The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  “I must warn Ardor Benn of our suspicions immediately,” the old man answered. “He is to meet with the king and be presented to the public tomorrow. We always knew Pethredote was powerful, but he may be far more dangerous than we initially suspected.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Lyndel. “A man of his position would likely do anything to keep a secret so large. This is growing risky.”

  “It was always risky, Lyndel,” said Halavend. “We’ve been walking a dangerous road from the moment you first approached me in the Char.”

  “But I fear you have taken additional risks,” she said. “The Prime Isle was already suspicious of you since you went to him with our findings about Moonsickness. Then you visited his brother’s widow …”

  “It was necessary,” answered Halavend. “To find out what we just learned.”

  “I know.” Lyndel nodded. “But you must be prepared to defend yourself.”

  Halavend laughed bitterly. “I’m not going to carry a Singler in the Mooring, if that’s what you’re implying!”

  Lyndel reached down and drew a dagger from a sheath in her tall boot. She stood up slowly, holding the weapon out to Halavend.

  “You must be joking!” he cried. The last time he had carried a knife, he had been searching for Ardor Benn. It had hardly made him threatening. He was an old man. He’d survived this long without needing to use a weapon.

  “This is a Trothian Assassin Blade,” Lyndel said. “I insist you take it.”

  Assassin Blade? What was Lyndel, a priestess, doing with that? Then again, he understood so little of her religion. Something unholy for a Wayfarist Isle wasn’t necessarily unholy for an Agrodite priestess. But still, an Assassin Blade?

  “The pommel can be removed.” Lyndel unscrewed the little ball to demonstrate. “Grit is funneled inside and tamped into a groove at the center of the blade. The blade itself is composed of two separate pieces.” She replaced the pommel and turned the dagger over. Where one side of the blade appeared to be tempered steel, the other looked like dark stone.

  “Slagstone,” she explained. “When thrust into an object, the two halves of the blade grate together, throwing a spark into the loaded groove. The Grit will detonate, making the attack very powerful.”

  Halavend held up his hands. “A barbarous piece of weaponry, to be sure. And one I cannot willingly accept.”

  Lyndel took a step closer, lowering the dagger. “I fear for you, Halavend. Each time I crawl through that tunnel, I wonder if I will find you murdered. You live under the Prime Isle’s gaze. I have always worried he would uncover our meetings. Then I worried he would find out about your association with the ruse artist. Now this. Your Prime Isle is a dangerous man. He has killed before—maybe not with his own hand, but you yourself have uncovered a trail of bodies that lead back to him.”

  Clutching the two-toned blade gently, she extended the hilt to Halavend once more. “Take it. Or I shall leave it here anyway, and you can explain to the next Isle how a Trothian Assassin Blade came to be in this cove.”

  Relentless. Both in her pursuit of the truth, and in her insistence that Halavend arm himself. Lyndel was a rare ally in an age when the king and the very head of the Islehood were tainted with corruption. And Lyndel was all he had now that Isless Malla was dead.

  Halavend reached out, his pale old fingers curling around the handle of the dagger. “It won’t come to violence,” he whispered.

  “But if it does,” replied Lyndel, “at least you will be ready.”

  The weapon felt heavy in his hand. Unnecessary. Who would come for him, Prime Isle Chauster? King Pethredote, himself? Ha!

  No, he thought. They will send someone. A bandit in the street. A collapsing archway as he passed under. Poison in his cup.

  Halavend tightened his grip on the blade.

  Truly, nothing is grander than the dragons on these slopes. It is hard to believe that anything could threaten the existence of such powerful creatures.

  CHAPTER

  16

  King Pethredote was dirty. Just when Ard felt like he’d met someone worth respecting, Isle Halavend had to go and spoil it. See, this was why Ard had given up believing in heroes. Any time he’d met one, the rug got swept out from under Ard’s feet and he realized that the person he’d looked up to was a massive disappointment.

  Ardor Benn followed his Reggie escorts through the palace, silently trying to remember the route to the throne room so he could report it to Quarrah.

