Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One

by Justan Henner

  Shock flickered across the young boy’s face, quickly replaced by a look of coy satisfaction. “Now what would give you that impression?” the heckler mocked.

  Just glared back at it. Could… could Dydal have really done this? There were two aspects in that wound, but neither felt like Dydal. One had been almost familiar… almost.

  “Why, yes, I did,” Kalec replied.

  Just’s mind buried in supposition, he had almost forgotten the Young Smith. A smirk stretched across the heckler’s face. Just had expected the creature to continue, but when the thing did not elaborate, Just turned back to the Smith. If his heckler would not cooperate, then he would have to reason through this puzzle the traditional way.

  “What was Dydal’s aim?”

  “His aim?” Kalec asked.

  “Yes. Why was he here? What did he speak of?”

  “He claimed that he was seeking your mother, but he seemed more interested in my past. He told me that I must accept my title… and help to rebuild Atherahn.”

  Yes. It seemed like advice that Dydal would give. His concern had ever been for the people of this land, and he had never cared for Atherahn’s blood cults. Yet it did not answer the question Just cared about.

  “But what does the boy have to do with it? Dydal did not come here by chance.”

  Kalec frowned. “I do not know. He was a just a boy, ignorant of what he was, but aware of what he could do.”

  “What he was?” Just asked.

  “He is a godling, but his father was not godkind.” The Smith approached then turned to the building’s edge. Kneeling in the grass, he pointed to a patch of bare, ashy soil. “I did not think he was aware of the birthright, but he must have been. Look at the lines between grass and singe. The boy did this.”

  The Smith was right. The grass ended abruptly, forming a straight edged square around the entire building. “So, he is a rogue youngling,” Just noted. “But there are plenty of those in Atherahn and Lock. Why would Dydal care about this one?”

  “I have pondered that myself. My first thought was the father maybe.”

  “Who was the father?” Just asked.

  “If you asked him, he would have said he was Liv’s scribe.”

  “But there was no scribe at Liv. Indaht Trask was an educated man, he would not have needed one.”

  “It’s easier to see than explain.” Kalec rose from his knees then paced back to the street. With a jerk of his head, he motioned for Just to follow.

  Just glanced to his heckler. The creature’s smile had broadened even farther, but all the explanation he offered was an exaggerated shrug. Just sighed before following his nephew.

  “The boy has something of the Whore’s scent,” the Young Smith explained. “Dydal mentioned it also. I suspect that is what sparked his interest.”

  Just grimaced. He had noticed the same thing, and he knew what it was. “It is not Mother’s scent. It is an aura of antiquity. Of purity.” He glanced back to the fire-fallen home. So, one aspect is the boy’s, but what of the other… could it really be Dydal’s? It did not feel like Dydal’s. And why did it feel as though one aspect had enveloped the other?

  Walking side by side, Kalec faced him with a puzzled frown. “What do you mean?”

  Just frowned a moment, before he recalled the topic they’d been discussing. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts.

  “We are hybrids of the aspects which preceded us,” Just said, “but Mother is only two, while we are many. Hers are distinct. Ours are diluted, muddled to the point of becoming something new. She is closer to the ideal. The flavors you sense are a purity of form.”

  “But your mother was the first, how could she be a hybrid of a predecessor?”

  Just clenched his jaw. He had said too much already. Mother’s words echoed through his thoughts. To forget the past, you must not mention it. He had done a decent job of keeping the truth of the previous pantheon from the young ones, but why should he bother now? Mother was gone, and she had committed the same crime her advice was intended to prevent. Because, Just thought, the aspect reflects its culture and the culture of Death and Fate is not one to which I wish to return.

  “And the culture you have created is better than what was?” The heckler appeared on Kalec’s left. Its tone was not mockery, rather, the question sounded sincere.

  How do you read my thoughts, demon?

  The shadow did not answer. In fact, its face showed no sign that it had heard him. In moments like this, Just was never certain if the creature toyed with him, or if its awareness of his mind was intermittent. It knew a great deal of his past, and sometimes his thoughts, but it did not seem to know everything.

