Beyond Redemption (16 page)

I don't see what I want to see, I see what I need to see. If you don't like it, see something else.

—A
NONYMOUS
H
ALLUZINIEREN

T
his was the calm eye of the storm, the hot center of crumbling sanity and last hopes. In all directions the horizon coiled and heaved, a lurid bruise, a maelstrom of abhorrent neuroses given form. The sky looked sick, reality ill with gross mistreatment. Gehirn tasted it in the air. The very ground wailed affliction. She wanted to cauterize the infection.

Regen Anrufer—Erbrechen's pet shaman—shuffled alongside Gehirn, his bulbous eyes staring off into bleak eternity, his few rotting teeth bared in a perpetual grimace. A stream of gritty brown drool attached chin to chest. Gehirn wanted to burn the Schlammstamm shaman in a wash of all-cleansing fire. The degenerate mob, staggering under the weight of Erbrechen's litter, followed behind. She wanted to torch the mob too. Flame ablating flesh from bone, rinsing the wretched stench from life.

Burn.
The thought sent shivers of pleasure tickling down her spine. As always, disgust followed.

Erbrechen remained hidden within the tented litter, accompanied this time by a young blond boy who reminded Gehirn of the god-child Morgen. Her stomach twisted at the thought.

When she walked in front of the mob, the stench was less overpowering—though far from nonexistent—and they didn't have to wade through the disgusting leavings of a crowd unable to care for themselves. Erbrechen's friends wouldn't—or couldn't—leave the caravan to relieve themselves. Instead they defecated as they walked, spilling thin drooling feces along emaciated legs. Most no longer possessed shoes and walked barefoot, blistered and bleeding, through the droppings of those in front.

Burn all of this shite to ash.

Gehirn slashed a sideways glance at Regen. Blood still trickled from the many wounds the shaman had opened along his bony arms to feed the sky. Self-hatred and self-abuse were requisites for many Geisteskranken. Regen drained himself as though blood—and not his failing sanity—fueled his power. Pale and drawn, he walked like a poorly animated corpse, looking like he might collapse at any moment.

And when he did, the sun would return. Erbrechen asked too much of the Schlammstamm shaman.

“Protect my Hassebrand from the sun and the moon,” Erbrechen had demanded of Regen.

“A storm will grow, one I can't—”

“Just make sure it doesn't rain here.” Erbrechen smiled then at his squat shaman. “Do this for me, my friend.”

Gehirn saw the despair, hatred, and love in Regen's eyes. Regen would hold the storm at bay for as long as he could. His love of Erbrechen allowed no less.

Gehirn and Regen shared a look of mutual hate and understanding. Both knew Regen's sanity would crumble under the
continual abuse. Erbrechen burned through Regen's sanity at a terrifying pace.

Gehirn chuckled quietly as she imagined the ugly little shaman as a dry stick soon to be tossed into a raging inferno. The thought both pleased and sobered. Gehirn could only hope the organ stew might stave off her own descent into madness. If Erbrechen was correct, and eating the souls of those less tainted could save her, perhaps she could satisfy Erbrechen and yet still survive.

“He doesn't love you,” muttered Regen, picking at a scab.

“Yes, he does,” she answered. “He shares his stew with me. Does he share it with you?” she asked, knowing the answer.

Regen scowled at the ground. A stream of brown drool hung unnoticed from his weak chin. “Does he touch you?” the shaman suddenly asked. “If he loved you he'd touch you.” Regen grinned rot at her. “Has he
ever
touched you?”

No, not once
. Gehirn glanced over her shoulder, back toward Erbrechen's tented litter. She could only imagine what was happening within.
“
Not all love is physical,” she said.

Why won't he touch me?

AS EACH OF
Erbrechen's followers fell—or was felled—Erbrechen and Gehirn ate of the small souls as Regen looked on, the desperate hope in his eyes dimming hour by hour. Erbrechen never seemed to notice.

Gehirn studied the swarm of skeletal bodies hustling to break another body into small enough pieces to fit into the cooking pot. Yet she could not argue. For in truth, it didn't matter so much if Erbrechen loved her, as long as she loved Erbrechen. And she did. Loved and feared and worshiped.

