The Mirror's Truth: A Novel of Manifest Delusions

by Michael R. Fletcher

  Morgen thought back. Practice makes perfect?

  Yes.

  So you returned to spew clichés at me.

  Nacht laughed, showing stained teeth. Think about it.

  I was thinking about how I would be a better leader than Erbrechen.

  You were thinking about how you’d be a better Slaver than Erbrechen.

  I wasn’t… He stared at Misserfolg sprawled in the mud at his feet. The former General did not dare to remove himself from Morgen’s presence without express permission. Even Bulle still stood rooted, axe ready, unwilling to move or act or interrupt his god’s thoughts. How long had Morgen stood here, staring at Misserfolg? It didn’t matter. He was their god and they would wait.

  Misserfolg is already not far from one of Erbrechen’s drones, said Nacht.

  Morgen bit his bottom lip, tempted and torn. Erbrechen was evil.

  Is slavery bad if it’s for the better good? Nacht asked. Anyway, you are no Erbrechen. You’re nothing like him, could never be like him.

  That was true. Morgen had no interest in ruling a civilization of mindless slaves. He remembered his earlier thoughts, back when he sat in the Leichtes Haus talking with Wichtig: Reasons mattered. If he stole the will of his people he took their reasons. Much as he hated to admit it, he must leave his people their flaws. At least until he had the power to make them perfect while still leaving them choice.

  Morgen glanced at his Reflection. I will not enslave my—

  Of course not. But a cadre of people you control utterly, who you could trust because they were absolutely loyal…that would be useful.

  Morgen hesitated.

  No one needs to know, said Nacht. They’ll be your spies within your own priesthood.

  Why would you suggest this? Morgen eyed his Reflection. Don’t trust him. The idea seemed sound on the surface, but what did Nacht get out of it?

  My desires are not what you think, said Nacht.

  You want to replace me, to be the original.

  Morgen’s Reflection laughed, a boyish giggle. Okay, they are what you think. It’s my method you don’t understand. Won’t until it’s too late.

  More manipulation, growled Morgen.

  No. Honesty. I’m not going to take control, you’re going to give it to me.

  Why?

  You’ll see. But you need to retain control of our church—

  My church.

  —until it’s time. Konig and Failure plot against you.

  Of course they did. Sometimes it seemed like the whole world wanted him to fail.

  Failure is a Gefahrgeist, said Nacht. He already has his own people—priests he’s taken with his power—working to his ends.

  The Reflection flashed that cocky grin again, the one reminding Morgen of Wichtig. Where the hells was the Swordsman? It frustrated him that he lost his figurines. He felt small here, his power limited. Perhaps he shouldn’t have left Selbsthass. Was leaving the core of his power—the people who believed in him—a mistake? Was this what Konig and Failure wanted? Did they trick me? What were the ungrateful bastards up to back in Selbsthass? He should return, crush their stupid plans. But if he did, would he be able to return to his army? The political border between Selbsthass and Gottlos existed only in the minds of the people of the two city-states. It was no more than the common belief of man. Could it stop him, trapping him once again in his city? If he left and Nacht remained with his troops… His head hurt with the need to make a decision and the lack of information that would make the perfect choice possible.

  They’ll never expect you to have spies, continued Nacht. They know you’re too trusting. And they’ll never expect you to turn the full force of your Gefahrgeist power against your people. Your power dwarfs Failure’s. Anyone you enslave will remain forever yours, no matter what Failure tries.

  They underestimate me, said Morgen.

  No, said his Reflection. They have your measure. They’ve only underestimated you when you do something beyond their expectations.

  The smug bastard was right. I’ll enslave a couple of Geisteskranken and send them back to keep an eye on Konig and Failure. It ate at him to agree to his Reflection’s plans. Even when the filthy goat-sticker was right. Especially then.

  Remember what I said about practice? asked Nacht.

  Practice makes perfect.

  Right. You’ve never enslaved anyone before. You need to practice. It must be done right. Perfectly.

  Misserfolg still lay in the mud at Morgen’s feet, waiting to be told he was allowed to leave. The man looked pathetic. His uniform, usually so clean and crisp, was spattered in muck. Dejection haunted his eyes.

