The Last Lies of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  “Can it be?” said the Glassmind who stood slightly ahead of the other man and woman. His voice echoed through the Mooring with more than natural resonance. “Can it truly be?”

  He raised a sparking hand, and a line of detonated Grit shot from his palm, rending the metal Torch down the middle. With a gesture from his other hand, the scraps of the brazier bent to either side, thick iron bowing like wilting flowers.

  The three Glassminds strode into the wreckage, coming to a halt in the middle of the demolished Holy Torch.

  “Isles and Islesses of Wayfarism,” the leader called, his voice booming and authoritative beyond any natural frame. “Consider yourselves among the first to lay eyes upon the Homeland.” He dropped his glass head in a reverential bow. “Prime Isless Gloristar.”

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  The Glassmind looked up sharply, his red eyes narrowing. “Why is your mind dark to us? We cannot see your true intent.”

  “Who are you?” she repeated. “And what are you doing here?”

  “I am Garifus Floc,” the man said. “We have come to usher in a new era of civilization. The Final Era of Utmost Perfection.” He took a step forward. “We are here to complete the Sphere.”

  “You have spoken with Centrum,” Gloristar said. “Surely, you could see his true intent. A man of greed and thirst for greater power.”

  Garifus tilted his head. “You speak in riddles, Prime Isless. Do you share in our goals of perfection or not?” His glowing eyes darted to her cracked skull. “Ah. I see now. You have been separated from our collective thoughts. Step forward and I can mend the renna.” He stretched out a hand, but Gloristar didn’t move.

  “I will not rejoin my mind to Centrum,” she said. “I will have no part in creating Spherical Time for a mind as ill intentioned as his.”

  “I do not know of any Centrum,” Garifus said. “But our desire to create Spherical Time is not for one mind alone, but for the minds of the many. The majority will always rule among the Othians.”

  “Then I suppose you should not count me among them,” Gloristar said. Ard saw her fingertips begin to sizzle with sparks.

  “Your words grieve me, Prime Isless,” said Garifus. “You were the catalyst for all of this. You should be leading this charge. But what do the scriptures say? ‘Go forth, every one. And cease not in your labors until the Homeland is reached. Let none stand in your way, neither the weak, nor the mighty. The Settled, nor the—’”

  Gloristar’s hand shot out, a wave of Void Grit emanating from her pale blue palm. It caught all three Glassminds, flinging them upward and away. Midflight, Garifus somehow regained control, using a detonation to pull himself straight down, landing with such force that the ice beneath his bare feet cracked all the way across the channel.

  His companions recovered a moment later, breaking their fall with detonations from their own hands.

  “I have great mercy for those unchanged,” said Garifus, striding toward her. “But you should know better, Gloristar.”

  He held both hands in front of him, launching small orbs of Barrier Grit from his palms like balls from a Roller. Gloristar met the attack with a flat Barrier shield suspended in front of her, deflecting the orbs, which seemed to fizzle out the moment they ricocheted.

  Gloristar pressed forward until she stood at the heart of the broken Torch brazier. Her other hand came up, glowing eyes narrowing in concentration. Then she dropped her Barrier shield and sent out another detonation. Her cloud reached Garifus, but not before his final projectile struck her in the shoulder.

  It ripped through her heavy cloak, peeling back her bluish skin with a spattering of gold blood. She let out a cry of pain, but maintained manipulation of her own cloud.

  The hazy streamer from her hand wrapped around Garifus, instantly dropping him to the ice.

  Dead? No, his eyes were still wide open and glowing. It had to be Stasis Grit. Just enough to encompass Garifus’s head. Maybe that was all she had left.

  Gloristar released her hold on the Stasis cloud, allowing it to form a natural sphere around her enemy. But already, the other two Glassminds were racing to his aid.

  With a cry, Gloristar threw a ribbon detonation of what must have been Gather Grit. It caught the other Glassmind man by the side, yanking him away from Garifus’s still form, sliding him across the ice to Gloristar’s feet.

  She caught him by the neck before he could recover, heaving him upward and slamming him down against the warped iron bands of the brazier. Ard heard the distinctive sound of cracking glass, but Gloristar didn’t stop.

