The man behind the curtain scoffed, a short, strangled guffaw.
The figure’s mask drooped into a frown, looking so much like a real face. “No, I am not. Do you wear the mask to hide an empty skull? The Whore is a woman. I am her consort, Dydal.”
“The first High Cleric?”
“Yes, the very same, but you did not answer my earlier question.”
The answer astounded Wilt. Dydal was a mortal that had been made into a god. If the High Cleric was here to greet him, then the Mother truly must intend to make Wilt into Death. Wilt’s vision was coming true.
Brown eyes peered from beneath the man’s mask, and then the mask’s owl eyes shifted into slits, glaring at Wilt.
“What is that?” Dydal asked, suddenly angry. The man raised a finger and rolled it in a spiral.
As the spiral twisted to the shape of Wilt’s scars, Wilt’s own mask itched and then crumbled from his face, the pieces dropping to the floor and disintegrating. The figure’s eyes widened.
“A rapist!” the masked man hissed. “You are no courtesan, betrayer! Why have you removed the book from its pedestal?”
“I… I…” Wilt tried, but for once he had no excuses.
“Speak!”
“Just ordered it,” Wilt finally managed. “He told me to bring it to him.”
The mask softened, returning to the emotionless, metal features of the bird. “Ah, Just you say? He always did have a weakness for rehabilitating the damned.” The figure waved his hand, as if brushing away his misconceptions. “You frightened me, savage. So Just is in the city then? It has been many years… How is he?”
Wilt’s mouth dropped open and he left it there for several seconds. He licked his lips to wet a dry mouth, then spoke. “He… he is fine.”
The light skinned man peeked his head out from behind the curtains. Wilt glared at him. The man stuck out an arm, lifted it to his chin, and drew it across his neck. Disturbed, Wilt turned his attention back to Dydal.
“Good, good,” Dydal was saying. “Though we have fallen apart, I do care for him. It was not right what he did to Entaras, and I fear for his sanity… But can I really blame him? Perhaps he was right. Perhaps Entaras’ fate would have been worse if we’d let the Whore take him.”
Wilt gathered his courage. “It is not good,” he said. “I am here because I serve the Mother. I am here because Just plans to use this book against her.”
“Does he now?” Dydal asked. “That sounds so much like the boy…” The god sighed. “But tell me then, why do you betray him to me?”
“Be-because! I am the Mother’s servant. She has promised to make me into a god, just as she has done for you.”
The mask smiled. “Is that the way they tell it? That she has made me into a god? Well… perhaps this news is of value to me, but it matters not. Tell Just that the book cannot be removed from the city, that he will have to find his mother some other way. However…” The mask’s eyelids narrowed. “What god does she seek to make you into?”
“Death,” Wilt said. “She seeks to make me into her god of Death.”
Dydal sniffed an angry breath. “Foolish woman, has she still not given up this fight? Has she not yet seen reason?”
The light-skinned man slunk from behind the curtain as Dydal spoke, and tiptoed toward the book. Realizing he was still sitting on the floor, Wilt rushed to regain his feet and picked up the book. Whoever this other man was, he wanted Dydal’s text as much as Wilt, and Wilt might have to fight for it. But the flash of light… The man was a god. Just! Wilt called. Where are you, bastard? This is your fight, not mine!
“You there!” Wilt shouted, “Get away!”
The masked man’s neck turned like an owl’s as it moved to follow Wilt’s outstretched finger, but the other man was gone in a flash of light. He reappeared a foot before Wilt, grabbed the book from his hands, and knocked Wilt back to the ground. Wilt shouted as the man bowled over him toward the staircase.
Dydal’s head swiveled toward the thief. “Rift,” Dydal shouted. “You vile rogue! I have been searching four hundred years to claim your savage head!” The figure of lights vanished and Dydal reappeared from nothing, solid and real, his feet whole and fully visible. A blue, box-shaped stone embedded the ring on the finger he pointed at the book thief. “You dare abandon my daughter and the bastards you put in her womb?”
