The Mirror's Truth: A Novel of Manifest Delusions Page 4

  I will be free. I will be real.

  Konig eyed him for a moment as if he knew his thoughts, and then hurried from the room. The man was pitiful, he had nothing of what made Failure great. If this new Konig was a Gefahrgeist, his powers were beneath notice.

  Failure considered Bedeckt. What could some broken old man do to a god? Nacht’s crap about Bedeckt having a way of stopping Morgen must be a distraction. And Morgen, the fool, fell for it.

  Failure might be trapped in a mirror, but he could still turn his Gefahrgeist power against those beyond his prison. He’d enslave Erdbehüter, Ungeist, and Drache, and have them kill Bedeckt. When they returned, he’d command Morgen through them. Perhaps he could even order the god to free him from this mirror. Once free, he’d have no need of intermediaries.

  He contemplated his god. Morgen might be powerful, but he was still a naïve child.

  I made him. He is mine.

  ***

  From a tiny shard of broken mirror wedged tight in the corner where it was unlikely to be found or accidentally tidied, Nacht watched Konig and Failure argue. He exaggerated when he told Morgen some of the Geborene worshipped him. A few did, seeing him as an aspect of their god, but they were neither a large nor powerful group. They were, however, useful when it came to planting such spying devices.

  As a Reflection, he could only go where there were reflective surfaces to peer from, and they assumed that if they didn’t see him in the brass mirror, he wasn’t there. He’d tried stepping from a mirror, but doing so was like diving into an ocean. Unable to breathe beyond his reflected world, he drowned in reality. Someday that would change. Someday he would be the real Geborene god and not just an Ascended Reflection.

  But first Morgen must fall.

  And for that to happen, Nacht needed to get him out of Selbsthass, the centre of his power.

  It would be no great feat to trick the godling into leading his army to Gottlos in pursuit of the old man. It was what he wanted to do anyway. Why else spend so much time playing with those stupid toy soldiers? Morgen would march his army south. Fifteen thousand soldiers and thousands of horses, all eating and shitting and living, would lay waste to his beautiful and flawless rolling hills.

  I’ll show him the horrors of war. I’ll show him violence and death and filth. The Geborene god would be unable to see any of this as a fault in his obsessions and would embrace them all the more fiercely, desperate to fix the perceived flaws of nature. And therein lay Nacht’s escape, his victory. Obsession was madness, and embracing one’s madness led to the Pinnacle. Morgen thought himself a true god, above and beyond the laws governing reality. He wasn’t. He was a tortured and broken little boy, obsessed with cleanliness, order, and perfection.

  Nacht ignored the dark voice reminding him he too was a broken little boy.

  I’ll make him more powerful than he’s ever dreamed, and the more desperately he reaches for perfection, the farther he’ll fall. Nacht grinned at the arguing Konigs. When Morgen had seen enough carnage and devastation he would turn to his Reflection. Unable to face the harsh truths of war, he’ll give me his army. He’ll ask me to do his dirty work.

  Convincing Morgen that Bedeckt must die was easier than Nacht expected, and the hint that he couldn’t trust his own priests guaranteed his choice of assassins. Nacht would avoid Stehlen, she was far too unpredictable, but Wichtig would be easy to bend to his purposes.

  Bedeckt. What the hells was the old man up to?

  The Mirrorist Bedeckt travelled with somehow blocked Nacht. He saw little beyond a ruined farmhouse a few days in the future. To hide the future from him spoke volumes for the strength of her delusions. Blind as he was to the details, Nacht felt sure this path led to Morgen’s fall.

  Nacht skipped from mirror to mirror, flitting through possible futures until he found himself in the shattered shards of a broken window. He examined the remains of this long-abandoned farmhouse. The scene was peaceful, quiet. An empty home hung thick in dusty cobwebs, about to fall in on itself. Looking out the other side of his window, he saw the rocky mud fields of Gottlos. The sky hung low, ominous clouds threatening rain. No matter how hard he tried, he always ended up here.

  Were there no other possible futures?

