Or maybe Bedeckt, if he asked nicely enough.
The scorpions poured over Wichtig and continued toward Morgen, and the boy screamed, an earsplitting noise shredding the air. The woman flinched and covered her ears.
Stehlen ghosted closer.
Wichtig fought, slashing and stabbing, until his arms were pinioned at his sides. He bit and thrashed, clawed and kicked, until even that movement was taken from him. Something dry and scaly slid with sinuous ease around his throat. The world, what little he saw of it between the coils of gods knows how many snakes, turned gray. And then black.
Morgen watched in mounting terror as the swarm of glistening scorpions scampered with an eerie chitinous clicking toward him. Though he didn’t understand why, he knew Stich sought to kill him. But something else terrified him more: insects were filthy. Aufschlag told him so. Weren’t scorpions carrion insects? Fear and disgust scrambled his thoughts into a chaotic jumble.
Bedeckt running away. Stehlen gone. Wichtig buried under a mountain of snakes. Why didn’t I see this? Was this his death?
Morgen’s incoherent screams became one word repeated over and over. “No!”
This isn’t it! This wasn’t how he Ascended. He’d seen it. He’d seen fire. He’d seen Bedeckt wounded and dying. This was not it. The thought helped him focus.
Stich was almost upon him when Morgen screamed, “Don’t touch me!”
Confused, Stich ceased his charge and piled up around Morgen’s feet. He was unable to touch the boy, unable to even want to touch him.
Morgen pointed a trembling finger at Masse, entangled around the downed Swordsman. “Kill the snakes, they’re filthy.”
Stich felt the boy’s disgust to the core of his soul. He hated Masse. Maybe he always had, he couldn’t remember.
As one, the scorpions turned and swarmed the snakes.
Asena approached Morgen, stepping around the agonized coiling heap of Masse, Stich, and the World’s Greatest Swordsman. She understood now why Konig had sought to deafen them. Unsure if she planned to kill the boy, she moved closer. Konig’s Gefahrgeist coercion warred with her love of the child. She wanted to obey the Theocrat. She wanted to make him happy, to please him so he might—if not love her as she loved him—at least respect her. No matter what she did, no matter what she sacrificed, Konig wanted more. He was a pit she could never fill, no matter how long she poured herself into it. But she would never give up. She couldn’t.
Asena made up her mind. She would bring Morgen back to Selbsthass so he might Ascend among the comfort of friends. Konig wouldn’t thank her—he never thanked her—but would perhaps someday come to understand that she did this for him.
“Morgen,” she called out. “I’ve come to take you—”
Stehlen’s knife slid effortlessly between the young woman’s vertebrae, just below the shoulders. It was the perfect strike, instantly paralyzing. The woman crumpled, face-first, to the ground. Stehlen stepped over her and continued toward Morgen as if nothing had happened. The snakes finally stopped their mad thrashing and the scorpions—those not crushed during the battle—staggered about in confusion. The few surviving snakes fled. She wrenched Bedeckt’s ax from the skull of the dead bear as she passed. The damned thing weighed a ton. The old bastard would want it. Should I give it to him haft or edge first?
Stehlen glimpsed one of Wichtig’s hands protruding from the coil of dead and dying snakes. The hand held no sword. Idiot.
Stopping before Morgen, she gestured with the bloody knife. “Is he dead?” She wasn’t sure what answer she hoped to hear.
Morgen stomped on a dazed scorpion. The remaining bugs streamed away to the east.
“For now,” he said.
Stehlen thought he sounded less than happy about this. She considered putting a comforting arm around the boy but couldn’t figure out how to do it.
“We should get off the street,” she suggested. “Find a different inn too.”
She stooped to grab Wichtig’s hand and drag him free of the dead snakes. The Swordsman, covered in bloody welts, his head hanging at an odd angle, was unnaturally still and limp. The glint of one of his swords caught her eye. She thought about asking Morgen to bring it along. Assuming the boy brought Wichtig back, he’d want those blades.
“We had better go,” she said.
With a nasty smirk and a grunted effort, she hefted Wichtig over her shoulder. She couldn’t carry Bedeckt’s silly ax and Wichtig’s stupid corpse.