Rift’s feet slid across the floor as he stared back at Dydal, his eyes were orbs fuller than those of the owl. The mask he saw was the fury of a bird, the beak open wide, the eyes downturned and the brows straight. Rift yipped, his body reforming into the ball of light before it veered down the steps. Dydal scowled as another ball of light unraveled from the jay on his staff, and then he too was gone.
Wilt was running even before he was on his feet. The man – Rift – had stolen the book. Wilt would not face Just’s wrath. He had to get it back. He would not miss his chance to become a god!
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Two men poured oil onto the leather wrapped bodies. “And though their souls will not return to the earth, we shall not repent. The soil belongs not to the Vandu, but to the betrayer, Nikom. When his head rests in the loam, so shall the spirits of the Vandu rest, knowing that we have received our just retribution.” Wither paused and the two men stepped away. A woman came forward with coals in a wooden bucket. She tossed them onto the stack and the pyre smoked then ignited. “Until then, our dead shall fill the heavens, forever hunting our betrayer and any who harbor him. There is no rest for the betrayed, for the gods have scorned them.” The Vandu watched their dead burn without emotion.
Bell, the Grand, and his fellow soldiers watched on in kind. The procession made him nervous. They spoke of the Farmer as Bell would speak of vermin.
It felt a sacrilege to listen to Wither’s words. This night he had questioned the veracity of Just’s laws and morals; he had questioned, but unlike these Vandu, he had never thought of any god as an evil force. Simply listening, he felt like a heretic. Trin had destroyed a holy book, but somehow this was worse. Trin had been backed into a corner, these Vandu spoke with full knowledge of what they wanted to do, and Bell believed their fervor. Were the Farmer here, they would kill him without a second thought. And that fervor made Bell doubt himself. He had seen the rot. Could a god be so cruel? He wished the answer were no, but his location belied his wishes. There were too many dead in this courtyard to think the gods merciful.
The thought made him clench. If a god like Farmer, a symbol of plenty and benign content, could do something so heinous… what could a god of Fate do to Trin? Gods, she can’t be right. It’s in her head.
“Praise be to Lock,” Wither continued. “And praise be to the hunt. May we find the Farmer and skin him like an elk.” Wither bowed her head. She stepped away and the Vandu turned from the pyre, back to their horses. They did not watch the pyre burn. Wither headed for her mount and the Grand intercepted her.
“Your people have a strong thirst for justice,” Cyleste said.
“And no gods to deliver it,” Wither said.
Cyleste offered her a hand. “That could change. Join with us, please, and we will make this right.”
Wither stared at the outstretched hand and frowned. “Make what right? These deaths here? If I am not mistaken, you and your kind are responsible for them. Nikom’s betrayal? Your Legion and its god have had many generations to punish his crimes, and you have not done so. We should not have trusted Twil. It is only because of that error in judgment, and my acceptance that it was our error, that I do not spit on you now. In truth, I pity the Trellish. You have not yet learned that the gods cannot be trusted.” Her voice fell to a whisper as she motioned to her surroundings. “We forgot that lesson, but tonight has been a stern reminder.”
Bell opened his mouth before thinking. “How do you know the gods had any hand in this?” he asked.
Cyleste glared at him. Her stare was more ominous than the open-eyed gazes of the disembodied heads piled beneath Lock’s statue.
Wither simply shrugged. “We Vandu may hate the gods, but there is one thing that we have always known: We are forever at their mercy. When Twil came, I had hoped that some god had decided to pity us, and had come to offer his aid and set us free. We had thought Twil this god’s prophet, but he is just a Legion spy. He has betrayed us.”
“You are a fool,” the Grand stated.
“Pardon?”
“Just has smiled upon you, and freed you from your consul. Through Twil, he has promised to make your women equal and to give you a home alongside the Trellish, a real home, where the rot does not exist, and yet you turn away simply because you do not like his instruments. Because you do not like the Trellish. We have come to offer you a chance to return to your people, and we have come to crush the Atheists who betrayed you. You would turn us away because of who we are?”
Wither shrugged. “If that is true, then we have been manipulated by your god. We refuse to serve with any who do not come to us in honesty and respect.”
“I know what Twil promised you,” the Grand said. “And we are exactly what he promised. It is not our fault that you did not listen.”
