The Mirror's Truth: A Novel of Manifest Delusions

by Michael R. Fletcher

  Where’s the boy?

  Spotting an area of dirt broken by signs of a struggle, he saw small foot prints heading off into the forest. Larger, booted prints followed.

  “Where’s the boy?” Zukunft asked, voice shivering.

  Bedeckt said nothing, following the tracks. He heard her trail along behind.

  It didn’t take long to find the boy. He hadn’t made it far. His pursuers caught him no more than a few hundred strides from the camp and finished their grizzly work. Each of his fingers were broken and stuck out at impossible angles. Each joint, his elbows, knees, shoulders, and wrists, were bent until the bones popped. They used him, repeatedly and viciously. He looked exactly like Morgen when the Slaver’s drones tortured him.

  This looks staged. Why would anyone do that?

  Bedeckt’s stomach churned. A low, rabid snarl filled his skull. His vision pulsed in and out of focus, a sanguine curtain of rage slamming each thought to numb stupidity.

  Behind him, Zukunft collapsed to the forest floor, weeping, face pressed into her hands.

  “Get up,” he said. “We’re going.”

  When she didn’t rise he lifted her and carried her back to the horses, cradling her against his chest so she wouldn’t see and knowing she’d already seen. He boosted her into the saddle, placed the reins in unresponsive hands. He collected her shawl from where it fell unheeded in the dirt and placed it over her shoulders.

  “We were too late,” she said, voice flat. “Not even close. Why did she show me this?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Bedeckt, mounting his own horse.

  Eyes staring, she muttered what sounded like some sort of prayer under her breath. She reached for her saddlebags, pawing ineffectually at the bindings. Bedeckt stopped her.

  “I need to know,” she said. “I need to ask why.”

  “Later,” said Bedeckt. “We’re going.”

  She nodded, her hands falling loose at her sides. “Unbrauchbar,” she said.

  “No,” said Bedeckt. “We’re going east.”

  She turned, eyes searching his face. “Why?”

  Lightning lit the sky with a deafening crack and the heavens vomited torrents of wind-driven rain.

  “I’m going to kill them.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Reflection, trapped in the mirror, watches and waits for the Mirrorist’s fall. When the Geisteskranken finally reaches the Pinnacle, the Reflection steps from the mirror, becoming real and taking the Mirrorist’s place. Most often the Mirrorist is then trapped in the mirror, themselves becoming a Reflection awaiting the fall of the Mirrorist.

  If they may change places back and forth so readily, is either ever truly real?

  —Langsam Brechen - Philosopher

  As the sun set to the west, Wichtig reined Ärgerlich to a halt to watch. He hadn’t been dead long, but he missed the beauty of a good sunset. The horse, lacking the soul of a poet, ignored the scene and nibbled at the lush grass between its front hooves.

  Not that this is a particularly good sunset.

  The sun slumped behind the horizon like a fat man sinking into an over-padded bed, arse flattening and spreading as it sank from sight.

  The temperature dropped quickly and Wichtig soon regretted not spending the remaining dregs of daylight in search of wood and kindling. Though well within the borders of Selbsthass, and thus in an entirely civilized landscape, Wichtig hated the night. Particularly beyond the confines of a city. Particularly when alone.

  As he searched what passed for a forest—little more than a copse of manicured looking trees growing in impossibly neat rows—for firewood, he realized he forgot to buy a sleeping roll or blanket. Once he got the fire lit, he realized he also forgot to pack much in the way of food. Like the sleeping roll and blanket, that too was with the horse he left in the Afterdeath.

  Not that it mattered. After having purchased the clothes and new horse, little remained of Kurz’s money. He couldn’t have purchased much more than a few meagre supplies anyway. Though he did wish he had thought to do that.

  Wichtig cursed Morgen. What was the little shite up to, offering wealth and fame and privilege and stealing it back before returning him to life? Could it be that what you carried from life to the Afterdeath didn’t necessarily make the return trip? Maybe the godling brat assumed the money would stay with Wichtig and, for whatever reason, it hadn’t. Wichtig thought about his swords. He acquired them both in the Afterdeath and they made the trip. Why would gold be different?

  If the old gods were an unknowable mystery, aloof and distant, the new ones weren’t much better.