  Isle Halavend had quickly informed Ard of his findings that same morning. Ard had stopped by the Mooring on his way to the palace for the public presentation. Halavend had spelled out some pretty serious accusations against Prime Isle Chauster, too. The whole conversation left Ard’s head spinning. He figured it would be for a while. Until he could fully wrap his mind around all the terrible things Isle Halavend had stated.

  Since that revelation, Ardor had felt the meaning of his given name ignite like a detonation of Grit in his chest. Today’s conversation with King Pethredote would be very different from the one on Avedon Street two weeks ago. Today, Ardor Benn was going after the king with all the zeal he had. He needed verification of Halavend’s accusations. Ard needed to know for himself what kind of man Dietrik Pethredote was.

  Ard made sure his personal quest for answers wouldn’t jeopardize what the team had planned. Today’s public announcement was about to make Dale Hizror’s popularity explode. And if everything went smoothly, by noon, Tarnath Aimes would head back to Panes with all the information he needed to create a foolproof replica of the Royal Regalia.

  The palace Reggies guided Ard to a tall set of double doors, seizing the iron handles and pulling them open. A servant stood inside the throne room, welcoming Ard with a subtle bow. “His Majesty is on his way up now. He will join you shortly.”

  Ard thanked the servant, careful to use Dale’s slightly altered voice.

  The throne room was a triangular shape, angling away from where Ard had entered. Along the far wall was a wide archway leading outside, heavy doors propped open. Curtains were drawn across the threshold, but daylight filtered through. Beyond, Ard knew, was the high balcony above the palace steps from which the king often made his public addresses. Ard could hear voices from the throng of citizens below, already gathering to hear the speech.

  The actual throne was impossible to overlook, positioned in the center of the room. Ard had heard about it since childhood, but seeing it in person was more magnificent than any description.

  It stood more than eight feet off the floor, a stone chair with a high back. But the height was not due to a raised pedestal or dais. The throne itself had been mounted directly atop a gigantic skull.

  The skull of Grotenisk the Destroyer.

  The creature’s teeth were nearly as tall as Ard, and the skull was the length of three men. To further the magnificence of the king’s throne, a blazing fire had been lit in Grotenisk’s empty skull. The vacant eyeholes were aglow with a golden fury, and flames lapped through the teeth, curling up toward the arms of the throne. Two large chimney pipes vented smoke out the back, rising like twin pillars behind the stone chair.

  It was more than a throne. It was a display. The skull was impressive. But Ard had seen the real thing on Pekal. And it was far more terrifying when the skull was attached to an enormous body, covered in scales, and breathing fire.

  The living dragons Ard had seen weren’t bulls, of course. Those had died out long before his time as a Harvester.

  The Bull Dragon Patriarchy had always seemed like a rather fragile arrangement. It was probably great for the dragons in charge, but not the most considerate social structure for assuring the longevity of a species.

  Three bull dragons.

  Throughout history, there had never been more than three bull dragons living on Pekal at any given time. It was a statistic that could easily be maintained, since the gender of the hatchling could be determined by the color of the gelatinous egg. The bulls could fertili
ze as many white female eggs as they wanted. But the fertilization of an amber egg, which would lead to a male hatchling, would only occur when there was a vacancy in the Bull Dragon Patriarchy.

  Ard stepped forward, feeling the warmth of Grotenisk’s fire. According to the history books, this dragon had been a bull, not yet grown to maturity. With his death, one of the two remaining bulls on Pekal would have fertilized a male egg to keep the Patriarchy in balance.

  But that was hundreds of years ago. Today, the Bull Dragon Patriarchy was gone, the trio of male dragons dead within a week. Wiped from the island so quickly that none of them had a chance to fertilize a new golden egg. And if Halavend’s new findings were correct, then King Pethredote had been the cause of it.

  Ard turned his attention away from the centerpiece. The throne was intimidating. Some might even find it terrifying. Not a very practical place to sit, though. Unless the aim was to cook a royal backside.

  The walls of the room were pocked with half-circle alcoves set into the stone. They housed a variety of treasures, each gated with an iron grid and heavy lock. The throne room was an exhibit hall, Ard realized, stepping closer to examine the valuables.

