The Dragon Seed Box Set

by Resa Nelson

  “No!” Benzel protested. He walked in silence for a few moments and reconsidered Sinchetto’s suggestion. “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve quizzed every merchant?”

  Benzel nodded.

  “Did any one of them tell you anything you hadn’t already heard from me?”

  Benzel shook his head.

  With the exception of Claude telling me I should consult his wife.

  Benzel concentrated on keeping his expression neutral. He suspected the dragonslayer knew how to read people’s thoughts from the faces they made. Auntie Helga had mastered that knack, and it made sense that a dragonslayer would do the same. Dragonslayers met every sort of man and beast on the road, and it took a quick mind and alert eyes to protect oneself from the worst of them.

  “Heatherbloom!” a woman’s voice called out in the twilight.

  Benzel looked up and saw Thurid at the rail of the ship docked behind Claude’s stand.

  What? She asked me to tell no one I’d be seeing her tonight. Why does she draw such attention to herself?

  “Who is this now?” Sinchetto said so softly that he might have been talking to himself.

  Thurid waved. “My husband tells me you’re a Northlander like me. Come aboard and bring me up to date on how the country is doing.”

  Sinchetto stopped in his tracks. He placed a strong hand on Benzel, forcing him to stop as well. Sinchetto looked up at Thurid. “Madam, you’re docked in a city brimming with Northlanders. Why do you pick this one out of the crowd?”

  Thurid’s musical laughter floated like milkweed silks in the wind. “What crowd? They’ve gone for the day. He’s the only Northlander in sight.”

  Distrust laced Sinchetto’s voice. “And your husband?”

  “A Midlander,” Thurid said. She leaned against the railing with a casual manner. “He’s putting our three little girls to bed. I spent the day chasing after them. I envy his day filled with talk with adults from around the world. All I ask is for a bit of time with a grownup from my homeland.”

  Playing along with Thurid’s ruse, Benzel sounded like a child asking for playtime when he spoke to Sinchetto. “What harm would it do?”

  Still exercising caution, Sinchetto ignored Benzel and said, “How do you know he’s from Heatherbloom?”

  Claude appeared and joined his wife’s side. “I told her,” he said. Pointing at Benzel, the weapon merchant added, “We met this afternoon.”

  Hoping the merchant would say no more that might give them away, Benzel slipped free of Sinchetto’s hand, still gripping his shoulder. “You showed me where we’re rooming tonight. I’ll meet you back there later. Or see you in the morning.”

  Before Sinchetto could say another word, Benzel made a break for the ship and climbed aboard.

  * * *

  The girls’ sleepy voices calling out for their father made Benzel realize two things. First, the triplets might have been put to bed but had not yet fallen asleep. Second, they’d been tucked away on top of the deck.

  Claude returned to his daughters.

  “Follow me,” Thurid said. She picked up a glowing lantern from the deck floor and descended the ladder leading below deck.

  Benzel followed her onto a rough-hewn floor surrounded by walls of darkness.

  Thurid gestured for him to take a seat on a barrel.

  He sat and watched.

  Her lantern’s light revealed a collection of pottery and wooden containers, all stoppered with cork. She placed the lantern on the floor and rummaged through the jars and boxes. “If you want to find the berserkers, no mortal can help you. It must be a god. More important, it must be a god with the power to see everything in our realm.”

  Benzel shifted in discomfort. “No one ever taught me much about the gods.”

  “That’s the problem with today’s youth. And their kinfolk, too.” Thurid shook her head in dismay. “How can you expect the gods to help you on a moment’s notice if you don’t understand them? Or worship them?” She cast a doubting look at Benzel. “I don’t suppose the village where you live now has any temples?”

  Benzel’s voice cracked when he spoke. “No.”

  Thurid sighed and returned her attention to her supplies. “You’re not the only one. Maybe it’s because I’m married to a man who comes from a country where people still take their gods seriously, but I don’t understand what’s happened to the Northlands. When did people lose their faith?”

