Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One

by Justan Henner

  Getting down was a simpler matter as cushioning a fall was knowledge he did have. Loy leapt from the wall and landed silently in a dark alley beneath a wooden tower. Looking to the sky, he estimated it to be less than an hour after full sunset.

  As he looked into the sky, another violating wave assaulted him, driving Loy to his knees. The vile wrongness had returned, this time weaker, but still imposing and horrific.

  When his mind recovered, he heard a voice shouting. Loy rolled onto his back and looked up onto the wall. The woman – the soldier – was staring down at him, her great helm returned to her head, but the visor up so he could see her face. Her gaze was upon him.

  “All right down there?” she yelled.

  “Fine,” Loy mumbled.

  “Good,” she said. “Now get back into the city, citizen. The walls are prohibited in this time of crisis.”

  For ordering him about, Loy thought of a gust of wind that might knock her into the street, then thought better of it. There were many godkind within this city and his aura may have already brought notice. Besides, he had no way of knowing who this mortal belonged to; better to not offend any of his potential allies.

  Loy reclaimed his feet and shouted acknowledgment to the guard before following the alley to the main avenue. He was relieved to see the road paved with setts instead of cobbles. Already, he liked Dekahn more than Trel.

  And then something odd caught his eye. Loy walked to the walkway lining the road, to one of the street’s light sources. A trough. It was a trough made of wood, the kind used to feed livestock, but filled with lit coal and covered by a wooden lattice. Disbelieving, Loy pressed his hand to the wooden frame. It cannot be, he marveled. What keeps it from burning? But he already knew the answer. The birthright. These troughs were warded against fire. No… No the entire valley, it must be. That is why I could not start a fire last night. That is why the Legion sits in darkness. The wood here does not burn.

  “Nikom’s Blessing,” Loy swore, and knew it must be so.

  Slayer cackled in delight. She had followed him. The Fatereader had tried to take Slayer’s choice, but that did not matter. She had refused one deal, but taken the other. She had to protect him. That was her task. She would have done it anyway. She had been following for that very reason. She would not have him. Not yet.

  But right now, she didn’t care. Finally, her patience would pay off. This city. The Farmhold, yes, she recognized it from long ago. This city was a paradise. But she hadn’t thought… not with Trel the way it was… so many godkind, so many auras, all of them awaiting her. Awaiting their deaths.

  She would take them. She would break them. She would kill them, mash them; she would harvest them, she would feel the power of the Call. It had been so long. So long since she’d felt anything more than a trickle. But these ones… some of them were strong. Strong enough to know what they were. Strong enough to use the birthright. It had been so long since she had partaken of the blood, but tonight would be a feast.

  She would start with the weakest.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Bell shot Skibs an uncomfortable glance. There was an unfortunate side effect of being a personal guard to important people, in that Bell was often privy to conversations that he simply should not hear.

  “If we do not strike soon our grain stores will rot and there will be no hiding it.”

  The canvas of the Grand’s tent was thick, but did little to muffle the voices within. Three times Marl had argued this point, and finally, her calm was breaking. An urgent plea carried her words, and each time she spoke, both her voice and words grew bolder.

  “Please, Mother, we must act.”

  “Have faith, Third, the time will come when it comes.”

  “But… but, Mother, our soldiers could starve.”

  Bell expected shouts, he expected a reprimand, a critique of Marl’s audacity. There was no such reprisal. The Grand’s voice was her same relaxed drawl. “They could, but they will not.”

  “But how can you be so certain.” These words were a reprimand. Bell could imagine the Grand’s speculative glare.

  “The Faith allows, my daughter. Do you not trust in your god?” Cyleste’s voice sounded disappointed, as if she had failed to pass on some quality to her daughter.

  “I apologize, Mother,” Marl said. “But I do not see how waiting will solve this crisis. Our troops cannot handle high alert and double watch for much longer. They will be worn through before your waiting finally ends.”

  “Yes, if they have not starved first.”

