The Mirror's Truth: A Novel of Manifest Delusions

by Michael R. Fletcher

He thought about Schnitter, butchered like a pig and yet carefully bandaged to prolong her suffering. A trickle of something unpleasant like spider legs dance down his spine. Stehlen was in the room with him while he lay naked and helpless. She was with him for some time. One didn’t carefully carve and bandage a woman in minutes.

  Gods, the things she could have done to me. He felt soiled. She could have— No, no. Don’t even think it.

  Why hadn’t she done something? He left her behind in the Afterdeath. He couldn’t even argue he didn’t deserve punishment. Hells, he’d have killed her if she abandoned him. Could it be pity? Could Stehlen have seen him lying there, scarred and ugly and taken pity on him? Hope and disgust did battle. If she pitied him, maybe she wouldn’t kill him. And yet he was disgusted at the thought of being an object of pity.

  Avoided the mirrors in the tower, didn’t you?

  “Shut up. It’s not that bad.”

  Unbrauchbar was close. He’d find some women and charm them into bed. That would improve his mood, crush any and all thoughts of pity. He was fine. Better than fine. Bedeckt always blathered on about adversity either strengthening or breaking people. Well no one was stronger than Wichtig. Missing fingers? Pah! He was better than ever. I’ll cut a swath through the would-be-Greatest Swordsmen, leave a trail of bodies. Everyone would know his name.

  I’ve been complacent. It’s time to ensure my place in history. It’s time to carve my place in the anus of time.

  Was that the right word? Wichtig shrugged as he rode. It seemed right. Bedeckt would know.

  Wichtig thought of the old goat’s hewn and hoary skull, the mass of layered scar tissue rendering his wooden block of a face damned near incapable of expression. He swallowed painfully when his eyes again strayed to his bandaged left hand.

  Bedeckt.

  Gods, imagine going through life looking like Bedeckt.

  Wichtig shivered. Morgen could heal this. The little bastard better.

  He brought me back from the dead. A few missing fingers and an ear will be nothing.

  He remembered how Bedeckt refused to let Morgen to heal his scars, how he said they were a part of who he was, reminders of past mistakes. This was different. These scars weren’t due to Wichtig’s mistakes, they were just something that happened, unavoidable. Bedeckt’s an idiot. Wichtig scowled at the brown gauze wrapping his foot. Should he keep that scar, a little reminder?

  “No,” he said. “I’ve always been perfect. I’ll be perfect again.”

  The day crawled past like a beggar with broken knees. The sun, exhausted from its climb sank gratefully toward the western horizon, seeming to gather speed as it fell.

  An hour before nightfall, Wichtig reined Blöd to a halt and screamed bloody murder at the world when he slid from the beast’s back and the foot with the missing toe touched ground.

  “Enough sticking pain. It’s gone. I know. Enough!”

  The entire foot ached like a horse stomped on it. Webs of hot agony lanced up his calf muscles and into the knee. Limping and whimpering, Wichtig hobbled about gathering a pile of sticks and twigs, enough to keep a fire going all night. The thought of being visited by an albtraum tonight left his eyes stinging with tears of fear.

  Sticking mind rapists.

  His gut twinged and tightened around the puckered wound where the albtraum penetrated him.

  Just don’t think about it.

  Wichtig cried in gratitude when he found a flint, tinder, and char cloth in Blöd’s saddle bags.

  Night took forever. A thousand years of flinching at shadows and throwing more wood on the fire. Every time Wichtig’s eyes drifted closed his own scream of terror snapped him awake. Shapes danced sinuous horrors where the flickering light of the fire did battle with the dark. Sometimes Wichtig caught glimpses of Fluch, a young man, full of rage, hunting the father who abandoned him.

  “I didn’t abandon you,” the Swordsman whispered each time his son coalesced from the writhing dark. “I had to leave. You’ll see. You’ll be proud.”

  Fluch didn’t look proud. He looked like he wanted Wichtig’s blood.

  What had the boy’s mother told him in Wichtig’s absence? What lies?

  When the eastern horizon showed the first hints of morning, Wichtig again cried in gratitude, cursing the night between sobs, and screaming his victory over the night.