  She hefted him and struck again. And again. Her fingers were sparking, a brief detonation forming around her fist each time she brought him down. Weight Grit, making her blows heavier. Deadlier.

  The man’s glass skull shattered, thick red shards raining down on the white ice. His eyes instantly darkened and his enhanced figure went limp, draped across the warped Holy Torch.

  But across the waterway, the Glassmind woman had dragged her leader out of the Stasis cloud. Garifus was rising, shaking his head against the disorientation of regaining consciousness.

  “Gloristar!” Ard shouted, yanking up his robe unceremoniously and pulling one of the guns from his waist. He cocked the hammer and squeezed off one shot—two shots. But the lead balls pinged harmlessly off the impenetrable skin of the Glassminds.

  Gloristar released her grip on the dead Glassmind just as Garifus Floc pulled back his arm and let something fly in a flurry of sparks.

  A spear of Barrier Grit entered Gloristar’s mouth at an upward angle, bursting out the back of her skull with a spray of red glass. The spear vanished as quickly as it had come, and she collapsed in a heap at the heart of the Holy Torch. Her eyes dimmed as a wisp of red smoke vented from the blasted hole of her skull.

  Gloristar! A woman powerful enough to carry a dragon by raising one finger. A woman who had fulfilled scripture and found her way to the true Homeland.

  Ard slunk back into the doorway of Cove 23, a mortal fear summoning the cowardice that lurked in the depths of every man’s heart. He might be able to escape out the secret tunnel. He could bear the terrible news to Quarrah and Raek.

  “Heretic!” cried a daring voice from across the waterway. Ard paused in his escape to see Isle Swick standing defiantly on the dock entrance to Cove 18. Of course, the older man was opinionated, judgmental, and often cantankerous. If anyone would shout “Heretic!” at a mysterious stranger who had just killed the Prime Isless with little more than a wave of his hand, it would be Swick.

  Garifus turned toward his challenger, and Ard finally had a clear view of the back of his head. The thick red glass was flawless and shiny. Practically begging for a Roller ball.

  But he couldn’t summon the courage to lift the gun.

  Garifus’s hand stretched out in Swick’s direction. An unseen force grabbed the Isle by the front of his robes and sucked him toward the Glassminds. He went down on the ice, skidding to a halt just arm’s reach from Garifus’s feet.

  “Perhaps you can be of more help than the former Prime Isless,” said the Glassmind leader. “We have come here because we are in need of vast quantities of Visitant Grit.”

  Visitant Grit? Why?

  Isle Swick rose to his knees on the ice. Even from here, Ard could see that his lip was bleeding. “Who are you people?”

  “Visitant Grit,” insisted Garifus.

  Swick shook his head. “You won’t find any. The Prime Isle doesn’t authorize a single granule to be processed unless there is a need for it.”

  “There is a need greater than you could possibly comprehend,” said Garifus. “As for processing it to powder, I can see to that myself. I know the Islehood keeps a supply of dragon shell, some of it already digested. Where is it?”

  “I am a faithful servant of the Homeland,” Swick declared. “If you think I will—”

  Garifus brought up his hand, the ice instantly thawing in a perfect circle under Isle Swick. He
plunged into the hole of water, disappearing below the surface just as it refroze around him. One of the man’s hands rose out of the ice like a tree of flesh, the ice pinching around his forearm. His hand opened and closed frantically, the futile grips of a dying man.

  “Who would like to be more cooperative?” Garifus boomed, turning to look down the waterway again.

  Ard’s hand trembled around the gun’s wooden stock, the opportunity for a shot squandered in the shock of Isle Swick’s sudden demise.

  The Glassmind woman next to Garifus threw one hand to the side, a Grit cloud blasting the door to Cove 16 right off its hinges. Across the waterway, Ard could see young Isless Nett drop to cower beneath her desk.

  Garifus extracted her, his beam of Gather Grit plucking her out of her Cove and dragging her, screaming, toward him. Unlike Swick, her approach was slow and she remained upright, the toes of her shoes dragging across the ice. Her sea-green robes and her auburn hair stood straight out, caught in a wind that was sucking her toward the huge man.

