Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One

by Justan Henner

  By all outward measures, the god seemed calm. “And you have succeeded,” Just said. “So, allow my soldiers to leave this city unharmed, and let us be done with it.”

  “No,” the Hegemon stated.

  “You want more of your fellows to die?” Just asked. “I am offering a chance to see this war finished, to see the Legion marching home.”

  “No. I do not want more death, but as I see it, my soldiers and I are winning this war. If we must discuss peace, then I will need better terms.”

  “Terms?” Just mused. A thin smile spread on Wilt’s lips. “I have not given any terms, but it seems I should have. Here are your terms. Walk away now, and I will not kill you where you stand.” The god took a step forward. “Walk away now, and I will not bring that tower down on your head, complete with those three younglings your people think are a threat.” He took another step. “Walk away now, and you will not have to learn what separates me from those three up there, what separates me from those pathetic, weak, measly, little cultists you fight in the East.”

  Just’s gaze drifted up to the three figures on the tower. He raised Wilt’s voice loud enough to give the impression he was speaking to them atop their perch. “Throwing stones?” he shouted. “I could bring the moon down on your heads.” He dropped his arms to encompass Wilt’s body. “You think this lone puppet impressive? I could raise this city’s dead, every last man and woman, every last of your loved ones, and make them hunt you down like the weak filth you are.” His stare fell back on the Hegemon, his voice sinking into a solemn threat. “You think Dekahn a ruin? I could burn the entire world if I so desired. If you doubt my resolve, simply gaze up into the night sky and witness my handiwork.”

  The queen narrowed her eyes at him, but she held her tongue.

  Just closed the distance with a final step and placed his finger on the Hegemon’s chest. “Go ahead,” Just whispered. “Test me. If it takes a month, I will kill each and every one of your men. If it takes a year, I will hunt down their families and all of their friends. If it takes a decade, I will cleanse this nation from the earth, and then when I am done, and I have made you watch it all, I will break your neck, if only to pity you.”

  The Hegemon tensed, his lips pulling back into a frown so tight Wilt could see the impression of the man’s teeth underneath the skin.

  He answered in a mocking whisper. “You don’t scare me,” Blake said.

  In feigned shock, Just pulled back Wilt’s body and raised a hand to his mouth. “I suppose I’ll have to prove it then.”

  A piercing scream sounded from the barracks behind them. The woman who had loosed the arrow into Wilt’s chest leaned half out the window, her back to the crowd, beating at herself with both hands as if to extinguish an imaginary fire. Her screams were not only fearful, but pained as she danced to put out the unseen flames. The woman’s movements became frantic, her flailing becoming urgent and her steps panicked. Though Wilt could not see whatever assailed her, he didn’t need to, to know that her pain was real. She fell to the floor, the windowsill hiding her from sight, but her screams continued.

  And then Wilt’s head turned a second time, his gaze fixing on the tower top. A fourth figure stood among the three mages, the god himself, arriving in a flash of light. There was a loud boom, louder than the stones striking the palace, and the three mages toppled back, each having lost their footing. They plummeted over the edge, arms cartwheeling as they fell. Wilt flinched to the sound of soft skin and hard bone striking harder stone.

  The god wasn’t finished. Atop the tower, the god’s body lifted its arms, and as the god did, so too did Wilt’s arms raise. Stones lifted with the god’s reach, not rubble like the mages had used, but the library’s own stones, stripping away from the tower top, raining dry, fluffy mortar as the stones hovered out over the crowd. A dozen stones, some larger than two men, hung precariously over the Hegemon and his soldiers.

  The Hegemon gaped up at the boulders.

  Wilt’s hand reached out to Blake’s collar and yanked him close. “Do not test me,” Just warned. “Pull back your Guard, and spare their lives.”

  The Hegemon closed and reopened his mouth in a vain effort to speak. Before he could, a sudden shout cut him off. One of the Hegemon’s soldiers, mistaking the god’s gesture as a threat to Blake’s life, charged forward, brandishing an iron short-sword. Just loosed his grip on the Hegemon, pulled back Wilt’s body, and ducked the blade as it swung for Wilt’s head. With Wilt’s left hand, the god grabbed the soldier’s wrist, and with his right, slammed two fingers underneath the man’s skullcap, ramming them deep into the soldier’s eyes. Blood squirted, followed by a gasp of air as the man collapsed.

