I don’t have to feel small, don’t have to be a little boy. I can be anything, look like anything.
Morgen pretended to ignore the Theocrat and glanced at his hands, picking at the dried blood he found there. A manifestation of his guilt, it wasn’t real. His hands would never be clean, not until he rid himself of the infection left by his time with Bedeckt, Wichtig, and Stehlen. They ruined him, twisted an innocent boy, taught him to lie and cheat and steal.
And murder. Don’t forget murder.
The torture he suffered at the hands of Erbrechen’s followers killed any chance at sanity. The Slaver tried to break him and succeeded, though perhaps not in the way intended.
Morgen winced as he once again felt Bedeckt’s knife slip between his ribs and puncture his heart. That remembered agony arose every time he thought back to that day. A taste of penance.
I used him, took his chance at redemption. And even though the old warrior died shortly after killing Morgen, Bedeckt had not once tried to make use of that power.
Why? Bedeckt wasn’t a good man, not by a long stretch. Why hadn’t he abused the hold he had on the Geborene god?
Peeling more dry blood from his hands, Morgen pocketed the flakes so as not to create a mess. He noted Konig and Failure watching. They’re looking for something they can use, some way to bend me to their purpose. Though the original Konig had been a powerful Gefahrgeist, his escaped Reflection showed none of that strength. Did this new Konig not share that delusion, or did he simply hide it from his god? It ate at Morgen that he didn’t know and dared not ask for fear of showing weakness. Konig was a self-centred bastard. There was no way any Konig could differ.
“Report,” said Morgen.
“Troops continue to arrive,” said Konig dipping a quick bow. “We’ve run out of room in the city. The barracks are overcrowded. It’s impossible to keep them clean.”
Clean. Konig chose his words knowing their effect. He seeks to manipulate me. But to what end?
“And?” Morgen asked.
Konig swallowed. Though he towered over Morgen, he somehow managed to appear small, broken. All an act, Morgen reminded himself.
“The army has grown by almost ten thousand in the last two weeks” said the Theocrat. “The city’s sewer system was never designed for this.”
“Here in life, or in the Afterdeath?” Morgen could flit back and forth between life and the Afterdeath at will—there were some perks to being an Ascended—but he had yet to leave the church in either reality.
“Both.”
“Improve it,” said Morgen.
“That will take time. Months. The city already smells…ripe.”
Ripe. His city must stink of shite and horses and men in armour. He remembered the smell of Bedeckt, the sour stench of sweat and ale and teeth that had probably never been cleaned. And Stehlen, her breath could topple a horse.
“Move them out of the city,” said Morgen. “Camp them beyond the wall.”
“And in the Afterdeath?” asked Konig.
In the world of the living, Erdbehüter, a young Geborene priestess originally from the GrasMeer tribes, used her Wahnist delusions, commanding earth and stone, to build the walls of Selbsthass. In the Afterdeath the work lagged far behind, in part due to the time difference between the two realities, and in part due to the lack of Erdbehüter’s abilities. I should have her killed. She could build a matching wall around the Selbsthass of the Afterdeath. It bothered him that his two cities didn’t match.
Though still in her early twenties, in forcing her to embrace her delusions to build the wall, Morgen caused grievous damage to her mind. Already she neared the Pinnacle.
“Send Erdbehüter away on some make-work mission,” he commanded Konig. “I don’t want her cracking anywhere near my perfect city and making a mess.” He shuddered at the thought of the damage she could do.
The Theocrat bowed.
The thought reminded him of other Geisteskranken he wanted distanced from his city. “Send Ungeist and Drache away as well.”
“What shall I tell them?”
“Figure it out.”
“Of course.”
“Station the troops beyond the city limits in both realities,” said Morgen.
Konig nodded agreement. “Another five thousand will arrive in the next week.”
“It’s supposed to be ten thousand.”
“People are slow to leave their farms. It’s autumn, the harvest—”
“I don’t care,” snapped Morgen. “I said I wanted every man and woman of fighting age to be armed and armoured. At this rate, the snow will arrive before we’re ready to march. I want Gottlos taken before the year is out.” He’d played the war over and over with his toy soldiers, hunting for the cleanest win. He knew exactly how everything must happen. Already his perfect plan crumbled.