Beyond Redemption

by Michael R. Fletcher

  Stehlen flared nostrils as if scenting the foulest shite. “I think one out of three might be generous.” She waved at the barkeep and ordered another round of drinks. “I know what Wichtig will say, ‘A stupid and ill-thought plan. Sounds like fun.’” She spat on the inn floor. “When do we start?”

  “Tomorrow night. If Wichtig is still alive.”

  Dare to dream the pretty idiot gets himself killed on his moronic quest to be the World’s Most Annoying Swordsman. Stehlen sniffed at her tankard. What the hells is that awful smell?

  “So . . . what’s the plan for tonight?” she asked.

  Bedeckt waved at the barkeep, avoiding eye contact with her. “Drink. Sleep.”

  “Another brilliant plan.” Arsehole.

  The morning sun glinted off the dust raised by the gathered crowd. Bedeckt shaded watering eyes with his half hand. His head thumped like some war stallion kept stamping on it. His clogged nose forced him to breathe through his mouth and chalky dust coated his dry tongue. I should return to the inn and bed. Wichtig can die out here alone.

  He glanced about the crowd. Some fifty people stood in a tight circle, jostling and elbowing for a better view. A massively muscled man, standing in the center of the circle, examined Wichtig with dismissive eyes.

  Bedeckt watched the big man rolled muscled shoulders, and took in the fierce and scarred features. As long as I’m here, I might as well entertain myself. He patted Wichtig on the back. “Your opponent has done his share of killing and enjoyed it.”

  Wichtig grunted, too busy scanning the crowd for attractive women to pay Bedeckt much attention.

  Bedeckt tried again. “Look at those scars. This man has seen a lot of challengers. And killed them.”

  Wichtig glanced dismissively at the Swordsman standing across the circle. “He’s got scars because he’s been cut. I have none because I have not. Tell me who the better Swordsman is.” He said this loud enough that much of the crowd heard him.

  “Ah,” said Bedeckt, “but he stands among a gathering of his believers . . . whereas no one here has heard of you.”

  “Soon he’ll lie dead and they will have heard of me.” Wichtig pouted at Bedeckt. “I do so appreciate these pep talks. They help focus my attention. First I win the crowd. Then I win the fight.”

  “You seem awfully sure of yourself.”

  “I am.”

  The sad thing was Bedeckt had seen enough of these fights to accept the fact that Wichtig had at least some reason for that confidence.

  The scarred Swordsman strode to the center of the clearing and stood with hands on hips. He called out to Wichtig so all the crowd could hear. “You can’t beat me. In this city everyone knows I am the most dangerous man alive with a blade.”

  Wichtig winked at an attractive young lady. His voice rang out deep and resonant and sure. “Ah yes, but there are a hundred cities in a dozen city-states where everyone knows I am the Greatest Swordsman alive.” He flashed a dazzling smile at the audience. “Sure, a couple of people in this lovely little town—what’s this place called, Bedeckt?”

  “Unbrauchbar.”

  “In this shite-hole have heard of you—what’s his name, Bedeckt?”

  “How the hells should I know.”

  “Whatever your name is—”

  “Vollk Urzschluss.”

  “—they’ve heard of you here. But I have traveled far and wide and killed a great many would-be World’s Greatest Swordsmen. And I’ve never heard of you. Sadly, I don’t think you’re even in the top one hundred.”

  Bedeckt watched Vollk dart glances at the crowd, trying to measure their reaction. Skill with a blade mattered little in the face of the belief of a tightly packed mob.

  “Those cities are far away,” said Vollk. “Their beliefs matter little here.”

  “Yes, yes. I’ve read the books.”

  Bedeckt rolled his eyes. Wichtig loved to repeat things smarter, more educated people had said as if they were his own words.

  Wichtig continued, pontificating to the crowd. “You forget, however, to factor in the numbers involved and the depth of their faith. If I may quote the Geborene Damonen: ‘if enough people believe strongly enough, they can change the world entire.’” Wichtig smirked cockily. “I know I am the Greatest Swordsman in the World. Hundreds of thousands of people know I am the Greatest Swordsman in the World. Soon all of this shite-hole will know I am the Greatest Swordsman in the World. You, my friend, will sadly not live to see that day. Such is the fate of stepping-stones.”

