Beyond Redemption

by Michael R. Fletcher

  “It’s a vomitous syphilitic piss hole,” Stehlen called over her shoulder.

  “It’s colorful,” answered Wichtig. “There’s all kinds of people there. It’s like anywhere. Some people are good and some are bad. If you’re going to be any kind of god, you’ll need to know all this.” The Swordsman sounded thoughtful. “This is part of the education Konig wants for you. We’re supposed to introduce you to all the different kinds of people. Someday these folks will worship you. It’s important you know who they are so you can better rule them.”

  This made sense, but why had Konig not exposed him to the people sooner? Rule them? “But Konig said a god should serve the people.”

  “Of course,” Wichtig answered quickly. “Any good ruler, King, or Emperor rules by serving those he—”

  “Or she,” shouted Stehlen.

  “—he . . . uh . . . rules over.” Wichtig hunched forward to whisper in Morgen’s ear. “There is much Konig wants me to teach you. These other two . . .” He gestured at Stehlen and the semiconscious Bedeckt. “They’re brutes. We need them, but they’re dangerous.”

  “I thought Bedeckt was your friend.” Morgen twisted to look up into Wichtig’s face. “Your only friend.”

  “You see much,” said Wichtig, nodding and giving Morgen a sad smile, “but have much to learn. I am Bedeckt’s only friend, and yet I am not sure if he is my friend. I’d have given up hope, except once . . .” He trailed off and stared into the distance.

  Morgen watched the reflections dance in Wichtig’s gray eyes: albtraum. Wild Doppels. Twisted versions of Wichtig and Stehlen, birthed by their nightmares, came out of the forest as the two slept, tossing fitfully in their sleeping rolls. Their campfire had long since gone out. Morgen saw Bedeckt come awake, the ax in his hand before he even knew what was happening. The big man stood, staggered back, retreating before the swarming albtraum. He turned to run and stopped as he caught sight of Stehlen, still asleep. Morgen saw the indecision in Bedeckt’s eyes. Then, with a snarl, Bedeckt was among the albtraum, ax swinging, blood spattering everything. Wichtig and Stehlen awoke to find themselves surrounded by albtraum corpses. Bedeckt sat by a freshly lit fire. “Wichtig,” he said, “if you let the fire go out again, I’ll kill you.”

  Something about this memory haunted Wichtig. Morgen had heard stories of tragic heroes and understood the concept, but Wichtig didn’t quite fit. Much in the Swordsman mirrored what Morgen saw in Konig. They shared similarly intimidating flat, gray eyes. Both men needed the people around them and wanted those people to need them in return. And both men sought something greater than themselves. Something elusive. Something important and yet terrifying to the two men. Underlying everything else, Morgen suddenly realized, lurked the fear of success. He didn’t understand exactly what each man sought to achieve, but both feared success as much as they feared failure. Perhaps even more so. What could possibly terrify such men? What could scare the Theocrat of Selbsthass and the Greatest Swordsman in the World to the point where they subconsciously engineered their own failures?

  Morgen didn’t know how to ask.

  “Bedeckt once came back for me,” Wichtig said in an awed whisper. “Back then, in the same situation, I would have abandoned him, but he . . .” The Swordsman laughed but sounded sad. “Either he saved me or he was a tool of fate. Either I owe him my life or he merely did what had to be done to show me my true destiny.”

  Morgen knew the Swordsman wished it was the former and believed it was the latter. “You’re Gefahrgeist, like Konig,” he said.

  Wichtig forced himself not to react. “No,” he said, “not like Konig. Very different. I’m no Theocrat. Just a simple Swordsman.”

  Modesty, false or otherwise, was not something he was accustomed to, but manipulation is contingent on knowing when to brag and when to be humble. It was a novel experience, and one he strangely enjoyed. There’s something satisfying to proclaiming humility while knowing just how important you truly are. He’d have to experiment. Perhaps this novel approach might work with Bedeckt.

  “No,” stated Morgen with the definitive certainty only the young can manage. “You’re the Greatest Swordsman in the World. You’re important. Special. You cause things to happen. Different from Konig, but like Konig.” The boy sounded frustrated, as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t. “I can help you. I can make sure you don’t fail.”

