Wichtig must have ridden through this. If he turned back he would run into Stehlen and Lebendig. How far away was the Swordsman? Last she checked—before she hid the statues in Lebendig’s pack—he was half a day ahead. Gods she wanted those statues.
Stehlen eyed the rock strewn earth. It looked like someone had half-buried corpses here as if they were seeds. What did they hope to grow? Every instinct screamed to send Lebendig away. The big woman was no Kleptic. She’d draw attention to Stehlen. I need to hide. I need to be one with the shadows.
Lighting split the sky and Stehlen saw a lone farmhouse, all that remained standing after whatever carnage happened here.
“Secure the farmhouse,” Stehlen said. “I’ll look around.” She’ll be safe in there.
Lebendig drew a sword. “I’m staying with you.”
Warmth seeped through Stehlen and she flashed a grin of gratitude at her lover. Even though she’s shivering and feels like utter shite she wants to stay by my side. I don’t deserve her. “I’m a Kleptic. No one sees me unless I want them to. I’ll be fine.”
Lebendig look ready to argue but instead nodded. She gazed longingly at the farmhouse, clearly tempted by the shelter it offered.
Stehlen dismounted, handing the reins to Lebendig, who hooked them over the pommel of her saddle. “Once we’re warm and dry…” I need to tell you how much I love you. I need to tell you how much it means that you stayed with me even when you didn’t have to. I love you so much it scares me, and I love you so much I won’t let that fear get in the way. “We’ll talk.” I’ll tell you everything. I promise.
Sword still drawn, Lebendig turned her horse toward the farmhouse. “Be careful,” she said over her shoulder.
“You too.”
Stehlen stood in the mud, surrounded by countless thousands of corpses. She watched her lover ride away. She’s my rock, my anchor. In a world riddled with insanity, Lebendig was a pillar of unchanging sanity. Like Bedeck, back before— Back before he killed me, before he abandoned me.
But was Lebendig truly sane, or was Stehlen simply blind to her lover’s delusions? Prior to their time together, the Swordswoman pursued the title of Greatest Swordsman in the World. What sane person would do that? And if she was sane, could she possibly hope to stand against the deluded who also chased the title? Could she stand against someone like Wichtig who manifested his delusions as reality?
Or did Lebendig wear her sanity like armour as Bedeckt did, as if it might protect her from an insane world. Did that make them both mad?
Stehlen cursed and turned away. She scoured the ravaged land with yellow eyes. Crouching, she tugged a scrap of material from the mud. A man shaking a sword at the sky was embroidered upon it; the heraldic badge of Gottlos.
The war has begun.
Stehlen crept through the scattered corpses and torn earth. Just like Morgen to war for cleanliness and purity and never see the results of his obsession. Perhaps she’d show him. Maybe she’d drag the little boy-god out into a field like this and rub his pretty little nose in the corruption he caused.
Sticking Geborene. She had no love for any of the city-states. Each was worthy of her loathing for a different reason. But the Holy Theocracy of Selbsthass? She held a special place in her heart for the mindless fools who willingly sold themselves into such slavery. Religion is a sink-trap for the weak and self-righteous.
If whoever did this was still here, she’d find them. It was a small act of rebellion, but anything shitting on Morgen’s plans was worth a moment of her time.
Rain pummelled the mud around her in a wet staccato drumming, drowning all other sound. Stehlen stepped around a hip-high boulder laced with blood and fragments of bone and wriggling worms. Two figures crouched by a meagre fire losing its battle with the downpour. Both wore the robes of Geborene priests. No longer dressed in pristine white, they were sodden and filthy, their hair plastered to their skulls, faces drawn and pale. They looked like they rolled in the mud instead of walking.
Stehlen caught the glint of mad eyes and realized the two—a man no taller than herself, and a woman—were arguing. With no attempt at secrecy she moved closer to listen.
“I can’t draw forth his demons, unless I see him,” said the man, picking at a scab on his arm with torn fingernails. “I must lay eyes upon the dark in his soul. Have your damned rocks crush the farm.” Tearing the scab free he popped it in his mouth before picking at another.