The Mirror's Truth: A Novel of Manifest Delusions

by Michael R. Fletcher

  “You,” said Wichtig, waving his half hand. “You’re a Swordsman?”

  Predictably the idiot puffed up, swelling his chest in an attempt to look big and scary. Swordsmen these days are such a disappointment. No finesse.

  “I have killed—”

  “Perfect,” interrupted Wichtig, lifting his sword in open challenge.

  The Swordsman glanced around, confused. “Er…shouldn’t we gather a crowd first? No one is even paying attention.”

  “I’m in a rush,” said Wichtig.

  “What’s the point in killing you if no one sees it?” asked the Swordsman, genuinely dumbfounded. “I don’t even know who you are. You don’t look worth killing.”

  “I’m Wichtig Lügner, the Greatest Swordsman in the World. I am definitely worth killing.”

  The Swordsman paled and for the first time since returning to life Wichtig felt a little better. Now that was the right damned reaction to facing Wichtig Lügner.

  “You killed a half-dozen Swordsman better than I last night,” said the man, moving his hand carefully away from his sword. “I don’t want to—”

  “Fine.”

  Wichtig stepped in and killed him with a thrust to his heart. It was perfect. Steel didn’t so much as touch bone. Withdrawing the blade, he waited patiently as the man blinked stupidly at the neat hole in his chest, said, “Hey,” and crumpled to the street.

  “Take his sword,” Wichtig said. “And get his money purse. We’re broke.”

  Opferlamm nodded and dropped to her knees to search the corpse. “Is this right?” she asked over her shoulder.

  At least she obeyed before asking. “Are you questioning me?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Good. Where do you think Swordsmen get money? You think we work a job on the side in between bouts of practising and killing?”

  “Didn’t think,” said the girl, holding up a small and threadbare purse.

  “Your lessons begin now,” said Wichtig. “What mistake did you make?”

  Opferlamm stared at him, brow crinkling in thought. “I’m unarmed. I should have gone for the sword first. Got the purse second.”

  Wichtig nodded in appreciation. The girl has potential. “Then get the damned sword.”

  Opferlamm sheathed the sword in her old scabbard and eyed the far better one belted to the dead man’s hip. “I think—”

  “Thinking is a Swordsman’s worst enemy,” said Wichtig. “We are creatures of action. Does this mean you should be a moron? No. You must be so clever thought is unneeded. In an instant you must see what needs doing and do it. If you chose wrong, tell everyone whatever happened was exactly as you planned it. Note how quickly I killed this man. No thought. I saw need and I fulfilled that need. Had I stood around thinking about it he might have stabbed me first, or even run away. And then where would we be?”

  “Wearing a bed sheet?”

  “Don’t be a smart arse. His horse and sword are yours. The boots, pants, and shirt are mine. As is that scabbard you’re eyeing. Now strip him.”

  “There’s a hole in his shirt,” said Opferlamm. “And it’s covered in blood.”

  Wichtig peeled away his bed sheet, letting it fall to the street. Subtly flexing, he stood naked, waiting. His face might be a mess, but he couldn’t help but grin at the way women stopped whatever they were doing to admire his body. Opferlamm stared for a moment before stooping to strip the corpse.

  “At least it’s not my blood,” he said as she handed him the clothes. “Go get my horse. Once I’m dressed, we’re leaving this shite hole.”

  Opferlamm left at a sprint and returned moments later with Blöd, already saddled, in tow. The horse seemed happy enough until it spotted Wichtig.

  How the hells can a horse scowl?

  The two mounted their horses and left by the southern gate, riding for the capital of Gottlos. It wasn’t until Unbrauchbar dwindled from sight that Wichtig realized he forgot to ask around after Bedeckt. Stick it. The bastard would never stay in such a dump for long. The wealth and whores of the big city would draw the old goat like…well, like old men to whores. Anyway, Wichtig caused enough of a stir in Unbrauchbar that if Bedeckt was in the city, he’d come looking.

  Would Bedeckt even accept Wichtig’s help? What if the old man thought he was better off dealing with Stehlen on his own?

