Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One

by Justan Henner

  “Of course you said something,” Wilt frowned. “I heard you speak.”

  Yawning like some kind of freakish cat, the fat one uncoiled from her den at the foot of the bed. “She didn’t say anything,” she mumbled.

  You forget rather quick it seems.

  Wilt flinched with such force that it nearly sent the fat one rolling off the duvet. Just?

  The voice cackled. Not yet, it said. Though I imagine he is not far behind.

  It was the other one. The one who hid in Just’s shadow.

  What? Wilt asked. If the god could read his thoughts again, then he would know about Stills. His death would be immediate.

  Oh, do not worry, little Death, the god’s shadow cooed. You still have a case of wine left, and whatever it is that has made that blonde one grin like that. You can be dead to the world before he finds you.

  Wilt groaned. That would never work. The god had kept him alive long enough to torture him, he could wait a few hours for Wilt to sober up, no matter how much he drank.

  What do you want? Wilt asked the creature. It would be better if he knew who or what the voice was. At least with Just, he knew what to expect, but this other voice had no clear motive, no obvious desires or wants, it had never asked him for anything. How could he deal with a creature like that?

  Nothing really. Simply curious. I mean, you had the chance to escape him, and yet here you are, back to do his bidding, and what was it? Three days? A little too short for the willful defiance you pretended at.

  You are curious about me? Wilt asked.

  Of course I am. I am curious about any man who might become a god. Have you thought about my offer yet?

  Wilt sighed. Another god looking for power, though with the addition of Beda Stills fighting to pull Wilt’s strings, he couldn’t claim that gods were alone in their need for control. It was becoming rather tiresome.

  I have not thought about it, Wilt said. And I have no intention to.

  But don’t you wish to be Death? Don’t you wish to be free? Do you want anything anymore, dear Wilt?

  A sudden giggle drew Wilt’s focus. The good whore leaned on the breakfast table, stifling her laugh with one hand and pointing at the armoire in the corner ahead of her. “Who’s this skinny old Dren?” she chuckled. “He looks like…” The rest of her sentence was overtaken by laughter. “He looks like…” she tried again. Again, she couldn’t finish.

  Ahh, the poor girl’s hallucinating, the shadow said.

  Wilt wasn’t so certain. The Northlands mushrooms brought many visions, however… Wilt had seen the shadow twice, and both times had been during a similar fog. He had not seen an old man, but a young Vandu.

  Are you so certain that I will be a god? Wilt asked. Are you so certain that the Mother controls me?

  Sure, the ghost said. Why not?

  The flippant nature of the ghost’s response put Wilt on edge. What did the thing want, if not to pretend friendship in order to control him?

  I want what I have claimed to want from the beginning, dear Wilt. To sate my curiosity.

  Wilt grimaced. And what are you curious about?

  I am… curious about the difference between want and desire.

  The skinny whore still giggled in her chair. “Are you…” she started to say, still talking to the golden leafed armoire. “Are you here to give me a blessing?”

  The other whore, collapsed back into her roll of blankets, rolled over with a moan. “Shut up, you drunk bitch, I’m sleeping here.”

  The pretty whore ignored her, nodding at the wall like she was agreeing with whatever it was the wardrobe said to her.

  “No, silly,” she said, glancing down at her naked body. “I don’t have any buttons.”

  Wilt reconsidered. Perhaps she was hallucinating. The Northlands mushrooms were a strong hallucinogen, and though it was late afternoon, he had watched her eat two or three at dawn.

  Wilt did his best to ignore her. Want and desire? This isn’t another indiscernible lecture, is it?

  Indiscernible? My musings are not… Bah. Fine. I will muse in language you can comprehend, savage. There was a slight pause. You told me you wanted to be free of Just. Then three days off his leash and you come running back, so I can only surmise you once more desired to be his yappy little bitch.

  Yappy?

  Yes. For justice must have a little dog, must he not? One that whines and yaps and barks the whole day through, yet accomplishes nothing but to hop up and down until someone smacks his nose. It-

  Get to the point, Wilt interrupted.

