Failure is a Gefahrgeist, said Nacht. He already has his own people—priests he’s taken with his power—working to his ends.
The Reflection flashed that cocky grin again, the one reminding Morgen of Wichtig. Where the hells was the Swordsman? It frustrated him that he lost his figurines. He felt small here, his power limited. Perhaps he shouldn’t have left Selbsthass. Was leaving the core of his power—the people who believed in him—a mistake? Was this what Konig and Failure wanted? Did they trick me? What were the ungrateful bastards up to back in Selbsthass? He should return, crush their stupid plans. But if he did, would he be able to return to his army? The political border between Selbsthass and Gottlos existed only in the minds of the people of the two city-states. It was no more than the common belief of man. Could it stop him, trapping him once again in his city? If he left and Nacht remained with his troops… His head hurt with the need to make a decision and the lack of information that would make the perfect choice possible.
They’ll never expect you to have spies, continued Nacht. They know you’re too trusting. And they’ll never expect you to turn the full force of your Gefahrgeist power against your people. Your power dwarfs Failure’s. Anyone you enslave will remain forever yours, no matter what Failure tries.
They underestimate me, said Morgen.
No, said his Reflection. They have your measure. They’ve only underestimated you when you do something beyond their expectations.
The smug bastard was right. I’ll enslave a couple of Geisteskranken and send them back to keep an eye on Konig and Failure. It ate at him to agree to his Reflection’s plans. Even when the filthy goat-sticker was right. Especially then.
Remember what I said about practice? asked Nacht.
Practice makes perfect.
Right. You’ve never enslaved anyone before. You need to practice. It must be done right. Perfectly.
Misserfolg still lay in the mud at Morgen’s feet, waiting to be told he was allowed to leave. The man looked pathetic. His uniform, usually so clean and crisp, was spattered in muck. Dejection haunted his eyes.
Yes, said Nacht. He’s perfect. No one will think twice if you keep him at your side.
Morgen knelt at Misserfolg’s side, placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Will you help me?” he whispered, pushing his will—his need—against the man’s sense of self.
Misserfolg abdicated all responsibility for himself, his life and choices, in an instant. Morgen felt dirty, stained. But it felt good too. Misserfolg worshipped Morgen, but now he needed his god.
Morgen remembered the Slaver and his grubby followers. “You will bathe everyday,” he breathed into Misserfolg’s ear. “Once in the morning, once in the early afternoon. You will eat three meals a day.” He thought back to Erbrechen telling a man not to shite in front of him. “You will defecate in the latrine ditches like everyone else.” At least until Morgen solved that messy insanity.
Morgen stood and scowled at the mud now staining his white robes. With a flicker of will they were clean again, except the stain Nacht left. He turned to examine the Gottlos garrison across the bridge. It was time to cross, to get the bodies buried and clean up what was no doubt an utter shambles. He glanced at his army. How did one get fifteen thousand men and women—including over one thousand cavalry—to traverse a bridge barely wide enough for two mounted soldiers to cross side-by-side?
Forgive General Misserfolg, suggested Nacht. They will see you as magnanimous.
I am.
“Stand,” Morgen commanded Misserfolg, who scrambled to his feet, desperate to please the god he worshipped with absolute devotion. Perfect loyalty. “I’ve decided to forgive you for questioning my commands.” Misserfolg burst into tears of gratitude, blubbering like a child. “Stop it.” Misserfolg blinked away tears and stood at rigid attention. “You are still my general. You will lead my army.”
Misserfolg bowed low. “Yes, my god.”
“Get the troops over the bridge and into Gottlos. Bury the bodies in the tower. Clean everything. This is Selbsthass now. I want it spotless.”
“It will be perfect.”
Sticking right it will be. “We’ll leave a skeleton force to occupy the garrison when we march on Unbrauchbar.”
Bowing again, Misserfolg spun away, shouting orders. Morgen returned his attention to the bridge. Made of head-sized field stones, the structure was thousands of years old pre-dating both Selbsthass and Gottlos. He had no idea who built it.
“It’s too small,” he mused. With Gottlos soon to be part of Selbsthass, he needed something more than a crumbling ancient bridge uniting the two.
Wait, said Nacht, as Morgen was about to cross the bridge.
Glancing at the Reflection in its puddle Morgen said, “For what?”
Stay here until after the army has crossed. There’s something I want you to see.
Morgen considered ignoring his Reflection but couldn’t be sure if that wasn’t what the bastard wanted.