“There is only one god left. If he fails, it’s too late to start again. Your delusions grow in strength. Time is running out.”
“Aufschlag will not fail me,” said Konig.
Abandonment, standing next to his fellow Doppel, leaned forward. “Everyone abandons you. The scientist will fail.”
“No,” said Konig forcefully. “This child is the one.”
Trepidation laughed. “Who are you trying to convince?”
Sister Wegwerfen stood before Aufschlag Hoher, who sat at his immaculate desk. Though the Geborene Chief Scientist certainly cut no imposing figure, fat and round, with his bad teeth and greasy fringe of hair, the young priestess knew better.
Science, she had learned, was a terrifying and bloody pursuit. She’d assisted in enough of Aufschlag’s experiments to have developed more than a little respect for the man’s tenacious drive to learn, although Aufschlag’s willingness to go to any length to find answers bordered on mad. She had watched him torture entire families just to see if he could make Geisteskranken, or to determine if delusion was something people were born with. She would have sworn Aufschlag was Geisteskranken except not once had he manifested a single delusion or shown signs of being anything less than coldly, dangerously sane.
No, sane wasn’t correct. He might not be delusional, but he wasn’t necessarily fully human either.
He stared at her with beady eyes, his forehead glistening. His fingers drummed nervously on the desk, a staccato without rhythm. He glanced away, grimaced, and returned his attention to her. What did he have to be nervous about? His agitation worried her. Have I done something wrong?
“Report,” he said.
“I have examined Ausfall’s room,” she said.
“And?”
“Blood is not the best medium for leaving legible messages.” Aufschlag’s look said in no uncertain terms that he was not in the mood for humor. “Sorry.”
He waved it away. “Summarize.”
“Right.” Wegwerfen thought about the insane ramblings she’d spent hours trying to decipher and the ragged mess of the young girl’s wrists where she’d chewed them open. “Ausfall wrote, ‘We make poor gods’ many times. I believe she was saying Ascended humans made a poor substitute for real gods.”
“Our god will be real.”
“Of course. I only meant that—”
“Continue.”
Wegwerfen bit her lower lip, collecting her thoughts. “Ausfall also wrote of the incredible pressure of knowing she would Ascend to godhood. She said the expectations of an entire people were a weight on her soul. She said she feared death and . . .” Wegwerfen hesitated.
“And?” asked Aufschlag.
“She wrote of coercion and control and how she couldn’t be a true god of the people unless she Ascended at her own hand. She wrote of puppets and the Afterdeath.”
The Chief Scientist’s eyes bored into Wegwerfen. “Where did such ideas come from?”
“Ausfall was a clever girl, much smarter than the others. She could have figured this out on her own.”
“And yet even though she took her own life, she didn’t Ascend,” Aufschlag said sadly, shaking his head in disappointment.
“But don’t the people believe she’ll be their god?”
“No. The people believe we will make their god. They know nothing of the individuals. She will not be that god—Konig will ensure that.”
“There is only one left.”
“Yes. Morgen. He will be our god. As Konig planned all along. The others, merely experiments. Morgen is the culmination. We will spread the word, the people must know his name. Their belief will guarantee his Ascension.”
“Is that what I am to do next?” Wegwerfen asked.
The Chief Scientist swallowed uncomfortably, looking ill. His gaze darted about the room and his fingers drummed nervously.
He’s trying to make up his mind, she realized. About what? Had she done something to upset him?
Aufschlag finally made eye contact. “Yes, but not here. I must send you away to . . .” He licked his lips. “. . . to Gottlos. There is a small church there. Tell Bishop Kurzschluss Gegangen I sent you. You are to help spread the word of Morgen’s coming Ascension.”
Gottlos? That wretched stinking little cesspit to the south? Wegwerfen kept her face blank. “Of course, as you command. I shall begin packing imm—”
“No! You can’t pack. Fetch a horse and leave now. Tell no one you are leaving.”
“Now?”
“Before I change my mind.”
What the hells is going on? Change his mind about what? Backing away, she dipped a quick bow. She stopped at the door, one hand resting against the thick wood. “Will I be allowed to return?” she asked hesitantly.
