The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  “Of course,” Quarrah answered.

  Based on her map of the palace, she already had two or three potential access points in mind. Creeping into the palace once again? It seemed like a delightful challenge. In many ways, this ruse represented the culmination of her career. When this was all over, wouldn’t the manors and estates of the rich folk seem like child’s play?

  “I think we have our work cut out for us.” Ard looked quite pleased with the complex plan they had devised. “The clock starts ticking once the uniforms are tainted. “From there we’ll only have a day or two to get the uniforms washed, dried, and back in circulation. Let’s make sure everything is going to work before we get that Choke Beetle concoction in place. We set our appointment with Pethredote, say, two weeks from today.”

  “I think you have overlooked one thing,” said Lyndel.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your escape from the reception hall,” she answered. “It is naïve to think that Pethredote will let you leave once you have detonated the false Visitant Grit.”

  “I’ll have a Paladin Visitant,” Ard replied.

  “Who will eventually burn out,” said Lyndel. “And your deception will be exposed if Raekon leaves the reception hall. If he were a real Paladin, he would be unable to exit the Visitant cloud.”

  “Lyndel’s right,” Quarrah agreed. “You two can’t go in there unless you have a better exit plan.”

  “You should kill the king,” stated Lyndel.

  “What?” Ard replied. “I think you just said I should kill the king.”

  “He is an evil man,” Lyndel went on. “A man of so many lies.”

  “I know he’s a liar, but Pethredote has brought a lot of peace and growth to the Greater Chain,” Ard said. “Killing him would divide the islands. It would be complete chaos.”

  Lyndel pointed upward, toward the streets of Beripent. “This city is already in chaos. Do yesterday’s peace and growth matter if innocent people are dying today?” She stood slowly. “Your plan will put you face-to-face with Pethredote. Once he has given you the information we need about the Paladin Visitant, you must kill him.”

  Ard stood awkwardly, the dim Light Grit casting half his face in shadow. Quarrah saw the debate in his eyes as he considered Lyndel’s suggestion. Assassinate King Pethredote? Ardor Benn was not a murderer. She knew he had killed in defense, killed in escape. His actions had caused collateral damage and taken lives. But murdering the king seemed different. Premeditated.

  “I don’t see how that would help us escape,” Ard pointed out. “Killing Pethredote will only bring the Reggies running in our direction.”

  “Not if the Regulators are otherwise engaged,” said Lyndel. Quarrah took a step closer so as not to miss a word of her accented voice. “Two weeks is enough time to gather some of my followers.”

  “Sparks,” Quarrah whispered. “You’re going to lead the Trothians in an attack on the palace?”

  “Only a skirmish,” Lyndel said. “Enough to provide Ardor and the Short Fuse some cover so they can escape.” She stepped closer to Ard, her face intense as she raised her wrapped arms. “I believe that Isle Halavend would agree. Your Homeland wants Pethredote dead.” Then Lyndel turned sharply and strode out of the dugout meat cellar.

  In silence, Quarrah stared at Ard and Raek, grateful that she would not be the one to make that terrible decision. Ard would probably spend the next two weeks stewing over Lyndel’s proposal, as if the burden of preparing this final stage of the ruse were not enough.

  “Well, then.” Ard snapped the three of them out of the reverie that Lyndel’s words had inspired. “Let’s make ourselves a Paladin Visitant, shall we?”

  No amount of planning could prepare me for this. When will I begin to decay?

  CHAPTER

  37

  This better work, Ard thought, a group of uniformed Regulators escorting him and Raek through the palace hallway. Sparks! I hope any of this works.

  Despite the washing and drying of the red uniforms, Ard could still smell the residual funk of the Choke Beetle excretions on his escort Reggies. The lingering stench was actually a benefit, masking the milder odor of the Kalignine solution that Raek had applied after washing.

  Raek and his hired hands had only managed to taint about sixty of the eighty uniforms being washed. Another twenty had been worn during the night shift, avoiding the beetle extract altogether.

