Song of the Sea Spirit: An epic fantasy novel (The Mindstream Chronicles)

by May, K. C.

  Why was this woman helping her all of a sudden? Jora nodded. “All right. Thank you again.”

  As quickly, the light left her eyes, and she made a shooing gesture with her hand before returning to the papers on her desk.

  The next morning, after feeling the tone change in the Spirit Stone, Jora sat in the Observation Request Room, barely able to manage her own impatience. People stood in line for hours to get word from the novices about their loved ones serving in the Legion. Jora was able to give most of them the good news that their husbands and sons and fathers and brothers were alive, though a few were recovering from injuries sustained in battle.

  The first time she had to break the news to a seven-year-old girl that her papa had been slain, she felt ashamed for wanting to hurry through her duties here. The distress in those large blue eyes renewed the pain of witnessing her own brother’s death and the anguish her mother and father endured when she’d broken the news ten years earlier. She spent the rest of her shift fully in the moment, sympathizing with those who received the same tragic tidings and celebrating with those whose beloved soldier was still well.

  At last, when her shift was over and she was relieved by another novice, she checked in with Bastin to be sure there weren’t other tasks she needed to take care of before she focused on her own pursuits. As luck would have it, she was free for the next couple of hours—enough time to eat a hasty meal and hobble on sore feet to the temple.

  She was unprepared for the lavish extravagance that awaited her. The ten-foot-high doors were intricately carved with a scene depicting a pair of men, both clothed in what looked like a diaper, wrestling. Their faces were fierce and angry, their hands balled into fists or hooked into claws. It wasn’t how she wanted to imagine Retar, and so she darted inside, hoping the rest of the temple wasn’t decorated with such violence. To her relief, the murals on the wall at the altar depicted a large man with a benevolent face as he reached with a sparkling finger to touch the forehead of a sick child. A much better way to represent the Challenger, Retar, the last of the five demigods and the first to pledge fealty to the people rather than insist on the reverse.

  Four small chambers sat on each side of the altar, and a man in plush orange robes sat at a table on the dais between them. He looked up when Jora entered and greeted her with a smile and beckoning wave. Jora made her way to the table, her feet sinking into the soft orange carpet that ran the length of the temple.

  “Come, Novice,” the monk said. “You’re welcome here.”

  “I was told to ask for Dominee Ibsa,” Jora said in a quiet voice. Though the pews that filled the majority of the temple were empty, this was a place that commanded respect and reverence, not shouting.

  “Certainly. If you’ll wait one moment, I’ll see if she’s available.” The monk stood and exited through a door in the rear of the temple.

  After a few minutes, he returned, accompanied by a tall, slender woman with black hair that tumbled across her shoulders in luxurious curls, embellished with a dramatic gray streak in front. She was a striking woman in an orange robe not unlike those worn by members of the Order, though the jewels adorning her fingers and wrists spoke to her lack of modesty. As she neared, Jora saw that the dominee’s robe wasn’t simple cotton like her own or the monk’s. It was silk, a rare commodity in Serocia. The robe must have cost as much as the jewels had.

  “Good morning, Novice. Have you a message for me from the Justice Bureau?”

  “No, Dominee. My name’s Jora, and I’m new to the Order.” Realizing the dominee would be able to tell from the violet hue of her robe, she cleared her throat to hide her embarrassment. “I mean, newer than most. I’m interested in studying the tones that emanate from the Spirit Stones. I understand Elder Kassyl has a book that might help me, but I’m told he’s ill. No one will let me talk to him. I only wish to inquire about borrowing his book.”

  Ibsa nodded, smiling gently. Her face was wrinkled but her eyes were bright, almost as bright as the registrar’s had been the previous evening. “I believe I can help.” She sat elegantly at the monk’s table, pulled a small sheet of blank paper from a pile, uncorked the bottle of ink on the desk, and wrote something on the paper. “Hand this to one of Elder Kassyl’s adepts. If you aren’t taken to see him straight away, return to me.”

  Jora was tempted to look around her to see who was watching from the shadows, hands covering their mouths to keep from giggling at their prank. She took the offered note and read it.

