Beyond Redemption

by Michael R. Fletcher

Bedeckt coughed weakly, met Stehlen’s eyes with a bruised look, and spat bloodily on Wichtig’s foot. White flecks of shattered teeth speckled the wet glob.

  Stehlen gestured at Bedeckt. “He’s bleeding.”

  “Seeing as we may have to fight our way out of here,” drawled Wichtig, “I’m hoping you’re sitting there for artistic reasons and not because you’re unable to stand. Fighting while carrying the two of you might be awkward.” He said it as if awkward were an exaggeration and would be nothing at all.

  Stehlen hated Wichtig more than ever. The gore-spattered half-wit seemed untouched. His hair wasn’t even mussed. He looked perfect, every inch the bold hero. She hated and wanted him and hated herself for wanting him. She was going to either rut him or kill him. Perhaps rut and kill him. Wichtig could stick her, and then she’d stick him back. Her attempted smile died when Wichtig averted his eyes in disgust. Some wounds never heal.

  Stehlen shoved the dead woman away and stood, carefully hiding the hurt. “Let’s get out of here.” She could tell herself she was used to this. She could tell herself she had long ago gotten over the fact that men shied from her smile.

  “No,” mumbled Bedeckt. “The boy. We take him with us.” One of his eyes had swollen completely shut and he glared at Stehlen through the other with feral desperation. “We came this far. I’ll last until we’re out of here.” He wobbled unsteadily. “Just have to stop the bleeding.”

  Stehlen and Wichtig exchanged doubting looks, but neither wanted to leave here without the loot. Even if the loot was some godling-in-training brat.

  “Stehlen, can you open the door?” Bedeckt asked.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the door. “It isn’t locked.”

  “How can you—” Wichtig stopped when he noticed the disgusted look Stehlen gave him. “Right.”

  Wichtig propped Bedeckt against the wall and the old goat sticker slid immediately to the floor. Ah well, as good a place as any. At least he’s out of the way.

  Leaving Bedeckt, Wichtig stood poised with sword drawn as Stehlen opened the door. A thin blond child with bright blue eyes stood in the center of a well-appointed bedroom. It was the bedroom every boy dreams of. Toys sat piled in boxes or littered across the floor, left where they’d been dropped by an active and roving imagination. And the masterpiece: a detailed model city replete with peasants, animals, and city guard sprawled across a huge oak table.

  But Wichtig was focused on the would-be god. The boy looked nothing like Fluch, Wichtig’s son, but still Wichtig found himself thinking back to the last time he saw his boy. He hadn’t even said good-bye. He hadn’t meant to leave his son, only his unforgiving shrew of a wife. It suddenly dawned on him, the happiest moment of his life had been holding his newborn son and watching as his wife, exhausted from a long and difficult childbirth, slept. He often thought about returning to Traurig and seeking her out. He had no doubt he could persuade her to take him back; he’d always been able to talk her around to his point of view. He remembered the smell of her thick, dark hair and the curve of her hips . . .

  “I heard fighting in the hall,” said the boy.

  The child’s calm question brought Wichtig back to the present. Intelligent blue eyes stared up at him. Trusting eyes. If you raised your future god, would you teach him deceit and deception? Wichtig thought not. He searched his memory for a name.

  “Konig sent us. You’re in grave danger. You must come with us.”

  The boy stared at him, face expressionless, and Wichtig knew a rare moment of doubt; did the child see through him? Unsure what to do, he struck his best heroic pose.

  “I’ve read about you,” the boy said.

  “You have?” Wichtig asked, surprised.

  “Yes. You’re a hero.”

  Hero? Wichtig bowed with a perfect flourish of his sword. “Wichtig Lügner. The World’s Greatest Swordsman. At your service.”

  “I’m Morgen,” the boy answered.

  “Hells,” Stehlen muttered quietly to Bedeckt. “I can actually see Wichtig’s head swelling.”

  Wichtig ignored her. Only the child mattered. Selling this would-be god for ransom was the plan of an unimaginative mind. For now Wichtig understood the true value of the child. The boy was the ultimate means to the ultimate end. He stood aside so the lad could see the corpse-strewn hallway. No need to say anything, let the child come to his own conclusions.