  “Stubborn bastard,” Wichtig muttered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Do you have friends?” Wichtig asked.

  “There are some boys back in the town where I grew up.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Oh. Uh…” Opferlamm’s brow crinkled in thought.

  The kid has too little control of her face. They’d have to work on that. Being a Swordsman wasn’t all killing idiots and bedding wenches. Manipulation was critical, and facial expressions were a big part of that. Wichtig scowled, feeling the still-healing wound slashing across his face stretch tight.

  “I have one friend?” said Opferlamm.

  “That sounded like a question.”

  “I have one friend,” repeated the young Swordswoman.

  “Who?”

  “My sword.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. Steel loves no one.”

  “Is it me?”

  “Was that a question?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Wrong. You are your enemy. You will get in the way of what you want to be.” Again Wichtig pinned the girl with flat grey eyes. “I am your only friend. I will look out for you. I will keep you alive until you are able to do that on your own. I will supply you with weapons and horses and wisdom.”

  Opferlamm looked doubtful, which meant she wasn’t an utter moron. But the thought was planted, and for now that was all Wichtig wanted.

  “What are you going to call your horse?” asked Wichtig.

  “I…what? I should name my horse?”

  “Of course you should name the damned thing.”

  Opferlamm rode well, rolling with the stride of her horse, brow once again giving away her thoughtfulness. “Sturm?”

  What a terrible name. “Perfect.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Gottlos, the capital. We’re going to save an old friend’s life.”

  “Was he your teacher?”

  “Hardly.”

  “But I thought—”

  “What did I tell you about thinking? My lessons are not for people like me, they’re for people like you. The wise have no need for wisdom.” Wichtig nodded appreciation. That, he decided, sounded particularly wise.

  “What are we saving him from?” Opferlamm asked.

  Wichtig shrugged. “Not much.” He let the pause grow long before adding, “Just the most dangerous woman I ever met.” He grinned at the girl, baring broken teeth and feeling his face pull tight. It hurt but was worth it to see her face pale. “And a god,” he added. “We have to save him from a god.”

  “Sounds like fun,” said Opferlamm.

  “My apprentice,” said Wichtig, “I see great potential in you.”

  “Are we going to practice with the swords soon?”

  “No.”

  “I really am quite good,” said Opferlamm

  “Only brag to people who aren’t better.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  It is a misconception that Therianthropes always manifest as animals. While the Feral—complete transformation into an animal form—is the most common, there are five distinct manifestations. The second most common form is the animal head mounted atop a human body. The human head mounted on an animal body is an extremely rare manifestation but not unheard of. Anthromorphic Therianthropes retain a human body but with animalistic head and limbs are also quite rare. Probably the most misunderstood form of Therianthropy leaves the suffering looking completely human but possessed by an animal spirit. Such manifestations are often misdiagnosed as Wendigast, Wütend, or even Wahnist.

  —Aufschlag Hoher, Previously Chief Scientist of the Geborene Damonen

&n
bsp; Night fell like a bucket of black tar. The rain slackened but did not let up. Erdbehüter was beginning to think she might never again see the sun. Her Geborene robes, pristine when she left Selbsthass, were unrecognisable. Ungeist, crawling around in the muck, hunting out stones and tossing them aside to clear a comfortable spot to sleep, looked no better. On all fours, hair thick with muck and jutting in every direction, he looked every part the animal. In the last two days they ate anything but bugs and twigs, and what few root vegetables they could dig up.

  Their relationship, tenuous after leaving Selbsthass, awkward after she rutted him in the mud, ultimately devolved to seething hatred. At least on his part. She couldn’t summon the energy to hate him. He was pathetic.

  Ungeist stopped tossing stones around and stared at her with hungry, feral eyes. Already brittle when they left Selbsthass, unleashing the inner demons of all those farmers cracked him wide open. He made no effort to care for himself and did whatever she commanded. He doesn’t trust himself to make his own decisions. He did, however, whine continually about whatever task she set him.

  Ungeist, sprawled in the mud like it was the most comfortable bed, watched the skies. “If Drache drops a cow,” he said, “I’ll eat it raw.”