  Admit Novice Jora to see Elder Kassyl privately.

  ~Dominee Ibsa, First Prelate to King Yaphet

  “Thank you, Dominee” she said, bowing. “Thank you so very much.” This was suspiciously easy. The dominee hadn’t asked for anything in return, nor proof of progress in her study, before giving Jora exactly what she’d requested.

  Ibsa inclined her head. “As the Challenger wishes.” She gestured to the chambers behind her with a sweeping arm gesture. “While you’re here, perhaps you would care to consult with a god vessel.”

  Jora swallowed. She’d heard of the creatures used by Retar to communicate with people who sought his guidance, but she’d never actually seen one.

  “I recommend the parrot in chamber four. His vocalizations are clear and easy to understand.”

  “Thank you,” she said, feeling pressure from both the dominee and the registrar to do this, to talk to the god. She stepped up onto the dais and shuffled across the polished wood to the chamber numbered four. She could see through the iron grating in the door that it was empty, and so she opened it and stepped in.

  The interior of the chamber, stained a dark brown, was only about three feet square with a bench on one side. A low wall topped with a decorative iron grating, not unlike that in the door, separated her from the other side.

  On the other side of the grating sat a squat gray parrot with short tail feathers and golden eyes. “Hello,” it said.

  “Um, hello,” she said. “Parrot.”

  “You may call me Retar,” the parrot replied.

  Jora stiffened. Had it really invited her to call it by the god’s name?

  “No need to be nervous,” the god vessel said. “I’m not such a bad fellow, once you get to know me.”

  God’s Challenger, she really was talking to Retar.

  “I see you took my suggestion,” he said.

  “Um, hello, Retar. I-I’m Jora.”

  “Yes, Jora. I know who you are. You’re unhappy with your lot, being forced to serve in the Justice Bureau as a member of the Order.”

  Despite the fact that the god was talking to her through a parrot, she heard a note of sadness in his voice. “You’re disappointed in me?”

  “Quite the contrary,” Retar said. “I hope you continue to pursue your current path. It seemed you needed some help, though. I was happy to oblige.”

  “That was you? The note, the tip to see Dominee Ibsa?”

  “Let’s keep that our secret, shall we? I’m not supposed to interfere with your freedom of choice. It’s one of the rules.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you, but why are you helping me?”

  “Oh, I rather enjoy the mysterious nature of being a god. I can’t reveal all my secrets, now can I?”

  Jora smiled. A god with a sense of humor. Who would’ve thought? “But Retar, why are you so sad?”

  For a moment, the bird didn’t respond. It ducked its head and preened its feathers, and then stretched first one wing, aided by a scaly foot, then the other while it watched her with those piercing, golden eyes. She wondered whether her session was over. Perhaps Retar didn’t like being questioned about himself.

  “Sorry,” she said, rising to leave. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “No one ever asks how I am,” Retar answered finally. “Everyone asks for knowledge or blessings or miracles, usually for themselves or their children. Thank you, Novice Jora, for caring.”

  Jora lowered herself back down, saddened by his revelation. “People care
about you. Perhaps they don’t think to ask because they assume that a god is always happy.”

  The bird sighed. “I’ve made mistakes, but I’d be a poor god if I burdened you with my problems, especially considering the path you’re on.”

  “W-What do you mean? Am I going to get into trouble for seeing Elder Kassyl?”

  “Not at all. I simply meant I wouldn’t want to dissuade you. You might be the only ally I have. Go now, Novice Jora. The mystery of the tones awaits.”

  She stood to leave. “Thank you, Retar. It was nice meeting you. I hope to talk with you again someday.”

  But the bird didn’t answer.

  Chapter 14

  When a whistle sounded three sharp, staccato notes, every soldier leaped to his feet, grabbed his armor and weapon, and ran to the east. Boden followed, putting his leather cuirass on as he ran. He looked around for Rasmus and found him a few steps behind.

  “Come on,” Rasmus said, sprinting to overtake Boden. “Can’t let the old cusses have all the fun.”

