Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One

by Justan Henner

  “The Mother is among them?” Loy asked.

  “Yes,” the woman affirmed. “The Mother has always guided our soldiers.”

  Loy bowed graciously to this fine woman. Finally, he had found a mortal intelligent enough to answer his questions. With all haste, he set off for the docks. He would notify Niece Kindrel at once so they could leave immediately.

  Slayer watched from the Forbidden Plaza. It couldn’t be him. But it was. She had seen him. It had been so long. But he was gone. Gone like all the others. Like her boy. She had been so excited. She had felt the sea come into the port. The one of salt. She had thought to have her fill. A meal the likes of which she had not experienced in many decades. The blood of a god. A real god. Something strong enough to sate the Call.

  But it had been the other. The weaker one. He had come. Still, a fine treat. So much better than the weak blooded things that stumbled into her city. She had not seen any that strong in so many years. None but Fate and Grandfather. She stayed away from Fate, the one who had once lived in the small cottage at the top of the hill. She hated that one, whose power was too great. She wouldn’t go near. And Grandfather… He did not want to see her. He did not want her near his chapel. But one day, she would have to go up there. That was why she was here. To wait for the one that had taken it all from her. To wait for that bitch who had murdered her son. She longed for that day. For that kill. She would take it right from under Grandfather’s nose. One day, Alchemist would return, and Slayer would kill the bitch.

  But this one… this one would do for now. This one was not like Fate or Grandfather. This one could be hers. It had come to her. Right to her lair. She’d been giddy, the Call had sung its glorious promise of ecstasy and power. Until she had seen his face. A face she knew. His face. Silt’s face. This one was not prey.

  She had heard his words. He was going to Dekahn. She would have to follow. She needed to be with him. But first she had to be certain. It didn’t make sense. But she could follow. She could learn. She could have him again.

  But what if he saw her? He had turned her away once. He might again. But she could hide. He hadn’t seen her today. She could hide in plain sight. She could blend with the mortals. It was easy. She had a rule: only speak the thoughts that thought right. It would be that simple. He would not turn her away. She was stronger than Silt the Slayer now. She had ascended to his place, kept the role filled in his absence. Now, she was Slayer. And now, she would have him too.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Wilt’s largest finger bones had two positions now: a ninety-degree angle and an open palm. To move between them required the click of bone and a stab of pain. They felt as if they were frozen, and they opened and closed in spurts, like the heavy movements of an iron lock. The fluidity of all his joints was gone as if all lubrication had been squeezed from his body, which it likely had. The god had said that his joints would return to normal, but Wilt wasn’t sure he believed Just. His patron was far too crafty and far too vengeful.

  It was true, the ghost of agony that had writhed beneath Wilt’s flesh, had long departed, and the scars that marked his chest and face – though still visible – had healed, but that didn’t mean the pain wouldn’t return. Wilt wasn’t sure this was real. His worst fear was that his mind was only wandering, that he was in fact, still lying beneath the tree and one day he would wake to find himself once more in the prison of his flesh. He couldn’t trust perception anymore; it had lied to him far too many times.

  Indeed, his senses now seemed flawed. His sensations were too dull, the outer world bleak like in a dream. The colors of the world appeared washed out, sounds seemed farther, and food tasteless. It wasn’t that these things were gone; he noticed the strong flavors in his meals, the loud sound of birds singing, and the bold colors around him. It was simply that he could no longer appreciate them. His senses were no longer contributive, they were merely factual.

  He sat in a ring of dirt before a fire. It was orange. The sky above was blue, the birds were white and black. Around him was grass. Tall. Brown. The trees… present. The world’s details were a list of facts, no longer a cause for beauty. He wasn’t sure what had dulled his appreciation for the world. If anything, he’d have thought the world would seem brighter without the crippling veil of anguish. He didn’t like the pale sheen that coated life. Not because he missed the pleasures, but because it only furthered his fear that it might all be fake. What if the world was bleak because it was not real? This fear hounded him.

