Beyond Redemption (43 page)

“There
is
redemption to be found there. If you want it.”

Stehlen's yellowy eyes grew dim, unfocused. She reached a supplicating hand toward him as if begging for one last moment of human contact before she passed on to the next world.

Morgen frowned at the filthy hand and ragged, dirt-stained fingernails. Those hands had spilled so much blood over the years.

“No,” he said, backing away. “I know you have a knife in your other hand.”

She died silently with a strange smile.

When he felt sure she was dead, Morgen gingerly took the knife she'd held concealed; the fires had once again shown him the truth. In many futures she succeeded in killing him when his pity for her drew him near. Those futures were too dark to contemplate. Life beyond death spent in servitude to someone incapable of loving themselves . . . there was no redemption there.

To the west the sun set in a beautiful display of swirling oranges and reds, a soft pastel smear of warmth. The rolling hills of Reichweite beckoned, promising freedom from the future. Morgen turned his back on that promise. It was an illusion anyway.

Bedeckt groaned but didn't otherwise move and Morgen was glad the big man was still alive. The reflections had promised he would be.

“Your head must be harder than stone,” Morgen whispered.

His arms ached with unaccustomed effort. His pampered life with the Geborene Damonen had not prepared him for such physical hardships. In truth, they hadn't prepared him for much of anything.

It's of no matter: my reflections guide me true.

Morgen put the setting sun behind him. Dark took the eastern sky. There lay fire and pain, slavery, and maybe, just maybe, redemption. Holding Stehlen's blade before his eyes, he stared at the reflections gathered there. “Should I walk, or take one of the horses?” As he watched their pantomimed performance, his shoulders sagged with exhaustion. He would continue on as he must.

MORGEN STUMBLED EAST
, leaving Bedeckt behind. His feet felt like leaden weights. His legs were sodden wood. The old warrior would rise and follow. Why, Morgen couldn't begin to guess. Knowing the future didn't grant the sight to see the reasons giving it birth. He saw outcomes, nothing more. It was a weakness, a lack. Decisions mattered. Or they should. Might he not react differently to the possible futures he witnessed if he knew the reasons of the people involved? Perhaps he had already extinguished someone's chance at redemption. He couldn't know.

The voices in my head just told me they were hearing voices. They said the voices wanted them to do something dangerous.

—H
OFFNUNGSLOS

S
earching from top to bottom, smashing every mirror he found, dulling every reflective surface, Trepidation finally arrived in the bowels of the ancient church. He had no idea what god or religion previously walked these halls, but sometimes he felt the ghosts of dead faiths following him. Today was one of those days. Shadows danced on the edges of his vision, but no matter how fast he spun, there was nothing there. He'd doubt his sanity, except he knew beyond a doubt he was delusional.

The only question: Did he believe what he saw strongly enough to make it real?

The thought of his delusions becoming real was less scary than being tracked through dark halls by dead gods. Or so he told himself.

“If you're angry we made our own god,” he told the stalking spirits, “take it up with Konig. Leave me be.”

There was, of course, no answer.

In the farthest recesses of the deepest basement, Trepidation found a room. The door, thick oak bound in rusting iron, opened with great screeching protests.

He stood waiting, the lantern in his hand all but shuttered, for half an hour. No one came to investigate.

Dare he hope?

No. Fear would never allow him anything so hopelessly silly as hope. Still, fear would keep him alive. It was the only sane emotion in an insane world.

Trepidation unshuttered the lantern and lit the room. Wood benches and pews from at least three different time periods sat piled haphazardly against one wall. Half buried under a mound of rotting tapestries, broken chairs, and strangely shaped idols lurked a massive statue carved from some dark wood. When Trepidation worked up the nerve to raise the lantern to better see, the wood turned red like drying blood. The statue, depicting a woman with viciously curved blades protruding from orifice, limb, and joint, stared at him with hollow eyes.

Gems probably once filled those sockets,
he thought. She looked blind now, though judging from the way she stared at him, he wasn't so sure.

“I'm not here to further desecrate you,” he promised. “Maybe later, when Konig is dead and I rule, I can bring you back upstairs and into the light. I could use a god, even one as old and dead as you.”