Aufschlag stared at his desk. “Maybe. Go. Now.”
Wegwerfen fled the Chief Scientist’s office.
CHAPTER 3
If our world is defined by delusion, there can be no truth. If there is no truth, how can there be lies?
—WAHRHEIT ERTRINKT, PHILOSOPHER
The inn consisted of four round tables made of wagon wheels tipped on their side, with several roughhewn planks thrown over the top. Two large crates with wood planks hanging bowed between them made up the bar. Overturned boxes were chairs.
“It’s perfect,” announced Bedeckt as he sat heavily at the only empty table. His back ached.
Looking about the room, Wichtig sniffed and said loudly, “Shite-hole.” The faces of the half-dozen patrons turned to look at the recent arrivals.
Stehlen, as always, sat across from Bedeckt. Covering the angles, watching his back.
Remaining standing, Wichtig looked around the room, meeting the eyes of each patron and waiting until they looked away. “A shite-hole,” he enunciated carefully. “Infested with vermin. Rats and cockless cockroaches.”
Bedeckt took the ax from its customary place at his back and set it on the table. The old boards groaned under the weight. “If you want a fight, go elsewhere. I want to sit and drink.”
“But if I start a fight elsewhere,” said Wichtig reasonably, “you won’t be there to back me up.” Seeing Bedeckt remained unmoved, he grunted and sat. “Boring.”
“Only boring people get bored,” said Bedeckt, ignoring Wichtig’s look of hurt confusion. “Get us ale.”
Wichtig dropped the feigned hurt without comment, but sat unmoving. He stared at the barkeep until the man wilted under the weight of his dead eyes. Not once did the young Swordsman blink. Less than a minute later three tankards of warm ale sat on their table.
Four pints—each—later the inn door opened and a gust of dry air blew dust into their tankards and eyes. Bedeckt heard the collective groan of the other patrons, who, until this moment, had remained carefully silent. Unwilling to meet Wichtig’s eyes, they avoided looking at the group of three at all. Even the barkeep brought fresh tankards without making eye contact or uttering a word.
Stehlen, blinking the dust from her eyes, looked to the door. She groaned. “Gods-damned priestess.”
Wichtig turned to see the woman at the door and nodded appreciatively. “That’s a little something tasty,” he called loudly.
Bedeckt enjoyed the Swordsman’s surprise when, instead of flinching and moving away, the young woman walked directly to their table. Great. Another crazy priest trying to save our lost souls. If she had even an inkling of the people she approached, she’d turn and flee.
“Greetings, travelers.” The priestess wore long, dust-colored robes and couldn’t have been a day over twenty. She stood at their table, looking entirely relaxed.
Bedeckt examined her, trying to get an idea of what might be under those robes, not caring how uncomfortable his inspection made her. “Travelers?”
“Saw you ride in,” she said. If his attention bothered her, she hid it masterfully. “And there aren’t that many people in Unbrauchbar.”
“Shite-hole,” corrected Wichtig.
The priestess accepte
d this with a small tilt of her head. “Wherever you are, there you are. We define our reality.”
Bedeckt, enjoying Wichtig’s look of confusion, decided to humor her. It would pass the time and maybe keep his two companions from each other’s throat. “I recognize that philosophy.”
“Geborene Damonen,” said the priestess. “You’ve heard of us.”
“But as a philosophy, not a religion,” said Bedeckt. The ale had loosened the snot in his skull, and closing one nostril with a blunt and filthy finger, he blew a great wad of it onto the floor. The relief was brief and his sinuses quickly refilled.
The priestess raised an eyebrow at the puddled snot and continued. “Philosophy and religion are largely one and the same,” she said. “I am Sister Wegwerfen. May I join you?”
Bedeckt answered before Wichtig. “Yes, of course.” Perhaps the priestess’s presence would drive the young Swordsman away for a time. Bedeckt was tired of Wichtig’s self-centered humor. Once Wichtig fled, Bedeckt could tell her to shove off.
Stehlen and Wichtig shifted uncomfortably on their wooden box seats. With any luck this will drive them both off and I’ll get some peace.