  Raek had pointed out the odds. Six out of ten Regulators in the reception hall would be likely to combust today. Ard was counting on the ones who didn’t to run screaming when their friends caught fire, knowing that the Paladin Visitant could end their lives with a single word.

  It had taken King Pethredote until last night to agree to Ard’s letter of parley, igniting the signal over the northeast corner of the palace. Three side-by-side detonations of Light Grit, the middle one larger than the others, just as Ard had specified.

  They ascended the steps, just a short corridor until they arrived at the reception hall. Ard glanced at Raek, who had to hike up the hem of his heavy sunflare cloak to manage the stairs. Towering over even the tallest Reggie escort, Raekon Dorrel looked intimidating. His cloak was thick and padded with liners of Cold Grit, enhancing the man’s natural size.

  Raek had made the improvements to the sunflare cloak look like decoration. Using more sunflare material, he had sewn long strips from the shoulders down. Each strip had been soaked in Thrast oil, which Raek assured would burn for at least ten minutes—the expected duration of the Visitant cloud.

  The cloak had been examined at the palace entrance, of course. Both Ard and Raek had practically been undressed, as the rules of parley demanded that they come unarmed. The sunflare cloak was approved. Ard’s boots were not. He had hidden a knife in a disguised boot lining, which was intended for the Reggies to discover. It was a distraction tactic, allowing him to move the pot of fake Visitant Grit from his pants to his jacket, which the Regulators had already inspected. Seriously, their incompetence was laughable at times.

  The keg of genuine Visitant Grit, buried in the dugout cellar of the abandoned butcher shop, was much larger than the counterfeit pot Ard carried. But Pethredote would have no way of knowing how much Grit they had obtained.

  Ard took a deep breath as they entered the reception hall. The room looked even larger without the social tables, gossiping rich folk, and colorful gowns and capes. The centerpiece tree was still there, surrounded by benches, its planter box full of late spring flowers.

  Ard scanned the room, taking a quick count of the Reggies standing guard. There were fifteen visible—twenty, if the men that had escorted them were allowed to stay for the meeting. They all wore red uniforms, but even if this whole thing worked, Raek’s estimation at the odds would indicate that eight of the coats would be unaffected by the Heat Grit. Too many.

  The glass doors leading to the balcony were as dark as the night outside, and Ard didn’t like the idea that more Regulators were likely positioned there, out of the Heat Grit’s blast radius.

  Ard glanced up at the five large chandeliers. The Grit dishes were each lit with an orb of detonated Light Grit. Soon, Ard was counting on a different detonation flooding the chandeliers.

  By this point, Quarrah would be in position in the room below, pumping all of the smuggled Compounded Heat Grit into the chamber. All they needed was a spark, and a massive detonation cloud would be forced through the wall pipes, filling the entire room.

  A service door swung open on the far side of the reception hall. Ard had once watched kitchen staff use that entrance to supply food and drink to impatient guests. But this time, it was King Pethredote.

  The king looked old and worn, Millguin clinging to his shoulder. The lazy Karvan lizard stared unblinking as two Reggie guards secured the service door behind the king.

  Pethredote wore a crimson shoulder cape, with a shirt whose sleeves billowed as he strode slowly toward Raek and Ard. Without the crown and a coat of dragon shell,
Pethredote looked like an ordinary nobleman. In a way, that made Lyndel’s suggestion to kill him even harder. But then Ard remembered Isle Halavend, a ball of lead in his frail old chest.

  Perhaps Ard could find the nerve to end the crooked king.

  “I heard you were dead.” Pethredote stopped with a good distance between them. “I received the report from my own Harvesting crew. The poacher—the ruse artist—Ardor Benn was shot and killed.”

  “Who, me?” Ard cried. “Well, you’ll have to do better than that.”

  “How did you do it?”

  “A simple ruse,” Ard replied. He had promised Tanalin that pulling the trigger on that blank Roller would save them both from trial and execution. He intended to uphold that promise.

  “I sent one of my men to speak with your Harvesting captain, posing to be Ardor Benn,” explained Ard. “Your captain shot him dead in cold blood. Suppose I should be glad I sent someone else to do my dirty work. You should be an expert on that topic. As I understand it, there was a trail of bodies to clean up after you had the Bull Dragon Patriarchy poisoned.”