This seemed to appease her and she left him alone.

Trepidation swallowed his fear and drew a cloth-wrapped bundle not much bigger than the palm of his hand from within
his robes. Carefully he folded the cloth back, revealing the small hand mirror cushioned within.

Did Acceptance really think Trepidation would be okay with him being the only one with a mirror? Did he think Trepidation would just
trust
him?
If so, he is a fool
. Trepidation trusted no one.

Slowly turning the mirror, Trepidation looked within, unsure what he would see and poised and ready to smash it to the floor should it prove dangerous.

His face stared back at him. But it wasn't his face. He was missing an eye, dark bruises mottled his cheeks, and his teeth were shattered ruins. Acceptance.

No,
he realized,
Acceptance's reflection;
an important distinction.

Trepidation blinked at it in confusion.
How can I see Acceptance's reflection? Unless . . .

“You seek to betray him,” he said to the mirror. The reflection nodded. “Because he broke Konig's mirror and you fear he'll smash the one he has as soon as he's won.” Again the reflection nodded. “He'll kill us both, won't he?” The reflection nodded.

Trepidation sat in silence, thinking. The reflection watched, waiting.

“You know I don't trust you,” he told the mirror, and the reflection within laughed silently. “Good. So what is it you suggest I do?” he asked.

The reflection showed him and he watched in horror.

“It's too dangerous,” he told the mirror.

The reflection stared at him, unblinking.

“What if it goes wrong?”

It just stared at him.

What choice do I have?
Acceptance would never share power, not even the smallest fragment.

The reflection grinned, showing broken teeth.

Right. I did that to him.
Acceptance would never forgive.

“And how will Konig react?”

The reflection showed him.

Trepidation folded the mirror back into its cloth and tucked it away under his robes.

I think most people are too stupid to go truly mad.

—H
OFFNUNGSLOS

A
re you going to lie there all day?”

Stehlen looked up and saw Wichtig standing over her. Behind him the sky was a pale gray even though no clouds could be seen.

She needed to go east.

“I have something better to do?” she asked, just because agreeing with Wichtig set her teeth on edge.

“There's always vengeance,” Wichtig suggested. “I would have thought revenge topped your list of reasons to get up even on a day you hadn't been killed.”

Vengeance. Not long ago she would have happily sworn vengeance for the mildest slight, real or imagined. What was the point now? She grimaced up at Wichtig's handsome face.

“I'll just lie here awhile,” she said to the sky.

Another man moved forward to stand beside Wichtig. He
looked vaguely familiar. “Who is this?” he asked, staring down at Stehlen with disgust.

“She's my friend,” answered Wichtig. He offered a hand to pull her up. “We are still friends, right?”

Stehlen accepted the hand and Wichtig lifted her easily to her feet. “Death changes nothing,” she said. “I still can't stand you.”

“Good. I'd hate to think it made you soft.”

Now standing, she saw hundreds of men and women gathered around them.

“If I'd known dying would get me an army, I might have done it ages ago.”

Wichtig's eyes lit with glee. “You don't get an army, remember. At least not for long. Whoever killed you gets the army.”

She felt the life drain from her.
I'll have to see him again. I'll have to serve him
. After all he'd done to her. “I'll kill him,” she swore.

Wichtig patted her reassuringly on the back and then retreated when she glanced up at him. “I'm guessing you have the need to go east, eh?”

Stehlen growled an affirmative.

Wichtig looked very pleased with himself indeed. “The little bastard got you too. I wouldn't have though it possible.”

“Bedeckt. It was Bedeckt.”

The Swordsman's face lost all humor. “Oh.”

“He killed me to protect the boy.”

“Oh.”

“You have nothing else to say?”

“I'm glad I'm not Bedeckt.”

“Gods-damned right,” snarled Stehlen.

“But you're going east too.”

“Yes.”

“How strong is the pull?” Wichtig asked.

“Strong.”

“So Bedeckt is going to die soon.”

She stared at Wichtig until he fidgeted uncomfortably.

“So is the boy,” he said. “I have to go east too. He's going to Ascend.”

“Not if I kill him first.”

“He'll already be dead,” pointed out Wichtig, though he sounded none too sure of himself.

