The Mirror's Truth: A Novel of Manifest Delusions

by Michael R. Fletcher

  “Keep the Geisteskranken back,” he said to Misserfolg. “I want them held in reserve.” Not that I’ll need them. His ranks of sane soldiers were more than enough to take Unbrauchbar. “Have the troops ready for when the Dys—”

  The gates to Unbrauchbar swung open and Morgen saw the dozen remaining Dysmorphics engaged in a fierce battle with the city’s defenders. The hugely muscled men and women might cut through armour like it was nothing with those monstrous swords, but they were greatly outnumbered.

  “Shite,” swore Morgen, ignoring the shocked widening of Misserfolg’s eyes. His army was nowhere near the wall and to get them there before the Dysmorphics were overrun would require breaking ranks. Gone was his plan of marching fifteen thousand soldiers in perfect formation.

  It would have looked so beautiful, said Nacht, commiserating.

  “Arsehole,” sneered Morgen aloud, again ignoring Misserfolg.

  “Move on the gate,” commanded Morgen.

  Misserfolg marched away, shouting orders.

  He’s going to try and do it neatly, said Nacht. He knows that’s what you want and isn’t willing to disappoint.

  Morgen watched two more Dysmorphics fall.

  They’ll be dead and the gates closed long before Misserfolg has the troops anywhere near the wall, said Nacht.

  “Shite,” Morgen swore again. “Misserfolg!”

  The General spun, snapping to attention. He stood rigid but looked ready to hurl himself to the mud should his god be displeased.

  Is he even breathing? Nacht asked.

  Morgen ignored his Reflection. “We don’t have time for this,” he told Misserfolg. “Get the men there before the gate closes.”

  “Charge!” screamed Misserfolg, throat tearing, voice ripping with the effort. “Charge! Charge! Charge!”

  Whatever held Morgen’s soldiers in their perfect ranks broke, snapped like catgut pulled too tight. Men and women screamed, rushing the city gates, weapons drawn. Gone was his perfect army. Gone were his beautiful formations, his perfect plan. Every minute spent moving his toy soldiers was a goat-rutting waste of time.

  The Geborene army descended on Unbrauchbar as an unruly mob, howling murder. Within the city, the few hundred defenders fell back and were swarmed and cut down. If quarter was asked, none was given.

  Morgen watched in horror as fires were sparked and tore through a centuries-old city built mostly of wood. Where was his perfect battle, his rows of orderly soldiers? Where was his bloodless victory?

  He didn’t know how long he stood watching before finally following his army and entering the city. Even though Unbrauchbar fell within moments of the first Geborene soldiers clearing the wall, the slaughter continued. He witnessed countless scenes of rape and murder, most perpetrated by his own people. Corpses littered the ground. The wounded moaned or cried or clutched at torn flesh, unable to understand or accept what happened to them.

  Will you have your army stay a few days to clean this up? Nacht asked from a shard of glass in a broken window.

  Morgen watched three Geborene priests drag a woman to the ground and tear away her clothes. “Why are they doing this?”

  They’re imperfect, flawed.

  “I didn’t tell them to do this. The city is taken. Why…”

  War is chaos and filth and blood. The very concept is insane. Clucking like a disappointed hen, Nacht watched the three priests. Those aren’t Geisteskranken. These are your sane. We’re a flawed species.

  “I could have taken the city with my Gefahrgeist power, couldn’t I?”

  Probably, Nacht agreed.

  “I’ll never listen to you again.”

  You will. Unbrauchbar might fall to your pathetic need for worship—

  “I don’t need worship.”

  Where do you think your Gefahrgeist power comes from?

  “My followers believe I can—”

  Come now, you don’t really believe that. Konig fed you that shite to keep you from questioning. He was probably afraid of facing the truth himself.

  “The faithful of Selbsthass define—”

  They define the delusions you suffer.

  “No, I—”

  You’ve had no real interaction with the people who worship you. You have no idea what they believe. Think of this in their terms: Who has power? Geisteskranken. If they believe you have power, you must also be Geisteskranken.