  It doesn’t make sense. If there was one thing a Reflection knew, it was that the future was never fixed. How could the combined choices of all those involved, Morgen, Bedeckt, Stehlen, Wichtig, Konig, Failure, and fifteen thousand Geborene soldiers, all end at one place? Could this be the work of Bedeckt’s Mirrorist? No, she can’t be that powerful. Was there another power at work, did the elder gods—or whoever enforced the rules of reality—have a vested interest in the outcome of this mad little power struggle? Why would they? This was nothing new, nothing that hadn’t happened a thousand times before.

  Nacht looked back through the possible futures, seeing thousands of nested reflections as if turning two mirrors to face one another. This farmhouse lay less than a week away.

  The rickety door on the far side of the farmhouse slammed open and Nacht was back in Selbsthass. He never got to see who entered or what happened next.

  While the future was never truly fixed, he was accustomed to seeing countless possible outcomes. This inability to see past one moment twisted his stomach with fear. Could there be no future beyond that, or was some other Mirrorist blocking him? How powerful—how near the Pinnacle—would they have to be to do that? If that was the case, they’d be gone soon enough, removed from contention.

  Should I try and lead Morgen elsewhere?

  No, there was too much of what Nacht wanted on this path. The garrison at the Gottlos border, the battle at Unbrauchbar. Mud and filth and stained white Geborene robes. Madness and chaos and violence. All of it would push Morgen to embrace his obsessions, driving him ever closer to the Pinnacle. The Geborene god would become what he loathed.

  And if I did manage to move him somewhere else, I’d be blind. Nacht saw no other options, no other futures. This might or might not be the only future, but it offered everything he desired. His inability to see beyond it scared him. He felt like he sprinted toward an impenetrable bank of fog.

  This future breaks Morgen, and I will chance the unknown. If everyone else lived that way, unable to see even a few minutes into the future, then he could too. He wished he could see the moment the godling actually snapped. It must lay beyond that farmhouse.

  Nacht would bide his time. With Morgen dethroned from his own mind, his Reflection would wrestle control from the obsessive little shite. He’d wield Morgen’s power as it was meant to be used. Decay and chaos, death and destruction. These things were natural. Cleanliness and perfection could never last. Morgen’s theocracy was doomed. By embracing everything Morgen was not, Nacht would build the Geborene into something lasting.

  When I am real, when I have taken all Morgen is and made it mine, nothing will stop me. No god or Mirrorist will stand in my way.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Those whom you slay must serve in the Afterdeath. Gather yourself an army of dead for what awaits is endless war.

  — The Warrior’s Credo (Verschlinger version)

  The consequences of his death and a lifetime of ill-thought choices chased Wichtig east. One ever-shrinking step ahead of his last bad decision, he rode toward Selbsthass City, home to the Geborene Damonen Theocracy and the god who killed him.

  Wichtig’s horse, a grey mare of even temperament and non-existent intelligence, checked over its shoulder as if to make sure Stehlen was not there.

  “It’s okay,” said Wichtig, patting its neck. “We left the horrid wench back in Neidrig.”

  He glanced over his own shoulder to make sure she wasn’t lurking nearby. He saw nothing of the ugly thief, but her Kleptic talents being what they were, he wouldn’t. It was a little odd that she hadn’t been around when Bedeckt sent him riding for Selbsthass. Were they finally cutting themselves loose of the murderous bitch? A glow of warmth touched Wichtig’s heart at the though
t Bedeckt needed him for his plan—whatever it was—but not Stehlen. That would piss her off. The thought of her anger fanned that warm glow into a burning ember of satisfaction. He wished she were here so he could rub her face in it.

  “What do you think, horse, should I find her when all this is done?”

  The beast’s ear twitched about, searching for the source of the sound.

  “Stupid horse.”

  Wichtig examined the rolling muscles of its shoulders. It was a solid enough creature, dependable as only incredibly dull things can be, but he really should have chosen a different colour. The Afterdeath was a world of greys. Everything from the farmers’ fields to the tavern whores Wichtig couldn’t be bothered to bed looked like washed out versions, drained of life and colour, of their living counterparts.

  Come to think of it, how the hells did horses end up in the Afterdeath? Did they all end up here, or only the ones slain by those following the Warrior’s Credo?