  Huddled close to the fire, Wichtig wrapped himself in Ärgerlich’s blanket. It smelled like horse arse sweat but was better than spending the night shivering and waking with a sniffle. Wichtig wrinkled his nose in distaste. Sick people were disgusting. The horse glared barbs of hatred in his direction and he ignored it.

  The sounds of the night grew in volume. Something made a whistling scree scree noise while something else whined and snuffled, sounding like it was trying to claw free of deep mud. Trees groaned and creaked like Bedeckt’s knees, moaning like old men.

  Sticking forests.

  Maybe he should saddle the horse and push on, try and find a town. Somewhere with a bed and food and ale and women. He’d been this way before but couldn’t remember there being much in the way of towns. Somewhere south ran the Flussrand River, dividing Gottlos and Selbsthass. He remembered there being a tower or garrison there, though he couldn’t recall which side of the river it was on. Too far away, he decided. The river was at least a day’s ride from here and he didn’t relish the thought of spending an entire night and day more in the saddle. Beautiful as it might be, the damned thing was uncomfortable. His nethers felt like Stehlen spent the last eight hours kicking them. Did Bedeckt feel like this after rutting her in that alley in Neidrig?

  Wichtig hoped so.

  A cold misting of rain fell, glistening on the horse blanket like tiny jewels. He grinned at Ärgerlich’s scornful regard until the rain soaked through the blanket and set his teeth chattering.

  Sticking forests.

  Throwing more damp wood on the fire, he shuffled closer. He hadn’t slept beyond the comforting walls of a tavern since— Since that lying shite of a god brat killed me.

  Wichtig remembered the icy thrust of steel sliding deep into his guts as Morgen stabbed him over and over. He still owed the boy for that. Returning Wichtig to life hardly made them even. Someday the boy would suffer. And if he thought he could use Wichtig and then renege on his promises of wealth and fame, he was damned well wrong.

  Wichtig grinned a feral snarl at the fire. I’ll get what’s mine, or he’ll get what’s his.

  Maybe both.

  The little god-boy will never manipulate me. Could never outsmart me.

  Wichtig laughed, a grunt which turned into a chest-racking cough. Shite, no. He was too good looking to get sick.

  Pulling the stinking horse blanket tighter, he curled into a foetal ball and slept.

  Wichtig awoke to the snake hiss of steel on leather. A young man knelt over him, a knife, blade bright and sharp, clutched in his fist. Reddish brown hair fell about the youth’s shoulders. The lad grinned rage, his teeth straight and white and perfect. Struggling to free his arms, Wichtig found himself trapped, wrapped tight in the damnable horse blanket. Memories of awakening to find Morgen crouched over him, one of Stehlen’s vicious knives clutched in a shaking fist, froze him more effectively than any bad weather could. This young man’s fist didn’t shake.

  “Five years,” said the youth. He couldn’t be much more than fifteen years old.

  Wichtig licked his lips. He didn’t stab me right away. Either he’s an idiot, or he wants something. He thought about it. Or both, he decided. “Five?” he asked.

  The young man nodded, flat grey eyes pinning Wichtig. “Five years I have hunted you.”

  Hunted? That sounded bad. Wichtig tried to shrug apologet
ically but the horse blanket allowed him little freedom of movement. “Sorry. I’ve been dead.”

  The lad wasn’t impressed. “Soon you’ll be dead again.”

  “I don’t seem to have much luck with children,” said Wichtig, stalling and trying to figure out why the youth looked so damned familiar.

  “Maybe you should stop abandoning them.”

  Abandoning? “What are you talking about?”

  The boy leaned close. His breath stunk like death. “You left us. Coward.”

  “Left you? Look, boy, if I bedded your mother in some alley and you’re my get, fine. I didn’t know you existed. I didn’t abandon you. Whatever you think, whatever your whore mother—”

  The boy stabbed him Not deep, but deep enough to cut his words off in a sob of pain. Nostrils flared, the young man leaned in as if to inhale his torment. He twisted the knife, drawing a ragged gasp from Wichtig.

  “You know who I am,” said the boy.

  The tip of the knife still embedded in his flesh, Wichtig ground his teeth against the agony. He stared up at the handsome face above him. Perfect hair. Straight teeth. Broad shoulders. The youth looked like—

  Wichtig remembered Morgen saying time was different in the Afterdeath. He remembered the barmaid in the Leichtes Haus saying she heard he died a decade ago.

