“Quite a show,” the god laughed. “The priests will love it.” He moved his hand back to Wilt’s chest to begin the next mark. “They will listen to the answers you give them, but eventually they will stop caring. You will be a god’s sacrifice, given to man as a warning and testament to my will.”
The finger traced an elongated U around Wilt’s navel and up through the spines of the Betrayer’s Mark. Once past, Just lifted both hands to the ends of the U, then at the neck, split his fingers and dragged them all the way to Wilt’s face. He could see the hands trailing along his chin, and feel the god’s pointer fingers against the back of his jaw. Eight barbs would stretch from his shoulders to jawline, then curl and end just below his mouth. The marks at the rear would curl up and around the end of his jaw, just below his ears, forming a shape like the horns of a demon. He had seen the mark before. Many rapists were castrated then sentenced to military service. The pain seeped into him from the two brands, and as it heightened, his mind began to slip.
The god still spoke. “For the priests, it will not be your pain that matters, but the truth it represents. A quick warning: some of them will try to drink your blood. You should be prepared for that.” Just cackled, his voice tinged by madness.
But Wilt could hardly understand him, the pain was overwhelming.
“After all, to them you will become a god, and that is what your kind does with its gods.”
Wilt heard Just speak without understanding. Instead, his mind flashed to his dream of the Whore, who had promised that he would be a god, and he knew it must be fact. This was not his punishment, it would be his coronation; his rebirth into godhood.
Delirious, Wilt spoke aloud. “It’s just as she promised. My mind must be stripped clean before she can help me. Before she can make me a god. She told the truth. It was not a dream.”
“Who?” Just demanded.
In a weak, distracted voice, Wilt answered. “The Whore. She promised.”
For a brief moment, Wilt lost consciousness. When he came to, he realized the god was still before him, his mouth open and twisted in rage. Just was shouting.
“When did she come?” Just shouted. “Where is she now?”
Wilt tried to answer, but found he was too weak. He could feel coils he had not known existed drop free from his soul. Again, he fell into darkness.
When he awoke, he lay on the ground, the god above him, in Just’s hand a simple woodsman’s knife. The noose had been cut from his throat. Looking at his chest, the Marks were still there, but the wounds were sealed, and his flesh whole. The pain had ceased.
“I will give you one final chance,” the god said. “Tell me why she has chosen you. Tell me where she is. I must find her!”
Wilt didn’t understand. “Who?” he asked.
“The Whore!” Just shrieked. The insanity had returned to the old man’s voice, and the words had become shrill. The dark green eyes stared depthlessly into his own. And there, hovering behind the god’s shoulder, was another face, that of a young man with a flat nose and pale, empty eyes. Those eyes bored into Wilt’s soul. Wilt cringed and the figure vanished.
“I don’t know where she is,” Wilt cried. “She came to me and told me that I must be cleansed before she could make me a god. She told me that she would save me.”
“Was this real or simply a fever dream?” the god asked.
Wilt felt his face droop as he covered his eyes with his arms. “I can no longer tell the difference,” he sobbed.
Wilt’s mind must have failed him, for he heard two voices then. With his arms covering his eyes, he could not see Just’s face, but he recognized both voices as belonging to the man. The first voice spoke low and calm. “Then you and I will find out together,” it said. “You will become my servant in truth.” From his pocket, the god removed a pen and a black leather book. “You will sign,” the god said. “It is the price for your life.”
The second voice, tinged with madness, cackled through Just’s demand.
As the laughter surged, so too did the pain in Wilt’s freshly carved brands. They coursed in time with the laughter as the god thrust the pen toward Wilt’s chest. Fearing it might be his only chance, he took the pen, and signed his name in black ink.
“You think he’s it?” Just’s heckler asked.
Just eyed the soldier as the man dabbed his bleeding scars. Wilt looked woozy, seated against the tree as if he struggled to stay awake. The amount of blood the man had lost would have killed him if not for Just, it was no surprise he would be tired.
Like everyone else, Wilt seemed not to hear the creature which taunted Just. That was a fortunate thing; of what they spoke was none of the mortal’s business.
“Do I think he’s what?” Just asked the shadow.
Beneath the murky fog which held it together, the creature sneered at him with Silt’s face. “Do you think he is the Mother’s next attempt at Death?” it asked.
“He seems the type,” Just said.
“But he is mortal.”
“So too, was Rift before he became the Assassin. You know as well as I that such things can change.”
“Yes…” the heckler agreed. “But it seems much easier to start with godkind than to make a mortal into a god.”
“‘A god of negation must come from nothing,’” Just quoted.
The heckler scoffed. “You quote Dydal to me? I know his theories as well as you. Besides, they are rubbish. His meddling has accomplished nothing, just like the rest of you. Look at what he has done to Trel.”
Just sniffed. “Have you no respect for anyone, demon?”
“I have respect for me,” the creature said.
“You should not,” Just mocked.
The heckler laughed. “My my, such a damning critique, from one like you. It is good that I do not respect anyone, else I might have to cower at your retorts.”
The shadows flickered on Silt’s face. It wasn’t Silt, Just was certain of that, but it seemed the creature’s only purpose was to taunt Just with his past.
