Ard ducked as a far-flung scrap of debris sailed over the outer wall of the grounds. The Regulators were distressed, scattering for cover. Time to get inside and find Raek.
Ard vaulted the short stone wall, landing between two clusters of shrubs that had escaped the dragon’s first wave of fire. In the zoo of panicked Regulators, Ard’s presence was barely noticed, let alone questioned as he sprinted forward.
The horseback Regulator didn’t even see Ard until he was being pulled from the saddle. He cried out, striking the ground as Ard leapt onto the mount, digging his heels and riding hard for the palace steps.
The sow was delving deep into the palace now, her catastrophic intrusion compromising the integrity of every wall. Ard didn’t know where the Regulators had taken the fertilized egg, but if the dragon didn’t find it soon, the palace was going to crumble entirely.
Sparks! This was happening too fast. Ard hadn’t anticipated the dragon tearing through stone walls with such ease.
Ard spurred his horse up the palace steps and through the open door. Inside, one corridor had completely collapsed, and Ard could hear wailing from beyond the rubble. Another hallway shone with a blinding brightness. Something was on fire, and Ard guessed the flames had found a storage of Light Grit, the resulting blast flooding the passageway with startling brilliance.
Elbrig had given him directions to the dungeon, but the main passageway was blocked with rubble. He’d have to take the long way around. Good thing he’d stolen this horse.
With hooves hammering against the stone floor, Ard set off through the palace at a gallop. He passed several Reggies, but they paid him no more than a frightened glance as they sprinted for the exit.
A moment later, Ard had found the door that led to the palace dungeon. He leapt down from the saddle and drew his Roller, firing a ball directly into the keyhole.
Ard steadied the horse as the shot echoed down the hallway. At least there wasn’t a Reggie guard to contend with. Anyone with sense would have abandoned their post the moment the dragon slammed into the building.
Hastily, Ard holstered his gun and lashed the horse’s reins to a wall sconce. The door handle was jammed from the shot, but after a hard kick, it pulled open.
Moving into the dark stairwell, he drew a pot of Light Grit from his belt and pitched it forward, the cloud glowing on the bottom step. He raced down, turning the corner into the dank stench of the dungeon.
The cell doors were solid wood, with a thin viewing slat that slid open at eye level. The first two cells stood open and empty. It was too dark to see into the third. Taking another Light Grit pot from his belt, Ard smashed it against the door beside the viewing slat. The Light cloud shone through the gap, casting a flat ray like a sunrise over the horizon.
And there was Raek, lying on his side, facing the wall. A moldy blanket covered his broad shoulders, but his bare feet were exposed. That unmistakable bald head glinted in the light, but he didn’t so much as turn to see who was peering through the viewing slat.
Ard’s breath caught in his throat and an irresistible grin spread across his face. He hadn’t come to terms with Raek’s supposed death—not even close. But this was a sight Ardor Benn had never expected to see again.
“There’s a dragon literally tearing apart this building, and you’re down here catching a nap?” Ard spoke through the slat.
Raek’s still form rustled, his head raised. “Ard?” He turned, squinting at the door.
“I mean, I can come back later if this isn’t a good time.” Ard stepped back and examined the lock on the cell door. Quarrah would have had it silently sprung in moments, but Ard would have to resort to a more brute tactic. Not that anyone would notice, with the palace burning down.
“Sparks, Ard. Is that really you?” Raek’s voice sounded diluted, like he couldn’t muster the strength to speak with his usual tone.
“Stay back!” Ard shouted, sliding a pot of Blast Grit from his belt and pitching it at the lock. The Slagstone sparked, and the Grit exploded in a deafening bang. The mangled lock fell to the floor, smoldering, as the cell door swung inward.
Raek was standing, clutching that ratty blanket across his shoulders. His face looked broken and bruised, lips swollen and eyes blacked. His forehead glistened with sweat despite the coolness of the dungeon. But at the sight of Ardor Benn, Raek’s face broke into a crooked smile.
“You don’t look half bad for a dead man,” said Ard.
Raek stepped forward. He was just past the threshold of his cell when his legs gave out. Ard caught him, throwing one of the big man’s arms around his shoulder.