  Do not tell me how to- The voice stopped without prompting. He got the impression the shadow had stopped to listen to something, and when he spoke again, he spoke as if responding to someone. Yes, that is a pressing matter. Good reasoning. I shall get to the point. I am telling you that you are pathetic. Now let me do it the way I want to. No wait, the way I desire to. You see, I’m finding they are not the same thing.

  Wilt sighed and rolled back onto his pillow. The thing was as bad as Just, all empty words and promises. Shut up already, Wilt said. Let me die in peace.

  Die? You don’t want to die. No… yes. That’s my point exactly. You want to die, but you do not desire to… Or… or perhaps you do? Else, why would you have come back here?

  I was starving.

  No… the voice sounded contemplative. No, that’s not right. You could have left Dekahn on that first day. You could have walked right out, and been home to your precious rot that very evening. You know how to live in the wild, you could have found your people, you could have revealed to them your true name, and ruled them as you said you wanted. You might have taken your people to find the Old Guard, and you could have helped cast the Legion from this city- There was another slight pause. You should probably duck.

  What?

  A soft click came from the armoire, followed by the twang of a rope. The armoire’s double doors burst open, booming as one door smacked into the wardrobe’s side panel and the other smacked into the wall. The first bolt pounded louder than the armoire, embedded into the headboard, right where the top of Wilt’s head had been a mere second ago. Two more strings twanged. The second bolt sloshed as it took the skinny whore in the face, her arms sprawling to knock the painting of King Erin from its perch, her legs upending the table before pulling the chair down beside her. The third was silent as it struck the fat one in the gut, but the whore herself was booming, screaming in short, heavy bursts at the arrow in her belly, before the shock forced her to a gasping silence.

  Beda Stills stood in the armoire, amongst Wilt’s fancy new robes, flanked on either side by two young men, all three holding a weapon he had only ever heard of; a Hornish crossbow, an Old Guard favorite.

  Wilt leapt the moment he saw her – leapt was a strong word; flailed madly until his weight dragged free of the coverlet was closer to the truth. He scrambled to pull himself off the bed, the dour whore’s weight pinning his legs beneath the too-tight sheets. As his legs yanked free, this time his efforts did unseat the whore, knocking her free of the nest of furs, and onto the floor with a smack of flesh and a high whine.

  With the bed between himself and the armoire, Wilt’s first words were, for once, not for himself. Sort of. “You killed my favorite whore!” he shouted.

  The voice chuckled in his head. See, I told you that you had no desire to die.

  Now is not the time.

  Boards creaked as boots padded onto the stone tiles. Commander Stills’ voice was calm. “The pretty one’s still alive.”

  “Is she?” Wilt asked, regaining a bit of happiness. “Wait. What color’s her hair?”

  Wilt heard the sound of a rope clicking past a lock; the crossbow being drawn.

  “Right now?” Beda asked. “Red, but from the look of it, I’m pretty sure it was brown a few minutes ago.”

  Brown. “That’s the fat one.” He could hear her wheezing from behind the bed’s sturdy footboard. It seemed unlikely the arrow had done her any favors
, particularly to her mood, but at least she wasn’t complaining for once.

  “Fat one?” Beda’s voice was emotionless, clinical. “You have an odd definition of fat. She must be fifteen pounds underweight.”

  Wilt shivered. “Yeah, but look at her cheeks. They’re just so… round.”

  Beda stills made a rasping sound, like a freezing wind through a canyon of ice, which from her, he took for a sigh. That or the fat whore’s lung had just deflated. Either seemed likely.

  “You’re disgusting,” Beda said.

  “Because I know what I like?”

  “Because you have no respect for the dead.”

  “You’re the one who shot her,” Wilt shouted.

  The boots padded closer, but Wilt didn’t dare peek over the mattress.

  “Actually, it was Micks who shot her. My bolt was aimed for you.”

  “But I did what you asked,” Wilt complained.

