Lebendig caught Stehlen’s arm by the wrist before she managed to put her knife in the arse’s throat. How do I keep forgetting how fast she is?
“No,” said Lebendig. Glancing at the Swordsman she said, “Outside. Now.”
Stehlen stole a glance at her lover, measuring. Can she fight in this condition? Should I stop her—keep her safe—or help her?
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Wichtig is it. He’s the best. He’s the Greatest Swordsman in the World. The title is taken.”
Maybe Lebendig will feel better after killing this idiot. Certainly taking her rage out on some unsuspecting fool always improved Stehlen’s mood. “We’re going to kill him,” she said to the Swordsman. “And then the title will once again be up for grabs.” She winked at Lebendig. My love, I will give you what you need. And if Stehlen needed to step in and help kill this idiot, Lebendig would never even notice. “After all you told me,” she added, “you’ll give up your quest when you’re so close? So you saw someone better. So what? He’ll be dead in a day. Then what?”
The man made no move to reach for his blade. If anything, he seemed more frightened by the weapon than before. His bottom lip trembled. “No,” he said.
“Step outside with my friend,” said Stehlen, “or I’ll kill you right here.”
He shook his head and tears ran down his cheeks. “I don’t want to. I’ve seen death. It’s ugly, it’s violent. I don’t want to die. I want—I want to see my mom.”
Stehlen felt filthy, soiled by the man’s weakness. I’m going to kill him.
“Leave him,” said Lebendig, somehow knowing her thoughts. “He’s done.” Her eyes, moments ago iced with death, were sad. She looked to be near tears herself. “He’s brittle now. Like kitchen steel.” She sighed, a sound of disappointment, regret, and relief.
“I will never understand you,” said Stehlen.
Lebendig gave her a wan smile. “I know.”
“Killing some idiot Swordsman would make you feel better.”
“True.”
“So?”
“Not this one.”
“Another?” asked Stehlen, hopeful. Let me make you happy. Let me give you what I can.
Lebendig laid her hand atop Stehlen’s. “I have a favour to ask,” she said, eyes searching Stehlen’s.
“Anything.”
“When we find Wichtig. I want to kill him.”
No. Gods no. “Why?”
“He hurt you.”
But that wasn’t the entire truth. Stehlen saw it in the Swordswoman’s eyes. There’s something else, something she doesn’t want to say. Somehow this was a test, but Stehlen couldn’t understand how or why or what the right answer was. If I say no, will she think I doubt her ability, or will she think I’m protecting Wichtig?
“No more than I’ve hurt him,” Stehlen said. While Wichtig’s abandoning her in the Afterdeath hurt, she would have done the same to him. If just to rub it in. Was that why he did it? Did he leave her there so he could later brag about escaping the Afterdeath first? She wouldn’t put it past the idiot.
“Let me kill him,” said Lebendig.
The Swordsman watched, wisely remaining silent.
“I don’t want to make a promise that might later make me a liar,” said Stehlen.
“You doubt me.”
“No.” You’ve never seen him fight. And Lebendig was nowhere near at her best.
Lebendig nodded once, sharp and angry, and stood. “I’m going to get some sleep.” Spinning, she stalked for the stairs, anger turning her lethal grace into a loud stomping exit.
When Lebendig was gone from sight the Swordsman said, “Wichtig would butcher her in a heartbeat.”
Stehlen put her knife in his eye and gave it a rough twist, scrambling his brain. After lifting his coin she left the tavern. She needed to walk off her confusion and rage.
Over and over she visualized Wichtig and Lebendig fighting, pitting what she knew of their talents against the other’s. Lebendig, she thought, is the faster of the two. While Wichtig moved with a Swordsman’s grace, Lebendig danced with flawless economy. And yet, wherever his enemy’s swords were, Wichtig was not. He fought like he knew well in advance where each attack would land. Lebendig fought like she created art where Wichtig fought to be the Greatest Swordsman in the World.
I hate that stupid title. No doubt some idiot man dreamed it up.
She loathed to admit it, but Wichtig was the best swordfighter she had ever seen. And by the sound of it, he was even better now.