  Blöd glared loathing as the Swordsman dragged himself, whining and cursing, into the saddle. Once mounted, he sat blinking sweat from his eyes. He felt terrible, nauseated and dizzy. His left arm and leg throbbed, shoving muddy heat up his veins. The left side of his face, where his ear should have been, felt like it had been held against a hot fry pan. He swallowed thick bile and barely managed to stop from tumbling from the horse’s back.

  Turning Blöd south, Wichtig nudged him into motion.

  The beast set a slow pace and Wichtig, focussed on staying in the saddle, was too tired to complain. Each plodding step the hateful animal took sent waves of fire through Wichtig’s body.

  When the squat walls of Unbrauchbar loomed over Wichtig, he stared at them slack-jawed for a score of heartbeats, wondering where the hells he was.

  When did Unbrauchbar get a wall? Not that this one looked particularly impressive. It looked like the hurried work of drunken bricklayers, none of whom consulted the others regarding height and width. Parts were built from whatever stones they found laying about while others were crafted from kiln-fired bricks. Even those bricks, varying in size and colour, looked like they came from a dozen different kilns.

  He always heard Unbrauchbar was a shite hole, but this was a shite hole gearing for war. Groups of armed men patrolled the misshapen wall, glaring down at all who approached. They’d be more intimidating if they weren’t so old and shabbily dressed. Grubby and decrepit as they were, this was still a city ready for a fight. Wichtig laughed at the thought of Morgen’s troops marching up to these filthy walls and being stalled by the fact not one of them was willing to get dirty. The little shite would learn, but no doubt only after he killed half his troops trying to find the clean way of winning a dirty war.

  Straightening his back and striking the best heroic pose a stained bed sheet and blood and rot crusted bandages allowed, Wichtig approached the main gate. The gathered guards glanced at him, taking in his sorry state. Their gaze lingered on his bare feet, chafed raw from the stirrups, and then moved to the single fine blade tucked into the sheet tied around his waist. They waved him through without question.

  If Morgen’s smart, he’ll send an army of filthy vagrants to invade Gottlos. They’ll be invited right in. The battle could be over before it began.

  Wichtig spotted the familiar press of a crowd gathered around something interesting. Men and women shoved and pushed, vying for a good view without getting so close they might accidentally be stabbed. Still mounted atop Blöd, Wichtig caught sight of the two Swordsmen standing at the centre of the circle. They had yet to clear steel and were bragging and mocking. They looked clean and soft. Young and unscarred.

  Poncy pig stickers.

  Wichtig swung gracefully from the saddle. And collapsed in a heap at Blöd’s hooves. The horse ignored him, but several of the Swordsmen’s followers noticed his sorry state and took the time to laugh, pointing him out to others. The words beggar and pitiful rang in his ears. He heard them mock the fact he carried a blade.

  Wichtig pushed to his feet, glared hatred at those watching. “I am Wichtig Lügner, the Greatest…” They turned away, forgetting him.

  He stood, looking at the backs of those gathered to watch the duel. I’ve never seen a crowd from this angle. He was always at the centre. That’s where he was supposed to be. That’s where he belonged.

  The noise of the crowd rose as one of the Swordsmen said something witty or scored a particularly brutal insult.

  Wichtig couldn’t hear what was said. He couldn’t stand it, being out here, ignored. He needed to be near the centre.

  Cursing, he shoved his way int
o the crowd. Shuffling and stumbling, he elbowed and snarled at any who dared glower in his direction. The way they averted their eyes and stepped from his path assuaged his ego until he remembered how filthy and ugly he must look. Gods, the missing front teeth. Was that pity he saw and not fear?

  Finding himself at the front of the crowd he felt marginally better. He listened as the two Swordsmen bragged like children.

  Wichtig felt awful. His head swam from the stench of the crowd, sour sweat and the lingering exhalations of thick spice and rotting teeth. Someone shoved him from behind, a sharp jab in his kidneys. The crowd. The pitiful boasts of boys. Being ignored.

  It was too much.

  Drawing his sword, careful not to cut the bedsheet and drop it to his ankles, Wichtig stepped into the centre of the ring. Thankfully his knees didn’t give out and drop him to the street.

  He glared blearily at the two Swordsmen who in turn regarded him with the kind of curiosity usually reserved for a particularly interesting lump of snot.