  A murmur passed around the room, despite the training and discipline that palace Regulators were supposed to possess. King Pethredote took a step forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “How dare you speak …” he began, before catching himself.

  Good. The king was rattled. Ard would play on that paranoia, coaxing Pethredote into sending away all but his most trusted Reggie guards, just as Dale Hizror had done on the night they entered the throne room to find Quarrah.

  The king straightened, took a deep breath, and nervously reached up to stroke the leathery beard of the lizard on his shoulder. He cast furtive glances across the room, subtly trying to gauge the reaction that Ard’s words had evoked from his Regulator guards. Ard took the moment of weakness to advance farther.

  “Domic Chauster, and his son, Glipp. Reejin, the shell forger. The members of your former Harvesting crew. Isle Halavend …”

  “Silence!” Pethredote shrieked. The outburst sent Millguin leaping from the king’s shoulder, claws clicking against the stone floor as she scurried away from her angry master. In the same moment, Pethredote’s sword flashed from its scabbard, glinting in the steady glow of the Light Grit chandeliers. The thin blade leveled a foot from Ard’s face, the king’s heavy breaths causing the weapon to waver just slightly.

  “Killing me will not help you find the Visitant Grit.” Ard’s voice was calm with the confidence that Pethredote’s sword was an empty threat. “Besides, I thought we were here to converse, not brandish weapons.”

  “I once told Dale Hizror,” whispered the king. “I shouldn’t have to repeat myself to you. Certain things are never to be discussed.”

  “And yet those are the very things I have come here to discuss.” Ard gestured around the room.

  King Pethredote lowered his sword and turned to the nearest Regulator. “Clear the balcony and the service room. I want everyone but Benthrop’s regiment to exit at once. You can await my commands in the hallway. But seal the doors.”

  Sparks! Pethredote was easy to manipulate. He was a powerful man, but he existed in a state of constant fear. Secrets had a way of doing that to people, Ard would know. And applying slight pressure on Pethredote’s insecurities turned him into little more than a puppet on a string.

  Ard and Raek stood still, watching the king’s new orders carried out with a degree of concern and unspoken disagreement. As the heavy doors to the hallway swung shut, Pethredote had reduced his protective forces to a mere twelve men.

  “Now”—the king’s voice was low—“let us speak of this Visitant Grit you supposedly have.”

  “Or perhaps you’d like to see it.” Ard plunged his hand swiftly into his jacket. By the time he had withdrawn the clay detonation pot, a dozen Rollers were leveled on him.

  Ard stood with his right hand outstretched, palm downward, fingers loosely holding the clay sphere. “You were looking for this?”

  The tip of the king’s sword scraped the floor as he took a step back in astonishment. Pethredote’s hand came up to the Reggies in the room, giving the order not to shoot. Ard had positioned himself in such a way that any attack would cause him to drop the clay pot against the stone floor.

  “This wasn’t easy to get,” Ard said. “I only wish Isle Halavend could have seen the finished Visitant Grit.”

  “That old man was a fool,” Pethredote remarked. “The Prime Isle had warned me, and I regret that it took us so long to silence him.”

  “Halavend had everything figured out,” Ard said. “He knew you had the Bull Dragon Patriarchy killed. And he knew that their extinction would cause Moonsickness to spread across the Greater Chain.”

  “Halavend was a heretic,” Pethredote replied. “He planned to use his holy position to gain a following. His so-called discoveries were falsehoods, meant to incite the people against my leadership!”

  Ard felt the moment coming. Pethredote was already on edge. He would divulge all under the threat of a Paladin Visitant.

  “Isle Halavend was right on all counts,” pressed Ard. “But there was one thing he couldn’t figure out.” Ard stepped closer to the king. “Why was it so important to destroy the shell? That’s why you poisoned the Patriarchy. That’s why you silenced everyone who might have known about it. It was because of the shell. The Visitant Grit. You were determined that there would never be another Paladin Visitant.”

