For several minutes the Dysmorphics stood, bows bent, killing those daring enough to take a peek.
Morgen glanced at the muscled men and women. Some would likely be injured, maybe killed. These people worshipped him, obeyed without question. I should feel more. But he didn’t. He remembered stabbing Wichtig in the gut. All he felt was rage. Not once did he regret his choice to kill the Swordsman. You won’t regret this either. Why did he let Nacht talk him into this? He should have taken the city with his Gefahrgeist power. He made you doubt. How many would die here today?
Does it matter? Nacht asked, again appearing in the glint of a polished shield.
Morgen swallowed, his throat tight. No, it didn’t matter. He remembered Bedeckt bleeding out in a street in Selbsthass. He remembered how it felt to slide the knife he stole from Stehlen into Wichtig’s belly. He remembered the sight of Bedeckt’s axe splitting Erbrechen’s skull. Blood blood blood. Could such mayhem lead to a clean and sane world? Could slaughter and violence birth perfection?
“Yes,” Morgen whispered.
He counted to one hundred without seeing a face on the wall and said, “One last volley, then send them in.”
Misserfolg screamed, “Arrows ready! Draw! Loose!”
Morgen felt a low thrumming note in his chest and a score of arrows sailed over the intervening five hundred strides like a flock of deadly falcons diving for the kill. The Dysmorphics dropped their bows, drew swords and slung shields, and charged the wall.
Even though the ground was a field of mud and stone, they crossed in a few heartbeats, muscled legs pumping. They reached the wall before the first defender dared to pop a head up to take a look and cleared the wall in a single jump before he realized what he saw. Morgen watched, mesmerized.
“Keep the Geisteskranken back,” he said to Misserfolg. “I want them held in reserve.” Not that I’ll need them. His ranks of sane soldiers were more than enough to take Unbrauchbar. “Have the troops ready for when the Dys—”
The gates to Unbrauchbar swung open and Morgen saw the dozen remaining Dysmorphics engaged in a fierce battle with the city’s defenders. The hugely muscled men and women might cut through armour like it was nothing with those monstrous swords, but they were greatly outnumbered.
“Shite,” swore Morgen, ignoring the shocked widening of Misserfolg’s eyes. His army was nowhere near the wall and to get them there before the Dysmorphics were overrun would require breaking ranks. Gone was his plan of marching fifteen thousand soldiers in perfect formation.
It would have looked so beautiful, said Nacht, commiserating.
“Arsehole,” sneered Morgen aloud, again ignoring Misserfolg.
“Move on the gate,” commanded Morgen.
Misserfolg marched away, shouting orders.
He’s going to try and do it neatly, said Nacht. He knows that’s what you want and isn’t willing to disappoint.
Morgen watched two more Dysmorphics fall.
They’ll be dead and the gates closed long before Misserfolg has the troops anywhere near the wall, said Nacht.
“Shite,” Morgen swore again. “Misserfolg!”
The General spun, snapping to attention. He stood rigid but looked ready to hurl himself to the mud should his god be displeased.
Is he even breathing? Nacht asked.
Morgen ignored his Reflection. “We don’t have time for this,” he told Misserfolg. “Get the men there before the gate closes.”
“Charge!” screamed Misserfolg, throat tearing, voice ripping with the effort. “Charge! Charge! Charge!”
Whatever held Morgen’s soldiers in their perfect ranks broke, snapped like catgut pulled too tight. Men and women screamed, rushing the city gates, weapons drawn. Gone was his perfect army. Gone were his beautiful formations, his perfect plan. Every minute spent moving his toy soldiers was a goat-rutting waste of time.
The Geborene army descended on Unbrauchbar as an unruly mob, howling murder. Within the city, the few hundred defenders fell back and were swarmed and cut down. If quarter was asked, none was given.
Morgen watched in horror as fires were sparked and tore through a centuries-old city built mostly of wood. Where was his perfect battle, his rows of orderly soldiers? Where was his bloodless victory?
He didn’t know how long he stood watching before finally following his army and entering the city. Even though Unbrauchbar fell within moments of the first Geborene soldiers clearing the wall, the slaughter continued. He witnessed countless scenes of rape and murder, most perpetrated by his own people. Corpses littered the ground. The wounded moaned or cried or clutched at torn flesh, unable to understand or accept what happened to them.
Will you have your army stay a few days to clean this up? Nacht asked from a shard of glass in a broken window.
Morgen watched three Geborene priests drag a woman to the ground and tear away her clothes. “Why are they doing this?”
They’re imperfect, flawed.