Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One

by Justan Henner

  “Time for what, Tel?”

  “For this,” she repeated. “For whatever you’re going to do.”

  “The god killed him, Tel. There was no trial, there was no arrest, no chance to defend himself.”

  “He was a traitor.”

  “He was my friend!”

  “But look at what we just did,” Tel said. “Look at what I just did to Acklin. Isn’t it the same?”

  Bell breathed out a frustrated sigh. “We had proof! We saw what Acklin did with our own eyes.”

  “I don’t know what you saw in there, Bell, but that all looked like proof to me. Besides, this is not just any god, he is Justice.”

  “And that’s exactly it, Tel. Don’t you think he should be better than us? Don’t you think he should have stopped us? Or Acklin. Or Taehrn. Don’t you think he should have done something sooner? Why is it that he acts now, after Halls and Rich are dead, after the Grand has been murdered?”

  “Bell, are you upset because it was wrong, or are you upset because he was your friend? Because you’re not making sense. That is how Justice behaves. That is how Justice acts. Would you have expected him to respond before there was a crime?”

  Bell didn’t know. He wanted answers to questions he didn’t have. Nothing felt right. Bell hurried his steps.

  Two horses, that was all Wilt needed. One for himself, one for the merchant’s corpse. He did not know how the woman would make him into the god of Death, but his instincts told him that Just’s shadow was right, that he would earn it by doing what he’d failed to do upon their first meeting; by killing her. If Just was afraid that he might become Death by killing the merchant, then it would work for Wilt. All the ingredients were here. The merchant, the rot, even thousands of soldiers whose deaths would herald his ascension. Once he had killed her, he would take her body to the tree and hang it by the god’s noose. That place would indeed become a temple, as Just had once said, but it would be Wilt’s temple, dedicated to the rotter that had caused all of his suffering.

  The picket lines were unguarded and nearly empty. All the warhorses were gone, those not in use surely taken to the front lines in case the cavalry required fresher mounts. His pickings were slim. Packhorses, carthorses, a few of the scouts’ quicker steeds. He chose two of those, knowing that he would need to be swift once the merchant was dead. If Just did not catch him, he did not want to be left to the Guard’s mercy.

  “Wilt!”

  Wilt turned his head in the direction the voice had come. It was Just’s voice. Just’s mortal voice. The god was back in his own body. And he was looking for Wilt.

  “Wilt! Come here, now!”

  Wilt ducked behind his chosen horses, shrouding the light of the candle with his robes. The voice was not far off, but Wilt could not see the god. Just was somewhere beyond the pickets, amongst the rows of tents leading to Trin Cavahl. The god was exactly where Wilt inevitably needed to be. And Wilt knew what would happen if the god found him. There would be no returning from this.

  “Wilt! Do you think you can escape me!”

  Wilt saw a flash of movement at the edge of the pickets. Just was still far away, but he was coming closer. He knew where Wilt was, somehow the god knew that Wilt was here. Was it luck? Was it chance? Was it the god’s hold upon Wilt’s mind?

  The god turned to the nearest tent and uprooted it from its stakes. No… The god didn’t know where Wilt was exactly… He must have known that Wilt was nearby, but he didn’t know Wilt’s exact location.

  “I know you’re here, Wilt. The candle cannot save you from me! I can feel it! I can feel that you are here!”

  Wilt scanned the immediate area. The god didn’t know where Wilt was, but there was nowhere for Wilt to hide… Staring at the next horse in the line, Wilt had an idea. It was the kind of horse that belonged to a standard bearer, with a long pole cinched around its body, from which a Trellish flag would usually hang. Wilt swallowed as he crawled toward it on the ground, removing his robes and mask, pushing the lantern before him, hoping that it could not be seen from the god’s vantage point. It was cold in his modest underrobe, but that did not matter. He stood slowly, fearing the god would look in his direction at that inopportune moment. The horse nipped at him as Wilt tied the cloak to the flagpole, and then tied his mask above it; knowing that in the fading light that the vibrant green would be enough to catch attention, but too indistinct to reveal that he was not actually upon the horse.