“But you don’t smell too pretty,” Ard said.
“It’s a new perfume I’m trying,” replied Raek. “They call it Rat Piss and Mildew. It’s not for everyone.”
“Well, I think you’re making it work.” Ard helped his injured friend across the dungeon. “What happened, Raek? I thought you were dead.”
“So did I,” he answered. “Last thing I remember was watching you escape out the balcony. Then I woke up to find a healer wrist-deep inside my chest.”
“Was she pretty?”
“Well, it was a guy. And no.”
“Health Grit?”
Raek nodded. “Compounded. I had a cloud burning inside me for over a week.”
“Sparks, Raek! That could have serious side effects!”
“It wasn’t like I asked them to do it,” he mumbled.
They had reached the bottom of the stairs and the Light cloud shone brightly. Raek leaned away from Ard for a moment, pulling aside his blanket to expose his bare chest.
Ard flinched at the sight of the wound. What the blazes had they done to him? Something was embedded in Raek’s muscular chest, just below his heart. It looked like a length of pipe, or a funnel. Scar tissue had formed around it, fusing the metal piece into his torso and leaving a hole that sank straight into his chest.
“Does it hurt?” Ard asked.
Raek grunted. “Can’t yet tell what really hurts. Right now I’d say everything does.”
“Well, at least they saved your life.” Ard helped Raek into the stairwell.
“Only saved it so they could torture me for information … about the Visitant Grit.”
“Did you crack?” Ard asked, stopping to readjust halfway up the stairs. “It’s okay if you did …”
Raek nodded. “The king demanded that I tell him everything. So I started at the very beginning. But I only got a year in. Pethredote didn’t seem to care about the time we caught that skunk and slipped it into old man Wilmfet’s carriage …”
“Yet another time you didn’t smell pretty.”
Raek smiled, but it looked painful on his damaged face. As good as it felt to speak with his friend, there was an undercurrent of anger flowing through Ard’s heart. King Pethredote would pay for this before the night was over. The dragon would find him and exact justice. Ard would make sure of that.
Far overhead, something rumbled like a peal of thunder that lasted too long. Raek glanced upward. “Is there really a dragon?”
“Just one,” Ard replied. “I called her over to help me break you out.”
“Oh, that’s nice.” Raek attempted a chuckle as Ard heaved him through the door at the top of the stairs. “Wait, are you serious?”
“There’s a blazing load to explain, Raek, but it’s going to have to wait. Just get on the horse.”
“Ha! There’s a horse.”
With considerable effort, Ard helped his friend into the saddle, Raek’s blanket finally slipping free and falling to the floor. Once he was situated, Ard handed him one of his Rollers.
“You remember how to use one of these?”
“Parry, thrust,” he said. “Got it.”
Ard unhitched the reins and passed them over. His friend’s hands, usually so careful and steady, were trembling. Up a nearby staircase to the second floor, Ard heard distant shouting. He could just make out the words. “To the king! Rally to the king!” Pet
hredote was somewhere up there, still struggling to escape.
“What about you?” Raek asked.
“That’s a strong horse, but she’s not meant for two riders,” he pointed out. “I’ll see you on the outside, Short Fuse.” Before Raek could say anything, Ard slapped the horse’s flank, sending it galloping down the dim corridor.
All right. That part of his plan had gone as well as could be expected. And seeing Raek alive had given Ard a fresh rush of determination. He was tingling now, buzzing with a drive to finish this.
Ard sprinted up the nearby stairwell to the second floor. He wasn’t eager to ascend more stairs in a building that seemed to be actively collapsing. Ard could hear the dragon somewhere above him, uncomfortably close now. Smashing, breaking, bellowing that bone-chilling cry.
The cries were more apparent here, and they led Ard forward.
“To the king! Homeland save the king!”
It was dark and hot on the second floor, the warmth of the dragon’s fire reaching him from above. Ard moved forward following voices down the corridor to a heap of broken timbers and shattered stone. The rubble choked the hallway, a dozen Regulators shouting commands and heaving aside any manageable pieces. All their effort seemed concentrated on one spot near the front of the pile, the uniformed workers shoulder to shoulder.