  Yes, said Nacht. He’s perfect. No one will think twice if you keep him at your side.

  Morgen knelt at Misserfolg’s side, placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Will you help me?” he whispered, pushing his will—his need—against the man’s sense of self.

  Misserfolg abdicated all responsibility for himself, his life and choices, in an instant. Morgen felt dirty, stained. But it felt good too. Misserfolg worshipped Morgen, but now he needed his god.

  Morgen remembered the Slaver and his grubby followers. “You will bathe everyday,” he breathed into Misserfolg’s ear. “Once in the morning, once in the early afternoon. You will eat three meals a day.” He thought back to Erbrechen telling a man not to shite in front of him. “You will defecate in the latrine ditches like everyone else.” At least until Morgen solved that messy insanity.

  Morgen stood and scowled at the mud now staining his white robes. With a flicker of will they were clean again, except the stain Nacht left. He turned to examine the Gottlos garrison across the bridge. It was time to cross, to get the bodies buried and clean up what was no doubt an utter shambles. He glanced at his army. How did one get fifteen thousand men and women—including over one thousand cavalry—to traverse a bridge barely wide enough for two mounted soldiers to cross side-by-side?

  Forgive General Misserfolg, suggested Nacht. They will see you as magnanimous.

  I am.

  “Stand,” Morgen commanded Misserfolg, who scrambled to his feet, desperate to please the god he worshipped with absolute devotion. Perfect loyalty. “I’ve decided to forgive you for questioning my commands.” Misserfolg burst into tears of gratitude, blubbering like a child. “Stop it.” Misserfolg blinked away tears and stood at rigid attention. “You are still my general. You will lead my army.”

  Misserfolg bowed low. “Yes, my god.”

  “Get the troops over the bridge and into Gottlos. Bury the bodies in the tower. Clean everything. This is Selbsthass now. I want it spotless.”

  “It will be perfect.”

  Sticking right it will be. “We’ll leave a skeleton force to occupy the garrison when we march on Unbrauchbar.”

  Bowing again, Misserfolg spun away, shouting orders. Morgen returned his attention to the bridge. Made of head-sized field stones, the structure was thousands of years old pre-dating both Selbsthass and Gottlos. He had no idea who built it.

  “It’s too small,” he mused. With Gottlos soon to be part of Selbsthass, he needed something more than a crumbling ancient bridge uniting the two.

  Wait, said Nacht, as Morgen was about to cross the bridge.

  Glancing at the Reflection in its puddle Morgen said, “For what?”

  Stay here until after the army has crossed. There’s something I want you to see.

  Morgen considered ignoring his Reflection but couldn’t be sure if that wasn’t what the bastard wanted.

  “Fine.”

  Hours later, when the last of the Selbsthass army crossed into Gottlos, Morgen stood at the apex of the bridge, staring back into Selbsthass. He blinked and tears fell. Dried blood flaked from his hands as he habitually picked at them.

  As far as he could see the ground was torn, shredded by the passing of fifteen thousand soldiers and thousands of horses. In marching to war he despoiled his beautiful Selbsthass. We haven’t even fought a battle yet. Wha
t have I done?

  “This is nothing. I can fix this.” Morgen willed the rolling hills back to perfection.

  Nothing happened.

  Morgen understood. Standing atop the bridge, he was no longer in Selbsthass. The belief of his followers stopped at that illusory border.

  Only the faith of my soldiers maintains me now. He felt small, weak.

  Thinking that once back within the sphere of influence defined by his worshippers he could repair the damage, he took a step toward Selbsthass. He stopped. The faith of his followers defined the boundaries of his influence. Outside of Selbsthass, few worshipped the Geborene godling, though the temple in Geldangelegenheiten would soon change that. There was more than one way to wage war.

  If he crossed into Selbsthass and wasn’t able to once again return to Gottlos, he’d have to call his army back and cross with them. It was their faith that allowed him to cross that border. At the least, it would be embarrassing, an admission of weakness. Of need. At the worst, they’d see it as imperfection. He couldn’t let his troops doubt in him.

