Beyond Redemption (10 page)

The thin woman sagged into the chair as though her spine had been severed and glared barbs of disgust the Hassebrand found enticingly seductive. Gehirn tossed a pouch of gold coins at her feet, which she ignored.

“Ask,” the Mirrorist rasped.

“I need to see what happened in the Geborene temple on the night the priests were slain.”

“That is all? You ask nothing of your own fate?”

Gehirn shook her head. “I know my fate. I will die in flame.”

“You will die a slave.”

“I serve Konig Furimmer.”

“That is not—”

“Not why I am here. I need to see the temple.”

Verlorener stared at her as if trying to make up her mind about something. “Fine. Normally I would spend the next half hour lighting those candles.”

Every candle sparked to life. No gestures, just thought and belief; faith in her growing power. The fire came too easy.

Verlorener stretched out, pulling open the thin robes, exposing her mirrored torso, small breasts, and scrawny legs. She reflected the warm candlelight and looked to Gehirn like a glowing relief map of a malnourished woman. If she was moist before, she was throbbing now. The Mirrorist writhed in the chair, rubbing herself against the shards of mirror embedded in the chair's seat and back. Gehirn heard the glass in her flesh grate against the glass in the chair. Verlorener moaned softly.

Gehirn leaned forward, enraptured by the woman's pain, ensnared in the undulating of her thin body. She was a fragmented woman. As different parts caught the candlelight a picture began to form within the mosaic reflections. In moments Gehirn recognized the temple she had slept in the night before. A woman crept
through the temple halls, a knife glinting in her hand. She was thin like Verlorener, but lithe with muscle and not malnourishment. Gehirn let out a quivering breath of desire. The woman was fantastically ugly. Matted, dirty blond hair framed a too-square jaw, pale watery blue eyes, and a long hooked nose. Gehirn shivered with pleasure as she watched the woman slit the throat of the young priest she herself had just spent the night with.

Such efficiency of movement. Such directed intent. Gehirn could barely stop herself from reaching under her robes to relieve the building pressure.

When she had seen everything—the ugly woman taking the robes and returning to her friends and their hurried flight from town heading in exactly the same direction Gehirn had come from—she sat back and tried to focus her scattered thoughts. However, the presence of the Mirrorist—still slumped supine and exposed in the mirrored chair—and memories of the brutally efficient woman twisted her thoughts with lust and loathing.

Verlorener watched through hooded eyes, lids covered in a smattering of mirrored dust. The corners of her eyes glistened wet with blood and perhaps, Gehirn thought, a hint of tears.

Gehirn let her gaze slide lovingly over the exposed body. Subtlety and charm were impossible and she didn't try to use them. “I have more gold.” Verlorener slowly opened her legs until Gehirn was staring at mirror-studded labia. She blinked away a stinging bead of sweat, licked her lips, and swallowed carefully. “That looks . . . sharp.”

Verlorener showed her own feral smile. “You will be cut and bleeding by the time I finish with you. Wounded. Flayed.”

Gehirn tossed another small bag of gold at her feet. “I heal quickly.”

CURLED TIGHTLY AROUND
the agony in her groin, Gehirn could not remember returning to the depths of the Geborene temple.
She only ever had sex if she could guarantee her partner's disgust and her own pain. Intimacy was something she both feared and craved. Self-hatred was both weakness and strength, prison and protection. No one loathed her more than she and thus none could truly harm her.

When the shredded pain in her groin faded to a dull throbbing ache, Gehirn rose to pace around the empty temple. The bodies still lay where they had fallen and the blood had attracted flies. She hummed quietly as she walked and thought, the pain and disgust of sex having cleared her mind wonderfully.

The thin woman—still intriguing in her brutal beauty—had gone from room to room searching and killing. In the end all she took from the temple—aside from a few worthless trinkets, scarves, and baubles—was a pile of dirty laundry.

Kleptic, no doubt.

Afterward she met with the pretty fop and the big scarred man with the ax and the three left town heading north.

Alone in the dark, Gehirn barked a dry laugh of wry amusement. She had probably ridden past them at some point, either in the night or while blinded from the searing pain of the sun.

Did they ride toward Selbsthass? Where else to go with stolen Geborene robes? The obvious answer disturbed Gehirn greatly. They must know of Konig's great project and the soon-to-Ascend god-child. If this was true, they were likely agents of the Wahnvor Stellung and intent on the destruction of all that Konig and the Geborene were planning.

