Beyond Redemption (2 page)

T
he old gods were broken by wars and plagues of the mind, left reeling like the most bloodied veterans. Infected with horror at the cost of their actions, they retreated into dementia. Insanity as escape. Seeking to free themselves, they fled to a world of delusion, a world uncorrupted by jealousies and psychoses. And yet, in the end, even this they would pollute. So deep was their need, so desperate their flight from their bitter past, that they ignored the one truism all must bow before.

Belief defines reality.

The twisted fears of the old gods wormed themselves into this creation and became real. Their darkest thoughts took on life. The inhabitants, at one time mere characters dreamed to entertain, became substantive and entertained delusions of their own.

Dreams became nightmares, and nightmares became reality, stalking the earth as albtraum, manifestations of man's earliest fears given flesh.

And the cycle continues.

Creatures birthed by the delusions of such imperfect gods can hold no hope for sanity. These nightmares define new tomorrows, and the gods look on in mute horror at what they have wrought.

—N
EBRILE
G
HAST
, W
AHNVOR
H
IGH
P
RIEST

Where delusion defines reality, the Gefahrgeist is king.

—V
ERSKLAVEN
S
CHWACHE
, G
EFAHRGEIST
P
HILOSOPHER

T
he consequences of their last job chased them west. One ever-shrinking step ahead of justice, they arrived at yet another decaying city-state.

Bedeckt, eyes slitted against the abrasive wind, rode into town flanked by Stehlen and Wichtig. Launisch, Bedeckt's monstrous black destrier, hung its head in exhaustion. They'd ridden hours without rest and Bedeckt was no small man.

He scanned the evident poverty and doubted this place had ever seen better days. The few structures built from stone instead of warped and fading wood looked ready to fall in. It didn't matter; he didn't plan on being here long.

Bright eyes, pinpricks of desperation, peered from dark alleys, watching. Nothing new there. He and his companions couldn't help but attract attention, Bedeckt with his bulk and scars, Wichtig with his flawless good looks. He glanced left to Stehlen.
Her horse's ears kept flicking nervously as if it expected to be struck without warning. Bedeckt didn't blame the creature—he felt much the same whenever Stehlen came within arm's reach. She rode hunched forward against the blowing grit, horrid yellow teeth bared in a snarl that seldom left her pinched face. Her right hand rested upon the pommel of her sword. If anyone stared too long, she'd likely kill them. Not that anyone ever seemed to notice her. A mangy dog, lean to the point of skeletal, followed them for a few yards until Stehlen turned jaundiced eyes on the mutt. The dog flinched away with a whimper.

Bedeckt glanced at Wichtig. The man looked annoyingly perfect as always. Nothing in all the world could muss that coiffed hair or dent his immaculate smile.

What a self-centered arse
.

Dust from the road tickled Bedeckt's already raw throat and he sneezed, spraying a wad of bright green snot from his nostrils. He'd been feeling under the weather for a week now and showed no signs of improving.

“You sound like shite, old man,” said Wichtig.

“I'm fine.” He needed an inn and a warm bed. Gods, he'd kill for an ale, no matter how bad.

Stehlen spat into the road and Launisch shied. Even the war-horse feared her.

“Idiot's right,” she said. “Let's get you into bed.”

“You've been wanting to do that for—” Wichtig snapped his mouth shut when Stehlen turned her gaze upon him.

If Bedeckt was lucky, the two would kill each other and leave him in peace. “My horse is tired and my arse aches,” he said.

“Your horse is tired and your arse is sore because you're fat and old,” said Stehlen, her horse's ears twitching away from her words.

“So what's this piss-pot of a city called?” Wichtig was slumped
casually in the saddle as he took in the run-down fortifications and the sloppily uniformed and inattentive guards. He sniffed gingerly at the air and wrinkled his perfectly straight nose in exaggerated distaste. “I apologize: this place isn't a piss-pot, it's a shite-hole. Totally different odor.” He flashed a grin of straight white teeth at Bedeckt. A gust of wind ruffled his reddish-brown hair and for a moment he looked the hero, two slim swords peeking over wide shoulders, his muscular arms resting easily on thighs. Expensive clothing worn to greatest effect. Only his eyes, flat and gray, gave lie to the act.

How could such a self-centered murdering bastard look so heroically perfect?
Truly the gods were twisted. Bedeckt, of course, looked exactly like what he was: an aging warrior well past his prime with a bad back, worse knees, too many battle scars, and a love of ale. He'd never looked as pretty as Wichtig, even in his prime. Had he, perhaps things would have turned out differently. But he doubted it.

