Swarm and Steel, page 9
A woman passed, gaunt and pale like death, thin like starvation, face pinched and suspicious, nostrils flaring as if seeking some scent. A monstrous black geldwechsler, the headgear of the Verzweiflung Banking Conglomerate, swaddled her head in long folds of thick fabric hanging low enough to catch her arms and piled high enough each step was made in careful awareness of her balance. The lack of colour, combined with the geldwechsler’s unmanageable size, meant this woman was indeed highly placed within the bank’s hierarchy—probably a Commercial Lending Officer or some such nonsense.
The Verzweiflung cloaked themselves in mystery. A gold-worshipping religion with a military command structure and a virus-like drive to spread and infect, they had invasive tentacles reaching into every city-state. Verzweiflung banks—monolithic edifices of marble, brass, and gold—alters to avarice, shamed even the churches of the Wahnvor Stellung and the Geborene upstarts.
Monuments, built by thieves, erected to dazzle and impress the masses.
The Verzweiflung held the wealth of the Täuschung and every other church. Zerfall hated the bankers.
Zerfall, gods how he missed her. She may have hurt him, sliced with words as much as blades, but that’s how she showed she cared.
Fool. Gefahrgeist don’t care.
People parted around the banker, staying well clear, dipping quick bows if the woman deigned to glance in their direction. Most mistook the walk of bankers for stately grace. Aas knew if they moved any faster their stupid hats would fall off and they’d pass out from heat exhaustion.
The thought died as Zerfall strode past, Blutblüte hanging at her hip.
She’s alive. Hölle would kill him for sure. She’d tear him apart, flay him inch by bloody inch. She’d take years to send his soul screaming to Swarm.
Aas reached over his shoulder. No bow, no quiver of condor-fletched arrows. Gods damn! He couldn’t kill her from a safe distance. His hand dropped to his waist, touched the hilt of the long-knife concealed there. The knife he used to take Zerfall’s hand.
Had the woman possessed both hands? He wasn’t sure, it happened too quickly.
He left Medium Rare in pursuit of his love. He followed, giving her as much distance as he dared. Too close and she’d hear his thoughts. Too far back and he’d lose her in the crowd.
She wended through curved streets paved in stones of red and black. Upscale bathhouses and salons thickened the air with the imported spices of luxury and wealth. This was an old neighbourhood, lined with ancient oaks, manicured by well-dressed gardeners. No poor here, the Geld Guard kept them out. Where much of the city was a raucous hubbub of life, the ever-present haggle for a better deal in a city-state ruled by bad deals, this small utopia was a moment of hushed silence.
And if you catch her? Could he kill Zerfall with nothing but a long-knife? Yes, if he caught her by surprise. But no one surprises Zerfall. Four hundred years of assassination attempts left her preternaturally aware of her surroundings. And yet you caught and killed her in the desert. It had been too easy. Had she somehow tricked him?
If he didn’t kill her, she’d definitely kill him for what he’d done in the desert.
And now she had Blutblüte. Even had he a sword, he wouldn’t want to face her in a fair fight. When have you faced anyone in a fair fight?
He caught another glimpse of Zerfall moving gracefully through the throng of morning shoppers, the swaying strut of her hips. He remembered how she joked about her walk, saying she plodded like a brick-layer. Funny, he thought, how even Zerfall can be so dishonest with herself. How could she be unaware of the hungry eyes of every man she passed by? How could she not note their predatory gaze, the puffing of chests and the sucking in of flabby bellies as she approached. Women watched too, though whether in lust or envy Aas couldn’t be sure. Even at her diminutive height, none failed to notice her.
How long are you going to follow her?
He wasn’t sure.
What will you do, kill her? Beg forgiveness?
Aas increased his pace, ghosting closer, hand resting on the hilt of his knife. He hated knives, such clumsy tools. Might as well whack someone with a tree branch as knife them. The back of her head, the luxurious dark hair, became his world. Closer.
Blutblüte. The sword hung at her side. Had she taken it from Hölle, had she succeeded in killing her other half? Or had Hölle given her the sword? Were the sisters once again united in purpose?
A dozen strides separated them.
Hölle forgive and forget? Mad laughter bubbled at the thought and Aas crushed it ruthlessly.
Slide the knife between ribs, open a lung wide. She’d stand for a moment, gasping and frothing blood, making that strange uhhhn uhhhn noise people made when you did them just right and they knew they were done. Second cut, sever the carotid. He imagined the spray of blood, pulsing with each weakening heartbeat. He might not like knives, but he could have been a surgeon. What a mess. He’d give anything to have his bow and put an arrow in her heart from a distant rooftop.
Ten strides. He caught her scent, warm lavender. Her hips swung, sensuous like a writhing snake dancing to the pipes of a Schlangenbeschwörer, the Therianthrope snake charmers of the SumpfStamm swamps. Zerfall ran the slim fingers of her left hand through her hair. He wanted to bite those fingers, to lick them, crush—
{Left hand. Gods, it can’t be—}
She stopped and turned to face him. “God,” she said.
“Pharisäer.” Aas did his best to laugh scornfully. {Did that sound scared?}
“It did.”
{Could you—could we—} “You’re no Zerfall,” he said to cover his thoughts.
She blinked in mock surprise. “I’m better.”
“If you were Zerfall I’d be dead already, Fragment.” He spat the last word. {You’re a fool to let me this close.}
Pharisäer looked unconcerned, glancing about, watching passing shoppers as if they were at least as interesting as he. “I choose to let you live,” she said, eyes locking on his.
