Without his mask, Wilt felt naked. The night’s biting chill nipped mercilessly at his cheeks and the widened field of view made him nauseous. His eyes struggled to focus. His peripheral vision loomed like a hazy, dizzying mosaic of color. If he focused too hard, his vision slipped and spun as his eyes fought to look in every direction at once.
Horns blared from the palace courtyard two streets behind, the sound more piercing even though the cloth hood of his robes still covered his ears. More fighting had broken out somewhere in the city. He could hear the clash of metal on metal, the shouts of warning, and the screams of dying men. All of it pressed down on him like water rushing into a sinkhole in which he stood at the bottom. His senses wearied him.
Though these ailments persisted, they were not what sickened him. Fear gripped him. The fear that he might fail. The fear that he would be hung from the tree, and once again, feel all the pain of the universe. The fear that he might fail the Mother and miss his chance to become a god.
All along, he hadn’t thought failure possible. From the beginning, he had thought himself incapable of failure. His past failures had been by choice. He was not a swordsman because he had wanted to punish his parents for selling him. He was not a good soldier because he’d wanted to punish the Legion. He had done a poor job as a steward because he was above such tasks. Those failures had not been his; they belonged to his enemies. Wilt was beyond failure.
And yet, he was going to fail. He had lost Rift and Dydal and he was going to lose the book. Then it would be over for him, but he knew there would be no sweet release. No matter the god’s promises, Wilt would suffer for his failure. It is not my fault, Wilt moaned, and for once it was true, but he knew the god would not believe it. Just did not care for excuses. Just did not care for mercy. He cared only for justice and Wilt was a betrayer.
Wilt forced himself on. So long as there was still a chance, he would not give up on his life, or his future. There might still be a chance. The Mother still might make him into Death.
Though he had fallen behind and could no longer see the two priests, their trail was easy to follow. The fireball in the courtyard had only been the beginning, and signs of their passing were strewn everywhere; a wall of thorns broken through in the silhouette of a man, a street packed by a foot of snow, broken windows, and pulped carts.
Something detonated on the next street over as a dull green light swirled up in the shape of a whirlwind. It topped the roofs then halted and vanished. Wilt crossed at an intersection and found what remained of the pale lights: a hole in the ground, four feet in diameter and five feet deep, the perimeter wreathed in green ash. On this street, all the trough legs had given out beneath their wooden frames and coal littered the walkways.
Wilt sidestepped the pit then continued on. He saw a blue hat, and the end of a staff flicker around a corner, before Dydal disintegrated into light and was gone. Wilt’s only hope lie with them killing one another without destroying the book, and by the devastation they left in their wake, it seemed impossible; a fact that did little to calm him.
This is beyond me, Wilt called. Help me you rotted butcherspawn, or you will lose your precious book!
He did not receive an answer. The curse’s pain was absent. Drawing a heavy breath, Wilt ran. He was out of shape and feeling pudgy. The life of a subversive priest had been a surprisingly cushy one, and he had done little to build his stamina among the Vandu. He was as much a slob now as he’d been during his days at Derlin Keep, but desperation kept him on. Failure was an option, but not an appealing one.
Wilt turned the corner where he’d last seen Dydal. A jet of lightning flashed from nowhere, nearly striking him. The bolt hit a window and both shattered, throwing sparks and glass into the street. In the wreckage, a man in a fancy linen tunic and woolen pants, danced upon the broken shards, the whole of him dripping blood from tiny cuts. He hopped on one foot, picking glass out of his other leg. Wilt had the strange feeling that he knew the man, but it was gone as quick as it had come. The Dekahnians would do better to stay indoors this night.
Wilt turned his gaze back to the pursuit to see Rift scrambling around a bend two blocks down. Another bolt flew from Dydal’s staff and struck the building’s edge as Rift ducked behind it, throwing wooden splinters, and igniting the hay thatched roof. The two looked no worse for wear, Dydal did not even sweat.
Wilt groaned. He had no hope of catching Rift, not unless one of those bolts struck, and even then, he had to hope that Dydal remained friendly. He needed Just’s help.