  “And I’m right!” shouted Pethredote. “You think some meddling Isle knows more about the Paladin Visitants than I do? I summoned one in my youth. I know their true power!”

  “Then you’ll be distressed to know that Halavend pronounced me worthy of summoning one.”

  “You can’t!” Pethredote yelled. “No one can know …”

  Ard threw the pot of fake Visitant Grit against the floor. The clay shattered on impact, sparking a small fragment of Slagstone. There was no Grit within the pot, but in a moment, the air would be hazy with the blast of Heat Grit, and no one would know the difference.

  Ard sensed Raek leaping toward the ignitor switch on the wall behind them. The switch would set everything into motion, the spark igniting the Compounded Heat Grit for the chandeliers, as well as lighting Raek’s sunflare cloak.

  Ard dropped to a crouch, hands coming over his head to shield himself. The move had two purposes. First, this was the expected stance when detonating Visitant Grit, since seeing, touching, or hearing the Paladin Visitant resulted in bursting into flame.

  Secondly, if nothing went right, ducking low seemed like a good idea when the Reggies started shooting.

  The reception hall suddenly grew very hot. An intense spike in temperature unlike anything Ard had felt before. It wasn’t like standing too close to a bonfire, where one’s front seemed scalded, while the rear remained cool. This was an all-encompassing heat that wrapped completely around him like a stifling blanket.

  There was a scream across the room, and Ard’s head snapped up from his defensive crouch. One of the Regulators was on fire! Blazing sparks, the man was actually burning! And he wasn’t the only one. Another Reggie combusted before Ard’s eyes, his red coat going up in spontaneous flames.

  A short distance away, Pethredote had dropped into a similar defensive crouch, arms shielding his head and his sword lying useless on the floor beside him. But, like Ard, the aging king couldn’t help but peek at the reactions of his guards.

  Ten Regulators were ablaze. Screaming, flailing, running. The two that weren’t had dropped to the floor, crawling with their faces averted from Raek’s presence.

  The hallway doors flung open, more than a dozen waiting Regulators intent on storming the room. But the awful sight and sounds greeted them, along with the shouted warnings of the two Reggies that had escaped combustion.

  “Paladin! Paladin! Shield yourselves!”

  There was a sudden belch of smoke and flame, accompanied by a rending shriek as one of the burning Regulators exploded. Ard du
cked at the terrifying sight, a spattering of blood and gore painting the reception hall.

  Oh, flames, Ard thought. The Grit sashes.

  All Regulators wore them, stocked with a number of loaded pots and crossbow Grit bolts. The flames from the combusting uniform must have made contact, a violent explosion of Blast Grit ending his life. And that wasn’t the only thing to detonate.

  Multiple Grit detonations sounded, discolored clouds overlapping and hanging in the spot where the Reggie had exploded. An orb of Light Grit perfectly illuminated the scene, half trapped within a Barrier cloud as bits of burning cloth and charred flesh hung suspended in a detonation of Drift Grit.

  “To the king!” shouted a bold Reggie from the hallway. The rallying call was followed by multiple gunshots, causing Ard to plaster himself against the stone floor.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Raek had his back against the wall, standing tall next to the ignitor switch that had thrown the room into chaos. The sunflare cloak appeared to be doing the trick masterfully, protecting Raek’s skin from the burning strips of cloth that raged across his body.

  Raek had donned an additional hood and mask of the same fabric. As fire danced across his entire form, Ard himself was nearly convinced that the man behind him was a Paladin Visitant. Raek certainly looked true to the description in the history books.

  Ard’s admiration of Raek was short-lived, as a handful of Regulators from the hallway attempted to storm the room, Rollers and crossbows leading them. Upon entering the tremendous heat, two of the uniforms combusted, disbanding the rescue attempt in a mess of smoke and screams.

  Another burning Regulator exploded, this time in the hallway as he fled the reception hall. That was a terribly gruesome side effect Ard had not anticipated. Had the circumstances been any different—had the stakes of this ruse been different—Ardor Benn would have been horrified by their deaths. But this was no longer a simple ruse. Ard was fighting a war for humanity. And as such, he needed to steel himself against the bloodshed.