Beyond Redemption (9 page)

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 Hassebrand 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 modicum 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 Selbsthass and kidnap a god 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 pass their descriptions to whatever passed 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 arsehole.”

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 hells does he keep them so damned 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 massaged 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. Hells, 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.
Shite, 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 pissed 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.
Gods, 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.

Gods, 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.

Power corrupts and a corrupted mind becomes more powerful. You ask if there is a ruler—a King, an Emperor, a Governor, a Lord—who is sane? I think the answer clear.

—H
OFFNUNGSLOS

A
wagon thundered over the bridge at the Gottlos border as the sun peeked over the horizon. A contrail of dust and smoke hung in the air long after its passing. The two guards awake in the local border garrison saw that the carriage clearly displayed the colors of Selbsthass. While the Geborene Damonen were hardly favorites of King Dieb Schmutzig—sporadically despotic ruler of Gottlos—they weren't on his shite list either.

The guards watched with dozy hooded eyes as the carriage disappeared from view and wrinkled their noses at the smell of burned meat.

The older guard slapped the younger on the back. “If we don't report it, it didn't happen.”

The younger guard frowned at the old man. “Wouldn't that be a dereliction of duty?”

“How can it be dereliction if it never happened?”

Gehirn, lips cracked and bleeding, her vision a smeary fog, reached the city of Unbrauchbar at high noon. The sun screamed high overhead. The whole world shimmered and wobbled as if viewed through bloodstained aspic. The thick gloves protecting her hands were sodden with blood and pus from suppurating wounds. Her entire body a bubbling sore, she felt like a sun blister about to pop.

The city gate stood open, but a dozen guards gathered there. As Gehirn approached they waved frantically, motioning her to stop the wagon.

Darkness. She must find blessed darkness.

Gehirn snapped the reins hard, driving the horses faster. The idiots would move or she'd run them down.

They didn't move. Instead they raised crossbows and shouted dire warnings. As she had thought: idiots. Searing agony left little room for more thought. She saw only obstacles between her and soothing shade. As one, the guards burst into pillars of bright flame and Gehirn scattered their ashes as she rode through them. Pain narrowed her vision to a collapsing tunnel, focused all thought on one goal.

Getoutofthesungetoutofthesungetoutofthesungetout . . .

Roasting the guards to ash didn't even require conscious thought.

They were an impediment.

They were gone.

Gehirn drove the horses through narrow streets, scattering people and ashing those too slow to flee. She acted on instinct,
with thought of nothing but finding shade. Seeing the Geborene temple through what little was left of her eyes, Gehirn hauled the reins with all her remaining strength and the carriage shuddered to a halt. The horses, at the edge of death, shook with exhaustion, their eyes wide with terror, chests heaving with the struggle of drawing breath. Gehirn fell from her perch and landed badly. Wet skin sloughed from her arms, leaving a viscous pink puddle on the ground. She crawled toward the door. Something moved before her. A tall shape.

“Halt in the—”

Gehirn burned it and crawled through the ashes. Her knees left long bloody streaks in the dust. Her eyes burst and ran down her cheeks, igniting pain in the cracked and flayed skin.

Getoutofthesungetoutofthesungetoutofthesungetoutofthesun . . .

Darkness greeted her like the most gentle lover's embrace. She saw nothing, but instinct drew her to the deepest depths, the place where sun and moon could never reach. Only the dimmest spark of intelligence remained. Her eyes would heal. Her skin would heal, though if she didn't remove her clothes now they'd fuse to her body as she scabbed and healed. Avoiding that agony was worth facing this agony now. She pulled herself to her feet, leaving smeared bloody handprints on the wall. It took half an hour to peel off her sodden clothes and a great deal of already healing skin came away with them. In the end she stood naked, raw and fat, and felt the cool air move over her skin. Already her eyes were recovering and she could make out vague shapes. When she thought her skin sufficiently whole, she crawled into the first cot she found and curled around her pain.

Fire, so hungry and beautiful. She felt wrapped in its comforting love.

