The Mirror's Truth: A Novel of Manifest Delusions Page 17

  As Bedeckt spun to face the second Befallen, fire lanced a hole in his gut, just beneath the ribs. You’re slowing down, old man. Bedeckt retreated, his half-hand clutched against his side. Blood pulsed between his fingers with each beat of his heart. He dared not look to assess the damage.

  The Befallen followed, teeth bared in a savage snarl showing gums infested with pallid grubs, face twisting and squirming from within. A glistening white worm pushed its way free of his lower eye lid, distorting the eyeball, and lay stuck to his cheek.

  “Without the Swordsman,” wheezed the Befallen, breath wretched with rot, “you’re nothing.”

  The man lunged and Bedeckt batted the thin blade aside with his axe, retreating and grinding his teeth against the pain tearing his side. He heard no bubbling of breath and prayed that meant a lung hadn’t been opened. That was a little low for the lungs, old man. He put steel in your belly.

  The Befallen followed, taunting Bedeckt with words barely heard.

  Damned idiot, facing three men alone. Perhaps thinking he had fifteen years before once again setting foot in the Afterdeath was a little optimistic. The Mirrorist extricated himself from the chair Bedeckt threw and circled in the opposite direction, hoping to flank the axe man.

  Bedeckt pushed a chair between himself and the Befallen and the man kicked it away with a scornful laugh. The axe felt heavy, hung low. Any lower and he’d be dragging the damned thing.

  Why am I here? How did I let this happen? The damned list, it’s things I won’t do. There’s nothing on there about racing around trying to rescue every god-damned child on the planet because I feel guilty about—

  Guilt. Bedeckt laughed, shaking his head, and the Befallen scowled in confusion. Apparently having your intended victim laugh with you was less entertaining. A long trail of blood followed Bedeckt. He couldn’t remember the last time he bled so much. Even back in Selbsthass, when they faced that Mehrere guarding Morgen’s chambers—

  The door to the tavern slammed open, breaking Bedeckt’s thoughts. From the corner of his eye he saw Zukunft, soaking wet, shirt and skirt hugging every curve. A slim, long-bladed knife sat tucked into her belt. The Befallen saw her too, his mouth opening, eyes widening in surprise.

  Distractions are death.

  Bedeckt killed the man. Hurling himself forward and raising the axe in a scything upward swing, he cleaved into the man’s groin up to his navel. The Befallen dropped. The axe, blade caught in bone, tore from Bedeckt’s hands. Bedeckt slipped in his own blood, staggered, and fell. Scrabbling to draw a knife, he dragged himself away from the Täuschung priest who followed, gaze darting between Zukunft and Bedeckt.

  “Are you the Greatest Swordsman in the World?” the lean man asked, glancing at the girl and frowning in confusion.

  Bedeckt laughed, choked short by a cough of pain. He felt wide open, like his guts might spill forth. Half-hand keeping his insides in, one hand clutching a stupid little knife while simultaneously trying to drag himself further from the madman.

  Zukunft, gorgeous and soaked to the skin, stood without a hint of fear in her eyes.

  “Yes,” she said. “I am.”

  “But…a woman?”

  Zukunft shot him an angry look, green eyes flashing. “And why not?”

  The Täuschung shrugged. He turned away from Bedeckt, his attention on Zukunft. Sinking into a fighter’s crouch he shuffled toward her, poised as if expecting attack. “No scars,” he said.

  “No.”

  “You don’t have a sword.”

  “Don’t need one.”

  Reaching up Bedeckt gripped the side of a table. When he tried to pull himself to his feet, the table, a top-heavy oaken monstrosity, came down upon him.

  Zukunft ran a hand through her wet hair, clearing it from her eyes. She looked ready, unworried.

  She should be worried. The girl had no idea of the danger she was in.

  Bedeckt rolled to his belly and, his hands and knees sliding on blood-slicked stone, again tried to stand. “I’m here,” he managed to say between gritted teeth. They ignored him. Run, you stupid girl, run.

