“As long as it takes.”
“I’m not scared,” she said, hoping to impress Hexe.
“Then you’re a fool,” said the old woman. “This will scar you to your last day.” Hexe stood then, grunting as her ancient knees creaked. She left without another word.
For a week they fed her sips of water—barely enough to keep her alive in the GrasMeer sun—and she ate whatever insects came within range of her mouth. Otherwise, the tribe ignored her. People she grew up with walked past without so much as a glance, no matter how she begged. She would not exist until the trial broke her mind and they dug her out.
Early in the second week she pretended to lose her mind, babbling and drooling what little spit she had. She ranted random thoughts, screaming them as loud as her parched throat allowed. Hexe stood over her, watching for half a dozen heart beats, before grunting and wandering away. Somehow the old woman knew.
Two days later she thought some burrowing creature found her toes and was devouring them. She screamed and screamed and was ignored. Eventually her voice gave out and she screamed in silence. Something with a thousand thousand legs crawled circles under her hair as if deciding where to lay its eggs in her flesh.
Late one evening, near the end of the third week, Mother Earth spoke. It told her of the days before it became infected with humanity. It spoke of strange and ancient creatures, less than myths for ten thousand generations of man. It said mankind hunted them to extinction, decimating the great forests, and crushing the world beneath worked stone.
As her tribe lay sleeping, the spirit of the world gave her purpose. Erdbehüter would be the voice of earth and stone. She would command the bones of the world. Humanity was an infection and Erdbehüter would scrape it from the flesh of the Mother.
That night she dreamed of rocks pushing up from the unforgiving soil of the GrasMeer. Boulders, larger than the biggest tent, tore free and rolled screaming through the centre of her tribe’s temporary village. Later, when peace and silence once again claimed the air, she knew this was what the world was supposed to be. No one spoke. No one planned for tomorrow or worried about yesterday. The stars spun overhead, looking down upon an earth free of disease.
Erdbehüter slept then.
She woke as the earth pushed her free, gave birth to her, spilled her from a warm womb of maggots and damp soil. Nothing remained of her tribe, no hint humans polluted this hill. The horses’ corral had been sundered, splintered wood littering the ground. The beasts, still in tune with the spirit that birthed them, were untouched.
She’d taken a horse, ridden it north toward the city-states. Starting where the infection ran unchecked made sense. She would call the forth the bones of the earth, crush the works of man, return the world to its natural state. Somewhere south of Abgeleitete Leute, she fell afoul of a Slaver-type Gefahrgeist. She travelled with the band of enslaved followers for months before the motley group caught the attention of a newly Ascended god. Morgen burned the Slaver to ash—he had an unmistakable hatred for the breed—and those few who survived his cleansing fires joined the ranks of the Geborene Damonen. The godling took a special interest in Erdbehüter, brought her under his wing. He told her of his plans for a perfect world, showed her how it was one and the same as the world the earth spoke of.
“Humans are lost animals,” he said, and she saw the absolute rightness of his words. “With your help I will make them perfect animals.”
She gave herself to him then, promised her soul and all she was to his service. Sometimes she even thought she did it of her own free will.
“Rutting tent!” Ungeist kicked the heaped pile of fabric, glowering at the mess. His listless hair, usually combed forward to hide his receding hairline, hung limp and greasy.
Poles jutted at random angles, and the tent looked to be upside-down. The armpits of his white robes were stained yellow with sour sweat. He glanced at her through the fire and she saw what he was thinking.
“No,” she said.
He moved closer, sitting just beyond arm’s reach. “No what?”
“No to everything.”
He raised an eyebrow, giving her that hooded look she’d fallen for. “No to—”
“I’m not erecting your tent for you.”
“How about erecting—”
“No. We’re not sharing a sleeping roll.”
“But it’s the most natural thing for a man and a woman to do.” He gestured at the night sky, bright stars stabbing holes in darkness. “We are animals. We must give in to the urges of animals. Otherwise…” He left the rest unsaid, a challenge to her beliefs.