There was another emotion there, lurking beneath the others. Was it hate? No, that couldn't be possible. Yet his distance stung.

Later in the day an emaciated woman of indeterminate age
with thin, sagging breasts and long, greasy hair came to Gehirn and walked alongside her in silence. The Hassebrand ground her teeth, resisting the urge to burn the woman to oily ash.

“He wants to see you,” the woman finally said, her voice surprisingly strong and feminine. “You can find me after, if you want.” She batted eyelashes at Erbrechen, who unabashedly examined her undernourished form. She had none of the tight-wound strength the female thief possessed. Nothing of the pent-up rage or enticing air of danger. The woman was almost completely uninteresting. Gehirn had nothing to fear from her and she offered none of the loathing the Hassebrand required from a sexual partner.
I can change that.

Gehirn showed pronounced canines in a halfhearted leer. “I will find you, and later, when you hate me enough, perhaps then . . .” She left it hanging, dark with threat and promise, and turned to join Erbrechen.

In all directions the sky roiled with black clouds lit from beneath with stabbing tines of lightning. The rumble of distant thunder had become a continuous backdrop, a reason to speak louder, but little more. Erbrechen waved Gehirn onto the litter as the Hassebrand approached. Gehirn heard and ignored the strained groan of the men and women carrying the litter as she clambered aboard.

Erbrechen, resplendent in his oily nakedness, beamed, his greasy cherubic face seemingly lit from within. “Ah, my good friend. I have need of your wise counsel.”

He desires my counsel!
Gehirn's doubts and angers suddenly seemed petty. They weren't gone, but they didn't much matter in comparison to her love of Erbrechen. She basked in the gaze of those sea-green eyes.

Gehirn sat across from her one true friend. The gentle roll of the litter as it crawled across the land toward their destiny added a stately feel to the proceedings.

“How may I be of assistance?” Gehirn asked.

“I have been thinking. This Konig Furimmer who was once your friend. He has an army gathered about him, does he not?”

“Konig maintains a small but well-equipped military force with squads of Geisteskranken of all breeds. The strength of the Geborene Damonen religion backs him, the united faith of a hundred thousand people. His grip on their faith is absolute. Konig manages the impossible, wielding the beliefs of the masses like a well-honed tool.”

Erbrechen waved an arm he could barely lift, his fat sausagelike fingers almost lost in the pudgy hand. “Then I will need an army of my own.”

“You have me. I was considered by many to be the most powerful Geisteskranken in Konig's service.” Gehirn frowned, remembering her dream of the Krieger assassination attempt. Gods, she wished she knew if it had been real. “Perhaps this is why he sent me away. He saw my power growing and feared my increasing instability.”

“He didn't offer to aid his friend?” Erbrechen asked innocently.

Gehirn scowled and watched Regen plod dejectedly through the mud. “Konig was never my friend.”

“And he tossed you aside in your time of need.” Erbrechen tutted with disgust. His obscenely fat and greasy face contorting in a frown, he looked like an enraged baby. “But we'll show him. What he threw away still has great value.”

Gehirn, surprised, looked up. “It has? Is? I am? Valuable? Valued?”

“Very. I cannot do this without you.” Erbrechen waved a hand at the unruly mob surrounding and following his litter. “There is little I can do with such as these. Few have delusions worth speaking of and none can fight worth a damn. At best they are fodder, a distraction. But you, my tall and icy-eyed friend, you
can wipe out armies. The delusions of Konig's Geisteskranken will be nothing before your fire. Never before have you dared to reach for your pinnacle: the curse of all Geisteskranken was a wall between you and your potential. My faith removes such walls. I
know
you can unleash what you keep so tightly pent-up inside. You can burn it all.”

Gehirn's heart slammed against her ribs. Erbrechen's belief could not be denied. Erbrechen defined reality.
How could I have doubted his love?

“I—” Gehirn let out a long, shaking breath. She closed her eyes and whispered, “I will burn the world for you.”

Erbrechen clapped gleefully. “Burn the world clean and I shall remake it anew. We shall be gods, my friend. New gods.” Corpulent arms flailed in excitement. “I always knew I was destined for greatness.” He darted a glance at Gehirn. “
We
are destined for greatness,” he amended. “Unlike your Konig—the foul betrayer—I do not forget my friends.”

