Bedeckt remembered the carpet of dead beneath his feet. They were fresh, crushed by creatures of the earth, their inner demons torn free.
“This isn’t real,” said Bedeckt, chopping down a walking tree as it pulled one of his dead apart, scattering the woman’s limbs.
A rock monster knocked him from the saddle and Arsehole fled, the stone chasing after. Bedeckt rose from the mud.
At his side his father laughed and laughed.
A high pitched scream snapped Bedeckt from his killing frenzy. Zukunft, where was she?
Abandoned her already, have you?
Snarling, Bedeckt spun and charged back the way he came, swinging the axe with mad abandon. The earth grabbed at him, clutched at his legs, fought to drag him to the mud. One of his boots came free and he staggered on, leaving it behind. A demonic wraith circled, clawing at his mind and he laughed and roared “My demons are already free!” in its face. Reaching Zukunft he stood over her, battering a shambling clay monstrosity to ruin and kicking its remains away.
They surrounded him, tearing with clawed branches, pummelling with stone fists, breaking bones, and shredding flesh.
Something tore his right ear off and he felt it dangling against his neck, hanging from a strip of bloody skin.
Bedeckt laughed and killed whatever it was.
This isn’t real.
He chopped the wood arms from some tree-creature and then split the trunk of its body.
This isn’t real. I am sane.
I shall not fall.
***
The earth reared up around Stehlen, blocking the Geborene priests from sight. Rocks screamed their hate and ranted of memories of mountain and the time before cockroach humanity. They spoke in stone voices of infestation, of crushing the surface bugs. Stehlen fled, ducking and spinning away from arms of earth and rock. She was surrounded, there were too many to escape.
Kill the Geisteskranken manifesting them. It was her only hope.
Stehlen ducked around a lumbering behemoth of stone. The bodies of crushed soldiers stuck to it like squashed insects. Two smaller, more agile earthen creatures protected the Geborene priestess. They’d crush Stehlen in an instant.
If she wanted to kill the woman bad enough, nothing could stop her. She’d slide, unseen, past these monsters, her own delusions protecting her. She was torn. More than she wanted this woman dead, she wanted to rush to Lebendig’s side to save her or make sure she didn’t kill Wichtig. Above all else Stehlen craved punishment for her crimes. The Geborene priest, the man who freed his victim’s inner demons, could he do that for her? Could he punish her for everything she ever did? Could she finally get what she long deserved?
I’d be free.
Lebendig. Wichtig. They’ll kill each other unless I stop them. Stehlen laughed as she realized she loved the big Swordswoman more than she hated herself. It was a revelation.
Dead men and women surged around Stehlen, attacking the creatures of earth and stone, and with them came hordes of smoky spectres. In each she saw the manifestation of something someone hated about themselves. Sometimes it was simple physical imperfections and the wraiths bore hooked noses or crooked teeth. More often they reflected some deep-seated self-loathing or an atrocious act someone could never forgive themselves for. These were the freed inner demons of the men and women of the Gottlos army. But who then were these dead hurling themselves against the manifestations of the Geborene Geisteskranken?
A familiar roar split the air and Stehlen saw Bedeckt, beset on all sides by monsters of mud and tree and rock, standing over a young woman,. The dead fought at his side.
The big man stumbled, dropped to a knee. A colossal horror of stone and pulverised bodies reared over him, seeking to crush him beneath its weight. Bedeckt rolled away and it followed, smashing the earth where he had been. He was a mess of blood. One of his arms dangled useless at his side, the bone shattered and jutting through torn flesh.
Lebendig and Wichtig forgotten, Stehlen knew she had to save him. She wanted that more than anything. She loved him, always had. She wouldn’t let him die. Couldn’t.
Stehlen returned her attention to the Geborene Geisteskranken.
She wanted to kill them.
Nothing could stop her.
CHAPTER FORTY
There are no myths or monsters, just things people haven’t hallucinated recently.