  As he cut the horse’s reins from the picket line, he removed the second candle from his pocket and lowered himself to the ground and retrieved the lantern. The god knew where he was because of the candle. The light was obvious, Just would follow it the moment he saw it. As Wilt stood, he tied the lantern around the horse’s saddle, shielding its light with his own body, until it was secure. Praying to the Mother, Wilt opened the glass enclosure and lit the second candle. He pointed the horse into the wilds. This is it, he said. This is it, this is what you promised me. It’s finally time.

  With his knife, Wilt slashed the horse’s flank, then dropped to the ground. The horse screamed and bolted, the lantern swaying with the horse’s rhythm.

  “Wilt!”

  He heard the scream, but he didn’t move. He held the second candle close, cupping its light with his hands, praying that Just would be too focused on the horse to see him hiding in the dirt.

  Gods, what was he thinking? Just would find him. Just would see him, and this time, there would be no mercy.

  The horse galloped into the distance. Wilt smiled as he saw the silhouette of a man, running past the pickets, chasing after the horse. The god was so close. He was only a short distance away, his silhouette halting beside the pickets. Wilt saw the god leap, saw him jump onto another horse and wedge his knees against the beast’s flank. It was working… it was working! The god was following Wilt’s diversion!

  Just spurred his horse after the fleeing creature. It was marvelous. Wilt had never dreamed that the candle could be so effective. He’d never dreamed that something – anything – could leave the god so rotting helpless! He wished he had a bow. He wished he had anything but the butchering knife at his side. With the god so weak, with the god unable to use his magic, Wilt could do anything! He could kill Just!

  Wilt decided not to press his luck. Just was leaving. His ploy had worked, and all Wilt had was a knife. He turned to the horses he had chosen. He moved toward them slowly, knowing that he’d gained some time, but he was not free yet. He retrieved the reins and dragged the two horses along behind him, watching his rear for any sign that Just had discovered the trick.

  He was so very close. Trin Cavahl was only minutes away. He was going to kill her, and the moment he did, Wilt would attain the godhood that he’d been promised!

  He led the two horses toward the rows of tents. Trin was so close. And the god had led him right to her. How would he do it? The bitch needed to suffer. She needed to suffer for the days of torment she had put upon him. She needed to scream his name, beg him for mercy as he skinned her alive. Maybe he would take her then, as he had tried to once before. Make her feel the kind of pain she had forced him to live. Make her nothing but a shriveled, writhing husk, desperate to die, just as Wilt had been himself. It would all be so very sweet.

  The dark was deepening. His candle was harder to shield, but he did not care. The closer he came to Trin Cavahl’s tent, the more he knew that all of it was true! The Mother had come to him in his fevered state. Just’s heckler had been her agent in Wilt’s rebirth. He was going to become a god. He would be Death, and he would return to the Vandu, and make them his army. He would storm every stronghold where gods might hide, he’d string up Just by a rotting tree and have his people cut off the fucker’s balls! There was nothing that could stop him now.

  “Bell, you need to stop this!”

  Wilt halted. It was a woman’s voice. A voice he didn’t know.

  “Bell, stop! What about Jem and Trin? What of everyone else? They need to be warned,
the Legion needs to be retreating to Derlin.”

  Wilt frowned as he turned his head to the approaching voice. Bell Cobbren? The god’s newest servant. No. It couldn’t be true. The god could not have sent him. Just could not have figured it out so quickly.

  But wait! Bell had the name book! He had the book that Wilt had signed. This was the freedom Just’s shadow had promised. By removing his name from the book, Wilt would be free! That was what Just had said. If Wilt could kill this man, he could steal the name book and remove his name. Then, he wouldn’t need the candle. Just would never find him!

  “Wilt!” Bell shouted.

  The soldier was angry. Could he have spoken to Just? Could Just have told him everything? Who cares? Wilt thought. It didn’t matter. Wilt was a master of subversion. With nothing but his tongue, he had made the Vandu believe in the gods. He had turned them against the Lockish and burned Dekahn. And with the candle burning, Just could not refute any argument that Wilt made. Bell Cobbren had already been cautious, seemingly unaware of what Just’s control really meant. Wilt could convince this rotting fool of anything.