  “You railed against the world ruled by Death and Fate,” his heckler continued. “You rail against the world your mother wishes to create, but you fail to see the flaws in the world you uphold. Should you bring those two to justice, as you so desire, will that ease the world’s ailments, or will it simply ease your own pain?”

  The heckler turned to the Smith, who studied Just from the corner of his eye, seemingly oblivious to the demon’s musings.

  “Their deaths will not ease this man’s grief,” the heckler continued. “But telling him the truth of his father’s fall might, and yet you do not. You are the same as them. The same as Fate and your mother. You care nothing for the innocent and their culture. Your only wish is to satisfy your own obsession.”

  Just’s anger flared. “And what do you care for, demon?”

  The Young Smith started. The heckler beamed.

  “I have already said,” the demon answered. “I care for you. You are my obsession.”

  “I…” Kalec spoke. “I… do not know anymore, Just. I simply do not know.”

  The desperation in Kalec’s words drew Just’s attention. The honesty softened his anger, and yet he could not pull his eyes from the shadow behind him. He opened his mouth to offer Kalec some explanation for his outburst, but the heckler spoke over him.

  “You are all the same,” it said. “A defining aspect that becomes your definition. That is the flaw of your culture. You justify obsession with delusions of propriety and grandeur. It is the same flaw as the world before except that instead of ‘My fate excuses my behavior,’ it is, ‘My aspect excuses my nature.’ You are right. Same is the same and a monster is still a monster, even if he has reason to be. Do not shroud your desire to kill Fate and the Whore in the guise of moral necessity. Motives do not have a moral weight, but actions do. You wish to be better? Then be better. You wish to be Just? Then act in justice. And if you do not wish to be those things, then stop pretending and embrace your true nature.”

  “You know nothing,” Just stated.

  “You fool,” the heckler hissed. “I know everything.”

  “I have often thought the same thing.” Kalec spoke, but Just stared through him. “You know, I believed our world to be the way it should be, but five hundred years have not set it right. Dydal was right, wasn’t he? I thought if I hid, that one day I would wake to find everything the way it had been, but that isn’t going to happen. I have to accept my title and the responsibility it brings.”

  “Then why is the boy important?”

  Though Just’s question was directed at the heckler, it was Kalec who responded. They had entered into a graveyard behind a small temple. The hamlet’s cherished dead would be interred in the crypts beneath the temple, the others in the graveyard. For a town as small as this, its hated were few, and thus its graveyard small. There were only three headstones, and the last was inscribed with a name he recognized. The heckler broke into laughter.

  “He tried to hide his identity with a false name,” Kalec explained, “but the locals knew the truth. They did not see a reason to bury him under the alias.”

  “But he was taken to Trel,” Just mumbled. The sight infuriated him; he hated being wrong. “My Grand saw Indaht Trask executed. You are certain?”

  Kalec nodded. “I bought a great deal of iron f
rom his foundries. I dealt with him on more than one occasion.”

  “But if the locals knew, why would they stay silent?”

  “They do not trust the Legion to police its own. After all, he would not have been here if the Legion could.”

  Just closed his eyes as he released a breath made heavy with frustration. Mother has always been one to hedge her bets. Immediately he knew the connection, and why not? Indaht Trask had killed hundreds. He had tortured prisoners, made innocent soldiers into killers. How could he not have seen it? How could he have not made the connection, when in centuries past, he had seen the previous iteration of Death perform the same contemptible feats. Gable’s tyrant falls, and her hopes for a new god of Death fall with him, and so Mother turns her attention to Indaht Trask. To the man who killed the tyrant.

  Just knew why the boy was important. He was the one that Fate had mentioned, the one she had feared that Just had meddled with. The boy is my brother, but what does Fate want with him?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  “I don’t get where we’re going,” the male said. “It would’ve been faster if we had gone west like I said.” The backpack he carried was all hooks and clasps, hanging from unused bindings. They clicked together as the man walked, adding another level of annoyance to the male’s every step.