  Yet this same bleakness seemed to have its positives as well. There was a sharpness to those things of import, an ease of focus which drew his eye to those objects which demanded attention. It had made his prey easier to spot. The dull feeling in his limbs had made him more resilient, his stamina near boundless. The usual aches of fatigue could no longer stop him, for as hindrances went, they were not even a minor nuisance.

  In some ways, he even felt stronger. Perhaps it was simply because the pain of fatigue was now so tame, that his muscles could no longer warn him when an exertion was too much, but he had lifted an elk’s carcass and carried it thirty feet. He had cracked its bones open with just his hands.

  It was a two-pronged contradiction; to feel more capable for having lost so much. In a world where his senses were nearing death, he felt more alive than ever…

  Perhaps this was the power the Mother had promised him.

  But that was the problem. Wilt didn’t know if the Whore had really chosen him. He wasn’t sure if it was true, and didn’t want to believe that the pain was preparation for godhood – after all, what god could she hope to make him into? – but it had changed him. In addition to the bleakness of the world, his emotions had become simpler. He had only a few. The weakest was the fear. It always persisted in the back of his mind, but it was easy to ignore. He questioned if he was mad. It seemed probable.

  His second emotion was hatred. He hated the woman who had stabbed him, and he hated Just. His thoughts wanted to torture Just, to do to the god what had been done to him, but this hatred scared him, for with the signing of that book, had come a curse of pain. A curse to ensure Wilt’s loyalty. When his thoughts became treasonous, pain would sear in the Mark of the Betrayer and eight barbed spokes would dig into his flesh like knives. It was a vicious cycle; the pain made him hate the god, which caused more vile thoughts, which led to more pain. Just had alluded that many of the legends about the gods were false, but the myths of the gods’ omniscience seemed to be true. Somehow the god could tell Wilt’s thoughts, or at least the curse could, and knew when to punish him. Slowly, he was learning to control his hatred. It wasn’t extremely difficult, for he’d had enough pain for a lifetime, but it forced him to be vigilant.

  The last emotion he felt was the strongest and the most surprising. He was happy – though he’d never let the god know it. The last week had been the best of his life, enough so to stave off the urge for death. His world was bleaker, but it was also… nicer. The contrast between torture and this new life was vast, and even in this drab world, he couldn’t help but smile. The happiness seemed euphoric and without cause as though it were a natural part of him, which was stranger still. Wilt had never been a happy person.

  His days in the Legion had not been pleasant. The “real” soldiers had often mocked him for his lack of skill and he’d never made any friends. Being Lockish didn’t help. Being Vandu helped even less. When he’d failed at martial prowess he’d been reassigned to custodial duties, only to fail again. The first he’d failed out of spite, the second he’d failed out of boredom. Swordsmanship, archery, and scouting had at least been difficult and honorable, but being a steward had been tedious. Thank the gods his grandfather was dead and couldn’t see the shame he’d brought on himself. Of course, if his grandfather were alive, his parents would not have dared to sell him like they would a goat.

  Truly, everything that had happened to him was their fault. At the age of ten, they had sold him. And to the Trellish Legion no less. Wi
lt had been taught his entire life that it was his right to take from the Trellish, because they served the god who had stolen the fertility of the land; or so legend said. Looking back, that was probably bullshit. Then again, Just was an evil blooder, so maybe he could believe that a god might destroy his followers.

  Wilt had a few good memories from his childhood, not many of them of his parents. They were all of hunting, trapping, and feasting with his grandfather. If Grandfather hadn’t been killed, Wilt might have grown up to be consul of the Vandu. His mother had never had the right qualities to take her father’s place – and by qualities he meant parts – so it would have fallen to Wilt to lead their people.

  Sitting here, he couldn’t help but think he’d missed his calling. Just had given him a horse and tack, and the old skills were returning. There had been pain after the first day of riding, but it was a good pain. It had a reasonable cause and it ended. It made him feel proud, because it was like he was reclaiming a piece of himself. He’d made some basic traps, and a bow, and had managed to catch his own food. Even though he now served Just, he felt free.