Erbrechen told Gehirn of his plans: he would take his wretched host to Selbsthass, topple Konig, and claim both the Theocracy and the god-child as his own. Along the way they would stop at every town and city and Erbrechen would convince their populations to join in his cause. As more joined, Erbrechen would grow in power and fewer would be able to resist. Gehirn would burn those few who did. In Selbsthass there would be garrisons of troops and each would house a squad of Geisteskranken trained in battle. These were the true threat, the most likely to be able to resist Erbrechen, and the most likely to be able to strike from beyond the range of his power. These too Gehirn would burn.

“You have much burning to do,” Erbrechen promised. “So much burning.” Erbrechen licked wet lips in anticipation. “I'm hungry!”

LATER, AS GEHIRN
lay spooning the bruised and bleeding woman who shook with her very disgust and hatred, she realized she had contributed nothing and Erbrechen had not once asked for her counsel. For now, though, she was gloriously happy to be involved in such a bold undertaking. Doubt grew only in the fertile darkness of solitude.

The Gefahrgeist must first fool themselves. After that, everyone else is easy.

—V
ERSKLAVEN
S
CHWACHE
, G
EFAHRGEIST
P
HILOSOPHER

A
cold rain fell in Selbsthass City, turning the market's cobbled roads glossy and slick. The damp brought out the dank smell of the city's sewers and thinned the herds of evening shoppers to a dejected trickle. Most of the market stalls had already closed, their keepers leaving early for the warmth and comfort of home. Distant jagged forks of lightning stabbed at the ground, lighting the southern sky an actinic white and illuminating the sagging underbellies of the cancerous clouds lurking there. The echo of thunder rolled continually in deep rumbling anger.

Bedeckt stifled a cough and felt something bubble in his chest. He huddled deeper into the sodden brown Geborene robes, trying to find some last bastion of warmth, and followed Stehlen. His feet squelched with every step; his boots did little to keep the water out and apparently everything to keep it in.

Ahead, Stehlen ducked from shadow to shadow. She said she'd memorized a map of the city and knew the best way to the palace, but this seemed to be the longest, most tortuous route possible. She kept shifting under her burgundy Geborene robes as if they chafed. Wichtig followed behind Bedeckt, mumbling about the rain and the stench of his robes. Fair enough, since the man did reek. An accomplishment considering the state of Bedeckt's sinuses.

“Bedeckt?” asked Wichtig.

“Quiet.”

“Do your robes smell like they've been stuffed up a hog's arse for the last month?”

“I can't smell a thing over the stench coming from you,” answered Bedeckt. “Stehlen!”

“What?”

“We aren't sneaking into this place, we're walking in.”

“I know!”

“Then stop trying to hide in the damned shadows.” Bedeckt tried to adjust his robes so as to better conceal the massive ax poorly hidden within. It was hopeless. Only a blind and brain-dead idiot could miss it.

Wichtig leaned past Bedeckt so he could glare at Stehlen's back. Facing forward with her cowl up, she couldn't possibly see him, but made a rude gesture over her shoulder anyway.

Wichtig opened his mouth and Bedeckt said, “Shut up,” before the Swordsman could speak.

“You sound tired,” said Stehlen.

“I
am
tired. I'm tired of you two—”

“My robes stink,” grumbled Wichtig

“It's not the robes,” Stehlen threw back.

“Both of you—”

“I'll get you for this,” swore Wichtig.

“—shut up.”

The rain fell heavier and the three continued in silence, their boots soon soaked through in the gritty rivulets forming in the road. Bedeckt coughed and groaned at the stabbing pain in his chest.

“You sound like you're dying,” Stehlen said over her shoulder. “We should do this another day.”

“I'm fine.” It was a lie. He felt like chilled death.

“Better yet,” she said, “you should just let me do this. I'll be back with the boy in an hour. You can wait in the comfort and warmth of the inn.”

“I said I'm fine!” Bedeckt's lower back tightened under his sodden robes. The cold leached the very strength from his bones. He coughed hard and something rattled deep in his lungs.