  “Fluch?” Wichtig asked. “I was on my way to you. I’m coming home.”

  “Traurig is east of here, not south,” said Fluch twisting the knife and easing it deeper.

  Wichtig, trapped and wrapped tight, unable to escape the agony, moaned. “There are things I have to do first,” he said. “Unfinished business. And then I’m coming straight home. Your mother—”

  “She’s dead. Died two years ago.” Again the knife twisted, probing deeper.

  Wichtig craned his neck, seeing Ärgerlich and wondering if he could get the horse to do something to distract the boy. Ärgerlich didn’t even seem to notice Wichtig was being stabbed. Sticking horse. “I couldn’t return a pauper. I needed money to support—” Had Fluch said she was dead? Wichtig’s mind whirled, struggling to fit this into his world. She couldn’t be dead, she was an unstoppable force of angry sarcasm and degrading barbs. She cut up everything he tried to do, no matter that his intentions were pure, that he was only trying to be successful so she could live in a nice house. “I wanted you to be proud of me when I returned,” said Wichtig, hating the whine in his voice.

  “Proud?” demanded Fluch, eyes wide with disbelief. “You abandoned us. Slunk off like a drunken gutless shite.”

  Drunken? Fluch was too young to have been aware of that. His mother must have filled his head with lies. “You wouldn’t understand,” grated Wichtig. “I love—loved your mother. But we…but we…” But what? How to explain to this boy his mother was a harpy, that she never believed in Wichtig, never believed he’d be great at anything. He remembered how she told him to pick something—anything—and then stick to it. She didn’t understand. How was he to know his destiny? It wasn’t until years later, after he met Bedeckt, he came to understand he was to be the World’s Greatest Swordsman.

  “But what?” Fluch demanded.

  “You were a kid, you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I’m not a kid any more,” Fluch screamed into Wichtig’s face, spraying him with spittle and the damp stench of rot.

  Gods this kid has awful breath. Had no one taught him the basics of hygiene? Wichtig remembered how his wife continually picked at his wardrobe, muttering her embarrassment at its sad state. It wasn’t until years later he discovered the effectiveness of fine clothing. Could she have changed that much? He couldn’t imagine it.

  “As soon as I’m finished with Bedeckt—”

  “You’ve never finished anything in your life.”

  Now that did sound like his wife. Wichtig opened his mouth to speak but the boy yelled overtop of him.

  “Useless cunt! And now you’re hunting your only friend, planning to kill him. And for what? A pretty title and some gold? You never learn. You’re a selfish coward!”

  “He’s not my friend, he abandoned me!”

  “Being the Greatest Moron in the World means more to you than all your friends and family combined!”

  Greatest Moron? That sounded more like Stehlen. Wichtig blinked, stuttering in confusion. Had the Kleptic found the boy, somehow sent him after Wichtig? No, she was dead. And thank the gods for that!

  “Once Bedeckt is dead,” swore Wichtig, “I was going to come for you. I promise. We’ll be together—” The knife twisted in his belly, writhing in his flesh like something alive.

  “Your promises are shite.”

  “I swear,” said Wichtig, not sure if he was lying. That had been his intent, had always been his intent, but circumstances always arose that stood in the way of his return.

  Fluch stood, eyes wide and round. The knife was gone from Wichtig’s belly, but he saw nothing in the boy’s hand.

  From somewhere far off he heard the nickering whinny of a horse. The sound bounced around him as if he lay in a deep crevice. Twisting as much as he could within the confines of his blanket, he searched for Ärgerlich. The horse was nowhere to be seen. A deep fog, thick and blue, obscured everything.

  “He’s coming,” said Fluch, glaring hatred at Wichtig. “You’re lucky your puke stain of a godling watches over you. I could drink the last of you now and the world would be a better place.”

  Wichtig’s guts felt hollowed and disemboweled like they’d been sucked empty.

  He knows about Morgen? Wichtig pawed at his belly and his hand came away free of blood. He stared up at his boy, but Fluch looked different now, strangely vague, like maybe his hair wasn’t quite as Wichtig remembered nor his eyes so grey.