“And we should serve you because the fault is ours? If you truly claim to have given us freedom, then hold your tongue and let us make this choice ourselves.”
The Grand bowed her head. “I will not make you join us,” she said. “I only make an offer. Now that your pyre is lit, we will be continuing into the city. If you will not join us then you must go. We will not waste our efforts protecting your wounded.”
Wither nodded and turned away. She said nothing more as she returned to her people.
The Grand set a stern smile as she shook her head. “He has offered them everything they desire and they have refused him,” she mumbled. “It is a wonder that people can be so foolish.”
“Who?” Bell asked.
Cyleste glanced at him. She looked surprised that Bell had been listening. “Just, of course.”
Bell rolled his tongue against his teeth. “Grand, why are we here? The High Cleric did not order this, did he? This was your decision, wasn’t it?”
The Grand gave him an odd smile. “It was Just’s will,” she said. “I did not question him.”
“You say that as though you’ve spoken to him. Grand, please, I do not ask this lightly… After seeing this…” Bell motioned to the courtyard. “I need a reason.”
Cyleste sneered. “Do not be childish, Bell Cobbren. You are here because you were told to be and that should be enough for any legionnaire.” She paused and looked to the burning pyre. She drew a mournful breath and her face softened. “There are many reasons for many things, Bell Cobbren. I am no warmonger. If I did not believe in our cause, I would have refused him and accepted the deaconship he offered.”
Bell’s breathing slowed. “Who would you have refused?”
Cyleste leveled her gaze and stared at Bell in silence. The hard lines of her face seemed sad. “Do not fool yourself, Bell Cobbren,” she said. “High Cleric Lu is not as innocent as he seems.” She frowned, and her gaze seemed to drift through him. “You and I have much in common, Bell. I wish I had more to offer you than faith, but I have nothing else.”
“It was Lu who sent you.”
“He made the request, but I refused.” The Grand paused. “When I spoke to you of certainty, I did not speak metaphorically. Morality must come from an immortal source. That source is what sent me.”
“Your faith in Just.”
“If you must be specific, then yes, Bell, that is my reason.”
Bell sighed. “I am sorry, Grand, but I do not have your certainty. How can you place your trust in a man you have not met?”
Cyleste smiled. “I have never made such claims. Do not believe in the man, Bell. Believe in the ideal.” Her smile stretched to a thoughtful grin. “Justice is not about punishment. It exists to deter evil. We are not here to punish the Atheists. We are here to prevent more wrongdoing.” Her smile faded, her face returning to calm. “I apologize, Bell. It seems I have chosen wrong. You and your squad will be reassigned, for I see that you cannot overcome your doubt. You will have your new orders shortly. Dismissed.”
The Grand left to join Marl and her crowd of messengers, leaving Bell stunned.
“She’s right yer know.”
Bell turned. Mounted, Skibs and Rise loomed over him.
“In what way?”
“Yer worrying too much about who the gods are instead of what they stand fer. Yer need ter be more decisive.”
“I am decisive.”
“Right, except yer hate all yer decisions.”
“I have no regrets, Skibs.”
“Yer going ter if yer don’t start livin’ fer yerself, instead of everyone else. Do yer want ter be here, Bell?”
Bell considered the question. “I wouldn’t have anyone else fight in my place.”
“There yer go, making decisions fer other people again. What do yer want?”
“That’s what I’m telling you, Skibs. I want to be here because I want to help. I can’t stand aside while others might die.”
Skibs nodded. “Good, then forget all ther other shit and focus on that. Yer help will save lives. Don’t matter if ther other side sees it different, ‘cause ther other side will always see it different. Protect who yer can and do what good yer can. The rest ain’t important.”
Rise tugged at her husband’s arm. She whispered in his ear, but with the distance from mount to mount, she spoke too loudly. “You are being too hard on him,” she said.
Skibs frowned and stared into his wife’s eyes. He nodded and turned his horse. At the last moment, he twisted in his saddle.
“Bell,” he said, “do not let yer worry turn yer into another person. Yer’ve been different lately, and I’d hate ter see yer lose yerself.”
