“The Legion is still a week out,” Beda said.
Her face glowed when the consul sneered.
“They await reinforcements at Derlin keep and will not march for another week at most. I have dispatched messengers to the farms, but we will give them time to choose before we pull back to Dekahn.”
“And Mayor Durahl?” the consul asked.
“He has chosen to stay.”
“Bah. They tempt the rot. By Trellish or famine, they will die in the Fields. You should drag them out by their hair.”
“They have made their choice, we will protect who we can. You are intent on returning with us?”
“Yes. We will make the Faithful howl till the Farmer returns to coddle them.”
“We-” Beda started.
A New Guard scout stumbled through the hide flap, his face flushed and drawn. Leaning on his knees, he breathed heavy. Beda stood to greet him.
“Commander,” the scout said. “We must speak. Legion soldiers have been sighted.”
“Where?”
“A day to the northeast, Commander.” The soldier righted himself, but his breathing didn’t slow.
“The northeast? Surely they are only scouts?”
“No, Commander, too many, they have the look of Derliners.”
“But their reinforcements…”
The soldier shrugged. Beda grabbed his shoulder and led him out of the tent, barking orders as she went.
The consul coughed. Null glanced at him as he tilted his head toward the exit.
“Get out, witch,” the consul shouted, and Null obeyed. She wasn’t afraid of the man, but she did not want to spend a private moment with him. As she stepped out into the light, she stood a moment, uncertain where to go. Military matters were of no interest to her, so there was no point in following Beda.
The pulsing pain in her wrist made her think of the woman. She had included Null in stealing the consul’s seat, but did that mean anything? Maybe without the spymaster’s influence, Beda might come to accept her. It was hard to believe, but Beda loved the king first and the spymaster second, and since the king treated Null fairly, it was possible that without the foundation of Lock’s teachings, that Erin’s impartiality might rub off on his commander.
She hoped it was true. Even a single friend back at court would be a major victory. She only had Mycah, and maybe the queen, if she could be called a friend. Null’s world was too small. This was her first venture outside the palace in several years; not since she and Mycah had settled the refugees three years ago. Lately, she found herself wondering about what else was out there. From Mycah, she knew a lot about Atherahn, and that was exactly the reason she would never go there, but there were other nations; other places. At times, she found herself contemplating the High Cleric’s offer. In Trel you would be respected as a true priest to the gods. Null did not want to be a priest, but the thought of a world where she would be respected was enticing.
“Praise be to Entaras,” a voice spoke. The courtesan, Twil, sat on his cauldron. The woman who had been scrubbing was gone, and his crowd dispersed. He looked at her expectantly, leaning toward her, his chin raised to look up at her.
“What did you say?” Null asked.
“Nothing my child, I was simply greeting you.” The priest met her gaze.
She looked away. Null had learned long ago to drop her eyes when speaking to figures of authority. Mycah had taught her not to be ashamed, and with his help she had overcome the habit, but with those she didn’t know, or when she was agitated, the habit often returned. Aside from Mycah, priests made her nervous. They were the reason Null was hated, because of their false faith which had conquered the world and then enslaved it.
He mistook the gesture. “Do not be frightened, child. The Whore’s cult is about the health of the body and soul. This mask is one of love, not of judgment.”
“I am not frightened.”
Curiosity got the best of her, and she lifted her eyes to meet his. They were brown behind the mask, and filled with compassion.
“Your greeting…” Null said. “It is a chant. For royalty.”
“No, young Entaras. The Praise is for the Great Ones and their Chosen.”
“Like the king?”
“Yes, and Lock, and for priests and the gods. It comes from a time when we still farmed, and when our only concern was for pleasing the Mother and her holy children.”
Null frowned. “And why do you use it for me?”
“Your title, Entaras.”
“Entaras is not my title, it is my name.”
Twil stood and bowed his head in apology. “Forgive me child, I am mistaken, I thought it was the ancient title.” Raising his head, he turned to leave.
“Wait,” Null said. “Entaras, what does it mean?”
