Beyond Redemption Page 7

  That again. There was always something with the fat Hassebrand, someone always plotted against her. “I will look into it,” promised Konig sincerely.

  “You will?” asked Gehirn, voice choked with hope.

  “No one threatens my friends.” Konig sat motionless, unblinking, staring into those cold eyes until he felt the Hassebrand submit to his will. “You are critical to me,” said Konig, manipulating Gehirn’s emotions. “I need you.”

  “You do?” She looked ready to cry with gratitude; her need was disgusting.

  “Yes. I have work for you. Work only you can do. Work I trust with no one else.”

  “Of course, Your Holiness.”

  Konig did his best to ignore the stench of burning flesh leaking from the voluminous robes. “Someone killed my priests in Unbrauchbar. All of them. You—” He was suddenly aware that Gehirn was staring, eyes wide, at something behind him. Damn. His Doppels had entered the room unbidden. He willed them to silence and pressed on. “You will go to Unbrauchbar, find out who did this.”

  Gehirn glanced at the sun knifing between the cracks in the shutters and whimpered. “To Unbrauchbar?” The smell of burned meat grew stronger. “I will leave the moment the sun sets, Your—”

  “You will leave now. A carriage has been prepared.”

  Gehirn stifled a sob. “But . . . the sun—”

  “Three of my Krieger will accompany you.”

  “Do . . . do you trust these priests?”

  “Yes,” said Konig.

  “No!” snapped Abandonment.

  Gehirn’s eyes widened with fear.

  “What my Doppel means”—Konig shot a warning glance over his shoulder at Abandonment—“is that while I trust these priests as much as I trust anyone, I have total faith in no one.” Gehirn’s disgusting little eyes peered at him from within the cowl. It was so difficult to read the Hassebrand, so hard to know if he really had her. “No one but you, I mean,” Konig added.

  Gehirn bowed low. “I will not fail, Your Holiness. I will travel to Unbrauchbar as fast as your Krieger can take me. I will discover the identity of the murderers and I will bring upon them your vengeance.” A breath of smoky air hissed between clenched teeth and Konig could just make out the bright teeth and overlarge canines glinting from within the cowl’s shadows. “I will purify them in fire. There will be naught left when I am finished. Not even their souls will survive to flee to the Afterdeath.”

  “I must know who was behind the attack on the Unbrauchbar temple.” Konig hammered the Hassebrand with an unblinking gray glare, daring her to disobey. “Burn the perpetrators, but you must report to me your findings. I must know what is happening.”

  Gehirn Schlechtes bowed again and backed toward the door. “Yes, Your Holiness. I will discover the truth. I will punish those responsible.” Again Konig saw the toothy grin glinting from within the cowl.

  Gehirn stumbled from the High Priest’s room racked with sadness and loneliness. Her every effort to please Konig ended with looks of disgust and fear. But she’d prove her worth to Konig and his vicious little Doppels.

  Gehirn stalked long passages lit by guttering torches and dodged past the few windows, directing hisses of hatred at the sun. She could feel her skin crack and peel and the smell of burned flesh followed her everywhere. Other priests and staff ducked from her path, cowering as she passed. She’d burn everything someday. Every ounce of hurt their fear caused her would be repaid in full.

  She’d burn the world.

  But not before doing what Konig asked of her. Gehirn’s need to serve, to be part of something, quenched even her desire to burn. At least for now. Someday even Konig would not be enough to halt her descent into madness.

  Gehirn stopped in the center of the long hall, her gaze darting about. She was very much alone. Though there had been people about a moment ago, suddenly the hall was empty.

  Assassins? Here in the center of Geborene power? No, she decided, too obvious, too unsubtle. When they came for her, there would be no warning.

  She did her best to shrug off the paranoia and hurried to her basement chambers. There was just enough time to burn a few of her imprisoned pet cats before rushing off for Unbrauchbar. She shivered with anticipation at the thought of yowling screams, flickering flames, and bubbling flesh. Only in fiery death could she find release.

  The three Doppels stood in a triangle watching each other carefully. Konig was off to some unknown meeting. They cared not.