Great timing,
Bedeckt thought.
Fall sick and die while pulling off one last job
. It was Stehlen's fault. He glared daggers at her back. If he didn't have to worry about her sneaking off and trying to take the child by herself—and no doubt killing dozens of priests and waking up a whole hornet's nest of problems—they could have done this on a much warmer night. One when it wasn't raining.
Crazy Kleptic will be the death of me.

A break in the buildings on the south side of the street offered a clear view of the brewing storm. Though a strong wind blew from the west, the tempest seemed to be moving north.

Bedeckt pointed at the southern sky with his half hand. “I've seen such storms before,” he said. “I can't remember who I was working for. We were exterminating some nomadic tribe that had crossed the border uninvited. They had this nasty little shaman with one eye. He called a storm and swept away most of the army I was with; drowned the commanders. When he lost control, his own tribe was decimated.” Bedeckt remembered lightning-blasted corpses floating from horizon to horizon on what had been near-barren grasslands. He gestured southward again with his scarred hand. “Sky stinks of someone losing control.”

They left the market behind and the cloud-shrouded evening sun dipped behind long rows of small but wealthy-looking houses.

Wichtig poked Bedeckt in the kidneys from behind. “Hey.”

“What?”

“I didn't get my share of the winnings.”

“What winnings?” Stehlen asked innocently before Bedeckt could answer.

“For my damned fight. There was a lot of coin in the purse you stole.”

That explains how the fight came about
. At this point, Bedeckt was too cold and tired to care. His lungs rattled with every breath. His condition was deteriorating quickly.

Stehlen glanced over her shoulder and Bedeckt saw little of her face but the yellow of her toothy grin. “You fought so poorly at the beginning we put it all on Zweiter Stelle. How could we know you were just toying with him?”

“You're lying—”

“Bedeckt was going to offer Zweiter your place if he killed you.”

“Horse turds. Bedeckt, you weren't going to—”

Bedeckt's sneeze interrupted Wichtig. “Shut up. Both of you. We're at the temple.”

Stehlen stopped so suddenly that Bedeckt walked into her and Wichtig ran into him from behind. Stehlen ignored them, staring up at the massive temple gates. “Unholy pigsticking hells,” she whispered.

Bedeckt raised a hand to swat at her but stopped short as he caught sight of what had stopped her so suddenly. He'd known Selbsthass was a theocracy. He'd known Selbsthass City was the center of the Theocracy. Though he'd known this temple was in all probability the center of government, he'd still been expecting something . . . different. Could his memory of this ancient castle be so wrong? The keep he remembered at least looked like it had
been built by mortal hands. He thought back to the stark difference between Selbsthass and Gottlos at the border and, though he prayed he was wrong, thought he understood: the temple had been twisted by the beliefs of man. The Geborene faith was far more powerful than he'd imagined.

The Geborene temple, seen through the walled gate, looked like a massive castle growing out of the base of a far larger pyramid. Each side stretched into the darkness. Every line, every stone, every crenellation spoke one word with overwhelming confidence: strength. Strength of faith, strength of will.

Bedeckt groaned in pain when Wichtig again poked him in the back. “I've had turds with more grace than this place,” said the Swordsman. “Arseholes.”

Bedeckt pushed Stehlen, dressed as she was as the highest-ranked priest of the group, forward. If they stood gawking, someone was bound to notice. She grunted and spat at the rain-slicked wall but stepped tentatively ahead.

Up ahead Bedeckt saw several robed figures huddled in a roofed area by the castle gates. Darkness rendered everything monochromatic. “Try not to kill anyone,” he hissed at Stehlen's back. Hopefully she'd outrank anyone at the gates and they'd pass unchallenged.

Stehlen stalked forward, head bowed, arms huddled tight to her body against the wind and rain, pretending to ignore the priests at the gate. She fingered the weighted throwing knives tucked in her sleeves. If the priests challenged her she'd kill them before they could raise the alarm. The gathered priests, all in gray robes, looked soft and dejected and wholly unprepared for battle. She thought about killing them just to annoy Bedeckt, but hearing the old man rattle and wheeze with every breath, decided against it. He was suffering enough.

Was there some way she could convince Bedeckt to let her and the World's Biggest Moron get the kid on their own?
No, Bedeckt will never trust the moron with something this important
. An unexpected emotion tightened her chest. Concern?
No, can't be
.