  Ras, wait, Boden wanted to say. Running headlong into battle without assessing the situation was the way to get killed, and Boden didn’t plan to die in his first battle. Imagine the sport Hadar would have with that, he thought.

  Something warned him to turn and run, to hide from the men who’d come to kill him. That something, he realized, was fear, a feeling he hadn’t had since he was a child. It shamed him to feel afraid, after all the training he’d had for this very thing, and shame kept his fear from overtaking his mind.

  He pushed his legs to keep churning, keep running, though the cold feeling in his blood made every step feel sluggish and heavy. Rasmus was gaining distance on him, and he knew that he would need to stay with his friend if he wanted to survive the next hour. All around him, the soldiers of company forty-four, dressed and armed for battle, ran through the ankle-high grass to the shore. He felt like a fawn running with the herd of older, wiser deer, hoping they would protect him from the wolves closing in.

  Korlan caught up to him. “I got your back, pal.”

  Relief replaced terror, and while he was still scared, it wasn’t the mind-numbing panic he’d experienced a moment ago. Just having a friend by his side gave him the courage to continue.

  When they reached the beach, Boden spotted two ships off the coast and ten smaller boats, loaded with men, rowing toward the beach. Behind the Serocian swordsmen, a wagon arrived with bows, arrows, and a vat of oil. The supply hands started handing the weapons down to the waiting archers.

  “Lay down two lines of oil in dry sand parallel to the water’s edge,” Staff Sergeant Krogh told the archers. “Don’t set it alight until the boats are ashore and their fighters charge.”

  “Mangendans,” someone shouted. Others repeated the warning.

  “Get into position,” the corporals shouted.

  Mangend, Boden recalled from his training, employed archers from distance, firing poison-tipped arrows onto the beach in advance of their swordsmen’s arrival. The best defense, aside from fleeing altogether, was to huddle together to form a shield wall. Boden crowded with the other men of his unit and took a knee, raising his shield overhead, its edges overlapping with the edges of the others around him. Inside the huddle, it was dark and warm. The sounds of heavy panting filled his ears, and the smells of sweat and fear and aggression assaulted his nose.

  “Cover,” someone shouted.

  Thudding and splintering wood followed. Something hit Boden’s shield and sliced along the underside of his forearm where he gripped it. He hissed in a breath but held the position. His shield was intact. A splinter of wood about an inch long was embedded under his skin. He pulled it out and adjusted his shield to block out the sunlight on the side. Another rain of arrows fell, thudding and splintering. A few men cried out. Holes in the shield wall created by fallen men were quickly filled in by men pressing closer together.

  “Hold for the third round,” Sergeant Keskinen shouted. “They’re almost ashore.”

  A third launch of arrows fell upon their shields. Two hit Boden’s shield, but neither sliced through.

  Boden met the eyes of his two closest friends. “Stay alert, brothers,” Boden said.

  “And you,” Korlan said. “See you on the other side.”

  “We’ve got this,” Rasmus said with fury in his eyes.

  “Light!” Krogh commanded. “Draw! Loose!”

  A rain of arrows flew overhead, most landing in the water in front of the boats. Shields went up all the same, covering the heads of those on the boats.

  “Ready swords!” came Keskinen’s command. Boden flexed his grip on his sword hilt and prepared to meet the wave of attacking soldiers. He mouthed a short prayer to Retar to help him stay alive.

  The boats landed and enemy soldiers stormed the shore with a rallying cry.

  “Now!” Krogh shouted. “Light the sand.”

  Archers fired arrows at the sand, lighting the oil. Two lines of fire raced across the beach, catching the storming forces off guard.

  “Attack!” Keskinen commanded. As one, the swordsmen rose and charged.

  Mangendans screamed and flailed, their clothing and hair ablaze. Their screams ended quickly on the ends of Serocian swords.

