Relations between Dekahnian and Vandu were straining, and the Vandu were no longer permitted outside the western courtyard. Guards had been placed at the end of each street to keep them from the rest of the city. The warriors complained of being treated like children and the irony was palpable. For once, the men knew what it was like to be a woman, though the fools were too ignorant to make the connection.
“How was he killed?” Snail asked.
Wilt could feel the suppressed outrage in the consul’s voice, brimming in him like a thunderstorm out of the mountains. Snail seemed as angry as his warriors, but he was the spymaster’s beast – follower or slave it mattered not – so he must pretend he was not offended by this death. The horse warriors were not satisfied.
“He was bludgeoned by a Dekahnian,” Wither said.
It was a lie of course, but a lie that suited Wilt’s needs as much as the women’s cause. Wilt had gathered the story before they’d carried the corpse to the consul’s tent. The dead man had yelled at a Dekahnian who’d spat on his first wife, claiming that only he was allowed to spit on his wife. In return, the Dekahnian had called him a savage, prompting the subsequent disemboweling. Surprisingly – or perhaps unsurprisingly – it had been the warrior’s wife who had bludgeoned the warrior with the rock, screaming all the while that she was not his property. The consul was losing his grip on his people and it made Wilt smile. A mere matter of days, then Wilt would have appeased Just and reclaimed his inheritance.
“Were there any witnesses?”
The warrior on his uncle’s left answered. “No, Consul, the man was alone.” The Vandu were no strangers to death, and if not for the contempt through which the previous crimes had been committed, it might have been forgiven, but the Vandu could not accept both insult and injury.
“But-” Wither tried.
A look and a grimace of pointed fangs from Consul ‘Locust’ silenced her.
“Actually,” Wilt said.
Locust flashed his harrowing gaze to Wilt, but Wilt ignored it.
“His wives were present.”
The two women waited silently in the corner, their heads bowed in deference. They did not move forward as Wilt addressed them, but simply waited for their consul’s judgment.
“They do not have the right to testimony,” Snail’s henchman growled. “There were men present.”
“But that man is now dead.”
“There were other men present, and they claim that it was his wife who bludgeoned Famine.”
“What men are these?” Wilt asked, though he already knew the answer. “The Dekahnians?” Wilt veined the question with incredulous disbelief.
By the warrior’s frown, he knew he’d struck a chord.
“You would give them testimony? With how they have treated us? This man – Famine – would not be dead if he had been given the respect due a horse warrior. We would not have eight men and one woman in sickbeds if not for their hostility.”
“Sowthistle was stoned as a witch,” Wither added. “A witch!”
Locust’s warrior grumbled, his lips near curling into a snarl. If not for his loyalty to the spymaster, surely even Consul Locust would be questioning their mistreatment. Though he mimed a frown – irrelevant because of the mask – internally, Wilt was laughing. His fool of an uncle was destroying himself. A matter of days, Wilt reflected. A matter of days, and then they will be mine. Whether by Just’s hand, or by his own inevitable ascension into godhood, Wilt would be their consul.
The consul hissed and gestured to the two women in the corner. For a woman who had just murdered her husband, the first wife appeared meek and innocent.
“You affirm Wither’s story?” Snail asked.
“Yes, Consul,” the second wife said, repeated by the first only half a second later.
“You swear that you did not kill your husband?”
“Yes, Consul,” the first wife repeated. With blood covering her face and hands, the lie was unconvincing, which made it all the sweeter. His uncle could not side with the Dekahnians on this, not if he wanted to maintain his power over the Vandu.
Locust glared then gave a grudging nod. With a flick of his wrist, he dismissed them. Wilt bowed, placing a hand on the first wife’s arm to guide her away.
“Praise be to Lock,” Wilt recited. To the dead, the words were an honorific. To Wilt, they were a stick in the consul’s wounds. With a little stirring, he would make them hemorrhage.
The others echoed Wilt’s chant, the consul doing so after another glare and a baring of his teeth. Pulling the wife along with him, Wilt followed Wither from the tent. The consul’s warriors lifted the corpse and followed.