  “Fluch,” said Wichtig, confused, “I’m coming home. I promise.”

  Fluch came apart like mist in the morning sun.

  Wichtig awoke shivering, cold and damp. His throat felt raw as if he spent the night screaming. The horse blanket lay in a crumpled heap at his side. He coughed, spitting thick phlegm, and sat up. He felt weak, drained and dizzy. The morning air raised goosebumps on his arms.

  Ärgerlich stood where Wichtig hobbled him. The horse glared barbs of loathing at the Swordsman.

  “Piss off,” muttered Wichtig. “You have fur. Or hair. Or whatever it is horses have.”

  Ärgerlich blew a fart of derision with his lips.

  “Hello?” Wichtig called, pushing to his feet with a deep groan of pain. His guts felt like they were being stirred with an egg whisk. “Fluch?”

  Where the hells is the boy?

  Wichtig noticed the sodden ash remains of his fire and icy fear trickled from the back of his skull to the base of his spine. He slept without a fire? Sticking hells.

  The last time he let a fire go out, albtraum visited Stehlen, Bedeckt, and himself. They almost died. Wichtig lifted his shirt and stared at the puckered wound in his belly. That’s no knife wound. It looked like what you’d expect to see after one of those blood sucking snakes in the Salzwasser Ocean far to the south had its way with you.

  What had Fluch said at the end? Something about a god? The conversation seemed dreamlike and wispy. The more he struggled to remember the foggier it became. My boy. Wichtig’s chest tightened and a fit of coughing doubled him over. Staring at the ashen remains of his fire, one word echoed over and over in his dull and sodden thoughts: Albtraum.

  Fluch said something about a god watching over him. “Morgen?” Wichtig called.

  Nothing.

  Had the godling come to his aid? Had Morgen chased off the albtraum as it fed? He stared at the wet horse blanket lying in the mud. He’d fallen asleep thinking of Morgen. He’d fallen asleep remembering how he awoke trapped within his sleeping roll and how the bastard stabbed him in the guts. He remembered the suspicion Fluch knew more than he should. The albtraum must have sucked those memories from Wichtig’s mind as it fed, gaining sustenance not only from his blood, but also feeding upon
his fears. Wichtig shivered in disgust at the thought of being penetrated by something alien. Was this what rutting was like for women? He shook the thought off, unwilling to examine it further for fear of what it might say about him.

  He felt foul, dirty and violated.

  Raped.

  He remembered the stink of death on his son’s breath.

  No, not my son. That was nothing more than a nightmare given flesh. Don’t think about it. Avoiding self-examination was such an ingrained habit—the first line of defence in a world out to crush him, really—he took it for granted. It was the only wise course in a mad world. You’re doing it again, avoiding thinking about—

  “Piss off,” he told himself.

  He stood straight, fighting the urge to keep probing the puckered wound with his fingers and failing. The damned albtraum was lucky it fled. He’d been about to figure out its evil little ruse and kill the foul thing. He ground out a snarl, coughed, and spat more thick phlegm.

  The albtraum must have realized who it was messing with. The Greatest Swordsman in the World was not some fool to be drained dead by a foul slug. He shuddered at the thought of whatever wormed at his innards and turned on the horse.

  “Little enough sticking help you were,” he said.

  Ärgerlich ignored him.

  Wichtig nodded to himself as he slung the wet blanket across the horse’s back and threw the saddle on top. That was the only explanation. Morgen had nothing to do with the monster’s flight. The godling was a useless lying little shite. It was impossible that Wichtig could owe Morgen his life.

  Feeling the need to relieve himself, Wichtig leaned against a tree. He pissed blood.

  Joints aching, he mounted Ärgerlich and pointed the beast south. He narrowly avoided the horse’s attempt to bite him. Too tired to think up a worthy insult, he settled for ignoring it.

  Fragments of his conversation with Fluch returned as he rode. He remembered the boy’s disgust with his plan to kill Bedeckt for money.

  That’s hardly fair. How many times had Bedeckt told the Swordsman he’d kill him the moment there was a profit in doing so? Anyway, it wasn’t just money. He was doing it for his family. With fame and fortune, he could finally return to his wife and child. And it was a lot of money. Assuming Morgen hadn’t lied about that.