Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One

by Justan Henner

  And after this war, they’d be released from service. Some of them might remember the people they met and the ordeals they went through together, and they might even speak well of the Legion, but most would probably remember only that everything they’d seen and everything they’d lost had been forced upon them by the blades of the Legion. They’d pass on harsh stories to their children, their neighbors, their friends, and even without the Writ, another generation would learn to hate the Legion, because sadly, nearly forty percent of their forces were conscripts. Again, the priesthood would alienate the populace, and as always, it would be the Legion who suffered for it.

  Bell hoped this coming war would be an easy one; that the Lockish were as backward as was rumored. Otherwise, this might be a hard lesson.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Again, Jem’s rest had been plagued by nightmares. While this was nothing new, the form was. In days past, his dreams had been of guilt, but these had been of fear.

  Jem had worn the clothes of a miner. A familiar lash struck first his chest and then curled up to strike his face. A man without a face or features was chained to Jem at the leg. This man too, wore the clothes of a miner, but upon his lapel: the Mark of a Legionnaire. A face was not needed for Jem to know that this fellow was Bell.

  Jem’s eyes followed the whip to his assailant. This face was of no one he recognized, but the identity he felt was his father’s, and then for obvious reasons, Taehrn’s. These men-in-one wore neither symbols of pride nor marks of honor, only the colors of the Legion. In one hand they held the whip, in the other, a dog whistle.

  There was no floor, at least not one of depth, but he sensed it covered in his blood. The shackle at his leg was redundant. It was not bindings that held him in place. The faceless shade of Bell shouted at him to fight back against the whip. Though Jem held a pick in his hands, he did not lift it to retaliate. He did not even move his arms to defend himself. A row of miners waited behind him, watching with dead eyes. A child is beaten. A child who’d hoped only to protect them. And still, they do nothing. His father separated from his assailant, his eyes drifted away, and he wandered off. Was it cowardice that had spurred his father? Denial? No, it was conviction.

  A heavy coat of despondency weighed on Jem. The image of Bell urged him to react. It pulled at the chains that tied them together, not to escape, but as if attempting to elicit any movement at all. Jem’s own cries pounded in his skull. Rare for dreams, this one took place fixed behind his eyes. His perspective did not shift and his limbs did not move. He was trapped within himself.

  When he woke in the morning it was with the same thought to which he’d fallen asleep: I am not one of them. I will not become one of them. But as of now, he knew this for a lie. An army of guilt assailed his soul and it was winning without contest. He could change that. All it took was the desire. But can I find it?

  He awoke with a headache, a full bladder, and an itch beneath his skin. The alcohol had been too much, but he knew that pains of drink often cleared once afoot. The itch worried him more. It was a new sensation, a feeling he had never before felt, but he hoped it too would fade. Straining his eyes against the harsh light, Jem sat up and surveyed the room. His bags and Lu’s staff leaned against the desk chair, untouched, but the merchant’s things were gone and the bed next to him was empty. That was no surprise. His vitriol had driven Trin away and she would be better for it. Rising from bed, Jem crossed to the window. The shadows on the street were short; it was past midday. He had a little money, so perhaps he could stay another night, but it was probably best to save all his coin for food. Either way, he would need to visit the market.

  He found the room key on the desk next to his things; Trin must’ve left it for him to return. Jem picked it up and slipped it into a pocket, gathered his belongings, left the room, and went downstairs. The innkeeper was behind the bar. When he saw Jem, he waved as he walked to the service desk.

  “Afternoon,” the innkeeper said. Jem nodded, handing back the key. The innkeeper thanked him and wrote in the ledger atop his desk. “If you’re lookin’ for Trin-” he began.

  Jem didn’t want an awkward conversation. The innkeeper must already know what had happened between himself and Trin. There was no reason for more embarrassment.

  “Don’t worry,” Jem interrupted. “I’m not.”

  “Well,” the innkeeper replied, sounding a little offended. “I’ll just take your key then and sign ya out.”

  “Thanks. Where would I buy supplies?”