She lost consciousness with a contented smile on her weeping lips.

GEHIRN AWOKE TO
find her fingers sticky with congealing blood and her arms wrapped lovingly around the cold corpse of a young priest with an opened throat. The memory of her arrival at the Geborene temple in Unbrauchbar was hazy at best. With any luck most of the town remained unburned. Never before had the fire come so easily. Her delusions grew in strength. She'd burned three Krieger—no doubt powerful Geisteskranken in their own right, though she had no idea what their delusions might have been—while sleeping.

How could she control what she did in her dreams? Had she burned others and not known? Gods, she shuddered to think of all the times she'd dreamed raging infernos, bodies stacked like cordwood. How many had she killed without knowing? If her nightmares slipped free, no one was safe.

Is that why Konig sent the Krieger with me?
Were they to assassinate her as she slept? In her dream . . .

No. That was a dream.

Her mind was going in circles.

“Konig needs me,” she said. “He said so.”

Still, it made sense. If she was burning priests in her dreams, Konig
had
to kill her. He'd do it out of necessity.

No, he needs me.

In the end, she realized it didn't matter. As long as there was even a chance Konig needed her, she couldn't fail him. She'd do what he sent her to do. If he had her assassinated upon her return, at least she'd die knowing someone had needed her and she hadn't let them down.

Konig, I will not fail you. No matter the cost.

Disentangling herself from the corpse, Gehirn rose from
the bed and sniffed at the air. She'd slept an entire day and a new sun had risen, shrouded in thick cloud. She could smell it. She stalked through dark temple corridors in search of clothes and found the temple's laundry room, robes littered across the floor. It looked as if a child had scattered them in a temper tantrum.

“Priests are such damnable slobs,” she muttered as she searched through the robes for a set fitting her height and rank.

THE SURVIVING CITY
guard scattered when Gehirn exited the Geborene temple swaddled in layers of priestly robes. She paid them no attention, too distracted by the pulsing pressure of the sun lurking behind the heavy clouds. It was awaiting its chance to peer through and reduce her to cinder. Gehirn's skin, still raw and pink, chafed against the robes. It was all she could do to quell the urge to cower and whimper in the dark.

High Priest Konig sent her here with a task and Konig was not a man to disappoint.

Konig said I was critical, that he needed me
. She hugged her arms tight to her body. He'd called her “old friend.” Remembering Konig's words calmed her. Though he often seemed distant and disgusted with her constant need for his approval, Konig cared about her. He and Morgen were the only people alive who did. It was enough. Two people was more than she'd had before Konig brought her into the church, gave her purpose.

More than I deserve.

Gehirn followed the whiff of insanity to where the local Geisteskranken lived. The deranged tended to live in segregated parts of town where their delusions would not be tainted and limited by the proximity of the stolid beliefs of the pathetic sane. Having a few hundred unimaginative people nearby could render the often tenuous powers of minor Geisteskranken nonexistent. Power was a balance of distance, mass belief, and strength of
delusion. For most Geisteskranken the first two factors defined their abilities. For people like Konig and Gehirn, it was the opposite: their delusions were so powerful they could influence or even define the beliefs of the common people. But no one in Unbrauchbar was anywhere near that powerful—except for whoever killed all these priests.

Gehirn hurried along the abandoned Unbrauchbar street. Long-term planning was not one of her strengths; fire left little room for plots and plans, it demanded immediate satisfaction. She found what she was looking for by examining the homes of the local Geisteskranken. The Mirrorist's house, large and sprawling, spoke of wealth and success. Its run-down and decaying appearance spoke of a deteriorating state of mind. A mosaic of shattered mirror fragments covered the exterior walls.

