Beyond Redemption 10 Chapter 8

—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? G.o.ds, 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 from 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.ds 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 G.o.ds gave us fire, that the G.o.ds lifted us from savagery. This is laughable. We hardly need the G.o.ds 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 G.o.ds are the result of the delusions of prehistoric mankind. Is there power without insanity? No. Are the elder G.o.ds 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 st.u.r.dy 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. s.e.x. 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 Ha.s.sebrand 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 Ha.s.sebrand 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 G.o.ds. It made so much sense.

Why did we ever stop? No wonder the old G.o.ds 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 ma.s.sive bed.

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

Who would want to kill her? She laughed, a shivering t.i.tter, and gathered the blankets under her chin. G.o.ds, who didn't want to kill her?

She sat on the hard marble of the altar, feeling the cold stone on her b.u.m 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 G.o.ds.

Primordial. The word reminded her of mud and fifty thousand years of blood. And the smell of cow s.h.i.te.

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 just 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.
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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.

Da—

No. Turn away.

The last Krieger watched her with sad eyes.

Where did the cats go?

He didn't answer.

Can I tell you a secret?

The instant the first ray of sunlight stole over the horizon, Gehirn's eyes snapped open; even though she couldn't see it, she felt its malignant presence like a crushing weight. It wanted her, hungered for her pale and tender skin. A quick glance showed her the shutters and heavy drapes were all in place. No hint of light w.a.n.gled its way into the carriage's dark interior. Nonetheless, she huddled into her voluminous robes and pulled the cowl up to cover her face. At the mere thought of direct sunlight she smelled the sweet bouquet of burning flesh.

Hints of a dream, fading quickly, tingled like soft breath on the back of her neck. She remembered fire. Hardly odd, as most of her dreams and nightmares involved burning something. Or someone.

Why were they not moving already? Gehirn had expected to awaken to the rocking motion of carriage travel. It was unlike the Krieger to sleep in.

She giggled and bellowed, "Why are we not moving?"

No answer came but the cheerful sound of morning birds greeting a new day.

Gehirn gently cracked the drapes open and flinched back with a squeal of pain as sunlight stabbed viciously into the dark interior of the carriage. Her right eye felt as if it had been splashed with molten lava. The carriage reeked of burned meat and singed hair. Cowering on the carriage's floor, Gehirn replayed the scene she had witnessed before losing the sight in that eye: Three corpses sprawled about the dead fire, twisted as if they had died in great agony. There had been no marks upon them.

"I knew it." Gehirn laughed. "I told them the soup was probably poisonous. I knew it!"

After sitting in thought, Gehirn surrendered to the obvious. She had no choice. Konig had sent her on a mission and that mission must be completed. She wrapped her face in black cotton gauze, leaving it thinnest around her eyes so she could just make out a smear of the world around her. Dragging the cowl back into place, she tied it tight so the wind would not dislodge it. Finally Gehirn drew thick gloves into place and tied her sleeves tightly at the wrist. Once armored against the sun, she stifled a whimper of terror and crawled from the carriage to face that ultimate fire. In seconds she streamed sweat. Thin smoke rose around her. Even through the thick cloth she could feel her skin reddening. This would be a very painful couple of days. Only the knowledge that she healed quickly made it even possible to bear.

The Ha.s.sebrand stood over the three contorted corpses.

"And yet still they made no sound. Impressive. I shall have to compliment the Master Krieger. Ohne Seele trains his people well."

Though a small fortune in weapons and armor lay scattered, they were useless to Gehirn, who'd had no martial training. She shrugged philosophically.

A curl of smoke, rising from one of the Krieger's ears, caught Gehirn's attention. Kneeling, she leaned close and rolled the stiff corpse onto its back. Empty sockets, raw and red, scalded clean of flesh and blood, stared at her. Now that she was closer she saw the man's hair was singed and steam rose from his bright pink scalp. She wrinkled her nose at the stench. Reaching a gloved hand out, she moved the Krieger's head, lifting it to test the weight. The skull felt impossibly light. Even through the thick glove she felt heat radiating from the bone.

His brains have been boiled away. This skull is empty!

Gehirn checked the other two Krieger, seeing similar signs. Who could have—

She remembered her dream. She remembered the feel of her lips on a man's ear. She remembered whispering the secret of fire.

But in the dream they were coming to kill me.

Had that been true, or had she killed Konig's Krieger as they slept, no doubt entertaining their own fantasies of violence?

No. Konig needs me. He said so.

Hadn't she said that in the dream?

Now, in the cleansing truth of sunlight, she understood that the soup had not been poisoned.

"This is hardly my fault," Gehirn said to the sky, eyes pinched against the light slashing through the fabric.

Gehirn Schlechtes drove the horses hard. A veritable tornado of dust and smoke redolent of charred flesh chased after the carriage. That evening, as the few clouds offering some modic.u.m of protection fled to the horizon, she saw the next day would be mercilessly bright and sunny. She did not stop, instead choosing to drive the team onward to Unbrauchbar.

Bedeckt sat in the dark, sinuses clogged shut, eyes watering from the pressure in his skull, wondering where he had gone so wrong. It had been the moment he chose to travel with Wichtig and Stehlen. Yes, that had been his big mistake. Life was so much simpler when I traveled alone. He'd abandon them when he could, but now he needed them. No way he could break into the temple in Selbstha.s.s and kidnap a G.o.d alone—especially when he was sick as a dog.

Their flight from Unbrauchbar had been hasty and ill-planned and he couldn't stop thinking about it. Had they left some clue as to their motives? Had Stehlen been less thorough in her murders than she claimed? What if someone saw her—or even all of them—and could pa.s.s their descriptions to whatever pa.s.sed as authorities? I should have planned this better!