“Better be an inn in this dung heap,” said Wichtig.

“You ever know a town this size without an inn? And it's called Unbrauchbar . . . I think.” Bedeckt warily scanned the city guards—who continued to studiously ignore them—and scratched at his fist-flattened nose with the remnants of his left hand. The last two fingers were missing, severed at the first knuckle in a pointless war many years ago. A massive, double-bladed ax hung within easy reach from a leather loop in his horse's saddle, its blade pitted from rough use. He glanced at Stehlen. “You been here before?”

Stehlen ran a long-fingered hand through matted and clumped dirty blond hair. They were musician's fingers, though she'd never played a note. Pale and watery blue eyes with flecks of green, the whites a sickly and unhealthy yellow, squinted out from under the tangled hair. Her angry gaze dashed about as if she were
searching for something to hate—it didn't seem like she'd need to look far. She flared the nostrils of her hooked nose as if perhaps she'd find what she sought by smell.

“No,” she answered.

“Good,” muttered Wichtig.

Stehlen scowled at Wichtig. “Why good?”

“You probably won't know anyone here.”

“So?”

“So maybe no one here will want to kill us,” he said.

She ignored him. “Why here?” she asked Bedeckt.

Bedeckt answered without looking at her. “Because here is better than where we were.”

“If Wichtig hadn't bedded that—”

“But he did.”

“If you hadn't killed those—”

“But I did.” Bedeckt finally glanced at her and frowned as she showed crooked yellow teeth in a disappointed grimace. “I also seem to remember some of the Lord's property going missing. The theft had a fair amount to do with the killing.” Wichtig's actions had sparked Stehlen's thieving, but Bedeckt couldn't figure out how or why. The Swordsman had bedded the Lord's wife, and Stehlen stole the woman's jewelry shortly after. Were the two events linked? No, they couldn't be. At least he hoped they weren't.

Stehlen tried to look wounded and innocent and failed. She didn't have Wichtig's flair for deceit.

“You don't have any gold left, do you?” Wichtig asked Stehlen. “It would be nice to stay in a bit of style.”

“No.”

No doubt she lied, but Bedeckt let it go without comment. Kleptics always lied about money. She couldn't help it any more than Wichtig could help being a self-centered manipulative arse.

“We've got enough to get soft beds and food.” Bedeckt looked pointedly at Wichtig. “Right?”

Wichtig shrugged noncommittally. “I haven't looked in my pack recently. We definitely have coin . . . unless this hideous wench here”—he nodded at Stehlen—“robbed us blind. Again.”

“I've
never
stolen from you!” growled Stehlen. “Anyway, you'll hand money to the first bitch who spreads her legs.”

“Spread your legs, let's see if I—”

“Never!”

“Maybe if Bedeckt here . . . ?” Wichtig trailed off, waggling his eyebrows at her.

Stehlen spat again, hunched deeper in her saddle, and set about ignoring both men.

What the hells was that about?
Bedeckt didn't even want to know. He thought about his own money purse. He could have sworn there was more in there, but the last time he'd looked he'd been near destitute. Had Stehlen helped herself? It didn't matter, she always lent him money when asked.
Probably my money anyway
. Traveling with a pair of Geisteskranken, one had to accept such things. Kleptics stole and Gefahrgeist manipulated. At least Wichtig's Gefahrgeist talents remained meager; he mostly craved attention. If the Swordsman grew in strength and seemed likely to become a Slaver, Bedeckt would kill him.

When Stehlen didn't rise to the bait, Wichtig sulked like a spoiled child denied candy. “Think this shite-hole has a Swordsman?” he asked Bedeckt.

“Every shite-hole has a Swordsman.”

“And every shite-hole needs a better Swordsman.”

“And you're that Swordsman?” asked Stehlen snidely.

Wichtig turned flat eyes on her, face expressionless. He held her angry glare until she looked away, uncomfortable. Minor Gefahrgeist Wichtig might be, but few people failed to wither under this assault of will.

“Belief defines reality,” said Wichtig, as if explaining to a simpleton. “I believe I will be the Greatest Swordsman in the World.”

“I believe you will be dead first,” said Stehlen icily, still looking away.

“My belief is stronger than yours.”

“Delusional idiot.”

“Of course. But I prefer to believe I am simply that good. I've killed forty-three Greatest Swordsmen. I was Master of Swords in Geldangelegenheiten at twenty-one. An unprecedented honor.”

“Honor,” Stehlen snorted.

“And this coming from a petty thief. A talentless—”

“Talented enough to lift your purse!”