The woman seemed ignorant of the discomfort she caused. “The Geborene Damonen has always been more than a philosophy,” she said. “Long has it been the plan to put our ideas into action. But when one sees as far as High Priest Konig Furimmer, such plans take time. Only now are we finally ready to spread the word of the Ascendance of the Geborene god.”
Bedeckt’s curiosity got the better of him. “Geborene god? I thought the Geborene Damonen believe mankind invented the gods. That they are nothing but our delusions given form.”
“Exactly!” She beamed happily, probably excited to have met someone who knew of her crazy religion. “If humanity’s belief created the old gods, we can create new gods.”
Wichtig grumbled something into his ale, trying not to look lost.
Stehlen looked back and forth between the priestess and Bedeckt in confusion. Her pinched expression said, There had better be an angle here. Bedeckt gave her the tiniest of shrugs and she scowled openly.
“Join a damned church,” she said, “I’ll kill you.” She picked at the worn cotton of a scarf wrapped around her bony wrist. It may have once been bright and colorful, but now looked faded and threadbare. When she noticed Bedeckt’s attention she tucked the scarf back up her sleeve and out of view.
“Noted,” said Bedeckt, turning back to the priestess. “Isn’t one of the basic tenets of the Geborene Damonen that the gods—as creations of man—are unworthy of worship.”
“Yes, of course! But they are unworthy because they are accidental creations. We have created a new god. A god driven by faith. A god with a purpose. Intent is the key here. We are the first to have designed our god.”
“Designed?” asked Bedeckt.
“Yes. A metaphor, if I may—”
“Please no,” muttered Wichtig.
“A cave may make a passable home,” continued the priestess, ignoring the Swordsman. “It has a roof, an entrance, and perhaps several rooms. But it hardly compares to a man-made keep. A castle, thoughtfully designed, is a far better home.” She looked Bedeckt in the eye. “You get my point?” When Bedeckt only returned a confused stare, she pressed on. “We are designing our god. Shaping him. Forging him in the fires of our faith.”
Wichtig stood, dropping his empty tankard to the table. “I’m going to forge the fires twixt some lass’s nethers. That you can have faith in.” He groped at his empty money purse and shot Stehlen an accusing look, which she ignored. “Bedeckt, you can pay for this?”
“Aye.”
“Next one is on me, then.”
Lying sack of pig dung. Wichtig fled, out into the street, Bedeckt’s gaze following him. The Swordsman would look for trouble and no doubt find it.
Bedeckt turned back to the priestess. “You said you were shaping him.” Even with Wichtig gone, he found himself somehow intrigued.
She nodded eagerly. “No other god was willfully created. Born of man’s delusions and fears, the old gods are fickle and insane, petty and deluded. By knowing how our god will be when he Ascends, we define him. We are creating the perfect god.”
Bedeckt lifted an eyebrow as far as the scarring would allow. The beginnings of an idea. A crazy idea, no doubt, but still an idea. “Creating? As in not yet finished? He has yet to . . . Ascend?”
The priestess, eyes bright, leaned in toward her audience. “A boy was born to us, a child of infinite potential. High Priest Konig foretold of a child born not of woman, but of pure faith. The boy was raised in the temple to be tempered in the fires of our belief.”
“That shite metaphor again,” sneered Stehlen.
The woman shrugged, unperturbed by Stehlen’s anger. “It works.”
“The boy is at the temple here in Unbrauchbar?” asked Bedeckt, doing his best to sound disinterested. It wasn’t too hard. His skull felt heavy with snot, and when he tried to blow his nostrils clear again, nothing happened but a wet snurk sound. Damned stuff turned to stone in there.
“No, no,” answered the priestess, shaking her head. “He stays in Selbsthass.”
“Makes sense. If you are shaping him with your faith, you need him at the heart of it.”
The priestess looked to be contemplating patting Bedeckt on a scarred and well-muscled shoulder and then wisely decided against the idea. Instead, she simply said, “Exactly! The farther you get from someone’s faith or delusion, the less effect it has.”