  Benzel cleared his throat, not sure if he should voice his opinion. “It’s hard to have faith when berserkers take everything away from you.”

  “I suppose,” Thurid said. She picked out and opened a small jar, shining yellow in the lantern light. Thurid fished among the other containers until she found a small scoop made of wood. She scooped out a pale crystal dust that sparkled in the lantern light and put it on the floor in a semi-circular line separating the alchemist from Benzel. When satisfied, Thurid retrieved a short and thin wooden stick from the pouch hanging from her belt. She lit the end of the stick from the lantern’s fire and touched it to one end of the line of crystalized dust she’d laid out on the floor.

  Benzel caught his breath when the line blazed up into a sheer curtain of light.

  Standing behind it, Thurid held her hands to her side and swayed for several long minutes.

  “Thurid?” Benzel said, not sure if he should speak while the alchemist worked her magic. “Are you alright?”

  Her posture shifted. Thurid’s shoulders rolled back, making her chest appear broader. Even though Benzel felt no breeze, one appeared to whip her hair until a long strand covered one eye. Her exposed eye gleamed bright.

  A chill overcame Benzel. Although something deep inside his bones told him to run, fear trapped him in place.

  Thurid spoke in a deep voice that sounded little like her own. “And who might you be?”

  “Thurid, it’s me. Benzel.”

  “Thurid is here only in body. Where do you come from?”

  Benzel didn’t understand what sort of game the alchemist played, but the idea of crossing her made him even more afraid. “Hidden Glen now. I was born in Heatherbloom.”

  Thurid shook her head. “Where are these places? In what country?”

  She knows where I’m from. Why does she ask again?

  Perplexed, Benzel continued to play the alchemist’s game with the hope that there might be some unfathomable purpose to it that he didn’t yet understand. “The Northlands, of course.”

  “Oh, I see. The Northlands.” Thurid’s voice became as solemn as death. “Of course.” She sighed as if beleaguered. “And why do you send this alchemist to request my time? What is it you want from me, Benzel of Hidden Glen, previously of Heatherbloom in the Northlands?”

  Shocked by Thurid’s words, Benzel wondered whether he might be speaking with a god through the alchemist’s magic or if she only meant to make him think so. He decided answering with respect and reverence would be the best course of action, regardless of who might be asking the questions. “Berserkers are killing Northlanders. I want the berserkers stopped.”

  “In exactly what way do you want berserkers to be stopped? Be specific.”

  “Killed. I want all berserkers killed.”

  “Murdered.”

  Benzel paused, shocked by the frankness of the word. “Yes. Murdered.” He drew upon his courage, stifled until now by his fear. “Murdered before they murder any more innocent Northlanders.”

  “Hmm,” Thurid said. “I see.”

  The unfelt breeze stirred the alchemist’s hair again. For a moment, it drifted away from her face. The eye it uncovered seemed to have vanished, replaced by a deep black hole.

  Because Benzel still peered through the curtain of light at Thurid, he thought it must be a trick of that light when he thought he saw a universe of bright, shining stars through the dark space where her eye had been minutes ago.

  It’s an illusion. It must be.

  Nonetheless, the sight made Benzel
shudder.

  Thurid’s hair drifted back in place, covering one eye again. “And who would be performing these murders of berserkers?”

  Startled by a question about something that Benzel thought should be obvious, he blurted, “The Northlander gods. Who else can protect the Northlanders?”

  “Protect.” Thurid all but spit out the word. “In the days when the gods protected Northlanders, those mortals built temples to them. Asking for protection meant going to that temple and not simply asking for help but providing a sacrifice to prove sincerity.”

  “I’m sorry,” Benzel whispered. “No one taught me. I’ve never seen a temple or had anyone who knew what to do in one.”

  “Excuses!” Thurid thundered. She clenched her fists and her teeth.

  “Not an excuse. Just ignorance.”

  Thurid calmed. “The ignorance achieved by mortals,” she said, “is not our problem.”