“In Drennish: ‘priest of,’ but the language is as dead as the Butcher.” Without warning or cause the priest convulsed, swaying on his feet before recovering.
Null stepped to help him, but he waved her away.
“I am fine, child; I apologize if I frightened you. It was only the spasms of age. They come and go.” He wiped a hand to the brow of his mask, as if wiping away sweat.
Null puzzled at that. An expression, surely.
“Do you speak to the gods, child?” the priest asked.
“No,” Null stated. The drivel of the Faithful, there are no gods to speak to. “I do not believe in them.”
“Of course not.” There was a sudden shine in Twil’s eyes. “Might I ask then, who gave you your name?”
“The queen.”
“Yes…” Twil trailed. “Yes, it would be her. Atep Rin is a perceptive woman.”
“Rin Tepa,” Null corrected.
The courtesan nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course. Rin Tepa.” He made a gesture that encompassed his head and body. “The shakes, you see, they scramble my wits. Is it true then?”
Null blinked. “Is what true?”
“Are you the one? Are you the Priest of Nothing?”
“I have never heard of such a thing.”
The mask covered it, but somehow Null knew that the priest was smiling.
“Entaras Null is a holy figure,” Twil said. “Mentioned in Teachings of a Whore.”
Holy figure? The queen is an Atheist, why would she give me a religious name? Wait. The book, Null noted. The same book the High Cleric wanted.
“What does it mean?” The question had been intended as a thought, but she’d spoken it aloud. Fool, Null chided. Control yourself.
“Eh, another of the Whore’s obsessions,” the courtesan said with a wave. “I could tell you, but no doubt you would not understand.” The priest stretched and yawned. “Thank you, Entaras.” He turned back to his cauldron. “Your time is appreciated.”
“Wait,” Null asked. “What is so important about this book? In Dekahn, it is the only religious book we do not burn.”
The eyes that regarded her were penetrating, as the priest chuckled. “Teachings of a Whore is the key to the Mother, but be careful child. She will try to shape you into what she requires. Just as she did with Silt, just as she did with Sybil. Just as she did with me. She so wanted to make Silt into Death, though… I am not quite certain what value she might have seen in you.”
Null’s skin broke into gooseflesh. The warning of manipulation by a god was too reminiscent of Mycah’s. Dreams are only dreams. The gods do not exist.
“Is Absence worse than Death?” the courtesan continued. “How will she mold you, I wonder? I am Truth and Logic and Thought, but you… she must strip away all that you are.” The priest laughed then turned and strutted away. “Are you the Mother’s servant, or is it Trin Cavahl, or perhaps dear Wilt behind this mask? Which of you will become her god of Death? And what of the boy for which you are named? The promises… so very similar, but which are coincidence and which are Fate… For myself, I do not think that you are it, Entaras Null. I have watched you for far too long in preparation for this war.” The voice became a
whisper as he reached his cauldron. The priest toppled head first, but the laugh continued.
With clammy palms, her breath came short and ragged. Priests, she sighed. It is a wonder they conquered the world. Null turned for her tent. Rest from Atheists, Vandu, and priests sounded wonderful.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Let go of my tongue, demon, Wilt ordered. A spasm took his legs, and as he toppled, the cauldron hit him in the gut, knocking the breath from him.
The god’s laughter continued.
Stop, fool, I sound mad. You will spoil the ruse!
The laughter stopped and the god’s presence vanished.
Facedown, sprawled across the overturned cauldron, Wilt lifted the mask enough to spit blood. He’d bitten his tongue in the landing and the taste of iron flooded his mouth. Using the cauldron as leverage, he lifted himself then turned to sit. With a hand beneath the porcelain mask, he rubbed his mouth. Blooder, he thought, then winced. When nothing came, he opened a single eye and glanced around. Ha! Even the curse knows it’s true. A shock of pain rippled through him.
A presence shimmered behind Wilt’s eyes. Shut up, rapist, the god drawled, and then was gone. Wilt sucked through his teeth to gather the blood from his bleeding tongue, and as he spat a second time, he spat as much for the god’s foul touch as he did to clean his mouth.
