The Mirror's Truth: A Novel of Manifest Delusions

by Michael R. Fletcher

  No matter what angle Wichtig viewed it from, he couldn’t see how Morgen benefited. Unless…

  The boy must be afraid of me. He must have sent me here to stop me from doing something important in the Afterdeath. But what would Morgen expect him to do once he discovered the money missing? Did he think Wichtig would give up and go away? Did he think the Swordsman might still kill Bedeckt in hopes of payment? Would the boy pay him if he killed the old man? What about the lad’s other promises, First Sword of the Geborene and all that? Was all of it a lie?

  He’ll assume I’ll abandon the quest. That meant Morgen’s promises of wealth and fame were shite.

  Wichtig thought of Fluch and his wife. Shite. He couldn’t return now, penniless and without prospects. That would be embarrassing.

  Bedeckt. Somehow everything revolved around the old man. Wichtig would have to find him. Whether to kill him or not was a decision he’d make later. The bastard betrayed and abandoned him, but if he was wealthy, perhaps Wichtig could settle for robbing him. Or robbing and then killing.

  I should have asked Morgen more questions. Where had Bedeckt started in this reality? Had he sat right here in the tavern, or had he been returned to life while back in Neidrig? Why the hells hadn’t the boy thought to tell him this stuff? Come to think of it, could he trust anything the boy said? Yes, he decided. Morgen was a shite, but not bright enough to lie to a Gefahrgeist of Wichtig’s calibre. At least not about everything.

  Wichtig scowled at his pint mug, empty once again. Why did Bedeckt not bring me with him? Why leave me behind? His gut soured and tightened; must be something he ate. Wichtig bit his bottom lip, eyes hot and wet. How could he abandon me? Abandoning Stehlen he understood. She was a murderous Kleptic bitch. You couldn’t trust her as far as you could kick her and she was ungodly ugly to boot. If Morgen told Wichtig that Bedeckt fled the Afterdeath simply to escape Stehlen, he would have believed him.

  But Wichtig?

  I was his friend. His only friend. How many times did I save his worthless hide? And what do I get in return? Nothing. Bedeckt could have used Morgen to return them all to life. Selfish bastard!

  The barmaid returned, flashing blue eyes and an expanse of freckled thigh. She stopped at his table, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You all right?”

  He dragged his sleeve across his face in rough anger. He considered flashing his favourite smile but decided to play up the hurt angle instead. Women loved that kind of thing, they couldn’t resist nursing wounded birds.

  “Fine,” he said, being sure to let her know with the tone he was anything but.

  She rubbed his back comfortingly and he flexed so she felt the hard ridges of muscle.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “A friend, an old friend, a dear old friend…” Wichtig decided to change the story. Being abandoned made him sound pathetic—as much as they loved wounded birds, women loathed weak and pathetic men. And getting all emotional about an old man seemed a little suspect. “She’s dead.” He held her with his flat grey eyes, willing her to need to comfort him. Knowing she would.

  “That’s awful! Was she—was she your wife?”

  Wichtig considered playing that angle and abandoned it. “No. Just an old friend. I came to visit. I was going to stay on her estate. I had no idea.”

  “I understand,” she said, and he knew she was already thinking about where he would spend the night. “Another ale?” she offered.

  As long as he couldn’t pay for it, he might as well. “Please. What was your name again?”

  “Reinigen,” she answered.

  “Sorry,” he said, looking forlorn. “A lot on my mind.”

  She squeezed his shoulder again before leaving and he noted the appreciative widening of her eyes as she felt his solidity.

  He was definitely going to kill Bedeckt. Not for Morgen, but for what the bastard did to him. He’d take everything the old man had and leave him dead. It’s past time he learned to respect me. I am the Greatest Swordsman in the World and he pretends he could take me in a fight. Wichtig was through allowing that insult to go unanswered. I’ll warn him before I kill him. I want him ready. I want him to know what’s coming and why. He’d play with the old goat, disarm him a few times. Bedeckt would understand how thoroughly Wichtig outclassed him in every possible way. Then, when Bedeckt lay in the dust, fat and wheezing, Wichtig would kill him.