  Bedeckt wondered where Wichtig had heard that line.

  Vollk glared at Wichtig, looking bewildered. “I’m no stone. Though . . . though I am as tough as one. As strong. You are all talk.”

  Wichtig bowed to the gathered crowd with a confident flourish. He was, Bedeckt saw, winning them over; they were almost his. Wichtig leered at Vollk. “You think you are the best. I am the best. You thought with the crowd’s faith you could beat me. Now . . . even you know better.” He drew his sword and sketched a flourished bow. “Shall we?”

  Ten seconds later Vollk Urzschluss lay in the dust bubbling blood from a sucking chest wound. Wichtig stood with his back to the downed Swordsman, basking in the crowd’s applause.

  Bedeckt watched Vollk’s fingers clutch at the dirt, eyes rolling in fear as he struggled to draw breath into lungs filling with blood. “Wichtig, this is a slow and ugly death you leave him. Why not finish him?”

  Wichtig patted Bedeckt on the back. “Seeing the man die slowly helps solidify this event in the minds of the witnesses. It is important they remember this clearly if I am to someday be acknowledged as the Greatest Swordsman in the World. These people are useless to me if they forget.”

  “You are so full of shite.”

  “All too true. I know I am not as smart, good-looking, skillful, or lucky as I think I am. I know these are my delusions. However, I’m also damned sure I am a lot smarter, better looking, skillful, and lucky than anyone else in this shite little city. Thus they bend to my will. I want them to like me, they like me. I want them to fear me, they fear me. I am a gifted orator.”

  “You are a delusional idiot,” replied Bedeckt. “That you can convince people of anything depresses me. You spout things smarter people said and you yourself don’t understand.”

  Wichtig met Bedeckt’s eyes with a cold glare. “No, it is you who doesn’t understand. The facts don’t matter and that’s a fact. I wasn’t winning the crowd with logic, I was simply sowing seeds of doubt and bolstering my own confidence. Once I knew his followers doubted, I knew he too would doubt.” Wichtig glanced dismissively at the man still coughing blood into the dust. “His doubt killed him before I did.”

  Sure, thought Bedeckt, and your sword in his lungs had nothing to do with it.

  CHAPTER 4

  There is not one Afterdeath, but thousands. Maybe more. We fear death, and in our fear we seek to escape its finality. But is the farmer worried about populating his Afterdeath with those he has slain? No! What the farmer seeks depends on which breed of vapid religion he clings to. Perhaps he seeks redemption, a chance to right the wrongs of his past. Or perhaps he believes in an Afterdeath of reward for devout worship and piety. If our beliefs define our lives, they certainly define our deaths.

  But what interests me is what happens after the Afterdeath? The killers among us would have us believe there is simply more death, a progression into deeper and deeper layers of hellish suffering. The Wahnvor Stellung claim death is more like climbing a ladder; each Afterdeath bringing us closer to purity or nirvana. The Täuschung twist everything, claiming only through suffering can we hope to attain godhood.

  I ask: Where do the souls of babies come from? Are they just magically created out of nothing? No, that’s ridiculous! I think once we’ve either suffered enough or earned redemption, our slates are wiped clean. And we start the entire cycle again.

  —VERSKLAVEN SCHWACHE, GEFAHRGEIST PHILOSOPHER

  Konig stood unnoticed at t
he door, watching the thin, blue-eyed, blond-haired god-child play. The Geborene priests had built a miniature city complete with tiny people carved from various colored chunks of wood. The toy city contained a population of twenty-five hundred peasants, one hundred soldiers—fifty of them mounted—and a few hundred miscellaneous animals. Based on Konig’s experience, there were not nearly enough chickens for it to be a realistic model. The city also lacked walls and defenses of any kind, but Konig supposed they’d just get in the way of the child’s play.

  All my hopes depend on this child. The boy’s unquestioning obedience was critical to Konig’s plans, and he could see but three means of achieving it: worship, fear, and love. Reality, it seems, has a cruel sense of humor. The method most likely to succeed and with the best results was the one Konig felt least capable of. Inspiring worship and fear was easy for a powerful Gefahrgeist such as Konig, but both had their disadvantages. A god wanting to help him, desperate to please, would be far more effective.