  Wichtig raised his sword and waved it in their direction. “Come on, you pathetic lickers of goats,” he said, enunciating carefully to avoid lisping through the gap in his teeth. “I’ll do you both.”

  One of the Swordsmen, tall and slim with long arms that would give him an appreciable reach advantage, loosed a theatrical sigh. The crowd laughed, their amusement fuelling Wichtig’s rage.

  “I suppose we have a moment before I kill this midget,” said the tall Swordsman nodding at his shorter opponent. “You are?”

  Standing tall and trying not to grimace at the pain radiating from his left foot, Wichtig said, “I am Wichtig Lügner. The Greatest Swordsman in the World.” He sneered. “Not some boasting boy.” Thinking of Stehlen, he spat bloody phlegm at their feet.

  “Never heard of you,” said the tall Swordsman, eyeing the smear of spittle staining his previously clean boot. “Begone before I—”

  “Wichtig Lügner?” interrupted the shorter man, though were he not standing beside this towering moron, he would have been perfectly normal height. “I saw you fight Blutiger Affekt when I was a kid.” He examined Wichtig’s sorry state, eyes doubtful and maybe a little disappointed. “You were why I became a Swordsman. I heard you were dead.”

  Wichtig grinned, warming to the work ahead even though, more than anything, he wanted to find a soft bed. “I was. I’ve returned to teach you what it is to be a real Swordsman.”

  The tall man barked a harsh laugh of scorn. “Look at you. You can barely stand. You’ve been annoying and smelly and I’ve been patient. That’s at an end. Go away.”

  Wichtig stumbled and only stopped himself from falling by grabbing one of the people gathered to watch the violence. Pushing himself upright he said, “Draw, coward. You, both of you. You’re a disappointment.” He spat again, and wondered why there was so much damned blood in it. “You’re children.”

  The shorter Swordsman still eyed him with something torn between doubt and worship.

  “Shildren?” said the tall Swordsman with an evil grin. He drew steel. The sword went on forever, took years to clear its scabbard. “What happened to your teeth, beggar? Someone knock them out for being a mouthy shite?”

  Gods, with those arms and that sword he could stab someone in Neidrig. Wichtig resisted the urge to cover his mouth with the remains of his left hand. To do so would be to acknowledge the bastard scored a point. Instead, he grinned wide and proud. “Our scars are reminders of the mistakes we’ve made,” he said, remembering Bedeckt saying something similar. “You shall not live long enough to gather scars such as mine.”

  “You’ve been gone a long time,” said the shorter swordsman. He sounded apologetic and that angered Wichtig more than the tall bastard’s mockery. “No one here has heard of you. You’ll die. There’s no way you can defeat both of us. Look at you. You look awful. I remember how handsome and perfect you were. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

  The little shite is trying to undermine my confidence, Wichtig realized with a start. He’s afraid!

  “That’s better,” said Wichtig. He felt the tension leak from his body, his pains fading. This was familiar ground. “A fine attempt at sowing seeds of doubt.” He dared a flamboyant bow, praying he wouldn’t topple to the ground. “But you made a mistake.”

  The Swordsman looked confused. “Really?”

  “Now everyone here knows you’ve heard of me.” Wichtig laughed. It was false humour, but sounded perfect. Confident. I am the Greatest Swordsman in the World not because of my skill with blades. This is where I excel. “Everyone knows you are afraid of me,” he said. “Everyone knows I’ve returned from the dead.” He leered at the crowd. “Why would I do that unless I had a destiny to fulfill? Are you so good with your swords you can defeat destiny?”

  “Yes,” said the second Swordsman, drawing his sword.

  Wichtig faced two men with drawn blades.

  I’ve faced odds a thousand times worse than this and come away unscathed every time.

  Why then was he so scared?

  Wichtig’s left hand closed into an awkward and misshapen fist and he longed for his second sword. In truth, he only really carried two swords for the way it looked. He liked the symmetry they provided, peeking over his broad shoulders. He rarely drew the second sword.

  It’d be damned useful now.

  The two Swordsmen advanced. Wichtig retreated, circling away. When they scowled at each other, manoeuvring for position among themselves as much as they moved against him, Wichtig realized what he saw. They’ve never fought alongside someone before. Both Swordsmen wanted to kill Wichtig and they got in each other’s way.