Just’s interventions were growing more and more direct, and upon seeing the king’s mage, the one the Dekahnian’s called Entaras Null, the god had taken full control of Wilt’s body. Until now, he’d not known it possible. The thought made him queasy. When the vomit came, he was glad the mask was already up. Washing his mouth with water from his canteen, Wilt leaned back and replaced the porcelain. The smell of vomit was rank, so he stood and dragged the cauldron behind the consul’s tent. As he stepped aside, Wilt considered the words Just had spoken to the young mage… Does the god truly believe that the Mother has a future for me? he wondered. The more he heard it, the more he liked the sound of it. Particularly because it seemed the Whore was violently opposed to her son, and him to her.
And a god of Death, at that… He particularly liked the sound of that part. Living amongst the rot, the Vandu had always been close to bloodshed and decay. Indeed, Wilt was quite certain that a god of Death could come from no place else; that a god of Death had to be born in such a wicked place.
How do you like the sound of that, eh Just? Wilt asked. Me? A god like you.
The demon didn’t answer. Wilt leaned back on his cauldron.
For some reason, his fool kin thought nothing of the location Wilt had chosen beside the consul’s tent. Perhaps they believed the hides too thick, or the consul too wise, but Wilt could hear every word that was spoken inside the tent. The god had finally promised Wilt something he wanted, vengeance against the man who’d dethroned his grandfather.
Wilt had hoped his parents would be here as well, but it turned out they were long dead. Fearful of any challenge, the consul had strung them to a horse and dragged them across the plains. It was said to have been a gruesome event, still spoken of in hushed, angry tones. Wilt decided that was for the better, as it would make his task easier. His parents may have been fools, but if the Vandu cringed at their deaths, it meant their names still held weight in the community, and thus, so would his.
Wilt leaned toward the hide. It was silent in the consul’s tent. After shooing Entaras Null out, the consul had sounded frantic, but now his curses and pacing had stopped. It had been interesting news the scout had brought, not for its content – through the god, Wilt already knew of the Grand Legionnaire and her regiment’s march on Dekahn – but for its timing. He’d thought the New Guard scouts would have found them days ago, but this was perfect. With the Legion a day to the northeast, it would be a race to the capital. The New Guard would get there first, but it was the panic that was vital. With fear of the impending failure of their king, the Vandu would be easy to turn. Rebellion in the land of rebellion, that was his task, and the more days he spent amongst his people the easier it sounded.
Grandfather had never treated the women well, not by Trellish standards, but his uncle had taken the Warrior’s Rights to a new level. The need had been overlooked, and the women were more slaves now than people. The regard for population growth had been abandoned, and simple desire had taken precedent. The consul had taken ten wives instead of two, stealing daughters from fathers and wives from husbands. The men were angry, and the women were not as docile as they seemed. Three had already come to Wilt, asking for guidance. Four others had taken him to their beds, one of them married to the consul. Wilt thanked the gods the Vandu remembered the courtesans. While the horse warriors were loyal to Wilt’s uncle, the women and shepherds were ripe for insurrection. Wilt suspected, that in time, even the warriors could be swayed with a little help from the women.
And worse, the fiend has taken my mother’s name. He is no Locust. He is Snail, second child of Vermin. It is bad enough to have taken my seat and Grandfather’s life, but Mother’s honor as well? The vile wretch has gone too far.
Wilt hadn’t expected this taste for espionage. Perhaps it was the elaborate fantasies he’d concocted over the years in Derlin Keep, or maybe it was nothing more than a desire for vengeance, but life had become a paradise. The god was intrusive and cruel, but Just’s tenet was easy to follow; obey or suffer. It was not a hard choice, only made easier by the Mother’s gifts. While his world remained bleak and hollow, his vision still seemed sharper and his body stronger. If Just kept his promise, Wilt would even be allowed to reclaim his grandfather’s title.
