Lebendig looked away, stared at the clothes steaming on the grill before the fire. “I still feel—You and I, we—It’s different now. I have a choice,” she finished in a rush.
Stehlen stood, sucking breath past her constricted throat, trying to decide what to say. Should she tell Lebendig she loved her? She should tell her to get out?
She left without a word, closing the door behind her.
Alone in the hall, still dressed in her sodden clothes, Stehlen shoved her fists in her pockets to keep them from shaking. Her right hand struck something warm and wood. Startled, she withdrew what she found there: Three toy soldiers—the tallest about half the length of her longest finger—carved from dark mahogany. She examined the first soldier, a scarred old man, still muscled, but with a paunch. Her breath caught. This was no toy soldier. It was Bedeckt, carved in such detail he seemed to stare at her as she held him before her eyes. Glancing at the other two, she recognized them immediately. Wichtig and herself, carved in equal detail.
Holding Bedeckt closer, she examined the toy. It perfectly captured the warrior, not only physically—down to missing fingers and hewn ears—but also the man within that tub of scar tissue. His doubts and fears were writ plain in his eyes, his iron sanity and fluid morals.
Swallowing uncomfortably, Stehlen returned the toy to the pocket she drew it from and lifted the next, Wichtig, for inspection. Like Bedeckt, this carving was a flawless realization of the Swordsman. She saw Wichtig’s impeccable good looks and utter confidence in his physicality. And it was all undermined by eyes bleeding self-doubt, self-loathing, and the knowledge he was unworthy of all he possessed. The toy leaked fear. Fear of consequences, fear of responsibility.
Where are you? she wondered, and knew he was here, somewhere in this very tower.
Stehlen slid it into the pocket alongside Bedeckt. They can keep each other company.
Hesitating, she held the last carving clutched in her fist. Don’t look. Put it back in the pocket.
No, that was exactly the kind of cowardice she expected from Wichtig.
She examined the carved statue, repulsed by its pinched and jaundiced features. A perpetual sneer of disgust and loathing stretched thin lips. The eyes, narrowed shards of yellow hate, cast harsh judgement and found the world wanting. The toy looked like it contemplated violence, ready to tear at anything daring offend it in the least.
Stehlen sneered at the toy and realized her own expression must perfectly mimic its. She held it at arm’s length, wanting to throw it away, wanting to smash it to the ground and stomp its insults to dust, wanting to burn it to ash and then piss on the ashes. She was too scared to dare any of that.
Who could love this?
No one. No one could love such a vile person.
The toy looked frightened and alone, desperate for love and knowing itself to be unworthy.
And ugly. So gut twistingly horrid.
I can’t be that ugly. She thought back to the superb accuracy of the Bedeckt and Wichtig carvings, how they captured every aspect of the two men, internal and external. Could only mine be a flawed representation?
She remembered all the times men—even those she considered friends—blanched and turned away from her smile.
Burn the sticking things. Burn them all.
She wouldn’t. She knew she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. For all the skill evinced in these carvings, there was something deeply wrong with them; not in the artistry, but in their very existence.
The toy Stehlen sat warm in her hand.
It’s not a toy. She took them from Morgen. The godling shite these made for a reason, and not to play with. She thought of the boy he had been. Or maybe they are to play with. Maybe he doesn’t know the difference, thinks we’re all pieces to be moved.
One thing scared Stehlen more than the idea of Morgen having them made to begin with: The thought of someone other than herself possessing them.
Stehlen grinned malice at the toy and it hated her right back. Morgen wanted the men dead and spoiling the bastard’s plans was worth more than anything he could offer in return. That didn’t mean the two idiots wouldn’t die—they abandoned her in the Afterdeath, after all—but they wouldn’t die until their deaths were of no use to the Geborene god.
Stehlen slid the carving into her pocket alongside the others. She’d keep them safe.
At least for now.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Self-loathing is the natural state for humanity. We know there is something wrong with us. We are at war with ourselves, and it’s a war we are doomed to lose.
