Beyond Redemption (46 page)

“And yet I have use for him. He must serve.” He stood before himself, mirror raised and held just before his face. The mirror reflected naught but an empty room. “Push him in,” Konig commanded the Dysmorphic.

Konig's face pressed hard against cold glass, the narrow rim of the mirror crushing an ear.

It's too small! I can't fit in here!

Slowly the surface of the mirror gave way beneath his cheek, sucking at him like thick, cold mud. His skull groaned from the pressure.

You're killing me!

The surface of the mirror collapsed and he tumbled into an empty room, landing badly. His skull throbbed with pain and each breath shot stabs of agony through his chest; he'd broken something inside. He stared about the empty room. Where had everyone gone?

Turning, he saw the room ended suddenly at a wall of glass. Beyond that wall, the people, Dysmorphics, priests, and acolytes, stood gathered, staring at him. They were huge, giants. The view through the window was spinning alarmingly and Konig found himself staring up at himself.

“What shall I call you?” the Konig beyond the wall asked.

Konig screamed, hurling himself bodily against the glass, pounding at it with his fists until the finger he'd broken beating Acceptance broke a second time.

The Konig beyond grinned, eyes wide and insane. “They can't hear you,” he whispered. “No one can hear you.”

Konig collapsed to the floor of his empty room. His prison.

“I think I shall call you Failure,” he said, tucking the small mirror
into his robes. He said more, but with his voice muffled by the thick crimson robes of the Theocrat, Failure couldn't hear him.

No, that isn't me. I'm in here.

Sprawled on the floor, cradling broken ribs, Failure giggled and wept.

You may be free, but now I am the reflection. I see what you cannot
.

The giggle broke into crazed laughter and then choked off into sobs of pain.

Konig's freedom would be short-lived, Failure knew.

Morgen will return.

Those who live without a great fire in their soul live in darkness.

—B
RENNENDE
S
EELE
, H
ASSEBRAND

M
orgen lay curled in mud hot enough to raise blisters. The sun had gone down and night had fallen. He hadn't seen it happen. The camp flowed around him as if he weren't there, as if he were beneath notice. And maybe he was. Mud and blood caked his mottled skin, formed crusts in his hair. He could open only one eye, and then only enough to peer through a thin, throbbing slit. His face was aflame in pain, and when he tried to reach a hand up to touch his bent nose, he found he couldn't. His arms hung like insensate lumps of dead flesh. They refused to obey his commands.

Are they broken?

With a whimper he tilted his head enough to look the length of his body. The one arm he saw was bent the wrong way at the elbow. Farther down he saw his fingers splayed at impossible
angles. When he drew breath something grated deep inside his chest and he felt a stabbing pain in his guts.

They've broken me
.

But why had they stopped?

It didn't matter; he was beyond grateful for the respite. Even if everything hurt, at least no new pain was being added, no new indignity heaped upon his shattered frame.

Erbrechen's face filled Morgen's view. He looked worried.

“You're still alive, thank the gods! I thought those idiots killed you. I can stop them. Do you want me to stop them?”

Morgen coughed out sharp fragments of teeth. “Pluh,” he said.
Please. No more. Anything.

Erbrechen touched his face gently. “Poor boy. Poor, poor boy.”

“Pluh.”

“Poor, poor boy. I'll protect you. You want my protection?”

Morgen tried to nod but nothing worked. “Pluh.”

“What? You want me to protect you?”

“Yush,” he sobbed. “Pluh!”

“They'll hurt you again if I let them.”

Morgen cringed. “Nuh muh. Pluh.”

“No one here loves you more than I do,” purred Erbrechen. “You know this, right?”

Morgen tried to speak but a spasm of coughing interrupted him. When it passed, he saw he'd coughed blood into the mud.

“Gehirn wants to burn you with fire. Only I can stop her. You don't want to be burned alive, do you?”

Burned. Fire. Those two words punched holes in Morgen's scrambled thoughts, punctured the fog of agony. He'd seen fire. There had to be fire.

Nothing else mattered.

“Fuh,” he said, desperately trying to make his mouth and jaw work.

“Fire?” asked Erbrechen. “Fire is scary. Painful.”