  Did you now? the shadow asked. Wilt ignored him.

  Beda’s response was simple. “You’re wearing a mask.”

  “And in the king’s chambers,” one of the young men said.

  Wilt cringed. The man’s voice had come from behind and below him. Wilt leaned over and glanced underneath the bed. One of the two young men lay on the floor opposite him, another bolt aimed for Wilt’s pelvis. The man grinned.

  Cool metal touched Wilt’s navel. He turned his head slowly, not quite convinced he wanted to see what might happen next. Instead of her spear and buckler, Beda Stills carried a sword alongside her crossbow. She pointed the bolt at his head, but her sword was awfully close to his cock. Tight-fitting leather armor, the same tan color as the palace’s sandstone walls, covered her from boot to leather cap, simple and unadorned. As always, her face wore no expression, but the fact she hadn’t killed him yet, he took for a good sign. Wilt flinched as the short-sword slid lower down his abdomen. Or a very bad sign.

  “You’re not going to kill me, are you?” Wilt forced a smile. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

  Beda ignored him. “Why are you wearing the mask?”

  Wilt sputtered. “Why, to affect the illusion you asked of me.”

  “Hmm…” Beda hummed. “You went in, within an hour you’d accomplished your task, and then…” She let the statement hang. Her stare, as detached and lifeless as her voice, unnerved him.

  “Yes. Well. I couldn’t just walk away. They would follow me. Kill me, but not before they tortured me until I revealed what I had done for you. I had to have an exit strategy, and compliance seemed the best route.”

  Just’s shadow laughed. Waiting to die is not an exit strategy, it mocked.

  Shut up, you rotted fool.

  For a wonder, it did.

  “Uh huh…” Beda murmured. Her head glanced over the bed. “Micks, what do you think?”

  The man on the floor answered. “Don’t see a use for him.”

  Beda nodded. “Me neither, but… we had a deal. I am not one to devalue trust. You can go.”

  “Go?” Wilt asked. “Go where?”

  Beda shrugged and the blade shrugged with her. “Or don’t.” Her head turned to the armoire. “Hen. Grab the robes. If this one can go anywhere in the things, so can we.”

  My new robes? But they were so soft. So elegant… Wilt almost argued with her. Almost.

  Well, Wilt demanded of the shadow. Aren’t you going to do something?

  Do something? The shadow sounded amused. Why would I do anything?

  The question gave Wilt pause. It was a solid argument, nothing Wilt had seen of the shadow had given the impression that it and Just were friendly. Why would the ghost care if Beda upset the god’s plans?

  What do you want? Wilt wondered.

  Beda spoke before the shadow could answer. “We’re leaving. Tell anyone what has happened here and I will find you.” She put no stress on the ‘will find you’ as any normal extortionist would, neither did she say the word ‘kill,’ but the way she pressed the flat of her short-sword deeper against his stomach was threatening enough.

  Beda returned the short-sword to its scabbard then walked toward the armoire. Wilt scrambled to his feet so he could watch her leave. She was not one to turn his back on twice, he knew that now, and he wanted to be certain she had really left.

  Micks was on his feet, the crossbow aimed at Wilt’s head, his smile as wide as it had been before. Beda headed for the door to the room, the other man, Hen, holding her crossbow as she fought to pull one of Wilt’s robes over her leather armor. It was halfway over her head and torso when she reached the door which Hen held open with his foot. The man that had been on the floor was the last to leave. As the door swung shut, he crooked the crossbow under an arm and blew Wilt a parting kiss. This was why he hated soldiers, they were never humble about winning.

  With a relieved sigh, Wilt examined his broken paradise. A fan of bloodspray dotted the wall over the pleasant little breakfast table. With its stem sprinkled with what he could only surmise to be bits of brain, it was not so pleasant any longer. The armoire remained open, revealing a dark stone passage. Wilt stepped over the dying whore – now gurgling instead of gasping – for a better look.