  Was Nacht right? Did his followers worship a god they believed insane? That made no sense. Who would follow a mad god? But the philosophers claimed all gods were deranged. Even the ancient gods—those who were supposed to have hallucinated humanity into existence—were insane. Humanity was not only willing to worship mad gods, but it seemed to be a prerequisite for devotion.

  You understand, said Nacht.

  “I crave worship. I am a Gefahrgeist.”

  You’re a Slaver.

  Morgen wanted to argue but he remembered the rush of robbing General Misserfolg of all choice and will. He thought back to how good it felt to crush Konig to the floor.

  That’s just the beginning, said Nacht. You’re also a powerful Hassebrand, Mirrorist, and Halluzin. There is no delusion you can’t manifest. There is nothing your followers don’t believe you capable of.

  But that meant he was completely insane!

  And your belief you can create perfection from madness is the crowning proof.

  Turning his back on the rape, Morgen faced his Reflection. “So that’s what you’re doing! You want me to give up!”

  Nacht laughed, boyish face open and honest. No, not at all.

  “The mirror ever lies.”

  Of course. But there are so many ways to lie. I don’t want you to give up.

  “Then what?”

  You’re not ready yet.

  Not ready? Morgen thought back to the garrison at the border, how Nacht asked him to wait before crossing the bridge. “You wanted me to see the destruction my soldiers left behind.”

  Nacht shrugged, dirty face stretched in a carefree grin.

  “Why didn’t you want me to take Unbrauchbar with my Gefahrgeist power?” Gods, the lives he could have saved. There would have been none of this.

  I told you we wouldn’t reach Gottlos. At least not this time. If you took Unbrauchbar any other way, you wouldn’t have seen the truth of war. Thinking that playing with your toy soldiers is anything like war is purest delusion. Nacht eyed him. Or purest stupidity.

  “This changes nothing.”

  Only because you haven’t seen everything I want to show you. Remember, you kept back your cadres of the deranged. There are no Geborene Geisteskranken within the city. Nacht laughed again, smirking. Can you imagine what this place would look like with a few score psychotics running rampant?

  “You think I can’t make sanity from madness, but I can. I will. This world is flawed. People are suffering. I can help them.”

  Nacht blinked in disbelief. You can help them?

  “I want what’s best for humanity.”

  Horse shite. You don’t care about humanity. Three men—three of your priests—are raping a woman not ten feet from you and you’ve done nothing to stop it.

  Morgen pulled the shard of glass from the shattered window and stared down at his Reflection.

  They are nothing to you, said Nacht. You’re a god.

  The Geborene god threw the glass to the street, grinding it under his heel.

  Morgen found General Misserfolg and commanded the man to form up the troops beyond the city walls. When they marched south they left behind a scene of utter devastation, a city on fire. He had no idea how many citizens lay dead, but according to Misserfolg, the Geborene lost fewer than two-hundred. Half of that to fighting amongst themselves.

  Before abandoning the ruined city, Morgen ordered the Unbrauchbar survivors gathered together and crushed their will with his drowning need for worship. They followed as additional support staff. Now that he admitted to himself what he was, it became easier. He needed them and th
ey needed him. Symbiosis, he told himself. I’ll make them perfect people in a perfect world. Until then, he needed unquestioning loyalty and obedience. He made the enslaved a cadre of thoughtless worshippers. He told them exactly what he needed them to believe and they believed it. It was past time to take his theories off the gaming table. Nacht was right. Playing with toy soldiers was nothing like real war. It was a hard lesson, but he learned it.

  Gottlos would be different. At the capital, he wouldn’t let Nacht distract him from his perfect plans.

  I’ll practice with these few thousand enslaved souls. Unsure exactly what it was he wanted from them, he would take time to fine-tune their beliefs. Come to think of it, Misserfolg was more agreeable since Morgen saved him from the burden of free will. He obeyed commands perfectly and unquestioningly. Morgen glanced over his shoulder at the ranks marching behind him. If they were all like that, the tragedy at Unbrauchbar never would have happened.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  A philosopher once told me there were no facts, that in a responsive reality there could be no truth. He was wrong. It’s all fact. Everything is true.