  When the barmaid returned with his pint Wichtig was dry eyed and cold with rage. He hid that away. Emotion was weakness, one of the first lessons he learned as a child. He remembered being passed back and forth between his parents as he grew up, living with one for a few months before they tired of him and sent him back to the other. He remembered how much it hurt each and every time. He remembered the day he realized he was nothing to them beyond a means of hurting and punishing the other. He learned to master the game they only played at and worked them against each other, manipulating and twisting their emotions to his own benefit. In the end, when he sold his father’s favourite horse—a thoroughbred stallion—to buy himself a used lute, his father hadn’t even complained. The man looked sad, like he finally understood how utterly he failed at fatherhood.

  Years later, after the birth of his own son, Wichtig swore never to make his father’s mistakes. He would be a better father. As soon as he could return with wealth and fame. Maybe he could force Morgen into granting the Geborene title he promised. That would be impressive enough.

  “Was there a man here recently?” Wichtig asked the barmaid. “You’d remember him. Big. Lot’s of scars. Missing one and a half ears and two fingers. He’d have noisy knees and be lugging about a big axe.”

  She nodded, eyes wide. “Did he kill your friend?”

  Wichtig blinked and then, having already forgotten most of the story he wove a moment ago, realized what she suggested. Perfect.

  “Yes,” he said. “He killed her. I have to hunt him down. He must pay for his crimes.”

  “He was here yesterday,” she said. “Sitting right there,” she nodded at Wichtig, “In that very chair.” She bit her top lip, turning it pink. “He drank a lot. He was here with a woman.”

  A woman? Stehlen? Had Bedeckt brought Stehlen and left Wichtig behind? “Was she ungodly ugly?”

  “No. Quite the opposite.”

  Definitely not Stehlen then. “Did he say where he was going?” he asked without hope.

  She shook her head. “But he did ask what relations were like with Gottlos.”

  Gottlos. Bedeckt was returning to where all this started? Why?

  “Then I shall have to go after him,” said Wichtig, straightening in his chair and striking his best heroic pose. He heard her intake of breath.

  “He looked dangerous,” she said. “Scary.”

  “He is. But I am not worried. For I…” Wichtig paused for dramatic effect. “…am the Greatest Swordsman in the World.”

  “You’re not Kurz Ehrfürchtig,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Kurz Ehrfürchtig. He’s the Greatest Swordsman in the World.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “He is. Everyone knows it.”

  “I’ve never heard of him,” said Wichtig.

  She shrugged, looking apologetic, which annoyed the shite out of him.

  “I’m Wichtig Lügner,” he said. “You must have heard of me.”

  Her petite nose wrinkled. “Maybe. But that was a long time ago. You can’t be him. He’d be old now, in his thirties. Anyway, I heard he died in Neidrig a decade ago.”

  “Well I did,” snapped Wichtig. “But I’m back.”

  Her eyes widened. “Back from—”

  “Back from the dead,” agreed Wichtig, wondering if he could fit this in with the rest of the horse-shite tale. He’d lost the thread almost the moment he started talking. The facts don’t matter, he reminded himself. Particularly as he hadn’t said anything factual to begin with. Honesty, he found, rarely improved a good tale. She didn’t seem to notice any in
consistencies. “I have unfinished business,” he added because that seemed like the kind of thing people back from the dead would say.

  Wichtig slammed back his pint and stood. He wobbled a little. How many had he drunk? He couldn’t remember. “This Swordsman?”

  “Kurz?”

  “Yes. Where is he?

  “He’s usually at the Fehlerhafte Turm. It’s not far from here,” she said.

  The man pretending at being the Greatest Swordsman in the World was right here in Selbsthass? Truly the gods smiled upon Wichtig. Well, maybe not all gods. Wichtig grinned at the girl. “What’s your name, my love?”

  “It’s—”

  He waved her to silence. “Where is the Fehlerhafte Turm?” he asked. When she pointed east, he said, “I’ll be back in a moment. I must regain my title.”

  Spinning, he strode from the room. With luck she wouldn’t notice he hadn’t paid until he was well clear of the inn and lost in the crowd.

  Wichtig sobered the moment he exited the Leichtes Haus.

