drew little notice from the street vendors as they packed up their wagons for the night. Korlan trailed a half-step behind, but he had the good sense to keep quiet.

  Archesilaus greeted her with a smile, but it fell away when he took her in. “What hath bechanced thee?”

  She walked past him into the shop and set her belongings on the table. “My brother was slain.”

  “No,” Korlan said, aghast. Or perhaps he only pretended to be surprised.

  “Who hath done this thing?” Arc asked. He went to her and put an arm across her shoulders as if to pull her into an embrace, but she shrugged out from under it. Time for grieving was over. It was time for action.

  “Does it matter?” she asked.

  “What are you going to do?” Korlan asked. His voice was small, timid.

  “First of all, you can’t be involved. I’m not willing to risk your family’s lives, too. Sit down.” She pointed to a chair.

  “Jora, no. Don’t do this.”

  “Or stand up if you want to. I don’t care.” She opened the Mindstream and whistled for Po Teng. When the ally faded into view, Korlan sighed and sat in the chair she’d indicated. At her command, he became a statue.

  “You seek vengeance upon thy brother’s killer?” Arc asked.

  “No,” she said. “Finn’s death was an accident. His killer will be punished, but not by me. I’m going to stop the war.” She briefly explained what she needed him to do—make sure she didn’t return in the middle of the table or wall. He probably couldn’t help her if she did, but having him there made her feel safer anyway. “I will disappear from view for a time, but don’t worry. I’ll be back.” She looked out the window to find the sun had fully set.

  It was time.

  Once again, she opened the Mindstream and played. “Open way betwixt and gate between helix and its twin.�
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  The darkness deepened like the blackest obsidian. A reddish glow appeared in the distance, brightening to orange and then yellow and then blinding white. When she stepped forward, the whiteness disappeared, leaving her in darkness once again, though she was far from blinded.

  The ground felt rocky and uneven beneath her feet. A fine mist obscured her boots. Ahead, she saw dozens of creatures watching her with human-looking eyes, some as large as horses, others the size of rats. They shied away, curious yet wary, as she moved toward them, scanning for one that would suit her. One with a long snout and alligator teeth snarled at her, snapping at the air as it shuffled away. Another had a body like a squirrel and fur-covered wings that it flapped as if trying to shoo her. No, she thought as she continued to search. Not you. Not the bull-like creature with four curved horns or the four-legged bird thing with armored skin. She was looking for…

  There, in the distance one caught her eye. It looked like a wolf-sized raccoon, but its shape wasn’t what interested her. Its feet glowed red beneath the misty layer floating above the earth. Smoke trailed upward along its legs. When she made eye contact with the creature, it opened its mouth to hiss at her like a cat. Flames shot forth from its open mouth.

  You’re mine, she thought as she started toward it.

  The creature backed away, but it didn’t turn and flee as Zhokaw had. The closer she got, the more familiar it looked. The eyes were feral and yet still human. The ears, round and high atop its head, looked like… Mouse Ears. That was him. That was the assassin who’d set fire to Kaild after slaughtering its residents.

  And he was perfect.

  The question was: how was she going to wrestle him into submission without getting burned? He had flame spurting from his mouth, for crying out loud.

  “I’m here to ask for your help,” she said, trying to sound friendly as she moved steadily forward. “Not to hurt you.” She held her hands in front of her in a calming gesture. “You owe me that, at least, after what you did to my family. Do you remember what you did?”

  The creature nodded. The air in front of its open mouth rippled from the heat of its breath.

  “Kaild. You killed babies and children and women and men who’d faithfully served Serocia. People I cared about. Your service is mine to command now. Submit to me.”

  It studied her as if considering her words, fiery orange mouth barely open.

  Jora was only three feet away from it. On all fours, it stood waist high–larger than it looked from a distance. Its body was long, perhaps six feet without the tail, which extended another six or eight feet behind it. Its fur glowed dimly, though the closer she got, the more brilliant the tips of each hair became. Its feet sizzled against the moist ground.

  “Submit now.”

  It stood completely still. Its gaze darted to the side as if it were plotting an escape. Just as its body tensed to move, Jora leaped. She grasped its head, fingers clutching it by the back and sides, well away from the hot mouth. It shrieked and twisted in her grasp, bucking and trying to wriggle free.

  She fell to her belly and held it down by its head, heard the sizzle of its breath in the mist. She smelled burning flesh, felt the blistering heat sear her skin, but she gritted her teeth and held on. To escape its sweltering breath, she clenched her eyes shut and tucked her face into one arm.

  After what seemed an eternity, it quieted its movements and then went limp.

  “Submit,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Sssssub-mit,” it said, the final T like the final hiss of an ember being extinguished with a splash of water.

  She released it and turned onto her back, gazing up at the inky sky. The mist floated over her, bathing her scorched skin with cool, wet relief. She lifted her hands and looked at them, afraid of what she would see but needing to assess the damage. Her palms were covered with red, raw skin, bubbling with blisters. Her forearms had received the worst of it. They were covered with raised and angry red lines like veins, slick with blood. She lowered them back into the mist, relishing the coolness that brought a measure of relief.