  Trepidation stood ramrod straight, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as if trying to protect himself from the world around him. “Gehirn is dangerous.”

  Abandonment glanced at the mirror and the reflections still gathered there. None reflected the positions of the Doppels. “Gehirn will betray us.”

  “She’s too tall,” added Trepidation.

  The two Doppels looked to Acceptance.

  “Gehirn is powerful and dangerous,” agreed Acceptance. “But her power is also her weakness. She is alone and afraid and this means I can manipulate her. She will be the vehicle of our vengeance. Gehirn will free us from Konig.”

  “We can’t trust the Hassebrand,” counseled Abandonment.

  “I said nothing of trust. Once I have used her, we will kill her.”

  “Konig sent her away,” pointed out Abandonment.

  “We can wait. When Gehirn returns, Konig shall burn.” Acceptance glanced toward the mirror. “And we’ll have to break the damned mirror before they become powerful enough to compete with us.”

  Trepidation huddled deeper into his arms. “Konig fears his Mirrorist tendencies more than he fears us. That fear blinds him. It distracts him. He still thinks we’re useful.”

  “We are useful and we will remain useful. For now.” Acceptance studied the reflections gathered in the mirror. Did they listen? Could they hear what the Doppels planned?

  One of the reflections gave him the slightest nod.

  Interesting. Perhaps the reflections could be of use.

  “We don’t break the mirror,” he said. For now.

  CHAPTER 8

  Delusion is the food of the gods and they never go hungry.

  —HALBER TOD, COTARDIST POET

  Gehirn huddled in the blacked-out carriage as it thundered along an unfinished road—really little more than a cleared path with occasional markers—toward Unbrauchbar. Every now and then she’d crack the curtain of the rear window and peer out until the burning sun drove her back into the darkness. A roiling storm cloud of dust chased the carriage.

  Three Krieger priests, the warrior sect of the Geborene Damonen, sat up front on a bench meant for two. The bulk of their thick padded armor, double-chain hauberk, longswords, and arbalests no doubt made for a tight fit.

  Why don’t they want to ride with me? Was something wrong? Did they know something she didn’t? Gods, this could be a trap! Have I become too unstable? Maybe Konig planned to have her killed somewhere safely distant.

  Gehirn worried, scratching at the back of her hands until they bled.

  No, she was being silly. Three lowly Krieger could never kill her, no matter how well trained or psychotically loyal. They didn’t sit back here because . . . because they didn’t like her.

  Gehirn stopped scratching and the wounds closed in seconds and faded to invisible in minutes.

  The Krieger drove the horses hard, exchanging them for fresh teams at each town. Not until night fell and the last crimson smear of sunlight vanished did they slow their mad pace and pull off the path to make camp. A large tent was set, wood gathered, blankets laid out, and the horses brushed down, watered, and fed.

  Gehirn gently lowered her portly frame from the wagon and stood peering around the campsite. She remained covered head to toe in heavy burgundy robes, the cowl still pulled forward to hide her face. She stopped when she noticed the wood piled at the ready.

  “A fire?” Gehirn grinned maniacally at the three Krieger, who had all frozen in their various tasks upon her disembarking f
rom the carriage. “I love a good fire. Camaraderie. People drawn together to share in its light and heat.” She gestured at the wood and it burst into flames. In the brief moment her hand was exposed to the moonlight it reddened as if sunburned. Gehirn giggled. “Play with fire and you’ll get burned. That’s what Daddy always said.”

  Yeah, and Daddy burned just fine.

  The Krieger, hardened warriors all, ignored her, continuing in their tasks. Gehirn watched. Insanity, she supposed, in those with power wasn’t a comfortable conversational topic; it was a simple fact. If a single sane person ever shaped the world in any meaningful way, Gehirn hadn’t heard of them.

  The Krieger, she knew, suffered their own delusions of grandeur. To have volunteered for this position, they must. They knew the Geborene would create their god and they knew the Krieger would play a critical role in his Ascension. These were the last words Konig spoke to them before they were ritually deafened to prevent another Gefahrgeist from infecting their faith. The force of Konig’s faith defined their reality.