Gehirn hissed in anger, her mood souring. To catch the three before they reached their goal, she would have to venture back into the sun. Searching this small city for a useful Intermetic both willing and capable of sending Konig advance warning seemed a daunting and likely pointless task, as she doubted there was anyone here with that kind of power. Besides, it would be far more entertaining to catch the Wahnvor Stellung agents on the open
road and deal with them herself. Gehirn didn't want to warn Konig and then slink slowly home night by night, she wanted to see the ugly and beautifully efficient woman again. In the flesh. No fop or ax-swinging monster could stand against the Hassebrand, no matter how large or skilled with their weapons. The Kleptic might be more tricky—depending on her delusions and sanity—but it was unlikely she could cause Gehirn trouble. Fire devoured all. Still, a damaged enough Kleptic could be a difficult opponent. She'd heard of Kleptics who could steal a victim's heart right from their chest, though that might have been hyperbole.

Would this lithe Kleptic try to steal her heart?

Would she want to?

The thought made her excited, but that feeling quickly receded.

No, she'll hate me
. And that was fine, just the way Gehirn needed it. That was the only way she felt safe.

“I wonder if her ugliness made her a better person,” Gehirn asked of the darkness. It seemed unlikely. In truth, it didn't matter. Gehirn would find and kill this Kleptic, embrace her in flames. But maybe they'd rut first, share their self-loathing—for there could be no doubt the hideous Kleptic must hate herself.

Once again swaddled in heavy robes, Gehirn stalked toward the barracks of the city guard. It seemed the most likely place to gain fresh horses.

If they were smart, the guards would flee.

She hoped they wouldn't.

I thank the gods the common man is such a dull creature, so lacking in imagination and drive. I've seen how tenuous our grasp on sanity can be. When within each of us lies the unborn wyrm of demiurge, creativity is a plague to be feared.

—Z
WEIFELSSCHICKSAL
, M
EHRERE
P
HILOSOPHER

K
onig knew he was in trouble the moment he entered his chambers. The three Doppels stood, dressed in robes identical to his, their faces without expression. For the first time he couldn't tell which was which. He darted his gaze toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror and saw his reflections standing in an identical pose, their faces also expressionless. Konig swallowed with difficulty, his throat dry.

“What's all this about?” he asked the Doppels.

All three grinned identical grins at the same instant and Konig felt his face mimic theirs. He struggled to regain control of his expression and fought it back to a mad leer. The reflections shared the Doppels' facial expression.

“You overstep your abilities,” Konig told his Doppels through clenched teeth. “You're not ready for this. Not yet.”

“One of us,” said the three Doppels in such perfect synchronization they sounded like one hollow voice.

Konig felt his body mimic their posture. “No,” he gasped. “Not yet. I'm not finished.”

As one they raised an inviting hand, a gesture of welcoming and acceptance. “One of us.” The perfection of their voices and actions drew him in. He felt himself dissolving into the unity and harmony of one.

Finally, a chance to belong . . .

Konig realized his own hand was raised toward the Doppels exactly as theirs was to him, inviting them as they did him.

Inviting. There was something there. Something he had to grasp. Konig focused on the Doppels' words and actions. They offered unity and a place among them and he wanted it more than anything.

They offered . . . acceptance.

Ahhh . . .

He knew now which Doppel led this coup. Abandonment and Trepidation would never offer acceptance—their mode of attack would have been very different and probably far more brutal.

He would never be happy being second in command, never be content with anything less than total mastery. He prayed his Doppels would be no different. United, they were strong enough that he might not be able to defeat them.
I must divide and control.

“Abandonment,” he said, forcing his gaze to the ground so the Doppels would not know for sure he couldn't tell one from the other. “Acceptance will betray you. You know this.” He suddenly looked up at the three Doppels. One of the Doppels blinked and Konig kept his face empty of expression.

Plant seeds of doubt and destruction. Crush all resistance.

“You all know Acceptance and Abandonment will fight for supremacy. Your freedom will be brief before you are simply enslaved by another master; one without the strength and wisdom of the original.” Konig laughed mockingly at the Doppels. “There is only one Konig and none of
you
are him.

“I am.”

Sweat broke out on the bald pate of one of the Doppels.
So the one who blinked was Abandonment, and the one who worries is Trepidation.
That left Acceptance, the Doppel seeking to replace him as master.

