The Mirror's Truth: A Novel of Manifest Delusions

by Michael R. Fletcher

  Cresting a hill, he saw a run-down farmhouse in the valley below. Much of the roof looked to have fallen in. There was an odd clearing around the building. No rocks or dead lay within a score of strides of the farmhouse. Morgen was about to repair the farmhouse when, on a whim, he decided to leave it as it was. He didn’t know why. It looked somehow sad.

  Morgen entered the homestead through the door even though most of one wall was now a gaping wound. Blood dripped from every surface and long ropes of innards hung from the rafters. Bedeckt lay at his feet, dirty and scarred and stinking of infection, still as only the dead can be. The old man’s face hung slack, not quite peaceful, but also not the way the dead usually looked.

  “Where are you?” Morgen asked the corpse. “Who killed you?”

  No bonds of service bound Morgen.

  The moment Bedeckt left the Afterdeath the Warrior’s Credo ceased to bind you, said Nacht from a shard of glass in a shattered window. The Reflection glanced around, examining the interior of the farmhouse. He returned his attention to Morgen. He was just an old man, never a real threat.

  “Then why am I here?” asked the Geborene god, confused.

  I needed to get you out of Selbsthass so you could understand the reality of war.

  Morgen thought back to Unbrauchbar, how his Reflection tricked him into sending his soldiers in instead of taking the city himself. “Why?” he asked again. He saw Stehlen’s corpse sprawled in the filth and blood. She’d been run through with a sword. Had Wichtig killed her? Impossible. Lebendig lay nearby, one of Stehlen’s knives in her throat. Were they together again, united in the Afterdeath? Had the Kleptic found happiness? He doubted it.

  You need me, said Nacht.

  “No, I don’t.”

  War is too dirty, too chaotic for you.

  “The City-states will fall to my will.”

  You’re thinking too small, said Nacht, smug as ever.

  “Conquering all the world is small?”

  You think you face armies comprised of the sane backed by a few Geisteskranken. That’s not the case. You are not the only Ascended mortal. The other gods will rise up against you. At the least they will negate your power. You will still need to war in the old way. Men and women will fight and die for you and it will be bloody. Nacht nodded at the gruesome scene in the farmhouse. And what of the elder gods?

  “They’re gone.”

  Are you sure? What if they’re watching? Might they be angered by your plans for their reality?

  “They abandoned us.” Morgen scowled at his Reflection. “And if they return they will answer to me.”

  Nacht shrugged, uncaring. Every Ascended, every local god, every spirit, hero, and numen will resist you. You threaten them.

  “I can handle—”

  And if they unite? You know there will be war, filthy bloody chaotic war. You know it in your bones. The earth shall suffer, torn by marching feet. You can fix the damage after, but you’re still going to have to cause that damage. Can you do that?

  Morgen remembered the sight of the trampled earth after his army marched through Selbsthass. Tens of thousands of men and women and horses eating and shitting and making a mess. Someday he’d be able to make them so perfect they wouldn’t destroy everything they walked over, but that day was a long way off. War would continue to be a thing of destruction and devastation.

  “What are you suggesting?” he asked his Reflection. Beyond the collapsed wall, he spotted Ungeist, robes beyond filthy and stained red with blood. Someone had stabbed him in the belly.

  Nacht grinned stained teeth. Look at me. I am everything you are not. I revel in chaos and war. I can lead your armies. I will run your war. I will do the filthy things you cannot, so that you may build your perfect world. I will serve you perfectly.

  Morgen laughed at the audacity of the Reflection. “Why would you do that?”

  Because I know you will fail. This is a dirty world. Rules and cleanliness are temporary. Chaos and filth are forever. You will try and build perfection, and then you will watch it crumble at your feet. The cost will break you. And I will be there and you will need me. I will take from you the heavy burden and you will gladly hand it to me.

  “You are wrong. When all the world worships me as perfect, I shall make the world perfect.”