“He’s alive!” The shout seemed to redouble their efforts.
Ard drew cautiously nearer as the Reggies extracted the king. Pethredote was covered in dust, a matted bloody wound on his forehead.
Good, Ard thought, at least the old fool is conscious. His plan wouldn’t be nearly as dramatic if Pethredote couldn’t speak.
Ard wiped sweat from his face, sprinting forward and positioning himself to receive the injured king as the Regulators helped Pethredote down the rubble. In the frantic darkness, no one questioned the ruse artist’s presence. They would take him for a loyal civilian. But sparks! The Reggies were literally handing King Pethredote over.
The king, face downcast, slipped an arm around Ard’s neck, leaning heavily as they stepped away from the debris. With his free hand, Ard unclipped a pot of Barrier Grit from his belt as he sized up the situation.
There were three red-coat Regulators standing much too close.
A sharp twist sent the king tumbling to the floor behind Ard. A kick to the chest knocked the first Reggie backward. Ard’s Roller flashed from its holster. The second man went down with a shot to the knee. The third Regulator was drawing his gun when Ard’s lead ball tore through his hand.
Ard leapt backward, dragging the downed king by the lapels of his coat as he hurled the pot of Barrier Grit at the heap of rubble. The detonation filled the corridor, trapping some of the Reggies within, and the rest behind.
There was a tremendous thump, and the ceiling overhead groaned, dust falling like heavy snow, as a sudden heat washed over the hallway. Oh, flames! The dragon was right above them! What separated them from the frenzied mother dragon? A few floorboards and some timber joists? Those would never hold if she dropped her full weight upon them.
“Come on, you big load of slag.” Ard hoisted the injured king, dragging him down the hallway. Overhead, boards cracked and sparks rained. The ceiling was on fire now, fingers of flame scraping away at the integrity of the floorboards.
Ard stumbled at the upper landing of the stairs, falling to his knees beside the heavy king. “Do you know why she’s here?” Ard asked. The king’s eyes barely flickered open. He wasn’t faring well. The blazing king was supposed to die on Ard’s schedule! This just simply wouldn’t do.
Ard lifted the pot of Health Grit from the belt that Elbrig had given him outside the palace grounds. The disguise manager would be furious to know that Ard had wasted the detonation on the crooked king, but Pethredote needed to be lucid.
With a shattering of clay, the Grit ignited, catching king and ruse artist in a Health cloud. Ard felt instantly stronger, the ache of his leg injury vanishing. Pethredote took a deep breath, his blue eyes snapping open with renewed clarity.
“Have you finally come to kill me, Ardor Benn?” Pethredote’s voice was tired and raspy.
“Do you know why she’s here?” Ard asked again.
“You think the dragon has come to fetch that fraudulent egg,” answered the king.
“The egg is not counterfeit,” replied Ard.
“You and I both know that is impossible!” sputtered Pethredote. “No matter how real it may seem.”
“Did you touch it?”
“Of course I have examined it!” Pethredote rose onto one elbow.
“Good,” Ard answered. “I was counting on that.” He grinned. “Now your scent is all over that egg. You see, I’m not going to kill you, Pethredote. That’s what the sow is for.”
“Bah!” The king’s voice was growing stronger with every moment in the Health cloud. “You delivered that egg. Your scent is as condemning as my own.”
“You think I wouldn’t have thought of that?” Ard replied. He drew a metal flask from his belt. “Pichar oil—a fragrant extract from the needles of the Pichar boughs. Tracers use it to mask their scent on Pekal. Makes them blazing near invisible to the dragons.”
The king’s eyes fell upon the shiny flask.
The ceiling exploded. One of the dragon’s hind legs crashed through the weakened floorboards in a hail of ash and sparks. In the disorienting cloud of smoke and falling debris, long talons raked the floor beside Ard and the king. The leg began to flail, the desperate back-and-forth thrashing of a trapped animal.
There was a terrible crunching sound and Ard saw the exterior wall begin to slough away. Stones moved in a disorienting cascade as the crumbling palace came down. More of the dragon appeared, her blazing body smashing through the finest edifice man had built. Her tail swung like a mighty pendulum, tearing through stone as though it were parchment.
