Call of the Colossus: An epic fantasy novel (The Mindstream Chronicles Book 2) (23 page)

“Who’s there?” asked a male voice.

Challenger’s fists.
She looked around in search of a place to hide but saw none.

A tall form came around the corner and stopped. “Jora?”

“Korlan? What are you doing here?” Jora whispered.

“I would ask you the same thing. I’m on patrol.” He looked her up and down, taking in her street clothes and flute. “Going somewhere?”

She looked down at herself. There was no getting out of this gracefully. “Are you asking, or is Justice Captain Milad?”

“You know the answer to that. I’m trying to be the best friend to you that I can, given my circumstances—circumstances you created, mind you.”

“Do you have a key to the gate?”

“Yah.”

“Would you open it please?”

“You’re going to the docks at this hour?” he asked.

Of course he would think she was going to talk to Sundancer. “Why not? I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d see if Sundancer was about.”

“I’ll go with you. You’re not supposed to leave the premises without an escort anyway.”

She faked a yawn. “No, it’s all right. I’ll just go back to bed. I’m starting to feel sleep coming on now.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. The gate stays locked until sunrise.”

“All right. Goodnight.” She pretended to stifle another yawn and started back toward the dormitory.

“Goodnight,” he said.

When Jora was far enough away that he wouldn’t hear her, she opened the Mindstream and whistled the command, “
Open way betwixt.
” Then she called for Po Teng. “Korlan is over there by the gate,” she whispered to her ally when he appeared. “Go and sleep him.”

She watched the little tree man bob across the courtyard to where Korlan was tugging on the lock. The next moment, he collapsed in a heap. Jora hurried over and fished in his pockets. She found a key ring and withdrew it, then fiddled with a few keys before she found the one that unlocked the gate. “Sorry, Korlan,” she whispered, and slipped through the gate before pulling it quietly shut behind her.

She headed through the dark and quiet streets toward the Legion headquarters.

Chapter 14

Away from the Justice Bureau and dressed in street clothes, Jora didn’t bother to hide herself in the ’twixt. The streets were empty but for an occasional drunk sleeping in the alleys, who paid her no mind anyway. The night was cool, the air fresh, tickling Jora’s skin to goosebumps when a wind swept up from the strait. It whistled through the treetops and flapped the laundry someone had forgotten on a line on a nearby rooftop. The Legion headquarters were not far away. She’d glimpsed the building down the street as she passed on her way to the docks, though she never passed too near.

It was a tall building, perhaps three stories, made of black granite—an imposing structure in the daytime. On a moonless night, she imagined it might look like a hole in the city, a portal to a terrifying realm of nightmares. With the moonlight gleaming on its glassy surface, it wasn’t quite as menacing.

She crept along the length of the building, appraising the white statues spaced a few paces apart along its exterior walls. Each depicted a warrior in a battle pose, his body thick with muscle and clothed in leather clothing and mail tunics not unlike the modern day Legion. Their knee-high boots were fashioned with tabs fastened on the outside of the calf by makeshift leather buttons, which appealed to her as a leatherworker. Though dressed similarly, no two statues were identical. Each face was different, though all were taut with fury and bloodlust. So violent they were, and bigger than normal men. They were tall and broad, with forearms as big as her thighs, and she wondered whether the legend was false—that they weren’t real men trapped into stone by the hand of the Gatekeeper but simple statues chiseled by the hand of a sculptor. Perhaps when she released one of them, he would shrink to a more natural size.

She turned the corner and continued around the building, examining each statue, looking for the right one. With their weapons poised, most looked like they were on the verge of slaying their enemy. Jora didn’t want to be attacked before she had a chance to greet her potential champion. She walked around the side of the building to the rear. The stable, a couple dozen yards away, was quiet and dark.

One warrior caught her eye. Like the others, he was tall and broad, dressed in leather breeches and a mail tunic with sleeves that ended at his elbows. Clutched in his hand like a walking stick was a glaive, its butt on the ground and bladed end pointed toward the night sky. His face was hard and determined, his eyes directed ahead. This one would do. She would have a few seconds to explain herself and beg his help before she had to defend herself.