  Then you have nothing to fear from using me. You will build your perfect world, growing in power. In the end, you will be all powerful and I, faulty and fallible, unable to resist you.

  Nacht was right. Morgen couldn’t face the chaos and filth of war. And his Reflection was perfectly suited for the terrible task. Perfectly suited. Perfect for the job at hand. Perfect. Morgen nodded. I’ll use Nacht, but never trust him. He might let Nacht command armies, but he’d never give the Reflection real power. It would be no great task to ensure his people worshipped Morgen and only Morgen. He glanced at Nacht. And when I no longer need you as you are, I will make you perfect too.

  “You will lead my armies,” Morgen said.

  Nacht bowed, making no attempt to hide his smirk. Then we must return to Selbsthass.

  “Why?”

  I showed you flashes of the future before you Ascended. Would you like to see tomorrow?

  Morgen stared into the sliver of glass as his Reflection disappeared, replaced by the Theocrat. Behind the Theocrat sat a hand mirror showing the great hall. The mirror was empty.

  “Failure—”

  Is free, said Nacht. He’s taken back his city. He’s turning the people against you.

  “Bastard.”

  You’ll have to retake your own city.

  “If you aren’t lying,” said Morgen, “then you need me as much as I need you.”

  Nacht bowed again. Just so. We are together in this, united. He examined Morgen, eyes mocking and bright, dirty face framed in tangled blond hair. For now.

  Morgen looked north toward Selbsthass. Crushing Konig would be nothing. He wanted to return. The thought of improving all his believers as he had his army, ran shivers of excitement through him. He craved their perfect worship. He saw at Unbrauchbar what happened when he allowed his believers the freedom of choice. For so long he believed a person’s reasons must matter, but he was wrong. Such flawed creatures could never make perfect choices, could never have perfect reasons. When they are perfect, I’ll return to them their freedom.

  Morgen nodded, accepting. “We return immediately.”

  ***

  Nacht watched Morgen give the ruined farmhouse one last look, eyes lingering on Bedeckt’s corpse, before marching away to return to his enslaved troops. He looks sad, scared.

  Was this a victory? In spite of everything playing out exactly as Nacht wanted—from Morgen’s embracing his madness and enslaving his own people, to the godling’s handing over control of the Selbsthass army—it didn’t feel like it. He felt like while he manipulated Morgen, someone else pulled his strings. How could everything lead here with no chance of ending differently? Who could do that? Could a Mirrorist achieve such power and control without tilting over the Pinnacle? It seemed unlikely.

  Originally he planned on playing the long game, slowly dragging Morgen down, drowning the pristine little shite in filth and blood. The godling’s obsession with cleanliness and order would break him when he finally understood the world could never be that. The more Nacht thought about it, the more he saw Morgen as a weakness.

  I need to be real. And sooner rather than later.

  Nacht examined Stehlen’s corpse. Gods she was hideous. She’s perfect. Once again dead, she’d be in the Afterdeath along with whoever she killed in her short time among the living. Probably dozens.

  Could he use her?

  Of course I can.

  But should he? Stehlen was dangerous.

  Manipulating her will be easy.

  EPILOGUE

  We live meaningless lives and then die. Why should the Afterdeath be any different?

  —Unknown

  Stehlen lay on the floor in a farmhouse
located somewhere south of Unbrauchbar but still north of Gottlos, the capital. Her sword and two of her knives were gone. She didn’t have to check, she just knew. She felt their absence. Those saddle bags—loaded with wealth stolen from the border garrison—were gone too. She’d dropped them somewhere.

  Peering over her shoulder, she saw the pommel of Wichtig’s second sword. Did he leave it with me on purpose, to make sure I have a good blade in the Afterdeath? Or did he realize a man with only one good hand had little use for two swords? She couldn’t imagine him being thoughtful.