You butchering whorespawn bastard, Wilt cursed. Help me, you dirty rotter. I know Rift’s name. I cannot face the Assassin alone. He will destroy me and it will be your fault, not mine! I will not be held responsible for your inattention, Just.
The god remained silent.
Every rotting time! Is it some game you play to ignore my calls? It will be your loss, demon.
A memory tickled Wilt’s mind, and he felt a sudden renewed panic, stronger than before. He glanced over his shoulder. The man picking glass had followed him. The clothes had thrown him off, but Wilt knew him. With his black hair and dusky complexion, this man was Vandu, but it was not one of his followers, nor any Vandu he recognized. And yet… he was certain he had seen the man before. Shadows from the coal fires flickered across his face. Perhaps in a crowd… Wilt pondered. Drought’s funeral procession, maybe. But what Vandu wears linen?
And then Wilt knew. Locust’s assassin! The one who killed Drought outside the city. He has finally come for me. He must want revenge for Locust’s death. Wilt lifted his robes to clear a better path for his feet. A fresh burst of energy slid into his muscles. Just, you blooding butcher, listen to my cries and help me!
But Wilt knew he would get no help from his god. Just had abandoned him to his fate. It is not my fault, Wilt begged. I had no way to know that Dydal would appear when I touched the book, nor that Rift would steal it. You sealed my failure from the beginning, by keeping that knowledge from me. There is no reason to abandon me for that, you must help me.
The assassin was gaining. He did not stumble or falter from the cuts on his legs and arms, but of course he wouldn’t, the man was fueled by a lust for revenge. He would not give up until Wilt was dead. He had not killed Snail himself, but any fool could piece together that Wilt had been the cause.
And Wilt did not even get the honor of speaking the words that had killed his uncle. You stole my moment, and now you steal my life! Should I survive this I will rejoin my people, if only to stoke the flames of vengeance. I shall rid their minds of this new faith nonsense. We shall be god hunters again and I will rally them against you. I will be Death! I will kill you, and godsdamnit, I will personally tear out your eyes and shit in the sockets.
Wilt turned another corner. The two priests were nowhere in sight, but he continued on regardless. This was no longer about the book. It was about his life and the assassin chasing him. Another flash detonated two streets away. A grinding sound tore at his ears. Wilt contemplated stopping; letting the assassin catch him. He much preferred the thought of a quick death to Just’s torture. Wilt darted around a corner. No, Wilt snarled, I will kill him first! But Wilt did not know if he referred to the assassin or to Just himself.
Wilt found himself skidding to a stop. He stood at the edge of an abyss. The pit he had seen had been nothing compared to this. The entire street curved down into the earth, as if it had collapsed under its own weight. The setts had cracked and a length of them had given way to gravity. They piled beneath Wilt, thirty feet down at the base of the cliff. If he jumped it would break his legs. He had to find a way around. Footsteps pounded on the pavement behind him. The assassin was just around the corner. Desperate for a place to hide, Wilt pressed his back against the building on the intersection. Sucking in his stomach, he held his breath. When his head knocked into an oil lantern, he knew he had made a mistake. With that much light above his head, it would be impossible for the assassin to miss him. He would have to
push the man into the pit.
The assassin turned the corner and the light revealed his face. Wilt gasped. He knew the man. It was not an assassin at all.
“It is you!” Wilt cried. “You are the one who taunts Just. You are his shadow!”
The young man jumped away, seemingly surprised to see Wilt pressed against the wall. Confusion donned his brow, quickly giving way to excitement. “What?” the shadow asked. “What did you say?”
But Wilt had no time to answer. Just’s presence rushed into his head. What is it, whelp? Why do you endlessly call my name?
Silt? The presence faltered as Wilt’s eyes stared upon the shadow. The blade, the god screamed. Draw the blade. Kill him now! Wilt panicked, fumbling at Snail’s sheath strapped to his waist. He only had time to touch the hilt before Just’s essence slipped into his every nerve. Again, Wilt was a passenger in his own body.
