Acceptance sketched a mocking bow. “You have failed.”
“Failed? How?” What the hells is the gods-damned Doppel talking about?
“It is too late.” Acceptance laughed, drooling through the broken gaps in his teeth. “Morgen is not returning.”
Konig’s gut soured. “No,” he said in desperate denial.
“And he has been infected. Poisoned,” said Acceptance, moving closer.
Tears stung Konig’s face. “No,” he whispered. “You lie. He will be our god. We made him.”
“Oh, we is it now?” Acceptance demanded sarcastically. The Doppel stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “Morgen is no god! You’ve made nothing! He’s an insane child riddled with delusion.”
“You—”
Acceptance lunged forward, knife in hand, but stopped just shy of thrusting the blade into Konig’s chest. Konig stared into the Doppel’s eyes, surprised.
“They showed me . . .” Acceptance slid to the floor, a knife protruding from the base of his skull.
Trepidation stood behind him, watching with terrified eyes.
“You saved me,” said Konig.
“No,” said Trepidation.
Konig backed away warily but the Doppel didn’t follow.
“You’re no match for me,” hissed Konig. “I’ll kill you in a heartbeat.”
“I know. It doesn’t matter. Morgen knows you sent assassins to kill him. He knows you used him. He knows you never loved him. You are incapable of such emotion. It’s over. Your man-made god is in ruins. When he Ascends he will come for vengeance.”
“How . . . how do you know?”
Trepidation knelt by Acceptance’s body, rolling the corpse onto its back. From within the dead Doppel’s robe he drew forth a small mirror. He held it up and Konig flinched away.
“The reflections showed Acceptance what will happen.”
“How did you know he would try and kill me?” Konig asked.
“He made a mistake,” answered Trepidation. “He underestimated my fear.”
“Acceptance lied?” Konig asked, annoyed at how desperate he sounded.
Trepidation shook his head sorrowfully. “No.”
“If I can return him to Selbsthass—”
“You cannot change who he has become.”
“Then we shall start again,” said Konig, with more confidence than he felt.
“You cannot stop what you have set in motion. He will be our god, but he will not be the god you wanted.”
Konig glared at Trepidation and the Doppel quivered in fear. “I am not finished yet. If I kill the boy he will have to obey me.”
Trepidation bowed his head meekly. “True. But we are too late—”
“You don’t know. Not for sure. Only a fool trusts Doppels and reflections.”
The Doppel licked his lips and Konig saw the resolve fade as Trepidation’s shoulders dropped and the fight seemed to leak from him.
“We go to fetch the boy.”
“We?” asked Trepidation.
“Of course. You didn’t think I’d leave you here alone, do you?”
“Of course not,” said the Doppel, sagging further in on himself.
“Ready my Dysmorphics.”
“Of course.”
Trepidation hated the Dysmorphics and Konig knew it. The great lunks were as massively stupid as they were massively muscled. Any one of them—men and women alike—could crush him dead in an instant. Fearing such obscene strength seemed only sane.
“What should I do with this mirror?” Trepidation asked.
Konig flinched again as Trepidation lifted it toward him, and the Doppel quashed the urge to gloat.
“Break it,” commanded Konig. “Shatter it to dust.”
“Of course.”
Without a second glance at Acceptance’s corpse, Konig left the room.
Things had almost gone according to plan. The reflections hadn’t shown Konig chasing after the boy, but then maybe they hadn’t known. Or maybe they’d sought to hide something from him.
Does it change anything?
Sadly, yes. It meant Konig still had some breath of hope. It meant the man was not yet finished.
Konig’s hope would have to be extinguished before Trepidation could take his place as Theocrat. But how to extinguish a man’s hope?
Trepidation placed Acceptance’s mirror faceup on the floor. From his pocket he drew his own mirror and, unwrapping it, placed it beside the first. Two of him—one in each mirror—stared back. Neither showed the damage Acceptance had suffered. What the hells does that mean? With Acceptance dead, had his reflections died too? Were these now Trepidation’s own reflections? He saw no way to know for sure.