  “We are taking a ship,” Loy told him. He had thought the concept simple enough for a mortal to understand, but apparently not. This was the third time the male had complained, but now that Mystic’s Light could be seen in the distance, Loy had hoped the idea might finally sink in for the man.

  “Yawh,” the male answered. “I heard yer the first time, but that ain’t no ship, that’s a wreck. I don’t even see how it’s still floating.”

  Loy glanced at the man before turning his attention back to the ship at the end of the pier. Still missing the mainmast and pocked with splintered gashes along the sides, Loy was embarrassed that he himself did not know how it floated, but he refused to admit that fact to a mortal. “Perhaps when we arrive, you can ask Quill to explain it, for I certainly will not.”

  “He doesn’t know,” Rise whispered. Loudly.

  “Then how does he know it’ll sail?” the male whispered back.

  “Because I am here, mortal.” Loy’s patience waned; it had been two days of their endless questions.

  “Does it fly then?” Rise asked.

  “Good question,” the man said.

  Loy almost tripped. Her question disappointed him; thus far, she had proved herself to be the more intelligent creature, but it seemed that her intelligence had finally met its limits. “What?” Loy asked. “It is a ship. It does not fly. It sails. Do they not educate you mortals?”

  “A course they do, but if yer came here in that, it must fly, right? How else would it have reached the heavens?”

  Incredulous, Loy glared at them over his shoulder. “The what?”

  “The heavens. Yer know, the sky above.”

  “Yes, I know what they are, mortal, but I cannot fathom why you would think I had come from there.”

  Rise leaned close to her husband. “He’s kind of a dick, isn’t he?”

  “Yawh,” the man nodded. “But I kind of like it. Why don’t yer ever treat me that way?”

  “Like shit?”

  “Aye. I got me a-”

  “Silence,” Loy spat. “The both of you. I can hear every word you say. Do neither of you have proper manners?”

  Rise gasped. “You were listening to our private conversation?” The false outrage in her voice was poorly disguised.

  “Gods, that’s not very polite,” the male added.

  The word grated. Never in his life had Loy met two mortals this impertinent. Or this talkative. When the two mongrels were not whining, they were whispering indecencies or speaking of trivial matters. And the mouths on them; the classless whelps swore incessantly, their favorites seeming to be ‘fuck’ and ‘gods,’ the second of which perturbed him beyond explanation.

  “You would use that word after I demanded that you should not?”

  “Which word?” Rise asked. He could hear the smile in her tone.

  “You know which word.”

  “Gods,” the male whispered. “Which word do yer think he’s talking about?”

  “Gods, it could have been any of them. Maybe if he asked instead of demanding.”

  “Nikom’s Blessing,” Loy swore.

  “What’d he say, husband?”

  “I think he blessed us, wife.”

  “Oh. That makes sense.”

  “Yer think it comes with longer life?”

  “I hope not.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Already spend too much time in my life worrying about dying. I don’t want more time to worry about it.”

  “But if yer lived longer, yer wouldn’t have ter worry about it so much.”

  “Well, how do you know that? You said it makes me live longer, but you didn’t say anything about it making me less neurotic.”

  “Maybe there’s a blessing fer that too.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Why not this time?”

  “Because, who will keep us alive if I don’t spend all my time worrying about it? The second blessing defeats the purpose of the first.”

  “Maybe yer could have both?”

  Rise sighed. “Well, I guess, but what’ll I spend all my time thinking about instead? I might get bored.”

  “Well, yer could think about me.”

  “Ehh,” Rise lifted her hand and shook it level to the ground. That seemed to end the conversation, yet despite being insulted, the male smiled. Too stupid, perhaps, to realize he was being mocked.

  The silence was short lived. “Where we going again?” the male asked. “I don’t think that ship will float. Would’ve been faster if we’d just gone west.”