—Opportun, Verzweiflung Banking Conglomerate Historian
Wichtig and Opferlamm fled into the farmhouse, the apprentice ducking to ride through the front door and only dismounting to draw her sword once within. The door swung closed behind her. The two stood shoulder to shoulder, weapons drawn. Wichtig gasped for air, his many still-healing wounds feeling like he’d torn them open. Both were covered in horse blood and guts, dripping gore from their hair.
Opferlamm wiped the blood from her eyes and glanced at the roof. Water poured in everywhere.
“Was that a dragon?” Opferlamm whispered, eyes darting between the door and the rickety roof above.
“Quiet.”
“Sticking well knows we’re in here,” hissed Opferlamm.
“Quiet.”
They waited.
Lightning split the sky above, lighting the inside of the room through the many gaps in the ceiling. Against one wall, Wichtig saw a fireplace, filled with bricks where the chimney fell in. The walls, equal parts hewn logs and clay pressed into the cracks, were covered in grey mould. A table stood in one corner, lilting drunkenly, one of the four legs missing. Spider webs clogged every corner and countless bright eyes stared from every nook and cranny. If he could, he’d climb in one of those holes and hide alongside the rats.
Several minutes passed, Wichtig and Opferlamm never lowering their guard. Where was the damned dragon? Why didn’t it tear the roof off this wreck and devour them both?
“Go see if it’s out there,” said Wichtig, nudging his apprentice with his half hand.
“Rut yourself.”
They waited longer, Wichtig’s legs cramping in the cold.
“Fine,” said Wichtig. “Coward.”
Gripping his sword, he shuffled forward, pausing at the door to listen. Made of rotting planks, it rattled and banged in the wind. Pushing it open with the tip of his sword, Wichtig peered outside.
It was too dark to see anything. He didn’t know if he wanted lightning to illuminate the world or to remain in blissful ignorance.
Wichtig retreated from the door.
“Too dark,” he said.
“Wait for lightning” said Opferlamm.
“You wait at the door for lightning.”
Opferlamm retreated farther into the room instead.
Rain slammed the roof, trying to pound its way in. The floor, rotting straw strewn across hard packed clay, ran in countless miniature rivers.
Wichtig and his apprentice stood, swords ready, waiting.
Finally, Wichtig said, “I don’t think it’s coming.”
“Maybe it’s waiting for us to go out,” said Opferlamm.
“It’ll be waiting a long time.”
Opferlamm nodded agreement.
They waited longer, swords drooping and eventually hanging loose in their hands.
“I’m tired,” said Wichtig.
“Me too.”
“Should we light a fire?”
“That might be pushing it,” said Opferlamm.
Finding a dry piece of floor, Wichtig sheathed his sword and collapsed. “We’ll practice,” he said. “To pass the time.”
“Are you mad? We’re going to spar—”
“Don’t be an idiot.” He gestured at another dry patch of floor. “Stand there.”
Opferlamm stood, sword, still drawn.
“Good,” said Wichtig, sprawled on the floor. “Show me your heroic pose.”
The lass glanced at the ceiling and then at the door.
“That,” said Wichtig, “is a shite heroic pose. You look like a terrified girl.”
“I
am a terrified girl.”
“You are the worst apprentice I’ve ever had,” Wichtig said. “You’re a Swordswoman, you’re always in danger. If it isn’t dragons it’s some bastard who wants to kill you to prove he’s better. Now pose.”
Opferlamm lifted her sword and struck a pose.
“Your hair is a mess,” said Wichtig. “You’re not making proper use of the light.”
“I got rained on and there is no light.” Again she wiped horse blood from her eyes where it trickled from her scalp. “And a gods-damned dragon tried to drop a horse on me.”
With a weary sigh Wichtig stood. “Look at me.”
“You look like a dragon tried to drop a horse on you too.”
Wichtig stood and struck a pose. Lightning flashed in the sky above and lit him through a hole in the roof, haloing him in blood. The door swung open as wind gusted through, ruffling his horse-guts-soaked hair, and then closed.