  Garifus Floc seized her by the neck, extinguishing the Gather cloud and holding the young woman aloft with the raw strength of his arm.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Do you know where the dragon shell is stored?”

  “I don’t know anything. Please! Only a few people have that information,” whimpered Isless Nett. “Some of the senior-most members of the Islehood. I’ve only been in the Mooring two years. Please!”

  Garifus dropped her, his other hand melting the ice. She plunged into the water, the ice instantly re-forming with another spark from his fingertips. Young Isless Nett, enclosed in a frigid coffin.

  “Stop!” came a shout from the far end of the Mooring. “In the name of the Homeland! Stop!”

  Ard turned to see Prime Isle Olstad Trable standing on the dock outside Cove 1. His hands were outstretched in a commanding gesture, but he looked weak in comparison to the immutable Glassminds. His purple robes, once so authoritative and grand, now looked like the costume of a child playing dress-up.

  “Prime Isle Trable,” said Garifus. “To be honest, I didn’t expect you at the Mooring so late in the afternoon.”

  “Whoever you are,” Trable replied, “I’m sure we can reach an agreement that doesn’t involve killing my Isles.”

  “Certainly,” said Garifus. “My needs are simple. All of the dragon shell in the Islehood’s possession, as well as any processed Visitant Grit you may have.”

  “What you ask is impossible,” called Trable. “Visitant Grit is the sacred responsibility of the Islehood.”

  “You speak to me of sacred things?” replied Garifus. “You don’t understand the half of it. The time has come to create a detonation that will complete the Sphere and change everything you know about the world. There is no responsibility more sacred than this.”

  Ha! So Garifus needed Visitant Grit to create Spherical Time…

  “Whatever you’re planning…” Trable said. “Let us talk about it.”

  “Your feeble mind would not comprehend its complexity.” He tensed his hands at his sides. “Where is the Visitant Grit?”

  Don’t be a hero, Trable, Ard thought. Surely, he saw that the Glassminds wouldn’t hesitate to kill him and move on to someone more cooperative.

  “I am not afraid of your threats,” said the Prime Isle in what Ard considered to be a monumental lie. “The Homeland is with us.”

  “Yes,” Garifus said. “I am.” He raised both hands and Trable’s feet lifted from the dock. The Prime Isle appeared to be caught in some kind of oblong Drift cloud, the fabric of his robe looking stiff and unnatural. Garifus’s hands sparked again and Trable suddenly dropped a couple of feet. But instead of reaching the ground, his arms flung out to his sides, caught in hazy detonations like shackles, leaving him hanging in midair.

  “I don’t believe you are familiar with Gather Grit,” said Garifus, his own arms outstretched to maintain the clouds. “Right now, I hold your arms in two separate clouds of it, the centers of the detonations just beyond your fingertips. I have Compounded the Grit enough to hold your weight, pulling your arms in opposite directions. Allow me to add a little more Compounding Grit.”

  Ard couldn’t see a change in the clouds, but Prime Isle Trable grimaced.

  “I can continue adding Compounding Grit until the strength of the Gather is enough to pluck both of your arms out of their sockets,” said Garifus. “Or you can tell me where to find the dragon shell.”

  “You should know I can be quite stubborn,” Trable said. “Just ask my wife. I think you’d be better off to go ahead and kill me.”

  Garifus must have increased the pull, because Trable couldn’t hold back a cry of pain.

  “I actually hope you survive,” said Garifus. “Perhaps it would even give you incentive to join us.”

  “Why is that?” grunted Trable. “You need a certain number of armless followers?”

  Sparks, Trable. Don’t be sassy! Ard usually appreciated that about the man, but not at a time like this!

  “If you join us,” continued Garifus, “any physical ailments or imperfections will be made right in the transformation.”

  “You mean, I’d grow new arms?” said Trable. “What if I like the ones I’ve already got?”

  “Where is the shell?” pressed Garifus.

  “Even if you should find it,” said Trable, “you will never be worthy enough to summon a Paladin Visitant.”

  “We have no use for such a hero,” answered Garifus. “We are only interested in completing the Sphere.”