“Carry this,” she said, handing the ax to Morgen, and set off down the street.
Dragging the ax behind him, Morgen struggled to catch up. “Where did Bedeckt go?”
“No idea.”
Unable to move, Anomie watched the feet of her killer and listened to her brief conversation with Morgen. Blood pooled around her head, filling one nostril and making breathing difficult. In moments her right eye sank below the rising blood and halved her vision. She couldn’t open her mouth, and soon her other nostril would fill. She felt nothing, not the slowing thump of her heart or the shattered bones and teeth resulting from her headfirst impact with the cobbled road. She was glad she hadn’t slain Morgen and even happier she hadn’t returned him to Konig’s clutches. Knowing it was over, knowing these moments were her last, freed her from Konig’s Gefahrgeist grip.
I regret nothing.
Blood filled her nostrils, and her vision blurred and narrowed to a graying tunnel. Involuntary shudders racked her body and her lungs fought to draw breath.
A swarm of staggering, stumbling scorpions wended their way through the narrow streets of Neidrig. Little more than instinct and Konig’s coercion drove the swarm east. People fled before the dazed insects and those too slow to escape were left writhing in the streets to die as their hearts and muscles spasmed and seized.
When Stich managed to pull together enough of his fragmented mind to maintain cohesive thought, he twisted back into his human form. He felt small, slow, and stupid. Chunks of memory were missing, entire years gone with the parts of himself lost fighting Masse. Why had he fought his fellow Tiergeist? He remembered moments of loving worship and the need to protect something, but little more.
Stich stood, half his former height, and stared to the eastern horizon.
Why go east?
Konig. He remembered the Gefahrgeist Theocrat, fear and worship and hatred. Though he felt he should return to report . . . something . . . he couldn’t think what it could be. All he knew for sure was that he had failed something important. Again.
Unable to maintain coherent human thought, Stich once again collapsed, twisting back into a much-diminished mound of scorpions. For a few moments the scorpions stayed together, crawling over each other in confusion. Finally, driven by the fading remnants of Stich’s self-loathing, they fell to fighting among themselves. After a protracted battle, the few survivors separated and fled in different directions.
CHAPTER 31
Take a look at my calf muscles. Is the right one bigger?
—UNKNOWN DYSMORPHIC
Wichtig awoke with a great sucking intake of breath, leaving him dizzy. A thronging crowd gathered around him, too many to count. He sat in the street where moments ago . . . what? Memories of creaking ribs and the feeling of the cartilage in his throat being crushed sent shudders coursing through his body. He remembered seeing Bedeckt flee. There was no sign of Stehlen or Morgen. Surely they hadn’t left him here.
A scarred man stepped forward, rolling muscled shoulders, to glare at Wichtig. He looked familiar, but Wichtig couldn’t place him.
“Didn’t take long,” the scarred man growled. “Not so great, eh?”
Wichtig looked past the man, frowning as he spotted another familiar face. “As great as ever.” He returned his gaze to the man before him. “You look familiar.”
“Vollk Urzschluss.”
“Name doesn’t ring any bells.”
Vollk grumbled in annoyance. “Until recently, I was the Greatest Swordsman in Unbrauchbar.”
“I killed you.” Wichtig scanned the crowd, recognizing more faces, few of which he could put names to. “I killed a lot of you, but surely not this many.” He spotted an attractive girl of perhaps eighteen summers and waved her over. “There is no way I killed you,” he said with more certainty than he felt.
“I am Geschwister Schlangen, sister to Masse.”
“Masse?” Wichtig asked, blinking in confusion.
“The man who killed you.”
“No, it was—”
“Snakes,” she interrupted. “Masse came to believe he had been possessed by snake spirits after he fell into a pit of vipers as a child. He was bitten many times. We thought it a miracle he survived, but he was different after. He became poisonous. I am . . . was . . . his older sister. We fought over chores and he—” The girl stopped and blinked away tears. “My baby brother . . .”