  Benzel still didn’t know if he spoke to a god through the alchemist or if she was having fun at his expense. He suspected the latter but didn’t want to risk the former. “What if I could make things right?” Benzel said. “People gave up on the gods because of the berserkers. If you help me destroy the berserkers, I would spread the word throughout the Northlands. I would convince Northlanders to build temples and come back to the gods. I may be ignorant now, but I could be the one to teach them what’s been lost.”

  “Acceptable,” Thurid said. “But there is still the matter of sacrifice.”

  Benzel showed empty hands to the alchemist. “I traded everything from the farmers in Hidden Glen. All I had left was a bag of purple carrots, and I gave those to Thurid. But I can give you more when the next crop comes to harvest.”

  Thurid snorted. “Don’t want your carrots.”

  Benzel remembered he still had half the silver from the day’s trade. He pointed at the arm that bore it. “This is all I have left of what I earned today. It’s yours.”

  “Don’t want your silver.”

  Convinced that Thurid would never say such a thing, Benzel wondered which Northlander god possessed her. “I have nothing else to give.”

  “You can give a promise.”

  Benzel felt wary. He wanted to run up to the top deck of the ship and then race back to the boarding house to find Sinchetto for safety and comfort. But Benzel also sensed this could be the only chance he’d ever have to find real help to destroy the berserkers. “What do you want from me?”

  “Something of consequence,” Thurid said. “Something to prove your worth.” She thought for a moment. “Your first-born child.”

  Now Benzel understood why the generations of Northlanders before him had slipped away from worshipping the Northlander gods. How could gods be so heartless?

  But Benzel had a secret that he’d never revealed to anyone. A secret that made this decision an easy one. He didn’t know if his Northlander gods could read his thoughts, so Benzel erred on the side of caution by not letting his secret enter his thoughts or words. “Done. If you help me kill all the berserkers that still live, my first-born child is yours.”

  “You must do the murders,” Thurid said. “With your own hands. The gods are not your mother or father. You cannot ask gods to do the things you find distasteful. Your actions prove who you truly are, and for that reason you must take responsibility for them.” Thurid’s one exposed eye shimmered like the polished metal blade of a sword. “There is nothing more offensive than a man who chooses to act like a child. Are you a man or a child?”

  In that moment, Benzel understood. Although he’d taken a great deal of responsibility for taking care of Snip since he’d found her as the sole survivor of Bubblebrook, Benzel realized how dependent he’d been on his auntie and uncle, as well as all of Hidden Glen. In the deepest part of his heart, Benzel realized that not only had the time come for him to stand up and be a man—it was what he wanted.

  “I will kill.” Benzel paused and corrected himself. “I will murder all living berserkers for the sake of protecting my fellow Northlanders. I ask for your help, and I will sacrifice my first-born child as my offering of sincerity. If I succeed, I will restore the worship of Northlander gods and their rightful temples throughout my country.”

  “Good,” Thurid said. “Our deal is done.”

  The curtain of light still standing between them exploded into thousands of glittering white specks and then turned to dust and fell to the floor.

  Thurid cried out and dropped to her knees.

  Benzel rushed to her side. “Thurid?”

  “What happened?” She looked up at him and brushed the hair back from her face, revealing normal eyes that no longer gleamed. “Did you get what you want?”

  Benzel smiled.

  He loved Snip and never had a day of regret for removing her from Bubblebrook and claiming her as his sister. But spending so much time taking care of her during his boyhood had left him with the desire to never have any children of his own. As far as Benzel was concerned, he’d already done his duty in raising Snip and would never have a child of his own.

  “Yes,” Benzel said, now convinced he’d made a clever deal with a Northlander god. “I got exactly what I need.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The next morning, Benzel bickered with Sinchetto when they drove the cart laden with traded goods from the port city of Gott back toward Hidden Glen.

  “You fail to grasp my point,” Sinchetto said.

  “I did not miss your point,” Benzel said. “You said I shouldn’t have anything to do with alchemists.”