  —Anonymous

  “I can’t believe people think they can work this land,” said Wichtig, nodding at the remains of a farmhouse. Half the building looked to have burned down and fallen in at some point in the last century. A woman with three children sat in the other half, skinning something scrawny to the point of emaciation. The kids watched Wichtig and Opferlamm ride past with distrustful eyes, ready to dart for corners and hiding places should the riders prove dangerous.

  We’re dangerous, but only to people with a damned sight more wealth than you lot.

  Out in a field, a gangly man chopped at the clay soil like he meant to kill it.

  “Who does this?” asked Wichtig. “Who wanders out into the shittiest part of nowhere so they can work soil that’s more stone than earth?” He slapped Opferlamm on the shoulder and pointed at the farmer. “Look at him. Look how hard he’s working.”

  “My pa said hard work made a man,” said the young Swordswoman.

  “Your pa is an idiot. Look at him,” he said again. “His back won’t last more than five years of that. He’ll be old and broken before he’s thirty, and what will he have to show?”

  “A field, cleared by his own hand and a crop of whatever he’s going to plant?”

  “Don’t be a fool, nothing grows here.”

  “What about that?” asked Opferlamm, pointing at a bent tuft of something fibrous jutting from the mud.

  “That shite grows everywhere,” said Wichtig. “Can’t eat it, can’t cook it, can’t even weave damned baskets out of it. That’s why it’s called Gods’ Joke.”

  The girl squinted at the plant. “Is it really?”

  “How the hells would I know? Do I look like a damned farmer?”

  Opferlamm accepted this without comment. “You came south, from Selbsthass, right?”

  Wichtig growled at the memory of the border garrison and the Körperidentität torturer. “Yes.”

  “I heard it was a militant theocracy, that everyone has to wear white and wash their hands a thousand time a day.”

  Wichtig grunted.

  “What is it really like?”

  “You know how Gottlos is cold and grey and hasn’t seen the sun in forever?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know how Unbrauchbar is an utter shite hole, how the streets are filthy and crooked and smell of puke and piss?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know how everyone south of the Flussrand looks like a rat crawled up their arse and died, how they all seem to be waiting to drop dead?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know how Gottlos already seems beaten even though Selbsthass hasn’t made a move against them? You know how it’s always cold and shitty and the ground muddy and the women mean and no one has ale, just that awful kartoffel shite?”

  “Uh huh,” said Opferlamm.

  “Selbsthass isn’t like that.”

  “Oh.” Opferlamm rode on in silence for a dozen heart beats. “So it’s better?”

  “Everywhere is better than Gottlos,” said Wichtig. He thought about it, scratching his chin with the ruin of his left hand. “Except for Neidrig. And Neidrig is gone.”

  The day, already overcast, grew darker. Wichtig went from pleasantly cool to shivering and cold in less time than it took Bedeckt to finish a pint. He huddled his cloak tighter for warmth and gestured at one of the rare trees as they rode past.

  “Look at that. See the way the edges of the leaves turn to the colours of fall first, like the blush of a virgin on the edge of orgasm.”

  “Huh?” Opferlamm fidgeted in her saddle. “It’s kind of orange.”

  “Orange?” Wichtig sighed. “Being a Swordsman isn’t about hacking people into pieces, though that part is fun too. You must be a poet. You must notice the world around you, see it in a way different than the dull minds of the common folk.”

  “It’s a pretty orange.”

  “Winning duels means winning people. How can you win people if you cannot turn the language to your advantage?” He studied Opferlamm with grim displeasure and she sank deeper into her saddle as if trying to hide. “And more importantly, how are you going to talk boys into bed?” Wichtig gestured at a jagged rock ahead. “There. Tell me about that.”

  “It’s a rock?”

  “Make it beautiful,” said Wichtig.

  “Do you do this?” asked Opferlamm. “Do you practice describing things and winning crowds?”

  “No,” lied Wichtig. “Now do it.”

