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.”
CHAPTER 11
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.
—KEIL ZWISCHEN, FOUNDER OF THE GEBORENE DAMONEN
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—”
“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.
“Hells yes,” whispered Wichtig. “There’s a lot of them, but no one looks dangerous. Let’s see what the rich arsehole in the fancy ride has for us.” He started to rise but stopped cold when Bedeckt gripped his wrist tightly enough to cut off all circulation.
“Sit,” Bedeckt hissed. “Get down and shut up.”
Wichtig opened his mouth to argue, and Bedeckt saw that Stehlen would side with the Swordsman. Idiots.
Bedeckt, still holding Wichtig’s wrist with one hand, gestured toward the gaunt mob with the other. “Look closely. Those people . . . they don’t follow by choice. They aren’t servants, or even slaves in the normal sense.” He met Wichtig’s gray eyes. “You want people to like and perhaps fear you. The person riding that litter craves worship more than we need air. A need like that is impossible to ignore. If you go down there we’ll never see you again.”
“You’re kidding,” said Wichtig. “I worship no man because no man is more worthy of worship than I.” If there was one thing the idiot couldn’t stand, it was being told not to do something. It was so childish Bedeckt almost laughed, and would have had he not been ready to piss his britches in fear.
“That’s a Slaver down there.” Bedeckt tightened his grip to make sure Wichtig wouldn’t stand and draw attention to them. Stehlen probably wouldn’t move until he gave the go-ahead, but Wichtig was predictably unpredictable.
“And this is the World’s Greatest Swordsman up here. The fact is—”
“Remember your own words,” Bedeckt hissed. “The facts don’t matter. If you go down there, you’ll be licking the arse of whoever is in the litter. And then you’ll tell them I’m up here and they should all come and get me so I can join in worshiping your new best friend.” He shook his head, angry at having to explain the obvious. He doubted Wichtig got the point. Better to drive it home, make it clear. Bedeckt looked Wichtig straight in the eye. “Stand, and I’ll kill you.”
Something changed in Wichtig’s gray eyes. Shite.
Even crouching, one hand pinioned in Bedeckt’s grip, Wichtig had a sword out before Bedeckt knew he’d moved. He might be an idiot, but he was a fast idiot.
“Really, old man?” whispered Wichtig. “You know how deadly I am. I am the Greatest Swordsman in the World.” Always trying to manipulate, always seeking to undermine his opponent before the fight started.
Bedeckt pulled Wichtig close enough to render the sword ineffective and pinned him with his own iron glare. “I’ll drop you dead in a heartbeat and we both know it.”
Their eyes remained locked until Wichtig chuckled quietly and sheathed his sword in one smooth motion without breaking eye contact. Even stowing his weapon was a show, an act of bravado long practiced in the mirror to maximize effect.
“Someday you’ll push me too far,” said Wichtig.
Only now did Bedeckt realize Stehlen had
moved behind Wichtig, hands hovering over weapons, ready to pounce on the unsuspecting Swordsman should he move against Bedeckt. Afterward, when tempers cooled, she wouldn’t meet his eyes and seemed angry with herself.
What the hells did that mean? If women were a mystery, Stehlen was something far darker and more unknowable. It was too easy to underestimate her Kleptic powers; she did things right in front of him he either missed seeing or saw and promptly forgot about. He supposed his underestimating her Kleptic abilities might even be part of her power, and made a mental note to pay more attention.
Then he lost his train of thought and went back to being angry at Wichtig. Gods, his head hurt.
CHAPTER 12
Time heals all wounds . . . someday you’ll be dead.
—ABZAHLUNG HINAUS
Aufschlag once suggested to Acceptance, during one of their rare private conversations, that a close connection existed between Doppels and the wild albtraum who’d haunted the nightmares of mankind, feeding off their deepest fears, since the dawn of time. Doppels, like the albtraum, neither ate nor slept, instead feeding off those whose minds they’d sprung from. Aufschlag had tortured Doppels and albtraum in his experiments, and explained that, though neither were truly human, both still bled. And, he added as if he’d learned something Acceptance couldn’t have just told him, they most certainly felt pain.
For two days Acceptance lay in the corner of Konig’s chambers. Coiled about his wounded heart, he coughed blood and the fragments of broken teeth swallowed during his beating. If not actually safe, at least he felt sheltered here, since the temple’s marauding cleaning crews ignored Konig’s rooms. Konig—that untrusting and paranoid bastard—hated the idea of anyone entering his chambers when he wasn’t present. So Acceptance huddled, bleeding into the gathered dust bunnies, waiting for his body to heal.
The skin around Acceptance’s missing left eye swelled for a day and then collapsed and crusted closed with dried blood. It felt like something twisted and festered within that wet trap. He shied away from thinking about it, terrified his fears would manifest as truth. His once-proud nose lay crushed and broken, smeared slightly to the left. He could barely breathe through its remnants. Of his teeth, only a few molars, and some shattered fragments jutting from his gums like claws, remained. Those few jagged splinters caught and tore at his tongue and lips.
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