  “I said they can be dangerous. I said it’s wise to use caution.” Sinchetto grumbled. “I wish you told me what you were planning last night.”

  “What’s done is done. And there’s no harm done.”

  “No harm as of yet. That is the problem with alchemists. They work their magic and all seems well. They never mention the unforeseen consequences that often happen days or months or even years afterwards.”

  The god who spoke through Thurid said I must sacrifice my first-born child. That’s the consequence.

  “Thurid was clear about the consequences,” Benzel said. “I know what to expect.”

  It’s the god who doesn’t know what to expect. He has no idea I plan to have no children.

  “It is easy to assume such things,” Sinchetto said. “It takes effort to ask the probing questions that reveal the truth hiding behind assumptions.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about. I know the truth.”

  The two men traveled in silence through the fields west of Gott. When the road led into a thicket of forest, Sinchetto signaled for Benzel to bring the horse and cart to a halt.

  Benzel did so and said, “What’s wrong?”

  Sinchetto studied the woods ahead. “Most likely nothing. I thought I heard something. Best to stop and listen before heading into the dark.” He stepped down from the cart and withdrew his sword from the scabbard slung across his back.

  Benzel stood up in the cart and took the dagger from where he kept it tucked beneath his belt. He held his only weapon high and said, “I can help.”

  Sinchetto glanced back. “No, you can’t. You know the rules.”

  Disappointed, Benzel sat back down on the cart bench and tucked his dagger under his belt.

  He knew the rules. Too many times in the past, someone wanting to help a dragonslayer made a bad decision that got both of them killed.

  That’s why dragonslayers had rules. Dragonslaying required many years of training, because dragons were clever and extremely dangerous animals that were difficult to kill.

  Amateurs did nothing but make matters worse.

  Anyone who thinks he can kill a dragon without proper training is an arrogant fool.

  Benzel held his breath. He detected no sounds beyond the rustle of the breeze through the tall grasses of the fields behind them, the songs of the birds perched in the trees at the edge of the forest, and the scratching made by the horse’s hoof when it pawed at the di
rt road.

  Holding the long dragonslayer’s sword with both hands, Sinchetto keep the point in front of his face while he circled before the cart. He crept with such practiced ease and grace that he made no sound. The dragonslayer stopped at the sound of a low whine coming from the forest.

  The horse snorted and backed up a few steps, forcing the cart backwards.

  “Sinchetto?” Benzel said.

  While keeping his gaze on the forest ahead of them, the dragonslayer freed one hand from his sword and gestured for Benzel to be quiet.

  Benzel sat on the cart bench and held onto the reins. He fought the urge to rush by Sinchetto’s side.

  The bushes at the edge of the forest rustled.

  The dragonslayer returned both hands to his weapon’s grip and took a squat and steady stance, ready to fight.

  A pup covered with light brown fur tumbled out of the weeds. It fell onto its face and then stood on wobbly legs.

  “It’s a wolf cub,” Benzel said under his breath.

  Where there’s a cub, there’s bound to be a protective mother.

  The wolf cub took a few tentative steps toward the dragonslayer and then offered a frantic yip.

  The horse tossed its head and neighed.

  “Something is wrong,” Sinchetto said. “Take the cart back to Gott!”

  Before Benzel could react, the wolf cub yipped again and the horse wrenched to the side, tipping the cart up on two side wheels.

  The motion caught Benzel off-guard and threw him to the ground. Although he tried to hold onto the reins, the force of the tipping cart yanked them free. When Benzel tried to stand, one leg crumpled beneath him.

  The cart stopped tipping and fell back on all four wheels. The horse bolted into the forest, taking the cart with it.

  “The cart!” Benzel cried out. He reached toward it with his hands, still unable to right his body.

  The wolf cub scampered away from the path of the horse and cart as they rushed past.

  The dragonslayer made no effort to stop the cart. He stayed on high alert with weapon in hand. “Make no move,” Sinchetto said.