  “What are you lookin’ for exactly?”

  “Food mainly.”

  “I’d go to the market then. Go back to the main road you came in on then follow it uphill to the foot of Mason’s Bridge. Most of the farmers that come and go each day will be gathered in the large intersection where the Three Roads meet.”

  “Three Roads?”

  “Aye, northeast to Riften, east to Lock, and southwest to Trel, that’s where you’ll want to head out from anyways if you’re plannin’ on heading anywhere by foot. I’d be careful though, I’ve heard the Legion is out in force today, and it don’t take much to get conscripted.”

  “Thanks,” Jem said.

  “Also,” the innkeeper continued. “If you’re lookin’ to see the city you might want to head down to the docks. Best place to see Mason’s Bridge and maybe pick up any odds and ends you can’t find at the market.”

  Jem thanked him and left without any more words.

  The smoky haze of the day before had lifted. In its place, a glaring light which sent pulses of pain from his eyes to his skull, shone down from a cloudless sky. The discomfort reignited his headache as he rushed to cover his eyes. He ground his teeth to wait for the pain to subside. Uncovering and reopening his eyes, he cringed at the dull throbbing that still nested in his brow. Briefly, he considered returning to bed, but knew he could not afford it if he wanted to eat comfortably on the road to Trel. Forcing himself on, he set out into the city.

  It must have rained at some point during the night, for water pooled in the gutters between the street and buildings. The road was empty and the only sound came from a distance, the great clattering of metal against metal accompanied by the softer, muted sound of voices and the pounding of cobbles. The effect triggered a memory, that of standing in the forest, only a short distance from the edge of the lumber camps. The Well stirred.

  He can hear civilization, he knows it is near, but can see no one behind the walls of dense foliage and bark. All sound is muffled and abstract behind strangling vine and desperate bush.

  Now, the distance is the same, but the feeling is not quite right. There are no trees, no leaves, no bark. Sound is stifled by rock, brick, and processed wood. It echoes like water in a canyon, between walls of man’s creation; across paved roads of stone and through rushes turned to roof. It is not life that swallows sound, but the death and earth harnessed by man.

  Each street passed is as empty as this. The surrounding windows are large, created to let in light and lookers; a welcoming lure, meant to draw the eyes and envy of neighbors. A sign of wealth. But large windows mean nothing today, for curtain and shade are drawn, and wooden covers closed from inside. No pride or boast drifts from these windows; no honest friendliness or inviting promises. The doors are closed, the shops are empty, and light-colored stains coat many walls; markers of spots where signs of welcome and sale once hung. On this street, Jem’s footsteps tread alone, and the feeling that permeates the city is that of absence. This is what the forest shares. A lack of human interaction. A lack of society. The city recedes into its past, empty but for the cliffs of stone, only these handmade.

  Jem can feel the loneliness, it is cold and empty. The unusual absence claims him. He can no longer fight his thoughts and he realizes that there is a deeper truth within his nightmares. He has already lost. He is already what he’s hated his whole life. In his mind, he pictures the army of self-contempt. It stands amongst ashes, its surrounding as lifeless as the streets aroun
d him. It is content to poke at corpses, those last vessels of hope, dead and lifeless on the ground. This army, it is hatred. It fights and bites and screams at every ray of potential light. It sees color and squashes it like flowers underfoot. It stymies life. This visage flourishes upon unattended streets like these.

  In a dream, Jem cannot lift his arms, but that army can. It lifts them only to cause him suffering. He had wanted that suffering. He had embraced it. And all the rays of light were gone. His father. His love, Elyse. And now Trin. Was Trin the first he had chased away? Or had he always been this creature of discontent? No, he must have been happy once. An image: a pile of corpses in an ironless well. In a being of lies, where lives truth? It must exist, if only by chance.

  He continues walking. The distant sounds grow louder. Talking. No, chatting. Merriment. But at what expense? He understands now. Two armies. One in the streets. Out in force. The other rummaging through the ashes of his past. He turns a corner. He sees one now. The Legion, marching in unison. The townsfolk? Absent, because of this. The scene? That of a city, rotting for a day.