  Changing direction, he circled to put the shorter Swordsman between himself and the tall one. When the taller man snarled an annoyed insult at the shorter, Wichtig attacked in a mad flurry of stabs and slashes, forcing the closer man to desperately retreat and back into the man behind him. Wichtig killed the shorter man with a thrust to the throat the instant he was distracted by contact with the other.

  The Swordsman went down, coughing and bubbling and clutching at his torn throat as if he might stop the blood pulsing from between his fingers.

  The taller Swordsman shoved him aside, uncaring. He watched Wichtig, eyes measuring and unafraid. “He was only in my way,” he said, advancing.

  “You can tell yourself—” Wichtig grunted in pain as his opponent’s sword stabbed into his left shoulder. Shite. I thought he was too far away for that.

  Again Wichtig retreated, weaving a defensive web of steel. Knocking aside several attacks, he realized this was never going to work. The man was so far beyond Wichtig’s reach he had no chance of scoring a killing blow.

  “That idiot thought you were a great Swordsman. Look at you. Your knees are shaking. You’re bleeding like a gutted hog. I see terror in your eyes.”

  “That’s not terror,” said Wichtig, batting aside another long-reaching attack. “That’s boredom.” He laughed at his opponent’s baffled look. The big fool was lost for words. But it was bravado. Wichtig had been tortured and maimed yesterday and hadn’t slept last night. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. He tired quickly. His sword arm felt leaden. His heart pumped cold porridge through his veins.

  You’re going to have to take a chance. Gamble you’re faster, better than this long-limbed freak.

  A thousand sword fights and not once had he been so much as scratched. His shoulder pulsed pain, leaked blood down his chest. Prior to this one, he corrected. Why the hells did he get involved in this stupid fight? What was he thinking? Facing two Swordsmen in his condition was madness. He could barely breathe. It felt like the gathered crowd sucked up all the air and held it trapped in their lungs. Wichtig blinked as his vision shrank, a collapsing tunnel of red and black.

  Again the long limbed bastard attacked. Again Wichtig stumbled away in retreat.

  “Drop your sword,” said the towering Swordsman—Gods, has he grown even taller?—”And I’ll let
you live.”

  Let me— Stunned, Wichtig lowered his guard, mouth falling open. He wobbled unsteadily. Was that pity? Did this stupid slow-witted monster of a man pity Wichtig?

  Wichtig screamed and hurled himself at the Swordsman. The giant bastard was as strong as he was tall, and knocked aside Wichtig’s frenzied attacks.

  Wichtig didn’t give a shite. He pressed on, pushing forward, driving the Swordsman back. He spat and screamed incoherent rage, all thought of defence gone. He’d break this giant, crush him to the ground, chop him down like a gods-damned tree.

  The towering Swordsman lifted his thousand strides of steel and Wichtig saw his opening. He ran his sword into the man’s guts as the giant brought his sword slashing across Wichtig’s face.

  As if in a dream, Wichtig felt skin part like silk before razor sharp shears. The grating of steel on bone rang through his head and his lips fell open in a way they never should. Fragments of teeth were crushed from his mouth to spatter nearby onlookers.

  The guard of his sword struck hard abdominal muscles and stopped. Wichtig leaned his forehead against the man’s chest, his grip on his sword all that kept him on his feet. The bastard was solid like stone. In what remained of his collapsing peripheral vision, Wichtig saw the gathered people staring, mouths and eyes open wide, breaths held in an expectant hush.

  Did I miss?

  Wichtig gave his sword an experimental twist, watching with detached interest as the Swordsman toppled backward and Wichtig’s sword slid free. He stared in dumb confusion at the length of blood and gore-smeared steel he held.

  The hush of the crowd broke—exploded like an enraged hive—and people were congratulating him and cursing him and offering ale and sex.

  This is it. This is where I belong.

  He drank it in, swam in adulation, inhaled worship. Then he crawled around on his hands and knees in the spill of guts and searched the bodies of his defeated foes for coin. His face hung open and gaping, his sundered lips swinging like the tattered ends of old curtains.

  When I meet that tall bastard in the Afterdeath, I’m going to kill him again.