  He offered the soldier a wide smile. “Bell Cobbren,” Wilt said. “What are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here? Why are you here? What have you done to Taehrn?”

  Wilt retreated a step, pretending to shield himself behind his horse as he forced a look of fear onto his features. He clutched the knife at his side.

  “Nothing,” Wilt said. “I promise, I did nothing.”

  “You lie! Taehrn is dead. The god killed him, and he didn’t even give Taehrn a trial!”

  Wilt smiled. So, Bell was as angry at the god as Wilt was himself. This was perfect.

  “You’re right,” Wilt said. “That’s exactly what he did. But I am not the god. I am just a puppet in this, as much as you.”

  The words didn’t seem to be what Bell Cobbren wanted to hear. “You think I’ll believe that?” he shouted.

  Wilt cringed, pulling back farther behind the horse. With the candle in one hand, and the knife in the other, it would be a struggle if he was forced to defend himself against a man Bell’s size, but did that matter? Wilt would prevail, for no other reason than the fact that the Mother had willed it. Wilt was chosen. He was already immortal. He could do anything.

  “No, Bell. Please, you must listen to me. The god is a liar! I have done nothing but what he has made me do! He will use you the same as he has used me. Please, you must give me the book. We need to strike our names from the page before he has a chance to react!” Wilt didn’t really care if Bell listened. When the soldier circled around, Wilt would drive the knife into Bell’s neck then hop onto the horse and run the woman down. Her horse might be a problem, but if Wilt had to send his second horse colliding into hers, he would. His future was preordained, the Mother would protect him.

  Lifting his hand to point, Bell stepped to within three yards. “Don’t give me excuses,” Bell shouted. “Tell me what you did!”

  As Bell reached the horse, Wilt clutched the knife against his chest, making sure to keep it out of the man’s sight. One more step, maybe two, and then Wilt would end him. The real trick would be stealing the legionnaire’s satchel before his friend had a chance to respond, but he had no doubt that he could. It was time! He would be Death! He would be immortal!

  As Bell pushed past the horse to confront Wilt, a flash of movement brushed past his shoulder. Then another. And another.

  Three arrows stuck from Wilt’s chest as the rapist glared down at them with arms and fingers splayed as if asking, ‘how?’ Those dark eyes turned their gaze on Bell, the glare accusing, as if it were Bell that had done this. And then Wilt collapsed, his hands releasing the horse’s reins, allowing the steed to bolt. A knife lay by the man’s feet, dropped from his now bloody hands. One of those strange black candles was clutched in his grip, the flame sputtering in the chill wind.

  “Bell!” Tel shouted. With a hand on his shoulder, she pulled him back. With her other hand, she pointed to a group behind them; archers and crossbowmen, wearing a ragtag mix of Old and New Guard cloaks.

  Tel offered him a hand and pulled him onto the horse. An arrow grazed his already wounded arm as Tel kicked the horse into a gallop.

  “I told you!” Tell shouted back to him. “Now look what you’ve done.”

  He stared back, gaping at Wilt’s scarred and crumpled form. Bell had been a fool. The Guard had been right behind them, and he had wasted their chance to warn the Legion.

  “We have to find Trin,” Bell said.

  “What about everyone else?” Tel demanded.

  She was right. There was no time to play favorites. He’d wasted too much time already and if anyone was to survive this, they would need to mount a defensive retreat. To go looking for Trin and Jem might get them killed, and everyone else besides. He had to do the sane thing, not the thing he wanted.

  “Take us back to Taehrn’s tent,” Bell said. “We have to get his colors. And his horn. Those waiting in the east will know its sound. We can rally the camp and make for Derlin.”

  Tel nodded, and spurred the horse on.

  Wilt was bleeding. In the courtyard, the arrows had done nothing, they had not even drawn blood, but now they were killing him. It was not fair. All he had to do was kill the merchant to become Death. He was so close. How could that bitch have killed him? He’d seen her over the legionnaire’s shoulder, that foul woman, Commander Stills, loosing her bow, but by then it had been too late. She’d had it in for him, even after all he’d done for her.