  Upon his ancient friend of paved stone, the city’s tormentors walk. Here they are. Killers. Thieves. Scum. Men just like Jem. In his mind, the army stands alone for its enemy is dead. In reality, an army marches through the streets in tandem, but their voices lack the same restraint. Even in condemning them, he condemns himself. He is them. A failed protector. Just like his father. He should have protected her. But, how could he? The traitor was one he did not expect.

  Both armies wear the same uniform. The soldiers of the Legion are happy and social and varied. The soldiers of contempt all wear the same face. It is not Taehrn’s. It is not his father’s. It is Jem’s. Even looking upon the ranks of the Legion, he finds a truth: All of his enemies are gone, only he is left.

  Trin was right.

  And today, that is the most upsetting of all, for he has driven her away.

  The thought pulled him from his mind like a log from a rushing stream, and in the ensuing daze, Jem glared transfixed. The soldiers marched in half-hearted rows of six abreast. The sight enraged him. These soldiers stood amongst friends, laughing and joking, ambivalent to the city that cowered around them. Overseeing the march on a raised platform, Jem spotted a familiar face: Taehrn, in the same black cloak of the night before. Perhaps not all of his enemies were gone.

  Today, Taehrn did not scowl, his face instead looking almost regal. Almost friendly. At Taehrn’s side stood an aging man, with peppered gray hair cropped short like Bell’s and Taehrn’s. The two spoke to each other, leaning and whispering as their soldiers marched beneath them. These were the men. The font of Jem’s derision. It was they who commanded, they who abused what they had been given, they who turned divinity into gold, and purchased land and wealth with iron and steel.

  Taehrn’s eyes caught his own. Jem had stood gaping too long, and as a look of recognition flickered across Taehrn’s face, he knew he’d been caught. The legionnaire leaned into the man next to him and whispered. No, at first glance a man, but looking closer, Jem realized his mistake. It was a woman, heavy, but muscular beneath simple robes stitched for mobility. Upon her right breast, she wore a single white circle. This was the Grand Legionnaire; Arbiter of High Justice and Commander of the Legion.

  Nervous, Jem turned and walked back the way he’d come. He needed to get his supplies and leave immediately. If Taehrn caught up with him, there was no telling what might happen. The last time the two had met, Taehrn had threatened his life… That had been five years ago, but Jem doubted that a man like Taehrn would ever change. Once he knew that Jem was within his control, he would find a way to use him. And Taehrn knew about the Well.

  Looking over his shoulder, Jem realized he had no hope of reaching the market. If it was positioned as the innkeeper had claimed, the Legion would be marching directly through it, and with the streets this empty here, it seemed unlikely the market would be any different. Jem turned down a side street leading toward the cliffs, hoping that the docks would be more active.

  Why didn’t I listen to Trin? Jem thought. Why do I do this to myself?

  Jem knew he’d made a mistake. The day before had been spent listening to Trin’s stories. They had been lively and often chaotically amusing. He had spent days alone, and in solitude his mind had been unable to distract him. Even now, he failed to control his thoughts. Somehow Trin had been able to do what he could not. Repeatedly, the army of contempt had snared him in a skein of contrition and each time Trin’s voice had pulled him loose. And he’d pushed her away. She was the answer. My redemption. And I ruined it. Just like I ruin everything.

  But maybe it wasn’t too late. He knew where she was going. She had an estate in Trel. He could take some time to settle his demons and then he could find her. And she could make him right again. Or is she only a distraction? A joyful ruse to blind his pain. It didn’t matter. She had made him happy. That was enough. It had to be enough. Otherwise, there was nothing left for him.

  But then he thought of the Legion, of Taehrn in his black cloak and the woman with the white circle above her breast standing above men of death, and his anger coerced his hands into fists.

  Maybe he did have more. He could still hate, and that too, was satisfying. Maybe what he wanted was not a quiet, happy life in Trel. Maybe what Jem wanted was for Taehrn to find him. Jem had already killed his own father, what was one more corpse? And this one most deserving.