  How do I make this boy love me? Looking back at his own childhood offered no clues. The question left him uncomfortable, tickled at the back of his neck like cold breath. He needed Morgen to need him. And need is weakness.

  Morgen, future god of the Geborene Damonen, engrossed in his game, hadn’t noticed Konig. He marched a squad of forty tiny soldiers up a street toward a crowd of some two hundred peasants gathered in the center of town. Konig watched with interest. The goings-on of a child’s mind were as mysterious as anything in the world. What drives this boy’s imagination to play out these tedious games?

  Morgen moved the troops forward one at a time until they faced the crowd of peasants, stopping often to remove minuscule flecks of lint or dust from the table or to adjust the exact positioning of a toy. Many toys he adjusted half a dozen times before he seemed satisfied with how and where they stood. He moved the Captain of the Guard forward to meet with what Konig assumed was the representative of the peasants. If there was dialogue between the two, it all took place in the boy’s mind as he sat motionless, looking at the toy people he’d gathered together. Konig saw frustration in the set of Morgen’s shoulders and the way he reached for one piece before stopping and then reaching for another. It seemed he could not make up his mind which to move first.

  Konig’s stifled a gasp of surprise when the wood soldiers suddenly straightened from their fixed positions, hefted tiny weapons, and charged the gathered peasants. In seconds the model city was home to bloodless butchery as soldiers hacked wooden limbs from peasants. What the peasants lacked in weaponry they made up for in numbers. Soldiers were pulled from horses, relieved of their weapons, and either pulled apart or battered with small model rakes and farming implements. Morgen sat back watching, touching nothing. At first it seemed the soldiers had the advantage, but before long more peasants poured into the street. Another sixty soldiers arrived to reinforce the original forty, but at this point over a thousand peasants had joined the melee. Within minutes wooden corpses littered the model city and the surviving peasants armed themselves with weapons from fallen soldiers.

  Konig cleared his throat, and Morgen, appearing unsurprised, glanced back at him. The wood toys stopped moving the moment the boy looked away.

  “Having a little trouble with your peasants?” Konig asked.

  Morgen’s slim face lit with a quick smile. “Yes. The peasants are revolting.”

  “So I see.”

  “No, it’s a joke. I heard it from Aufschlag.”

  Konig hid his distaste. “Of course.” Perhaps I should keep Aufschlag from the boy in the future. “Having fun?”

  “Yes. Numerical superiority will win over superior weapons. Thus peasants are only peasants because they allow themselves to be peasants. Perhaps it’s what they want, though that makes little sense to me. They could as easily be the rulers if they decided.”

  “That is partly true, but you aren’t seeing the whole picture. You’re assuming the peasants know they can defeat those ruling. You’re assuming it will occur to them to try. Finally, you’re assuming many will be willing to die to achieve this goal. And when the peasants take over, who runs things? Who will work the fields? Who will replace the fallen soldiers? Will the peasants then revolt against their new leaders?”

  “You’re saying there will always be peasants and there will always be leaders?”

  “I’m saying peasants need good leaders. The heart of any regime or empire is its workers, call them peasants or whatever you like. While their will is strong the regime is strong. Break the workers, break the empire.”

  Morgen’s eyes narrowed in thought and he examined his hands closely. “Is this why there are no large empires anymore?” He dug under a nail to remove something Konig couldn’t see.

  “Well, part of the reason. The truth is the gods seek to keep mankind divided, weak.”

  “But what about the empires of old? The entire world used to be one empire, the Menschheit Letzte Imperium, I think it was called.”

  “Where did you learn this?”

  “I read it.”

  Who the hells gave Morgen access to these books? Konig made a mental note to look into it later. “The gods realized a united humanity is not in their best interest.”

  “And that’s why I have to Ascend?”

  “Yes. You will unite all mankind and give us a future we control. You will bring back the days of empire.” The boy stared up at him, unblinking. “You will be the Geborene Damonen god,” Konig finished, filling his words with stone certainty.