He knows me too well. He had a talent for talking his way between her thighs. While not a Gefahrgeist, he was still a skilled manipulator. All part of being a priest. Ungeist often travelled and proselytized, spreading the word. She wondered if he really believed or only served Morgen because it suited him.
“There is a stone about the size of your horse buried in the soil beneath your arse,” she said.
He glanced down, rubbed at the dirt with his fingers. “No need to—”
“If you try and touch me it will squish you like the bug you are.”
Ungeist nodded, glanced back at the ruin of his tent. “Were did we go wrong? I thought we were happy.”
“You were happy,” she said. “You decided everything for us. We always did what you wanted. I followed.”
He shrugged. “In every relationship someone must lead. You never seemed interested in leading. Don’t be angry at me that you are a born follower.”
“I’m not,” she said, keeping her calm. “Many times I tried to take the lead but you ignored me.”
“You weren’t forceful enough.” He shook his head. “Too quiet. You want me to lead.”
“I do not.”
“Every herd has its alpha. At the top of every flock and pride and school is a single animal.” Ungeist met her eyes and much as she hated to admit it, part of her wanted to rut him beneath the stars. “It’s natural,” he said. “It’s right.” He tilted his head to one side and offered the slightest shrug of apology as if to soften his words. “But you are not that animal.”
“The earth speaks to me, tells me of its need. My work leaves no room for following a man.”
“And Morgen?”
“He’s a god.” She couldn’t quite explain how the Geborene godling was different. His purpose was hers. Though it never said as much, somehow she was sure the earth wanted her to follow him. Or had he told her that?
Shuffling closer, Ungeist reached for her thigh.
He never listens. Everything she said went through him like a fish through water. “Squish,” she said, pinching thumb to forefinger. “Like a bug.”
The earth beneath him heaved and Ungeist ceased his advance, frowning in petulant annoyance. He glanced at the horses tethered nearby. Their eyes rolled as they looked skyward.
“Drache must be up there,” he said. “She scares them.”
She scares me too. Drache was the perfect animal, a flawless killer. In her dragon form, no hint of morality or human emotion tainted her.
“I’ll mount you like a stallion,” Ungeist said. “You know how much you enjoy that. We’ll rut like animals in the filth. We’ll bite and scream and claw.” He shuffled closer. “Drache can watch.”
A terrible wind flattened them both to the earth and scattered Erdbehüter’s fire, blowing bright embers everywhere. One of the horses screamed as claws the length of short swords sank into its flank and dragged it kicking and thrashing into the sky. The two remaining horses tore their tethers free and bolted into the night.
“Shite,” whispered Ungeist from where he curled in a desperate attempt to make himself a smaller target.
A fine mist of warm blood rained down upon them, staining their white Geborene robes red. Chunks of something sodden fell nearby.
Ungeist tore his gaze from the sky. “We’ll find the other horses in the morning,” he said, pawing at his eyes to wipe them
clean. It sounded like an order rather than a suggestion.
“No,” she said. “Drache would only eat them.” A trickle of horse gore ran from her hairline and past her right eye like a sanguine tear. She touched her face and found it slick. Her fingers came away crimson and warm with spilled life.
The embers Drache’s wings scattered about their camp caught and Ungeist’s tent went up with a roar.
The man flinched, suddenly lit orange in flickering flames. “Shite!” Attention jumping from the inky sky above to the inferno of his tent, he looked lost. Scared.
I like him better this way.
It wasn’t an urge to protect or mother, but rather the desire to take advantage of him in his weakened state. Could she keep him like this, keep him in a state of nervous terror? With Drache above, it shouldn’t be too difficult.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Erdbehüter told Ungeist. “I am going to rut you.”
He glanced at her, lips moving as if struggling to make words. “Are you mad?” He gestured at the sky. “She’s up there. She might…she could…at any time…” He waved his hands miming being torn from the earth, “Whoosh! You’re gone!”