This isn’t right. Wichtig took in the street and surrounding buildings. Off in the distance he saw people going about their pointless lives. This looks so . . . normal. Except the colors. Everything looked washed out, gray and faded like the vibrancy and life had been sucked from it.
“This is Neidrig. I recognize the smell. I can’t be dead. Morgen said I would be the Greatest Swordsman in the World. I have a destiny.”
Vollk laughed, a grunted snort. “You are definitely dead. For many, what we do in death mirrors what we did in life.” He glared from under dark eyebrows. “No doubt it won’t be long before you are chasing the title of Greatest Swordsman in the Afterdeath.”
Understanding dawned on Wichtig. After a lifetime of hearing the Warrior’s Credo repeated by every half-wit and thug he’d ever met, here he was. “I killed you and now you are mine to command.” He laughed. Maybe death wasn’t so bad! “My own little army. This should be fun.”
“Yes and no. Many of us are here to serve you, but many are gathering to serve the man who killed them.” He gestured at the girl. “Her brother, Masse. The man who killed you.” Vollk showed foul teeth in a sneer as he pointed at Wichtig. “You are gathered here with them. He too will soon pass into the Afterdeath.”
“And Bedeckt thought the Afterdeath might be some final chance at redemption!” Wichtig laughed again, this time without humor. It would be no such thing. He knew how this would play out: most of the men he had killed had in turn killed others. They were served by their slain foes much as they served Wichtig and as he would soon be forced to serve Masse. The Afterdeath would be a world of marauding armies, bound by ancient laws to serve one man until the man who had slain that man died his own death at the hands of another. The only free people would be those who hadn’t lived and died by the flash of the blade. But with the Afterdeath plagued by wandering gangs led by the worst killers of the living world, how free could anyone be?
He glanced up at Vollk. “Is everyone’s Afterdeath like this?”
The warrior grunted, eyebrows furrowing. “How would I know?”
A good point, he had to admit. How does anyone know anything about the Afterdeath? He watched the people of Neidrig go about their business, ignoring the gathered warriors; apparently they weren’t worthy of note. And no one smiled. Did anyone in the other Neidrig smile? He couldn’t remember. But these faces looked uniformly wan and miserable. As with the colors, these people looked washed out and gray, devoid of life and vibrancy.
“No redemption here.” He lifted a hand and Vollk pulled him to his feet. Wichtig scanned the ground. His swords were nowhere to be seen. “Dying without a blade in my hand.” He chuckled with disgusted chagrin. No doubt Bedeckt—the cowardly goat sticker who abandoned him in his time of need—would find this immensely funny. “At least I have my boots.” Wichtig noticed Vollk’s fine sword. “So. You serve me, at least until this Masse arrives?”
“Little enough it will matter,” muttered Vollk, “as you will serve him.”
Why worry now about something happening later? “Excellent. Give me your blade.”
CHAPTER 32
My hands rebelled, refused to take up the pen; they wanted to be gently nibbled all the time. My eyes rebelled, refused to see the parchment; they wanted to watch the pretty boys. My arse rebelled, it refused to sit at my desk; it wanted to sit in the long grass. At this rate, I’ll never finish my next book.
—EINSAM GESCHICHTENERZÄHLER
Stehlen wandered the streets of Neidrig for an hour, stopping at each tavern to examine its exterior before moving on. There was, she figured, no point in going inside until she found the one he’d be in. She didn’t question how she would know, she just knew she would. When a Kleptic wants something, it’s damned hard to stop her.
The Verrottung Loch looked about ready to collapse. The windows had been crudely covered with warped boards that appeared to have been scavenged from an ancient shipwreck. The eastern wall bowed dangerously inward and the many holes in the roof leaked thick smoke, catching the lantern light within, turning it into wispy pillars of dusty gold reaching weakly for the sky.
She stood, listening to the voices of the patrons. Small and stupid men argued and discussed their small and stupid lives in desperate tones that rose in threatening volume and then fell away in placating fear. The Verrottung Loch was the bottom of the shite-stained barrel of Neidrig. Perfect. Even though she couldn’t hear Bedeckt’s deep voice, Stehlen knew she had found the place.