“See?” said Wichtig, sinking back to the floor.
Opferlamm stared at him, mouth open. “How?”
“Practice.” Wichtig kept from his face the rush of relief that it worked. He’d thought maybe these scars forever ruined him. As long as I can pose, I can have women. Maybe things weren’t so bad. Except for the dragon. Right, except for that.
“You will practice that every day,” said Wichtig.
“Do I really need that if I’m good enough with a sword?”
“If you mention how good you are one more time,” said Wichtig, “I will show you how good you are not.” He laid back, feigning nonchalance like there being a Therianthrope dragon out there dropping horses on people was normal. “Practice until you know how to make use of lightning.”
“The lightning was a fluke.”
“Was it?”
Tearing her attention from the door, Opferlamm tried another pose.
“Enough,” said Wichtig. “Next lesson.”
“Really?” Again the lass glanced at the ceiling, licking her lips.
“Pretend we’re facing off. We’re about to duel.”
Opferlamm turned to face him, sword ready. Still on the floor, Wichtig shook his head in disgust. “Put the sword away. This is a battle of words.”
“The dragon—”
“Will pick its teeth with your sword.”
Opferlamm sheathed her sword but remained standing and tense.
“I am Wichtig Lügner,” said Wichtig, “the Greatest Swordsman in the World. Every one from Unbedeutend to the Basamortuan desert knows of me. I have slain a hundred Swordsmen a thousand times better than you. Throw your sword to the ground and I won’t kill you.” He pretended to blow kisses to the girls in the crowd.
Opferlamm watched, one eyebrow raised. “I already know who you are,” said his apprentice.
“This is like trying to teach Bedeckt how to dance.” Wichtig shuffled, trying to find a more comfortable position. “Sword fighting isn’t about swords. It’s about belief and doubt. You must know you will win and your opponent must doubt themselves. Also, if you don’t first brag about your escapades, how will another Swordsman know you’re worth killing? And if you don’t hear theirs, how will you know they’re worth killing?”
“I guess that makes sense,” said Opferlamm.
“Of course it does. Your turn.”
“Uh…” She glanced again at the door.
“Ignore the sticking dragon. It’ll kill us or it won’t. Pay attention.”
“Sorry. What do I say?”
“Start by listing your kills.”
“I’ve never killed anyone.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“Then make something up. If you don’t, no Swordsman will bother killing you.”
“Lie?”
Wichtig buried his face in his hands and ran fingers through his hair, dragging clumps of horse intestine free. “Lying is a critical skill for Swordsmen. Everyone must believe you’ve done more than you have. At least until you’re me. Then you’ve done more than any will believe. You’ll have to tone it down, lie in the other direction or no one will want to fight you.”
“You killed that Swordsman in the street without talking or bragging.”
“I wanted his horse and his clothes. And I knew he wasn’t worth killing.”
“How did you know?”
“I am the Greatest Swordsman in the World. Let’s focus on you. Killing unknowns will do nothing for your reputation.”
Opferlamm nodded her understanding and frowned. “But if swordsmen lie about their kills, the people who kill them will go on perpetuating those lies. I could go around believing I’d killed a man who killed a thousand men.”
“The facts don’t matter. Facts are a hindrance. Unless they support whatever it is you’re saying, in which case they are the most important thing in the world and anyone who says otherwise is an idiot.”
“Okay.” Wichtig watched the girl gather her thoughts, saw the frown of concentration take her young face. “I am Opferlamm. I have slain—”
“Why are you looking at me?”
“I’m supposed to convince—”
“Your opponent doesn’t matter. The crowd matters. Convince the crowd. Never fight without a crowd if you can avoid it. If there’s no crowd, then you have to convince your opponent. If that fails, you might have to actually rely on skill with a sword. That should always be a last resort. Now, talk to the crowd. Look at the pretty girls or boys or whatever your preference is. Ignore your opponent. Nothing pisses Swordsmen off more than being ignored.”
Opferlamm stiffly mimed blowing kisses and winking at an imagined crowd, but her attention kept returning to the roof and the door.