  He’d heard so many variations of the credo it was hard to remember which he believed. All of them?

  “Horse,” said Wichtig, “if I stood you against a grey wall, you’d disappear. And that’s a damned embarrassing way to lose a horse. Even one as dim as you.”

  The horse glanced over its shoulder and past Wichtig, not even seeing him. Its ears flicked and perked, searching.

  “I’m right here, idiot, sitting on your back.”

  The half-wit beast returned its attention to the endless sea of grey.

  I should know better than to talk to a damned animal. This was the kind of sentimental shite Bedeckt did all the time. Much as he grunted on about his short list of ‘things he wouldn’t do,’ the old man was a softy at heart. A violent, blood-soaked, thieving, murderous softy.

  As Wichtig neared the Selbsthass city gates a dozen Geborene priests dressed in white liveries and polished armour blocked his path. They looked eerily similar, even the women. Not identical like Mehrere sometimes manifest, but like they all belonged to the same family. Did Morgen pick his guards based on appearance, or was the godling warping his foolish faithful with his delusions?

  “Where are you coming from?” demanded one of the guards.

  “What remains of Neidrig,” said Wichtig. “They’ve got this amazing cat god. You folks should really—”

  “Business in Selbsthass?”

  “None of yours.”

  Hands moved to weapons, fingertips caressing pommels in the eager hope of violence. Fools. No doubt these idiots did something stupid to get themselves killed in the first place. Here they were, about to repeat their mistakes.

  What was it Bedeckt always said about the past? Wichtig couldn’t remember.

  Rolling muscular shoulders, he felt the weight of the twin swords hanging there. The pommels framed his perfect face.

  “Name?” asked the nearest guard, glaring up at Wichtig, lip curling in a sneer of smug superiority. Which was ridiculous. This half-wit thug was decked out in boring white while Wichtig wore flashy and expensive clothes to best effect. Well, to the best effect possible in a world of grey.

  “I am Wichtig Lügner, Greatest Swordsman in the—”

  “Fine.” The guards separated, leaving him room to pass.

  “Fine?”

  They turned away, already ignoring him and his perfect hair. He shrugged philosophically. Apparently his reputation had spread, even here in the Afterdeath. Not bad considering he was only dead for two weeks. Killing a dozen or more Swordsman in that time probably helped.

  As Wichtig entered Selbsthass City, his good mood soured.

  Why the ever-loving hells does Bedeckt want to meet here? Neidrig, while a shite-hole and damned near depopulated by that Slaver—Wichtig never learned the fat slug’s name—would have been better. There were too many reminders here. This was where it all started to go wrong.

  Wichtig scowled at the perfectly straight streets, the utter lack of litter. Gods, it looked like someone actually scrubbed each individual cobblestone. The roads had always been clean, but this was insane. Ahead, he saw the looming edifice that was the centre of the Geborene faith. That, too, looked different. The castle he remembered was a lumbering, twisted, spilled guts affair. He remembered skulking about the strangely shaped passageways in search of Morgen, the god-child who would later knife him in the belly. That castle hadn’t looked like it was built by human hands. Not that this one did, but it looked far more disciplined. Had Morgen changed it, bent reality with his obsessive need for structure and cleanliness?

  Can a need for sanity reach insane proportions? The thought reminded him of Bedeckt and he shrugged it away. Morgen would get what he deserved. Bedeckt had a plan and, having died at Bedeckt’s hand, Morgen must serve the grizzled old goat. Wichtig grinned. Perhaps not justice for being stabbed to death, but a step in the right direction. He couldn’t wait to see the look on the little shite’s face when he realized Bedeckt could not be trusted.

  What did Bedeckt have in mind? The old goat was strangely vague, muttering something about escaping the Afterdeath. Did he not trust Wichtig? No, that can’t be it. He must have worried Stehlen would overhear; she had a habit of spying on her friends.

  Hopefully this one worked out better than the rest of Bedeckt’s plans.

  Wichtig rode through grey streets. This Selbsthass had none of the life and bustle of the version in the land of the living. He watched people shuffle about the daily grind of being dead. Strange how similar it was to being alive. Bent old ladies shopped in the market for grey fruit while crotchety old men drank dark coffee and grumbled about their knees in grey cafés lining intimidatingly clean streets. Wichtig wanted to piss on a wall to mar the perfection.