  Is that what Nacht wanted? Had his Reflection tried to trick him into being caught helpless on the wrong side of the bridge?

  Turning his back on the travesty his soldiers made of beautiful Selbsthass broke his heart. How could a quest for perfection cause such devastation? The damage would have to await his return. It felt like failure.

  When he stepped off the bridge and onto the churned earth of Gottlos, cold rain fell upon him. In moments he was soaked through, icy water trickling from his hair and into his eyes. I am less on this side of the river. But how much less? Certainly the faith of fifteen thousand soldiers was nothing in comparison to the combined belief of the entire populace of Selbsthass. He willed himself dry and nothing happened. In half a dozen steps the hem of his white robes was stained dark with mud. I should go back, return home. Could he trust General Misserfolg to conquer Gottlos without him?

  Yes.

  But could he trust the general to do it right, to make it perfect?

  Morgen sighed, running fingers through damp hair. No.

  He wiped away his tears as he approached the garrison tower. Here on the Gottlos side of the river the stench was even worse. Even when alive, the Gottlos soldiers did a piss-poor job of maintaining their posting. The place was a wreck, the ancient tower looking like it might fall in on itself at any moment.

  Fifteen thousand holy warriors of Selbsthass will make short work of this. We’ll be back on the road tomorrow. The thought calmed him. By the time Misserfolg found him to report the discovery of a Körperidentität alive in the basement, his eyes were dry.

  “I want every stone scrubbed,” he told General Misserfolg. “Tomorrow we march on Unbrauchbar.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I didn’t steal it, I borrowed it without telling anyone.

  No, I’m not going to give it back.

  —Anonymous Kleptic

  Stehlen and Lebendig walked south, the Swordswoman setting a slow pace. The Kleptic once again wondered whether this was a comfortable silence or an uncomfortable one. Was Lebendig angry, too tired to talk, or lost in thought? Stehlen wanted to ask, but if the silence was comfortable, doing so would probably ruin it. Should she reach out and take her lover’s hand?

  No. She couldn’t face the possibility of rejection.

  She remembered wanting to kill Lebendig at the oasis of trees. Had whatever numen or local spirit called the place home influenced her thoughts? Or was it own desire? Certainly having Lebendig bound by the Warrior’s Credo would simplify everything.

  “Your arm,” said Lebendig. “You’re still bleeding.”

  “I’m fine.” The pain felt like punishment.

  “We should look at it.”

  “We should find Wichtig.”

  “Stehlen.”

  Realizing Lebendig stopped, Stehlen turned to face her. Gods she looks terrible.

  “I need to stop.” Lebendig looked down, bared teeth at the ground. “I’m tired.”

  “We can rest here for a bit,” said Stehlen looking everywhere but at her lover.

  “When we find Wichtig—”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Her chest tightened with fear and some emotion she didn’t feel ready to face.

  “I can still—”

  “I know. We’ll deal with that later.” Wichtig would butcher her in this shape.

  Lebendig was quiet for a moment. Then she asked, “This can’t be the whole world, can it?”

  Grateful for the topic change, Stehlen wasn’t sure she understood the question. Did the Swordsman mean this little moment of reality, the two of them following an idiot Swordsman—the man Stehlen loved and could never have? “Why not?”

  Lebendig frowned, her eyebrows coming together as she struggled to put the thought into words. “It’s too small.”

  “You ever travelled from one end to the other?” asked Stehlen. “It’s got to be more than a thousand miles. That’s two months of hard travel.”

  “I’ve heard stories of strange people crossing the Gezackt Mountains or washing up on the shores of the Salzwasser Ocean,” said Lebendig. “People who can’t understand our words, who speak something different. They suffer strange delusions unlike anything we’ve seen.”

  “You don’t have to invent fanciful stories of distant lands to hear of strange delusions,” said Stehlen.

  “I knew a sailor who swore she saw a dragon. Her ship was pushed off the usual trade routes, far out into the ocean.”

  A sailor. Stehlen swallowed a hard nugget of angry jealousy. “The result of some Halluzin,” she said. “There are no monsters that did not spring from the minds of men.”