“Which of you shall I keep?” he asked the reflections, and they glanced nervously at each other.
One began pantomiming elaborate actions while the other watched with fearful eyes. There was his answer. He never would dare something so bold as what the capering reflection suggested. He would have watched with dawning terror, much as the second mirror was doing.
The second reflection glanced nervously at the first and pantomimed whispering in someone’s ear. Secrecy born of fear. Trepidation understood perfectly. He lifted the mirror to his ear to listen and screamed when small hands clutched at the lobe. He yanked the mirror away but the hands remained and a small copy of himself forced itself ever deeper into his ear.
Trepidation screamed again. Impossible agony. It entered his skull.
The reflection in the other mirror clapped happily.
Free!
Konig’s reflection stood tall, stretching his arms. It felt good to finally be real. Or at least as real as a Doppel.
The charade could end. There had never been any reflections but those of Konig. It had been an act from the very beginning. Everything the fools had seen and listened to had been Konig’s reflections all along. They’d beaten each other to match Acceptance’s wounds and feigned fear to trick Trepidation. The Doppels had never been Mirrorists, only Konig.
The reflection glanced down at the second mirror. The reflection within waited, hand held up, ready to be pulled free. He laughed at the reflection and brought his heel down on the mirror. He stomped it again and again. Then he fetched a hammer to reduce it to dust. When finished with the mirror, he tossed the hammer aside.
The second mirror, the one he’d crawled from, he lifted from the floor. When he held it up to his face, he saw nothing but the room behind him.
It’s empty. Perfect.
Slipping the mirror into his robes, he left to prepare the Dysmorphics as Konig had ordered Trepidation to do. The reflection had no fear of the huge brutes. He saw them as tools, little more.
“I am Konig,” he said, testing the words. “I am Konig. Konig Furimmer. High Priest of the Geborene Damonen. Theocrat of Selbsthass.” He narrowed his eyes, facing an imaginary audience. “I am Konig.” Yes, perfect. “My Doppel plots treason.”
Morgen lay curled on Erbrechen’s litter, sleeping. Gehirn studied him. The boy’s face twitched and he moaned quietly, plagued with worries and nightmares Gehirn could all too well imagine. She had to save him. One clean act before insanity took her. She needed something to cling to, something not tainted by the filth of Erbrechen’s soul. The Slaver would twist the boy, foul him to the core of his being, and then kill him.
“No.” Gehirn stood, turning toward the Slaver. She’d turn the fat bastard to ash before—
Erbrechen smiled childish innocence at Gehirn’s wrath. “Heat the stew, would you?”
Gehirn hesitated. Kill him now.
“Heat the stew,” said the Slaver more forcefully, all warmth gone from his voice.
He never loved you. Not one gentle touch.
Gehirn turned her attention on the huge cauldron slung over the dying fire. She raised a hand and let slip a tiny fraction of her self-loathing.
She was a failure, in every conceivable way.
The fire surged to life.
>
Morgen would die at Erbrechen’s hand, worshiping the Slaver, twisted to his grotesque will.
The stew boiled over.
Erbrechen said something but Gehirn didn’t hear it. Her blood was boiling with hatred. Her whole life she’d served men who used her, who cast her aside. She was nothing. She’d achieved not a single untainted act.
With a flash the cauldron melted and was blasted to ash before the molten metal touched ground.
“Stop!” screamed Erbrechen, and the fire guttered. “Enough! Sit. Be silent. Say nothing. Do nothing,” the Slaver commanded.
Gehirn sat in the hot mud.
Erbrechen’s heart fluttered with fear, straining to shove blood through his corpulent body. Too close! Had he not been staring at the Hassebrand, wondering what to do with her, he might not have seen the threat until it was too late. Erbrechen let out a slow sigh.
“Damned if you do, damned if you don’t,” he muttered. Wait! Genius! What a catchy saying! He’d have to remember to repeat it in front of others. Sometimes it felt like he was the only reasonably intelligent person in all the world. He looked out over the scattered wreckage of his camp. These people had no pride, no will to better themselves. They were disgusting, pathetic. Useful in numbers, but still detestable.