The god drew the blade and leveled it for a thrust. The young man yelped and threw up his hands. Wilt’s sword arm slammed into the wall and the sword clattered to the paving stones before sliding into the pit. Wilt’s arms spread to the sides as something lifted him from the ground, his feet hanging limp and the lantern resting on his shoulder. Though the god controlled him, Wilt could feel everything. The lantern’s glass enclosure did little to dampen the heat on his right cheek.
You incompetent fool, the god shouted. I have waited long for this moment. You gave us away with your damned fumbling.
I did only what you asked!
You froze like a stuck pig. What kind of fool cannot wield a blade?
“Who are you?” the young man asked. “Why have you tried to kill me?”
The god writhed like a trapped beast. Wilt’s teeth sneered into that same expression he had often seen on Just’s face. The god swallowed and bared the teeth farther. “So, it has been you all along, apprentice? It should not surprise me that it is so. You have always been a crafty one. Where have you been hiding all these years, my dear Silt? I have grown bored without your corpse at my feet.”
“What?” the man asked. “I do not know you, cretin. My name is Loy.”
“Do you think I am a fool?” the god laughed. “Do you think that I would not recognize mine own apprentice? It is I, Silt, your master Just.”
“Just?” the young man asked. “I… I have been looking for you.”
“Have you now? Are you finally ready for your death? Finally ready to face justice?”
The young man frowned. “I do not know what you mean,” he said. “I am not this man you speak of. My name is Loy and I am the Fifty-third son of Order. I am your nephew.”
Wilt felt his face shift into a scowl. “Order?” the god mocked. “Does my brother still play at that charade? Yes, I know whose son you are, Silt. Believe me, your father would never let me forget it with all his pathetic whining.”
“My father is not pathetic, and I am not Silt.”
“You would try to dissuade me from what mine eyes can plainly see? You have ever been a fool…”
The shadow shook its head and shrugged. “I… I wish only to speak with you. I have been searching for weeks.”
“My dear Silt,” Just said, “it is far too late to bargain for a lighter sentence. Your death is inevitable, dear boy. I do hope you enjoy receiving pain as much as you enjoy delivering it.”
To see another person subjected to the god’s derision did not bring the satisfaction Wilt might’ve expected. Instead, it made Wilt hate the god even more. He almost hoped the young man would take a swipe at Just, until he remembered that doing so would likely kill Wilt alone.
The young man’s cheeks flared red. His eyes burned with rage. He seemed somehow emboldened.
“I expected more from Just himself,” the man said. “But it seems you are little better than Niece Kindrel. You are simply another defiler, and if I did not have need to speak with you, I would walk away now. You seem to forget that I have disarmed you and left you helpless. You are subject to my whims, fool, so drop your foolish notions and listen to what I say. I wish to know of your shadow.”
The god laughed. Wilt despised that laugh.
“My shadow? Are you sure it is my shadow that concerns you? You have always had an odd liking for my coat tails…”
The young man scowled. “A First should not behave this way.”
“Oh my, you really have picked up your father’s inane obsessions. Were you hiding under my gaze all along, apprentice?”
“Enough,” Loy said. “Tell me what I wish to know so I can return to Fate.”
“Ah…” the god murmured, “she has given you a task, yes? I knew you would not have shown yourself without good reason. What has she promised you, Silt? My power? My role? My death? What would make you scurry from your hole?”
“She… she has promised that I would become a god!”
“A god,” Just laughed. “Oh my, how big and strong you will be then, dear Silt. You might even have a chance then, of standing up to dear old me. What form of godhood has she promised you? Punishment, as you always dreamed? Mine own role perhaps? Ah, I see it now. You have always been rather womanly, has she given you her sister’s name and promised that you shall be her newborn Death?”
This boy, Death? Wilt wondered. Fuck that, I shall be the god of Death.
“Death?” Loy asked. “But… but that is what Quill said. He said that was why Fate would want me to come here… that she would send me here because your shadow was a threat to her, and her aims of making Death.”
