“King Schmutzig is a fool if he thinks he can take the fight to Morgen,” said Ungeist.
Erdbehüter agreed. Warring with a Geisteskranken—no, a god—in the centre of his power was insane. The King of Gottlos was reputed to be a powerful Gefahrgeist. Did he think himself powerful enough to sway the populace of Selbsthass away from their god?
“Shite,” she swore.
“What?”
“Morgen was going to bring the troops south once they were ready.”
“So?”
“The plan was to cross at the bridge by that run-down garrison on the Gottlos border.”
“So?”
“That’s well south of here. Schmutzig is sneaking his army past Morgen. He’s going to attack Selbsthass while Morgen is invading Gottlos.”
“That’s insane. He still can’t win.”
“Morgen won’t destroy Gottlos, but Schmutzig will raze Selbsthass to the ground.”
“Shite,” said Ungeist, shuffling forward to stand beside her. “That’s the whole Gottlos army down there?” He didn’t look scared. If anything he looked excited, like the proximity of thousands of enemy soldiers thrilled him.
Rocks and stones continued to roll past Erdbehüter on their way toward the camped army. The Earth Spirit’s message was clear.
Drache made another sweeping pass, breathing death and madness on the soldiers beneath her. In the moments of flickering light, Erdbehüter saw boulders crushing men and women and horses. The very earth came alive to smite its foe.
Erdbehüter saw the Gottlos army camped beside what looked to be an abandoned farming community of a half-dozen homes in varying states of decay. For some reason, they made no attempt to occupy the buildings even though a couple still had roofs. They seemed to have given the place a wide berth, though she saw no reason to avoid the place. Must have some history, she decided.
Again she remembered the words of Konig’s Reflection, Failure, ‘You must leave utter ruin in your path.’
Utter ruin. The Earth Spirit rose up against the enemies of Selbsthass. Erdbehüter’s knees gave and she crumpled to the mud. Shame overwhelmed her. Morgen and the Earth Spirit are united in purpose. I was wrong to doubt. She knew what must be done.
The Earth Spirit screamed its orders into Erdbehüter’s brain. Crush the humans. Kill everything. Churn that pitiful camp to nothing. And beneath everything, Failure’s command pulsed through her thoughts like molten stone.
Utter ruin.
“I’m going down there,” she said, setting off toward the camp. When Ungeist hesitated she added, “There are seven thousand men and women here, each with their own inner demons.”
She heard the Geborene Exorcist grunt and set off after her.
“I have to set them free,” he mumbled. “I have to set them all free.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
We are each living a story. What many of us are too afraid to admit is that we are the authors of our story. You are living the life you chose for yourself. You are living the result of each and every one of your choices. If you are letting others make decisions for you, you are allowing them to write your story. Do they have your best interests at heart?
If you are unhappy, whose fault is that? Don’t like your life, go write yourself a better one.
—Fassbar Einfach, Philosopher
Grey world. Grey skies blotted by grey clouds. Grey dirt pocked with ugly grey rocks. Grey plants gnarled and twisted clung to grey life.
I’m dead.
Bedeckt remembered the battle at Sinnlos where he lost his fingers and the wedding ring he wore for years as a reminder. Now he wasn’t even sure what it had been a reminder of. Better times? Stupid mistakes? He remembered fleeing that war, leaving men behind who called him friend, abandoning them to their deaths. Gods, what a stupid war that was.
They were all stupid wars.
He fled in Neidrig too, leaving Stehlen and Wichtig to the Therianthrope assassins. And they killed the Swordsman, dragged him to the ground and choked the life from him.
Stehlen later found Bedeckt drinking himself to death in the shittiest tavern Neidrig—a city of shite taverns—had to offer. She saved him from himself, dragged him from his misery, pretended his betrayal was nothing. Then she pulled him into an alley and rutted him in the filth. She was so alive, so fierce with joy. She even washed her hair after. He was too cowardly to contemplate what that might mean.
And then you killed her and abandoned her in the Afterdeath. Gutless pig sticker.
Bedeckt weaved in the saddle, Arsehole’s rolling gait threatening to dump him on the ground. He clung desperately to the saddle’s pommel willing himself to remain mounted.
I’m dead.
“So you’re dead,” said Stehlen, riding alongside him on a grey gelding with dejected eyes. “Quit bellyaching.” Her eyes looked like piss-holes in snow, yellow and angry.