It is priceless the way they play at justice, Wilt mocked, but the god did not answer. Just had grown distant of late, ever since Wilt had spoken to the god’s shadow. Whether the two facts were related, or simple coincidence, Wilt didn’t know. It was too much to hope that he was finally free of them. Wilt knew there was no freedom for slaves. Except for maybe death, but that was the coward’s escape. Besides, he hoped to beat the god, not cower to him.
A crowd awaited them outside, a mix of horse warriors, his own followers, and herdsman. At the sight of Famine’s wives, Wilt’s followers chanted their thanks. Even a few from the other groups echoed the praise to Lock. The warriors looked on in silence, offering a final, somber regard for their fallen brother. There was not a face among them free from anger. A few eyed the guardsmen holding post outside their barracks. Many of the rest glared at Wilt, as if it were he who’d brought on Famine’s death. Those ones would stay loyal to Snail until the end, but the circumstances made Wilt smile. There were only half a dozen of them.
Wilt accompanied Wither and Famine’s wives to his followers. The New Guard spy, Putrescence, stood in the front row, studying him. Wilt flashed her a knowing stare, as if they were old cohorts. Of all things, the woman blushed.
His numbers had swelled since reaching Dekahn. The disdain they’d met from the Dekahnians had driven some into Wilt’s arms. For others, it was the close proximity; with the entire camp within the lone plaza, they could no longer turn away from his sermons. Each night they would hear him from their tents, they would hear his sermon and his words, his promise of a better future, his promise of Nikom’s death, and his promise of gods that watched over them, who fought for them, of a god who promised death and deliverance, though he never mentioned that this god might one day be himself.
Already he controlled four-fifths of the women and three-fifths of the men. As of yet, not a single horse warrior had broken ranks. But it is only a matter of days. Those men had lonely beds of late.
Wilt opened his mouth to speak, but was stopped by another voice.
“The wives of Famine have been freed of blame,” the consul said. He looked a man about to face his execution.
“But she killed him!” a warrior shouted.
Wilt recognized the voice; his cousin Lilt. It was difficult to believe they had once been childhood friends. My closest friend perhaps, and now my enemy.
“She claims she did not,” Locust said.
Perhaps Famine had replaced Wilt in Lilt’s eyes. A new friend to replace the one he’d lost. It had been another life, those days, but still, Wilt found that he could not forgive his cousin. The fool had thrown himself in with Snail, even after the consul had killed Wilt’s parents and taken his mother’s name. Wilt was not unhappy about his parent’s well-deserved death, but his cousin should have been more loyal to family, especially to Grandfather. He is a traitor the same as Snail, and worse, a fool if he does not realize that uncle killed his father.
“And you would believe her, Locust?” Lilt asked. “She is a murderer.”
“I have made my decision, Lilt,” Snail said. “She is Vandu and Vandu take precedence.”
Wilt’s followers cheered, and when Locust winced and closed his eyes, Wilt knew it was another log on his uncle’s death pyre. The warriors glared, a few stone-faced, but the majority with
hanging mouths or gnashing teeth. In choosing the spymaster, Locust was alienating his most trusted. The only thing that could save Locust was a fight, the spilling of Trellish blood, but if Wilt accomplished his task correctly, that would not happen. The Vandu seemed as willing to slay Dekahnians as they were the Legion. Just a matter of days, Wilt repeated.
“You cann-” Lilt continued, but Wilt did not hear the rest.
You called? The god’s voice grated in Wilt’s skull.
No, Wilt snarled. I have no need of you.
All the better, Just drawled, for I have need of you.
What is it, demon? – Wilt barely felt the curse’s shiver – I must listen to this argument, it may serve my needs.
Have you forgotten, Wilt? You are here to serve my needs, not your own. It is time, rapist.
Wilt shook his head, though he didn’t know if the god could see it. No, not yet. They are not ready. A few more days are all I require.
Look to the sky, fool. Now is the time.
Wilt glanced to the sky, black and empty but for the stars and moons. What? There is nothing.