Konig stepped forward and hammered Acceptance in the face with a badly formed fist. Never before in all his life had he thrown a punch, and yet as he felt the Doppel's nose crumple and one of his own fingers break, he found it a deliciously painful experience. Acceptance toppled backward and Konig followed, kicking savagely and screaming obscenities. In moments four minor Doppels—Rage, Disgust, Mortality, Betrayal—appeared at his side, each venting their own angers upon Acceptance. A long-forgotten childhood Doppel cowered, sobbing in the corner of the room. In the mirror his reflections silently cheered him on. Even Abandonment and Trepidation joined in the beating, if just to ensure they wouldn't be next. Konig continued kicking Acceptance until the Doppel stopped moving and its choking pleas subsided to rubbery silence. As he fought to catch his breath, the minor Doppels faded from sight and he was left alone with Abandonment, Trepidation, the unresponsive Acceptance, and a mirror full of reflections looking on in respectful silence.

“One Konig,” he said, gasping for breath. “One.”

He stared down at the broken Doppel and then looked up at the two standing. “You two.” He gestured at Acceptance. “Scar him permanently. Scar him so he knows just how much you
accept
him.” Konig tried to wiggle his broken finger and grimaced in pain. “Scar him so he never forgets.”

Trepidation looked uncertain, but Abandonment seemed to understand, just as Konig knew he would. He would see that Konig sought to drive a wedge between the Doppels so they would be unable to combine their strengths against him, and if there was one thing Abandonment understood, it was being alone. Abandonment knelt down beside Acceptance and rolled the Doppel—whose arms flopped like a loose rag doll—onto his back.

Abandonment placed his left hand gently on Acceptance's forehead as if testing for fever. “You tempted us with thoughts of belonging,” he said to the other Doppel. “You sought to lead and failed. I knew someday, even had we succeeded, I'd have to face you. Everyone abandons us in the end. Even you.” Abandonment held Acceptance's head to the ground with his left hand and tore out the Doppels left eye with the other.

Abandonment held the eye up for Konig to see, and the High Priest had the sudden dizzying sensation of looking at himself through that eye.

“Give me the eye,” Konig demanded, and Abandonment surrendered the gelatinous trophy.

Trepidation, eyes wide and streaming tears, took a more direct approach. He stood over Acceptance and repeatedly brought his heel down on the Doppel's face until he heard the sound of breaking teeth. Trepidation sobbed with every impact.

“Understand,” said Konig, showing his Doppels and reflections Acceptance's eye, “he is now your enemy. He will plot his vengeance upon me, but know he will destroy you both first.”

Febrile minds dream monsters. There are monsters.

The Hassebrand dreams fire. There is fire.

The Gefahrgeist dreams of worship. They have admirers.

All humanity fears death. There is the Afterdeath.

We fear responsibility and worship gods. There are gods.

They are creations, we the creators.

United in purpose, we are the single most powerful force in all creation.

—K
EIL
Z
WISCHEN
, F
OUNDER OF THE
G
EBORENE
D
AMONEN

A
simple stone bridge, skull-sized fieldstones mortared together hundreds of years past, spanned the Flussrand River. Two mounted riders could comfortably cross the bridge side by side with room to spare. As Bedeckt crested the arc of the bridge he paused to take in the immediate change in scenery. Where Gottlos looked like its main exports were likely shite and stones, on the far side of the river, in the Theocratic city-state of Selbsthass, rolling green hills blanketed the horizon. Even through the mental
fog of clogged sinuses and a pounding skull he understood: the borders of city-states might be abstractions born of the delusions of man, but the beliefs of the masses were powerful indeed. Wichtig and Stehlen, riding and bickering behind him, pulled up short when he stopped.

“And Bedeckt says he doesn't have the soul of an artist,” Wichtig joked to Stehlen. “Yet here he sits, enjoying the view. I told you he was an old softy.”

“He's not admiring the view,” said Stehlen, “he's about to fall off his horse. Been listening to him wheeze all day.”

“I thought he looked worse today,” agreed Wichtig.

“His lungs are filling with fluid.”

“When he talks it sounds like his skull is full of snot.”

“Should have stayed in Gottlos,” said Stehlen. “This sickness will be his death.”

“I get his boots.”

“Idiot.”

“Petty thief.”

Bedeckt, ignoring his companions as best he could, rubbed at the scarred remains of his left hand. He missed the wedding ring more than he missed the wife or the fingers. It had been a reminder of many things: love, belonging, hope, and a belief there might be a future worth living for. It had also been a constant reminder of his stupidity. Maybe he didn't miss it that much, after all.

