Beyond Redemption (45 page)

He never loved you. Not one gentle touch
.

Gehirn turned her attention on the huge cauldron slung over the dying fire. She raised a hand and let slip a tiny fraction of her self-loathing.

She was a failure, in every conceivable way.

The fire surged to life.

Morgen would die at Erbrechen's hand, worshiping the Slaver, twisted to his grotesque will.

The stew boiled over.

Erbrechen said something but Gehirn didn't hear it. Her blood was boiling with hatred. Her whole life she'd served men who used her, who cast her aside. She was nothing. She'd achieved not a single untainted act.

With a flash the cauldron melted and was blasted to ash before the molten metal touched ground.

“Stop!” screamed Erbrechen, and the fire guttered. “Enough! Sit. Be silent. Say nothing. Do nothing,” the Slaver commanded.

Gehirn sat in the hot mud.

Erbrechen's heart fluttered with fear, straining to shove blood through his corpulent body.
Too close!
Had he not been staring at the Hassebrand, wondering what to do with her, he might not have seen the threat until it was too late. Erbrechen let out a slow sigh.

“Damned if you do, damned if you don't,” he muttered.
Wait! Genius! What a catchy sayin
g
!
He'd have to remember to repeat it in front of others. Sometimes it felt like he was the only reasonably intelligent person in all the world. He looked out over the scattered wreckage of his camp. These people had no pride, no will to better themselves. They were disgusting, pathetic. Useful in numbers, but still detestable.

The man he'd told not to shite lay curled moaning on the ground, clutching at his stomach. Erbrechen giggled. At least something was still funny. His laughter woke the boy.

“What's so funny?” Morgen asked, blinking and glancing around the camp as if seeing it for the first time.

“The world is a comedy,” intoned Erbrechen, tittering, “and each must play his fart.” The stupid boy looked confused. “Never mind. Hungry?”

Morgen nodded quickly. “Very.”

“Well then—” Erbrechen glanced at the ashen remains of the stewpot.
Damn it all to the hells!
Getting the boy to eat some human stew had been part of his plan. He must soil the boy's soul, weaken his self-assurance. Bend him.

Erbrechen pointed at a group of men sitting nearby. Thin and
filthy, they were covered in windblown ash. “You lot. Start a new fire. Make me my stew.” He saw the Hassebrand's head come up at the mention of fire. “No, my friend, you stay where you are.”

Gehirn glared hatred and Erbrechen felt a wave of heat wash over him.

“You'll hurt the boy,” he warned softly.

The heat guttered and the Hassebrand sagged forward to stare into the mud.

The more he thought about it, the more Erbrechen saw only one escape from Gehirn: the boy must die, and he must die soon. There was no time for the slow erosion of self. Erbrechen must crush him, and fast. But how to do it?
Gods, I'm so hungry I can hardly think!

“Hurry with the stew!”

“Is everything okay?” asked the boy.

“No.” Erbrechen pointed at another group of men and women who were loitering nearby, hoping for the chance to serve their master. “You.” They stood immediately, their backs straightening. “Beat the boy. If you kill him, you're all going into the stew. Break fingers and toes. Cause him terrible agony.”

Morgen scrambled to his feet. The look of confused betrayal beyond comedic, his mouth hung open. “Why?”

“Not to worry,” Erbrechen reassured the lad. “Once you are begging for mercy, I will save you from these terrible people. You will thank me. You'll do anything to make it stop.”

“I thought . . .” The boy trailed off. “But I saw fire.”

“Sorry, your friend cannot help you. She is mine.” Erbrechen grinned wet lust. “As will you be.”

A man stepped forward and landed a crushing blow to the boy's face, shattering his nose. Morgen crumpled to the ground.

“Gods damn it, make sure he stays conscious. There's no point in torturing an unconscious victim, you idiot.”

“Sorry,” said the man as he kicked Morgen in the stomach.