  Wichtig ruffled the boy’s hair. Whatever Morgen’s abilities, they didn’t render him immune to the charms of a Gefahrgeist. Even one with such limited power as himself. The thought left an uncomfortable feeling tingling down his spine. I must not, he realized, practice this new humility on myself. There must be no room for doubt.

  As they rode southwest Wichtig told Morgen of the adventures they’d have in Neidrig, though he left out all talk of whores, back-alley stabbings, and the fact that they’d be hiding like furtive cockroaches.

  Neidrig, he had heard from both Stehlen and Bedeckt, was an utter shite-hole. He’d never visited the city, but it sounded like the perfect hiding place. There could be no doubt they would be pursued. The trick would be finding the kind of dubious, untrustworthy, and insane people who could hide them. Luckily the people who could best shield them from the prying eyes of Konig’s Mirrorists and other Geisteskranken would also probably not be sane enough to appreciate the danger.

  Truly, thought Wichtig, it’s a beautiful thing: The more powerful—and therefore useful—a person is, the easier it is to manipulate them. Manipulating the sane was like herding sheep. It took a lot of effort, and if you focused on one sheep at a time, you’d get nowhere. But get the right sheep moving in the right direction and the rest will follow.

  CHAPTER 22

  I heard a knock, and when I answered the door, there I was. Luckily I think much faster on my feet than I do and soon had myself tied in the fruit cellar. I’d kill myself but I’m so damned useful. Sometimes, when the High Priest has texts he wants copied, I’ll unchain one of my hands and get me to do some of the work. Of course I do it! I’m so damned bored down here, chained to the wall.

  —ÜBERSETZEN MIST, SCRIBE TO KONIG FURIMER

  How did this happen?” Konig screamed into the quivering priest’s face.

  Tragen Nachrichten wilted in the heat of Konig’s wrath. The Theocrat’s three Doppels stood gathered, threateningly, around the Geborene priest. Acceptance, beaten and bruised, wheezed through an open mouth showing jagged fractured teeth while glaring through one bruised eye. The Doppel had covered the other eye with a rough cloth patch that did little to disguise the damage done.

  The priest’s gaze jumped from the Doppel’s ruined face and back to Konig’s. No doubt Tragen wondered who could have done this, and then saw the only answer. What would he tell the other priests, that the Theocrat wars with himself?

  Konig glanced at the mirror. A dozen of his reflections gathered there, watching with calm disinterest. His Mirrorist powers had grown. Useful, perhaps, but it meant his mental state was decaying quickly. The finger he’d broken punching Acceptance still throbbed, a distraction and a reminder of just how close he’d come to losing everything.

  I’m running out of time.

  Konig took a deep breath and fought for control. Morgen would save him. He’d kill the boy, thereby forcing his Ascension and ensuring the god’s loyalty. Those whom you slay must serve. Reciting the plan and credo calmed him. “Tell me once again. Leave out no detail.”

  Tragen bowed low. “Yes, Theocrat. Schwacher Sucher, the temple Mirrorist, is dead. Stabbed to death. He had no meetings scheduled and the door showed no signs of being forced.” Tragen paused to swallow uncomfortably. “Schwacher’s mirror was broken. Completely shattered.”

  Konig paced back and forth in front of the young priest. “They broke the mirror.”

  “Yes, Theocrat.”

  “Stabbed to death?” Konig asked. “Stabbed many times?”

  “Many, many times,” Tragen answered. “The guard I left to watch the room sai
d it looked like the panicked attack of a scared amateur rather than a professional assassination. He said the attacks were all over the place. Many weren’t fatal. Schwacher’s arms were deeply wounded.”

  “Had Schwacher been assigned anything important?”

  “Yes, Theocrat. I checked the logbook. Schwacher had been watching several Wahnvor Stellung temples. I found no reference as to what he was looking for.”

  “You don’t have the rank.”

  The Wahnvor? Could they have agents within the Geborene High Temple? Had Schwacher found something only to be slain before he could report it? If they had infiltrated the Geborene hierarchy . . .

  Konig turned to Tragen. “You must check on—”

  The door to Konig’s private chambers slammed rudely open and Meineigener Beobachter, chief of Konig’s personal security force, stormed into the room. His normally stony face betrayed a look of horror. Meineigener bowed and stood waiting at attention.

  The Doppels frowned at the interruption and the gathered reflections—now dozens, some of which huddled at the rear of the crowd—suddenly looked interested.