  Wichtig watched closely as the boy displayed emotion for the first time. Morgen’s eyes widened in shock as he saw the bloody scene. He looked past Wichtig at Stehlen and Bedeckt, taking in their brutal appearance. His gaze flicked to the floor and the many identical corpses.

  “Viele Sindein. She’s been my bodyguard since . . .” Morgen trailed off. “Forever,” he whispered. “I’ve never seen her be so many. Usually she’s just two. They argue a lot.” He glanced at Wichtig and said, “I don’t think they like each other,” as if sharing a secret.

  “She was going to kill you,” said Wichtig quickly. “We had to stop her.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” growled Stehlen from the hall. “Knock the kid out and let’s be gone. Bedeckt is bleeding out.”

  The boy glanced at Stehlen. “I don’t think you’ll hurt me.”

  Wichtig watched, amazed, as Stehlen looked away uncomfortably. She opened her mouth and then slammed it shut with a clack. Is she about to apologize?

  “Sorry,” she said, looking as surprised as Wichtig felt.

  Impossible!

  Wichtig snorted a short laugh and put on his best charming smile. “Come. We have to take you to safety.”

  “Okay. But I have to wash my hands first.”

  While the boy scrubbed at his already clean hands, they stanched the worst of Bedeckt’s wounds.

  “Needs a real healer,” whispered Stehlen.

  Wichtig agreed but said nothing. They had no time for finding healers; they had to get out of Selbsthass fast.

  When Morgen returned, he watched with curious distaste, careful to stand at a safe distance. When blood spattered near his feet, he shied away with careful steps.

  Like the kid never saw blood before, mused Wichtig.

  A few minutes later they retraced their steps through the ancient castle. Wichtig led the way, one hand resting protectively on Morgen’s shoulder, while Stehlen followed with a pale and semiconscious Bedeckt leaning heavily against her.

  Wichtig noticed he’d left a large bloody handprint on the child’s thin shoulder. A little dirty reality would only serve to further the boy’s dependence on him. He’d never been a hero before and looked forward to playing the role—actually performing it, and not just looking the part. It felt easy, natural. Hero was definitely the part he was destined to play.

  He looked around him. For all the noise they’d made fighting Morgen’s guard, apparently the tower’s separation from the rest of the church had been enough. They walked empty halls and saw no one.

  Stehlen struggled to keep Bedeckt on his feet. He slowed with each step.

  I should leave him here. Her gut churned at the thought.

  “You’re slowing me down, you useless sack of dog turds,” she whispered into the gristly remains of his left ear. She wasn’t sure if he heard. “Don’t make me leave you here. Don’t do that to me.”

  “Stupid . . .”

  “What?”

  “Bitch,” Bedeckt finished.

  Well, better than nothing. If he had the strength to be an insulting arsehole, he wasn’t dead yet. She flared her nostrils, testing the air. Bedeckt reeked of blood and sweat and unwashed old man. There was something else in the air. Something undefinable, but something she knew.

  “This doesn’t feel right,” she whispered close enough to his tattered ear that she could taste the drying blood.

  “Try it after being stabbed a few dozen times,” hissed Bedeckt through clenched teeth. “I guarantee it’ll feel worse.”

  She ignored him. “I know what stealing feels like. I know how it smells. I
know how it sounds. I know what it tastes like. This isn’t right. A path has been cleared for us.”

  “Good.”

  The idiot doesn’t understand.

  Every nerve screamed danger and yet she saw nothing amiss. Someone was clearing the way for their escape, but she saw no reason to believe this mysterious person was on their side. Selfishness drove all action. A lifetime of backstabbing distrust had taught Stehlen one thing: if someone helped you, it was because doing so helped themselves. The moment mutually shared interest died, the truth shone clear and you’d feel their knife in your back.

  Stehlen pushed the pace to catch Wichtig and the boy, and Bedeckt—much to her surprise—managed to match her.

  She peered sideways into his face and saw shattered teeth gritted in a determined growl. “Still a bit of life in you,” she said.

  “No, just a lot more death.” He peered at her through his single open eye and she caught a glint of dark humor. “Can’t let Wichtig have my share.”