For several seconds the boy was hidden by milling legs and flailing punches.

“Okay, okay,” called out Erbrechen, and they stepped back.

Morgen, face streaming blood and spattered in filth, stared up at Erbrechen from the mud, his expression dazed. “I saw fire.”

The lad was tougher than he'd expected. With an imperious wave of Erbrechen's hand, the men and women returned to thrashing him.

The doing is the easy part. It's the deciding to do that is difficult. I most regret the decisions never made.

—H
OFFNUNGSLOS

N
ight fell fast and Bedeckt led Launisch and the other two horses away from the road and into the shelter of the trees. Alone, he didn't want to run into the kind of trouble often found wandering roads such as this. With his two deranged friends dead, he had no fear of albtraum, nightmares of the insane given flesh. But he'd be easy pickings for the wandering gangs of thieves who haunted dark roads.

Tying the horses to a nearby tree, he set about lighting a small fire.

Once it got going, he sat at the fire, warming his feet. He ate well. With Wichtig and Stehlen gone, Bedeckt had more food than he could possibly eat. Come tomorrow, he'd carry what he could and leave the rest to the scavengers.

It was quiet. No one was bickering.

It was also lonely. He'd traveled with the two cretins for years. Their constant arguing had been a background hum he'd become accustomed to. Gods damned if he didn't miss it.

Bedeckt climbed into his sleeping roll and stared into the twisting flames of the fire.

He'd see Wichtig and Stehlen again, no doubt.

Those whom you slay shall serve you in the Afterdeath: the Warrior's Credo. Stehlen would be waiting, but he couldn't imagine her in a role of servitude.
She'll find some way to kill me.
And if she couldn't, she'd find some way of making him wish she'd killed him.

“Wake up, you little shite.”

“What?” Bedeckt opened a crusty eye. Had he fallen asleep? He could have sworn he just heard a voice, one he recognized from—

“You're still a lazy shite. You haven't changed. Useless cunt.”

Bedeckt sat up. There, across the fire, sat his father.

“I've killed you once, old man. I'd happily do it again.”

The old bastard grunted a dismissal. He didn't look as huge and scary as Bedeckt remembered. The old man sat hunched forward, his eyes rimmed red with exhaustion, his back bent with an age he'd never lived to see. This was his father as he would have looked had Bedeckt not slain him all those decades ago.

The old man waved a hand as if shushing him and prodded at the dying fire with a stick. “I'm not here to beat you—much as you deserve it. I'm here to talk.”

Bedeckt watched the old man warily. “Begone, albtraum.”

“Ah, still clinging to your much-vaunted sanity, I see. Well, here I sit. Perhaps you aren't as sane as you think.”

“I am sane,” growled Bedeckt.

“Or perhaps you are too sane, or believe in your sanity a little too strongly. Such belief, my son, would make anyone crazy.”

“I'm not your son.” Bedeckt scowled at the dream spirit. “Nothing you say will make me doubt my sanity.”

“My point exactly.”

“My father was never this smart.”

The albtraum waved away his words. “This isn't about you. This isn't about your father.”

“What then? Will you tell me I feel guilty for killing Stehlen? She left me no choice.”

His father spat into the fire, much as Stehlen would have done. “Nice try, spirit.”

“It's the boy.”

“Morgen?” Bedeckt asked, surprised. “What do you know of him?”

“He will die soon.”

Bedeckt's chest tightened. The boy had saved his life. “Tell me something I didn't know.”

“You and you alone pursue him with no thoughts of killing him to your own ends.”

“Not exactly true,” Bedeckt pointed out.

“Wichtig manipulated the boy from the beginning, once he understood his significance. Even Stehlen, who loved you enough to follow you to the very ends of the world, planned to kill him.”

Bedeckt shifted uncomfortably. “Stehlen didn't love—”

“She loved you so much it blinded her to the threat you were.”

“Horse shite.”