“Dumb enough to tell me about it!”

“Quiet!” Bedeckt shook his head and instantly regretted it. A dull, throbbing pain built in his skull. There must be pounds of snot in there. “Like bloody children. Once I've found a warm bed and a soft woman, the two of you can have this pointless debate. Until then, shut the hells up.”

“The old man's a little grumpy,” observed Wichtig.

“If you involve me in one of your fights, Wichtig, I'll kill you myself. With an ax. You can shove this Greatest Swordsman shite.”

“I could help with the woman part,” Stehlen said.

Bedeckt pretended not to hear and scanned the road ahead for an inn.

“He said
soft,
” said Wichtig, smirking at Stehlen. “Even a pig like Bedeckt won't bed you. You're too damned ugly. Perhaps if you offered him some of his money back . . . that which you've pilfered over the last week.”

“I have money,” she said loud enough to be sure Bedeckt heard.

Bedeckt shook his head and flexed the remains of his ruined left hand. “I'll bed whores. I'm not ready to be one.”

“How many people you steal from in Abfallstadt?” asked Stehlen.

Bedeckt waved away the question, a sharp cutting gesture with his half hand. His head was so clogged with snot he had to breathe
through his mouth in short, dusty gasps. Something dry rattled deep in his lungs.
Lovely, some new symptom to plague me
.

“How many people you kill in the last six months?” Stehlen asked.

“What defines a man is what he
won't
do,” muttered Bedeckt.

Her hooked nose flared in distaste. “Murder and thievery are fine, but not sex?”

“Sex with you isn't,” said Wichtig. “At best he'd wake up to find you'd robbed him blind and at worst you'd have one of your violent fits and he'd wake with his throat slit.”

Bedeckt groaned. This was not a conversation he wanted to have right now. Or ever. “Drop it. I won't bed you because it'll change everything and make life more difficult than it already is.”

“And you're an ungodly ugly thieving Kleptic bitch,” added Wichtig.

Ignoring Wichtig, Bedeckt continued. “We work together. We're a team. A shite team, but we get things done. We aren't friends and we sure as shite aren't lovers. Never forget: I'd kill either of you if there was money in it for me.”

“Stop it, I'm getting all misty-eyed.” Wichtig pretended to mop at tears. “Stehlen, throw me a few gold coins—they're probably mine anyway—and I'll bed you.”

Stehlen's stiletto hissed out and Wichtig laughed at her. Pretending nonchalance, he moved his horse away, carefully staying out of reach.

“There's an inn.” Bedeckt pointed up the street. “Put your knife away, woman. Gut him after I've had a drink.”

Those whom you slay will be as your servants in the Afterdeath. Die with your boots on, and keep a few coins stashed in those boots. Die with a weapon in hand and two more within easy reach. For when you pass from this world, you'll be glad of the things you take with you.

—T
HE
W
ARRIOR
'
S
C
REDO

K
onig Furimmer, Theocrat of the Geborene Damonen, stood in his personal chambers, his back to the room, staring out over the city of Selbsthass. The streets ran straight and perfect, the north-south streets named, the east-west numbered. An ordered city, a sane city.

No reason sanity can't come from delusion,
Konig thought.

This city, the laws binding it together, the geography defining it, the people populating it . . . all a manifestation of his delusion.

Well, maybe not all of it. The people, he supposed, were real enough on their own. But when he'd first come here almost two decades ago, a lowly acolyte with a dream, the Geborene had
been a small splinter sect of religious fanatics with a seemingly crazy idea and no way of making it real.

He'd
made it real.

Back then, Selbsthass had been little more than another decaying city-state that had the bad luck of being located on rocky soil unfit for growing much more than malnourished goats and tufts of hardy grass. He remembered starving people coming to worship at the run-down ruins of this ancient church. He could only guess what gods this church had originally been built for. Certainly not humans: no two doorways were the same shape, no two halls the same width. Passages grew and narrowed seemingly at random. In some areas the scale was so large as to beggar the imagination, while in others priests had to turn sideways to pass each other. Twisted minds dreamed this construction. The Geborene took it for their own, but before that it had lain empty and haunted for generations.

Konig had changed everything. All of it.

One truism lay underneath every choice and word: change what people think and you change the world.

He changed the religion, chased the ghosts from this ancient temple. He gave the people hope and they learned to believe in themselves. More important, they believed in him. Selbsthass grew into a wealthy city-state. His priests were relentless in spreading the word. The more people who believed something, the truer it became.

His plans had almost reached fruition. The Geborene would have their new god and Konig would be its maker and master.