  Skibs chuckled then offered Bell an apologetic smile. It was basic courtesy to pretend they could not hear. At least with the High Cleric, they had been eavesdropping on issues of little import; the High Cleric being more concerned with his hoard of buttons than matters of state.

  The Grand’s comment was followed by a long silence. Abruptly, the flap whipped open and Third Legionnaire Marl bustled out. From cold or anger, her cheeks held the color of a rose, and her eyes spoke the promise of long hours digging latrines should any confront her. She seemed not to notice Bell and Skibs standing guard outside the tent, and for that, Bell was grateful, a gratitude that was short lived.

  “Bell,” the Grand Legionnaire called.

  Skibs grinned. “Don’t yer worry,” Skibs whispered. “I’ll be listening in case she trounces yer the way she’s done Marl.” His smile widened. “So’s I can rub it in yer face later, obviously, but that’s the price yer pay fer bein’ her favorite.”

  “Shut up, Skibs.”

  Skibs chuckled. “Bawh, don’t beat the herald. Oh wait, she’s already done that. Maybe she’ll be all tuckered out.”

  “I can hear you, Gableman,” the Grand’s voice warned.

  Skibs laughed even harder. “Good, then yer know not to beat me fer informing yer.”

  For a moment the tent was silent, then, “Now, Bell.”

  Almost sighing, Bell attempted to disguise it as a yawn. How a yawn was better than a sigh when it came to an order from the Grand, he wasn’t sure, but it seemed reasonable when he’d started. Shaking his head, Bell entered the tent. She stood before her flimsy pine desk with her hands held rigid behind her back. Her eyes stared into his the moment he entered, as though she had remembered and already estimated his eye line before inviting him in.

  “Yes, Grand?” Bell asked. In an effort to appear calm, he pulled his hand off his sword hilt and let it hang. The gesture made him feel even more uncomfortable and awkward, for over the many years he had spent standing around waiting for the unlikely to happen – and by trying to appear ready for any occurrence – he had grown accustomed to the hand rest. Trin’s the most terrifying woman I’ve ever met, so how is it the Grand can make me squirm worse than she ever could?

  “I assume you overheard my words with the Herald?” Her eyes flitted to Bell’s now hanging sword arm, a brief smile passing her lips.

  “Yes, Grand.” He didn’t see the point in denying it. If she could hear Skibs’ whispers, then she must know they could hear her words with Marl.

  “And?” She rolled her hand in a circle.

  Bell was tired of that gesture; she seemed incapable of asking what she wanted to ask, and though he respected her and her position, the habit irritated him.

  “What is your opinion, Legionnaire Bell?”

  Oh gods. Bell could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. Soon he’d be as red as the Herald had been, and for a far more embarrassing reason. “If she spoke the truth… Well, then I think she’s right. I don’t see the advantage in waiting… I just…” Bell trailed off.

  “Speak, Bell.”

  “I don’t see how faith will feed our soldiers.”

  The Grand loosened her hands then brought them before her to rest on the chair beneath the desk. “Yes, Marl is similarly disillusioned. It is a pity that you see it so, but it explains much.”

  “I’m sorry?” Bell asked.

  “You do not understand faith, which explains why
you cannot choose a patron.”

  Bell opened his mouth to respond, but she waved him to silence.

  “Do not mistake me, Bell Cobbren. That is not an insult, it is simply an observation. I would be an inadequate general if I did not know the weaknesses of those I keep close.”

  Bell frowned. “I do not think that distrust in faith over action is a weakness.”

  “No,” Cyleste agreed. “But ignorance is.”

  “If I am ignorant, it is because you ask for trust without explanation.”

  The Grand’s head tilted in a slight nod. “A valid point, Legionnaire. A valid point. I shall explain then: you and Marl question my trust in the Faith, and my use of it as my reason for waiting. But instead of reasoning why, on her part at least, she continues to argue. In a sense, she is taking it on faith that I am being a fool, when in reality, I am being quite pragmatic, which by the way, I have explained to her.”