—Unknown Gefahrgeist
Morgen walked the streets of Selbsthass looking like a young man in his early twenties. He wore the alabaster robes of a Geborene priest and the populace paid him no attention. Beneath his feet white cobblestones shone bright in the sun. Everything he touched, every stone and pebble his feet came into contact with, became pristine and pure. He did it without thought. The buildings, bleached and regularly scrubbed free of blemishes, sat in perfect rows. At each corner, he stopped and glanced back down the street, checking its perfection. His hands, ever busy picking flecks of dried blood from his fingers, had been trained to pocket the flakes rather than dropping them on the ground where they might mar the purity of his city.
After spending the morning inspecting his army, now camped beyond the great wall, checking uniforms for stains and wrinkles, he left moderately pleased. The troops were ready to march, excited to spread the word of their god to the filthy and ignorant. They knew in their hearts they were doing the world a holy service. Morgen would save Gottlos from its miserable existence and make it part of the Holy Empire of Selbsthass. First thing in the morning, he’d lead them south.
The cadre of Geisteskranken were less impressive. They stood alone or in small ragged groups, twitchy and flinching at everything, apparently unable to form neat lines like the rest of his soldiers. Most of the insane had great difficulty maintaining an acceptable level of cleanliness. Were he not sure he’d need them and their host of delusions, he’d leave them behind. Better yet, he’d do away with them altogether; they would never change, were likely incapable.
The thought raised some interesting questions. Why were the sane so easily led while getting a Wendigast to wash their damned hands was near impossible? Were the masses more capable of seeing and understanding Morgen’s goals because they weren’t distracted by insanity? Or was there something more? If enough sane were gathered together and convinced of something they could manage subtle changes to reality, but alone they were helpless. Perhaps that inability to define reality made them more willing to follow someone who could. It was like reality wanted him to unite all humanity and bend them to his purpose. It made sense: All things strove for perfection, why not the very fabric of existence?
“What will you do with your Geisteskranken once you have made your perfect world?” asked Nacht from a store window as Morgen passed.
The godling glanced at his Reflection, noting the caked filth of his hair, and stopped. “What do you mean?”
“They’re imperfect, you can’t deny that.”
Nacht was right. There was no place in a perfect world for deranged women and men who might twist it into something less perfect.
“You’ll have to get rid of them,” said Nacht. “You’ll have to do away with these imperfections. Even those who have served loyally.”
“With all the world worshipping me I shall be able to heal them of their delusions.”
“Perhaps,” said Nacht, sounding unconvinced. “And if you can’t?”
“Nothing will stop me from making this a perfect world.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” said his Reflection.
“Why?”
“When you are there, at the end and this world is flawless and clean and sane…”
“Yes?”
“Where will your place be?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You are yourself a Geist
eskranken. Perhaps one of the most powerful Geisteskranken ever as you are capable of whatever your believers think you can do.”
“So?”
“Your obsession with cleanliness and perfection isn’t sane.”
Morgen eyed his Reflection. “The result will be.”
“And where in that result is there room for an insane little boy?”
“With the faith of all the world behind me I will be perfect.”
“So you’ll lose this obsession? In a perfect world, will you be sane?”
Would he be? Would there be need for delusion in a perfect world? “These are questions better asked when I have achieved my goals.”
“Don’t want to think about it, do you,” said Nacht. “In a truly perfect world there is no need for a god to tell everyone what to do. They’re perfect, they’ll do it on their own. But you don’t want to lose your power. You like playing god, moving men like toy soldiers.”
His Reflection struck too close to the mark, left him uncomfortable. “There is much work to be done before we get there.”
“You won’t give up your power. In the end, you will be the one imperfection in your perfect world.”
Morgen stalked closer to the window, glaring hate at his dirty Reflection marring its pristine surface. “Still seeking to make me doubt? It won’t work. All this…” he waved his blood-caked hands at the Reflection, hating their eternal stain, “all this is nothing. A distraction.”
Nacht grinned. “You’re right.”