  Opferlamm grumbled something under her breath and glared at the rock. “It’s grey?”

  “Stop asking and tell.”

  “It’s grey.”

  “Oh, wow,” gushed Wichtig, dripping sarcasm, “I love grey. Do better.”

  “That part there juts out like an erect—”

  “Don’t mention cocks unless you can be funny.”

  “I…” Opferlamm tilted her head as if examining the rock from another angle might help. “It kind of looks like a fat woman lounging in a mud bath.”

  “Gods, you’re terrible at this. Stop before I change my mind about this entire apprenticeship thing.” Bedeckt might be a block of wood, but at least he understood Wichtig. Even if he pretended not to.

  “I am really very, very good with a sword,” said Opferlamm. “That must count for—”

  “Nothing.”

  “But it’s the Greatest Swordsman—”

  Wichtig waved her to silence with a slash of his half-hand and slid from Blöd’s back. The horse grunted a contented sigh like carrying him was some crushing burden on its soul.

  “Shut up,” Wichtig told the horse. He gestured for his apprentice to dismount. “I’m going to show you how useless your skill with that sword is.”

  “We’re going to practice? Finally!” Opferlamm dismounted, drawing her sword. She turned to face Wichtig, taking a guard position. When Wichtig didn’t draw steel she said, “Um…are you going to…”

  “No,” said Wichtig, waving Opferlamm forward. “Come try and stab me.”

  “Um…okay.” She shuffled closer, alert for the trap she knew must await.

  “One thing,” said Wichtig.

  Opferlamm stopped. “Yes?”

  Wichtig stared her down with flat grey eyes, drove his Gefahrgeist power against the youth’s mind. “When you get close enough, I’m going to kill you.”

  “I—what?”

  “I’m going to leave your corpse here.” Wichtig glanced toward the farmer who had stopped hacking at the mud to watch the two Swordsmen. “Maybe he’ll bury you.” Wichtig shrugged. “Or maybe they’ll eat you. They look hungry.”

  Opferlamm licked her lips. “I don’t think—”

  “Come.” Wichtig again waved her forward.

  Opferlamm shook her head, retreating a step. “I don’t want to die here.”

  “See,” said Wichtig, bowing wi
th a flourish. “I beat you without even drawing my sword. How valuable was my skill with steel there?”

  Opferlamm accepted this with a glum nod. “I understand.” She brightened. “But sometimes Swordsmen really do have to fight. You can’t beat everyone with words. And I really am quite good.”

  “Don’t move.”

  Opferlamm stood motionless as Wichtig hunted the soil for a stick. When he one, he turned to face his apprentice, brandishing it like a sword. “Come at me.”

  “Are you going to kill me?” Opferlamm asked.

  “Of course not. I was lying about that.”

  “Oh.” Opferlamm shuffled forward, sword ready. She stopped. “Are you lying now?”

  “One way to find out.”

  She eyed him for a moment and then shrugged and resumed her advance.

  Wichtig disarmed his apprentice a dozen times, each bout ending with the youth sprawled in the mud. He called a halt when the girl looked ready to pass out from exhaustion.

  “What’s the lesson?” he demanded, standing relaxed.

  “You’re a better Swordsman than I,” said Opferlamm, climbing to her feet and brushing the worst of the muck from her clothes.

  “I wasn’t using a sword.”

  “But…” Opferlamm blinked, looking lost.

  While they sparred, the dark clouds went from looking like bruises to something closer to a swirl of bog water stained with dysentery. A sharp wind, cold and damp, raised goosebumps on Wichtig’s arms and tried to muss his hair. He changed positions to ensure the wind worked with him. With a blinding slash of lightning, the sky dumped hell on them, a torrential downpour of icy rain.

  “Let’s go,” said Wichtig, yelling to be heard over the rumble of thunder.

  They rode toward Gottlos, hunched against the biting wind, Wichtig leading, Opferlamm following in his wake. Wichtig caught snatches of muttered conversation as the lass talked to herself, trying to describe everything they passed, struggling to make it beautiful.