“Really?” The albtraum snorted derisively. “You think you could have beaten her, unarmed? Even armed, you were never her match.” The albtraum poked again at the fire, rolling a log into the reddest embers. “She had a knife in her hand the entire time you sat near her. She could have killed you in an instant.”

“Horse shite.” But his words lacked power.

“Even as she tried to kill the boy, she never believed that you would kill her. She trusted you. Totally.”

“Horse—”

“Shite,” finished the albtraum, again gesturing as if it didn't care what Bedeckt thought. This wasn't right; the creatures were supposed to attack, to feed off their victim's fears and lusts and dreams. This creature succeeded only in making him uncomfortable.
What kind of nightmare feeds off discomfort?

“Morgen has fallen into the clutches of a powerful Gefahrgeist,” said the albtraum. “A Slaver of the worst order.”

A Slaver?
The boy was beyond reach, then. Nothing Bedeckt could do would save him now. He watched his plans sink away into the depths of the foulest shite-hole.

Wichtig and Stehlen, dead for nothing. Everything he'd been through and he was worse off now than when this began.
Typical
.

He ran a hand over his weary eyes. “Why would I care?” Bedeckt asked the albtraum. “I'm tired. Go stick pigs.”

“You are old,” said the albtraum. “You are slowing down. On this path you will die sooner rather than later. What then? Paradise is not for men like you. All those you wronged, all those you killed and damaged; all await you in the next world. You are a man without redeeming features. You will have no allies in the next world.”

Bedeckt laughed, a snort of derision. “I have none in this world.”

“Stehlen loved and worshiped you.”

“She tried to kill me.”

“You pushed her until she had no choice. Wichtig saw you as a father. He thought you his only friend.”

“Wichtig was a manipulative fool.”

“True,” agreed the albtraum, poking again at the fire. “He tried to use you. But only to better himself. Yes, he was a fool for hoping you might find something worth liking in him when he saw nothing. He loathed himself and clothed it in bravado. All
he ever wanted was to impress you, hear a kind word. He got nothing. He and Stehlen await you in the next life.”

“I'll deal with them when I get there.”

“No doubt. You'll probably, having learned nothing, kill them both. But it doesn't have to be this way.”

“Ah, I
can
be redeemed?” Bedeckt asked sarcastically. “My soul can be saved so I may frolic among fields of virgins in the next life?”

“Morgen saved your life. You owe him.”

“Shite on my debts.”

Again the albtraum ignored his words. “The worst of what trauma humanity has to offer awaits Morgen. If the Slaver has his way, the child will Ascend in such a damaged state he will absolutely worship the one who caused him so much pain. And the beliefs of gods are powerful things.”

“I don't care. I'm done.”

“Save the child and—”

“Redeem myself?” Bedeckt barked a harsh laugh and found himself sitting alone in the dark, the fire long since gone out.

He sat blinking at the ashes. What had Morgen said about heading east? Bedeckt couldn't remember.

“Shite and hellfires.”

Redemption. What a laughable concept. When he looked back over his life, he couldn't see where he had first stepped off the righteous path. More important, had he even ever laid a single foot on that path?

Was this destiny? Was he doomed to a hellish Afterdeath of slain friends and lovers.

“She wasn't a lover,” he said aloud, his words hollow with doubt.

Somewhere far off to the east he heard the screams of a child.

“Not my problem. I go west.”

The screams went on, unending agony.

“Who cares if the child dies and becomes the plaything of some foul Slaver? Who cares if he Ascends to be a twisted new god?”

The scream cut off suddenly, leaving Bedeckt sitting in silence. He sat, listening.

Nothing.

Bedeckt pushed himself to his feet with a groan, his knees and back popping.

“My arse was getting damp anyway.”

After setting Stehlen and Wichtig's horses free and sending them west with a slap on the hindquarters, he turned to Launisch. He spent half an hour removing the saddle and tack and brushing the destrier's black coat until it was silky and smooth.

“You've been a good horse, the best.”

