I should hear something. The T?uschung. The family. Anything. Was the Mirrorist wrong? Were they in the wrong place or had the delusional wench misunderstood whatever she saw in her mirror?
And then he smelled it, the all too familiar stench of torn flesh and opened guts. They weren’t early, they hadn’t arrived before the family or the murderous T?uschung. They were too late.
Bedeckt followed the razor tang of blood, no longer concerned with ambush. He found the family at the bottom of the valley, the husband bound to a tree by his own intestines. The wife he found staked to the ground, crudely hewn stakes driven through her wrists and into the hard earth beneath. Her legs were spread wide, ankles lashed to two more stakes. Pale skin shone white where not smeared with mire and blood or darkened with mottled bruises. Her clothes, slashed away, lay in a crumpled heap. She glistened, flesh damp with dew. In the centre of the clearing sat a sodden ash-pit, all that remained of a long dead fire. The T?uschung took their time here, stayed the night. The wreckage of their revelries, no doubt the meagre possessions of this family, were strewn about as if scattered by an enraged child.
Bedeckt’s skull throbbed. His chest tightened, each exhalation a snarl ground out between clenched teeth. His hand gripped the axe.
He surveyed the shattered camp. He saw where the T?uschung slept, exhausted from their evening’s entertainment. He saw the tracks where they left the next morning, returning east.
They followed these people for this, he realized. Gods-damned religions. He wanted to crush every fool without the strength of character to turn their back on the endless pantheons of mad Ascended. What could they possibly believe that justified this? Even Bedeckt, with his short list, wouldn’t have done this. Sure, he’d steal. Kill even, should the need arise. But this was senseless, wanton destruction and torture for no purpose beyond savage pleasure.
Bedeckt heard Zukunft approach, leading the horses. She gasped as she entered the clearing, a small sound of appalled terror and revulsion. He ignored her, pacing a wide circle around the remains of the fire. Finding the torn and bloodied clothes of a child of no more than a dozen years, he stopped.
Where’s the boy?
Spotting an area of dirt broken by signs of a struggle, he saw small foot prints heading off into the forest. Larger, booted prints followed.
“Where’s the boy?” Zukunft asked, voice shivering.
Bedeckt said nothing, following the tracks. He heard her trail along behind.
It didn’t take long to find the boy. He hadn’t made it far. His pursuers caught him no more than a few hundred strides from the camp and finished their grizzly work. Each of his fingers were broken and stuck out at impossible angles. Each joint, his elbows, knees, shoulders, and wrists, were bent until the bones popped. They used him, repeatedly and viciously. He looked exactly like Morgen when the Slaver’s drones tortured him.
This looks staged. Why would anyone do that?
Bedeckt’s stomach churned. A low, rabid snarl filled his skull. His vision pulsed in and out of focus, a sanguine curtain of rage slamming each thought to numb stupidity.
Behind him, Zukunft collapsed to the forest floor, weeping, face pressed into her hands.
“Get up,” he said. “We’re going.”
When she didn’t rise he lifted her and carried her back to the horses, cradling her against his chest so she wouldn’t see and knowing she’d already seen. He boosted her into the saddle, placed the reins in unresponsive hands. He collected her shawl from where it fell unheeded in the dirt and placed it over her shoulders.
“We were too late,” she said, voice flat. “Not even close. Why did she show me this?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Bedeckt, mounting his own horse.
Eyes staring, she muttered what sounded like some sort of prayer under her breath. She reached for her saddlebags, pawing ineffectually at the bindings. Bedeckt stopped her.
“I need to know,” she said. “I need to ask why.”
“Later,” said Bedeckt. “We’re going.”
She nodded, her hands falling loose at her sides. “Unbrauchbar,” she said.
“No,” said Bedeckt. “We’re going east.”
She turned, eyes searching his face. “Why?”
Lightning lit the sky with a deafening crack and the heavens vomited torrents of wind-driven rain.
“I’m going to kill them.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Reflection, trapped in the mirror, watches and waits for the Mirrorist’s fall. When the Geisteskranken finally reaches the Pinnacle, the Reflection steps from the mirror, becoming real and taking the Mirrorist’s place. Most often the Mirrorist is then trapped in the mirror, themselves becoming a Reflection awaiting the fall of the Mirrorist.
If they may change places back and forth so readily, is either ever truly real?
—Langsam Brechen - Philosopher
As the sun set to the west, Wichtig reined ?rgerlich to a halt to watch. He hadn’t been dead long, but he missed the beauty of a good sunset. The horse, lacking the soul of a poet, ignored the scene and nibbled at the lush grass between its front hooves.