She stole a quick glance over her shoulder but needn't have bothered. Bedeckt was watching the ground as he shuffled after her. Each step seemingly an act of will, his breath came in short ragged gasps. Her stomach twisted into a clenched knot.
Did I eat something bad?
She didn't think so. What was that awful feeling?

Stehlen looked over Bedeckt's hunched form to Wichtig behind him. The Swordsman frowned and gave her a confused look. If they stopped now it would definitely draw the attention of the priests at the gate. Though the burgundy robes gave her rank, she doubted she could convince anyone she was a high-ranked priest. She didn't even know what rank she was supposed to be.

Shite on a stick!
This was exactly the kind of underhanded lying Wichtig excelled at. Unfortunately, dressed as an acolyte, he could hardly give orders. Perhaps she should have made Wichtig the ranking priest. Too late now.

The priests manning the gate didn't even acknowledge them as they passed.

The three crossed the open courtyard—which looked suspiciously to Stehlen like a cleared killing ground—to the entrance of the main keep.

She let out a sigh of relief and whispered, “You sound like shite,” over her shoulder.

“Keep mov—” Bedeckt was interrupted by another fit of bubbling coughing.

They passed into the massive interior of the temple. Flanking the entrance to the main hall, carved granite pillars easily twenty feet in diameter depicted events she could only assume were important to the Geborene Damonen. Luxurious wall hangings
and life-size paintings adorned the walls. Haunting stained-glass windows showed dark monochromatic scenes in the dim light.

Stehlen sneered at the gross waste of time and effort. Wichtig no doubt appreciated the artistic merits of such towering totems, but then again, he was an idiot.

Bedeckt still stared at the floor, apparently unaware of their surroundings. Breathing and walking were clearly taking most of his concentration.

Stehlen glanced up at the arched ceiling, soaring forty feet over their heads, and stopped. Bedeckt slowed to a halt and stared at her in confusion. She pointed up. “Who?”

He looked up for a long moment. “It's a fresco of Zuerst Geborene—the church's founder—facing the gods he defied.”

“Oh,” annoyed at having wasted her time asking.
He's probably going to follow that with more old-man philosophy.

“All religions,” he muttered, “even those without gods, seek to awe the common man.”

And there it is
. “Oh,” she said again.

Bedeckt coughed noisily and spat a thick wad of brown-and-red phlegm at the floor. “The boy will be upstairs somewhere.”

Stehlen shook her head, spattering water everywhere. “No, he'll be downstairs, in the basement. They'll want to protect and hide him.”

“Not everyone thinks like a thief,” admonished Wichtig. “They'll want the boy where they can display him to the masses for best effect. He'll be on the top floor.”

Bedeckt disagreed. “High Priest What's-his-name—”

“Konig,” supplied Wichtig. “High Priest Konig Furimmer.”

“Whatever. This High Priest must be a Gefahrgeist of some strength. He'll have the top floor to himself. His self-importance won't allow anyone else to be stationed above him.”

Stehlen opened her mouth to argue when Bedeckt suddenly
gestured toward the far end of the hall. She turned and saw a priest in brown robes.

“Stehlen,” hissed Bedeckt. “Wave the priest over here. Find out where this gods-damned kid is.”

Stehlen did her best to gesture imperiously at the priest and stood impatiently waiting for the young man to hurry the length of the hall.

The priest bowed low before her. “Yes, Bishop?”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. “Where is the kid?” blurted Stehlen.

The priest looked up, startled. “Kid, Your Worship?”

“Yes, gods damn it! The kid. The . . . little . . . god-brat in training.”

The priest, confused, met Stehlen's eyes and stammered, “B-beg pardon, Your Worship?”

Stick it.
Stehlen hit him in the sternum and had a knife at his throat before the young man could blink.

“A decent thief would be better at lying,” said Wichtig smugly. “But you're not a thief, you're the just smallest thug I've ever seen.” He shook his head in mock disappointment. “No finesse.”

Stehlen kept the knife at the priest's throat, waiting for him to stop gagging on each breath. “Yeah? Where's your money?” she asked Wichtig over her shoulder.