Jora whistled for Po Teng. “Be ready to turn this warrior into a statue if he tries to hurt me, all right?”

Po Teng nodded and moved into position behind the statue.

She swallowed hard and stepped up to the stone.
How
’
s this going to work?
She was supposed to touch it and play the command phrase at the same time, but she needed both hands to play the flute. She raised the left sleeve of her robe and pressed her elbow against the cool stone. Tentatively, she began to play.

“
Free from stone, let blood flow through.
”

A tingling warmth emanated from the statue. The sensation was so surprising that she flinched, breaking contact with the stone. She waited and watched, but nothing happened. Sundancer had said she needed to keep touching it until the phrase stopped. She’d played the entire twenty-four-note sequence, but nothing more was happening. She pressed her elbow against it again and noticed it had returned to its cold, hard state. She tried once more, this time, when the warmth began, she maintained her contact with it, even after the last note faded into silence.

A resonance within the stone matched the last note she played, not unlike that in the Spirit Stone every day, though not as intense. She felt it, but it didn’t sing through her bones like the daily tones did. The longer she kept contact with it, the warmer it grew, and softer, the stone’s surface feeling more and more like skin every moment. At last, the resonance dissipated, and the statue, now a man with bronzed skin and long, dark hair, took a deep breath.

Jora stepped away, gazing up at his chiseled face while his bluish-green eyes shifted to take in his surroundings before coming to rest on her. He hadn’t lost any of his height. In fact, he seemed even bigger now, if that was possible. She’d have guessed he was at least seven feet tall.

He flinched and looked about, as if now aware of his new surroundings. When his gaze fell on Po Teng, he dropped into a battle stance and leveled his weapon at the ally. “Beware thine afstand, foend.” His accent was so thick, Jora wasn’t sure he was even speaking her language.

“No,” she said, “don’t hurt him. He won’t hurt you.”

The warrior took his eyes from Po Teng just long enough to glance skeptically her way.

“He’s not a fiend. He’s my ally. My friend, as I hope you will be if you’ll lay down your weapon.”

“Hope is a beggare. Thy froend is a monstre.”

“No, he was a man, a soldier like you, but he was slain in the forest while under the influence of the god Retar’s magic. That’s why he looks this way.” She put a gentle hand on his weapon and pushed its point away from Po Teng. “He won’t hurt you unless I tell him to. He protects me.”

The warrior glared at Po Teng a moment longer before he lifted his glaive back into its resting position with its butt end on the ground and tip skyward. “I am dreaming? What place is this?”

“We’re in Serocia, in the city of Jolver.”

“Joliva? I agnize nie this structure nor the sculpteries. How long was I asleep?”

“What?” With his thick accent and strange way of speaking, she struggled to understand what he said.

“This is the night,” he said, waving his free hand across the deep blue dome of the nighttime sky. “How long was I asleep? Thou hast awaken’d me.” He spoke more slowly, enunciating his words as if he thought it would help.

“Oh,” she said, finally understanding. “You weren’t asleep.” She pointed to the statues down the row. “You were like them. A statue.”

The warrior’s eyes widened with horror. “Drusis? Scipio? Ludovicus!” He rushed to the third statue and touched its arm tenderly. “My bro’er.” He wheeled about and advanced on Jora, his weapon pointed at her throat. He froze like that, his skin, clothing, and weapon turning alabaster.

“Po Teng, it’s all right,” she said. “I don’t think he would kill me. He’s concerned, that’s all. Let him go.”

With one touch of the ally’s finger, the warrior returned to his flesh form. A dark fury stormed across his countenance. “What hast thou done to him?” he asked, displaying no sign that he sensed he’d been turned to stone and back again.

“I did nothing to him,” Jora said. “I released you from the same fate. I’m not your enemy.”

