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

by K. C. May

  “Ludovicus,” Arc said.

  Ludo elbowed Arc and shot him a dubious look. Arc shrugged and turned his attention back to the parrot.

  “Hello, Korlan. Worry not about your wife and daughter. They’ve not been harmed.”

  Korlan exhaled, seeming to deflate. “Thank you, Retar.”

  “Now,” Retar said in the parrot’s warbly voice, “there seems to be some confusion about the matter of the godfruit and the Tree. Let me set the matter straight. The Tree belongs to me, Ibsa. Not to you, not to the king, not to Serocia. It belongs to me. Its fruit was intended as my gift to all the people of Aerta, not only Serocians.”

  A blush crept into Yaphet’s face. “But how are we to manage distributing the fruit if everyone else wants to take it for themselves?”

  “If I may?” Jora asked. She continued without waiting for a reply. “First, you dispatch messages to the leaders of our enemy nations requesting a truce long enough to meet and discuss a peace treaty.”

  “A peace treaty isn’t possible,” Yaphet said. “There’s only one thing they want, and that’s control of the Tree.”

  “I thought they wanted to destroy the Tree,” Korlan said softly. “That’s what the Legion tells us.”

  “That’s a lie,” Rivva said. “A lie to bend the soldiers to their will, to inspire men to kill to protect a valuable resource.”

  “And they won’t rest until they have it,” King Yaphet added.

  Jora went on, undeterred. “When you meet with them, you propose–”

  “They won’t meet with me,” he said, his voice growing louder. “I’ve already tried that at least a dozen times, as did the queen before me.”

  “Propose they send three delegates,” Jora insisted, “to act as parliament members for the newly formed and sovereign nation called Shess. This parliament will be comprised of delegates from all four nations in equal number and will rule as a unit, negotiating treaties with any and all nations that wish to partake of the godfruit.”

  “You don’t understand these people. I’ve already told you they won’t meet with me, and I’d be a fool to go to them.”

  At least he was still listening. She felt encouraged by his weakening resistance. “If you give me the authority to negotiate this treaty on your behalf, I’ll go to the leaders of each country and make them see reason. With my special gifts–”

  “And the Colossus warriors at her side,” Arc interjected.

  “I can do this,” Jora said. “Let me do this, please.”

  The king fell silent as he contemplated her plan, his face neither skeptical nor discourteous.

  “Retar, do you have any objections to this?” Jora asked.

  “Absolutely not. I welcome anyone partaking of the godfruit. War was a convenient solution to my problem, but it’s not the only solution, nor is it the best one. With fast merchant ships, you could share the bounty of the godfruit with people in places as far away as Quandaria, not to mention nearby countries like Noossmor and Loworia.”

  She lifted her chin and gave the dominee a smile. It wasn’t nice to gloat, but she allowed herself the indulgence this once.

  “If I remove our soldiers from the Isle, the others will simply attack and try to wrest control for themselves,” King Yaphet argued. “Not to mention the social upheaval it would cause. Without a war, men would have no need to take multiple wives, and you can bet people will have something to say about that.”

  “If I may speak,” Arc said. On the king’s nod, he went on. “You would withdraw thy force to the mainland and leave a unit on the Isle. The other countries each send an equal-sized unit for to protect the new nation. O’er the first yere or two, you hold the main force in place, foreby but nie on the Isle, ifsoever it is needed. When you see that the plan works, you send some o’thy soldiers home. Every year, you send more soldiers home so long as the new government works to the benefit of all.”

  King Yaphet rubbed his chin, nodding just enough to be encouraging. “We still have the social issue to contend with.”

  “You’re not seriously considering this hare-brained scheme?” Ibsa asked.

  “It’s the best plan we’ve had so far. And with Retar’s support–”

  “Retar knows nothing about human nature.”

  Jora gaped at the dominee.

  “I’ve made mistakes,” Retar admitted, “but you must agree that not all the mistakes that were made in this situation were my own.”

  “Tsh,” Ibsa hissed. She made a twisting motion with her hand as if she were turning a key in a lock, and the bird fell silent.

  “I think we should try it,” Yaphet said. “If we don’t, we’ll always wonder.”