Gehirn paused to study the home. None of the tiny Gehirn reflections quite mimicked her actions as she approached the main entrance. Some battered at the glass walls of their tiny prisons while others writhed in flames. In all it sounded like the cacophony of a distant crowd, barely audible over the hubbub of city life. Gehirn waved at her little reflections, entertained by their obvious anguish. Hers would be a fiery death. All Hassebrand ended the same way, only differing in how many they took with them when they went. As those slain in this life served in the next, Gehirn was not overly worried. She'd have more than her share of servants in the Afterdeath. A dim memory of her dream, faded like dyed cotton washed too often, pestered her. Someone had said something about the Afterdeath, but she couldn't remember who had said it, or precisely what had been said.

Gehirn pushed the thought aside. When the day finally came and she faced the last fire, she would embrace that moment as she had embraced all the fires leading to it. To be devoured by your one love was to achieve a harmony few would ever realize. Just thinking of one final heat made Gehirn moist and warm with arousal.

She looked back at the reflections. The fact that they
did
act so erratically meant that this was the house she sought: a Mirrorist at the pinnacle of power yet still clinging to some shred of sanity. Sliding that slippery slope where control faltered, but still able to see deep into the reflections. It was not lost on the Hassebrand that she was herself growing in power. She could remember the days when burning men to ash would have been impossible. Now it was easy.

Now I do it in my sleep.

She must finish this assignment before her delusions immolated her soul. Her fate had been a long time coming—and no doubt she deserved it—but she couldn't fail Konig.

Gehirn leaned in close to one of the larger shards of mirror. Blue eyes stared back, and the lack of eyebrows—she'd burned them off as a child and they'd never grown back—left her looking forever surprised. Sweat beaded her bald skull—that thin film of red stubble had once again been burned away—and dripped down a far-too-soft face flushed crimson. When she wiped clean her face, the reflection sneered disgust before breaking into tears.

Damned Mirrorists
.

She straightened. No point in stalling.

The door swung open as she reached to knock. A scrawny woman, sallow skin puckered like a plucked chicken corpse left too long on the counter, stood facing her. Embedded into her flesh, worked into once-open wounds, nestled tiny fragments of broken mirror and glass dust. The woman was a walking mosaic of glinting reflections and tinted glass, both a rainbow and guttering darkness, depending on where Gehirn looked. A threadbare robe did little to cover her emaciated body. Each movement caused her considerable agony. Particularly around joints, fresh blood oozed from wounds never given the chance to heal.

“You stink like burned meat,” the Mirrorist said, examining her with a look of disgust.

Gehirn examined the woman, finding her thin body, obvious pain, and undisguised revulsion arousing. She saw glints of light from within her mouth, tiny fragments of mirror embedded in tongue and gums. Gehirn gave her most charming smile—more of a feral and canine leer—and bowed low. “Just the woman I've been looking for.”

The Mirrorist spat squarely into Gehirn's chest and Gehirn took a moment to appreciate the phlegmy concoction of bile, blood, and glass dust. Dabbing at it with a finger, she frowned when she felt a small stab of pain. A tiny sliver of glass lodged in her fingertip. She tried her smile again. “Charmed, no doubt. I seek your services, Mirrorist. I'll pay in gold. Though”—and she leered at the ribs showing through jaundiced skin—“I suppose other . . . forms of payment . . . could be made.”

“Gold will suffice.” The Mirrorist's voice sounded like she gargled shards of broken glass.

“Such a lovely voice. Your name?”

“Verlorener Spiegel. And you are Gehirn Schlechtes, devoted slave to the Geborene Damonen. He cares not one whit for you.”

Gehirn's smile was briefly genuine. “I have indeed come to the right house. Verlorener, let us discuss payment and the past.”

Verlorener grunted and padded back into her home, leaving a trail of small and bloody footprints Gehirn found tantalizing. She followed, ducking so as not to knock her head on the top of the door. The room Verlorener led her to looked so normal it was shocking. Only the single chair covered in sharp chunks of shattered mirrors and liberally caked with dried blood stood out. Ancient paintings, many flaking away from their canvas, covered the walls. Hundreds of unlit candles adorned every surface. Dark and earthy tones set a mood of warmth and comfort at odds with
the sharp, hard angles of the woman. Aside from Verlorener and the chair, Gehirn saw no other mirrors.