  The Therianthrope reminded Erdbehüter of a cat. A huge, evil cat. Drache liked to play with her food, sometimes dropping it several times before it died. The sound a horse made after being dropped from a half-dozen strides off the ground was terrible.

  Ungeist giggled and picked at the scabs covering his arms, opening fresh wounds. He’d crawled through a bramble bush, chasing a rabbit he had no chance of catching, and torn long wounds over most of his exposed flesh. Erdbehüter watched as he eyed a scab, licking his lips. She watched hunger and disgust do war. Hunger won. He ate the scab

  Ungeist noticed her scrutiny and flashed a bent grin. “Meat,” he said.

  Worm. She looked forward to watching him devour himself. He clawed at his chest, teeth bared in pain, leaving red rents in the flesh. He frees the inner demons of others, but his own are trapped.

  “Dig deeper,” she said.

  Ungeist stopped pawing at his chest and stared dumbly at his bloody fingernails before sucking them clean. Cleaner, she corrected.

  He watched the sky, blinking away the rain pooling in his sunken eyes. She couldn’t tell if he was crying. He pointed east and she saw a monstrous shape streaking toward them.

  “She’s coming to eat us,” said Ungeist. He didn’t sound scared, didn’t even bother sitting up.

  Drache flew past at maybe twice the height of a man, the powerful downdraught toppling Erdbehüter into the mud. Ungeist laughed as she wrestled with the torn remnants of her Geborene robe before once again regaining her feet. She ignored him and stared west.

  “She’s seen something,” she said, squinting into the dark.

  Without warning, all the rocks, from the smallest pebble to man-sized boulders, headed west, following the Therianthrope.

  “The Earth Spirit wants us to follow,” said Erdbehüter.

  “Rut the Earth Spirit.”

  Again she ignored him and set off after the stones. Ungeist swore as a fist-sized stone ran over one of his hands. He scrambled to his feet to follow after her.

  The two Geborene Geisteskranken blundered about in the dark, tripping over themselves and each other until Drache lit the world with the twisting chaos of her breath.

  “What the hells?” said Ungeist.

  Erdbehüter blinked away purple after-images sketched hard on her eyes. Hell inscribed on steel, she’d never forget that vision. She struggled to make sense of what she saw. The world has gone mad.

  “There are thousands of them,” said Ungeist.

  “That’s the Gottlos army,” she said. In the brief moment Drache’s madness lit the world bright she saw thousands of tents and men. There has to be at least five thousand people in that camp. No chance Gottlos could muster much more than that. This has to be their entire army, geared for war and marching north. “They’re marching on Selbsthass.”

  “King Schmutzig is a fool if he thinks he can take the fight to Morgen,” said Ungeist.

  Erdbehüter agreed. Warring with a Geisteskranken—no, a god—in the centre of his power was insane. The King of Gottlos was reputed to be a powerful Gefahrgeist. Did he think himself powerful enough to sway the populace of Selbsthass away from their god?

  “Shite,” she swore.

  “What?”

  “Morgen was going to bring the troops south once they were ready.”

  “So?”

  “The plan was to cross at the bridge by that run-down garrison on the Gottlos border.”

  “So?”

  “That’s well south of here. Schmutzig is sneaking his army past Morgen. He’s going to attack Selbsthass while Morgen is invading Gottlos.”

  “That’s insane. He still can’t win.”

  “Morgen won’t destroy Gottlos, but Schmutzig will raze Selbsthass to the ground.”

  “Shite,” said Ungeist, shuffling forward to stand beside her. “That’s the whole Gottlos army down there?” He didn’t look scared. If anything he looked excited, like the proximity of thousands of enemy soldiers thrilled him.

  Rocks and stones continued to roll past Erdbehüter on their way toward the camped army. The Earth Spirit’s message was clear.

  Drache made another sweeping pass, breathing death and madness on the soldiers beneath her. In the moments of flickering light, Erdbehüter saw boulders crushing men and women and horses. The very earth came alive to smite its foe.

  Erdbehüter saw the Gottlos army camped beside what looked to be an abandoned farming community of a half-dozen homes in varying states of decay. For some reason, they made no attempt to occupy the buildings even though a couple still had roofs. They seemed to have given the place a wide berth, though she saw no reason to avoid the place. Must have some history, she decided.

