“Stupid horse.”
Wichtig examined the rolling muscles of its shoulders. It was a solid enough creature, dependable as only incredibly dull things can be, but he really should have chosen a different colour. The Afterdeath was a world of greys. Everything from the farmers’ fields to the tavern whores Wichtig couldn’t be bothered to bed looked like washed out versions, drained of life and colour, of their living counterparts.
Come to think of it, how the hells did horses end up in the Afterdeath? Did they all end up here, or only the ones slain by those following the Warrior’s Credo?
He’d heard so many variations of the credo it was hard to remember which he believed. All of them?
“Horse,” said Wichtig, “if I stood you against a grey wall, you’d disappear. And that’s a damned embarrassing way to lose a horse. Even one as dim as you.”
The horse glanced over its shoulder and past Wichtig, not even seeing him. Its ears flicked and perked, searching.
“I’m right here, idiot, sitting on your back.”
The half-wit beast returned its attention to the endless sea of grey.
I should know better than to talk to a damned animal. This was the kind of sentimental shite Bedeckt did all the time. Much as he grunted on about his short list of ‘things he wouldn’t do,’ the old man was a softy at heart. A violent, blood-soaked, thieving, murderous softy.
As Wichtig neared the Selbsthass city gates a dozen Geborene priests dressed in white liveries and polished armour blocked his path. They looked eerily similar, even the women. Not identical like Mehrere sometimes manifest, but like they all belonged to the same family. Did Morgen pick his guards based on appearance, or was the godling warping his foolish faithful with his delusions?
“Where are you coming from?” demanded one of the guards.
“What remains of Neidrig,” said Wichtig. “They’ve got this amazing cat god. You folks should really—”
“Business in Selbsthass?”
“None of yours.”
Hands moved to weapons, fingertips caressing pommels in the eager hope of violence. Fools. No doubt these idiots did something stupid to get themselves killed in the first place. Here they were, about to repeat their mistakes.
What was it Bedeckt always said about the past? Wichtig couldn’t remember.
Rolling muscular shoulders, he felt the weight of the twin swords hanging there. The pommels framed his perfect face.
“Name?” asked the nearest guard, glaring up at Wichtig, lip curling in a sneer of smug superiority. Which was ridiculous. This half-wit thug was decked out in boring white while Wichtig wore flashy and expensive clothes to best effect. Well, to the best effect possible in a world of grey.
“I am Wichtig Lügner, Greatest Swordsman in the—”
“Fine.” The guards separated, leaving him room to pass.
“Fine?”
They turned away, already ignoring him and his perfect hair. He shrugged philosophically. Apparently his reputation had spread, even here in the Afterdeath. Not bad considering he was only dead for two weeks. Killing a dozen or more Swordsman in that time probably helped.
As Wichtig entered Selbsthass City, his good mood soured.
Why the ever-loving hells does Bedeckt want to meet here? Neidrig, while a shite-hole and damned near depopulated by that Slaver—Wichtig never learned the fat slug’s name—would have been better. There were too many reminders here. This was where it all started to go wrong.
Wichtig scowled at the perfectly straight streets, the utter lack of litter. Gods, it looked like someone actually scrubbed each individual cobblestone. The roads had always been clean, but this was insane. Ahead, he saw the looming edifice that was the centre of the Geborene faith. That, too, looked different. The castle he remembered was a lumbering, twisted, spilled guts affair. He remembered skulking about the strangely shaped passageways in search of Morgen, the god-child who would later knife him in the belly. That castle hadn’t looked like it was built by human hands. Not that this one did, but it looked far more disciplined. Had Morgen changed it, bent reality with his obsessive need for structure and cleanliness?
Can a need for sanity reach insane proportions? The thought reminded him of Bedeckt and he shrugged it away. Morgen would get what he deserved. Bedeckt had a plan and, having died at Bedeckt’s hand, Morgen must serve the grizzled old goat. Wichtig grinned. Perhaps not justice for being stabbed to death, but a step in the right direction. He couldn’t wait to see the look on the little shite’s face when he realized Bedeckt could not be trusted.
What did Bedeckt have in mind? The old goat was strangely vague, muttering something about escaping the Afterdeath. Did he not trust Wichtig? No, that can’t be it. He must have worried Stehlen would overhear; she had a habit of spying on her friends.