Though they carried enough dried rations and water, they had not taken the time to acquire any of life's small pleasures. He really should have demanded they take the time to find a bottle of something nasty.

They had set up camp a few hundred yards from the road and lit a small fire—keeping it well sheltered—preferring to remain as invisible as possible. Wichtig sat cross-legged, his two swords resting across his lap. He talked about cleaning them and then apparently forgot. Stehlen squatted a few yards from Bedeckt, her feet flat on the ground and obviously comfortable in this position. Just looking at her made Bedeckt's knees ache.

Wichtig picked up a pebble and threw it at a nearby tree. He was rewarded with a hollow pock sound. "We should have bought cigars before we left."

"We left in the middle of the night," growled Bedeckt, hating to be reminded he had just thought the same thing.

"We should have purchased a change of clothes and fresh supplies," said Wichtig. "I'm sick of dried rations."

"We left in the middle of the night," Bedeckt repeated. "Remember?"

"Do you think anyone will remember me?" Wichtig mused. "You know, that I killed their Greatest Swordsman. I usually like to kill a few of their next-best Swordsmen just to hammer the point home. No point if they can't remember my name, is there?"

Stehlen rocked back and stood in one smooth motion. She moved two steps closer to Bedeckt and sank back to her squat.

"I don't think it works like that," she said. "I don't think people have to know your name. As long as they believe you are the Greatest Swordsman . . . I think that's the important part."

Wichtig shook his head. "They should know my name. How can they know I am the Greatest if they don't know my name? It doesn't make sense."

Bedeckt did his best to ignore Stehlen's proximity. "You're not the Greatest Swordsman. You're good, but you're not that good."

"I don't have to be the Greatest, I just have to be the guy everyone thinks is the Greatest. Then I will be the Greatest."

"How do you beat the Greatest Swordsman when you are clearly not him?" asked Bedeckt.

"That's just it," exclaimed Wichtig. "It is not at all clear I am not the Greatest. Sure, you know I'm not, but no one else does. As far as everyone else is concerned, I just might be the Greatest. My ability with the sword is secondary to my ability to talk. See, I understand what no one else seems to grasp. Communication is manipulation. Every time we speak we are trying to achieve an effect—a goal. We first learn to talk so we may better manipulate our parents. Sign language. Grunting and pointing. Wearing certain clothes and baubles. Walking or standing a certain way. This is all language and it is all manipulation. Most Swordsmen aren't particularly creative, but I am an artist."

Stehlen snickered. "You're not an artist, you're an a.r.s.ehole."

Wichtig continued as if she hadn't interrupted his flow. "If I wasn't on this path I'd become famous for other reasons. It's who I am. People are drawn to me."

Bedeckt had long lost count how many times he'd heard versions of this speech. "We're not drawn to you, you keep following us. And if you're so great at manipulation, why don't I think you might be the Greatest Swordsman?"

Wichtig flashed perfect teeth. How the h.e.l.ls does he keep them so d.a.m.ned white?

"You're so sane," mused Wichtig, "you are the craziest person I have ever met. You cling so desperately to sanity and stability when such things are obviously myths. You believe pretending the world isn't crazy might make it so." He laughed comfortably and added, "You might be the craziest person in all the world."

"Traveling with you two . . . I must be crazy." Bedeckt glanced up at the sound of a horse-drawn carriage thundering along on the road to Unbrauchbar. The carriage had no lanterns lit and was traveling far too fast. The smell of burned flesh followed in its wake. "I don't think that bodes well."

The other two watched the carriage disappear into the dark, their faces unreadable and gray. Bedeckt heard Stehlen shuffle closer, though he didn't turn to face her. He felt her long-fingered hand on his shoulder as she ma.s.saged the stiff muscles. It felt good, but made him more tense.

"Woman. No."

She smacked him hard on the back of the head.

Wichtig guffawed. "When the lights are out she becomes quite the beauty, eh, Bedeckt? Get it over with. She won't leave you alone until you do. h.e.l.ls, she still pesters me each night."

"Liar," said Stehlen.

"Each night I feel you fumbling about my britches and each morning more coin is missing. Am I dreaming that too?"

"Yes. You disgust me with your pretty clothes and silver tongue."

"Hmm. I thought the tongue might be the one part you were interested in. Your preferences being what they are . . ."

There was a moment of silence and Bedeckt knew Stehlen had gone red even though the dark rendered everything a monochromatic gray. s.h.i.te, she'll kill Wichtig if I don't intervene.

Bedeckt tried to distract the two. "We should have bought alcohol while we were in town."

"We left in the middle of the night," Wichtig pointed out reasonably.

Stehlen was less kind. "Idiot."

Bedeckt figured it better they were p.i.s.sed at him than trying to kill each other.

Stehlen wanted him. Wichtig knew it and she knew it and she knew he knew it and he knew she knew he knew . . . where was he? Yeah. She wanted him. She only pretended otherwise because she knew if she acted interested he wouldn't be. It all made sense.

Wichtig studied Stehlen, her dirty blond hair clumped and matted as always. G.o.ds, generations of rats could live in there. Even in the dark he saw the overlong hooked nose and too-strong jawline. He tried to find a hint of curve under the faded leathers she always wore. He preferred his women soft and compliant, but sometimes something more like a fight could be interesting. Of course, if I did bed her she'd immediately fall madly in love with me. It would make ignoring her afterward all the more fun.

G.o.ds, he was bored. "Stehlen. I'm sorry about what I said."

"Go stick pigs."

"Hey, Bedeckt, the jagged ice harpy is melting. I think she likes me."

He smiled as he fell asleep.