  Jem’s thoughts took him to the edge of the world. They had shrouded his journey, and suddenly, he found himself above the river, behind a wall of stone bricks held together by plaster. Beneath him, riverboats docked in water that had widened and slowed. He recognized it; a greater manifestation of the river he had already seen. This was the river between Riften and Trel. What he had followed to Lane was but a shadow; a smaller copy. He saw that now, as he stood behind a wall high enough to prevent deaths accidental in nature, but not those of intent. The river was wide, just as he had seen the night before, but that memory was simply a preface to what he saw now. It stretched for at least a third of a league, far wider than at the port of Riften, but without the inlet. Instead, the river flowed slowly, allowing ships to dock along each bank. On far, the scene looked similar to the hills leading into the city: high cliffs of granite behind a rolling valley.

  The water was not as dark as the night before, but still it held the secrets of its depths. A slow ripple shimmered across the surface, heading downstream to the south. And there in the same direction, an astonishing edifice of marble he’d not yet seen; a bridge, traversing the river’s width, from cliff to cliff. Mason’s Bridge. A monument known well by any child, as grand and mythic as the Mother’s Lost Temple, the Alchemist’s University, or the Godswall of Gellin.

  Jem gaped at the construct. It was spectacular enough to match the stone road that had led to it. And that was the road’s purpose, Jem realized. To lead to this. The river followed the road and the road led to this bridge, both nature and creation seeking this wonder from either side; river and road meeting perpendicular, separated by a barrier of sky. This bridge, so ambitious as to allow the ships of river tradesmen to pass beneath. Only a god, Jem thought. No other could erect such a marvel. Who else would have had the time or purpose?

  Jem followed the wall until he found a staircase down to the docks. It was partly carved into the cliffs with sections of wood scaffolding between the segments of granite. When he reached the bottom, he took in his surroundings. To the south, the dockside ended in slow strides, as a strip of land at the base of the cliff, nestled against the outcrop of rock that served as the bridge’s launching point. To the north, the dockside stretched lazily, a mishmash of interspersed piers along a concrete base. Buildings lined the foot of the cliffs, several towering high into the air supported by wooden beams that bored into the granite. None of the buildings were even close to the height of the cliff itself. Merchant stalls dotted the wharf.

  The dockside was more vib
rant than the rest of the city. It seemed that sailors would make the best of life; even with the Legion present. A hand rested on Jem’s shoulder. Shit, Jem thought as he turned.

  Taehrn had caught up with him. The man was as large as Jem remembered, towering a foot over him, even after all these years. His shoulders were broad, covered by the red and black, long-sleeved tabard. Unlike Bell’s uniform, the lengthy, belted tabard was more elaborate, with ivory cuffs and white edging. His leggings were barely visible through a slit cut into the fabric at his waist. Though his touch was soft, Jem suspected that Taehrn could hold him rooted in place with that hand alone. Jem’s hand clenched on Lu’s staff. He had no knife. If the man attacked, Jem was not certain the Well would respond. The staff might have to do.

  “You were with Trin,” Taehrn said.

  Jem looked him up and down, then ventured cautiously. “Yes,” Jem said, curious as to why the man had chosen such a neutral beginning to their conversation. After all, they were old acquaintances.

  “Wonderful,” his uncle’s headsman said. “I am her brother-in-law. My name is Taehrn Andren. Might I ask yours?” His voice was not interrogative, but held what sounded like a heartfelt inquisitiveness.

  Taehrn’s manner was shocking. He seemed sincere, his joyful smile disarming and his dark eyes warm and inviting. But Jem knew better. He knew what type of man Taehrn Andren was. He was a man like Jem’s father; a man who would do anything to attain that which he desired. But the tone… and the introduction… Could it be possible that Taehrn did not recognize him? No. It couldn’t.

  “Jem.”

  “It is nice to meet you, Jem,” Taehrn said. He offered his free hand, but did not remove the other from Jem’s shoulder.