Or at least he thought these advantages a gift… He had already been reborn beneath the tree, and it would not surprise him to learn that these heightened senses but proceeded godhood, yet a part of him had begun to wonder, why him? If the Mother had indeed given him these things, as his vision had shown him beneath the tree, what was the purpose?
Wilt sighed. Did it really matter? Either way, he was here, and he was enjoying it. Wilt couldn’t wait for vengeance, for that moment he declared himself consul and then slit his uncle’s throat. Just will rue his meddling, but Snail shall truly suffer. And that was Wilt’s plan. To make the god suffer.
Wilt winced at the short jolt which reverberated from his scars.
And even if that isn’t the case, how hard could it be to obtain this book? The god had finally revealed the elements of his plans; the Legion would besiege Dekahn and Wilt would use the resulting chaos to steal Dydal’s Teachings of a Whore from the library in the city. It sounded simple, but Wilt suspected deceit. The god made out like Wilt could waltz in and out with book in hand, but if that were true, then why did the god not steal it himself? There was a foulness to the whole ordeal, but there was not much Wilt could do other than obey. Outside of the rot, he had no knowledge of magic and could not undo the curse alone. His only hope was that the god was right about the Mother and her promise being real.
A soft buzzing called Wilt’s attention. Voices. Wilt rebuked himself for moving the cauldron; from here he couldn’t see who had entered the tent.
“You are ready to move, Locust?” He didn’t know the voice.
“Yes,” Wilt’s uncle said. “It is true then?”
Wilt ground his teeth. It had been twenty years, but Snail’s voice still struck a chord in him. That damned, blooding whistle when he tightens his jaw. The spit when he breathes through his teeth. The rasp when he presses his tongue to their points. Soon Wilt would own those teeth, and make of them a collar to fit his uncle’s neck.
“It is,” the stranger answered. “The Legion has outwitted my agents and approaches Dekahn. I have already given Beda orders to fall back to the city. When the New Guard marches, you will go with them as we discussed.”
“Yes, spymaster.”
Of course, Wilt realized. Uncle has always been too close to the Atheists. It is the reason Grandfather banished him. The spymaster’s reach was legend, and in Trellahn, many whispered that he was the t
rue ruler of Lock. Wilt wished he knew the truth; before now he’d never had reason to care about Lockish politics. In Derlin, his only worries had been his mop bucket and his shit rag, neither of which he missed.
“We must discuss this priest outside your tent, Locust.”
“What of him?” Snail asked in a heated tone.
“You know how I feel about Trellish influence. It must be stamped out before the Faith can infect the peasants. Why have you allowed him to live?”
“His words are harmless. He has become a joke, a laughingstock. My warriors listen only to mock him and the Vandu cheer when they do.”
“I listened to one of his sermons, Locust.”
Did you now…
“Your people are not as loyal as you believe. They seem to worship Lock as a god.”
“That is good, is it not? That means they will do anything you say.”
“Yes, but the Atheists have no gods,” the spymaster said. “Lock was not perfect. Your people should serve me, not him. Rein them in, Locust, or you will be replaced.”
“You would replace me?”
There was silence in the tent, even the obnoxious hissing caused by Uncle’s teeth was halted, and then the spymaster spoke, his voice a low rumble.
“I replaced your father did I not? There are always those as eager as you were. Perhaps one of your own sons?”
For several moments, the threat hung in the air, uninterrupted.
“Make sure the priest is dead before you reach Dekahn.”
Wilt heard the sound of metal striking bone and then the entire tent shook.
“Careful, Locust,” the spymaster said. “You wouldn’t want to burn down such a lovely home. Oh, and one last thing. Do not let me hear you disrespecting my agent again.”
“The mage?”
“Lock no,” the man laughed. “Commander Stills. If the mage dies, I will not be upset.”
The voice faded with these last words. The hides of Snail’s tent billowed. Wilt stood and ran to the edge of the tent, peeking around the corner. A man in Vandu boiled leather and a furred winter hood walked toward New Luddahn. Wilt scowled at his back.
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 41