With a sudden surge of energy, the king lunged for the flask in Ard’s hand. The two men tumbled down the staircase, leaving the upper stories of the palace to utter ruin. Ard felt a sharp pain in his ribs as they rolled, both men trying to use the other to take the brunt of the fall.
They skidded to a halt in the grand entrance foyer. Ard rolled away from the king, reaching for his gun. The holster was empty, his hand clawing for a weapon that must have tumbled loose in the struggle.
In the exploded brightness of the Light Grit–flooded hallway, Ard saw the old king rise to his knees. The metal flask gleamed in Pethredote’s hand as he uncorked the opening.
Ard watched as the king doused his head with the contents of the flask, wincing as the fragrant liquid ran across his bleeding scalp. Ard wrinkled his nose at the smell, but the king seemed unfazed by its potency.
Pethredote rose slowly to his feet, gasping, grimacing, dripping. “Lost at your own game, Ardor Benn.” His speech was once again slurred with pain, eyes flicking upward to the cacophonous devastation of the sow dragon. “Looks like she’s coming for you after all.”
Pethredote staggered through the open doorway and onto the exterior steps. Ard crawled forward as the palace seemed to cry out. He saw one of the foyer walls shift suddenly. There was a lot of weight crashing down on the upper stories. Being at the bottom of it all suddenly seemed like a horrible idea.
Ard rose to his feet, limping toward the palace exit one painstaking step at a time. The distance was less than a dozen yards, but it seemed a mile to Ard. He watched that open entryway, its tall doors hanging wide on heavy hinges. That threshold was a portal to survival. Ard prayed to the Homeland that it didn’t collapse.
A gush of flames filled the foyer as he passed through the entryway. The grand stairs leading to the burning grounds were cluttered with chunks of stone and wood. Ard felt the cool night air touch his face, filling him with an extra repository of strength.
The crowd that Elbrig and Cinza had gathered was now thrice the size, pressing through the crumpled gate to invade the grounds as their king paused halfway down the steps, swooning
from the pain of his injuries.
“They know what you’ve done!” Ard shouted down to Pethredote. “Your people want answers.”
“The dragon has come for the king!” someone shouted. “She has come for vengeance! For the Bull Dragon Patriarchy!”
The crowd of impassioned Wayfarists was indeed agitated. Sparks! Was that a noblewoman hurling a stone in the king’s direction? It was probably Cinza Ortemion in costume. Regardless, the disguise managers had done an excellent job tonight.
The king held out his hands, either too weak or too fearful to descend the steps to the citizens. “No!” he shouted, with an effort that nearly buckled his legs. “The dragon has come for this man!” He pointed to Ard, who was crouching behind him on the upper stairs. “He is a criminal and an anarchist!”
“Let the dragon decide!” cried a man with a long mustache at the front of the crowd. He wore a miniature sculpted anchor on a chain around his neck—the symbol of a Wayfarist zealot. Although Ard didn’t recognize him, he knew it would be Elbrig.
With a blast of hot wind, the dragon landed in a full display of her size and terror. She dropped to the broad stone steps, situating herself directly between Ard and the king. Her body was not glowing as fiercely as it had upon arrival. It was now a deep green, illuminated by the blaze of her desolation all around.
The dragon’s long tail draped across the wreckage, and her elegant neck craned upward as she let out a rumbling bellow. She sat on powerful bent haunches, one foreleg touching the steps and the other drawn close to her breast, the talons pointed inward as she gripped something.
The egg.
The mother sow held it close to her heart, as though using the furnace heat of her massive body to warm the stony shell.
“The dragon has come to judge!” the disguised Elbrig shouted as the crowd quieted in the sow’s presence. “She knows the scent of the man who poisoned the bulls. She has come for justice!”
It was all part of the script that he and Elbrig had discussed, although Ard wasn’t sure how he was feeling about it now, as the beast’s gaze fell upon him.
“Good girl,” Ard muttered, trying to hold very still. “You know what you need to do,” he urged in a whisper, voice shaking as he looked into those giant emerald eyes.
The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn Page 71