Bell watched them ride away. It wasn’t Skibs’ words that convinced him, but Rise’s whisper. Gods, Bell swore, am I truly so pathetic that they pity me? He took a deep breath and held it. I do not even recognize myself. I have panicked and let my doubts overwhelm my confidence. I have always been thoughtful, but never this… insecure. Gods, I’ve become as glum as Jem. Bell rolled his shoulders and breathed out a long, slow breath. He felt the calm rush into him. No longer, he promised. My doubt will not control me.
As he gathered his thoughts, Bell’s eyes searched for something to look at. The statue was too gruesome, the stones beneath his feet too bloody, and the bone shells of the stripped leather tents too ominous. His eyes found the eastern edge of the square plaza, and the two-story homes lining the courtyard. The homes there looked grander than he expected. Maple edged with oaken frames, they weren’t large estates like the one he had grown up on, but they looked to belong to prosperous families; Trel’s merchants did not keep their homes so free of water stains and decay, nor their wooden walls so polished that the planks looked freshly cut. The biggest tell was the windows. Flickering with the light of the Vandu pyre, the windows were of paned glass in sliding frames. In Trel, that was a luxury many estates did not even have.
A flicker of light caught Bell’s eye from the house on the corner; the image of the pyre vanishing as two windows on the same floor opened at once. The synchronicity of the act was too precise, and without hesitation, Bell turned for Cyleste and ran. Marl and the Grand’s messengers clustered around her, Marl scowling at Bell’s approach. A look of horror crossed her face and her hand drifted to her scabbard. Bell removed the strap, lifted his shield above his head so that it might defend the Grand atop her horse, and hoped for the best. The arrow ricocheted off the topmost edge, spun, then faltered and landed. The Grand stared at the arrow, transfixed.
“Owl Guard,” Bell shouted. “Dismount and close. Shields up. Farriers ready to receive mounts. Pikes to second line.” Bell lowered his visor and repositioned his shield to provide Cyleste better cover, his arms vibrating under the weight of it. He trusted the Grand’s wisdom and did not check to see that she dismount
ed.
“You heard him,” the Grand yelled. “Move!”
Skibs and Rise met him first. They lined up on his right and assumed the same position as he, with shield angled a foot above his head. The formation left his feet exposed, but until he was certain the Grand had dismounted and readied her own weapon, he would not leave her vulnerable.
Marl closed on his left. With Acklin’s heavy breathing, he did not need to see the man to know he had arrived.
“Perval, left flank. Kenneth, on right. Acklin, take the rear.” Bell hoped the rear would provide the man some much-needed leeway. He trusted that Perval and Kenneth would assist the man should he find trouble.
They fell into formation just in time as a full wave of arrows crashed into their shields. One glanced Bell’s greaves, but luckily the metal kept him safe; he felt only a vibration as the arrow skid past his ankle.
The New Guard had made a fatal error. They had hoped to kill the Grand on the first shot, but in the process, they had given away their chance at an ambush. Had it been Bell, he would have loosed all his arrows at once. Either the bowman had made a mistake and loosed early, or the man received some bad orders. Either way, Bell thanked the gods.
A stampede of hooves rang from the end of the eastern lane. New Guard soldiers trickled into the courtyard from the alleys. Lockish Cavalry charged from the main road, five abreast. They snuck through the side streets and into the houses while we watched the Vandu. The Grand was too confident.
Cyleste’s voice boomed at his neck. “Footmen on point,” she shouted. “Pikes on second. Archers, harry those windows. Don’t let their bowmen loose another round. Kites on our flanks, retake those alleys and hold them!” Her voice quieted. She sounded as composed as ever. “You may advance, Bell.”
It seemed his reassignment would have to wait. The pikemen fell in line a few feet ahead of them, converging on the main concourse. Another wave of arrows crashed into them. Most were absorbed by the heavy shields of the footmen, but a few struck the more lightly armored pikes. One man went down with an arrow through his visor. The man collapsed forward, and as his pike twisted into his legs, the soldier looked like a gardener tripping over his rake. It seemed so innocent, and if Bell hadn’t known better, it would have almost looked comedic. Instead, Bell’s stomach knotted.
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 60