Beyond Redemption (47 page)

Erbrechen screamed at Gehirn, “What are you doing?”

The Hassebrand, arse soaking in the mud, stared up at the Slaver.

Sit. Be silent. Say nothing. Do nothing.
Erbrechen's last commands. Gehirn would follow them until told otherwise.

She grinned at the Slaver, showing sharp canines.
Die, you
—

“Burn him burn him burn him!” Erbrechen pointed at the approaching man.

With a sob Gehirn pushed herself to her feet. She gritted teeth until they creaked and groaned in her jaw. It was useless. She would obey. She would burn the old man. She lifted a hand. Beyond the scarred warrior she saw the gathered thousands of the camp rushing in. No way she could burn just the warrior.

No way she
wanted
to burn just the warrior.

What little control remained frayed apart.

“I loved you!” she screamed at Erbrechen. “I just wanted to matter. Just a little!”

Gehirn unraveled.

Bedeckt stood over Morgen, ax hanging comfortably in his hand. They came at him, screaming insensate rage. Thousands
of men and women racing to be the first to bring him down. This was a shite death, but then what kind of death had he expected? Certainly nothing better. Truth be told, he had always hoped to die in a brothel with a smile on his face.

No one ever gets what they want
.

Wichtig and Stehlen certainly hadn't, though it could be argued that they got what they deserved. Shaking those thoughts aside, he couldn't help think that, for the first time in a long time, he felt good. No regrets. Maybe dying with one good deed to his credit was no match for a lifetime of robbery and murder, but he didn't care. This wasn't about balance. This wasn't about doing good. He wasn't a good man, so there would be no redemption. The list of things he wouldn't do was far shorter than the list of crimes he was willing to perpetrate.

But
this
he could not allow.

Bedeckt screamed, “You'll serve in hell!” and threw his ax at the fat Slaver.

Fire boiled up from Gehirn's seething guts, seared her tongue, before spilling past clenched teeth. Her robes, long since fouled and fallen to decay, ignited. The mud at her feet bubbled and boiled.

The scarred old man threw his ax, splitting Erbrechen's skull in two. The chains of obedience binding Gehirn fell away and she laughed aloud.

Free!
She cried, and the tears of flame began as relief, but quickly dissolved into anguish and . . . joy.

For she was not free. There was no putting this fire back, no shoving her self-loathing back down into the dark depths of her soul.

This would be her last fire. She knew it.

She welcomed it.

The mob of Erbrechen's followers still streamed forward, screaming and crying. The Slaver's death may have freed them, but nothing could free them from the memories of their actions. Appalled terror stretched faces in haunted screams. They wanted death as much as they wanted to kill the scarred old man for opening their eyes.

There's a lesson here,
thought Gehirn as control fled.
No one thanks you for showing them the light
.

She'd show them her light nonetheless. Welcome or not. She'd set them all free.

Truly free.

The ground shook with a pulse of power and a few hundred desperate souls became ash. All around, the earth boiled and steamed. She couldn't control it. Her chest split from the fire within. Blood boiled in her veins.

“Run!” she screamed at the old man.

Bedeckt stared at the Hassebrand. The woman's skin glowed and darkened as if scorched from within.

“Take the boy and run!” yelled the Hassebrand, startlingly bright blue eyes wide and pleading.

A wave of heat raised blisters on Bedeckt's skin and blasted away what little hair he had left. He'd never make it to the woman in time to kill her before fire turned this whole stinking valley to molten stone.

Bedeckt bent and scooped Morgen into his arms. Blistered skin tore on his fingers and wept. He ignored the pain. It was nothing. He turned his back, sheltering the boy with the bulk of his body as the Hassebrand screamed and twitched and let loose another searing blast of heat, scattering the ash of a few hundred drudges.

Bedeckt stumbled away, barely aware that what little clothing
he wore was ablaze. His back was one large raw wound, the flesh crisped and cooked ashen white. He moved, one foot in front of the other, crushing Morgen to his body as if he could protect the boy from all that had happened. If the boy made noise, Bedeckt couldn't hear it. The men and women who had been rushing him were gone. A wide-open field lay ahead, ankle-deep in sodden ash. His feet burned as he pushed through boiling mud. A foot sank deep and he dragged it free, leaving the steaming boot in the mud. One foot in front of the other. The skin on his back melted and sloughed away in great hanging threads.

“It's okay,” he told Morgen. “I have you. You'll be okay.” For once he hoped he wasn't lying to the boy.

As Bedeckt stumbled down a hill the sky behind him lit as if from a thousand bonfires. An explosion slammed him to the mud and endless flame roared around him. He huddled Morgen underneath him, shielding the boy from the fire as best he could. His skin charred. Any part touching earth felt like it was being boiled. Endless agony. He had to stand. He had to keep moving. He had to get Morgen away from here.

His legs didn't work. The smell of burned flesh filled his nostrils.

Darkness took him.

Gehirn fought to control the flood of emotion and fire spilling out of her soul. The scarred old man stumbled out of sight down a hill, carrying Morgen.

Move, damn it! Run!

She couldn't hold it any longer!

Fire burned her to nothing. She was soft ash, caught spinning in a tornado of flame. The world fell away and the heavens lit bright.

One last fire. One last beautiful fire. The gods would see this and know.

I think if you walk toward the Afterdeath thinking it is a chance at redemption, it's already too late.

—H
OFFNUNGSLOS

B
edeckt awoke with a groan.