  Wilt stared up into a sky obscured by the blood in his eyes.

  “Just,” he said aloud. It was quiet. His own ears could barely hear his voice. The god didn’t answer.

  “Just,” he said again. “Help me.”

  Again, there was no answer.

  “Heckler?” Wilt asked.

  His mouth worked silently a moment, his thoughts struggling to keep up. The candle. The candle was still lit. Just could not help him. No one could help him.

  The light of it was flickering at his waist. He still held the candle. Wilt saw the shafts in his chest, knowing that this was it. He’d wasted his chance. He was dying.

  He was dying, and his only hope was to put out that flame. His strength was fleeing as he pressed his fingers to the wick.

  “Just,” he said. “Just, please help.”

  His answer was the god’s cackling laughter. Help you? Something go wrong, Wilt? You think you could trick me by tying your robes to a fucking horse? Where are you?

  Dying, Wilt managed. The blood was seeping past his fingers. The god wasn’t going to help him. How could he have thought that Just might? But Just’s shadow would. He had to.

  “Heckler,” Wilt said. “Heckler, help me.”

  Pardon? It was the heckler’s voice. It was Just’s shadow that responded.

  “Help me. Please, I am dying.”

  But dear rapist, the heckler said, you are free. This is what I promised. Do you not enjoy your freedom?

  “But… our deal. What of our deal?”

  We have no deal, Wilt. You are as you’ve ever claimed, a slave. And worse, a rapist. Thank you for keeping Just distracted, but you have served your purpose. It is done. You are no longer needed.

  With the final word, the presence vanished. Just’s shadow had betrayed him. All along, the thing had been toying with him. It was no better than Just!

  But Wilt would not die this way. He would not.

  “Just, did you hear that? Did you hear that, Just?”

  Wilt? Where are you? Tell me where you are! If you put one finger on Trin Cavahl-

  “I’m dying, Just. I’m dying. Your shadow did this. Your shadow used me to distract you.”

  Just’s response was harsh. He spoke to you?

  “Yes. This was him. Please, I can be of service. I am bleeding. I am dying. Please, just help me live.”

  Just laughed. Oh, I was wondering what play he’d make. So, this was it.
He put his hopes in you. He should have known better.

  Hot liquid continued its seep past his fingers. On the black surface before him, he saw the god’s face. “Please, Just,” Wilt begged. “Help me.”

  No, Wilt. This is what traitors get. You are a liability. Tonight, the merchant dies, and so shall you.

  “Please, I will serve you loyally. I believe in you… I will serve you gladly.”

  The god’s laughter continued unabated. But I cannot, Wilt. It’s the strangest thing… it seems your name is no longer in my book. And as the god said it, Wilt heard the sound of a pen scratching paper, and then the laughter stopped. The god was gone.

  Wilt passed out.

  “Stop,” Null said.

  “What?” Beda asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Do not kill him. He was a friend to us. He helped our people.”

  Beda glanced at her, her face empty. “The legionnaire?”

  “Yes, ask around. He worked with our people to clean Dekahn’s streets. He saw that many were fed.”

  “It’s true,” Micks said. “He was the one helping Nat Inundahn.”

  Beda shrugged and set aside her bow. “That’s fine. We’ve got the one we want.”

  Null glanced at the fleeing horse. She hadn’t gotten to know Bell Cobbren, but Null didn’t think the queen would have forgiven her if she’d let Beda kill him.

  Beda motioned to Priest Twil and grabbed Null’s arm. “Do you sense anything from him?”

  “Sense what?” Null asked.

  “Witchcraft.”

  Null shrugged.

  Beda bit her lip, and with a nod, ordered their party to fan out. Twil’s muttering had stopped. He lay there, still, clutching his hand against his chest weakly, his eyes closed. He did nothing as they approached, simply stared up into the sky, but after the events in the palace courtyard, they were cautious. He looked unconscious.

  “Is he alive?” Null asked.

  “I’m a good shot,” Beda said.

  Null frowned at her.