  “Yes?” Konig snapped.

  “The child is gone.” Meineigener, three hundred pounds of towering muscle, swallowed nervously. “Morgen is gone. We can’t find him anywhere.” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “We think he’s been taken.”

  Taken? Without Morgen his plans were ash. Without Morgen . . . Konig glanced at his Doppels.

  “Oh,” whispered Acceptance, hiding a smirk and shattered teeth behind a bruised hand, “that is a shame.”

  Konig, ignoring the Doppel, stared at his chief of security. “You think?” The man nodded mutely, staring at the floor. “Meineigener,” Konig said quietly.

  The massive guard met Konig’s flat gray eyes and stood rigid, unable to look away, muscles locked motionless by the Gefahrgeist’s will.

  “Yes, My Theocrat.” said Meineigener, voice soft with awe.

  Konig gestured at Tragen, who stood quietly listening. “Kill him. Now.”

  Meineigener drew his sword and cut the young priest down in one smooth motion. He cleaned and sheathed the blade before Tragen’s corpse hit the floor.

  “In the future,” Konig said, “you will be more careful who you share information with. Or, in the future”—he gestured at Tragen’s corpse—“that will be you.”

  “Yes, My Theocrat.”

  At least the oaf didn’t apologize. Few things angered Konig more than pointless apologies. “Who else knows?” he asked.

  “I left Vertrauens Würdig to watch over the room and came straight to you. I also sent a man to detain Morgen’s nurse, though with no explanation as to why.”

  “Good.” The man hadn’t been an utter moron. Vertrauens was a member of Konig’s personal guard and one of Meineigener’s most trusted men. “Find out what the nurse knows. Kill her afterward.” Konig frowned. “What became of Viele Sindein?” How the hells had anyone gotten past Morgen’s Mehrere guard?

  “Viele was slain. Many times.”

  Konig ignored the Doppels as they gathered to mutter quietly among themselves. He had forever shattered any chance of their working together and no longer feared their huddled conferences. “How many would it take to kill Viele?”

  “I sparred with her often. She was an expert.”

  “And?” Konig growled.

  Meineigener blinked. “It would take dozens. They left no dead. Either they carried their wounded and slain with them when they left—no easy thing—or Viele didn’t manage to kill any of them.”

  Konig resumed pacing, his reflections mirroring his actions. “How did dozens of people enter the temple, kill Viele, and escape with Morgen without being seen?”

  Meineigener answered immediately. “Inside help.”

  Konig agreed. “Find out if anyone is missing.”

  Schwacher had been the only useful Mirrorist in the temple. With him dead, Konig had been effectively blinded. He rubbed his chin and glared at the mirror. A few reflections mirrored his actions while the rest pressed against the glass as if trying to shove their way free. Useless! Or were they? Could he hone his growing Mirrorist tendencies before his mind crumbled under the strain? No—it would take more time than he had. His three Doppels stood uncomfortably close, their eyes bright with hunger. They know what this means. If I lose Morgen, I lose everything. His delusions were growing in strength. Soon they would drag him down.

  “Find the nearest Geborene Mirrorist and bring them here.”

  “Yes, My Theocrat.” Meineigener turned to leave.

  “Meineigener.”

  “Yes, My Theocrat?”

  “Send for the Schatten Mörder and Tiergeist.”

  Meineigener swallowed uncomfortably and nodded. He clearly wanted nothing to do with Konig’s corps of deranged assassins. Konig saw the concealed distaste and didn’t care. Meineigener would happily cut down an unarmed man at Konig’s command but found assassination distasteful. Meineigener was damaged; he lacked that which stopped a man from committing heinous acts of murder but lived by a strict code of conduct that reined in his psychopathic tendencies: loyalty to the Theocrat above all else.

  Konig placed a hand on the massive man’s arm and pinioned him with gray eyes. “If word spreads Morgen is gone I will be very displeased. Find Aufschlag as well and send him here immediately.”

  When Aufschlag arrived he found Konig waiting, Doppels gathered behind him like a pack of dogs, thin features as flat and expressionless as their gray eyes. Between the Doppels and the reflections in the mirror, Konig filled the room.

  “Morgen has been taken. Whoever took him has agents within the Geborene hierarchy.”