  Failing to be a soldier had been trying. It had made him feel inept, but now he was regaining himself. He wanted to say it was the independence that had this effect, but he couldn’t. He hadn’t felt this way in the weeks before he’d run into Trin Cavahl. As much as he hated to admit it, he was happier since his punishment. He was happier as a result of his punishment. It was pure relief and it was that simple.

  Or maybe it wasn’t.

  The god had promised that as long as Wilt obeyed, his pain was over. More, he had given Wilt a goal that felt meaningful, but at the same time without responsibility. As a soldier, failure led to death. As a steward, failure led to shame. As a servant of a god, failure meant nothing. His hatred was beautiful that way. He didn’t like his god and he cared nothing for Just’s plans. If he failed in his assigned tasks – assuming his dark master kept his promises – only the god would suffer.

  It was a difficult feeling. He was afraid failure might elicit the god’s wrath, but at the same time, the hatred was so strong he wanted the god’s agenda to fail, which made him smile.

  “Thinking of your victims?” The god appeared before him across the fire. His face was stern, the voice of dry contempt. Wilt nearly leapt to his feet. The god had an annoying sense of humor, for this was the third time he had appeared out of nowhere to surprise him, and it was growing tiresome. His hatred flared.

  “What?” asked Wilt, his tone harsh.

  “Your smile, with a smile like that, I must surmise that you have been thinking of your victims.”

  The god’s voice was grating.

  “I have no victims,” Wilt asserted.

  The god laughed. “Oh please, even you cannot believe that.”

  “I was only taking my right.”

  Just frowned, his face looking sincerely disappointed. “Oh, dear Wilt. I was so proud of you, for until now, you had not used that pathetic, Vandu excuse. But I suppose I should not be surprised. Nothing is ever your fault, is it, Wilt? You must have a scapegoat.” The god sneered.

  Wilt wanted to hit him. In answer, a shock rippled from the scar on his chest. Wilt screamed.

  “Having guilty thoughts?” the god crooned, his condescending smile widening.

  Wilt said nothing.

  The god spoke, “It is amazing, is it not? How quickly starvation can change a people. It can take them from a proud, peaceful lot, to… well, you. Your people have fallen far.”

  “We are still proud.”

  “Yes, so proud that you sell your children into my service. Quite the display of nationalism.”

  “You know nothing of my people.”

  “You are ever the fool,” the god mocked. “Still doubting my knowledge? I know everything of your people, Wilt. I have more knowledge of your people than even you, because I have watched them for generations.” The god paused. “And besides, I was being quite sincere. After all, your people used to serve the Legion honorably.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Vandu used to be farmers – Trellish farmers. During those years, your people were very loyal to Trel and to all the gods; especially the Farmer. It wasn’t until he destroyed the Vandu lands that your people turned away from him.”

  “Field,” Wilt murmured.

  “Yes,” the god smiled. “In answer for his daughter’s death. The Fields for Field.”

  “Our myths are true, then?”

  “Some of them,” Just admitted. “Most of them are complete dribble. You mortals have rather pitiful memories and your insecurities tend to infect and twist every story to your own liking. Tell me, Wilt, how can you feel pride for the Vandu after the way in which your parents cast you aside?”

  “They alone do not represent the whole of my people.”

  “Ah,” said Just. “Your wisest words to date. But even still, enough time has passed that you’ve spent double the years in Trel than amongst the Vandu. What keeps you so loyal to them and to their foolish ideals?”

  “Our ideals are not foolish.”

  “The belief in sex as a right, even against another’s will, that is not foolish?”

  “It is our culture.”

  “No,” the god said. “It is pathetic and disgusting. A belief crafted from expediency.”

  “It is tradition.”

  The god snarled. “It was not always such. As I said, it is amazing what starvation can do to a people’s morals. As food becomes rare, and the population wanes, and rape becomes a right. And really, it is just an excuse, for breeding cannot grow the population when there is no food. Desperation ever turns people into resources. Your people are despicable.”