“There's always more death,” said Vollk from behind Wichtig.

“I heard you last time,” said Wichtig. “Stehlen. This is it. Your chance at redemption. Tell Bedeckt how you feel.”

The bastard never gives up
. She should kill him now and be done with it.
No. Too easy.
Better she beat him at his own game. Better he realize she could better him in all ways.

“Maybe,” she said, looking him over. She poked him in the chest with a filthy finger. “Where are your swords? Don't tell me you lost them already.”

Wichtig gestured at a large woman standing nearby. “She took them.”

Stehlen recognized the woman. “And you just let her?”

“Well, there's more of them than us,” Wichtig said defensively.

“I know,” said Stehlen. “I just wanted to hear you admit it.”

“Bitch.”

“I've killed more people than you. I win. And now we
both
know it.”

“You cheated. Anyway, half of yours are total nobodies. Most of mine are great Swordsmen.”

Stehlen wafted his complaints away with an airy wave of her hand. “Doesn't matter. I have more.” She turned to Lebendig Durchdachter. “Those two swords, give them back to Wichtig.” Lebendig opened her mouth to argue. “Now,” said Stehlen.

Lebendig's shoulders fell and she handed the swords back to Wichtig, who accepted them and returned his sword to Vollk.

“Don't think this means I owe you,” he said.

“Think of it as a prize for coming in second,” she said.

“This leaves me without a sword,” said Lebendig. “I need a sword.”

Stehlen pointed at Vollk. “You. Give her your sword.”

“I'm not one of yours to command,” growled Vollk, drawing the blade he'd just sheathed.

“If I were you,” said Wichtig, “I'd do as she says. You're the one who keeps saying there's always more death.”

“Shite,” said Vollk, handing Lebendig his sword.

“Anyway,” said Wichtig, “I've got the feeling there's going to be a lot of extra swords lying around soon enough. Death follows Stehlen everywhere.” He stopped, and suddenly grinned happily at Stehlen. “Speaking of swords, where are yours?”

“Lying on the road somewhere,” answered Stehlen with a twisted grimace.

“Bedeckt didn't . . .”

“No. He didn't get the chance. The boy hit him in the head with a rock.”

“Oh.”

“Not to worry. Like you said, there will be a lot of extra swords lying around soon.” Stehlen spun and stabbed the nearest sword-bearing man through the heart with one of her hidden daggers. He made a surprised gurgle and dropped like a stone. “Oh, look, here's one.”

Wichtig scowled disapprovingly at the corpse.

“What?” she asked, disgusted.

“Was he one of mine or one of yours?”

Stehlen glanced at the corpse. He didn't look familiar, but few of these people did. “Does it matter?”

Morgen staggered east. The morning sun had yet to crest the horizon and the sky was lit bloody with fire. It would be a red, red day.

With each step he felt a damp squelching in his shoes. Some time during the night his feet had begun to ache. Then, for many hours, each step had been its own raw agony. Now they were numb and he was grateful. He dreaded what he would find when he removed his shoes.

Why didn't Konig give me real shoes instead of these silly slippers? Why hadn't Bedeckt or Stehlen or Wichtig pointed out how useless they were?

Because no one wanted him to stray far.

Even his shoes were a prison. He should take them off.

No. He didn't want to see his feet. They'd be a mess, and there was nowhere to clean them.

Gods, his hands were filthy. He picked the dried blood from under a fingernail.

One foot after the other.
Squelch, squelch.

Morgen looked up from his hands. The sun, hidden behind a thick layer of cloud, sat somewhere well above the horizon. East. Why east?

WHY WOULDN'T HIS
reflections show him something useful? Did they hide truths just like everyone else? Who could he trust?

No one.

He blinked. His hands stung. He lifted one hand from the road to stare dumbly at the stones embedded in the palm. The hand was dirty. Spots of red soaked through a layer of fine road dust.

How long have I been kneeling?

Morgen pushed himself to his feet and looked for somewhere to clean his hands. Nothing. He tried wiping them on his pants, but they were filthy too.

