—Geschichts Verdreher - Historian/Philosopher
Morgen watched Bulle, a lumbering behemoth of a man towering eight feet in height, return across the bridge at the Gottlos border. A double-bladed war axe most men couldn’t lift rested on one massively muscled shoulder. The axe was clean, unbloodied, and Bulle seemed calm. Not that it was easy to read the facial expressions of a bull. Sweeping horns, capped in dull iron inscribed with mystical runes, protruded from his monstrous skull. A mane of coarse hair, so black as to be oily blue, hung past shoulders damned near as broad as Morgen was tall.
A rare breed of Therianthrope who long ago partially twisted into his animal form—his torso was human, if impossibly large—and then stayed there, Bulle spotted Morgen and approached. When he arrived he dropped to his knees, prostrating himself before his god. Morgen never asked for such obeisance, but it seemed to make the Therianthrope happy.
Sitting back on his haunches, Bulle looked down at Morgen, waiting. He never spoke first.
“Report,” said Morgen. He’d sent the big Therianthrope to scout the tower on the Gottlos side of the bridge. The man ran inhumanly fast, making it near impossible for archers to target him.
“The garrison held a dozen guards and maybe twice that in support staff, husbands, wives, and family.”
“They didn’t give you any trouble?”
Bulle shook his head, iron-clad horns cutting figure eights through the air. “They’re dead.”
Much as Bulle was capable of it, charging into a tower and killing dozens of armed guard wasn’t his style. Particularly without clear orders to do so.
That’s more Stehlen’s style. Thinking about the Kleptic left him feeling dirty, infected. He picked dry blood from under his fingernails, pocketing the flakes without thought. “How did they die?” he asked. “Was this the work of Geisteskranken?” Did someone else war with Gottlos?
The Therianthrope shrugged, grunting through the heavy cast-iron ring piercing his nose. “Most had cut throats or were stabbed in the back. Some were killed while sleeping.”
Damn, that did sound like Stehlen. She would have come this way, but why kill everyone?
“There’s more,” said Bulle, rolling huge shoulders, bone and muscle rumbling like low thunder.
Heavy clouds blanketed the sky, a cold mist of rain fell without surcease. The Geborene god, shielded by the belief of his followers, remained dry. Morgen nodded for him to continue.
“The corpses are all naked. Their clothes and the garrison’s food supplies and weapons were thrown into the midden pit.”
The wind shifted and Morgen caught the gagging back of the throat stench of rotting bodies.
“General Misserfolg,” said Morgen, turning to find the man waiting at his shoulder. “Send the men in. Bury the dead. Occupy the garrison. We’ll clean it up before we move on. It’s part of Selbsthass now.”
Misserfolg bowed, but his eyebrows said he wanted to voice an objection.
“Yes?” demanded Morgen.
“This will delay us. We should march on. We could be in Unbrauchbar tomorrow and the capital two days after.”
Morgen turned on the General. “March on? Leave this mess? This…” He gestured toward the tower and its reeking dead. Where Selbsthass was rolling green hills, everything south of the Flussrand was dirt and rock. “I told you this is part of Selbsthass now.” And I’ll make it perfect.
“The longer we give King Schmutzig to prepare—”
“You’re telling me you’re okay with Selbsthass being filthy.”
“Well, no. It’s not really Selbs—”
Morgen smashed General Misserfolg to the ground with a flicker of will, pressing him into the mud until the idiot’s choked groans cut off. “Did I not say this is Selbsthass now?”
The General made a mud bubble, his chest heaving, feet twitching and kicking.
“Did I not just tell you this is Selbsthass, you goat rutting whore!” He leaned down to shout at the back of the man’s head. “Selbsthass shall be perfect! Always! Everywhere! Here! In the Afterdeath! Do you understand me?”
Morgen drew a calming breath and released the General. Misserfolg rolled onto his back, coughing and blowing mud from his nose.
“Do you know why you’re not dead?” Morgen asked.
Misserfolg stared up at him, eyes widening as he saw Bulle move forward to stand at Morgen’s shoulder. The Therianthrope held his monstrous axe in one hand, ready should Misserfolg prove dangerous.
“You’re not dead,” said Morgen, “because I do not want to be served in the Afterdeath by incompetent fools.” He swept his gaze across the gathered masses of his troops. They stood in tight ranks, lines perfect, ready to cross the bridge at his command. My command. “You are relieved of duty,” he told Misserfolg. “I will lead this army.”