  “Greed is the ultimate motivator. Anyway, if you die I’m going to kill the arsehole and take it all.” Of course, she had no idea how to go about collecting the god-boy’s ransom. If the old man died she’d kill Wichtig and the boy and wash her hands of this gods-awful mess. Any plan involving more than go in, get the goods, and get out was doomed to failure.

  CHAPTER 18

  What have I done?

  Aufschlag watched Morgen and the three false priests. They’d never know, but it was his doing—sending priests and guards on make-work errands—that had cleared the path for them. And why he had done so . . . he still wasn’t sure. He had done many horrible things as Konig’s Chief Scientist, and though he’d often contemplated defying the Theocrat, not once had he dared to act. Not really.

  No, that’s not true. I saved Wegwerfen. That had to be worth something. But even that, sending her fleeing to Gottlos, had been an act of cowardly disobedience. And every day he still thought about sending someone to kill her, terrified Konig might discover what he’d done.

  This was different. This was not some insignificant deception. He wasn’t simply ignoring an unnecessary order or sharing a book with Morgen that Konig wouldn’t approve of. This was it, the real thing.

  Go ahead. Say it. Admit to yourself what you’re doing. Be honest.

  “Betrayal.”

  What an awful word.

  Aufschlag remembered a drunken and emotional conversation he and Konig had shared all those years ago, about how important it was to him that he not let down his friends. He remembered Konig’s eyes and the look on his face and how he’d thought it was understanding. Gods, Konig had used that every day since.

  Betrayal. Here, beyond the influence of Konig’s power, Aufschlag was on the verge of doing just that.

  He checked the hall floor, counting tiles between where he hid and the kidnappers to gauge the distance.

  Only a scientist would have thought to study and quantify the reality-defining effects of insanity, and Aufschlag was a scientist through and through. His entire life, every moment of his existence, had been dedicated to understanding the metrics defining Geisteskranken. Everyone knew that the effects of insanity dwindled with range and were damped by proximity to sane minds, but no one else thought to measure this. Aufschlag knew that even as powerful as Konig was, his Gefahrgeist delusions only affected him, Aufschlag, when close by. Here in the hallway, watching Morgen’s kidnapping, he had the freedom to contemplate something other than mindless loyalty.

  Such as saving Morgen’s life . . . and perhaps his own soul. He glanced at his hands, blunt-fingered, skin wrinkled like a lizard left to dry in the sun. They were clean now, but they’d been bloodstained many, many times. The things I have done. Sure, he told himself, it had all been at Konig’s request and for the greater good of both the Geborene and even mankind, but that was a lie. Some of his experiments had been unsettling to the extreme—and Aufschlag performed them willingly. Delving into the deeper truths, scratching at the underpinnings of reality, understanding the laws and limits of a reality defined by delusion, these were goals worthy of a great mind. And if I have one delusion—he laughed mockingly at himself—it’s that I am a great mind.

  It was his discovery that it was possible to turn ordinary, sane people into Geisteskranken. The correct mixture of physical and psychological torture could achieve incredible results. Forcing a mother to witness the torture and brutal murder of her children was enough to turn some into dangerous Geisteskranken. Aufschlag had even learned—at great personal risk—that the more heinous and drawn out the torture, the more powerful the Geisteskranken became. He once lost dozens of staff during an experiment when, after witnessing her husband and children tortured for several months, one woman shattered her shackles, tore scientists limb from limb, and burned down a sizable section of the Science Wing.

  Still you seek to justify your actions, as if doing so somehow distances you from the pain you inflicted. Calling it science doesn’t change what you are.

  Konig, caring only for results, asked no questions. Aufschlag, however, had nothing but questions. And not once had he asked whether or not he should be doing these experiments in the first place. No, at the time he had wondered only why it took her so long to snap. Why was she so powerful when she finally snapped? Why did some people retreat into gibbering uselessness at similar stimuli while others found the ability to shapeshift or create armies of albtraum at will? And, of course, there were the most interesting questions:

  What were the limits?

  How powerful could a Geisteskranken become?

  He’d done it for Konig. He’d done it for the Geborene, for humanity.