  A thin plank of wood on copper hinges, which he had taken for the wardrobe’s back panel, was all that had separated the king’s bedroom from the dank passage. It was dark in there. Really dark in there. Wilt needed to get out of this room, but he did not like the thought of leaving by that route. For peace of mind, he closed the back panel; he’d rather die by another ambush than risk an arrow from the dark.

  Wilt heard a voiceless sigh. See what I mean about want and desire? the shadow asked.

  No, Wilt said.

  The creature sighed again. Me neither. Poetry dies in moments like this… I shall be blunt then. You are close to becoming this god of Death. Close to having all the things you wanted. Do not give up your fight because you have lost a single battle. You doubt the Mother? Fine, then take your right as all Vandu do, take it by force, tear down the god and her son, make of yourself a god, a god built upon the chains with which they have tried to bind you. She wants to remake the pantheon, well why not make your own?

  Stop talking.

  I shall not stop talking. Do you not think that you are special? Do you not think that the Mother has picked you because of some innate facet of your being?

  I have not been picked by anyone.

  No? Then why are you here? Why are you not rotting beneath that tree, if not by the desire of the gods and fate? They have chosen you, Wilt, now make them regret it.

  The creature raised a decent point. Why did he cower before the gods? Was he not Vandu? Was he not a god hunter? That was the mistake he had made all along. Instead of fighting, he had cowered before the god, had gone searching for the book in the hopes godhood might be granted to him. But instead… why not seize it for himself?

  Wilt retrieved his favorite robe from its hanger, a linen one made for riding, and covered himself. He left the armoire open.

  Before leaving the room, he took a moment to say goodbye to his favorite whore. She was naked, half-curled, half-sprawled on the floor, atop the backrest of her overturned chair. King Erin, smiling in his Lock’s Day best, stared out from his portrait, the painting mercifully covering the shattered mess he imagined the whore’s head to be.

  A shame, the shadow said. I rather liked that one.

  “Me too,” Wilt said. “Me too.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  “Is there nothing we can do for him?”

  Rin Tepa turned from the doorway, the legionnaire’s boots still visible as the door shut behind him. Null wondered what having faith meant that their words could have crushed him so, that her words could have stolen his hope. What had he believed of Fate and Just that their words could have turned his face from raw determination and made his cheeks sink to such hollows that he looked like a widower in mourning? What had he believed of Rin Tepa? Of this woman he had met less than a week before.


  Probably what Null had believed; that the woman was honest and truthful, that when she said she would tell Null everything, that she would keep her word.

  It was strange, but so familiar to see Tepa’s brow grooved and lined as her mouth twisted into a frown. “No,” the queen said slowly, “there isn’t.” And it did seem that way, seemed as though she were the queen again, and Null her son’s slave. Amazing that replacing the mask could make her seem as foreign as she had been without it.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Entaras?” Null asked. Her voice was soft, but she couldn’t hide her hurt. Even to her own ears, she sounded whiney. She didn’t like that. She wanted to feel she was confronting this woman, not pestering her.

  The queen shrugged in that resigned way of hers, that way which said she couldn’t be bothered with trivial details. “Fatigue,” she said. “Grief. An absent mind. I promised to share everything, Null, and I meant it, I still do, but I am fallible child. I can make mistakes.”

  “It is a big thing to forget.” Null’s hand squeezed the cushion of her armchair.

  “I did not think it would be important to you,” Tepa said it dismissively, as though the origins of her name had not been a major topic of conversation between them the last few weeks. How could she be so inconsiderate?

  “I asked many times.”

  “Yes,” Tepa admitted. “Yes… but… Entaras may have been your namesake, but the fact that I knew him did not change much. The fact I knew what he was did not change much, for my answer of why I named you that was still the same.”

  “Because I reminded you of him.” It wasn’t a question. More a demand. How could the queen have thought that? Did she believe that Null was unteachable? That she was as helpless as a child without memory?

  “Yes.” A simple answer. One word.

  Null pressed her. “You thought I was like him.” Again, it was not a question.