“Free him. Free my bro’er.”

“No,” she said. “I won’t free anyone else until I’m sure you won’t hurt me.”

The warrior glared down at her for a moment, their eyes locked, before slowly lowering his weapon. He towered above her, flexing hands so big that each one could wrap completely around her neck as easily as an adult could grasp a child’s wrist. Though she trembled with fright at his size and the strength of his bearing, she stood her ground.

“I shall nie harm thee, boy. Thou hast my word on it.”

“My name is Jora, and I’m a girl. A grown woman, actually.”

He looked her up and down with a grin. “A girl wythout har? A pate bald as a marble.”

Did he just make fun of my bald head?

“Thou speakest curious.”

“I’m not the one who speaks curiously.”

“Jora.” He said it slowly, as if rolling it around his mouth like a fine wine. “Thy name is as lovely as thine eyne.” He bowed. “I am hight Archesilaus Asellio.”

She tried saying his name and got tongue-tripped on the first try.

“Archesilaus. Asellio.”

It was a noble-sounding name, but the people of Serocia tended to have shorter, simpler names, and it felt as foreign on her tongue as it sounded to her ear. “Do you mind if I call you Arc?”

He said something else, but Jora shook her head with an apologetic smile, not understanding. “Sorry,” she said. “You’re going to have to learn to speak like I do.”

“There be naught amiss wyth the manner that I speak.”

“People might have spoken that way five hundred years ago, but not anymore.”

“Fif hundard yeres?” Arc’s thick brow drew down over his heavy-lidded eyes.

“Yes. That’s about how long you were a statue.”

“How can that be?”

“The history books say Cyprianus, the last Gatekeeper, did it.”

“Cyprianus of Labrygg. The portwatcher. We wert him hunting.” He looked at the row of statues along the wall. “This loketh as we were craven.”

“Craven? I don’t think so. That means cowardly.”

“Lafaard?” His eyes narrowed, and he loomed over her. “A Colossus from Joliva is nie a lafaard.”

She drew back. “I’m not saying you’re a lafaard, whatever that is, but our language has changed since you last spoke it. Craven doesn’t mean what you think it means. Not anymore. At your height, you’re going to stand out enough as it is. You should at least learn to talk like a modern person.”

“Lerne me, then.”

She smiled. “I’ll try my best. And you would say, ‘Teach me,‘ not ‘Lerne me.’”

Arc raised one eyebrow. “Teach me, then.”

“Much better.”

“How didst thou free me vom stone? Thou seyed ’twas a thing the portwatcher did.”

Jora swallowed. He hadn’t put it together yet, and if the Gatekeeper was his enemy, he might not take kindly to her answer. “I’m the Gatekeeper now, but don’t worry. I’m a Serocian. I’m loyal to the King of Serocia.”

He cocked his head and looked her up and down once more. “Thou art forsooth the portwatcher?”

She nearly giggled at his archaic speech. “I am, but we say Gatekeeper now, not portwatcher. It’s how I was able to set you free.”

“And thou livest in Joliva?”

“I do. The city is now named Jolver.”

“Then the war is over.”

“The Great Reckoning, yes,” she said, “though another war rages on.”

He considered her for a moment, perhaps weighing in his mind the idea of being allied to the Gatekeeper. “’Tis good to have the portwatcher wyth my side. Jora, free my bro’er anon, if thou wilt.”

“Not yet,” she said. “First, help me with something. Then I’ll free your brother and the rest of these warriors.”

“What help dost thou need o’me?”

The hour was late, and she needed to get back to the dormitory. “I’ll return tomorrow to explain everything. For now, I need you to wait here.” She pointed to the ground where he’d stood for so many years. “Would you mind?”

He shuffled to the place she indicated. “And do what?”

“Just wait.” She flicked her gaze to Po Teng. “Stop him.”

And with a touch of the ally’s twig-finger, Arc was a statue once again, though his position and pose were slightly different than before. If she was lucky, no one would notice the change.