  “Your Majesty, a word?” Ibsa said. It was more a demand than a question. When the king hesitated, she took his arm in a vicious claw and pulled him aside. “Or shall I tell them about Jakub?” she whispered fiercely.

  “I’ve heard that name before,” Rivva mused.

  Jora’s first thought was that the king had fathered a son out of wedlock. If the dominee was using this son—or whoever he was—to manipulate the king into complying with her demands, then now was as good a time as any for the king to make his way out from under her thumb.

  Jora and the others watched the dominee and king argue in strained but hushed voices. Ibsa clearly had more interest in continuing the war than Yaphet did, though she hadn’t made a good argument for why war was better for Serocia than peace. Jora supposed she could guess. Without a war, fewer people would visit the Justice Bureau’s Observation Request Room to find out how their loved ones fared, and fewer still would visit the god vessels in the First Holy Redeemer House of Prayer to beg Retar’s mercy and guidance. Without that income, coffers would empty, jewels would have to be sold.

  The two fell silent and Yaphet returned to Rivva’s side, his face drooping. Defeated. All eyes were upon him. Jora felt her heart breaking, not only for this man who was obviously under some duress, but for herself and her friends if the king continued to see them as his enemies.

  “I’ve decided,” Yaphet said, taking Rivva’s hands, “this simply isn’t in Serocia’s best interests.”

  “Papa, please,” Rivva said, her voice pleading. “You’ve suffered the loss of two sons to this war as so many of our citizens have. Our enemies won’t end it. We must be the more magnanimous here, put aside our avarice, and try—for the good of our people.”

  Yaphet made a sharp hand gesture. “No, I said. Now leave the matter alone. The decision is mine.”

  “Then why do you confer with her?” Rivva asked, pointing at Dominee Ibsa. “I’m your heir. Shouldn’t I be included? Shouldn’t I have some say in this? I’ll have to contend with this matter and your decision during my reign.”

  The king looked at his daughter with bloodshot eyes, as if the words he were about to speak truly pained him. “I’ve sought and relied on the dominee’s council since before you were born. I’m sorry you disagree with my decision. You’re young yet. You’ll understand in time.”

  “Your Majesty,” Jora said softly, “if ever there was a way out of this, out from under whatever coercion has you in a bind, this is it.”

  “How dare you?” Dominee Ibsa snapped. “There’s no coercion here.”

  Jora went on as if the dominee hadn’t spoken. “You have the support of Retar, the Gatekeeper, the Colossus warriors, and your daughter.” She remembered Retars words. If he can control you, he can use you as a weapon. Perhaps she was his weapon after all—not against Barad Selegal, but against his true enemy, the dominee. “No matter what you might have done in the past that has you under this woman’s thumb, we can pull you out. Just give us your hand.”

  “Yaphet,” the dominee said, her tone like a warning. “Don’t listen to her. Remember what I said.”

  His eyes looked round and soft like those on a cow being led by a nose ring. His forehead wrinkled, even his ears seemed to flatten against his head. His gaze went from Jora to the dominee to Rivva and bac
k to Jora.

  “Give us your hand,” Jora whispered. She offered her hand, palm up, for his.

  “Shoot her,” Ibsa said to Milad. “Shoot her now.” But the justice captain was as entranced by the unfolding scene as the Legion captain was.

  King Yaphet trembled. He seemed a man on the verge of breaking. At last, he took in a deep breath and straightened, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin as if he was filled with a new confidence. “Yes, I say. Let’s do it. Let’s end this bloody, hellish war, or at least try our damnedest. I owe our people that.”

  “No!” Ibsa screeched. She lunged for the crossbow in Justice Captain Milad’s hands.

  Chapter 31

  Ibsa lifted the crossbow, leveling it at Jora.

  Jora raised her hands as if doing so could stop the bolt from piercing her chest. She hummed the notes Po Teng had taught her. Everyone’s movements slowed but hers.

  Korlan lunged unnaturally slowly at the dominee, his hands reaching for the weapon in her hands.

  She dove to her left, out of the bolt’s path, sailing through the air and landed hard on her belly. She skidded across the floor on her burned forearms and sucked in her breath at the pain.