Ahead he saw a crowd approaching. They looked something like what he'd expect a traveling circus to look like. He could hear songs of worship sung in high and strained voices. A traveling church, maybe? He'd read of such things. Had he seen this in
the reflections? He couldn't remember. He was so thirsty. Maybe they'd give him water.

Morgen sat on the road to wait.

Erbrechen swayed in his canopied litter, his monstrous belly, slick with sweat, moving in time to the measured tread of those who carried him. His arse cheeks felt slippery and he wondered if he'd shat himself again. No matter, it was a pleasant enough sensation for now. He'd have one of his lads look into it later.

He kept a careful eye on Gehirn. The Hassebrand sat hunched, picking at something she kept hidden from sight. Even under the canopy on this cloudy day, the woman radiated heat. Her skin flaked red and raw, blistering as if she'd lain in the desert sun for days. The air around her rippled.

Shame this isn't winter,
thought Erbrechen.
I'd be toasty warm instead of swimming in arse sweat
.

How had he not seen the danger the Hassebrand would become? He'd been blinded by his need for love. For real love. He glanced past Gehirn and watched two children fight over the scrawny corpse of a plucked chicken.
Not the empty worship of fools
. Was she any different? He'd almost believed she was. He peeled back his lips, baring his teeth at the Hassebrand's back.
No, she's just like the others
.

The snarl died, leaking from his face.
Gods, I'm so lonely.

The sight of two men leading a blond boy—filthy, but soft and fresh-faced—toward the litter interrupted Erbrechen's thoughts. Even under the coating of road dust, he could tell this lad had been well fed and pampered his entire life. Lust surged in him and he crushed it down.

Not now. If this was the boy Gehirn told him of, he must make him his.

Erbrechen called a halt and those carrying the litter stumbled
to an awkward stop. The approaching men marched the boy forward to stand before Erbrechen. The lad, trembling from exhaustion, seemed barely aware of where he was.

“Oh, you poor boy,” purred Erbrechen. “I see blood. Are you hurt?”

“Thirsty,” croaked the boy, staring at his blood-encrusted hands. “Need to get clean.”

“Of course, of course. I understand completely. You!” Erbrechen thrust a pudgy finger at a woman waiting nearby. “Fetch the boy water. Now!” The woman scurried away.

“Morgen?” said Gehirn.

The lad's head came up slowly and he stared dumbly at the Hassebrand. “Gehirn Schlechtes? Konig sent you to—”

“We're here to help,” interrupted Erbrechen before Gehirn could say something stupid and ruin everything. “We're here to protect you. You can trust us.” He shot the Hassebrand a meaningful look. “Right, Gehirn? Tell him he can trust us.”

Gehirn's face tensed and a wave of heat washed over Erbrechen. “You can trust us,” she said.

The boy looked confused, lost. “I thought Konig . . . He sent the Tiergeist.”

“Tiergeist?” Erbrechen hissed at Gehirn.

“Therianthrope assassins,” the Hassebrand answered.

Erbrechen spat, drool spattering his belly. “Damned shapeshifters.” He returned his attention to Morgen. “You're safe with me. I won't let anyone hurt you.”

“I can't be allowed to die,” said Morgen, staring at Erbrechen with hopeful eyes.

“No one shall touch you. I promise,” Erbrechen lied. “I've already defeated Konig's Schatten Mörder, his filthy Cotardist assassins.”

“Konig didn't send you?” the lad asked, dumbfounded, directing his question at the Hassebrand.

A shock of fear stabbed through Erbrechen.
How can the child ignore me? He must be a formidable Gefahrgeist
. He needed to find the child's weakness, some way of engendering gratefulness.

“Gods, no!” exclaimed Erbrechen, thinking quickly. “Gehirn is here to save you. She's your friend, right? And I'm her friend. And a friend of a friend is . . . a friend!”

The woman he'd sent for water finally scurried up and offered a chipped mug to the boy. Erbrechen watched Morgen hesitate, take a sip, and then splash water onto his hands and attempt to scrub them clean.
Aha!
This was what he'd been looking for, some way into the child's mind.

“More!” commanded Erbrechen. “A tubful of hot water!”

The woman fled.

“Thank you,” said Morgen, tears of gratitude streaming down his face, cutting tracks through the caked filth. “It's been so long. Dirty. Everything.”