“Perception,” he said, “is reality.”

To a Gefahrgeist, this truth was everything.

Those standing at his back remained quiet. They knew him all too well. He heard them shuffling about, impatient to be allowed to speak.

Konig stood, feet together, left hand cupping his narrow chin
in thought, right hand gripping his left elbow. His personal chambers were growing increasingly crowded, a matter of some concern. He glanced over his shoulder at the three other men in the room. No, not men. Doppels. An important distinction.

Each Doppel stood in exactly the same pose, dressed in identical florid crimson robes, staring at him with varying degrees of attention. Three sets of identical gray eyes. Three identically bald heads. Though obviously copies of Konig, they each displayed minor flaws.

No, again he corrected himself. “Flaw” seemed too strong a word. “Quirk” might be more accurate.

The closest flashed a hungry feral grin, a glint of white teeth. Another's gaze darted about as if he expected a sudden attack from the shadows. The last looked as if he might fall to his knees and beg forgiveness for some unknown sin, face desperate for praise, yet knowing he was undeserving.

Sniveling weakling
. Konig hated the last one the most. Knowing the Doppels displayed aspects of his own character made it no easier to accept.

Konig took comfort knowing no one liked everything about themselves—most weren't confronted with physical manifestations of their own defects.

“Be gone,” he commanded. “I have no need of your craven counsel.”

The Doppel glanced around the room as if taking in the dark oak and luxurious finishes one last time before briefly meeting Konig's steady gaze with an apologetic shrug. “Apparently you don't believe that.” The Doppel ducked its head subserviently and stared at the floor. It was all an act. “Sorry.”

“Silence, Acceptance. Stand in the corner. Say nothing.”

The Doppel nodded meekly but Konig caught the faintest hint of a knowing smirk as it moped toward the corner. At least it still obeyed, even if he couldn't banish it. Still, his inability to force
the Doppels' disappearance was not heartening. His delusions grew in strength, gaining control of their own existence.

In a floor-to-ceiling brass-rimmed mirror filling most of one wall, several of his reflections gathered, as if at a window, to watch. Long gaunt faces and bald heads. Their mouths moved but no sound could be heard. A recent development, he'd only begun experiencing Mirrorist tendencies in the last few days. It was only a matter of time before he heard their voices. They might briefly offer valuable advice or show him flashes of the future or distant places, but they would someday climb from their mirror world. When this eventuality came to be, they would either kill or replace him. He wasn't sure which he feared more.

If my other delusions don't get me first.

It didn't matter. He'd have his god and gods change everything.

One of the other Doppels—Abandonment, Konig named this one—leaned forward to whisper consiprationally in his ear, “Acceptance plots against you.”

Konig pushed the Doppel back. “And you don't?” He laughed, a humorless bark.

Trepidation and Abandonment both backed away from Konig's angry glower, bowing their heads. Only Acceptance remained unfazed, facing the corner.

“You can't trust him,” whispered Abandonment. “Acceptance seeks to replace you.”

“And you I can trust?”

Abandonment kept his face lowered, but Konig saw the tight smile. “Of course not. Everyone abandons us in the end. Just like our parents.”

“
My
parents,” snapped Konig. “You are delusion.”

“Your parents,” corrected Abandonment smoothly. “If Mother can abandon you, who can't? It's why I exist. I may be delusion, but I am your reality.”

A fourth Doppel faded into existence, a much younger Konig. The tearstained face showed all the loss of an abandoned child who has suddenly realized not a single soul in all the world cares for him beyond how he may be used. Konig focused on the present and drove the Doppel away. This was no time to dwell on old wounds, fester as they might.

“Your pet scientist is coming,” Abandonment spat with vehement disgust.

“He is my friend.”

“We don't have friends,” said Abandonment. “Not really.”

The Doppel was right, but still Konig's jaw tightened, his teeth grinding in anger. They had been friends, back before he'd decided to make a god. “He is useful,” Konig said.

“He hates us,” warned Abandonment. “You can't trust him. He is
sane
.”

“The day you counsel trust I shall truly know I am in trouble.”

“In this I must agree with Abandonment,” piped in Acceptance before tucking his head back into the corner when Konig fired a warning look in his direction. “I don't think he likes us,” whispered the Doppel. “I don't think he likes you either,” he added, glancing back at Konig. “He thinks you stole his idea.”

“I don't care if he likes me. He need merely be useful.”

Acceptance smirked as if he knew this for a lie.