Launisch snorted as if to say,
Tell me something I didn't know
.

“You can't come with me this time. I think it will end badly.”

Launisch stared at him.

“I'm serious.”

The massive war-horse looked over Bedeckt's shoulder to the east, turned, and headed west. Bedeckt watched it for several minutes. Expecting an emotional good-bye from his war-horse had probably been foolish.

Bedeckt collected his ax. Everything else he left behind.

He walked east.

When Konig finally made his way to the great courtyard, he found Trepidation waiting with a dozen massive Dysmorphics. Gods damn it, he'd wanted the Doppel to gather
all
of the overly muscled morons. If he was to leave the safety of Selbsthass, he would do so with an army at his back.

He approached quickly, intending to berate the Doppel. As he
closed the distance he found himself staring up into the square-jawed face of a Dysmorphic. Gods, they were huge. Even the man's neck—if indeed it was a man, Konig couldn't be sure—bulged with muscle. He felt a surge of fear and turned away from the giant, avoiding eye contact.

Wait. I have no fear of these muscled fools
. He glanced at the Doppel; Trepidation looked unusually smug.

“What's going on here?” demanded Konig, his quivering voice undercutting the authority.

“It is as I said,” announced Trepidation loudly, as if orating to all in the courtyard.

Konig's gaze darted about the open area. All the highest-ranking priests were in attendance. Why had so many people gathered here? Everyone watched, waiting.

Something was wrong. They stared at him with loathing. But why? They loved him! He was the High Priest! He'd made them their very own god!

“Where are the horses? I told you to get all this ready. We have to ride . . .”

No one moved.

“He pretends,” said the Doppel. “But he can't hide the fear in his eyes.”

Konig backed away and then caught himself. He squared his shoulders and tried to stand tall, but all stared at him. They hated him.

“I am Konig!” Konig screamed, his voice cracking. “I am the High Priest!”

“It is as I said,” Trepidation repeated. “He will come and pretend at being me. This weak sham. This desperate ploy. But look at him shake with fear. All can see his trepidation. I named him well.”

“No!” Konig backed away. “I am Konig.
He
”—he thrust a finger at the smirking Doppel—“is Trepidation!”

Trepidation shook his head sadly. “Do any here see an ounce of fear in me?”

For a moment all eyes turned to the Doppel, and Konig sagged with relief, but in a flash they returned to him. Trepidation stood tall, fearless.

Konig's heart quailed. “No . . . I'm the real me.” His voice shook, weak and pleading.

A hugely muscled hand landed on his shoulder from behind and forced him to his knees. He looked up, saw the massive face glaring down at him, and squeaked pitifully.

No. Not like this.
He was Konig. Wasn't he? Gods, he was so scared. He couldn't think straight. This wasn't right. Konig knew no fear. Trepidation was his fear manifest. If he felt fear . . . either he
was
Trepidation or the Doppel was dead.

Why don't they love me?
He'd done so much for his people. He needed their love. He'd
earned
it. They owed him worship!

Trepidation drew a mirror from within his robes and held it up for Konig to see. The mirror reflected the room, but none of the people within it.

Konig stared up at himself standing tall and fearless. “Who?”

And he stared down at himself. “I am who you would be. Konig Furimmer, High Priest of the Geborene Damonen, Theocrat of Selbsthass. You are but a pale reflection.” With the last word he winked at himself.

Reflection?
Had a reflection somehow escaped a mirror?
Impossible! Trepidation and Acceptance destroyed the mirrors!

Except Acceptance had kept one for himself. Had Trepidation done the same? Of course he had.

He gestured down at himself, and the weight of the hand lifted from his shoulder. Konig's relief was flashing brief. A fist closed about his bald skull with crushing force and lifted him off his feet. He hung dangling like a child's doll.

“He has become too dangerous,” he said.

No, wait. He hadn't said it, the other had, the impostor. Gods, he was so scared, so confused.