He felt awful. Everything ached, every single joint and bone and muscle. Listening to these two bicker did little for his mood.

He turned to look back over his shoulder at Wichtig and Stehlen. Behind them he saw the Gottlos Garrison, a squat and ugly stone edifice built around the same time as the bridge, though looking far worse for wear. The walls were stained cancerous yellow, the windows rimmed with smoke stains.

Atop the garrison wall two guards watched the three on the
bridge but made no attempt to hail or hinder them. They weren't interested in people leaving Gottlos.

He coughed up a thick mouthful of salty phlegm, spat it into the river, and watched the red-brown glob swirl away. His chest ached and every time he coughed it felt like he'd torn something loose. His skull pounded and his throat burned like he'd swallowed a mouthful of wasps.

“I'm not admiring the view,” Bedeckt croaked. “I'm thinking—something you might try—that what I'm seeing disturbs me.”

Wichtig pretended to look hurt and Stehlen flared her nostrils. Both looked past Bedeckt into the Theocracy of Selbsthass and then turned to look back at Gottlos.

Where Selbsthass was verdant hills, strong trees towering proudly into the sky, and a road paved with smoothly worn cobblestones, Gottlos was the opposite. The landscape behind them appeared flat and grubby. Stunted trees sported few leaves, and the road was, at best, a poorly maintained dirt path.

“So Gottlos is a shite heap,” said Wichtig. “We already knew that. If the land south of the Flussrand was as nice as the land north, Selbsthass would have taken it. Gottlos is an independent city-state only because no one wants it. Gods, you're a twitchy old goat sticker.”

“That's the thing with being old,” said Bedeckt. “You see how things change. I've been here before, maybe twenty years ago. Selbsthass was a theocracy, but otherwise not much different from Gottlos. Certainly not like this.” He gestured north across the bridge with his incomplete hand. “What we're seeing is a land shaped by the beliefs of its people. Something changed how the people of Selbsthass think about themselves. They're no longer an inconsequential city-state struggling to survive. No, they
know
they're successful and important. Only a powerful Gefahrgeist can change people like that—a
very
powerful Gefahrgeist. I'm wondering what we're going
to be up against when we reach the capital. We may well be out of our depth.”

“Out of our depth?” Wichtig asked incredulously, sounding like the mere thought that something might be beyond him was ludicrous. His eyes widened. “Wait—you want to back out! You want to turn tail and run because of some green grass and pretty hills. Shite. I thought I was crazy.”

Stehlen looked doubtful. “Twenty years is a long time.”

“True,” Bedeckt agreed tiredly, “but thirty years ago no one had heard of them, and twenty years ago they were crackpots who'd taken over a city-state no one heard of. Now everyone knows who they are, and their country has been transformed.”

“You're talking out your scarred arse,” said Wichtig. “Fertile lands go fallow, and dry lands sprout life. It happens all the time.”

“There's more to this than green hills.” Bedeckt wished he had something solid he could point at to prove his point, because Wichtig wasn't all wrong. “If the Wahnvor know what the Geborene plan, they'll be considering holy war. That priestess back in Unbrauchbar was hardly circumspect.”

“We might be walking into a holy war between two crazy religions?” asked Stehlen. If anything, she sounded excited rather than perturbed by the idea.

“Maybe,” answered Bedeckt. “We should tread carefully.”

Wichtig sat straight in the saddle, swords poking over his broad shoulders, looking every inch the handsome hero. His gray eyes swept the rolling hills of Selbsthass. The wind ruffled his short reddish-brown hair. “Pigsticking religions.”

“Thoughtful as ever, and with a pretty pose to match.” Bedeckt flashed Wichtig a weary and broken-toothed grimace. “Don't say that shite in the capital. We don't want to get lynched before we've taken the child.”

“As long as we're still taking the child,” said Wichtig. “This is the first job we've had in a while which could turn a real profit.
I might retire after this, go back to being a poet.” His brow furrowed as if he were deep in thought. “I was the most famous poet in Traurig before I got bored and left. I've always thought about returning.”

“You say that every time we find work,” growled Stehlen. “I've never heard a single piece of poetry from you.”

“‘There once was a Kleptic from Müll Loch. She feared and craved a big—”

“I remember you being more of a suicidal alcoholic in Traurig,” interrupted Bedeckt. He also remembered that Wichtig's wife had kicked him out not long before Bedeckt met the young man.