There are worse ways to die than feeding the perfect predator. Erdbehüter smacked the ground at her side and found it a bloody mud. “I’m going to rut you in the muck. I’ll be on top.”
Desire got the better of him and he moved closer, his eyes already taking on that measuring look he wore when trying to decide how to win.
“And if you try and control this,” she said. “Squish. Like a bug. You’ll do what I want when I want.”
He swallowed and nodded and she knew he was trying to convince himself he won. She didn’t care. This wasn’t about him.
Later, as Erdbehüter rode Ungeist like only a woman from the GrasMeer can ride a man, grinding and screaming and clawing at his chest, Drache dropped the remains of the horse close enough to shower them with steaming guts. It wasn’t until morning that Erdbehüter wondered whether the Therianthrope tried to kill them.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The philosophers study this responsive reality, muse at its underpinnings, admire the laws governing insanity. They don’t dig deep enough. If reality is delusion, everything is an illusion. We are not what we think we are.
Flesh and bone are myths, constructs of delusion. Are they our constructs, or the products of the reality in which we exist? Is this it, or is there something beyond, some greater truth?
What all seem to ignore is the laws which aren’t laws, those axioms which define our world and yet are mutable, susceptible to delusion. Objects fall downward, drawn toward the centre of the universe, their natural place. Everyone knows this. And yet, a single powerful Geisteskranken can change this fact, if just for a moment. When the Geisteskranken dies, or leaves the area, objects return to their natural behaviour. Is this a reality reasserting itself, or the beliefs of the masses once again defining local laws? I have attempted to study the phenomenon but my own existence taints the very reality I wish to study.
It’s circular.
We are doomed to ignorance.
—Vorstellung - Natural Philosopher
Bedeckt rode east. A cold wind blew from the north, presaging colder days ahead. Zukunft trailed behind, huddled in a shawl as if winter had already arrived.
She’d looked into her mirror that morning, asked questions and sat in silence, skirt hiked to expose the shapely thighs of her crossed legs. Sometimes she nodded as if listening and her face moved through an array of expressions. Bedeckt paced circles around her, trying to look at everything else.
Finally, she muttered something under her breath and stuffed the mirror back in its bag with angry, jerky movements.
“What?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” she answered.
Since then she’d been quiet and uncommunicative.
Bedeckt didn’t like it. What had she seen? Why wouldn’t she tell him?
If we get there and the damned boy is dead…. Bedeckt pushed the pace and Zukunft followed without complaint.
The clouds, which appeared on the previous evening, darkened, became heavy and pregnant with the threat of rain.
“I hate the rain,” said Bedeckt, and Arsehole grumbled agreement, ears flicking.
Zukunft, who spent most of the night complaining of how cold she was, shrugged and said nothing, hiding deeper in her shawl.
The sky was a smear of rotting iron. Time ceased to have meaning as the sun and all hints as to its location disappeared. Though he felt sure it couldn’t have been much past noon, it looked and felt more like early evening. Hunching forward in the saddle, he tried to shield himself from the wind clawing away all warmth.
This is shite. I should be in a warm tavern with a warm woman—he shoved away the thought of Zukunft unclothed—and plenty of ale. He felt old and the cold seeped through his clothes and deep into his bones. I am old. If he gave up this life of violence, ate well and drank less ale, he could expect what, another fifteen years before he once again found himself in the Afterdeath? Fifteen years. That was nothing. The last decade was a blur of violence and petty crime, whores and ale. Gods, he felt like he’d been forty just yesterday.
And if you gave up this life, what then?
What would he do? He had no craft, no skills beyond brutality. Could he purchase a stable of whores and find someone to run the business for him?
With what? You’re broke. Again. As always. This time he didn’t have Stehlen to blame.
“We’re close,” said Zukunft.
Bedeckt blinked, again aware of his surroundings, and reined Arsehole to a stop. With Launisch he’d have achieved the same result with a subtle squeeze of both knees, but this animal was not trained to such cues. Gods, he missed that horse.