  Outrage churned among the Guard, as the man’s dying moan was answered by the charge of his fellows. Wilt’s mouth twisted into a smile.

  What are you doing? Wilt cried. They will rip me to pieces. Even a dead man couldn’t survive that.

  He will not call my bluff, the god replied.

  Bluff?

  The stones above dropped.

  Nursing his bandaged shoulder, Bell watched the chaos in the courtyard. His mouth gaped, but he didn’t care to fix it. A whole three dozen men, the whole complement of guardsmen that had held the library since he’d arrived on the scene, charged the immortal courtesan at once. The priest’s taunting – Just’s taunting he supposed – had riled the Guard into a frenzy. Though surrounded by Legion soldiers, every available point, every spear, every sword, every halberd and dagger the Guard carried, was now pointed at that lone man.

  Up on the tower, the god’s arms dropped. The hovering stones followed, the mysterious force which had held them aloft, suddenly failing. The first guardsman struck before the stones fell, a heavyset woman with a long pike aimed for the courtesan’s eyes. The priest’s body lurched, down and away from the deadly foot of iron, and then his hand snapped up, cracking the pike in half and sending the bottom three feet of wood to ricochet into the woman’s gut. She stumbled back, her arms reaching to catch herself, but there was no one close enough to help her – the rest kept their distance, each of them seeing the same threat Bell saw.

  “Enough!” the Hegemon shouted, but it was too late for the woman. Eleven stones halted in midair. The twelfth landed on its target.

  A ring of dust and pebbles swirled out from the fallen stone. The guardsman it had pinned – the lone woman who’d thrust her spear for Wilt’s face – showed no sign of life. Her legs, the only part of her still visible beneath the massive brick, were motionless. It had been a quick death, but no less jarring.

  The nearby guardsmen, those standing beneath the other eleven bricks, were torn between focal points, half staring up at the death looming above them, and the others staring at their example of further indiscretion.

  “You were saying?” the god asked.

  The Hegemon glared at him. “We… we will allow your Legion to retreat from Dekahn,” he said.

  The god smiled with Wilt’s lips. “That is all I ask,” Just said.

  The stones above crumbled, raining pebbles onto the soldiers below. A little stone bounced off the Hegemon’s thinning, black hair. His mouth twisted into a defiant sneer.

  “Your people have until sunset,” Blake warned.

  The god laughed. “I will set the timeframe.”

  The Hegemon huffed and turned away, marching back into the library. “Fall back!” he called. “Guard, to the tunnels. Gather our wounded and regroup! This fight is done!”

  There were no complaints from his men, no groans or angry threats of reprisal, just a chill silence.

  As the soldiers began to shuffle around them, Queen Tepa stepped closer for a private word. “He will not give up so easily,” she whispered. “He plans to capture Trel.”

  The god sniffed through Wilt’s nose. “Let him. I will save the Legion, but Dydal is on his own. I was too lenient with his priests and their scheming, and now Cyleste is dead. Their country could use a winnowing.”

&nb
sp; Atep Rin frowned. Her words were delayed by a noticeable swallow. “And what of my people?”

  “Save who you can,” Just said. “Try to convince them to stay here instead of following him. Eventually, I will have to act against the Guard, but any Lockish who remain with you will be spared my ire. Once it is safe, the food and supplies from Settin will resume.”

  The queen nodded. “I will convince who I can.”

  She turned away, heading not for the library, but back to the palace. Pushing her way out of the stone tower, through the ranks moving to follow the Hegemon, the queen’s young ward raced to follow Atep Rin.

  She will have a hard fight in regaining her people’s trust, the god reflected.

  Wilt didn’t care. Right now, he only had one concern. Are you done yet? Wilt asked.