  Milad gritted his teeth and pulled his sword in a slow, fluid motion, his furious gaze on Korlan. He swung it in an upward arc across Korlan’s path.

  Grunts and hissed breaths lasted seconds. The splatter of blood droplets striking flesh was peculiarly loud. She heard the long clack of the crossbow trigger, the shoop of the bolt launching forth, and the whisper of it slicing through the air.

  The Legion captain and Ludo drew swords. Ludo elbowed him in the face, then swung his blade in time to sever the captain’s sword hand. The Legion sword fell to the carpet with a thud.

  Arc spun his poleaxe, leveled the sharp tip at Milad, and thrust forward. The blade pierced the man’s chest. Blood spattered in all directions and bubbled out his nose and mouth.

  Korlan sank to his knees and raised his hands to his neck. Blood seeped between his fingers.

  Before she’d even stopped her skid, Jora scrambled to her feet and went to him. She unrolled the bandages from her arms and wrapped them around her hand to make a compress. When she pulled Korlan’s hands away from the wound, blood spurted out in an arc so slowly that she had time to duck out of its path. She pressed the dressing to the cut, then put Korlan’s hands over it to hold it in place.

  She turned to assess the rest of the room. Blood gushed everywhere, covering so many of them that it was hard to know who was injured and who was not.

  King Yaphet hollered, “Stop,” the word stretching across time. He lunged at where Jora had been only a second earlier. She realized he meant to push her out of the way.

  “No!” Rivva yelled. The parrot squawked and took flight, its pinioned wing feathers giving him an awkward trajectory.

  Jora saw the bolt sail through the air toward King Yaphet. She leapt for it, tried to pluck it out of the air, but time returned to its normal pace, Po Teng’s borrowed speed expired.

  The bolt struck the king’s chest, and he fell to the floor. Blood soaked his tunic and jacket.

  Jora wasn’t sure whether everyone suddenly quieted or she stopped hearing them. She fell to her knees beside the king, joined there by the princess. “Someone call for a medic.”

  King Yaphet lay on his back, his eyes glassy and lips wet with blood. His hands covered the crossbow bolt that pierced his chest. It was right of center, not likely to have hit his heart.

  “Papa, why?” Rivva cried. She slid one hand under his head and covered his bloody hands with her other. “Why did you do that?”

  “Had… to… save… her,” he whispered. “Like… prince…” His eyes started to close.

  “Prince?” Rivva asked. “Papa, what prince?”

  Yaphet didn’t answer but to groan.

  Jora called for the fiery raccoon ally. A few people gasped when it appeared. Its heat was intense, and its flames crackled in the air. “Lower your heat, Foul.”

  “What are you doing?” Rivva asked.

  “We can’t leave the bolt there,” Jora said. “He can’t survive with it in his chest. We have to pull it out.”

  “Do that,” Ibsa said in an accusatory tone, “and you will kill him.”

  “Sear the wound,” Arc said. “That is good.”

  “Yes, all right,” Rivva said. Tears streamed from her face. “Papa, we must do this. We must do it to save you.” She moved his hands aside, revealing the black crossbow bolt buried in his chest. Only the fletching was visible above the cloth of his jacket.

  “Ready?” Jora asked.

  The king gave a small nod. Jora grasped the end of the bolt and pulled. He cried out. Blood bubbled up from the wound. “A claw here, Foul.”

  Foul inserted his claw into the bloody hole. The flesh sizzled, and an acrid smelling smoke rose from the wound. Yaphet squeezed his eyes shut and groaned in pain.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jora whispered. “That’s enough, Foul.” The ally withdrew its claw and shuffled back. Jora was no medic, but she didn’t see any new blood filling the hole.

  Arc was holding Dominee Ibsa by one arm, while Ludo tended Korlan. Milad was on his knees, hunched over and gasping for air. The now one-handed Legion captain was dead.

  King Yaphet pawed at the silver cuff around his left forearm. “Off.”

  Rivva reached for it as if to do as her father bade her.

  “No,” Dominee Ibsa cried. “Do not take it off, or you’ll risk exposing Serocia to its enemies.”