  “So then, what is this reason that holds you?”

  “Faith.”

  “But that is the same reason you gave before.”

  “And that is the flaw you and Marl continue to exhibit. There is more to the Faith than our beliefs, Bell Cobbren. There is a tangibility to it. History, records, culture, and cults. A tangibility that you and the Herald do not recognize, but it is that tangibility that I must act upon, whereas her solution, the one you advocate, is based purely upon belief. And so you see, it is you who makes decisions based on faith, not me.”

  Bell sighed. “I do not follow. Perhaps if I knew of this tangibility you speak of. I believe in the gods, I do, but I cannot trust my life to the hopes that they will act in my interest.”

  “Ah, but that is my point. It is not a hope, but a certainty.”

  “A certainty based on faith?” Bell asked.

  “A certainty based on reality.”

  Again, Bell shook his head, but this time in wonder. “You are right, Grand, I am not yet ready to choose a patron. Not if that is the level of faith required.”

  The Grand clicked her teeth. “It is not faith. It is reason.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “Speaking of, have you thought on what I said of Just’s cult?”

  “About joining?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have, but I do not think I will.”

  “You do not prize justice?”

  “I do not understand it.”

  “No,” Cyleste agreed. “Few do. It is a shame, but should you change your mind, please feel free to approach me.”

  “Uh, thank you, Grand.” Bell saluted, but the Grand seemed suddenly preoccupied, in her eyes a faraway look. He followed her gaze, but saw nothing but the canvas walls of her tent. “Grand?” Bell prodded.

  Again, she ignored him. She stepped past him, out into the night. Confused, Bell followed. She stared blankly into the sky and her lips trembled, mumbling to herself in thought.

  “Grand,” Bell repeated.

  Her stare broke, and her attention darted to Bell. “My apologies, Legionnaire, a moment of distraction overtook me. You are dismissed. Both of you, return to your camp and ready yourselves.”

  “Grand?” Bell said a third time, as Skibs said, “Ready fer what?”

  The Grand turned and shooed them with a wave before entering her tent. Bell and Skibs shared a look, then shrugged and set off for camp.

  Once out of earshot of the Grand, Skibs resumed his giggling, a low, mocking chuckle. “Boy, talking ter that woman’s harder’n arithmetic. I couldn’t understand a single thing she said ter yer. What in Butcher’s name was she talking about?”

  “I wish I knew,” Bell sighed. “Apparently, my faith is not up to par.”

  “Not faith,” Skibs mimed. “Certainty.” The last word was barely discernible as his chortling overcame him. Bell waited until Skibs had laughed himself out.

  “How did you do it, Skibs? How did you swear yourself to Just?”

  “Well it were easy, ‘specially considering I didn’t.”

  “What?” Bell had always assumed… I guess I never really asked.

  “I’m not part of Just’s cult, those people are too fanatical fer me. I may be a deacon’s son, but I was raised on a farm. I don’t want ter spend me whole life measurin’ the morality of every butchering act. I just want ter live my life an’ enjoy it with me wife.”

  “Well, who are you sworn to then?”

  “Nikom,” Skibs shrugged. “People always needin’ food. It’s what I know, and it’s what I lived, and if I can help the harvest some with my service, I’d like ter try.”

  “So, duty then?”

  Skibs hummed, considering. “Maybe so. I don’t really think of it that way, but I suppose it is. Although, I think there’s more ter it fer me. I seen people starve. Don’t like it. Makes me feel good ter know that there’s going ter be a good crop and that maybe I helped some. Like maybe my prayers gave the Farmer that extra strength he needed ter save another field from frost er another village from hunger fer a month er two. Yer a northerner. Yer don’t understand what it’s like ter have a bad winter. And I mean a real winter like we got in Gable. Yer ever gone a full day without seeing sunlight?”

  “No.”

  “Me either, but I heard of it before from some Hornish who’d come north from the Horn. Can’t say I envy them.”

