“I shall exorcize you,” Ungeist told the farmer. “I’ll free your inner demons.”
Drache’s shadow swept over the town and Erdbehüter remembered Konig’s last words: ‘You must leave utter ruin in your path.’ Or was it his Reflection? It should matter but didn’t.
Why am I here?
Konig said she did Morgen’s bidding, but she hadn’t seen her god since making his wall.
The wall.
Civilization.
As with Morgen’s requests, she had no choice but to obey Konig’s commands.
The farmer screamed as something clawed its way free of his chest in a bloody explosion. Drache sank through the clouds, banking and approaching, massive jaw hinged wide. Seething chaos, soul twisting madness belched from that cavernous maw, shredded the fabric of reality.
Throughout the sleepy town rocks and boulders pushed from the earth, screaming their anger. She’d crush these crude shacks. Every structure—every trapping of civilization—would go back to the mud.
It was easy.
It was so easy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
During the Menschheit Letzte Imperium, all the world worshipped a single god. From the Gezackt Mountains to the Basamortuan desert, every single soul bowed before the god of the Wahnvorstellung, a deity named simply, God. Think about it. Every man, woman, and child believed in this one god. Though the Wahnvor Stellung still reigns as the single largest religion, it is a fragmented ruin of what it once was, sundered by a thousand schisms.
What happened to God? Was he diminished by the collapse of the Imperium and the resulting schism within his church? Did he himself splinter to become the many gods the Wahnvor now worship?
Or has he given up on us?
—Geschichts Verdreher - Historian/Philosopher
Bedeckt woke stiff and gripped in a fist of agony. His guts were on fire and sweat streamed in rivers down the crags of his features, soaking his shirt. Thin fluid, stained pink and yellow leaked from under the leather straps wrapping his gut. He caught wafts of decay, thick and sour, the tell-tale scent of an infected wound. He’d smelled it a thousand time before, but never on himself. It was an awful stench, the precursor to a terrible death. Men took days—sometimes weeks—to die from gut wounds.
I’ll end it myself before it gets that bad. If, that is, he had the strength.
Once again, Zukunft helped him into the saddle. She watched with guarded eyes, measuring.
She’s waiting for you to fall dead, old man.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“I saw you looking at my arse,” she said, with no hint of humour. “Horse rutting swine.”
So one of those days then.
Bedeckt dragged Arsehole’s reins, turning the beast south west.
“Wait,” said Zukunft. “Let me check your wound.”
“I’m fine.” He dug his heels in, and Arsehole grunted in complaint but started forward at a slow walk.
“You’re not fine,” Zukunft said as she mounted her own horse and followed. “You’re sweating and you’re pale.”
“Rough night,” he said.
They rode through the day, Bedeckt blinking sweat from his eyes and flinching at the shapes and shadows dancing in his peripheral vision. When he turned, there was never anything there. His chest squeezed tight, crushing his lungs, and he breathed in shallow gasps. Zukunft watched but remained quiet.
He drank often and they stopped at every stream to refill their water skins. Nothing slaked his thirst. He felt dry like the Basamortuan, wrung out like a bar rag.
The world tilted with Arsehole’s every step. Bedeckt closed his eyes, willing it to still. When he opened them again, he blinked stupidly at the sight.
Gone were the rolling hills and lush forests of Selbsthass. Sparse vegetation, stunted plants and tufts of grass just the green side of grey jutted from rocky soil.
“Where?”
“We crossed the bridge into Gottlos a few hours ago,” said Zukunft.
“Right,” said Bedeckt. “I forgot.”
“There was a tower at the bridge,” she said.
“Gottlos garrison. I’m surprised they let us past.”
Zukunft examined him, head tilted to one side, gnawing on her bottom lip. “There was no one there. The place was swarming with crows. It stunk of death.”
“Perhaps the war with Selbsthass has begun,” said Bedeckt. Though why Morgen would order the death of a garrison tower and not follow it up with an attack into Gottlos, Bedeckt couldn’t guess. Still trying to make Geisteskranken make sense, eh, old man? Perhaps expecting logic from a mad little boy wasn’t the sanest—
“I am sane,” growled Bedeckt.
“Pardon?” asked Zukunft.
“Nothing. What were we talking about?”
“You haven’t said a word in hours.”
“Thinking.”
“You’ve got cat turd face,” said Stehlen. “And your plans always go to shite.”
“Shut your festering gob,” said Bedeckt.
“I didn’t say anything,” said Zukunft. “Maybe we should stop for the night. Sun’s going to go down soon anyway.”
He glanced around. No sign of Stehlen anywhere. Had he imagined that?