The Mirror's Truth (Manifest Delusions #2)
Michael R. Fletcher
For my loves,
Emma and Charlotte
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is a novel of manifest delusion. As such, the classifications of Geisteskranken (Delusionists) will probably mean little to you. At the end of the novel you’ll find a very short definition of each classification as well as a complete list of characters. Or, feel free to read and discover for yourself. Sometimes the difficult path is the most enjoyable.
There is also more information to be found on the world of Manifest Delusions and the laws governing madness at: http://michaelrfletcher.com/beyondwiki
Apologies to those who can actually speak German and/or Basque. I truly made a hash of your beautiful languages. The awesome Julia Kitvaria Sarene did her best to help me with fixing the German so it might be (less) painful to German readers. But in some cases, for whatever reasons, I chose to ignore her advice.
MAP OF A MAD WORLD
CHAPTER ONE
The mirror ever lies.
—Im Spiegel, Mirrorist
A monstrous old man, hewn and scarred from a long life of battles won and lost, stepped through the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
A huge double-bladed axe hung in one fist, the tattered remains of mismatched chain and leather armour draped loose in places and stretched tight in others. The left hand, missing the last two fingers, opened and closed with the wet pop of ageing knuckles.
Three men looked up from the table at which they diced. They didn’t look surprised, which was bad. The old man swept his gaze across the room, taking in the clean but minimal furnishings, glancing at the single door. The men, all dressed in white, were in between him and the way out.
“Boys,” said Bedeckt. “Are you three alive or dead?”
As they stared, a young woman in her early twenties stepped from the mirror behind him. “Wütend. Geborene,” Zukunft said, glancing back at the mirror. “I can see it now.”
“That would have been handy to know earlier,” said Bedeckt.
The Mirrorist shrugged slim shoulders, apparently unconcerned.
Hopefully that means I don’t die in the next few moments, thought Bedeckt.
Zukunft saw something in the mirror and said, “Oh. Don’t break the—”
Screaming insensate rage, the three men rose from the table, working themselves into a blood-lust frenzy. Bedeckt—himself never far from a killing rage—stepped close, hacking his axe through the nearest man’s shoulder and deep into his chest. Eyes, one moment lit by flames of fury, opened wide in stunned disbelief.
No one ever thinks their time will come.
Bedeckt kicked the corpse free of his axe. Wütend, shite. He hated these psychotic berserkers; they felt no pain, always fought to the death. If he killed them before they reached full-blown blood lust, he might walk out of this room in one piece and not missing more fingers or teeth.
The second man, already frothing at the mouth, scrambled to climb the table. Lost to the madness, he dropped his weapon. Hurling himself at Bedeckt, he wrapped himself about the big warrior, biting and tearing at his armoured throat with gnashing teeth.
Bedeckt staggered under the weight. If he went down, he was done. They’d tear him apart—and this close, his axe was useless against the man grappling him. Dropping the axe, he hooked an elbow under his opponent’s throat, struggling to create room. The third man caught sight of Zukunft and chased after her. She fled, racing to keep the table between them.
Zukunft spun as she danced away from her pursuer, skirts flaring to show a long expanse of thigh Bedeckt didn’t have the time to be noticing. She laughed, taunting.
She’s keeping him busy. If she remained calm while being chased by a blood-lusted Wütend, she was more dangerous than he thought. Or crazier. Neither was good.
Clawing fingers pulled at his armour, fighting to open a gap for sharp teeth. Damned woman was a distraction. She’d get him killed. Bedeckt drew a knife with his half-hand and drove it into his assailant’s soft belly. He stabbed over and over until the clutching fingers and snapping teeth lost their urgency and became weak pawing. Bedeckt dropped the man, pristine white robes now splashed crimson, to the floor. Seeing Zukunft still alive, still laughing and dancing, Bedeckt stomped his opponent’s head.
Back popping like a damp twig on a fire, he bent to retrieve his axe. He stood, arthritic knees creaking and grinding, broad chest heaving as he sucked breath. Movement caught his attention and he saw a twisted shape cavorting and applauding in the mirror, its attention fixed on Zukunft.
Her Reflection? It looked nothing like her. Shorter, its hair was darker. The shape was all wrong; it had none of her woman’s curves.