  For a while, they walked through the tent rows in silence. Their fellows seemed forgetful of the fight awaiting them, as cheers and laughter rose from every campsite. The night’s chill seemed not to affect them.

  “I like your reasons,” Bell finally managed. “They sound selfless.”

  “Selfless?” Skibs said. “Shit no. It’s so’s I can sleep at night. Believin’ that shit relaxes me. I couldn’t live if I thought the fields were going ter freeze anyway, that I’m as helpless as a babe in the woods, crying in-ter the wind just hoping ter survive the night. It isn’t no selflessness, Bell, but that don’t mean it’s selfishness either. If I didn’t believe those things, I’d be like ter go mad, and then what good were I be? What’d Rise do? It were break her heart.”

  “Still sounds selfless to me.”

  Skibs grunted. “Well, thank yer then, but it’s not necessary.” Skibs stared ahead, seeming to avoid Bell’s gaze. “Bell,” he continued, “don’tcher swear ter some cult because yer feel obligated ter. Yer take yer time and make the right choice. The choice yer happy with, not the choice yer think is selfless er noble. Yer life is about yer and the people yer care about, not all the rest of that bullshit. Find a way ter be happy, not butchering martyrdom.”

  “I’m trying Skibs, I mean, I am happy, but when it comes to this I’m not sure what will do it.”

  “Pawh,” Skibs scoffed. “Tell her how yer feel yer butchering idiot.”

  “The Grand?” Bell asked.

  Skibs gave Bell a glare that said Bell was the dumbest man on the planet.

  “Yer know who I mean. Don’t pretend.”

  “Trin.”

  “Aye.”

  “She isn’t ready for that.”

  “Yer might be right about that, but are yer going ter spend yer whole life waiting? That’s blooding crazy.”

  “You’re right,” Bell admitted. “A bit longer.” He gestured to encompass the camp around them. “At least until all this is over.”

  “And if tomorrow we attack the city and yer butchering die? What then?”

  “Well then, that’s exactly it, Skibs. Then she doesn’t know and she doesn’t have to suffer knowing how I felt.”

  “Bell, if yer died she’d suffer anyway. If that girl loves anyone, it’s yer. Night before we left, she looked ready ter storm the Grand’s tent and thrash the woman.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Big surprise.” Skibs glanced away. “I’m sorry, Bell, but someone needed ter tell yer that yer being a blooding idiot.”

  “But what about Taehrn?”

  “I know he’s yer friend, Bell, but Butcher take him. There’s a million excuses not ter do something, and e
very one of them’s just a reason ter be miserable. Stop choosing them.”

  Bell fell silent. It was never fun to think that maybe he’d made the wrong decision. Maybe I do have a regret. But just the one. A horn sounded on the hill behind them, a somber blast that promised sorrow. Gear up, form ranks. “Looks like the Grand’s decided to move.”

  A scream punctuated the night, pulling Bell’s attention to the nearest ring of tents. Every soldier there was on his or her feet, some with palms pressed to their mouths, others pointing into the sky, a few shouting or gasping, but all staring at the same ghastly sight. The smallest moon burned in the sky, an immense storm of red flaring through the once murky, but pristine surface.

  “Gods, what is that?” Bell asked.

  He did not hear or see the Grand ride up behind them. When she spoke, her voice was confident and proud.

  “That is our certainty, Bell Cobbren,” she said. “That is our certainty. Armor on and shields ready, gentleman. Our sign has come, we march on the city.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Though less than an hour dead, the corpse already smelled of rot. Knowing his people, Wilt suspected the man had smelled that way even before his death. This was the first Vandu casualty, but far from the first crime. There had been eleven beatings, seven stabbings, five broken skulls, and a disemboweling. Of these crimes, only the disemboweled victim had been Dekahnian, but it was the horse warriors, accustomed to free rein and their supposed inherent superiority, that were furious. They were unused to being treated as inferiors, but now, savage, barbarian, and demon were all titles the Vandu had become familiar with.