  Morgen glanced about his room, eyes damp. “I know. But . . . I fell down the other day and skinned my knee. I bled and cried. Do gods bleed? Do gods cry?”

  He must have no doubts. “Gods bleed if they choose to.” Konig glanced at Morgen’s knee. “Look at your knee now. There is no mark, only perfection. You are healed by the faith of your worshipers as only a god can be.” Konig swallowed his own doubts and pressed on. “You moved your toys without touching them. Do you think anyone can do this? I am an extremely powerful Geisteskranken, yet I can not do what you did.”

  Morgen stared at the motionless wood men and picked one up. He rotated it in his fingers, examining it from all angles, his face set in childish concentration. “It was effortless.” He set the peasant back on the table. “I wanted to see what would happen. I’m not even sure I was in control.”

  “Of course you were. These are signs of your impending Ascension. Reality bends to your will.” And you will bend to mine; you will have no choice.

  The boy’s perfect forehead crinkled in a childish frown, and for several seconds he gnawed on his lower lip while examining his fingernails in minute detail.

  What is he looking for, they’re perfectly clean. Has he forgotten I’m here?

  Konig cleared his throat and the boy glanced at him, face strangely expressionless.

  “What will my Ascension be like?” Morgen asked.

  “What do you mean?” asked Konig, both knowing and dreading the question. “Your Ascension will be the moment you become our god.”

  “In the books I’ve read . . .” Morgen focused on Konig, stared him straight in the eyes in a way no one had in many years; most people instinctively shied from the gaze of a Gefahrgeist. “People only Ascend after their death.”

  Konig, face carefully blank, eyes drilling into the boy’s soul, willing him to drop the subject, asked, “What books?”

  Morgen shrugged and glanced away as if something more interesting had caught his attention. How had he done that? How had he broken eye contact so casually? It should have been a colossal effort.

  “Histories and religious texts. The Wahnvor Stellung have an entire pantheon of Ascended heroes as well as their old gods. There’s also local demigods, which are minor deities, Ascended people and spirits—”

  “I know what a demigod is,” Konig snapped, annoyed at being lectured by a child.

  “—and in each and every case,” Morgen continued as if Konig hadn’t spoken, “they Asc
ended only after their death. I have been unable to find a single case of Ascension occurring before death.”

  And there it is. Will he ask the question? “There exists endless knowledge beyond that found in ancient texts,” said Konig.

  Morgen tilted his small face, thought about this for some moments, and then shrugged it away as if irrelevant, which of course it was. “I must die to Ascend,” he said.

  Interesting—not a question. Had Aufschlag already told the boy? “True,” said Konig. “You need not fear—”

  “I don’t.”

  Konig quelled a spike of anger at being interrupted yet again. “As I was saying, you need not fear; I will be gentle—”

  “You.”

  Konig cursed inwardly. How had that slipped out? He bent until his eyes were on a level with the boy’s, forced his will upon the child’s young mind. He must see it my way. “Who else could I trust?”

  For an instant doubt flashed across the boy’s face. “True,” Morgen finally agreed. “Only someone with the best interest of the Geborene at heart must help me Ascend. Otherwise—”

  “Yes.” Konig didn’t want the boy examining this too closely. Contemplation might lead to doubt and that was something Konig could ill afford in his would-be god.

  Morgen offered an awkward smile. “I’m glad it will be you. Aufschlag would never forgive himself.”

  Which is his greatest weakness. Konig offered a hand to the lad, did his best to make his flat gray eyes warm and caring. You must love me. “Now come,” he said, “give me a hug.”

  Morgen dove into Konig’s arms and he awkwardly tussled the boy’s hair. Parenting was not something he had expected to do when he took on the mantle of High Priest.

  “I won’t let you down.” The boy’s voice was muffled in the fabric of Konig’s robes.

  “I know. You’ll make me proud.”

  “I’ll be a good god. I’ll bring back empire like you want.”

  He stroked the boy’s fine blond hair. “I know.”

  KONIG, LOST IN thought, stalked the oddly shaped and twisting halls of the Geborene church. Acolytes scrambled from his path, pressing themselves to the walls as if they sought to crush themselves flat.