  The nearest was a spear with a rusted steel head. The craftsmanship was nothing extraordinary, and Ard would have dismissed it quickly if it weren’t for the ceramic plaque mounted beside the alcove.

  —YEAR 986—

  THE SPEAR OF KING KERITH

  WITH WHICH HE SMOTE GROTENISK

  A FINAL BLOW

  Ard took a few steps forward, aware of the watchful eyes of the Regulators by the door.

  The next exhibit seemed to be little more than a scrap of petrified wood, about shoulder height, a few corroded metal bands wrapping around its length. The plaque labeled it as a piece of the mast from the First Voyagers, who were supposedly the ancestors of all Landers. It was a nice sentiment, but Ard didn’t believe for a moment that the wood was genuine.

  Ard hoped the Reggies didn’t see him scoff. If the alcove’s claim was true, this piece of wood was over 1,200 years old. More likely it was a common piece of driftwood masquerading as a valuable relic. Ard grinned. It would seem that he and the driftwood had quite a lot in common.

  Rumor had it that the Royal Regalia was usually stored somewhere in the throne room. It wouldn’t be here today, of course. Ard was counting on the king to be wearing it.

  He briefly scanned the other alcoves. A jeweled sword, a dragon tusk, an empty Grit pot. Each display held some significance to the monarchies of the Greater Chain. Predominantly the monarchy of Espar, dating back to a time before the islands were unified under one kingship.

  “We keep the fire burning at all times.” A voice caused Ard to whirl around.

  King Pethredote was standing in the doorway. He looked much more regal with the extravagant Royal Regalia draping his frame.

  A large fragment of dragon shell spanned the king’s forehead like a crown, rising at least ten inches to a jagged point. A few other shell pieces wrapped around the back of his head, fastened together with metal rings that passed through drilled holes. How their ancestors had managed to drill through the shell was truly an impressive feat of craftsmanship.

  The coat was constructed in similar manner, though the shell fragments were even larger. A good thing, too, since Ard was counting on them to survive the intense digestive acids of a dragon.

  The coat itself hung past Pethredote’s knees, hugging firmly around his stout middle. His shoulders were capped with more fragments, and pieces hung down his arms to the elbow. Unlike the white counterfeit shard from Halavend, the shell of the Royal Regalia was an amber gold. There was a polished shimmer to it, the way sunlight sparkled on tinted glass.

  Ard knew he should drop to one knee in a humble bow. It was the proper thing to do when one found himself in the same room as the king. But today, he couldn’t muster it. Today, the man before him was not worthy of Ard’s respect.

  The king gestured to the burning throne. “My servants always keep the fire going as a symbol. The dragon burned our city. Now we burn the dragon.”

  “I’m familiar with the throne’s significance,” Ard replied. “And I presume it keeps you plenty warm during the winter cycles.”

  “Ah, my boy. A sense of humor!” King Pethredote smiled. “A well-placed detonation of Cold Grit makes it a pleasant seat, even in the heat of summer.”

  A strange sound drew Ard’s attention across the throne room. It was a snapping croak, like the noise of a giant toad.

  “Ah, Millguin!” Pethredote shouted, moving toward the source of the sound. “Shush!”

  Ard followed King Pethredote around the fiery throne as he approached one of the gated alcoves that Ard had overlooked. It was a small habitat, set behind tight metal bars. A stout tree limb was canted across the alcove, and perched upon it was a lizard.

  The creature was nearly the length of Ard’s arm, tail draped casually off the side of its perch. Its leathery skin was a muddy green, wrinkled like a discarded parchment. A fleshy beard dangled from its jaws, and large dark eyes flicked back and forth without the slightest movement of the head.

  Pethredote unlatched the gate and reached into the habitat as Ard read the ceramic plaque beside the alcove.

  MILLGUIN

  KARVAN LIZARD—PEKAL

  Pethredote stepped back, the lizard clinging on to the king’s arm. Its sharp claws raked against the shell of the regalia as it settled upon Pethredote’s shoulder.

