Not that this is a particularly good sunset.
The sun slumped behind the horizon like a fat man sinking into an over-padded bed, arse flattening and spreading as it sank from sight.
The temperature dropped quickly and Wichtig soon regretted not spending the remaining dregs of daylight in search of wood and kindling. Though well within the borders of Selbsthass, and thus in an entirely civilized landscape, Wichtig hated the night. Particularly beyond the confines of a city. Particularly when alone.
As he searched what passed for a forest—little more than a copse of manicured looking trees growing in impossibly neat rows—for firewood, he realized he forgot to buy a sleeping roll or blanket. Once he got the fire lit, he realized he also forgot to pack much in the way of food. Like the sleeping roll and blanket, that too was with the horse he left in the Afterdeath.
Not that it mattered. After having purchased the clothes and new horse, little remained of Kurz’s money. He couldn’t have purchased much more than a few meagre supplies anyway. Though he did wish he had thought to do that.
Wichtig cursed Morgen. What was the little shite up to, offering wealth and fame and privilege and stealing it back before returning him to life? Could it be that what you carried from life to the Afterdeath didn’t necessarily make the return trip? Maybe the godling brat assumed the money would stay with Wichtig and, for whatever reason, it hadn’t. Wichtig thought about his swords. He acquired them both in the Afterdeath and they made the trip. Why would gold be different?
If the old gods were an unknowable mystery, aloof and distant, the new ones weren’t much better.
Huddled close to the fire, Wichtig wrapped himself in ?rgerlich’s blanket. It smelled like horse arse sweat but was better than spending the night shivering and waking with a sniffle. Wichtig wrinkled his nose in distaste. Sick people were disgusting. The horse glared barbs of hatred in his direction and he ignored it.
The sounds of the night grew in volume. Something made a whistling scree scree noise while something else whined and snuffled, sounding like it was trying to claw free of deep mud. Trees groaned and creaked like Bedeckt’s knees, moaning like old men.
Sticking forests.
Maybe he should saddle the horse and push on, try and find a town. Somewhere with a bed and food and ale and women. He’d been this way before but couldn’t remember there being much in the way of towns. Somewhere south ran the Flussrand River, dividing Gottlos and Selbsthass. He remembered there being a tower or garrison there, though he couldn’t recall which side of the river it was on. Too far away, he decided. The river was at least a day’s ride from here and he didn’t relish the thought of spending an entire night and day more in the saddle. Beautiful as it might be, the damned thing was uncomfortable. His nethers felt like Stehlen spent the last eight hours kicking them. Did Bedeckt feel like this after rutting her in that alley in Neidrig?
Wichtig hoped so.
A cold misting of rain fell, glistening on the horse blanket like tiny jewels. He grinned at ?rgerlich’s scornful regard until the rain soaked through the blanket and set his teeth chattering.
Sticking forests.
Throwing more damp wood on the fire, he shuffled closer. He hadn’t slept beyond the comforting walls of a tavern since— Since that lying shite of a god brat killed me.
Wichtig remembered the icy thrust of steel sliding deep into his guts as Morgen stabbed him over and over. He still owed the boy for that. Returning Wichtig to life hardly made them even. Someday the boy would suffer. And if he thought he could use Wichtig and then renege on his promises of wealth and fame, he was damned well wrong.
Wichtig grinned a feral snarl at the fire. I’ll get what’s mine, or he’ll get what’s his.
Maybe both.
The little god-boy will never manipulate me. Could never outsmart me.
Wichtig laughed, a grunt which turned into a chest-racking cough. Shite, no. He was too good looking to get sick.
Pulling the stinking horse blanket tighter, he curled into a foetal ball and slept.
Wichtig awoke to the snake hiss of steel on leather. A young man knelt over him, a knife, blade bright and sharp, clutched in his fist. Reddish brown hair fell about the youth’s shoulders. The lad grinned rage, his teeth straight and white and perfect. Struggling to free his arms, Wichtig found himself trapped, wrapped tight in the damnable horse blanket. Memories of awakening to find Morgen crouched over him, one of Stehlen’s vicious knives clutched in a shaking fist, froze him more effectively than any bad weather could. This young man’s fist didn’t shake.
“Five years,” said the youth. He couldn’t be much more than fifteen years old.
Wichtig licked his lips. He didn’t stab me right away. Either he’s an idiot, or he wants something. He thought about it. Or both, he decided. “Five?” he asked.