  The Täuschung priest circled, moving ever closer to Zukunft who appeared to watch nothing but his feet. Her lips moved as if counting. He stepped forward and she drew the knife tucked into her belt, causing him to pause. When he saw she remained standing exactly as she had, he resumed his approach.

  Bedeckt flailed at a table leg, trying to make noise, desperate to distract the Täuschung priest. Still they ignored him.

  The priest feinted with his sword and Zukunft didn’t flinch, didn’t even seem to have noticed, so fixated was she with his feet. Bedeckt coughed blood, marvelled at how dark everything had become. He pushed himself to his knees. He saw the Täuschung priest lunge forward in a blur of speed as Zukunft, still watching his feet, said, “There.”

  The Täuschung priest stepped straight into Zukunft’s blade. She didn’t stab him so much as hold it so he might impale his eye socket on it.

  The man grunted surprise and crumpled.

  Bedeckt did the same.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Anyone remember Pfeilmacher? He wrote those awful books about a reality that was fixed, unresponsive to the beliefs of man. They were drivel. I met him years after reviewing his novel and he was a lumbering beast, with flesh like one of those armoured swamp creatures with all the teeth. He said the reviews of those who themselves wrote nothing of value no longer bothered him, that he’d become inured to rejection. I told him I thought his second book was worse than the first and he cried, his skin growing even thicker.

  —Richter Kritik - The Geldangelegenheiten Literary Review

  The sound of some poor bastard’s moaning woke Wichtig from his slumber and stopped the moment he cracked his eyes open. He couldn’t move, not even turn his head.

  I’m paralysed! That sticking horse threw me and broke my spine and I’m crippled!

  He’d kill the beast.

  Wichtig’s toes felt cold and he wiggled them. Then he wiggled his fingers. He felt the cold grit of stone beneath his bare arse.

  Straining to sit, he felt a band of something across his forehead. Not paralysed, he was bound and helpless.

  What the hells?

  The bridge. The tower. Weak from the albtraum attack, he’d fallen off his horse.

  The Gottlos border.

  “Shite.”

  Not to worry. He’d explain the mistake and be on his way.

  Really? What mistake? They’ll think you’re working for the Geborene and you are—were—whatever. You’re working directly for their god. Or maybe he was. He wasn’t sure.

  “Well, they don’t know that.”

  Obviously he’d have to lie. He’d smile and joke and flatter and charm his way out of this little mess. He’d been in far worse situations than this. Again Wichtig tried to move and again he failed. Whoever trussed him to this stone table did a very good job. Rolling his eyes to the side, he caught sight of blood runnels running the length of the table. His balls, already shrunken and chilled, tried to crawl into his belly.

  “Shite, shite, shite, shite.”

  He closed his eyes searching for calm. It wasn’t there. Calm was gone. Calm had packed its bags and slunk off to hide somewhere safe.

  Fine. He didn’t need calm to be charming. A little extra incentive, that’s all this was. He’d be so rutting charismatic they’d beg apologies and offer to help gut his stupid horse.

  He breathed deep to relax his nerves. At least the sniffle seemed to be gone. He might be trussed to a table and helpless, but that was hardly call to be disgusting. It was a small thing, but it was a sign that things were swinging back in his favour. How could the fates not love him? Whatever the fates were. He’d never been clear. Were they gods or something stranger?

  Wichtig examined the room as best he could. Cracked and filthy stone walls. A stone ceiling resplendent in ropey strands of thick cobweb. The rather unnerving presence of blood gutters. There wasn�
�t much else to see. An empty fireplace, filled with even more cobwebs than the rest of the room, looked like a mouth twisted in a rictus of terror. A mottled collection of sagging candles jammed into empty wine bottles coated thick in dust lit the room with wavering light. There were no windows and Wichtig couldn’t begin to guess whether it was night or day. Was he unconscious for a few minutes, hours, or longer? He felt weak, but that could be hunger or the lasting effects of whatever that damned albtraum did to him. Against one wall was another table, wood and simple, its surface empty.

  He drew a slow breath through his nose and caught the sour scent of sweat and fear.