  Gehirn Schlechtes felt drawn to the fire and stood before it, rapt and lost in the flickering tongues. Flame spoke to her, loved her, and made her whole. The three Krieger sat around the fire, legs crossed, weapons laid out and lovingly polished. A pot of thick soup simmered on an iron tripod over the fire.

  “The first gods were born of man as he sat shivering and terrified in the dark.” The Krieger did not pause in the care of their weapons and armor. Gehirn continued, knowing they couldn’t hear and not caring. “The Wahnvor Stellung would have us believe the gods gave us fire, that the gods lifted us from savagery. This is laughable. We hardly need the gods to gift us with that which we can so easily create for ourselves. And what of this lift from savagery?”

  The Krieger prided themselves on their fierce will to do violence, their intense and overwhelming ferocity. Someone open to atrocity is far more dangerous than someone afraid of it. This was the core of their training, the center of their lives, and the bloody meat of their souls. No doubt they’d agree there has been no lift from savagery.

  Gehirn flashed teeth in a canine leer. “I see such lovely savagery right here before me. The Wahnvor gods are the result of the delusions of prehistoric mankind. Is there power without insanity? No. Are the elder gods powerful? Yes. Are they delusional? Obviously. No doubt they believe they created us, but their delusions will wither in the fires of our faith. Ah! And we come full circle back to fire.”

  The Krieger, ignoring Gehirn, carefully stowed their weapons and spooned soup into sturdy wood bowls.

  Gehirn stared into the fire; she felt distant and lost. “Do you know what we love about fire?” she asked the silent Krieger. “It’s not the heat. It’s not the light, though both those things are useful in their time and place. We love the unpredictable nature of flame. Look.” She gestured at the fire. “You can’t guess where the next licking tongue of flame will rise. And the larger the fire, the more unpredictable it is, and the more beautiful it becomes.” She stared into the fire until it consumed her vision. “We are, each and every one of us, addicted to chaos. Gorgeous, devouring, chaos. Every visceral pleasure comes from the moment when we truly lose control. That moment when our minds white out and thought vanishes, when the fire within us devours all rationality. Sex. Fire. It’s all the same.”

  One of the Krieger held a bowl up to Gehirn in offering.

  “No, thank you. I believe someone is trying to kill me.” The Hassebrand eyed the proffered bowl suspiciously, her good humor fading. “The soup is probably poisoned.”

  The warrior priest grunted, dumping the stew back into the pot.

  Gehirn reached into her robes and drew forth the pouch of dried seeds and nuts she kept there. This was the only food she had dared to eat in many years and she went to great lengths to ensure no one knew where her supplies came from. Only her delusional self-image could possibly maintain the portly frame she wore. Were her delusions less powerful, she suspected she would be rake thin and at the edge of starvation.

  The fire dwindled and Gehirn stood watching until the embers lost the last of their warm glow. Though each and every stage of a fire was a thing of beauty, the Hassebrand most enjoyed the final stages, the nuggets of radiating heat and dim light nestled in soft ashes of devoured reality. She loved to watch the wind-scattered ashes rising into the air, the gentle wraiths that came after the inferno.

  Fire is not all about destruction, but also about rebirth. Gehirn smiled at the thought. She did, however, so love the destruction.

  Two of the Krieger lay sleeping while the third kept watch. Gehirn nodded to the warrior as she returned to the carriage to sleep out the remains of the night.

  AS SHE PEERED from her blankets, the carriage seemed larger than she remembered, and a silver cage holding half a dozen tawny cats hung from a bronze hook in the ceiling. Their warm, musty smell reminded her of fur and life and her father, and she wanted to burn them but knew she shouldn’t.

  Not yet.

  By the far wall, impossibly distant in his cramped carriage, an altar of streaked black and darkest bloodred marble awaited her. She was supposed to sacrifice something to someone, but couldn’t remember what or whom.

  Or was she supposed to sacrifice someone to something?