  Thankfully, the god replied.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  The Legion trailed into the west, their shadows stretching behind them as they marched into the fading light. The Hegemon had promised safe passage from the city, but Just did not expect the peace to be long lasting. People were easy to read, and that one was an ideologue. Blake had another purpose fueling him beyond his appointed duties, and it would manifest itself again in the future.

  Just regretted his choice. He should have sent the Legion south and had them rendezvous with the Settish, but if the Hegemon truly intended to strike for Trel, how could he deny those soldiers the chance to defend their homeland?

  Just turned and looked into the dead city. From atop the city walls, the desecration seemed natural, as if the field of char and ash were products of the earth instead of gods and men. Though solemn, he enjoyed such places; their quiet stillness, their peaceful sorrow. Such places reminded him that emotion was not bad, that even grief had its place in life, especially in one that was nearing two millennia.

  Cyleste’s remains, wrapped and bundled in their burial sheet on the rampart beside him, were not a burden for him. She had never been a burden, or a liability, or a test of his patience and morals. She had been competent and wise, and most important, a loyal friend. There were some in life who made love easy; undaunting. Cyleste had been such a friend.

  Today, he had expelled more energy than he should have. It might take his blood nodes weeks to recover, but he didn’t regret his choice. To do nothing would have been a sacrilege, an insult to Cyleste’s memory. The Legion no longer held a place in his heart, he had spent too many generations apart from it, but Cyleste had.

  Perhaps he had relied on her too much. Had he known his Legion as he had in years past, had he known every face, every person, every personality, maybe today’s events could have been avoided. Perhaps his rule had become too far removed. That distance had cost Cyleste’s life. He had underestimated the threat against her. He’d not thought Godahn or this Taehrn Andren an immediate concern. And that was not the worst of it.

  If not for Cyleste, he doubted that he would have spared the Legion’s plight a second thought. Though he did not love the Legion as he once had, he had loved Cyleste, and she had loved the Legion. And her daughters. How could he have ignored them today? How could he have let Marl die, knowing the friendship Cyleste had always given him?

  And that was what troubled him. If not for Cyleste, he would have let them die. If not for Cyleste, he would have let the Legion fail, let the Hegemon slay each and every one of them, and that sickened him. He had been too damned focused on everything else. On Death, on Fate, on his mother, and this new brother of his…

  “At least you see it.”

  Just glanced up as the heckler coalesced on his right. The creature stood over Cyleste’s remains, today his guise unrecognizable beneath the cloudy mirage that danced across his blank features. His face was not Silt, or Atep Rin, or anyone else the thing might call Just’s ‘victims.’ The thing had a nose and eyes, a mouth, but in some way he could not place, each feature was nondescript, like a face in the shadows of a hood. Or a face behind a porcelain mask.

  Just gave the creature a hard glare. “Leave me to my grief, demon.”

  The heckler cocked its head. “Is that not what I have done?” it asked. “There were many years I watched you in silence. I let you have those days, those many long years when I should have spoken.”

  Just sighed. Was it too much to hope that the creature would leave him be?

  Of course it is, Just thought.

  The heckler moved to stand next to him. “She was a good woman,” it said.

  Just frowned. The creature’s words did not have the heckler’s usual mockery. Still, Just had trouble believing them sincere.

  “She was,” Just agreed.

  “I remember when you found her, so eager to prove herself, so eager to make the Legion worthy of its legend.”

  Just glanced at the creature. “You have been with me that long, then?”

  The shadows nodded. “As I said, there were many years that I was silent.”

  “And was I doing the right thing, then?” Just asked. “Stopping the tyrant? Refusing Gable its independence in favor of Trellish rule?”

  “Hmm,” the creature mused. “I think you did, yes. Independence under the tyrant’s rule would have been worse oppression than subservience to Trel. However… your motives were suspect.”

  “Oh? And how is it you know that?”

  The creature sighed. “We can play this game of false morality,” it said, “but we both know that you did not oppose the tyrant out of good will. You opposed him to combat the Whore, and it is the same reason you are here now.”

  Just grunted. “You speak as if my opposition to her is not moral, as if in opposing her, I do some wrong, but that itself is false. Her meddling must be stopped, before my mother’s obsession with Death damns us all.”