Aufschlag Hoher, Chief Scientist of the Geborene Damonen, entered Konig's chambers, bowed low, and did his best to ignore the High Priest's Doppels. They, in turn, did their best to glare daggers of hatred and contempt in his direction. On good days he wondered what this meant for Konig's opinion of his Chief Scientist. On bad days he contemplated killing the deranged Theocrat.

So, what is today going to be?

Konig, however, was a Gefahrgeist of unquestionable power. Aufschlag couldn't spend more than a few minutes in the High Priest's presence before the man's stunning genius, vision, and depth of understanding overcame him. The sheer scale of the man's plans inspired awe. Konig Furimmer was not a man who thought small. Konig thought in terms of forever.

Doubt only set in afterward. Aufschlag lay awake nights wondering what Konig really was: genius or deluded madman. It was so damned hard to be sure.

Perception was reality; something Geisteskranken understood all too well. It was their source of power, what made them special and set them apart from the masses of the common man. But Aufschlag understood. His experiments taught him the truth:

They were all just crazy.

And that's what Konig was: crazy.
What kind of horrific childhood does it take to create someone like Konig?
Interesting question. Perhaps he would experiment with it later.

Aufschlag watched the man who had once been his closest friend. They'd met as Geborene acolytes. Though both joined the almost unheard-of religion for different reasons, their fates became entwined. Had they first really become friends on the day Aufschlag had brought his idea to Konig?
It
was
my idea, wasn't it?

Aufschlag bowed again as Konig finally deigned to glance in his direction. Only then did he notice the hem of his own pale blue robes stained dark with blood. He straightened, briefly meeting Konig's gray eyes. At least he was fairly sure it was Konig and not one of his Doppels. The eyes, so gray as to look like the very color had been leached from them, bore into him. He felt layers of his personality peeled away for scrutiny. Konig held his gaze and would not release him. Aufschlag couldn't move. Pinned.

It's one of
those
days
. All doubt washed away like blood draining from a torn femoral artery. Konig was a man to follow, a man who saw the gods for what they were. Those eyes saw the future.

Aufschlag staggered when Konig finally glanced away. He took a moment to allow his pounding heart to slow. The glare of the Doppels felt like poisonous spiders crawling across his skin.

One of the Doppels—Aufschlag was unable to keep track of which was which—leaned forward and whispered, “I know what you're thinking, you snaggletoothed, greasy pigsticker.”

“Abandonment,” commanded Konig, “leave him be. Aufschlag, my old friend, you have something to report, I assume?”

Aufschlag stammered, suddenly self-conscious of his crooked teeth and the greasy tufts of hair sprouting from around his ears. “Y-yes. Another of the young gods committed suicide, High Priest.” He broke into a sweat. His left hand hovered between covering his crooked teeth from view and darting up to smooth his hair into place.

Konig turned to stare at the Doppel standing with his face pressed into the room's corner. “Ausfall?”

Aufschlag blinked uncertainly at Konig's back.
What emotion is he hiding from me?
“Yes.”

“She was too damned smart anyway, always asking questions. She wouldn't simply accept what I told her. Distrustful little girl.” Konig turned and glanced at Aufschlag, an eyebrow lifted slightly. “I wonder where she learned that?”

“The same people who have access to Ausfall have access to Morgen,” Aufschlag said defensively. “And he shows none of those traits. Most likely it was her personality.”

“Morgen is perfect,” said Konig.

“He's innocent and trusting in the extreme,” pointed out Aufschlag.

“That's what I said. And I want him to stay that way. Only you and I—plus his bodyguards—are allowed in his presence from this point on. I don't want him infected by doubt.”

Gods forbid the boy learn to think for himself.
“Of course,” said Aufschlag. How had his plans come to this? As a scientist,
he battled ignorance on every front, and yet here he was, shielding Morgen from uncomfortable truths. He might not be lying to the boy, but he was definitely keeping things from him he needed to know.
I should tell Morgen everything, let him make up his own mind
.

But Morgen's mind had been made up for him. Like all the other would-be gods the Geborene sought to create, his entire life he'd been taught he'd someday Ascend to become the god of the Geborene and serve the people of Selbsthass. Slavery sold as a virtue.

They'd started with ten children, and over the last decade, one by one, they'd succumb. Rampant delusion, fed by the Geborene and the faith of Selbsthass, had broken them. Some burned, some rotted away to nothing. Each reached their tottering pinnacle of power and toppled as the weight of their delusions dragged them down, drowned them in dementia. Not one had Ascended. Ausfall was just the latest. And now Morgen, the purest, most innocent spirit Aufschlag had ever known, was all that remained.