“My shadow?” the god said. “Who is this shadow of which you speak?”
“I do not know,” Loy shouted. “You are supposed to tell me! That was the deal I made with Fate.”
“Ha, dear apprentice, do you not know that Fate’s task is rarely what it seems? I have no answers for you, now let my servant free so that I might wring your neck!”
The young man took a step back. “Nikom’s Blessing. Quill was right. You are mad. I… I should not have come here. I should not have come here without him.”
“What? You think that Quill might have protected you from me, Silt? There is nothing that can protect you. Nothing that can save you. Now I know that you still live, I will not stop hunting until I end your life. Already, I am on my way to Dekahn.”
“But… but you are here now.”
“This?” the god asked. “This is not my flesh. This is a pawn to be thrown away. A servant. If you wish to meet me, simply wait where you stand, and I shall be here to piss on your corpse.”
“You… You are lying.”
“Lying, Silt? Have you ever known me to lie about my judgments? Have you ever known me to hesitate in punishing the condemned?”
“But… but then… your servant knows of this shadow. He spoke of him as I approached.”
Wilt? the god demanded.
I… Wilt tried. I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“Do not lie to me, rapist!” the god screamed, and as he shouted the accusation the mark’s eight spokes dug into Wilt’s flesh. The convulsions returned, making him squirm.
“What… what is happening?” Loy asked.
Wilt was in his own flesh again, the god retreated to the back of his mind as if fleeing the very pain he inflicted upon Wilt. Yet even still, his mouth spoke with the god’s voice.
“Look upon my servant,” Just said. “And see the fate awaiting you.”
Another tremor wracked Wilt’s flesh, reverberating outward from his scars as the two marks began to glow with a red, searing light. Fire, like the hot iron of a brand quenched upon his flesh, burned in his every node.
“You will tell me,” Just said. “You will tell me who it is Silt speaks of. You will tell me who it is, and how it is the creature seeks to aid my mother’s cause.”
Wilt had to lie. Had to think of something. If he told Just of the shadow’s aid, there might not be any going back. The god might kill him right here and now for conspiring with the thing he clearly hated most.
�
��I…” Wilt breathed. “I saw another vision! It was just another dream, I swear it! There was nothing more, just another, silly little dream. Please stop!”
“You are lying! You have conspired against me! Tell it true, Wilt! Tell it-”
Just’s shouting ceased abruptly, an odd silence overcoming the god as he stared over Loy’s shoulder, a look of either fear or shock or both. Loy glanced behind him, wary not to give this formerly writhing creature any opportunities, yet saw nothing but closed doors and shuttered windows; homes sealed and silent. And then the realization registered and his neck snapped back to the little cottage sitting on the corner, the little cottage he had entered only days ago, to which Just’s eyes appeared to be glued.
“Let me go,” Just insisted.
Loy glanced back at him, mouth gaping. There was not a chance he would let this lunatic free, Justice or not.
“Let me go, Silt,” Just spoke again, his words more forceful. “Forget all the things that I have said. Forget all the threats. Just let me go and let me do this.”
“D- do what?” Loy asked.
“Let me go!”
The force of Just’s command shocked Loy momentarily, his hold upon the birthright slipping briefly as he considered doing as he’d been asked. The door opened with a loud creak, yet it was not the sound which drew Loy’s attention back to the cottage. It was the aura. The force of Fate’s presence, bearing down on him, compelling him to- to… to do what? To hold firm his hand. To not let Just or his servant go.
“Very good, Loy.” Fate stood in her doorway, her back to the paneled wooden door, her hands resting upon her cane. Her spectacles glinted with an eerie light that seemed to come from her eyes themselves, rather than the lanterns and troughs which lined the homes and walk adjacent.
“Let me kill her!”
Loy opened his mouth to speak, yet something held his tongue. Not the imposition of Fate’s aspect; he did not feel compelled to silence as he felt compelled to restrain Just… But by his own timidity in the face of the realization that perhaps he had no fucking clue as to what he’d gotten himself into.
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 64