  Passing a side street, he spotted a half dozen white-clad kneeling priests—buckets at their sides—scrubbing cobblestones.

  I knew it!

  Bedeckt said to meet him at the Leichtes Haus. The name sounded familiar. Picking a street he thought he recognized, Wichtig pushed his horse forward with a nudge of his knees. When he spotted the tavern, he realized why it sounded familiar. They stayed at this inn when alive. With a quick grin, Wichtig remembered bedding that insatiable barmaid. What was her name? He couldn’t remember.

  Tying the reins off to the horse-rail, Wichtig entered with a flourish and a grin. Though the few bored looking patrons glanced up at his entrance, all immediately turned away, uninterested.

  Grey isn’t my colour. It was the only explanation. How else could they so readily ignore his stunning good looks and physical perfection?

  Slinging the matched swords from his shoulders, Wichtig dumped them on the table and dropped into a chair, slumping into a comfortable slouch. He watched the bar staff putter. Each and every one looked grey and familiar. He even thought he recognized most of the patrons. And then he understood. They were familiar. He had seen them before. When he and Stehlen last left the Leichtes Haus, dragging Bedeckt’s unconscious and bleeding near-corpse, the hideous Kleptic killed everyone. All the staff. All the patrons. She said it was to cover their tracks, so that no one could describe them. She’d lied. Wichtig knew she murdered all those people to hide the one death she really desired. Wichtig spotted the bar maid he bedded the last time they were in Selbsthass. She served a drink to a man who sat on the edge of his chair, face mashed against the tabletop, arms splayed about his head.

  Wichtig’s chest tightened with an odd emotion that might have been guilt were guilt not the kind of thing Gefahrgeist such as himself used to manipulate others. Stehlen had been jealous. Jealousy Wichtig understood all too well. Every woman wanted him, how could she not be jealous? But to kill a dozen people to annoy him? He’d no idea she was so madly in love with him. He’d been tempted to rut the murderous bitch, but shortly after murdering everyone in the Leichtes Haus, she bedded Bedeckt in some puke-filled alley. Probably a pathetic attempt to make me jealous. Since then, Bedeckt and Stehlen’s relationship had been strained. It didn’t help that the old goat killed her to save Morgen.


  Are everyone’s relationships this complicated?

  Probably. As long as women were involved, nothing was easy.

  The barmaid approached, beautiful if a tad ashen in complexion. No hint of recognition lit her eyes. No warm smile graced her lips.

  Hiding his hurt, Wichtig gave her a long, smoky look and said, “Hi.”

  “Drink? Food?” She didn’t look at him, dead eyes staring at the swords on the table.

  “Yes and yes,” he said, eyeing the curve of her arse appreciatively and making no attempt to hide his interest. He remembered how she fell into his lap the last time he saw her, laughing and teasing and giggling. “And maybe a little something else.”

  “Roast chicken and ale?”

  “Is it really chicken?”

  She shrugged and left.

  Wichtig watched the swing of her arse but couldn’t summon a lust for it. Death is a prophylactic. Maybe he’d find something to rut just to be sure he still could. Life—unlife, he corrected—wasn’t worth living without the fawning attention of women.

  Wichtig’s mood soured further as he sat waiting for his food. The service wasn’t this bad when these folks were alive. People use any excuse for laziness. Including death.

  He sagged back into his chair, feeling tired. Death is leaching the life from me. Perhaps he hadn’t lost his poetic edge after all. If Bedeckt’s plan worked, and they were returned to life, what would he do with his second chance? Should he continue his quest to be the Greatest Swordsman in the World? Maybe he should ride to Traurig, find his wife and son, return to his life as a poet of growing repute.

  I could make different choices this time. I could be someone else. Whatever he did, people would love him for it; he had that gift. Short-sighted fools like Bedeckt called him a minor Gefahrgeist, but Wichtig knew the truth. He was talented and he was damned good looking. Men and women alike were drawn to him, pulled in by his wit and charm. No matter what path he took, others would follow.