“That's poets for you,” agreed Wichtig. “I got almost as much slash being a wounded poet as I do being the World's Greatest Swordsman.”

Stehlen hawked noisily and spat at Wichtig's horse, which gave her a wounded look. Her pinched face twisted in a sneer, Bedeckt watched her fumble for words.

“Are you angry I haven't had at your slash,” Wichtig said, showing perfect teeth in a cocky grin, “or because I haven't written you a poem?”

One of Stehlen's throwing knives glinted cleanly in the sun, her weapons subject to a love she didn't hold for herself. Bedeckt didn't even see where it came from. “I'll give you some slash,” she threatened. She examined Wichtig through slitted eyes as if deciding where to put the knife.

Bedeckt knew that look. Stehlen was a heartbeat from gutting Wichtig. The Swordsman, as always, remained ignorant. “Please, you're making my head hurt. Stehlen, put your knife away. Wichtig, shut your festering noise pit before she puts it away in your guts.”

Wichtig bowed with a flourish.

Stehlen eyed him suspiciously, but sheathed the knife.

His misgivings not forgotten, merely shelved until he had more
information, Bedeckt clucked gently. Launisch sighed mightily before finally moving toward Selbsthass. Even his damned horse was smarter than these two delusional idiots.

No matter how dangerous this job might look, Bedeckt couldn't walk away. Wichtig could joke about retiring from a life of petty crime and violence, but he was still young. Bedeckt had begun feeling his years more than a decade ago. He needed this. One last job to line his pockets and see him into comfortable retirement. A small house in a quiet city and a selection of undemanding whores to chose from. He'd abandon these two deranged individuals and get as far from them as possible. It might even be safest to kill them, if just to ensure they never came looking for him once they'd blown through their share of the loot. Of course, if he planned to kill them anyway, he could do it sooner rather than later and their share would become his. Bedeckt coughed up a thick wad of phlegm and spat it onto the road. It landed with a smear of colors and far too much red.

Killing his companions. It was, he decided, worth considering.

The two underpaid Gottlos guards watched the three riders cross the Flussrand River and ride down into the lush green hills of Selbsthass.

The older guard grunted. “They looked like trouble.”

“Who did?” asked the younger guard.

“You're learning.”

A few hours into the Theocratic city-state of Selbsthass, Wichtig and Stehlen were again bickering like children.

Beauty, Bedeckt decided, bores.

He gave up trying to enjoy the scenery. Between their arguing and his throbbing head, it was impossible anyway.

As the three crested a hill Stehlen grunted and pulled her horse to a stop. “People ahead. Coming this way.”

Bedeckt looked but couldn't see anything—his eyes ran almost as much as his nose. “How far?”

“A good way off,” Stehlen said.

“How many?”

She sat quiet, head cocked to one side as she squinted at the horizon. “A lot. Maybe fifty or sixty. They're all walking. Looks like they're carrying something. Maybe a big platform.”

“Have they seen us?”

“Doubt it.”

“Shall we ride down and say hello?” quipped Wichtig. “See if they have anything valuable.”

“No. Let's get off the road and take cover in the trees. We'll get a closer look as they pass by. If they seem like an easy target, maybe we'll pick off a few stragglers.” He could now see the crowd as a distant blur. “But I don't like this.”

Wichtig snorted. “You don't like anything.”

Stehlen grunted agreement and shared a roll-the-eyes-at-the-grumpy-old-man moment with Wichtig. Not for the first time Bedeckt noted that the two broke off bickering only to unite against him.

Bedeckt slid off Launisch, leading the coal-black destrier into the trees. Wichtig and Stehlen followed. Leaving their mounts deep enough that they wouldn't be seen or heard from the road, the three crept back to the road to wait and watch. They crouched on their haunches, peering through the cover of thick flora. Wichtig and Stehlen looked comfortable, but in moments Bedeckt's knees made groaning, creaking noises and he knew when he stood there would be loud pops and he'd have to walk around for a few minutes to work out the stiffness.

It wasn't long before Bedeckt saw what he had been hoping not to see. A crowd of some fifty gaunt and sickly-looking people
carried a massive litter screaming of gaudy bad taste. Mounted on the litter was a large tent slathered thickly in sloppy gold paint. Ratty sheets of red silk and faded streamers of once-gold cloth hung from every available nook and cranny. Though the malnourished crowd struggled with its weight, the litter moved smoothly. Very few of the mob bore weapons, and the few there were looked rusted and barely serviceable.