The fat bastard went on, but Morgen wasn't listening. He didn't know what to do. Gehirn terrified him, but he'd seen fire. The reflections had been right about everything. There
had
to be fire. He knew what he needed to do but shied away from it. There would be no going back.

“Fire,” he whispered.

Erbrechen leaned in to better hear. His earlobe swung fat and greasy, filling Morgen's vision.

Morgen, remembering Stehlen, spat a bloody glob of phlegm into the Slaver's ear.

Erbrechen turned to look at him, a long streamer of thick red drool swinging from his earlobe. “Oh, child. That was a mistake. A terrible mistake.” He glanced at two men who appeared out of the darkness. “He's not ready yet. Beat him some more.” The men nodded happily, rapturous to be given the chance to serve. “If you kill him, you'll suffer beyond anything.”

No! This isn't right! Erbrechen threatened fire! There's supposed to be fire! Not more
—

Someone kicked him in the face and his vision shattered apart like a broken mirror. White agony. Blows fell upon his body from everywhere. There must have been more men he hadn't seen.

Where is the fire? The reflections showed me fire.

Oh gods. Had they lied?

Bedeckt came as close to the camp as he dared. He stood watching, hidden in the trees, covered by the dark of night. The camp followers were uniformly filthy. At a quick guess, he estimated thousands occupied this camp. Most milled about aimlessly or rutted in the mud or fought over something he couldn't see. Many weren't even wearing boots and most wore no more than a few strips of ratty clothing.

He'd seen this before, a long, long time ago. This was what
happened when people fell under the influence of a powerful Slaver-type Gefahrgeist; they lost all sense of self. These people were barely capable of feeding themselves, much less bathing or grooming. If it went on long enough, most would starve to death unless the Slaver thought to remind them to eat. And how rarely did Gefahrgeist think of others?

“You aren't going to get anything done from here,” he whispered to himself.

Well then, maybe you should just leave.

Bedeckt stood motionless. He saw nothing of the boy, but then the camp was the size of a small city, albeit one consisting solely of vagrants.

“Well, if you aren't going to get anything done from here, why not do it from somewhere farther away and much safer?”

Gods, he hated Slavers. Few things terrified him more than losing oneself in the self-aggrandizing delusions of another.

Walk away. Put this scene behind you
.

He stripped off his shirt, tossing it aside. Won't be needing that again. The air felt cold on his bare chest.

Go back and find Launisch
. With a few days riding he could be in Folgen Sienie.

Bedeckt reached into the mud and dug up a great fistful. He smeared it across his body and into his hair.

To hells with the boy and everyone who wants to use him. This was none of Bedeckt's problem.

He looked at his boots. Die with your boots on. Damned if he would take them off. When he figured he looked as much like one of the Slaver's pitiful drudges as he cared to, he scooped up his massive ax, slung it over his shoulder, and set off into camp. The ax would make him stand out in this crowd, but no way was he going anywhere without it.

Boots and ax. He needed nothing more.

He marched through the camp, pushing his way through mobs
drunk on worshiping their Slaver master. The air grew warmer the farther into the camp he got. Something or someone near the center of the camp was heating the atmosphere for acres around and he immediately knew what was causing it.
Shite.

Slavers might be frightening, but Hassebrands were downright dangerous.

When people saw him coming, they scattered out of his way like a flock of startled chickens. Most, however, were too lost to notice him. These he shoved rudely through. Few paid him any attention, but those who did stared unabashedly. As he pushed forward the air grew thick with heat, and soon he was sweating profusely.

Ahead he saw a huge litter, and sitting upon it a gelatinous mountain of a human. He couldn't tell from here if it was male or female; fat hid everything. A dozen men and women sat or stood near the litter, many muttering to themselves, picking at their flesh, or twitching at things unseen. The Slaver had gathered a cadre of Geisteskranken about him, and gods knew what delusions and powers they possessed. No way he could kill them all.

A young woman with shards of mirror glued to her flesh glanced at Bedeckt, eyes widening in apparent recognition. She looked to the Slaver, opening her mouth as if about to speak, and then stopped. Turning, the mirrored woman hurried away as if attempting to surreptitiously flee for her life.

