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

Call of the Colossus

Book two of The Mindstream Chronicles

by K.C. May

Call of the Colossus

Copyright 2014 by K.C. May

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Book 2 of The Mindstream Chronicles

Condemned murderer—and now Gatekeeper—Jora Lanseri is offered a chance at redemption in exchange for her silence. Driven to protect her only remaining brother, she must covertly investigate the dark and hidden forces smuggling the life-giving godfruit to Serocia’s enemies and perpetuating the long and bloody war.

Aided by the dolphin Sundancer, Jora discovers more long-forgotten secrets of the Spirit Stones—including the ability to call the Colossus, the ancient warrior statues positioned around the Legion headquarters. But the Colossus warriors had fought against the previous Gatekeeper in the war known as The Great Reckoning. Can Jora convince them to join her struggle for peace and justice, or will they side with her nemesis and use her brother against her?

The Mindstream Chronicles consist of

1. Song of the Sea Spirit
   
2. Call of the Colossus
   
3. Verse of the Vanquisher (coming 2015)
   

Cover art by Damon Za (www.damonza.com).
Map of Aerta: The Inner Sea Corridor by Jared Blando (www.theredepic.com)

“Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing ever happened.”
~ Winston Churchill

Chapter 1

“Guilty of treason,” said Justice Captain Milad, leader of the enforcers.

Guilty.

Guilty.

The words echoed through Jora Lanseri’s mind with every scuffling step she took down the dank corridor toward her doom. The shackles and fetters clanked, echoing against the cold, gray walls of the jail like a death knell.

“He was sentenced to death by hanging,” Milad said, his tone seasoned by the smirk on his face.

Her knees weakened, and she stumbled. The enforcers’ hands clamped harder around her upper arms and kept her from falling.
No. It isn’t fair.

With a whistle, Jora could have summoned an ally to free her, to turn her guards to stone or put them to sleep, but the gag in her mouth and the ancient, metal device they’d put on her head made calling for Po Teng impossible. Bound as she was, she couldn’t help herself, let alone help Korlan, her only remaining friend.

“Your own sentence will no doubt be worse,” Milad said. He led the way to the door at the end of the corridor, his shiny black boots clacking rhythmically on the gray stone floor like a metronome counting the seconds until the pronouncement. “Death by beheading is my guess.”

Jora wondered if that would be best. If she were beheaded, she would no longer be tortured by memories of what had happened in Kaild. The bloody murders of her family and friends and the smell of their burning corpses would no longer haunt her dreams. She’d thought many times in recent days that death would be a kindness.

“I’ll give my enforcers leave to fimble and behand you first. Might get me a reprimand, but for what you did to my men, it’ll be worth it.”

Since turning herself in, she’d been subject to rough handling by her jailers, but it was nothing compared to the agony of witnessing what those soldiers had done to the people of Kaild. Still, Jora’s insides shriveled at the thought of having her fingers broken and her hands cut off. They’d better cut her tongue out first, because without a hand, she would slip the shackle cuff and rip the device from her head. There would be no saving them then.

With the enforcers at her back, she shuffled up the uneven stone stairs of the jailhouse where she’d spent the last ten days. Or was it eleven? In the underground cell, she’d lost track. Sleep brought nightmares, and wakefulness was no better. She’d not eaten well in jail, not because the flavorless slop they fed her was insufficient. Thoughts of her family and her impending trial had chased hunger away.

At the top of the stairs, Milad opened the door to the jailhouse. Jora squeezed her eyes shut against the brilliant sunlight and bowed her head. Her sense of time had been so fouled that she’d expected to see a night sky. The smell of horses and the jingle of tack greeted her outside the prison. A couple of men in mail lifted her under the armpits into the waiting wagon. She stumbled to a bench and sat, and they affixed her fetters to an iron tab bolted to the floor. Milad sat across from her with a loaded crossbow on his lap, pointed at her, his steady brown eyes ever watchful. Apart from a scar on his chin, he had an unblemished face with a narrow jaw and untamed black eyebrows. His head was cleanly shaven like those of the enforcers under his command. Unlike the others, he wore no armor over the gray enforcers’ uniform.

Though she hadn’t been afforded the luxury of a mirror during her imprisonment, she had a little over two weeks’ growth of hair and could imagine the shadow atop her head. The benefit to having been kicked out of the Justice Bureau was not having to shave her head anymore, though if what the justice captain had said was true, soon she wouldn’t have a head left to shave anyway.

They started off, Jora and Milad both flanked by two enforcers in the wagon. Judging from their wary looks, they must have been terrified of her, and the thought made her sad. No one had been afraid of her before she’d joined the Justice Bureau. She didn’t want people to fear her. She just wanted to do what she’d sworn to do, what they’d made her swear to do—uphold the law, honor the truth, and see justice done.

People on the street stopped what they were doing to watch the prisoner being taken off to the Justice Bureau to face her crimes. Jora was sure they didn’t normally pay much attention to the prisoners on their way to judgment, but she was different, as evidenced by the surprised looks, the whispers, the pointing fingers, the fear in the eyes of the enforcers sitting opposite her. Did the citizens know what she’d done? Or did they only know that she was the Gatekeeper, the first in some five hundred years? Perhaps they didn’t even know that.

They’d taken away her robe, street clothes, and boots and given her primitive, wood-and-rope sandals and prisoners’ blacks to wear. Sewn to fit a man, the tunic was loose, the sleeves reaching to her knuckles, and the trousers, belted with a thin rope, had to be cuffed and belted about her ankles to keep from tripping her. Without the red robe, how would anyone guess she was the Gatekeeper? She was just a former member of the Order of Justice Officials, accused of some crime or perhaps gone mad and gagged to keep from shouting her delusions for all to hear.

Jora angled her face up into the sun, which felt warm and comforting on her skin. She hoped not to die on a day like this. If she had her choice, she would choose a dreary, rainy day so her executioners would share in her misery.

In front of the stately Justice Bureau, the team of horses halted. Two enforcers climbed down, ready to receive her from two others. Their hands were rough but respectful. No one tried to touch her where his hands would be unwelcome. Perhaps they didn’t want to incur her wrath should she somehow manage to free herself of the gag and kendern. With their hands clasping her upper arms, she ascended the many steps to the grand double entry doors, but it wasn’t the carved wood that drew her eye or the faint stain from Elder Sonnis’s blood that still marred the white steps.

It was the Spirit Stone.

How she longed to touch it once more, to feel its tone hum through her body and resonate with her soul.

She craned her neck to see it as as they passed it, and she was half-dragged, half-marched into the building. Inside, she closed her eyes, unable to stop the flow of tears down her cheeks. Without being able to feel the tones or speak to Sundancer, what was the point in living? Her friends were dead, about to be executed, or standing on the side of what they called justice within the Order. She had no family left but for one brother serving his time in the Legion.

With the kendern on her head, she couldn’t Observe him through the Mindstream to assure herself he was safe. Finn was probably going about his usual routine, oblivious to what had happened. He undoubtedly thought his wife and daughter were still alive in Kaild, awaiting his return. How could he know that his younger sister—his only sister now—was going to be tried for murder and sentenced to death?

Perhaps the kendern was a blessing. She didn’t want to witness the look on his face when he learned what had happened. She didn’t want to see the disgust and horror in his eyes when his commander spewed the lies the Legion would undoubtedly agree on to lay the blame across Jora’s shoulders.