She fingered the carving of Wichtig hidden away in one of her concealed pockets. He’d changed. His eyes were haunted. He was scarred. The Wichtig she knew could never have been hurt. He walked through every dangerous encounter they shared and not once got scratched.
Shite, he even came away from being killed by Therianthropes without a mark. Gods she hated him for that. We should wear our choices and lives for all to see. It’s only honest. Not that anyone ever accused Wichtig of honesty. Or Stehlen.
Turning a corner, Stehlen found herself on the street lined with corpse-filled cages. A young woman, still very much alive, sat huddled in the one nearest the Kleptic. Seeing no one else on the street, the woman called to her, begging for help, pleading her innocence and offering all manner of improbable payment. Stehlen strode past, not sparing the woman a glance.
“Lebendig fights for herself,” Stehlen decided, turning another corner. “Wichtig fights for fame.”
No, that wasn’t quite true. Wichtig fought for fear. He feared being unknown. He was terrified of being forgotten.
If Stehlen allowed Wichtig and Lebendig to fight, what then? If Wichtig killed her lover, she’d have to kill him.
But what if Lebendig kills Wichtig?
The thought left a sour taste and she spat at a beggar who stared in mute hurt as she stalked past.
Still in a foul mood, she returned to the inn.
Stehlen found Lebendig curled up in the single bed, sheets thrown back to expose one muscled leg, snoring in soft susurration. She wanted to caress that thigh, count the freckles with kisses. Instead, she crept to the corner and sat with her back against the walls.
She sat in silence, listening to the creak of old wood as people moved about elsewhere in the inn. Her hand strayed toward the pocket with the carved toys.
“I won’t look at them,” she said. “I don’t care.”
Then she drew out the carvings of Bedeckt, Wichtig, and herself.
Fine. She wouldn’t look at her own carving.
Wichtig looked much the same as the last time she checked. His eyes bled doubt and he bore vicious scars she couldn’t believe the real Wichtig could bear. What would he be without his good looks?
Just an arse.
Bedeckt looked different. His mouth was open, caught in mid-scream. His eyes were those of a Geisteskranken toppling over the Pinnacle and seeing the long fall ahead. If anything, he looked even more beaten and scarred than he always did. Had he lost his paunch too? It was hard to tell from this small carving.
“Something is breaking you,” Stehlen whispered to the carved Bedeckt. She blinked away tears with a growl and glared rage at the wooden toy, gripping it until her hand hurt.
This wasn’t possible. Wichtig doubting? Bedeckt losing his much vaunted sanity? The carvings must be a lie, some deception played by Morgen. Had he known she would steal them? Had she been predictable, walked into an elaborate trap like the dumbest Swordsman?
Setting those two aside, she turned her attention to the carved Stehlen. And there it was, perfectly her. Hating and ugly and scared and desperate. Pinched features vomited disgust at the world. How could anything be so hideous, so loathsome? How had Bedeckt stayed with her all those years? He should have killed her to rid the world of its most foul mistake.
She wanted to dissect the toy. She wanted to carve away the hate and the ugly. She wanted to cut out everything wrong with her life until all that remained was beautiful and happy.
<
br /> Wichtig, with those long artist’s fingers, would be perfect for this. She imagined her nose less narrow, her chin less pointed. She envisioned soft, dark eyes instead of yellow shards of rage. Teeth, white and straight. He could carve this and make me beautiful.
Stehlen bit the inside of her cheek, tasting blood. She drew a narrow-bladed knife, holding it near the tip, and glared at the carving, deciding what to slash away first. There was so much wrong with it. She hated every nook and cranny, every fold of wood. Swallowing, she realized there was no part she wanted to keep.
She wanted to burn it.
She wanted to carve it to nothing.
After checking the blade and wiping it clean of prints and smudges, Stehlen returned the knife to its place. She loved that knife. She loved all her knives. Knives never lied.
Glancing at Lebendig, checking she still slept, Stehlen knew what she must do. She couldn’t trust herself with these carvings. None of them.
And you trust her?
Stehlen crawled to Lebendig’s pack. Spiders were clumsy and noisy in comparison. After wrapping the toys in cloth, she hid them at the bottom. Returning to her corner, she sat and waited for Lebendig to wake.