  Aufschlag looked away, unable to make eye contact. He glanced past Konig and met the bruised and battered eye of a Doppel. Acceptance? The Doppel showed broken teeth in a twisted grimace and Aufschlag desperately looked elsewhere. Planning to lie to Konig was one thing, but now, as he stood in the powerful Gefahrgeist’s presence, the reality was much more daunting. Eye contact, Aufschlag knew, was a key component in one-on-one manipulation. He dared not meet Konig’s eyes for too long, but how could he achieve this and not seem guilty? He looked again to Acceptance, meeting the wounded gaze, and the Doppel gave him a curious and knowing smile.

  Does the Doppel know? Aufschlag looked away and saw the corpse of Tragen Nachrichten shoved rudely into a corner. Thank the gods! Something to stare at other than Konig or his Doppels. Aufschlag had to say something soon.

  “The Geborene couldn’t have been infiltrated without you at least suspecting.” The sly compliment should distract Konig. Aufschlag’s gaze darted to the mirror and then back to Tragen’s body. Had the reflections been staring at Acceptance, or had he imagined that? “It’s more likely only one or two agents were involved.” Too close to the truth, but Konig would know if he lied outright. He gestured at the corpse. “Tragen was an infiltrator?”

  “No. He overheard Morgen had been taken.”

  “It will be impossible to keep this hidden for long.”

  “Obviously.”

  The Chief Scientist felt the weight of Konig’s flat gray gaze upon him and did his best to ignore it. He glanced to Acceptance instead. The Doppel, who had been staring at the mirror, looked away when he noticed Aufschlag’s attention.

  What in the hells is that about? He swallowed and ran fat fingers across his greasy scalp in an attempt to flatten the fringe of hair. “We must get the boy back quickly.”

  “Perhaps. There are other options.”

  “Other options?” What have I missed?

  “I have summoned the Schatten Mörder and Tiergeist.”

  Aufschlag blinked, startled. “You’d send assassins to fetch the boy?”

  Konig ignored the question.

  The door to Konig’s chamber swung open and the stench of death filled the room. The Schatten Mörder, Konig’s Cotardist assassins, arrived first. Four men and two women filed quietly in, their bodies in varying
states of decomposition. Their leader, a naked middle-aged woman known only as Anomie, bowed before Konig. Her lungs, like moldering cheesecloth sacks, hung visible between cracked and yellowing ribs. Her internal organs long absent, only flaked brown gristle clung to her spine. Aufschlag had heard she kept her organs preserved in jars in her personal chambers. Sparse clumps of pale hair clung to the few shreds of flesh still gripping her skull. Five other Cotardist assassins stood mutely behind her. Though none looked to be in such an advanced state of decay, they all showed signs of rot and neglect.

  Anomie’s eye sockets were empty pits, but there was no mistaking her attention. When she looked toward Aufschlag, the scientist avoided her dead gaze. She seemed to look through him for a moment and then returned her focus to Konig, who remained unperturbed. Her lungs made a dry rattling noise as she drew breath to facilitate speaking. Aufschlag watched, mesmerized, as her lungs filled and immediately began leaking air out the many small tears.

  Her voice was thin and dry. “We are summoned.”

  “I have—”

  “It has been years since you have summoned us.”

  Konig frowned in annoyance, unaccustomed to being interrupted. “I have not had need—”

  Anomie’s lungs deflated, turning her last words into a dusty wheeze. “We are worthless. Cursed immortal dead. Hated.”

  He had his own issues to deal with and Anomie’s touched too close to home. “I don’t hate you.”

  She sucked in another breath. “We rot unheeded and unneeded. We fall away to dust.” Some small fragment of scalp flaked away and fell with its few attached hairs to the floor between her bony feet. “We are nothing and yet denied the nothing we desire.”

  Konig stepped forward and placed his hands on her desiccated shoulders, forcing her to meet his eyes. He turned the full force of his Gefahrgeist power upon her.

  All communication is manipulation.

  “You are worthless, but you serve something greater than yourself. I am your purpose. Your service defines you. Without service you will be denied even a moment of value, the slightest taste of intent with direction. You serve because in those rare moments you find yourself valued.” He stared into those dark, empty sockets; his own unshakable belief in himself—the paradoxical result of his self-doubt and feelings of inferiority—protected him from fear. “I have need of you.”