  After a time, she sat up and gazed at the fiery beast. Its eyes were no longer feral but soft, apologetic, adoring like Sonnis’s were. At least she wouldn’t have to wrestle it again. Normally, she would ask its name in order to summon it, but she already knew the name of the man it had once been—Bakston, a murderer. “I’m going to call you Foul. You’ll answer to that from this point forward.”

  “Foul,” it said.

  Satisfied it had accepted its name, Jora climbed to her feet and went back through the gate to her own realm of perception.

  Arc startled when she returned, but he looked more relieved than alarmed. “Where wert thou?”

  She winked at him. “Keeping the gate, as is my duty.”

  His gaze went to her arms hanging loosely by her sides. He picked up her wrists. She winced, sucking in her breath. “What hath bechanced thee? Thou wert burnt.”

  “Yes,” she said, pulling out of his grasp. “It’ll heal.”

  “Water,” he said as he ducked into the next room. He emerged a moment later with the clean, empty bucket. “I shall fill the emmel. Wait a moment.”

  She opened her mouth to object, but dipping her hands into cool water was probably a good idea.

  He returned shortly with a full bucket and set it on the table. “’Tis yare. Plunge them in.”

  Jora eased her hands into the water, and though the coolness felt good, it also brought back the pain. She hissed and pulled them out again.

  “No, in. ’Twill hurt but ’tis good for the skin.”

  She shot him a disgruntled look and put her hands back in, turning the wrists up to see her red and charred forearms. With his huge hands, he cupped the water and let it trickle through his fingers over her forearms. “You have severely burnt thyself. How bechanced you this thing?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You need balm. I shall find a healer.” Over her objections, he grabbed his pouch of money and left, returning about twenty minutes later with a broad leaf wrapped up into a bundle and some clean, white cloth. He set the leaf bundle on the table and carefully unwrapped it. In the center was a glob of gray jelly. “’Tis katalai vom sword-leaf plant. ’Twill allay the pain and aid the healing.”

  She pulled her hands out of the bucket and shook off the water. He pulled his tunic off and used it to dry her arms, blotting them gently. “I can do it,” she said.

  “Nay.” He smoothed the ointment on her burned flesh as carefully and tenderly as a healer would. As he worked, he told her about tending a similar wound for one of his warriors when the last Gatekeeper attacked them with a snake that spit fire. The warrior had caught the snake, which then wound itself around his arm from shoulder to wrist, searing it along its entire length. When both Jora’s arms and palms gleamed with ointment, he wrapped them with the bandages, tying the ends neatly at her elbows. “It should heal but you wilt have a wundteken.”

  “A… what?”

  “The mark left from a wund.” He pointed to a scar on the side of his neck. “Such as this.”

  “A scar,” she said, smiling gently. “From a wound.”

  He repeated the words as she’d said them, pursing his lips in an exaggerated fashion as he tried to say wound.

  She had to admit that his accent and his odd way of speaking charmed her, as did his soft, gentle side. Yes, he was nosy, overly proud of his masculinity, and sometimes arrogant, but he was also friendly, protective, and tireless—qualities she desperately needed in a friend and a champion.

  “What of thy freond Korlan. Something is amiss. Did he slay thy bro’er?”

  “Do you remember when I told you about my dolphin friend, Sundancer?”

  “Aye, o’course.”

  “He tried to kill her. He shot her with a crossbow.”

  “Nay! Say ’tis a jest and he is a trickor.”

  “I’m afraid not. I understand why he did it—his family is be
ing threatened, and he knows the lengths the Justice Bureau will go to to get what they want. His betrayal doesn’t hurt any less, though.”

  “Nay, ’tis a foul thing he did. I knew he is a bloody ambodexter.”

  “What’s an ambodexter?”

  “A man who doth use both hands for to fondle himself.”

  She felt heat rise to her face. “Arc!”

  He grinned. “You are not wont to such forthright speak?”

  “No. Gentlemen don’t talk like that in front of ladies.”

  His smile fell. “I have offended you? You ask’d what means the word.”

  “No, I’m not offended, and yes, I asked. Why would you think he… does that?”

  “Ambodexter means he can not be trusted.”

  “Then why didn’t you say so? Why this business about fondling?”

  Arc studied her face, his expression curious. “You love him?”

  Jora looked at the Korlan statue sitting in the chair. No, she didn’t love him the way she’d loved Gunnar, but she cared for him as a friend. She’d felt betrayed by his attack on Sundancer, and yet hopeful that she could save him from the fate of the other enforcers. He was a kindred spirit, a man in a tight situation having to do as he was told or risk harm befalling his family. “Not the way you think. I understand him, and we have a mutual friend—someone we both cared about enough to risk our lives for. Please don’t revile him in my presence.”

  “My apology, portwatcher,” he said. “I intended no offense.”

  He pestered her to tell him her plan, and part of her wanted to, but she knew that if she voiced it, Retar would overhear, and he might not like it. While he occasionally heard her thoughts, he was more likely to overhear if she spoke it aloud.

  What can he do about it? she asked herself, but she didn’t know and she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. Though he had no body, he could control soldiers like little marionettes if he wanted to. It was best to show up at the Tree with her army of Colossus warriors and do it without prior warning. If he set the Legion soldiers on her, they might slay her, but by the time they got past her Colossi, it would be too late. The Tree would be burning so brightly, the Mangendans would see it from across the strait.