  Pushing herself to a sitting position, she glanced about the ruined house. Here, in the Afterdeath, the wall and ceiling had not been destroyed by a plummeting horse. Here the floor wasn’t littered with the corpses of friends and lovers. There was, however, a crowd huddled together, watching her. Waiting. A score or so she recognized as the guards and staff of the Gottlos garrison.

  “She’s awake,” said the leathery old guard, nudging his partner in the ribs with a sharp elbow.

  “I can see that,” said the fat one. “I’m not stupid.”

  The Swordsman she killed in Unbrauchbar was there too. He still didn’t have a sword.

  The Geborene Wahnist who thought she controlled earth and stone stepped forward, eyes round with madness. Death did nothing to distance her from the Pinnacle.

  “The Warrior’s Credo says I must serve,” she said. “But I serve only—”

  Unwilling to hear more, Stehlen killed her.

  “And me?” said Lebendig, pushing her way to the front of the crowd. “What will you do with me?”

  Stehlen bowed her head, stared at the earthen floor.

  I killed her. Again. She must serve, but how could she ever forgive?

  She blinked and tears fell on her sodden boots.

  You kept promising her you would talk.

  But she always let something distract her. She was a coward.

  Well you’re dead. Still afraid?

  She met her lover’s gaze. “I will go on doing as I have always done,” she said.

  Lebendig watched, said nothing, gave nothing away.

  “I will go on loving you.”

  “It’s easier, isn’t it,” said Lebendig. “It’s easier when you know I have no choice but to—”

  “I free you from your bonds of service,” said Stehlen. “I have no hold on you. I free you all.”

  After a moment of confusion, the crowd realized what happened and a score of heartbeats later Stehlen and Lebendig stood alone in the farmhouse.

  “Will you kill me now?” asked Stehlen.

  “Do you think I could?”

  “Probably not.”

  Lebendig nodded her acceptance.

  “Are you leaving now?” Stehlen asked, voice small.

  “Not yet.”

  “Are you waiting until I sleep to kill me?”

  Lebendig shrugged, said nothing.

  “You’re going to travel with me?”

  “For a while.”

  A smile, alien and uncomfortable for its rarity, stretched Stehlen’s mouth. “Good.”

  “One thing,” said the Swordswoman, digging into her pocket.

  Stehlen watched as she drew forth three carved wooden toys.

  “I died with these in my possession,” said Lebendig. She examined Stehlen through narrowed eyes. “Want them?”

  “They’re safer with you.”

  Of course, if she changed her mind, nothing in all the world could stop her from getting them back.

  “Excuse me,” said a dirty-faced child peering from a shard of broken glass.

  Stehlen glanced at the boy. “Morgen?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “You’re his Reflection.”

  “Brains as well as beauty,” said the Reflection. “Morgen says you have performed wonderfully, exactly as expected.” The boy grinned stained teeth. “You even stole the figurines just as he wanted.”

  Stehlen’s hands clenched tight. “Liar.”

  “He says you are to return to Selbsthass to collect your reward and a pat on the head for being a good little dog.”

  “I’m coming to Selbsthass,” she said.

  “Good.”

  “I’m going to kill the little shite.”

  The Reflection grinned and was gone.

  “I think that’s what he wanted,” said Lebendig.

  “I know,” said Stehlen.

  They used her, used her friends. Because of Morgen and his Reflection, Bedeckt was dead. He was gone. Forever. As was any chance of them finding happiness together. They stole that from me. Because of Morgen and his Reflection, she and Lebendig were once again dead.

  They stole our life together.

  “Before he showed his filthy little face,” said Stehlen, “I didn’t know about the Reflection. But now…now I’m going to kill them both.”

  No one steals from me.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  What a rollercoaster this book has been. There are so many people I want to thank that to get to all of them I’d have to write another novel. Forgive me if I cheat a little.

  As always, I must thank my wife. She tolerates being married to a guy who gets up at 5am every morning to chase his delusions and she does it with grace and poise.

