But how could he be sure?
Morgen spotted Trottel, an unimaginative moron whose sole task in this army was to shine boots, a job he was remarkably good at. Moving his horse closer he caught the man’s attention.
“How go the boots, Trottel?”
The idiot, shining General Misserfolg’s spare riding boots as he walked, grinned up at Morgen. “Good. Very shiny.” He leaned close to examine Morgen’s boots and nodded happily when he noted their perfection.
How could he ask Trottel if he thought of himself as stupid without insulting the man? An idea occurred to him.
“Trottel,” he said, leaning low so no one would overhear. “Who do you think the stupidest person in this army is?”
“General Misserfolg,” Trottel said without hesitation.
Morgen glanced at his General. The man was a military genius. No one ever beat Misserfolg at chess or any strategic game. If Misserfolg’s an idiot we’re in trouble. Luckily, Trottel was definitely an idiot.
“Why do you say that?” Morgen asked.
“He’s in charge. Only a fool wants that much responsibility.” Trottel shrugged and spat on the General’s boot before scrubbing again at the offending smear.
Responsibility makes the man. Konig said that and the Theocrat was no fool. “And yourself?” Morgen asked, hoping not to cause offence. “Do you consider yourself intelligent?”
“Yup,” said Trottel, attention locked on the boot.
“Why is that?”
“I clean boots.”
“Yes,” said Morgen. “I know.”
“No responsibility beyond boots. People will want to kill the General. But me? No. Everyone needs clean boots.”
If the fool thought anyone in the shite-stain that was Gottlos cared about the cleanliness of their footwear, he was in for a surprise.
Morgen moved his horse away. Trottel, clearly stupid, thinks himself smart. He decided he shouldn’t be surprised that idiots didn’t have the wit to see their own stupidity. But how to know the difference? How could Morgen know whether he was smart or a fool. I don’t feel stupid. Trottel probably didn’t either.
After pondering the idea further, he decided he must be smart because no one in Selbsthass believed he was a stupid god. His priests worked to convince the population of his perfection, and how could a perfect god be anything less than intelligent? Come to think of it, he was probably more than intelligent. Wouldn’t a perfect god be a genius? Looking back, he certainly felt a lot smarter than before his Ascension.
Morgen stood in his stirrups, surveying what he saw of his army. White carpeted the land. It was beautiful. Fifteen thousand men and women, all geared for war. Even the thousands of support personnel and beasts of burden wore liveries of white. Were he willing to wait a few more days the numbers would have swollen to perhaps twenty thousand. As his spies reported that Gottlos couldn’t field more than six thousand, this would do. He’d been patient and now it was time to act.
By the end of the first day, he barely managed to get his troops out of Selbsthass and the army was stretched out over damned near fifteen miles. It was an embarrassment that General Misserfolg couldn’t match what Morgen achieved when playing with his toy soldiers. A professional soldier should be able to do better than a little boy. Perhaps Trottel was correct in his assessment of the general.
Late in the day, as the setting sun disappeared behind a wall of clouds, Morgen watched in horror as his troops dug latrine holes and defensive trenches, scarring the perfection of the Selbsthass landscape.
Morgen snapped his fingers to get General Misserfolg’s attention. He pointed at the offending soldiers. “What are they doing?”
“Digging—”
“I can see that. Why?”
“Fifteen thousand soldiers make a lot of…” He glanced at Morgen. “We have to put the waste somewhere. Better buried than—”
“They’re tearing up the ground! Can’t they carry it?”
“Carry the leavings of fifteen thousand soldiers?” General Misserfolg looked at Morgen like he thought the godling had lost his mind. “We have not the horses and wagons.”
Seeing he was no longer needed, the General turned away to do whatever it was he did when not bellowing commands at underlings.
Horses. Morgen had one thousand mounted cavalry. He shuddered to think about the mess the beasts were leaving behind. And then there were the teams of horses pulling the supply and hospital wagons. As if on cue, his own horse farted and loosed stream of steaming urine and an impressive mound of shite. This damned animal was further from perfection than he realized. There was much still to be done. Someday his followers would no longer need to do such indecorous things as crapping and pissing. The old gods must have been disgusting creatures, obsessed with filth, to make such flawed creatures. Morgen would do better.
Nacht’s face grinned at Morgen from the mirror-perfect blade of a nearby soldier.
War is a filthy undertaking, said his Reflection.
“It doesn’t have to be.”