What the hells was that about?
Had the Mirrorist woman seen something in the reflections?

Sitting cross-legged in the filth was a tall woman with a glistening bald skull. The air around her shimmered. Every now and then the woman's fists clenched and a wave of blistering heat swept off her. This then was the Hassebrand. Four men stood nearby, thin and hungry-looking. They were nothing, drudges of the Slaver. Dangerous only if they got in the way.

Bedeckt stopped.
Slaver or Hassebrand?
With a camp of followers
like this, the Slaver must be at the peak of his power. The Slaver could take him with a single word.

He glanced at the sitting Hassebrand. This was a woman beyond the pinnacle, well into a swift descent to madness. She might last days, but it could just as easily be minutes.

Who should he kill first?

The Hassebrand.

“So, boy,” said the Slaver, gesturing a massive arm at a pile of dirt. Fat swung underneath the arm like billowing curtains. “Do you wish for more? They're itching for more, you know. They keep asking if they can beat you further.”

From the pile of gathered filth Bedeckt heard a soft moan. A single glistening eye cracked open and stared directly at him. His mind fit the pieces together. There, bent at an impossible angle, a child's arm. Those weren't branches sticking from the mud, they were splayed fingers.

Morgen.

They'd broken the boy. Tortured the purest soul Bedeckt had ever met. They had crushed him to the filth, sullying more than just the boy's faith, but his very being. Bedeckt couldn't help thinking—knowing what he did about Morgen—that he knew what bothered the god-to-be more.

The ax came off its resting place on his shoulder as Bedeckt moved forward.

He would kill them all. Every single miserable living wretch without the will to turn against this Slaver or the wisdom to flee Bedeckt's wrath.

The drudges saw him and screamed something incomprehensible. Red bloody rage washed away all sound. His head filled with the slamming beat of his heart and the pulsating need to do death. The Slaver strained to turn his head far enough to see Bedeckt, eyes wide and wet, fat lips quivering. The mouth opened and said something.

Bedeckt didn't understand a word.

The Slaver's power was nothing compared to his rage. It wasn't delusion, but something more than that—a belief in himself based on experience and pride and fear and all the things that make a sane person able to cope in this mad world. He had one purpose and one purpose alone. He stepped past the Hassebrand, who glanced up at him but didn't otherwise move. He felt the hair on his head shrink and curl as a pulse of heat washed over him.

The Slaver's fat arm swung slowly around and pointed at Bedeckt. Fat lips writhed in terror and the drudges came at him. Bedeckt didn't slow. With a swing of his ax he cut the first one down. The man didn't try to defend himself, running straight into the blow. Bedeckt spun, slamming an elbow into the nose of the next as he ripped the ax from the chest of the first. Someone clawed at his muddy torso and he drew a dagger with his half hand, driving it into flesh in one swift motion. The body fell away, taking his dagger with it. The fourth dove at Bedeckt, seeking to tackle him, and met Bedeckt's raised knee. Nose shattering with a damp crunch, the drudge fell heavily into the mud, clutching at his face.

The whole camp came alive. Thousands of scrawny men and women surged forward, each desperate to be the one to reach Bedeckt. He couldn't kill them all. They'd drag him down.

But not before he did what he came to do.

Gehirn Schlechtes, once Hassebrand of the Geborene Damonen, loyal servant to Konig Furimmer, sat in the steaming mud, her arse soaked through, the skin blistering from the heat. She could do nothing to better her position. She watched a huge old man, back rippling with scarred muscle, step past her. Watched as the double-bladed ax, held in one massive scarred fist, swung
effortlessly off a broad shoulder. Watched as Erbrechen noticed the man. Saw bright fear blossom in the Slaver's eyes as the old man ignored his screamed commands and plaintive appeals for worship. The old man was stone-deaf or even more insane than Erbrechen.

“Kill him!” Erbrechen screamed at the nearby men when he realized his Gefahrgeist powers were having no effect. The four who had been beating Morgen charged forward, hurled themselves at the grizzled old man. The scarred warrior was liquid death. He flowed around and through them, leaving corpses and shattered bones in his wake.