Still, she hesitated. She’d have to be careful how she dealt with the old man. Bedeckt could be a frightfully violent drunk. She wasn’t worried, she told herself, she simply didn’t want to have to hurt him any more than necessary. Stehlen chuckled quietly. Forming a plan for a simple task like collecting an old drunk? Bedeckt was rubbing off on her.
A dozen filthy faces turned in her direction as she entered the tavern. Only one man didn’t turn and she recognized Bedeckt’s broad back. He looked naked without his massive ax.
For a moment, silence.
“Well, hello there, lass.” The nearest man leered, leaning forward to waggle shaggy eyebrows in her direction.
Stehlen flared her nostrils and struck him once, shattering his nose and sending his few remaining teeth skittering across the floor like fleeing cockroaches. The man toppled backward off his chair, his head hitting the stone floor with a hollow thonk. The rest of the patrons wisely lost interest and returned to the business of drinking themselves to death.
Though Stehlen approached Bedeckt from behind, he still nudged a chair out from under the table for her. Somehow he knew she was there. Sitting across the table from him—an old habit allowing them to watch each other’s back—Stehlen waited for Bedeckt to speak. For a long moment he ignored her, staring into the thick clay mug gripped in the scarred remains of his half hand. His whole hand, as ever, left free should he need to draw a weapon.
“You’re still alive,” Bedeckt slurred into the cup.
“Of course.” She waved at the innkeeper to bring her an ale.
“You left us,” he muttered accusingly.
“I didn’t leave,” answered Stehlen, though she’d certainly thought about it.
Bedeckt snorted. “I couldn’t see you. Wichtig . . . I looked back. You don’t—”
“You didn’t notice the Kleptic,” she interrupted sarcastically. “How strange.”
“—survive that. Dead.”
“You did what Wichtig would have done,” she said. “Had he been smart enough.”
The innkeeper dropped a wood mug on the table before Stehlen and fled to the safety of the kitchen. Stehlen stared at the yellow and black flecks hanging suspended in the ale. Someone had chewed at the cup’s rim, leaving it ragged and uneven.
She took a long pull of ale. “This is awful.”
Bedeckt finally looked up and, just for a flickering instant, met her eyes. “Keep drinking.”
“It gets better?”
“No.”
“Great.” On a sudden whim she reached a hand across the table and laid it atop Bedeckt’s half hand, which still clutched h
is mug. The hand tensed, but didn’t pull away. “Wichtig is with the boy. I found us a new inn. Your stupid ax is there too.”
“Wichtig alive?”
“Well, no.” Bedeckt seemed to cave in upon himself. “But the boy brought a cat back to life and cats are much smarter than Swordsmen. Wichtig should be easy.”
Bedeckt stared at her, mouth hanging open. “But how did you . . .”
“The Therianthropes are dead.”
“You killed—”
She spat on the table, interrupting Bedeckt. “No great task.” She scowled. “Why is everyone so excited about Wichtig? He was dead before anything interesting happened.” She snorted. “I’ll never let him live this down.”
Bedeckt gripped the table with his whole hand. The room spun, a slow lilting of the horizon, growing out of what remained of his narrowing peripheral vision.
Why hadn’t he retrieved the hand Stehlen still held? He needed it. He couldn’t drink with her hand on his, but if he let go of the table he suspected he might slump to the floor. He struggled to form coherent thoughts.
“Dead people don’t. Need live. Things down.” Well, it was close to what he was trying to say.
“Always the philosopher.” Stehlen waved for another mug of ale and the innkeeper brought two. Bedeckt groaned in dismay. She removed her hand after giving his one last squeeze. “Drink up, you need it.”
He watched Stehlen slam back six fast pints while he nursed one and tried not to vomit or fall off his chair.
Did she really not care he’d abandoned her, or was this just bluster? He couldn’t decide. He couldn’t even decide which he preferred. Would he rather she felt hurt at his betrayal, or just see his flight as an eminently reasonable reaction to the circumstances? If she truly didn’t care, it meant she had no expectations of him, which would be wise. But it also meant he couldn’t expect her to be there for him should he need it.
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