Morgen blinked in surprise. “I am?”
Nacht sprang from the window, tackling Morgen and dragging him to the street.
Morgen wheezed as a knee crushed into his belly. No longer did he look like a young man. His Reflection somehow negated his disguise. The two boys wrestled, one clean and white, the other caked in filth. Equally matched, neither could gain advantage.
Rage built in Morgen’s gut. He was a god, not some brat to roll in the street. He could burn cities with his delusions. He could bend reality to his will. Fire built in him, screaming for release. He’d burn this odious stain to ash.
“Careful,” grunted Nacht in a strangled voice, face mottled as if he couldn’t breathe, “you’ll scorch your pretty white cobblestones.”
That stopped him. The two lay on the street, Nacht on top, ignored by the pedestrians of Selbsthass.
“Get off me,” said Morgen “You can’t hurt me and I can’t hurt you.” Not yet. He’d find a way.
Nacht rolled off him, and lay on his back, twitching as if drowning. He watched as Morgen rose to stand over him. The Reflection showed no fear, just a maddening grin.
“What were you hoping to prove with that,” demanded Morgen.
“Nothing,” Nacht wheezed. He pointed an annoyingly clean finger at Morgen. “You have something on your robes.”
Morgen glanced down and saw a dark smear, not much larger than his own thumb, staining his chest. He willed his robes to perfection. Nothing happened.
“Won’t work,” said Nacht. “And any set of robes you wear will bear the same mark.” In a blink he was back in the window, once again a Reflection. “It’s not real. It’s a manifestation of delusion. A little reminder of your imperfection.”
His fingers caked with dried blood, Morgen resisted the urge to pick at the offending blemish. “I hate you,” he told his Reflection, voice shaking. “I hate you so much.”
“I’m not real. It isn’t me you hate.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I hear voices.
I have one whispering in my left ear, telling me to give alms to the poor, to protect the weak, and to love and respect my husband.
The voice in my right ear suggests I should take that bribe and use it to buy glücklich leaf. It says I should cudgel that homeless man to a boneless paste for puking on my boots after I spent hours polishing the damned things. It thinks there’s nothing wrong with rutting my husband’s brother.
In the centre of my skull I hear my voice. It’s small and confused and rarely offers advice. It’s not terribly useful.
I hear voices.
Who doesn’t?
—Verwirrung - Geldangelegenheiten City Guard
Bedeckt and Zukunft rode through tilled fields covered with manure for next spring’s growth. Zukunft sat hunched against the icy downpour, sodden blanket pulled tight in a futile attempt to stave off the cold. She shivered so hard Bedeckt thought her bones would break. When he suggested they stop and light a fire, she refused.
Why the hells did Zukunft—or her Reflection, it hardly mattered—send him on that pathetic rescue mission? If she saw the future, surely she knew it was doomed to failure before they took the first step. How did this further his plan to stop Morgen? Had she lied about everything?
Did she intend on helping him at all?
What was in it for her?
He’d been a fool.
Bedeckt didn’t feel the cold. Rage warmed him. He had many targets for that anger. Zukunft for bringing him to the site of the murders for no apparent reason. Her damned mirror for telling her there was a chance at saving them. The Täuschung priests, however, would bear the brunt of his fury.
He’d kill them first. Then he’d deal with Zukunft and her damned mirror.
The world grew dark, charcoal grey, drained of colour. Far to the west, hidden behind a wall of impenetrable cloud, the sun sank beneath the horizon. Beneath the horses’ hooves, the trail churned to mud, each step sounded like a sucking chest wound.
The village, a farming community of half a hundred souls, sat perched on the side of a long and shallow hill. The first few buildings they passed were simple homesteads, single story buildings of hewn logs and mud packed into the gaps. Rough wooden shutters, lashed closed against the rain, shook and rattled in the wind, sounding like they might tear free at any moment. Smoke guttered from ragged holes in roofs, snatched away by the tempest.