  “She’s right,” Jora said. Removing it before his body was on the pyre would give any Truth Sayer leave to explore Yaphet’s past and learn Serocia’s secrets. As curious as she was, there was something so final about that one action. He knew he was going to die and wanted her to see something. Jora opened the Mindstream and summoned Po Teng.

  “Find… the… crucible,” King Yaphet whispered, his bleary gaze directed at her.

  “What crucible?” Rivva asked.

  “Statuize him,” Jora told her ally. “Statuize all the wounded. That’ll keep them alive until a medic arrives.”

  Yaphet’s eyelids drooped, half-closing, and he expelled one last breath before his chest stilled and his body hardened to white stone.

  All in the room breathed a collective sigh of relief. They had time to save the king. She looked down at the statue of King Yaphet. “Has someone sent for a medic?”

  “I did,” Ludo said, “though I wot nie if the soldiers hath heeded my call.”

  “What is the crucible?” Rivva asked.

  The bird let out a cry that sounded like a plea for help to Jora’s ear and squeezed her heart.

  “The crucible contains the godheart,” Ibsa said.

  “Godheart?” Jora asked. Was it the source of the power Dominee Ibsa had over the god?

  “Only the Concord can handle the godheart,” Arc said.

  “The Concord is charged with keeping and protecting the godheart,” Ibsa said, “and I am the Concord.”

  The Concord. Jora remembered reading a mention of it in the book of tones. Poor Retar. I’ll help you if I can, but you need to tell me more.

  The bird only watched quietly.

  “Your trickery won’t go unpunished,” Ibsa said. “The only reason the king took the bolt meant for you is because you’re a conniving little wretch.”

  Jora heaved a sigh. The last thing she wanted was to hear that woman bark and gnash her teeth. “Sleep her,” she told Po Teng.

  With one touch of his twig finger, Ibsa fell into a deep slumber. Arc caught her flaccid body as it crumpled and guided her gently to the floor.

  “Portwatcher,” Ludo said, waving her over. “Come hither.”

  She crawled to Korlan’s statued body. Even in stone, he looked on the verge of death, his eyelids half closed, his cheeks sunken. An ache burned in her chest. “The medic can save him.”

  “Nay,” Ludo said, kneeling by Korlan’s head.
“’Tis too late for him. His wund is grievous. None cou’d survive this. Thou mustest let him go.”

  In her heart, Jora knew he was right, but she didn’t want to release him knowing he would die if she did. She looked up at Po Teng. “He’s your friend, too. Tell me what to do.”

  Po Teng’s sad, brown eyes glistened. “Too lay-tuh. Flengz.”

  Jora nodded and reached to take the ally’s twig hand. “Yes. Friends. Always.” She let go of Po Teng and, in a quiet voice, instructed him to release Korlan.

  The stone softened to skin and cloth. The bandage against his neck was soaked with blood, its red ghastly against the pallor of his skin. Jora took his hand, sticky with blood, in hers. He had no strength to grasp it, and it lay limply in hers. She felt and saw his body tremble. His time was short now.

  “Take… me,” Korlan whispered.

  The parrot fluttered to her shoulder and gazed down at him with its head cocked. Korlan looked at the bird, and a tear slipped from his eye.

  “Kaw-leng, le-meh-pah,” Po Teng said.

  Then Jora understood what Korlan wanted—to give the last of himself to her, to spend the rest of his existence in her service. She pulled the silver band from his wrist. “Hold onto who you are,” she said, her throat thick with emotion. “Remember.” In the Mindstream, she jumped to his thread to Observe him as he exhaled his last breath.

  His body turned to dust and vanished.

  The room fell silent. Ludo patted the carpet where Korlan had been lying and muttered an oath.

  Jora looked at her hand, now empty but flecked with his blood.

  “He… vanished,” Rivva said, her voice soft with awe.

  “He’s in the other realm of perception now,” Jora said softly. “Relived men go there when someone Observes them at the moment of their death.” She offered her hand to the parrot on her shoulder, and it stepped up. “Retar, did you know this would happen?”

  “It’s happened several dozen times since I’ve become what I am,” he said in the parrot’s voice. “Mostly by accident. I’ve never seen a man as worried about the so-called monsters as Korlan was actually ask to become one of them. That’s dedication.”