  “I’m ready,” said Lebendig, straightening. She looked like hell but her eyes were sharp.

  The two walked on in silence.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I love that moment when you see it in their eyes, the dawning understanding that you have absolutely and utterly rutted their lives. It is the most delicious meal you will ever taste. And the more complete the betrayal, the better the flavour.

  —Geschichts Verdreher, Gefahrgeist

  Wichtig, sprawled on the floor in cooling ponds of his own vomit, stared up at Morgen’s reflection. It wasn’t just the grime of the glass making the boy look dirty, his face looked like it’d been rubbed in mud. “You’re not Morgen?”

  “No.”

  He closed his eyes, feeling something sharp grit into his back. I probably puked up one of my own swallowed teeth. “Then piss off.”

  “His Reflections Ascended alongside him,” said the Reflection. “He’s broken. We all are. Even you. Especially you.”

  “I’m staying with piss off, Morgen.”

  “Call me Nacht.”

  “You’re another damned albtraum aren’t you,” said Wichtig, opening his eyes to glare blearily up at the boy. “Come to finish what you started?”

  “I chased it away. I saved you.”

  “It wasn’t Morgen?”

  The boy laughed, holding up a hand to admire the dirt-encrusted fingernails “He wants you dead. Why else would he send Stehlen after you?”

  Stehlen? What is he going on about?

  The tower. The slain guards. All the clothes and weapons tossed in the midden. Why was that so damned difficult to remember?

  “I knew it was her,” said Wichtig. Why didn’t she kill me? “That was her at the border tower.”

  “Of course,” sad Nacht. “She’s following you.

  “Why didn’t—”

  “She wants you to lead her to Bedeckt.”

  “I’ll kill her first,” said Wichtig.

  Nacht laughed, a sour and mocking sound that should never come from a small boy. “Don’t be silly. This is Stehlen. You’ll either never see her, or if you do it’s because she’s killed you and she doesn’t care what you see.”

  “Shite,” swore Wichtig. He wanted to brag about how he’d outsmart her at every turn, but felt crushed and
beaten. He was too tired to rise off the floor, never mind fight the most frighteningly dangerous person he ever met. Sprawled in puke, Wichtig examined the Reflection. He was everything Morgen could never be. But was this good or bad for Wichtig? This little bastard wants something. The Swordsman decided to wait. It wasn’t like he had plans beyond the floor anyway. Apathy, he decided, is a lovely bargaining tool.

  “You killed a half dozen of the best Swordsmen in Unbrauchbar tonight,” said Nacht.

  “I think I remember two.”

  “You’re very drunk.”

  “Don’t feel drunk.” He felt no pain. Had this little godling shite healed him as Morgen once healed Bedeckt?

  Wichtig licked his lips and tasted blood and catgut stitches. He lifted his left hand and glanced at the bandage there, now stained by fresh blood. Whether his or someone else’s, Wichtig had no idea. The fingers were still missing.

  “Am I dreaming?” Wichtig asked.

  “No,” said Nacht. “I’m here to offer you a deal.”

  “If you’re really a god like Morgen, how are you here? I heard gods were limited by the boundaries and borders of their faithful. We’re not in Selbsthass any more.”

  “Morgen crossed the bridge into Gottlos just moments ago,” said Nacht with ill-concealed impatience. “And I’m not a true god, not yet. Not until—”

  “Not until Morgen is dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the difference between you and an albtraum?”

  The boy stared down at him as if he couldn’t believe the sheer balls-out temerity of such a question. “Power. I am the Reflection of a god.”

  Wichtig blew a mocking fart with rubbery lips. “A mad god.”

  “All gods are mad.”

  Wichtig waved this away as if wafting a foul stench from his presence. “Don’t care.”

  “You have to save Bedeckt from Stehlen,” said Nacht.

  “You already don’t think I can kill her.”

  “You and Bedeckt together…maybe.”

  Maybe. Wichtig kept his doubts to himself. “That’s it? That’s all you want?”

  “Of course not.” Nacht stared down at Wichtig, eyes measuring. “What do all Doppels want? What do all Fragments want?” Nacht grinned stained teeth. “What do all Reflections want?”