The ghost smiled at him expectantly, but Just said nothing; perhaps if he held his tongue long enough, the demon would leave him be.
As the silence stretched, the smile faded. “Damned predictable,” his heckler said. “The lot of you are the same. First it was Fate and Death, and now it’s your mother. And when she’s gone, it will be you. Assuming you live that long.”
“What?”
“You’re all schemers,” the heckler said. “You all pretend high morals, but deep down, each of you desires the same thing. To rule. To control. For the Fatereader, it is her culture ruled by fatings. For your mother, it is the rule of a pantheon and her obsession with creating Death. For your brother Nikom, it is Order from on high, a thing to be dictated and shaped, as if aspects are a thing to be forced into little boxes.”
“I am not like them,” Just said.
“No?” the heckler asked. “Do you not see it? You meddle in mortal affairs the same as them. What was that pact you made with Planner and Dydal? To rule Trel in pieces, as if the three of you could stave off the destruction Silt had wrought. I remember someone else who made a similar pact… what were their names and what happened to them? Ah, yes. Fate. And Death. And frankly, they did a much better job ruling this place than you and your mother, and for a lot longer. And then you killed one of them for it.”
“I killed Death because she was cruel. Because she was violent.”
The Heckler glanced to the pool of blood. “Yes, two things you’re so very unfamiliar with.”
“You compare their tyranny to mine own efforts?”
“I claim they stem from the same desires. The same greed.”
“Death ruled for power. Fate ruled to control. I seek neither.”
“You seek both.”
“I seek justice.”
“Justice? And what is this? What is this here?” The demon nodded to Wilt. “You seek to use this soldier, against his will. What do you call that? Not control, hmm
? And Trin Cavahl before him. What was that? And what will you do with them if not enforce your will?”
“I will use them to find the Whore.”
“To kill her, so you have more control?”
Just glared, but refused to speak. The creature smiled. For several moments, there was silence. Just turned back to Wilt, and watched as the mortal closed his eyes and leaned against the tree.
“Why him anyway?” the heckler asked.
Just glanced back at the demon. The smile had yet to vanish, but an uncertain bent had curled its lip.
“What?” Just asked.
“This man. Why him? And why the merchant?”
Just turned away and ignored the creature.
“I’m not leaving until you answer.”
Just sighed. He knew it was not lying.
“If the soldier speaks true, then Mother must be watching him. And you know what the merchant has done, how her desecration of Dydal’s work has stirred the gods out of hiding. The Whore will be watching her also, so between the two, Trin and Wilt, I will bring the Whore to justice.”
“Is that truly what you seek, even still? You fight so hard against her, but have you ever stopped to consider, what if she is right?”
“She is not right,” Just said.
“Perhaps, but will you not even consider it? What if Death itself is not the problem? What if the flaws, the cruelty, the injustice, what if they were a part of the woman, and not the aspect? What if they were simply inherent in the woman you slew? In the god that held the title? Would that not change everything? If Death could be compassionate rather than cold, if it could be merciful instead of indifferent, if it could love instead of hate?”
“The aspect is none of those things.”
“But how do you know?” the heckler asked.
“Because I knew her.”
“Yes, but does that mean that you knew the aspect?”
“A god and his aspect are one in the same.”
The heckler laughed. “Truly? You truly believe such foolishness? Is that not the ideal you have spent your life struggling against? That a god is defined by his role? You sound like Fate.”
“I am nothing like Fate. I do not tread on free will.”
“No? You bargain like she does. You intimidated this rapist into becoming a slave in your service. You even bonded him like she would, so that you might peek into his thoughts. Tell me? Why bother killing Death, why bother deposing Fate, if all you mean to do is repeat their crimes? Was it only to put Death and Fate in their place? Was it only so that you could rule instead of them?”
“Shut up, demon. You know not of what you speak.”
“As I have said before, as I will say again, I know exactly of what I speak. You are wrong here. You pursue injustice confined in rogue belief. The world is meant to have a god of Death, just as Fate told you six hundred years ago. The Call of the Blood is not a fabrication of devious intent. It is a living thing, destined to fill the void left by Death, destined to repair your past mistakes. And it will succeed.”
Just glared at the creature. “I have many mistakes,” he said. “But killing the god of Death is not one of them.”
“No. But what of preventing its return? Already her death has unleashed the Call. That was your doing. What more will come? What other horrors will your arrogance unleash? Who else will you hurt? First the merchant, and now this man?”
“This man is no innocent.”
“No, perhaps not. But what of Trin Cavahl? You have no reason to believe her unjust.”
“She is just like this man.”
“In what way?” the heckler scoffed. “In the time that you have watched her, have you ever witnessed her commit a crime? Have you ever seen her do anything but live her life?”
“You know what happened when she defiled Teachings of a Whore.”
“Yes, you became a raving lunatic, who speaks to his shadow. Oh, no wait. You were that before her…”
Just clenched his jaw. “She is working for the Whore. When the merchant defiled the book, we all felt the Whore’s aura.”