  Boden blocked one foe, parried another, and drove his sword through the belly of a third. At first he thought about every swing and step, but soon he realized that his movements weren’t all that different from the drills Gunnar had put them through. From that moment on, he let his training and habits guide his body. Around him, men grunted or cried out or cursed as blood sprayed them and soaked the sand and grass. Boden did his best to assist his fellows when they found themselves facing more than one opponent, and he turned at least twice to find a sword, about to cleave him in two, falling limply as his enemy fell to a comrade’s sword.

  The battle might have lasted four hours or ten minutes. Boden lost track of time. He fought with sword and shield, kicking when he had to or head-butting and elbowing his foes when the need arose. The second he finished one foe, he assessed the battlefield and ran to where Mangendans were heaviest and Serocians were weakest. He swung and blocked and sliced his way through Mangendans as if he were in a macabre dance. He dealt the killing blow more times than he could count, though counting wasn’t on his mind as much as surviving. He battled what seemed like dozens of men, all with the same angry eyes and snarling mouths. The warm spray of blood across his arms and face and neck felt like getting splattered by a pissing horse. It revolted him, but better their blood than his own.

  Ahead, Voster was battling two men, and he ran to help, reaching his tentmate as an enemy blade was poised to strike him down. Boden chopped down hard with his blade, severing the man’s hand at the mid-forearm. The hand, still gripping the sword, fell harmlessly to the sand as the enemy screamed, and Boden ended his life with a thrust through the torso. Voster shot him a grateful glance before turning to engage another.

  As the enemy numbers dwindled, Boden had to actively seek out someone to fight, sometimes running across the blood-soaked sand and leaping over fallen bodies to reach a fellow soldier battling exhaustion as well as a foe.

  Someone cried out, not a blood-curdling scream as he’d heard many times that day, but a desperate, anguished groan. Several yards away, a Mangendan brute was shouting something into Korlan’s grimacing face. The hilt of the brute’s sword was flush against Korlan’s torso. Kor, no! Boden reached them in a few long strides and plunged his blade into the enemy’s back. Korlan fell, the sword still buried in his body. The brute sank to his knees and then fell onto his face, dead.

  “Kor,” Boden said, dropping to his knees beside his friend.

  Korlan lay on his side, gripping the sword hilt loosely. “Pull... out.” He could only mouth the words around the blood bubbling out between his lips.

  Boden pushed Korlan’s hands away and gripped it with both hands. “Steel yourself, brother.” He pulled steadily but not too quickly, until the blade
was free.

  Groaning, Korlan closed his eyes. He coughed weakly, blood spraying, and he turned to lie on his back.

  Boden cast a glance about and saw the Mangendans were fleeing. The few skirmishes still ongoing were joined by Serocians who’d given up pursuit of the fleeing cowards. He turned his attention back to Korlan and unfastened his cuirass to see the wound. “You ate the godfruit,” he said, tearing open Korlan’s shirt. “You’ll make it. Hold on, brother.”

  On Korlan’s other side, Rasmus fell to his knees and picked up their injured friend’s hand, gripping it and curling the fingers around his own hand. “We’re here, Kor. You aren’t alone. We’ve got you.”

  Boden shrugged out of his own cuirass and pulled off his tunic, then wadded it up and covered the gaping wound in Korlan’s lower chest. “Medic!” he shouted, casting a desperate glance around. “Medic here.”

  A few feet away, the Mangendan brute who’d run Korlan through groaned and pushed himself up onto his elbows. He crawled toward the retreating boats.

  “What the hell?” Rasmus said.

  Korlan coughed. “I’ll be... all right,” he whispered, grimacing.

  I killed him, Boden thought. He was certain of it. Rasmus stood and plunged his sword into the brute’s upper back. The Mangendan collapsed back onto the grass, the sword standing upright in his body. Rasmus gave it a twist, pulled it out, and plunged it in once more. “He’s dead for sure now.”

  “Hang on, Kor,” Boden said, returning his attention to his friend. He pressed his shirt, already half-soaked with blood, harder into the wound. “You’ll be all right.”

  “Need... sleep.” Korlan closed his eyes.

  “No, Kor,” Boden said, lightly slapping Korlan’s cheek. “You’ve got to stay awake. Medic!” he shouted again.