They followed a trail left by the caravans travelling between Selbsthass and Grunlugen. A sparse forest of towering trees, their leaves showing the first blush of fall, clung to the rolling landscape. Beneath the trees tangles of gorse and nettles made do with what light they received. Ahead the land rolled into a valley where some unnamed river flowed south to meet with the Flussrand. Bedeckt travelled this route before, but not in decades. Hopefully the bridge crossing that river still stood. With the Geborene becoming militant and threatening holy war with their neighbours, he wouldn’t be surprised if someone had sunk it.
“How close?” he asked, whispering.
“Close.”
Bedeckt listened. He heard nothing above the usual sounds of the wild, birds and animals going about their daily business of killing and eating and rutting. If there was a family being murdered nearby, they were awfully quiet about it.
“Are we early?” he asked. “Did we get here first?”
Zukunft drew her mirror out and stared into it. Scowling, she shrugged.
Gods-damned useless Geisteskranken.
Bedeckt examined their surroundings. There were too many hiding places for his liking. If the Täuschung priests saw them coming, they could be lurking behind heavy shrubbery or even watching from up a tree. His back itched with the feel of watching eyes. Did someone have him in the sights of their crossbow? Sliding from the saddle, Bedeckt crouched low, trying to make himself a smaller target.
Want to be a smaller target, try being less fat.
Zukunft remained mounted and he hissed, gesturing for her to dismount. If she brought him here so she could get killed, he’d kill her.
The forest remained quiet, but not too quiet. Were there men lurking about, it should be quieter. Bedeckt eased his axe from where it hung over his back and handed Arsehole’s reins to Zukunft.
“Stay,” he said.
She nodded, eyes wide.
Still crouching, Bedeckt crept forward. His knees groaned complaint. Off to his left, the land sloped down and he followed, looking at the shrubs, darting glances up into the trees, and examining the dirt path. He saw no fresh tracks. No one had come this way in some time. He couldn’t decide if that was good or
bad.
I should hear something. The Täuschung. The family. Anything. Was the Mirrorist wrong? Were they in the wrong place or had the delusional wench misunderstood whatever she saw in her mirror?
And then he smelled it, the all too familiar stench of torn flesh and opened guts. They weren’t early, they hadn’t arrived before the family or the murderous Täuschung. They were too late.
Bedeckt followed the razor tang of blood, no longer concerned with ambush. He found the family at the bottom of the valley, the husband bound to a tree by his own intestines. The wife he found staked to the ground, crudely hewn stakes driven through her wrists and into the hard earth beneath. Her legs were spread wide, ankles lashed to two more stakes. Pale skin shone white where not smeared with mire and blood or darkened with mottled bruises. Her clothes, slashed away, lay in a crumpled heap. She glistened, flesh damp with dew. In the centre of the clearing sat a sodden ash-pit, all that remained of a long dead fire. The Täuschung took their time here, stayed the night. The wreckage of their revelries, no doubt the meagre possessions of this family, were strewn about as if scattered by an enraged child.
Bedeckt’s skull throbbed. His chest tightened, each exhalation a snarl ground out between clenched teeth. His hand gripped the axe.
He surveyed the shattered camp. He saw where the Täuschung slept, exhausted from their evening’s entertainment. He saw the tracks where they left the next morning, returning east.
They followed these people for this, he realized. Gods-damned religions. He wanted to crush every fool without the strength of character to turn their back on the endless pantheons of mad Ascended. What could they possibly believe that justified this? Even Bedeckt, with his short list, wouldn’t have done this. Sure, he’d steal. Kill even, should the need arise. But this was senseless, wanton destruction and torture for no purpose beyond savage pleasure.
Bedeckt heard Zukunft approach, leading the horses. She gasped as she entered the clearing, a small sound of appalled terror and revulsion. He ignored her, pacing a wide circle around the remains of the fire. Finding the torn and bloodied clothes of a child of no more than a dozen years, he stopped.
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