  Loy did not bother to answer as he reached the pier’s end. With a flip of his wrist – and an expulsion of birthright – he attempted to raise the gangplank from the dock and up to the ship. He must have been upset, for the plank only wavered a fraction before clanking back to the ground. He felt Quill’s aura – Quill had taken to leaving it exposed since he and Niece Kindrel had admitted their treachery – shift below decks. The aura’s strength felt tenuous, as if the god had grown weaker somehow, and with his own failure to raise the gangplank, that troubled Loy. He was not looking forward to this reunion, not after he had left Quill behind as a supposed liability, and especially not after the events of Dekahn had vindicated Quill’s every prediction.

  “Male,” Loy ordered. “The gangplank.” He would have tried again, but he could feel a headache coming on and did not want to overexert himself. The two mortals glanced at one another before obeying his command – a worse affront than all of their insults combined. If another saw their hesitation, they might think of Loy as an incapable master.

  The two mortals seemed unfamiliar with how the plank worked, laying the hooked end on the dock instead of hooking it to the lip under the ship’s walkway. They seemed utterly confused when the top end began to slide off the ship and back toward the dock. With an exaggerated sigh, Loy twirled his pointer finger, hoping they would understand their mistake with a few minor hints. Seeing his gesture, Rise patted her husband’s arm then pointed to the two hooks. It was, no doubt, by Father Order’s mercy that the two did not need a third attempt.

  As the hooks clicked into place, and the plank’s other end settled onto the dock, Loy pushed past them and onto the ship. He reached the main deck just as the hatch swung open to emit Quill’s head.

  “You are back,” Quill said. “When I saw the smoke, I had begun to worry.” His eyes fell on Rise and her husband as they stepped onto the ship. “And you have brought guests.”

  “Hello,” Rise said. She offered Quill a friendly wave. “I am Rise and this is my husband Skibs.”

  Loy glared at her. The audacity to inject herself into a conversation between godkind, it was detestable
. She claimed to have been educated, but apparently, their education had been greatly restricted. Loy was fairly certain, despite her heightened intelligence, that the female could not even read and write. After all, the male had written the letter they left with the parent of the two children – though the fool had misspelled half the words the same way he mispronounced them.

  The Ingairan barbarian seemed not to mind her imposition. He smiled, climbed onto deck, and crossed to meet them. “You are welcome on my ship,” Quill bowed, grasping Rise’s hand to lift it to his lips. “May it hold your feet like the earth itself.”

  “Blegh,” Skibs mocked. “Another northerner.”

  “Yth yer Gableman ahn gryth?” Quill muttered in an unintelligible tongue.

  The mortal suddenly beamed. “Yawh,” he nodded. “We are better.”

  “Nahn yer’ittehn Hornish?”

  “Me wife doesn’t speak it.” His hand motioned to Loy. “Are you a god, too?”

  “Too?” Quill asked, his coy smile directed at Loy. “I am godkind, yes, but a god’s spouse first, and a god second.”

  Both Skibs’ and Rise’s eyes darted to Loy.

  Quill’s glance followed. The whites of his eyes encircled his pupil as his voice raced to clarify. “Not his!” The tone was rather insulting. “My wife is in Trel.”

  “There’d be no shame in it,” Rise said.

  Quill blushed, his eyes tracking Loy’s face. “Believe me,” he said in a voice tinged with rude amusement, “there most certainly would be.”

  Loy’s nostrils flared. “Well it seems you three savages shall be good company for one another. I shall return to my hold until we reach Trel.”

  Quill’s eyes darted to the floor, the male laughed, and the female made an obnoxious cooing sound. Not for the first time, Loy regretted saving the two mortals. Quill alone was torture enough, and now Loy had three uppity vermin to contend with. At least Niece Kindrel – the most vile of the four – was still absent. Loy offered them one final glare before marching proudly to the hatch and below decks. He heard them speak as he closed the hatch behind him, but he did not bother to listen to what was said.