  He glanced up and down the busy street. Bright and colourful signs advertised various shops. The sky above was an impossible deep blue reaching from horizon to horizon. Only the best weather for Selbsthass. He tested the air and, though it didn’t stink as much as most cities, he still caught the scents of horse shite, sweat, and refuse. He loved it. These people were so alive.

  He turned to the horse rail and frowned. “Where the hells is my horse?”

  Wichtig hurried into the street, putting some distance between himself and the inn.

  Stupid child. Morgen hadn’t thought to warn him his damned horse would not return with him. Thoughtless idiot. Well that was inconvenient. He’d have to purchase—Shite! He remembered he no longer possessed the pouch of gold. How the hells was he supposed to get a horse and go after Bedeckt?

  Wichtig walked, long strides carrying him away. He’d deal with the horse problem later. First he’d kill this pretender. It rankled that some up-and-comer he never heard of strutted around calling himself The Greatest.

  Had Morgen said something about time passing differently in the Afterdeath than it did in the world of the living? He couldn’t remember; he hadn’t been listening. The wee shite tended to blather on. The barmaid—whatever her name was—said he’d been dead a decade. In that kind of time his reputation might have faded.

  Might have?

  Wichtig tried to remember the name of a single swordsman from a decade ago and drew a blank. That was bad.

  “Shite-arse pig-rutting son-of-a-whore!” Years building a reputation, countless duels, and all for nothing! I’ll have to start again.

  Wichtig spotted the Fehlerhafte Turm, yet another tavern in a far too clean city where everything looked much the same. He angled toward it, thinking as he walked. If the common people no longer knew he was the Greatest Swordsman in the World, how good would he really be? Should he turn around? Maybe this wasn’t the best time to discover he was no longer—

  Wichtig stopped in the street and people cursed as they shoved past him. He ignored them. If he wasn’t the Greatest Swordsman in the World, what was he?

  Nothing.

  The day I am nothing is the day I die.

  All he had to do was kill this—damn it, he couldn’t remember the man’s name—and everyone would know, once again, Wichtig was the Greatest Swordsman in the World.

  Slamming the door open to ensure he got everyone’s attention, Wichtig strode into the tavern and struck a heroic pose. The light, he knew, would catch the red in his hair just right, glint off the iron grey of his eyes, and frame him in a cloak of chalky gold from the road dust. Too late he remembered the insane cleanliness of the streets. Annoyed, he shrugged the thought aside. A small loss. The rest of his pose would suffice.

  “A Swordsman,” drawled a well-dressed man sitting at a table surrounded by a coterie of wealthy idiots, not one of whom looked to be armed. The Swordsman, a pair of swords peeking out over his shoulders, looked lean and muscled.

  “The Swordsman,” corrected Wichtig, scowling at the man’s richly embroidered shirt and knowing how drab his own looked in comparison. He really should have stopped by a tailor first. “Are you…?” What the hells had the wench said the Swordsman’s name was?

  “Kurz Ehrfürchtig,” said the Swordsman, nodding. “In the flesh and twice as deadly.” He grinned perfect teeth and Wichtig noted the lack of scars. This then was a skilled Swordsman. “And you?” Kurz asked.

  Wichtig bowed deep, a flawless flourish of gorgeous hair backed with his favourite smile. Kurz no doubt now wanted to kill him.

  “Wichtig Lügner,” he answered, watching Kurz’s eyes for a hint of recognition and happily catching it. “Ah, I see you’ve heard of me.”

  “Heard you died kissing the arse of some Slaver in Neidrig,” said Kurz.

  Wichtig chuckled, enjoying the moment to come. “Hardly. I was slain by a god.”

  “Oh?” asked Kurz. “And which god was that?”

  Wichtig pinned the Swordsman with flat grey eyes. “Yours.” He let a slow grin of utter superiority grow as he spread his arms wide, knowing how this showed off the ropes of hard muscle. “May he strike me down if I lie.”

  The Fehlerhafte Turm drew a collective breath, waiting. Even Kurz remained still and quiet.

  “No?” asked Wichtig, rolling his shoulders and lowering his arms. “You know I speak truth,” he said, confident his Gefahrgeist need for respect would convince them. “Your god killed me and your god returned me to life.” He shrugged like it was nothing. “Sometimes special souls return from the Afterdeath,” he said, repeating Morgen’s words. “To conclude unfinished business.”