  Without my parents and their love of books, I wouldn’t be here literally or literarily. I love you guys!

  Thanks to my agent, Cameron McClure, for trying to sell this even though the odds were stacked against us. She reads and eviscerates my novels and makes me a better writer.

  There is a group of dudes I roleplay with whenever we get the chance, which is not nearly often enough: Pete, Hans, Ken, Dave, Spin, and Rich. You guys keep me (mostly) sane. I should also mention that Rich read The Mirror’s Truth seven or eight times before anyone else even saw it.

  I met Kristopher Neidecker back in 2013 when he reviewed my first novel. Since then we’ve kept in regular contact, chatting about writing, drinking, publishing, drinking, day jobs, and drinking. We finally met in person at New York Comic Con and killed a bottle of Jameson Gold Reserve while sitting on a hotel room floor. Kristopher built my site, walked me through setting up wikis, has beta-read everything I’ve written, and even did the first editing pass for the novel you have either just read or are about to read. Are you one of those people who jumps to the acknowledgements? Cuz that’s weird. He has also been an incredible help with self-publishing this beast. The truth is, without him kicking my ass, I probably would have left it to languish rather than try and publish it myself. Oh, and while I’m writing this he’s working on honing his layout skills to do the book’s interior. Cheers, buddy. I owe you a drink. No. I owe you many drinks.

  John Anthony Di Giovanni agreed to do the cover art for this slice of madness as long as I promised never to sit next to him at family events. The cover speaks for his talent. I think you’re going to see a lot of his work in the future. This dude has mad skillz.

  Adrian Collins at Grimdark Magazine has been amazing in his support. He’s on the far side of the planet but is always available to chat and is a true proponent of dark fantasy. Someday we shall have pints! And while I’m talking about GdM I have to thank Tom Smith for the beta-read. Cheers!

  Rob and Philip of the GrimTidings Podcast are true anti-heroes of the grimdark world. Their love of the genre (and all things fantasy) is amazing. If you haven’t listened to their show, you’re missing out.

  I met Tim Marquitz through facebook and realized we shared a love of whiskey, metal, and MMA. Tim copy-edited the book (tho not these akgnollidgemints) and did an awesome job in spite of me rushing him. Cheers!

  Shawn King was hired by Talos Press to do the typography and cover layout for Swarm and Steel (August 2017) and as soon as I saw it I knew I had to have him for this book too. Killer work!

  Now I start cheating. The Grimdark Fiction Readers and Writers facebook group is an amazing and vibrant community. I want to thank each of you by name but with 1,748 of you it
’ll take too long and I might miss someone and that would be a crime.

  Fantasy-Faction is another amazing community. Whenever I want to decide what to read next, I go there and see what everyone is talking about.

  This is getting long. I’d better wrap it up.

  There were several bloggers and SF/F reviewers who stayed in contact after reviewing Beyond Redemption. They’ve been an amazing source of encouragement and wisdom. I’m going to name a few off the top of my head: James R. Schmidt, Kristy Mika, Matthew Summers, and Leona Henry.

  And of course a huge thanks to you, the reader! Without you I wouldn’t bother doing any of this. I’d also have a lot more free time, probably be skinnier, and wouldn’t have developed this neurotic twitch. I bet I’d be a famous actor or a fireman too! In particular, I want thank those folks who took the time to write or email or message me on facebook or twitter to share their thoughts on my mad little book. You keep me writing.

  You know, as I read through the above, I see a whole lot of people I’d like to some day meet in person and share a pint or a whiskey (or a pint of whiskey) with. I hope you enjoy this crazy book as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Cheers!

  Mike Fletcher

  CAST OF PLAYERS

  Aresehole: Bedeckt’s last horse.

  Arg Groß: A very tall Swordsman in Unbrauchbar.

  Ärgerlich: Wichtig’s first horse, a white stallion purchased in Selbsthass.

  Bedeckt Imblut: Warrior, liar, thief, killer.