They rode past a mill, closed and battened against the storm. A smithy sat dark and empty, its forge cold and dead. The town’s streets were muck and manure, rising above his horse’s fetlocks. Ahead Bedeckt saw a church, the first storey constructed of rough fieldstones, the second of warped wooden slats hammered into thick beams. For a moment his thoughts swam in blood, but this was clearly a Wahnvor Stellung church. He bit back the bile of anger. Its still lurked beneath his flesh, ready to burst free.
An unnamed tavern sat in the centre of town, gold light leaking through cracks in the shutters. Only a rough carving of a pint mug above the door told Bedeckt what it was. Muted voices, strangely subdued, came from within.
Dismounting, Bedeckt approached the door and stopped, half-hand held against the rough wood surface. The axe hung in his right hand, water dripping from the tip of its blade to fall at his feet. He heard Zukunft slide from the saddle.
“Wait here,” he said without looking.
Bedeckt shoved open the door and strode in, letting it swing closed behind him. Four farmers sat gathered about a table, their clothes sheathed in mud, backs hunched and defensive. In the far corner, hidden in shadow, sat three dim figures. All eyes turned to him, watched the drip drip of water from his axe’s bright blade. On the farmers’ faces he saw hope, like he might save them from something.
“Get out,” Bedeckt said to the farmers, rolling his shoulders and hearing the crunch of arthritic bone and muscle.
In a heartbeat they were gone, the door slamming behind them.
The three in the corner stood, unhurried. One stepped into the light. Face pocked with acne scars and a straggly attempt at a beard, the man looked whip lean and mean. He grinned bad teeth and pocketed a small mirror.
Zukunft had said something about a Mirrorist.
“The One True God told me you’d come,” said the lean man, drawing a slim-bladed sword. His eyes screamed madness.
The One True God. What shite. The only person who really knew where we were going—
“Shite,” he muttered. Zukunft’s Reflection. Coul
d it have somehow tricked this Täuschung priest? Had it led him into a trap? Too rutting late now.
Bedeckt moved around the intervening tables, eyes locked on the three. He said nothing; the axe would speak for him.
The other two stepped into the light and Bedeckt understood the farmers’ unease. Both men were Befallen, their flesh infested with parasites. Their faces writhed as swarms of tunnelling bugs crawled beneath the surface. They drew blades matching that of the Mirrorist.
“The One True God says we are to send you to Swarm,” said the lean man. The three spread out so as not to hamper each other’s movement. “He said you’d find the message we left and follow.”
A maggot crawled from the nose of one of the Befallen and fell at his feet. All three shrugged their cloaks aside, exposing matched hauberks beneath. They looked confident.
They were waiting for me.
His rage subsided, replaced with cold calculation. Had Zukunft led him to this intentionally, or was this the work of whoever she hallucinated in her mirror? Did it matter?
Bedeckt stopped, resting his half-hand atop the back of a heavy wood chair, and waited.
The priest glanced past Bedeckt, toward the door. “Where is the Greatest Swordsman in the World?”
Bedeckt grinned death. Their idiot god told them he still travelled with Wichtig? Did this mean Zukunft was not to blame? Did some other power work behind the scenes to manipulate him?
The three priests stopped, waiting. Finally, one said, “He’s supposed to be here.”
The Mirrorist waved the man to silence. All three looked less sure of themselves.
“The child was for you,” said the lean man, struggling to regain composure. “You recognized that scene?” He advanced and the others followed, crouched and ready. “Did we get it right, the broken bones?”
You got it right. And now they’d pay.
“That Geborene—”
Bedeckt threw the chair at the Mirrorist and followed in its wake, swinging his axe at the nearest Befallen. The man lifted his sword to defend and Bedeckt hacked through it like it was a blade of grass. He cleaved the Befallen from shoulder to sternum. A morass of maggots, beetles, and worms spilled from the gaping wound to fall writhing at the man’s feet. The Befallen stumbled back, feet slipping in spilled blood and crawling insects, and fell dead to the floor, his skull striking stone like the gong of a muted church bell.
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