  “And what of me?” Wilt asked.

  “What of you?”

  “Am I not simply your tool? Am I not a resource? How can you judge my people for a crime you yourself commit?”

  A mad cackle drifted through an empty field. A voice spoke over Wilt’s shoulder. “Your servant learns,” it said. “Unless of course, he is not your servant at all, but the Whore’s. Hello, little Death. How do you like your ascension?”

  The god stared past Wilt, his eyes burning rage. Wilt followed his gaze. There was nothing behind him but rocks and grass and trees. Little Death? Wilt wondered. Ascension? Who was this creature?

  “I will not take lessons in morality from you, rapist,” Just said.

  The pain that ripped from Wilt’s scars overwhelmed him, dislodging him from his seat and forcing him into the dirt, where he curled into a ball before the fire. Convulsing and rolling, he screamed at his god.

  “Someday I will kill you,” Wilt promised. The pain grew worse and his mind began to drift. The world took on a glowing sheen, as though fire radiated from every surface. He rolled onto his side, the side facing the field. He saw a man there, his flesh emitting a cloudy gray, like a ghost made of smoke. The man’s eyes were pale against shades of emptiness. The ghost met Wilt’s gaze as it lifted a hand and pressed a finger to its lips.

  Silence? Wilt thought. Why? Was this the creature that had come to Wilt in his torture? Was this the creature that had promised him that the Whore would make him into a god? What if it had all been real? The possibilities… In an instant, the pain was gone and so too the ghostlike realm. The god was pulling Wilt to his feet, holding him up by a single hand.

  “Have you learned your lesson?” Just asked.

  Emboldened and angry, Wilt shouted. “Does it not worry you that your servants despise you?” Another shock of pain.

  “Dear Wilt, it would worry me if you didn’t.”

  Exhausted, Wilt held his tongue.

  “What?” the god mocked. “No more willful remarks?”

  Wilt kept his mouth shut, but his thoughts were not so easy to control. The thought was of a knife. If only he had one at his side, he might take his chances. The pain returned. The god laughed as he tossed Wilt into the dirt.

  “Why have you kept me alive?
” Wilt gasped, air struggling to refill his lungs. As Wilt pulled himself into a sitting position, the god walked to where he had first appeared. “Was it only to torture me further?”

  The god rolled his eyes dramatically, as if the expression could dismiss Wilt’s question better than words. “That is my business, rapist.”

  “No, demon, tell me why. If you expect me to cooperate, then treat me as more than your slave. You were ready to leave me beneath that tree, what has changed your mind?”

  “Yes…” the ghost said. “What made you spare him, Just? You have told me, why not tell him? Why not tell your little ‘project’ why he is of value to you?”

  “You dare demand things of me?” Just asked, though Wilt could not tell if the god spoke to him or the ghost.

  Either way, it was the ghost who responded. “Why would I stop myself?” it asked. “You have no way to punish me. And you avoid the point, why not tell him that you spared his life to get to your mother? Why not tell him that she seeks to make a god of-”

  “Do not mention Death again!” Just hissed.

  “Oh! Now who said that I was going to? Perhaps I wasn’t, but even so, the point remains. Why not tell this creature that there is the possibility the Mother seeks to make him into a god of Death? If it is to be his fate, then is it not in his interest to avoid it? Is it not, then, in his interest to help you? Will he not rush to be of service in order to spare himself the pain… And would it not be better to have an ally rather than a slave?”

  The words made Wilt’s thoughts swim. A god of Death. Me? The Whore had promised that he would be a god, but surely it had to have been a dream… but if the god believed it… if both Just and this creature believed it to be true… then could it be?

  And would it not make sense… Four days he had spent dying… four days he had lain in a pool of his own blood. If there was any god that he might become, would a god of Death not make perfect sense? Indeed, Just had made a ceremony of Wilt’s torture, had even noted that the tree would become hallowed ground… a place to build a temple… but perhaps, Wilt thought, it was not a temple meant for Justice… It was a temple meant for Death.