It felt odd to give someone something rather than to take. She never gave anyone anything other than death and pain. It felt like Lebendig gave her something instead of the other way around.
When Lebendig awoke, she sat up, spilling the sheets to her waist and stretched, twisting and rolling her shoulders to loosen any knots. Seeing Stehlen sitting in the corner, surrounded by the various things she stole in the last day, she lifted an eyebrow and said nothing. Stehlen loved her for that easy acceptance. Lebendig had a way of making petty theft in the desperate hope of punishment seem somehow…if not sane, at least less than completely insane.
Stehlen examined the Swordswoman. She looks better. Maybe not at her best, but at least she didn’t look like she was about to pass out from exhaustion.
After braiding her hair, Lebendig rose and dressed with the same grace and economy she did everything. After checking the lay and draw of her swords, she turned her attention to Stehlen.
“I am going to kill him,” Lebendig said.
Stehlen nodded slow acceptance. “You want to be the Greatest.”
“I don’t care about that any more,” said her lover.
Stehlen wanted to believe the big woman. She wanted to believe Lebendig would kill Wichtig solely for her love. She wanted to believe, but nothing she knew of Swordsmen would allow that. And she remembered her own carving in intimate detail.
No one could love me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Since the fall of the Menschheit Letzte Imperium, the city-states have been in a continual state of war. While years may pass where no open fighting occurs, do not be deceived. The struggle continues, fought by assassins and spies. There is but one exception: Geldangelegenheiten has never once fought a war. It has never been invaded, nor attacked the borders of its neighbours. It has, however, funded every war since the fall of the Imperium. In fact, Geldangelegenheiten funded both sides in every single one of those wars.
—Geschichts Verdreher - Historian/Philosopher
Even with fifteen thousand men and women working hard, it took Morgen’s soldiers most of the day to clean the Gottlos garrison to the point he was happy with it. Why were so few Geisteskranken obsessed with cleanliness and perfection? Had he more of them in his cadres of the mad, the job could have been finished faster. After that, it took most of another day to reach Unbrauchbar.
Well beyond bow range, Morgen sat atop his perfectly white horse. He examined the city’s pitiful wall. It couldn’t be more than ten feet tall.
The town looked like they knocked down most of the buildings for the wood and brick needed to build the rickety structure. I could ride up and push it over on my own. It was tempting. One good fire would reduce the entire place to an oily stain. Not for the first time he regretted sending Gehirn to Geldangelegenheiten to consecrate his new temple. He glanced over his shoulder at the arrayed ranks of soldiers. Fifteen thousand men and women, armoured in bright steel, crisp white livery blinding in the sun. What a beautiful sight. It reminded him of when he lined his toy soldiers up just right. General Misserfolg might be an idiot, but he knew how to move an army.
Morgen played this moment over and over with his toy soldiers and now that he was here, he suspected he’d over-thought the encounter. This flimsy wall won’t even slow me down. And though the wall was manned, there were a lot fewer than he expected. Had King Schmutzig recalled troops to the capital in hopes of making a last stand there?
Taking a deep breath, Morgen scowled at the stench of sweating soldiers and horse shite. His army might look perfect, but true perfection was still a long way off.
He closed his eyes, sat rigid, back straight. The unshakable belief of fifteen thousand soldiers washed over him. They had no doubt in their god. I will lead them to victory.
Today he would take Unbrauchbar without losing a single soldier. The city would fall to his Gefahrgeist power.
Wait, Nacht said. Morgen’s Reflection watched from a mirror-polished shield, his dirty face stretched by the curve of the surface.
Morgen sighed. Out front of his troops, none were close enough to hear him and so he spoke aloud. “Why?”
There are more than fifteen thousand people in Unbrauchbar.
Morgen’s spies suggested the city had a population of maybe twenty-five thousand. “So?”
Numbers matter. There are more people here who do not believe in you, who do not worship you. His Reflection grinned. People who want you to fail.
Morgen wanted to argue that he was a god, but his Reflection was right. Numbers mattered. “But strength of belief matters too. My people believe in me utterly, have no doubts.”