The moon, fool. The small one.
Wilt returned his gaze to the moon. I do not see any… Wait. What is that? A tiny red ring blossomed near the moon’s equator.
That is our chance. Even through thoughts, Wilt could feel the god’s sneer.
I do not see how-
The god thrust his presence into Wilt, driving Wilt’s consciousness into the background of his own mind. The shock made him stumble, but the god controlled now, and Wilt could do nothing. His eyes could see, his ears could hear, but it was the god who blinked and moved Wilt’s limbs.
What are you doing? Wilt demanded, his scream frantic. He could feel himself, floating within a corner of his mind, unable to affect anything. If he had a body, it would be panicking, gasping, crying. What was left of Wilt did what it could, thrusting itself against the overwhelming force that was Just. Like before, he could do nothing. The god was too strong.
What you would not. The god righted Wilt’s body and walked to the consul’s side. The consul stared at him, his eyes half curiosity and half fury.
“My people,” Just said and the Vandu fell silent. There was a command in Just’s words that must be heeded, as strong as the god in Wilt’s mind.
“My people,” Just began again. “It is time.”
“What are you talking about now, you-” Locust started.
A flash of green light cascaded from Wilt’s eyes, a ray of curling tentacles, demanding attention. With the frame of the mask and the green light, Wilt could see nothing else, but somehow, he could feel the world. He knew everything that happened around him. The consul’s mouth snapped shut, and somehow, Wilt knew that the man was terrified beyond measure. Wilt knew their emotions. Is this what it is to be a god? Wilt marveled.
This is only a fraction, the god answered.
Wilt’s mouth opened. “The Vandu are better than this. We are better than this petty squabbling. We are hunters. God hunters! But we have forgotten ourselves.” The god held up Wilt’s arms, his hands spread open in acceptance of blame. “Yes, I know you have heard this before. I have said it many times, but each time those words have been in anticipation of this moment. This exact time. Do you not see? Do you not see what we have become? What they have made us?”
“Who?” the consul asked.
Wilt could feel his uncle’s nervousness. He could tell the man’s question had been intended as mockery; that it was supposed to pre-empt a joke about rot-minded priests, but then his courage had failed. Why? Wilt asked. He has never been a coward. A fool, but not a coward. The god ignored both him and the consul’s question.
“It was Nikom who killed the land,” the god said. “It was the Farmer who cursed us to starvation, to live forever in the rot. And so, in return, we swore vengeance. We took up names like Locust and Famine, Wither and Wilt. Names that would strike fear in Nikom’s heart, words that promised death to all he loved. To his fields, his children, and himself. We have sworn to take his head. And so, we shall.”
The crowd did not cheer. They are not ready, Wilt admonished. I warned you, I needed a few more days.
It is not yet time for them to cheer. The crowd stared ahead, confusion written on their faces.
“When we took that oath, we were weak,” the god continued. “Brittle like the seeds that would not grow, or the shafts of our wooden arrows. Like our cornstalks, we could not stand alone. But Nikom had forsaken us, so we could not trust our gods. We could not trust the other patrons, those who had watched over us for generations. And then he came. Our savior, Lock, with the promise of food and friendship. And freedom. And best of all, vengeance. He promised us killing, enough to sate our hatred of the godlings.
“And Praise be to Lock, for he delivered. He sent us against the Atherahnians, against the Butcher’s blood cult, and together, we crushed them. We drank their blood and we grew strong. The others, the Trellish, our once brothers, they called us useless, for we could no longer grow their food for them. The priests cast us aside, they wrote us off as lepers. We lost our brothers. Our family of peoples dedicated to the gods. We lost our nation. We lost our place in the world.
“But that changed, too. Because of Lock. He gave us a home, a new nation to be proud of, and more, he made us the strength of his people, and he gave us new names, to mark our souls, to bind us to him permanently, so that we could serve his needs until the very death of our people. He called us Lockish. We were the first of his people. We were the first of his warriors. And with his guidance, we reclaimed Dekahn from his enemies. We reclaimed it from Nikom’s tainted bastards.”