The man he’d told not to shite lay curled moaning on the ground, clutching at his stomach. Erbrechen giggled. At least something was still funny. His laughter woke the boy.
“What’s so funny?” Morgen asked, blinking and glancing around the camp as if seeing it for the first time.
“The world is a comedy,” intoned Erbrechen, tittering, “and each must play his fart.” The stupid boy looked confused. “Never mind. Hungry?”
Morgen nodded quickly. “Very.”
“Well then—” Erbrechen glanced at the ashen remains of the stewpot. Damn it all to the hells! Getting the boy to eat some human stew had been part of his plan. He must soil the boy’s soul, weaken his self-assurance. Bend him.
Erbrechen pointed at a group of men sitting nearby. Thin and filthy, they were covered in windblown ash. “You lot. Start a new fire. Make me my stew.” He saw the Hassebrand’s head come up at the mention of fire. “No, my friend, you stay where you are.”
Gehirn glared hatred and Erbrechen felt a wave of heat wash over him.
“You’ll hurt the boy,” he warned softly.
The heat guttered and the Hassebrand sagged forward to stare into the mud.
The more he thought about it, the more Erbrechen saw only one escape from Gehirn: the boy must die, and he must die soon. There was no time for the slow erosion of self. Erbrechen must crush him, and fast. But how to do it? Gods, I’m so hungry I can hardly think!
“Hurry with the stew!”
“Is everything okay?” asked the boy.
“No.” Erbrechen pointed at another group of men and women who were loitering nearby, hoping for the chance to serve their master. “You.” They stood immediately, their backs straightening. “Beat the boy. If you kill him, you’re all going into the stew. Break fingers and toes. Cause him terrible agony.”
Morgen scrambled to his feet. The look of confused betrayal beyond comedic, his mouth hung open. “Why?”
“Not to worry,” Erbrechen reassured the lad. “Once you are begging for mercy, I will save you from these terrible people. You will thank me. You’ll do anything to make it stop.”
“I thought . . .” The boy trailed off. “But I saw fire.”
“Sorry, your friend cannot help you. She is mine.” Erbrechen grinned wet lust. “As will you be.”
A man stepped forward and landed a crushing blow to the boy’s face, shattering his nose. Morgen crumpled to the ground.
“Gods damn it, make sure he stays conscious. There’s no point in torturing an unconscious victim, you idiot.”
“Sorry,” said the man as he kicked Morgen in the stomach.
For several seconds the boy was hidden by milling legs and flailing punches.
“Okay, okay,” called out Erbrechen, and they stepped back.
Morgen, face streaming blood and spattered in filth, stared up at Erbrechen from the mud, his expression dazed. “I saw fire.”
The lad was tougher than he’d expected. With an imperious wave of Erbrechen’s hand, the men and women returned to thrashing him.
CHAPTER 42
The doing is the easy part. It’s the deciding to do that is difficult. I most regret the decisions never made.
—HOFFNUNGSLOS
Night fell fast and Bedeckt led Launisch and the other two horses away from the road and into the shelter of the trees. Alone, he didn’t want to run into the kind of trouble often found wandering roads such as this. With his two deranged friends dead, he had no fear of albtraum, nightmares of the insane given flesh. But he’d be easy pickings for the wandering gangs of thieves who haunted dark roads.
Tying the horses to a nearby tree, he set about lighting a small fire.
Once it got going, he sat at the fire, warming his feet. He ate well. With Wichtig and Stehlen gone, Bedeckt had more food than he could possibly eat. Come tomorrow, he’d carry what he could and leave the rest to the scavengers.
It was quiet. No one was bickering.
It was also lonely. He’d traveled with the two cretins for years. Their constant arguing had been a background hum he’d become accustomed to. Gods damned if he didn’t miss it.
Bedeckt climbed into his sleeping roll and stared into the twisting flames of the fire.
He’d see Wichtig and Stehlen again, no doubt.