  Nothing to worry about. Naked and cold and stinking like a man about to piss himself in terror, these were all minor impediments to a man of Wichtig’s charms.

  Something long with more legs than Wichtig could possibly count skittered across his exposed belly and he screamed.

  The door to Wichtig’s cell swung open and whatever was on his belly scampered away.

  “I thought I heard a girl’s scream,” said the first man entering the room. He was a fat and dull looking beast with a face like week old porridge and eyes that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a boar were they not so widely spaced.

  A second, older man entered behind.

  “Greetings, gentlemen,” said Wichtig, flashing his second best grin. Not the one that made women swoon and men loathe him—that one was all wrong for the occasion—but the one that made everyone think he was their best friend. “Forgive me if I don’t get up.”

  “Is he being funny?” asked the dull boar.

  “It’s called bravado,” said the other, a thin and wiry old man with bright eyes. “It won’t last.”

  Neither looked particularly imposing or dangerous, but Wichtig decided that when one is strapped to a table, anyone not lashed to a table seemed a little intimidating.

  “Actually,” said Wichtig, “I was trying for charming.”

  “A Gefahrgeist?” asked the old man. “That’s what he’s for,” he said, nodding at the man beside him.

  Wichtig rolled his eyes to take in the fat one. He didn’t look like much. “Him?”

  The lean one nodded, inspecting the strips of leather binding Wichtig to the table. “He’s too stupid to be charmed.”

  “I’m right here,” said the other.

  “He’s so dumb I think he’d even be immune to a Slaver’s influence.”

  “I’m standing right beside you. Hello?”

  “I think it has something to do with his utter lack of imagination.”

  “I’m imagining myself smacking you.”

  “If you manage to charm me, he’s supposed to kill me.”

  “Which I will do happily.”

  “That’s a pretty shite plan,” said Wichtig. “If he’s that dumb he won’t notice you’ve been charmed. If he does notice, you get killed.” Frowning in mock thought, he said, “And then the idiot might think you’ve been charmed and kill you when you’re perfectly fine.” He wished he could fix his hair or strike a pose better than naked and strapped to a table. “Were I you,” he said, “I’d kill him before he does you out of confusion.”

  “Believe me, I’ve thought about it,” muttered the old man.

  “Have you been charmed?” asked the fat one, eyeing the other suspiciously.

  “Do I seem charmed?”

  “I’ve charmed him,” Wichtig told the fat man. “And in a moment I’ll tell him to kill you.”

  The old man punched Wichtig in the mouth, knocking out a tooth the Swordsman promptly swallowed with a mouthful of blood. Head ringing, Wichtig spat a red froth, most of which rained back down upon his immobile face. “Ow.” He felt about with his tongue, trying to discern which tooth he lost. Hopefully not one of the front ones. He didn’t want his smile ruined by—

  The old man hit him again, mashing his lips and shattering another tooth. This time Wichtig managed to cough the fragments out instead of swallowing them.

  “I don’t think he’s charmed,” said the fat one.

  Wichtig had to agree.

  Swallowing more blood, he said, “I’m having an off day.”

  “It’s about to get a lot worse,” said the old man rubbing his bruised knuckles.

  Missing his two top front teeth, Wichtig wanted to tell them that when he got off this table he’d kill the two of them. He wanted to tell them he’d do it slowly, carve them piece by piece. He wanted to explain how terrible a mistake they’d made and how his vengeance would be awful and final, like the kind of thing the old gods did when they wiped out entire cities by raising the ocean.

  Instead he said, “Pleash don’t hit me again,” lisping wetly though the gap in his teeth.

  “You should wear gloves if you’re going to do things like that,” said the fat one.

  The old man nodded agreement. “You must be the stupidest spy ever,” he said to Wichtig.

  “Shpy? I’m no damned shpy. I’m a Shwordshman. I’m the Shwordshman! I’m Wishtig Lügner, the Greatesht Shwordshman in the World!” Gods he wished he could sit up or at least wipe some of the blood from his face. “I killed Blutiger Affekt, the greatest Shswordshman in that shite hole Unbrauchbar.”