Tainted bastards? Wilt wondered.
An embellishment, the god responded.
The entire camp was gathering now, row upon row bunching behind Wilt’s entourage and Locust’s warriors. Even the guardsmen who guarded the roads, and a few from the barracks, had left their posts to listen to Just’s speech. It seemed as if they were swept up in the god’s words, as if they were entranced in something he had said, and could not look away.
“We took the Farmhold. We won our freedom, not only for ourselves, but for the Dekahnians as well. We carved a nation out of Nikom’s leavings, a nation of decency and brotherhood, where every people had a consul, a leader to guide and protect their interests within the larger whole. Lock gave all of this to us. This is why we love him. This is why we cherish him. This is why we worship him.”
The guardsmen shuffled in the back. Wilt could feel unease wafting from the guardsmen spy, Putrescence.
“And so, I ask you,” Just continued. “Nay. And so, I must ask you. Do you still keep your promise? Do you still swear to serve his will?”
The Vandu roiled, releasing affronted cries and indignant pleas that they had never stopped serving Lock.
“Do you still serve his will?” the god repeated.
“Yes!” the Vandu chanted as one.
“Do you praise his name?”
“Yes!” The stones vibrated with their shouts.
The god lowered his arms until the crowd silenced, and then in near a whisper, “And yet you defy his last and final request.”
The warriors shook their heads. “We have never!” they insisted.
The god raised Wilt’s hands, again waiting for silence. “There is a reason that I have come to you. A reason I have returned to our people. You praise Lock, but you have forgotten him. Our people no longer remember his desires, his wishes for the people of this land.”
“We have not forgotten,” a warrior shouted, Lilt.
“Patience,” the god warned. “It is not a great crime to have forgotten. We have done nothing yet to break our promise. But this is why I have come, to save you from this sacrilege before it is committed.”
“What was his request, Priest Twil?” one of his followers asked. The woman’s voice was desperate, beseeching as if the god had spoken of some miracle that would cure the rot.
“
Before I tell you, I must remind you of our past, my child. We must look back to the war with Atherahn, to a war we almost did not survive. Lock had gathered the peoples of the Central Peninsula behind him. We had retaken Dekahn and begun a new nation. A nation of Vandu, of Stattish, of Bayliners, of the Lake People, of Dekahnians and mages, priests and the Faithful. And then Atherahn struck again. They retook Dekahn, and tried to destroy it. But they could not, because of the magics that protect this place. And so, the Atherahnians drove Lock’s armies into the hills and set about removing the wards that protected the city from their fires.
“They nearly succeeded. Our new nation was nearly destroyed and our people were almost made extinct. But then something great happened. We received aid from the most unlikely of allies. From our lost brothers, from Dydal and his priesthood in Trel. They saved our nation and the Vandu, driving the cultists back to Vigil!”
The guardsmen glanced at one another. Whispers passed between them, and then one ran to the barracks. Hurry before they put an arrow in me, Wilt said.
Do not worry, rapist, they will not be able to stop what comes.
“The Trellish secured our right as our own nation,” the god continued. “And Lock became our king. We were so grateful that we named our country in his honor,” – the god pointed to the statue at the center of the courtyard. – “We built statues, and there was peace.”
The god let his words sink in. “And then we were betrayed.”
The consul scoffed. “We know this already. The Trellish and their gods abandoned us.”
“No,” the god said. “It was another faction, one that exists even today. One that had grown strong, stronger even than us. And they threatened Lock with promises of another war and more death. They made him swear against our saviors, and with the wars fought and ended, they hunted the Faithful, and slaughtered them all. And who did they ask this of? Of us! The god hunters. They made us kill our brothers, made us kill the men and women who had saved us from the butchers. They bound our first king in politics, and at sword point, took over our great nation, instilling their man as the king’s advisor. That faction betrayed us! Betrayed King Lock. Do you know Lock’s final request? That he be free to live the life he had always wanted. To live a life of faith.”
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 55