This wasn't so bad. He'd expected more pain.

He moved, and burned skin everywhere cracked open and bled. He lifted his left hand and stared at it. Charred bone. Strange he couldn't feel it, but just as well.

It should probably hurt,
he thought numbly.

He tried to stand, but nothing happened. He glanced the length of his body and saw his legs too were charred ruin.

That should hurt too
.

A cough caught his attention and he used his remaining arm to turn painfully. Morgen stared at him through one swollen eye, the boy's face battered beyond recognition, his arms bent at impossible angles. Every joint looked to have been savagely broken
or twisted out of place. Bedeckt had known grown men to die from lesser wounds.

“I saw the fire,” whispered Morgen so softly Bedeckt had to lean in close to hear.

“There was a big fire,” Bedeckt agreed. Oh, there was the pain he'd expected. Talking was agony, his throat raw and seared. It felt like his lungs had been boiled.

“Gehirn?”

“Who?” Bedeckt croaked.

“Hassebrand.”

“Dead. All dead.”

“Good.”

“Morgen.”

“Yes?”

“I'm done. Your Hassebrand friend has slain me.”

“Not yet.”

“Soon.” Very soon. Bedeckt felt his grip on life weakening. Darkness beckoned, its cool embrace growing more attractive by the second.

“I'm dying,” said Morgen. “I don't know which will kill me first.”

“Which?” asked Bedeckt, confused.

“The wounds I suffered at the hands of Erbrechen's men, or the Hassebrand's fire.”

What is the boy saying?
Bedeckt struggled to follow. It was difficult to think. “So?”

“Those whom you slay serve in the Afterdeath,” whispered Morgen.

“Shite.” Bedeckt understood.

“You have to kill me.”

Bedeckt laughed, a dry cough of smoke. “Forget it. It's on the list. I don't kill children.”

“You have to. Gehirn hates herself. I'd be too dangerous under her control.” Bedeckt glared at the boy as the single swollen eye cracked open to stare at him. “And the Slaver . . .” The boy shuddered. “
You
have to,” whispered Morgen, begging.

“But then I . . . You'll have to serve me.”

“You're fallible, but you won't use a child.”

“Fallible?” Bedeckt asked, dumbfounded by the boy's naïveté.

“Means you make mistakes.”

“I know what it—”

“It's on your list now. You won't use children. I'll be free.”

Maybe, but free to be what? What kind of god would this child be? No, that wasn't what Bedeckt cared about. He really wanted to know how Morgen could be so sure Bedeckt wouldn't make use of the fact that a god was serving him in the Afterdeath. What kind of man did Morgen think him? Which begged another question:

What kind of man am I?

There was no answer. Instead, Morgen whispered, “Soon I will know.”

“Know what?”

“If Konig lied. Born of faith or . . . mother.” The boy's eye closed. “Hurry. Not much time. Going.”

“Can't. Ax gone. Left my knife in someone.”

Morgen cracked a small smile, showing the shattered remains of teeth that were startling white in his burned and filthy face. “I have one. Belt.”

Bedeckt found the knife hidden under Morgen's torn clothes. Reaching it was difficult with only one working limb, and by the time he had it, his vision had narrowed to a collapsing tunnel. The knife, spotless, glinted in the fading light. It looked familiar.

“Where?” asked Bedeckt.

“Stehlen,” answered Morgen.

“Oh.”

When had the boy taken it? After Bedeckt killed her? He supposed it didn't really matter.

Morgen's eyes widened as he saw the knife.
That's not fear,
Bedeckt realized.
That's understanding
. What did the boy see?

“Oh,
shite,
” Morgen said clearly, gaze never leaving the blade's mirrored surface. “They're laughing. They lied to me. This whole time . . .” His swollen eyes, leaking tears, slid closed. “The future, it was never set in stone. I killed . . . They led me to this . . . tricked me.” The boy's small, broken body shook with sobs. “They'll Ascend with me.”

“They?” Bedeckt asked, confused.

“Konig was wrong,” whispered Morgen, his voice cracking. “Aufschlag was wrong. I'm no god; I'm just a . . . a . . .”

“Morgen?”

The boy didn't answer, though his chest still rose and fell in short, shallow breaths.

“Morgen!”

Nothing.

What the hells was he talking about?
It didn't matter. “I don't kill children. It's on the list.”

Nothing.

But if he didn't . . . and then he understood.

Oh, shite!

The very same Hassebrand had slain Bedeckt. He too would soon die of his wounds. Even if he killed the boy, Morgen would still wind up serving the insane woman.

Unless . . .

Bedeckt pushed Stehlen's knife through Morgen's chest and into his heart. When he tried to pull the knife free, it stuck.

Oh, gods sticking hells, no!

Bedeckt tried again, straining with all his remaining might. The knife moved slowly, grating where it caught on a rib—
Come on!
—and finally slid free.

Bedeckt wept tears of joy. He held the knife clutched to his own chest, huddling it there like a lover. He strained to catch sight of the bloody blade. Stehlen. So much death they'd seen together. How many backs had she put this very knife into? How many throats had she cut in dark alleys?

Bedeckt drew the knife upward along his chest until the tip pricked the soft skin under his chin.

One more. One more death.

She'd be waiting. Stehlen would be there and he'd have to see her again. What would he say? What
could
he say?

“Sorry for killing you,” hissed Bedeckt, and drove the knife up through his throat into his brain.