  The shadows swirled on the heckler’s cloudy face. “Moral ideals need not make for moral means. Tell me, is Death her obsession, or is it yours? I have yet to see her…”

  Just pursed his lips. There was no arguing with this creature. Just said nothing, and mercifully, the heckler allowed the silence to continue. Just wanted the silence, but he wasn’t ready for it. There were questions that nagged him, and despite his wishes, this might be his best time to ask them.

  “Is that the reason for your interest in the merchant?” Just asked.

  The heckler bristled, his shoulders straightening. “Interest?” the creature feigned.

  “Please,” Just sighed. “Do not pretend. I have noticed your affection for her. You ask too many questions about her, about my intent for her. You flinched when I asked Cyleste to conscript her, and then again when I asked Cyleste to leave Trin behind.”

  The heckler shuffled uncomfortably. “I would not call it ‘affection,’” he said.

  “Then what?”

  Sucking air through its teeth, the heckler paused. “Why not see for yourself?” it asked.

  “And how would I do that?”

  The heckler motioned to Cyleste’s bundled form. “Even in her last moments, she has done you a great favor.”

  Just frowned. “A favor?”

  “Yes. Have you checked the name book?”

  Just paused, thinking it might be some trick, then sighed and removed the tiny copy he kept in his pocket; the actual Book of Justice remained at the Conclave in Settin. Flipping to the final page, Just read the name aloud.

  “Bell Cobbren. I do not understand. The assassin?”

  “Not an assassin,” the heckler corrected. “Just a loyal friend.”

  “Loyal to who?”

  The heckler shrugged. “His fellows. His friends. The Legion. The boy… The merchant.”

  Just frowned. That was right… he did remember Cyleste mentioning something about the legionnaire and the merchant being acquainted. And to Jem… his newest brother. Gods, I hope that one is less of a disappointment. He still did not know what he would do about him… was it best to just stay away? Let the boy live his own life? How could he? Fate already believed that Just had interfered, w
hen he had not. Clearly, someone else was. Could the boy be used that way? If Mother and Fate had made a bargain, there was only one bargain they could have made… but Fate would not make that bargain. She wanted her sister back. She wanted the original Death.

  Just turned his eyes to the heckler, pulling his thoughts back to their previous conversation. “And Bell Cobbren knows the reason for your interest in Trin Cavahl?” he asked.

  “Take a look,” the creature suggested. “You will know the memory when you find it.”

  Just stared a moment at the book, then finally, he nodded. Closing his eyes, he searched the threads that tied to his agents. Sure enough, a new one had replaced Cyleste’s.

  He sensed the man, somewhere to the west, among the Legion as it rode into the rot. After a short pause, he took the plunge. The memories surrounded him, some old and nondescript, some fresh and bleeding; happy memories, sad memories, awkward memories. There were too many moments in a life to skim through them all, to feel each in the way it deserved, to know the person as intimately as these locked secrets would allow, but one memory caught his interest over all the others.

  The legionnaire sat in a candlelit bedroom, across from a beleaguered looking Merchant Cavahl, and a red-faced steward who rocked – more like, swayed drunkenly – from side to side, cupping a small and generously filled whiskey glass with both hands. The room was his sister’s work, indeed Just recognized it as one of the modest bedrooms in Tyrena’s chapel. Though the room had once belonged to his youngest sibling, neither it nor those present were what had drawn his attention. Instead, his attention had been drawn by a voice, one that echoed off the chapel’s chiseled walls from a far-off hall, its owner unseen.

  “Ivan! Ivan, come here now!” High pitched and carrying the threat of bad days ahead should his demands be ignored, he knew the voice as Dydal’s. Since the Priest of Nothing’s death, Just had seen too little of his old friend. Dydal had shunned him, told him to never seek him out, and for many centuries, Just had not. The few glimpses he’d had of the Cleric were usually through the eyes of his servants, but even those were scarce. Not only could Dydal hide his aspect and his whereabouts, but somehow the man could block Just from any of his agent’s memories that included him. It sounded an impossible achievement, but of Dydal, Just could believe anything.