  Kurz stood, tall and lean. “You blaspheme. I shall punish you.”

  “I’m not here for a spanking,” said Wichtig. “Your god returned me so I may complete my destiny to become the Greatest Swordsman in the World. He named me First Sword of the Geborene.” It was fun not to have to lie. At least not completely. “I suggest we take this outside so as not to make a mess of this lovely floor.” Wichtig raised an eyebrow at the intricate rugs lining the room. Who the hells put rugs in a tavern? And how did it not stink of spilled ale in here?

  “Come,” said Kurz to his followers. “This shouldn’t take but a moment.”

  “Shouldn’t take but a moment?” Wichtig called over his shoulder as he exited the inn. “That’s the best you can do?” He shook his head in genuine disappointment. “In my day, back when shites like you were still in swaddling, Swordsmen knew how to have a fight.”

  “I take it a lot of talking was involved,” quipped Kurz to chuckles and guffaws from his admirers.

  “Damned right,” snapped Wichtig. “Win the crowd, win the fight. If you don’t know that, you’re already dead.” He nodded to the mob following Kurz from the tavern “And judging from the forced sound of their laughter, you’ve already lost them.” A lie, but the doubt was sown. Insecurity—and Wichtig had no doubt the Swordsman possessed plenty of that, why else would he be a Swordsman?—would do the rest.

  Unsheathing his blades, Wichtig stood relaxed and ready, waiting for Kurz. He watched as the man drew his own blades with a showy flourish and stretched and bounced around, warming up. Wichtig didn’t move. His stillness, perfect confidence, and apparent utter disregard for his opponent would do more good than any stretching.

  “Are you finished yet?” asked Wichtig when it looked like the Swordsman was about to complete his warm-up regimen. Best to capitalize on every opportunity. This way, when the man stopped, it would look like he did so out of embarrassment.

  Kurz nodded and snarled but remained quiet.

  How this idiot became the World’s Greatest Swordsman, Wichtig would never understand.

  “One last thing,” said Wichtig, holding up a hand to stall the beginning of the duel as Kurz stepped toward him, swords falling into a guard position. It would look like he hesitated, and the people might for a moment doubt him, but the punchline would be
worth the risk.

  “What?” demanded Kurz, swords held at the ready lest this be some trick.

  “Do you have much coin on you?”

  “Plenty,” bragged Kurz. “More than—”

  “Good,” interrupted Wichtig. “I need to buy a horse when I’m done here.”

  Kurz attacked. At first it appeared to be a mad frenzy, but Wichtig recognized the practised patterns for what they were. This man had studied with the Verzweiflung Palace Guard, the elite who defended the bank’s inner-most treasures. Wichtig laughed. He too once whored his talents to the Verzweiflung. They named him First Sword and paid exorbitant sums. He only left because it was so damned boring and he rarely got to kill anyone. That and his wife wanted to get out of the city for some reason, move into the country.

  Wichtig circled, defending. “You’re quite good,” he said.

  Kurz grinned white teeth and feinted.

  “I think you’re better even than I am,” said Wichtig, drawing the crowd in with his admitted weakness. He’d have to play this just right. Luckily Kurz knew nothing of manipulation. The fool became the World’s Greatest Swordsman on talent alone. Poor bastard.

  Kurz followed, swords dancing that same pattern all the Verzweiflung Palace Guard learned, though admittedly faster and smoother than Wichtig had ever seen.

  “Interesting,” said Wichtig.

  “Oh?” asked Kurz, backing Wichtig away with a flurry of attacks.

  “You studied with the Verzweiflung Palace Guard.”

  “The best in the world,” said Kurz, dancing through his pattern with flawless grace.

  “Quite. Two problems.”

  “Oh?”

  And here it came, that moment when Kurz would feint with the left sword, looping it in an apparently over-reached swing while the second blade made a lightening fast stab at Wichtig’s belly. It was difficult pretending he didn’t know exactly where each attack would land. Only Kurz’s speed and skill made the deception even possible. Wichtig ignored the feint and parried the stabbing blade. With a twist of his wrist he sent that weapon skittering to the street. Ducking under the wide swing, he drove both his swords into Kurz’s torso and released them, stepping back to admire his work.