  “I don’t know what you’re carrying on about,” Trable said.

  “We will detonate the Grit on the site of the oldest failed Paladin Visitant,” said Garifus.

  Ard tensed. He would be worthy. That was the very trick to becoming a Paladin Visitant! But wouldn’t doing so reset the timeline, effectively erasing the Glassminds from existence?

  “Once it is done, all of time and space will be rolled into one great Sphere.”

  No. Garifus was describing something different. A Paladin Visitant appeared if a mortal person stepped into a Visitant cloud, but what would happen if a Glassmind did it?

  “Now,” said Garifus. “I will not ask again. Where is the dragon shell?”

  “I don’t remember…” Trable trailed off into a scream.

  Ard shut his eyes, hoping Isless Gaevala couldn’t hear it. Hoping she was home with the kids so she didn’t witness her husband’s death. Ard couldn’t help but think of the girls, their little faces drooped with sadness and confusion about why their daddy wasn’t coming home. Trable probably thought this would make them proud, but his death would only break their hearts.

  “In fact,” the Prime Isle said, “I don’t think anyone remembers—”

  “I do,” Ard shouted, stepping off the dock. The ice was ridiculously slippery and he went down hard on his backside. So much for a heroic entrance…

  Garifus and the Glassmind woman both turned on him. Trable kept hanging with what appeared to be no reprieve from the Compounded effect of the Gather Grit.

  “Ardor Benn.” Garifus’s unusual voice echoed across the frozen Mooring.

  “Hold on. You know me?” Ard picked himself up off the ice with as much decorum as he could muster. “I mean, I’m flattered, but—”

  “You were in the throne room the night of Termain’s death,” said Garifus. “You and Quarrah left the palace with the Prime Isless. Tell me, has Gloristar been with you all these years?”

  Ard glanced past them at the still corpse of Gloristar lying in the Holy Torch.

  “I know where the shell is being kept,” Ard said, ignoring Garifus’s other question.

  “Ard!” Trable shouted from his precarious position. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

  Ard held up a hand. “It’s all right.” Then to Garifus. “I can lead you there, but only if you release the Prime Isle.”

  “No,” Trable gasped. “You don’t have to do this, Ardor. Think
it through. It’s only going to cause more problems.”

  “What is he talking about?” asked the Glassmind woman.

  “I don’t have a clue,” said Ard.

  Prime Isle Trable groaned in frustration. “This man is trying to deceive you. He’s new to the Islehood, still a fledgling,” he blabbed. “He doesn’t know the shell’s location.”

  “Actually,” Ard said. “I do.” To prove it without giving too much away, he reached up and pretended to don a hat—a subtle gesture that said Tall Son’s Millinery.

  “What?” the Prime Isle muttered, crestfallen.

  “I’ve known for cycles, Trable.” He shrugged. “You really thought you could keep that information from me? It’s why I joined the Islehood in the first place.” He drew in a deep breath. “It’s who I am.”

  He couldn’t bring himself to look at the Prime Isle’s face—a man who had given him chance after chance, believing when no one else would. A man Ard actually considered a friend.

  Garifus Floc lowered his hands. All at once, the twin clouds of Compounded Gather Grit winked out and Trable fell, landing in a purple heap on the ice.

  The Glassmind leader turned to Ard. “If you are deceiving us,” he said, “you will be killed.”

  “Yeah,” said Ard. “I sort of figured that.”

  “And then we will return to the Mooring and resume this unpleasant business until we find the shell.”

  “Take it easy,” Ard said. “I’m not lying.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Not so fast,” Ard continued. “Who’s to say you won’t kill me the moment I tell you?” He tried to read their expressions, but the Glassminds looked stoic. Hopefully this next line would go over all right. “I’ll take you to the dragon shell.”

  Okay. Now he was lying. There was no way under the sun or Moon that he was going to lead Garifus Floc to the Visitant Grit so he could create Spherical Time.

  His only play here was a wild-goose chase. Traipse these two Glassminds around every corner of Beripent until he thought of a way for the search to end without him dying. And along the way, hopefully he could figure out exactly what the Glassminds intended to do with the Visitant Grit.