Those whom you slay shall serve you in the Afterdeath: the Warrior’s Credo. Stehlen would be waiting, but he couldn’t imagine her in a role of servitude. She’ll find some way to kill me. And if she couldn’t, she’d find some way of making him wish she’d killed him.
“Wake up, you little shite.”
“What?” Bedeckt opened a crusty eye. Had he fallen asleep? He could have sworn he just heard a voice, one he recognized from—
“You’re still a lazy shite. You haven’t changed. Useless cunt.”
Bedeckt sat up. There, across the fire, sat his father.
“I’ve killed you once, old man. I’d happily do it again.”
The old bastard grunted a dismissal. He didn’t look as huge and scary as Bedeckt remembered. The old man sat hunched forward, his eyes rimmed red with exhaustion, his back bent with an age he’d never lived to see. This was his father as he would have looked had Bedeckt not slain him all those decades ago.
The old man waved a hand as if shushing him and prodded at the dying fire with a stick. “I’m not here to beat you—much as you deserve it. I’m here to talk.”
Bedeckt watched the old man warily. “Begone, albtraum.”
“Ah, still clinging to your much-vaunted sanity, I see. Well, here I sit. Perhaps you aren’t as sane as you think.”
“I am sane,” growled Bedeckt.
“Or perhaps you are too sane, or believe in your sanity a little too strongly. Such belief, my son, would make anyone crazy.”
“I’m not your son.” Bedeckt scowled at the dream spirit. “Nothing you say will make me doubt my sanity.”
“My point exactly.”
“My father was never this smart.”
The albtraum waved away his words. “This isn’t about you. This isn’t about your father.”
“What then? Will you tell me I feel guilty for killing Stehlen? She left me no choice.”
His father spat into the fire, much as Stehlen would have done. “Nice try, spirit.”
“It’s the boy.”
“Morgen?” Bedeckt asked, surprised. “What do you know of him?”
“He will die soon.”
Bedeckt’s chest tightened. The boy had saved his life. “Tell me something I didn’t know.”
“You and you alone pursue him with no thoughts of killing him to your own ends.”
“Not exactly true,” Bedeckt pointed out.
“
Wichtig manipulated the boy from the beginning, once he understood his significance. Even Stehlen, who loved you enough to follow you to the very ends of the world, planned to kill him.”
Bedeckt shifted uncomfortably. “Stehlen didn’t love—”
“She loved you so much it blinded her to the threat you were.”
“Horse shite.”
“Really?” The albtraum snorted derisively. “You think you could have beaten her, unarmed? Even armed, you were never her match.” The albtraum poked again at the fire, rolling a log into the reddest embers. “She had a knife in her hand the entire time you sat near her. She could have killed you in an instant.”
“Horse shite.” But his words lacked power.
“Even as she tried to kill the boy, she never believed that you would kill her. She trusted you. Totally.”
“Horse—”
“Shite,” finished the albtraum, again gesturing as if it didn’t care what Bedeckt thought. This wasn’t right; the creatures were supposed to attack, to feed off their victim’s fears and lusts and dreams. This creature succeeded only in making him uncomfortable. What kind of nightmare feeds off discomfort?
“Morgen has fallen into the clutches of a powerful Gefahrgeist,” said the albtraum. “A Slaver of the worst order.”
A Slaver? The boy was beyond reach, then. Nothing Bedeckt could do would save him now. He watched his plans sink away into the depths of the foulest shite-hole.
Wichtig and Stehlen, dead for nothing. Everything he’d been through and he was worse off now than when this began. Typical.
He ran a hand over his weary eyes. “Why would I care?” Bedeckt asked the albtraum. “I’m tired. Go stick pigs.”
“You are old,” said the albtraum. “You are slowing down. On this path you will die sooner rather than later. What then? Paradise is not for men like you. All those you wronged, all those you killed and damaged; all await you in the next world. You are a man without redeeming features. You will have no allies in the next world.”
Bedeckt laughed, a snort of derision. “I have none in this world.”
“Stehlen loved and worshiped you.”
“She tried to kill me.”
“You pushed her until she had no choice. Wichtig saw you as a father. He thought you his only friend.”
Beyond Redemption Page 39