  Right.

  How many have you tortured to scratch the itch of your own dark curiosity?

  The Theocrat—the shallow and shortsighted fool—thought Aufschlag’s research was meant to further Konig’s own goals. And while, when he was in the High Priest’s overpowering presence, this often became the truth, Aufschlag had plans of his own.

  Belief defined reality and insanity—which Aufschlag defined as any unnaturally strong belief—manifested as power. But this, Aufschlag understood, was not the only form of power. Knowledge too was power. Though Aufschlag could not alter reality with the strength of his beliefs, he could manipulate it through his understanding of its underpinnings. Such as watching Morgen being escorted from the keep. Aufschlag smiled bitterly, pleased the boy was escaping Konig’s grasp, terrified what the Theocrat would do if he discovered Aufschlag’s role in the escape.

  Not that the Theocrat’s grasp was quite as firm as the Geborene leader thought it was—and Aufschlag’s betrayal was only a small part of it. Konig sought to use Morgen for his own self-centered purposes—this was the way of all Gefahrgeist. The fool clung to the belief Morgen could save him from his delusions, staving off the horrific end all Geisteskranken faced. But for all his belief, Konig never thought to ask how this would happen. And after seeing Morgen’s display of power, Aufschlag had begun to doubt the Theocrat’s ability to control the boy once he Ascended. But doubt wasn’t enough; Aufschlag needed to be sure. If Morgen Ascended under the influence of a deteriorating Gefahrgeist, there was no telling what would become of him. If, however, Morgen Ascended beyond Konig’s manipulative grasp, he would become the god the Geborene and the people of Selbsthass deserved. A good and fair god. A god who protected his people instead of manipulating them like toys.

  A god Aufschlag desperately needed.

  Many nights Aufschlag lay sweating and shivering at the memories of what he had done in the name of science. No man should witness the horrendous acts he had seen. No man should commit the horrendous acts he had. But there was no changing the past: he had perpetrated those evils, staining his soul such that it would haunt him in the Afterdeath. But the Afterdeath was also redemption, a chance for the future to maybe not be as grim as it was shaping up to be. And maybe one truly selfless act could wipe clean a besmirched slate. Aufschlag prayed th
is was true. In the past he prayed to vague gods, but now he prayed to Morgen. If one pure result came out of all the suffering and misery he had caused, perhaps redemption could be his.

  Morgen will bring a new purity to a foul and terrible world.

  “Konig is not the Geborene Damonen,” Aufschlag whispered. He only thinks he is. “I must do what is right.”

  The Chief Scientist might not have the strength of will to defy Konig while in his presence, but once far enough removed, Aufschlag could again think clearly. And now he was thinking of a time when the Geborene had a god to worship, and not a man ravaged by his own insanity.

  “Take care of the boy,” he whispered to the backs of the false priests, watching them move stealthily through the emptied church. Anywhere had to be better than here.

  As the thieves stole away with what they surely thought was their great prize, he saw his path to redemption. His plan coalesced, as simple as it was dangerous.

  Shortly he would make his way to the private chambers of Schwacher Sucher, the only Geborene Mirrorist currently residing in Selbsthass City, and murder the young priest. Yes, it was going to be murder—he wouldn’t cloak his actions in misleading labels. Honesty mattered if he was to ever have a chance at redemption. It was a dark deed, but with Schwacher dead, it would be far more difficult for Konig to trace Morgen and his kidnappers. Hopefully this would buy Aufschlag time to find the thieves and either purchase or take the child—and keep Morgen out of Konig’s own murderous hands.

  Aufschlag cleared his troubled mind and focused his thoughts. He must keep a clear vision of his plans or any interaction with Konig might sway him.

  “Kill Schwacher,” he whispered. Again he looked down at his clean hands, spidering veins showing through the thin and wrinkled skin. Though he had caused much pain and suffering in his research, he had never personally killed another human. Will murder change me? How could it not?

  Aufschlag watched the three thieves approach the gate—he hadn’t been able to think of a way to remove the guards that wouldn’t have immediately aroused suspicion—with Morgen sheltered under the arm of a man dressed as an acolyte.