  “A baby dragon?” Ard tried to tint his voice with just the right amount of shock and awe. It was a ridiculous statement. Ard had encountered plenty of Karvan lizards on Pekal during his time as a Harvester. But Dale Hizror wouldn’t know much of the creatures.

  “Homeland, no!” Pethredote chuckled, reaching up to stroke the lizard’s beard. “Millguin is a Karvan lizard. Fully grown. Docile. She feeds on leaves and crickets. Nothing so ferocious as a dragon. The only thing they have in common is habitat. Both dragons and Karvan lizards are indigenous to Pekal. But these little fellows do a bit better in captivity.”

  Ard stepped closer, pretending to be curious. “It’s a pet, then?”

  “A gift,” Pethredote replied. “I’ve grown very fond of Millguin. She sits upon my shoulder when I’m found pacing the corridors on sleepless nights.”

  Sleepless nights. Ard didn’t have to think hard about what might cause Pethredote an uneasy conscience. Time to find out for sure about Halavend’s accusations.

  “A gift, you said?” Ard pressed.

  Pethredote nodded. “They say the lizards can live a century. Prime Isle Chauster gave me this one, some thirty years ago.”

  “Of course,” said Ard. “He must have meant it as a symbol of your dominance over the Bull Dragon Patriarchy.”

  Oh, flames! Was he really going down this road so openly? Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut and do the job? He liked to pretend that he didn’t care, but when it came to looking someone in the eye who he thought was lying, Ardor felt a burning zeal to flush him out.

  The king went absolutely rigid, his blue eyes piercing Ard. Those eyes were changing. Ard saw them transition from sociable and generous, to downright malevolent. Ard was in deep water now. Nothing to do but swim with the current.

  “It’s all right,” Ard assured. “I know about what happened. The Turroc root and Stigsam resin.”

  “I don’t know what you’re saying.” The king’s voice was barely audible.

  “I knew Glipp Chauster,” Ard lied, using information he’d picked up from Halavend that morning. “He told me about the dragon poison.”

  The king suddenly clapped his hands for the Regulators at the doorway. Ard felt his stomach sink. He had overstepped the line, and now Pethredote would have him dragged away in chains. Instead of a celebrity, he would become a spectacle.

  “Give us the room,” Pethredote ordered, causing the Regulators to step out of the doorway without hesitation. The moment the double doors closed, the k
ing whirled around to face Ard. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”

  “I’m accusing you of protecting the Greater Chain against an inevitable attack,” Ard said. “We rely too heavily upon those creatures. Over the last century, we have pressed harder, invading their territory. Testing more indigestibles for new, undiscovered Grit. We even cart away their dead so we can use bits of the carcasses.”

  Ard pointed at the king’s burning throne. “If Grotenisk did as much damage as the historians say, imagine what a swarm of dragons could do if they grow tired of mankind’s poking and prodding. Your Highness, there are many people who feel as I do on this matter.”

  King Pethredote was studying Ard. On his shoulder, Millguin mimicked his unblinking gaze.

  Ard’s reasoning was weak. Never in the history of the Greater Chain had a dragon flown out of Pekal. Isle Halavend believed that Pethredote poisoned the dragons to eliminate fertilized shell and solidify his place as the final summoner of a Paladin Visitant. But that angle was too blatant to use in conversation. And Ard needed to keep the king’s suspicions away from the shell of the Royal Regalia.

  Millguin croaked, breaking the long and awkward silence.

  “The citizens grow restless.” King Pethredote gestured through the curtained archway. His voice had turned cold and businesslike, a far cry from the tone he’d used as they shared a few drinks in Dale’s apartment.

  Pethredote returned Millguin to her alcove habitat, the lizard obediently moving down his arm onto the wooden perch. “We should begin the address,” muttered the king, closing and latching the gate.

  “Your secret is safe with me, of course,” Ard said. Why was he still pushing this? Wasn’t the look in the king’s eye enough to confirm Halavend’s suspicions? “With the extinction of the dragons, the safety of the Greater Chain will be assured for our future children and grandchildren. You have accomplished a brave deed, Your Highness, despite the need to perform it in secret.”