  Again she remembered the words of Konig’s Reflection, Failure, ‘You must leave utter ruin in your path.’

  Utter ruin. The Earth Spirit rose up against the enemies of Selbsthass. Erdbehüter’s knees gave and she crumpled to the mud. Shame overwhelmed her. Morgen and the Earth Spirit are united in purpose. I was wrong to doubt. She knew what must be done.

  The Earth Spirit screamed its orders into Erdbehüter’s brain. Crush the humans. Kill everything. Churn that pitiful camp to nothing. And beneath everything, Failure’s command pulsed through her thoughts like molten stone.

  Utter ruin.

  “I’m going down there,” she said, setting off toward the camp. When Ungeist hesitated she added, “There are seven thousand men and women here, each with their own inner demons.”

  She heard the Geborene Exorcist grunt and set off after her.

  “I have to set them free,” he mumbled. “I have to set them all free.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  We are each living a story. What many of us are too afraid to admit is that we are the authors of our story. You are living the life you chose for yourself. You are living the result of each and every one of your choices. If you are letting others make decisions for you, you are allowing them to write your story. Do they have your best interests at heart?

  If you are unhappy, whose fault is that? Don’t like your life, go write yourself a better one.

  —Fassbar Einfach, Philosopher

  Grey world. Grey skies blotted by grey clouds. Grey dirt pocked with ugly grey rocks. Grey plants gnarled and twisted clung to grey life.

  I’m dead.

  Bedeckt remembered the battle at Sinnlos where he lost his fingers and the wedding ring he wore for years as a reminder. Now he wasn’t even sure what it had been a reminder of. Better times? Stupid mistakes? He remembered fleeing that war, leaving men behind who called him friend, abandoning them to their deaths. Gods, what a stupid war that was.

  They were all stupid wars.

  He fled in Neidrig too, leaving Stehlen and Wichtig to the
Therianthrope assassins. And they killed the Swordsman, dragged him to the ground and choked the life from him.

  Stehlen later found Bedeckt drinking himself to death in the shittiest tavern Neidrig—a city of shite taverns—had to offer. She saved him from himself, dragged him from his misery, pretended his betrayal was nothing. Then she pulled him into an alley and rutted him in the filth. She was so alive, so fierce with joy. She even washed her hair after. He was too cowardly to contemplate what that might mean.

  And then you killed her and abandoned her in the Afterdeath. Gutless pig sticker.

  Bedeckt weaved in the saddle, Arsehole’s rolling gait threatening to dump him on the ground. He clung desperately to the saddle’s pommel willing himself to remain mounted.

  I’m dead.

  “So you’re dead,” said Stehlen, riding alongside him on a grey gelding with dejected eyes. “Quit bellyaching.” Her eyes looked like piss-holes in snow, yellow and angry.

  “Sorry,” he said, unsure what he apologized for. Maybe everything.

  She spat at him and he almost fell out of the saddle when he flinched. “I see you found a curvy arse to follow,” she said, showing yellow teeth. “You abandoned me for that,” she nodded in Zukunft’s direction, “and haven’t even rutted her yet. Pathetic.”

  “Not like that,” he said.

  “How is it then?”

  “You’re alive. Trying to kill me.” He grinned, wobbling in the saddle. “All part of the plan,” he lied.

  “Your plans are shite old man,” she said. “You know I’m going to kill her, right? To punish you. It’ll be your fault, of course.” She looked away, glared hatred at the back of her horse’s head. “Then I’ll kill Wichtig. The idiot’s death will be your fault too.” Stehlen glanced at him. “Great plan.”

  “I know,” he said. “And then you’ll kill me.”

  “No.” Stehlen sagged. “I love you.”

  Bedeckt snorted laughter and caught himself before toppling from his saddle. He looked around in confusion, not recognizing his surroundings. The horses had stopped and stood shuffling nervously. Zukunft stood beside her horse, stroking its nose. He realized she was whispering his name and had been for some time. Stehlen was nowhere to be seen.