“Oh, my dear fool. Is that what she is to you? She is no honorable servant as you told Wilt… You think she is the Mother’s pawn… You think that she will become the god of Death.”
“Whether my mother’s scent came from the book or the merchant, I must pursue every possibility.”
“And in the process, you will toil away in futility, forever squashing bugs while snakes breed in the cellar.” The heckler scoffed. “Sometimes I wonder if the blood has addled the lot of you, but no, you were all mad before that.”
“I am not mad.”
“No? You just act like it, then? Like all the others, you seek to control that which you cannot. The Mother will not create Death. Fate will not resurrect her sister. Her sister is gone forever. And you. You will not stop the Whore.”
Just grunted. “Well, which is it, demon? My mother will fail or I cannot stop her? It cannot be both.”
“Of course it can. You can both fail. ‘A god of negation must come from nothing.’ Do you not listen to your own words?”
“And do you not want to stop her, demon?” Just asked. “You know what my mother does is wrong.”
“Do I? Perhaps what she does is out of necessity. Or maybe it is a mercy.”
“Death is not mercy.”
“And it is those sentiments which cause you each to fail. You do not understand that which you seek to prevent, just as the Whore does not understand that which she seeks to create.”
“I killed Death. I understand exactly what she was.”
The heckler laughed. “No. You understood hate, the hate your mother instilled in you, and you understand conquest. If you reunite Trel, will it be the paradise you believe? Or will you make the same mistakes as them? ‘Perfection under me.’ seems to be the theme of you gods, but was the rule of Death and Fate perfection? Was the Mother’s rule any better?”
“Yes. Her rule was better.”
“Then why did she throw it all away? To rebuild a pantheon? To summon her god? Was all that worth the souls of her children?”
“No,” Just said. “And that is why she must be stopped.”
“Yet what you propose is not a halt, it is repetition. And of course, the irony of it all, is that you look to everyone else, but never within. Have you never wondered, with your madness, with me in your shadow, with all the horrors you have caused, ‘What if it is me? What if all along, I have been destined to become the god of Death?’”
Just cringed. “Oh, shut up, demon.”
A strange smile crept onto the shadow’s lips. “Never, dear Justice. Never.”
CHAPTER SIX
Following the contours of the interspersed hills, the road had risen above its watery courter. The ancient beauty had found another suitor – stunning cliffs that looked as though they had been sculpted from the local granite. Scorned, the river had turned away to the south, abandoning its love. Jem pitied the river. It had followed so far, only to be beaten by fragmented rocks draped in moss. Following the roll and sway of the outcropping stone, Jem realized it had been inevitable that these earthen constructs should be the victor. All along, the road had been caressing its lover. The river had been nothing more than an envious admirer. But of course, it had to be so, Jem thought, the road can only ever love the land it follows.
This morning he had woken almost happy. Food filled his stomach and for the first time in days, he’d had real company. Trin had gifted him with a sweet reprieve from his own merciless thoughts, but as the day stretched, this reprieve had become acrid, for he knew he did not deserve it.
He had spent most of the day watching the merchant from the corner of his eye. While she was much older than him, he couldn’t help but appreciate the beauty of her form. Seated here upon this bench, she looked at home. Unperturbed by the bumps and jolts, the merchant swayed rhythmically with the wagon’s cadence. Her face was beautiful and confident despite the patches of yel
lowing flesh surrounding her eye.
But there was also an emotion beneath her surface that he had seen only in that moment when she feared for her life. The expression had since vanished, but it had instantly drawn him in, because it had been so… encapsulating. It had stirred something in Jem, a response, not in sympathy, but of sympathy. The look had been so visceral, so fearful, so distraught… it had stopped him. That look had saved Trin’s life.
Jem knew fear. Like guilt, it was beguiling. It entrapped, took hold and motivated, but Trin was living in spite of it. And yet, it was not this fear that drew him in, it was the knowledge that it simmered beneath the surface, and that even with this underlying element, an aura of happiness and contentment encompassed her. And Jem needed to know how. He needed to learn from her, he needed to know how to move on, how he could live with what he’d done. Of everything, it was this resiliency that he admired, Trin’s ability to live on despite the emotions nagging beneath the surface.
He admired that resiliency and wanted to emulate it, but that admiration felt like a betrayal. Only a short time ago, he had thought himself in love. He had been forced to leave that love, but that did not mean he was allowed to give it up. He was obligated to stay true, for his lover was the victim in all of this, not him. Never him.
He did not love Trin; that was not the issue. This betrayal went beyond love, because this admiration for Trin, this knowledge of her endurance, gave him comfort. The knowledge that he might overcome his crimes made him happy. It gave him hope. And that was unacceptable. To overcome his crimes would be an acceptance of them, a contradiction to their immorality. Jem knew he had done wrong, and knew further, that he should never be allowed to forget it. For his crimes, he should pay penance the rest of his life.
And yet, despite this recrimination, a piece of him had latched on to the minor comforts Trin offered. It had found a beacon of hope, a way to free itself from the mire of anguish and self-pity. With this respite had come a desire for more, and for a short time, Jem had reveled in this happiness. He had thought himself capable of moving on from the events of recent days, and the terrors of years past.
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 10