  Aufschlag, that greasy stain of a scientist, once told her that long, long ago—thousands of generations before the birth of the Menschheit Letzte Imperium—humans burned sacrifices to the first gods. It made so much sense.

  Why did we ever stop? No wonder the old gods abandoned us.

  The cats were gone, their scent lingering on the air, haunting the back of her nose. Small souls, they were unworthy sacrifices; she knew that now.

  They’re coming to kill you.

  They?

  To kill you.

  Who?

  Wrong question.

  Gehirn huddled deeper into her blankets, a little girl hiding in a massive bed.

  Too late for that. Far too late. They’re coming.

  Who would want to kill her? She laughed, a shivering titter, and gathered the blankets under her chin. Gods, who didn’t want to kill her?

  She sat on the hard marble of the altar, feeling the cold stone on her bum even through her gray robes. Gray? An acolyte? She’d never been an acolyte, Konig had made her a Bishop the day they met.

  Remember that day?

  Yes.

  She knew then where she belonged. She was useful, Konig had plans. He was going to change the world and she was going to—

  Burn herself to a cinder in his service.

  Hadn’t she been in bed?

  It didn’t matter, they were coming to kill her.

  Closing her eyes, she imagined three cold souls moving through the dark, weapons drawn, toward her carriage.

  The Krieger. Konig’s Krieger.

  Gehirn stuck out her tongue and went cross-eyed watching the glistening saliva steam away.

  Let them come. These were souls worthy of sacrifice to those primordial gods.

  Primordial. The word reminded her of mud and fifty thousand years of blood. And the smell of cow shite.

  Wait. What was the right question?

  Why?

  Because I want to . . . Oh.

  The Krieger would never act alone and never of their own volition; Konig would never allow such unscripted freedom. Either someone had taken them, conscripted their will, bent the psychotically loyal Krieger to their own purpose. . .

  Or Konig sent them to kill you.

  No. Konig loved her.

  Well, at least he needed her. He said so!

  Of course, if they killed her, it didn’t much matter who sent them. Did it?

  Gehirn watched the three Krieger approach her carriage. She was death, invisible and everywhere, not cloaked in black, just empty. It wasn’t that they didn’t see her, they couldn’t. She wasn’t there.

  She didn’t walk, her feet didn’t touch the ground. But she didn’t hover or fly either. She j
ust moved, ghosting forward quieter than a hunting cat.

  Where did the cats go?

  Didn’t matter.

  A Krieger loomed large before her, his broad-shouldered back looking more like a wall or something she should hang art on. She giggled and he stopped, head turning as if searching for the sound.

  He’s deaf.

  I know.

  Then why—

  I don’t even know his name.

  So?

  Shouldn’t I know the names of the people who will serve me in the Afterdeath?

  Ha. Now you ask that, after so much murder. Anyway, somehow I don’t think your fate involves having your every need seen to by the likes of worshipful Krieger.

  Truth be told, she couldn’t imagine anyone serving her in the Afterdeath. Odd, as she’d killed so many.

  So, no point in asking his name; not that he’d hear the question anyway.

  How many cats await you in the Afterdeath?

  Do you suppose they do that? Are people plagued in the Afterdeath by the souls of every chicken and cow and goat they’ve ever eaten?

  No one believes that.

  I bet someone does. Somewhere. I wonder if the Krieger likes cats.

  Probably. Who doesn’t?

  I’m going to tell him.

  He won’t thank you.

  No one ever does.

  Gehirn leaned forward and whispered the secret of fire in his ear.

  The Krieger collapsed, boneless and loose.

  See? No thanks whatsoever. Why do you think they’re all men?

  Lots of Krieger are women.

  But Konig just sent men with me. Does that mean something?

  Gehirn approached the next Krieger, who’d suddenly sat in the dirt and begun crying. His face, wretched with tears and snot, looked like an ill-fitted mask.

  Poor thing.

  She leaned in close, tickled his ears with her lips. She told him a secret and he sighed smoke as he curled up like a scared kitten. He lay motionless, still and dead, smoke leaking from his nostrils.

  His mask slipped and she recognized the face beneath.