  “Blutiger? That was over a decade ago,” said the old man. “You’d have been, what, twelve or thirteen? Liar.”

  Damn, he’d forgotten. The last thing he wanted to explain was how he died and the Geborene god returned him to life. “I killed Kurz Ehrfürchtig in Shelbsthash jusht a day ago. Fetch me my bladesh and I’ll teach you shome mannersh!”

  “I told you he came from Shelbsthash,” said the fat one.

  “Selbsthass,” corrected the other. “He’s missing teeth. You are not. Yet.”

  The fat man shrugged. “You never listen.”

  The old man ignored him, looking thoughtful. “Blutiger, he died around the same time everyone in that church was murdered.”

  “And the Unbrauchbar guard were turned to ash.” said the fat man, nodding. “People still talk about that. Remember that wagon, the one with all the smoke that we didn’t see?”

  The old man shuddered at the memory. “King Schmutzig is still angry about that. Replacing those guards cost a fortune in weapons and armour.”

  “Wasn’t that a Geborene church?” asked the fat man.

  The old man ignored him. “We’re days away from war. The King will want to know what this spy planned.” He leaned close to look Wichtig in the eyes. “Assassination, perhaps?”

  “War?” said Wichtig. “Why the hellsh didn’t Morgen tell me there wash a war heating up. Shtupidest god ever!”

  “Stupidest spy ever,” said the old man. “Swordsman my scarred arse. Look at him. Not so much as a shaving nick. If ever I saw a Geborene priest it’s this idiot. He’s perfect.”

  “There’s the missing teeth,” pointed out the fat one.

  Again the old man ignored him.

  “While it ish true, I am perfect—” began Wichtig.

  “Was perfect,” said the fat man helpfully.

  “—I hardly think—”

  “He embodies everything they stand for,” said the old man.

  “—While granted I’m—”

  “He’s even clean,” said the fat one as if this alone were damning evidence. “Well, before you hit him.”

  “Because I have shtandards of physhical—”

  “I bet he bathes,” said the fat one with a look of disgust.

  “Definitely Geborene,” said the other. “Let’s get Schnitter.”

  The fat one looked confused. “I thought she was gone.”

  The old man shook his head, his lips wrinkled in distaste. “Nope. Though there’s a little less of her than there was.”

  “Schnitter?” asked Wichtig, confused and wondering if maybe the blows to the head left him concussed.

  “You’ll see,” said the old man.

  “And then he won’t,” added the fat one.

  The two men left Wichtig alone in the room
.

  Well that didn’t go quite as well as I’d hoped.

  He replayed what he could remember of the confusing conversation. Schnitter was a woman, he remembered that much. Okay, that was his out. He’d be fine.

  Never met a woman I couldn’t charm.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Afterdeath is something of a misnomer. We know for a fact the Schlammstamm tribes believe their souls are carted to the great grasslands in the sky by some horse god, the Ausgebrochene of the Gezackt mountains hide their souls in dolls made of their own excrement, and the Basamortuan think their blooded warriors live on in Borrokalaria. In truth, I’m not even sure that those who die in Geldangelegenheiten go to the same Afterdeath as those who die in Unbedeutend.

  The one thing all have in common however is the belief that there is something after whatever comes next.

  —Langsam Brechen - Philosopher

  Stehlen wandered the tower’s halls unseen. She let herself into locked rooms and took whatever trinkets caught her attention, often discarding them in the next room she broke into. Finding a brightly coloured scarf in what looked to be a female guard’s room, she wrapped it about one bony wrist, tucking it up her sleeve and out of sight. The scarf smelled nice, like springtime flowers damp with dew.

  Meandering alone in a long stretch of hall unmarked beyond its proliferation of cobwebs, she thought back to her reunion with Bedeckt in the Afterdeath. She remembered his awkward hesitation as he offered her the scarves he took from her dead body. Somehow he knew how important they were to her, even if he didn’t understand why.

  Her fingers played at the ragged edges of the oldest scarves she wore hidden up her sleeve. They were mother’s and Stehlen carried them since leaving home.