Joints aching, he mounted ?rgerlich and pointed the beast south. He narrowly avoided the horse’s attempt to bite him. Too tired to think up a worthy insult, he settled for ignoring it.
Fragments of his conversation with Fluch returned as he rode. He remembered the boy’s disgust with his plan to kill Bedeckt for money.
That’s hardly fair. How many times had Bedeckt told the Swordsman he’d kill him the moment there was a profit in doing so? Anyway, it wasn’t just money. He was doing it for his family. With fame and fortune, he could finally return to his wife and child. And it was a lot of money. Assuming Morgen hadn’t lied about that.
Assuming the shite didn’t lie about all of it.
The albtraum had it all wrong. Not surprising it failed to understand the depth of emotion Wichtig felt for his family. The damned thing was a stupid worm, a figment of delusion manifesting to feed on fear and doubt.
And blood, thought Wichtig, again fingering the wound in his belly.
If anything, the albtraum proved Wichtig right. If the Swordsman didn’t love his family so much—if returning to them weren’t the most important thing in all the world—the stinking creature would have found some other topic to pick at.
Feeling marginally better, Wichtig nibbled at what little food he had. Yes, the albtraum was wrong about everything.
Time crawled past like a thousand regrets drowning in blood and guts and an infinite ocean of lies and deceit. Wichtig wobbled as he rode. Someone did a shite job of tightening the girth straps. Was that what they were called? He couldn’t remember.
Upon reaching the Flussrand River, Wichtig promptly toppled from ?rgerlich’s back. He lay groaning on the cobbled bridge, staring up at the beast, which in turn glared down at him.
“Why do you hate me so much?” Wichtig asked.
The horse was too angry to answer.
“I bought you that beautiful—albeit incredibly uncomfortable—saddle. The lovely blanket…” From down here he saw where the wet blanket chafed the beast’s back raw.
“Shite. Sorry.” He laughed. “Why didn’t you say something?”
Weak from blood loss, Wichtig lost consciousness.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Your system for the classification of Geisteskranken is flawed. Even your attempt at sub-classifications is a failure. There are as many flavours of Gefahrgeist as there are people. The term Gefahrgeist—used to denote Geisteskranken craving worship—not only ignores what drives the need, but also fails to take into consideration the many ways in which that need might manifest. One Gefahrgeist becomes king, while another the kingdom’s torturer. One starts a new religion while the other vies for rank within the Wahnvor Stellung.
Labelling something does not mean you understand it.
Give up.
—Umtrieb - Gefahrgeist Scientist
Stehlen and Lebendig followed Wichtig south through rolling hills and lushly verdant farmlands. The never saw the Swordsman, but witnessed the melancholy remains of his passing. Something about the thought of Wichtig travelling alone made Stehlen’s bottom lip tremble and her eyes sting, but only when Lebendig wasn’t watching. Without Bedeckt’s guidance, the idiot would wander lost, forever distracted, forever chasing a goal doomed not to last beyond the next pretty smile or glint of coin. And what would Bedeckt do without Wichtig to distract him from his memories and old man miseries?
And you?
What would she do without Wichtig and Bedeckt? Stehlen stole a glance at Lebendig. Happiness seemed a possibility for the first time.
You’re not going to find happiness chasing after those two idiots. Be honest with yourself. Stehlen stifled the urge to laugh. When had honesty—even with herself—ever been desirable?
Perhaps Wichtig isn’t the only coward.
She glanced over her shoulder, looking back toward Selbsthass. No, there was nothing north for her. Religion left her uncomfortable. Bedeckt might spout his old man wisdom about how guilt was useless, how it was a tool for controlling the foolish, but he didn’t understand. Some childhood scars were too deep to outgrow. Some lessons you never forgot. Some crimes were unforgivable. Some people could never be saved, never be redeemed. That each and every religion offered exactly that twisted her guts with sickness. They were liars offering false promises. They had to be.
Perhaps she’d never earn forgiveness. But maybe some day, if she took enough, she’d earn her punishment. The thought that she rode free—the world ignorant or uncaring of her crime—contemplating happiness, left her wanting to retch the bile of her soul.
Stehlen leaned away from Lebendig and spat bitter phlegm.
She blinked, surprised. How long was it since she last spat? She had, she realized, stopped almost immediately after meeting Lebendig. Not that the Swordswoman ever commented on it or disparaged the habit. Darting a guilty glance at Lebendig she saw the woman lost in thoughts of her own.
What is she thinking about?
She’d ask, but then Lebendig might tell her and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.