“It’s what saves us from your Konig Furhammer,” snapped Stehlen, spitting on the table between them. “A man with such delusions of grandeur would rule the world otherwise.”
“Furimmer,” corrected the priestess. “If Konig only suffered delusions of grandeur, he’d just be another Gefahrgeist. His delusions surpass such pettiness. His faith creates gods.”
“Delusion, you mean,” said Stehlen.
“What’s the difference?”
Bedeckt scratched at the scarred lump of the remains of his left ear. “Others will follow your example.”
“Of course. But we will be first and we will have done it right. Others will scramble to build their gods, but they will be hurried and poorly thought out. Ours is planned. Morgen will be first among the new gods.”
Morgen. Bedeckt, making note to remember the name, gave Stehlen a quick glance and saw her almost imperceptible nod of understanding. “You’ve given me much to think about. Your faith will spread.”
“We gain strength with every new follower.” The priestess smiled warmly and this time did reach out to touch his arm. “People join us because they know their faith—their hopes and dreams—will shape our god. Ideas are power, and this is a powerful idea. We will be the single greatest faith in the world. We will unite all of mankind under one god—one we all birthed. Konig has foreseen it.” She stood and bowed. “It has been a pleasure talking with you and I can see you are intelligent and educated people.” Bedeckt grunted at this but made no comment. “Please, come to the city temple anytime to talk further. Blessed will be those whose belief shapes the future.”
“I will visit. But it’s getting late. Stehlen will see you safely back to the temple.”
Stehlen rose from behind the table. “Please,” she drawled in her most sincere tone, “this way, my good lady. These can be dangerous times, I will escort you home.”
What in all the arse-sticking hells is Bedeckt planning? What use was a half-wit, brainwashed church wench? She’d find out soon enough, she supposed. She’d followed his lead often enough to know it usually went somewhere, and it usually went somewhere profitable. At least for her.
Stehlen glanced over her shoulder as she led the priestess from the tavern. Bedeckt looked pale and miserable. He breathed through an open mouth and kept digging at the scarred remains of his ear as if something was lodged in there. Stupid old fart. If he died of some old-man illness, she’d kill him.
The priest
ess bitch seemed pleased as Stehlen held the door for her. She seemed pleased as Stehlen guided her around potholes hidden in the dark. The priestess even seemed pleased when Stehlen rubbed her lean body against hers. True, Stehlen knew she was no great beauty, but she had a firmness that excited a certain type. The priestess was definitely pleased when Stehlen dragged her into a dark alley growling huskily. She only stopped being pleased when one of Stehlen’s razor-sharp knives opened her throat and she bled out onto the cobblestones.
Stehlen watched the brainless wench kick and bubble until finally becoming still. She went through the woman’s pockets carefully, helping herself to the few coins there. She also took the small handwoven scarf she found and sniffed at it. The scarf smelled faintly of jasmine, no doubt a gift from some equally brainless lover. She tied it around one wrist, pleased with how it looked.
BEDECKT WAS INTO his seventh pint before Stehlen returned. The emptied mugs still littered the table, the barkeep apparently afraid to collect them. The additional ales hadn’t improved his pallor and he leaned heavily against the table. The skin on his wan face hung slack and clammy.
She collapsed onto the overturned box opposite him and examined him as he continued drinking and ignoring her. Stick it, I give up. “Why did I just kill that woman?”
Bedeckt frowned into his tankard. “Money. If I’m not mistaken.”
“I searched her pockets. She had nothing of value.”
Bedeckt glanced at the new scarf tied around her wrist and Stehlen hid the hand beneath the table. “I found it.”
“I wasn’t talking about whatever coin you lifted.”
“I told you she had no money,” she snapped.
Bedeckt continued as if he hadn’t heard. “I have a plan. It needs some fleshing out, but I think it’s a good one.”
“A good one meaning one making us a lot of money? A good one meaning a plan unlike the last dozen? A good one meaning not stupid and dangerous?”
“I think I got one out of three.”
“Bloody brilliant. What’s the plan?”
“Kidnap this god-child and ransom him back to the Geborene.”
Beyond Redemption Page 3