“You’re faking,” said Wichtig. “It has to be real.”
“There’s no one here, of course I’m faking.”
“You are the only person who matters. You can’t care what others think. If you can’t do this with no one looking, how awkward will it be in a crowd? What if your opponent makes fun of you? Will you blush and stammer with embarrassment? Try again.”
“Why am I trying to convince people if I don’t care—”
“You don’t care what they think about you, you care what they think about the fight. What they think about your opponent.” Wichtig closed his eyes. “I’m tired. Keep practising in your mind. Imagine the crowd. Imagine what you’ll say and what your opponent will say. Wake me if the dragon comes to eat us.”
He lay still, pretending to sleep, listening to Opferlamm mutter under her breath. Through slitted eyes, he watched the girl rise and circumnavigate the room, peering through cracks and holes as if she hoped to glimpse what hid outside.
“Apprentice,” said Wichtig.
“Yes?”
“Get me one of your blankets. Mine are with my horse.”
“Sorry.” Opferlamm hurried to her horse and hunted through her saddlebags for a blanket. “I should have thought of that.”
“Yes,” said Wichtig. “You should have.”
She draped Wichtig in a blanket like a mother tucking her child into bed.
“Why hasn’t it come for us?”
Wichtig studied her. “It may have recognized me.”
Opferlamm blinked. She opened and closed her mouth, and then nodded. “That must have been it.”
“You’re going to have to stay awake all night,” said Wichtig.
“Doubt I could sleep anyway.”
“Good.” Wichtig slept.
Wichtig dreamed of cold ale, warm women, down-filled pillows, and hot baths. An old man watched with a look of disgust and called him weak, said he was as soft as one of those pillows. Harsh words, angry and threatening, intruded.
With a groan he stretched, cracking an eye open to see Opferlamm, sword drawn, facing off against Lebendig. She looked paler than he remembered, like she’d lost a lot of blood. The big Swordswoman hadn’t drawn steel, but her hands rested on the pommels and her eyes said she was a heartbeat from killing his young apprentice. Seeing Wi
chtig awake, her face lit with something he didn’t like.
“Get up,” she said.
Still sprawled in the dirt, Wichtig grinned his best grin.
She clearly didn’t give a shite.
Taking his time, he stood, stretching. He left his sword sheathed. “You aren’t dead,” he said. “It’s so good to see you again.” He made a show of examining her. “Though you look like life on the road doesn’t agree with you. Perhaps you should return to that armpit city you come from.”
She eyed his wounds without comment. Twin swords hissed from matched scabbards. “It’s time we find out who really is the best.”
“No” he said. “We already know.”
“You know this woman?” asked Opferlamm, retreating a step.
“Of course. This is Lebendig Durchdachter, a Swordswoman previously of Neidrig. I was going to kill her but a Kleptic bitch got in the way.”
Lebendig circled, eyes bright. “I don’t remember you being quite so ugly.”
Bitch. She knew how to hurt him. “Don’t be mean.” And you’re not looking so good yourself.
“You look like you’ve been thoroughly beaten.” She spat the last word.
“Nice, a lovely attempt, but suffering wounds hardly means I lost the fight.”
Opferlamm moved to keep herself between Lebendig and her master. “He killed half a dozen Swordsmen in Unbrauchbar while stumbling drunk. He could hardly stand.”
“Well,” said Lebendig, “he can stand now. Shall we step outside?”
Outside? Is she mad? “I’m only now starting to dry off,” said Wichtig. “But you go on out and wait for me.” Maybe the dragon would eat her.
“We can fight in here,” she said.
While she didn’t look fresh, she did seem awfully eager and ready. He felt like he was a hundred years old, was tortured a few days ago, and stabbed several times since. He’d win, no doubt, but he didn’t relish once again feeling steel in his flesh.
“Are you mad?” demanded Opferlamm. “There’s a—”
The Mirror's Truth: A Novel of Manifest Delusions Page 38