But will it be enough? What if you try and fail? Your soldiers will begin to doubt.
Closing his eyes, Morgen stifled the urge to curse. Out here, beyond the borders of Selbsthass, he relied on the belief of his soldiers to sustain him. If they learned doubt, he would be greatly weakened.
“If I take this city without losing a single life they will know I am their god. Their faith will be that much stronger, making me stronger.”
Nacht was gone.
Morgen eyed the miserable excuse for a city. If I fail… He gestured General Misserfolg forward and the man rode to his side.
“How many Dysmorphics do we have?” Morgen asked.
“Twenty,” answered Misserfolg without hesitation. Though Dysmorphics came in many shapes, sizes, and manifestations, he knew exactly what Morgen asked.
“Call them forward.”
Misserfolg spun his horse away to fetch Morgen’s cadre of Dysmorphics.
Within minutes, a score of massively muscled men and women formed a line alongside Morgen. Each held a huge longbow made of horn and sinew from some herd animal common to the GrasMeer. Long arrows as tall as Morgen stood, fletchings up, ready in standing quivers. On each broad back hung a huge sword and a steel shield Morgen doubted he could even lift. He watched the Dysmorphics twitch and shift. Unable to stay still, they flexed and compared themselves to their companions. The twenty made a wall far more intimidating and solid than that surrounding Unbrauchbar.
Morgen glanced at Misserfolg. “Clear the wall.”
The General dipped a quick bow and screamed, “Arrows ready!”
Twenty Dysmorphics nocked arrows in perfect unison and stood motionless, waiting.
“Draw!” yelled Misserfolg.
On the Unbrauchbar wall, the defenders laughed and made rude gestures. They knew they were well beyond arrow range. Some dropped their pants, showing pale arses to the invaders.
“Nice of them to offer bullseyes,” joked someone from the Geborene ranks, earning a stern look from Misserfolg.
Twenty men and women held colossal bows bent at full draw. Not one shook with the effort. Someone once told Morgen the bows had a three-hundre
d pound draw. The one time he picked one up, he was unable to bend the string.
“Loose!” Misserfolg bellowed.
More than a dozen soldiers toppled off the Unbrauchbar wall, some with two arrows in them.
“Again,” said Morgen.
Misserfolg repeated the process, faster this time, dropping more soldiers. By the third volley, the men and women on the wall had disappeared from sight. Sometimes a Dysmorphic archer pinned someone through whatever they cowered behind.
“Give them a moment,” said Morgen. “Kill anyone who lifts their head.”
For several minutes the Dysmorphics stood, bows bent, killing those daring enough to take a peek.
Morgen glanced at the muscled men and women. Some would likely be injured, maybe killed. These people worshipped him, obeyed without question. I should feel more. But he didn’t. He remembered stabbing Wichtig in the gut. All he felt was rage. Not once did he regret his choice to kill the Swordsman. You won’t regret this either. Why did he let Nacht talk him into this? He should have taken the city with his Gefahrgeist power. He made you doubt. How many would die here today?
Does it matter? Nacht asked, again appearing in the glint of a polished shield.
Morgen swallowed, his throat tight. No, it didn’t matter. He remembered Bedeckt bleeding out in a street in Selbsthass. He remembered how it felt to slide the knife he stole from Stehlen into Wichtig’s belly. He remembered the sight of Bedeckt’s axe splitting Erbrechen’s skull. Blood blood blood. Could such mayhem lead to a clean and sane world? Could slaughter and violence birth perfection?
“Yes,” Morgen whispered.
He counted to one hundred without seeing a face on the wall and said, “One last volley, then send them in.”
Misserfolg screamed, “Arrows ready! Draw! Loose!”
Morgen felt a low thrumming note in his chest and a score of arrows sailed over the intervening five hundred strides like a flock of deadly falcons diving for the kill. The Dysmorphics dropped their bows, drew swords and slung shields, and charged the wall.
Even though the ground was a field of mud and stone, they crossed in a few heartbeats, muscled legs pumping. They reached the wall before the first defender dared to pop a head up to take a look and cleared the wall in a single jump before he realized what he saw. Morgen watched, mesmerized.
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