{Oh those lips.}
She smiled at his thought, a slight curve at the corners of her perfect mouth. “I want you to do something for me.” Pharisäer examined him, an eyebrow raised, head cocked to one side, thick hair spilling about her shoulders.
“I don’t serve you.”
“You will. You’ll enjoy it.” She gave him a look that did things deep in his belly. “Narr Unerheblich, and Nimmer.”
He recognized the names. Täuschung priests. He knew they were Geisteskranken, but nothing of their delusions. Curiosity won out. “Yes?”
“I want you to kill them. They know the truth about me.” She examined him with dark eyes.
“As do I.”
“As do you. But you I want. You are useful. The others …” She shrugged.
“I’ll tell Hölle what you really are.” {Would she reward me or hate me? Would she even believe me?} “Do you even know how to use a sword?”
She leaned close, the scent of sweetened coffee on her breath. {She’s going to kiss me.} She licked her lips in a sensuous swirl of wet tongue, eyes glinting playfully. “Hölle wants you dead. But I see what Zerfall saw.”
Pharisäer’s proximity, the warmth radiating from her flawless skin, left Aas little room for thought. Hope and fear warred for supremacy. His thoughts stumbled over each other. {She’s/I playing/want with/her you/to} “Zerfall abandoned—”
She touched his arm, nervous and tentative, softer than Zerfall ever touched him. “I’ll give you what you want. I’ll let you do things Zerfall never would.” She bit the soft fullness of her lower lip and it flushed red.
{I …} “I …” His thoughts fled, scattered like startled cockroaches.
“I’ll give you everything, do anything.” She leaned her forehead against his chest, absolutely vulnerable. The scent of her became his world.
{Kill her, kill her now.} Aas reached a hand to the small of her back, pulling her against him. She didn’t resist, instead moulding her body to his, lifting her face into his neck. The crowd parted, water rolling around a rock, giving the lovers privacy though they stood in the centre of the street. “Hölle will—”
“Don’t worry about Hölle,” she purred, a tongue flicking out to touch his ear.
“I can’t hide from her. She’ll hear my thoughts.”
Her petite body still pressed against him, she leaned back far enough they stared into each other’s eyes. “I said don’t worry.”
“But—”
Icy fire slid into his gut. Pharisäer’s eyes lit with pleasure at whatever she saw on his face. A high-pitched whine escaped his clenched teeth and her nostrils flared as if she sought to catch the scent of his agony. Pharisäer twisted the knife and he screamed, his body wrenching away from her in a desperate attempt to escape the pain. His knees buckled and he collapsed to the street.
Pharisäer watched, an eyebrow cocked as if she’d never stabbed anyone before and was curious to see how it all played out. She held a short, viciously serrated blade dangling loose in her hand. “Still worried?”
The morning shoppers, moments ago parting around them, were nowhere to be seen. Aas, clutching his belly, used his other arm to drag himself away. Blood pooled around him, soaking his robes, slicking the cobbled street.
Pharisäer didn’t bother to follow. “Does it hurt?” she asked, eyes hungry with curiosity.
He grinned crimson teeth at her and laughed, a spraying cough of blood when she looked surprised. {Beautiful, beautiful suffering. Gods this hurts so much.}
“God,” she corrected, though with no hint of anger. With a raised eyebrow, she watched as if waiting; as if mocking.
“You … you don’t believe,” he said. {Wahrergott, the One True God—}
“Is nothing more than the delusion of a sick mind.”
“The same mind you sprang from.”
“You might want to think that through,” she suggested.
{What the hells does that mean?}
She shook her head, lips pressed together in a thin line of disappointment. “Täuschung—everything Hölle and Zerfall have worked for—it will all come to naught. Hölle is cracking. Otherwise …” she glanced at her fingers, checking the perfection of her manicure. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. I will replace her and I have no interest in her mad little religion beyond what I can get from it.”
“I’ll tell Hölle everything.”
She shrugged, unconcerned.
{Why is she not following, why does she not finish me?}
“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”
He coughed another red laugh of scorn. “Liar. You should have killed me when you had the chance,” he said, dragging himself another arm’s length. A curved smear of sanguine cobblestones marked his progress. Each beat of his heart pulsed blood over the hand clutching his gut.
“I do, however, want Narr Unerheblich and Nimmer dead. But I made it interesting for you; a puzzle. I told Nimmer you were going to kill him.” She smiled sweet innocence. “He’s a Getrennt. It should be fun.”
{Fun?}
Aas twisted, shattering and collapsing in on himself until a black condor stood, feet dancing, in his own blood. Spreading his wings, he leapt to the sky with a rattling cackle of screeched laughter.
Pharisäer made no move to stop him. Sheltering her eyes with a slim-fingered hand she followed his ascent, a satisfied smile playing about her lips. “I told you I’d give you what you want,” she called. “Did Zerfall ever hurt you so perfectly?”
SEVEN
The rot
The putrefaction
Part of the way
Part of the action
Life beyond life
But always the rot
It’s said, “Follow the path with heart.”
What heart?
It’s just another part
Part of the rot
Death is the best part
But what removes the certainty
Is just so much rot
Whose fault is it?
No death left to die
Only to ‘live’ every moment
A mute metaphor
And the rot is always there
—“Cotardist Lament”, by Halber Tod, Cotardist Poet
ZERFALL FLOATED IN OCEANS of numb. Unanchored. Uncaring.
Sensation, distant and repetitive. Her left arm jerked and tugged as if some scavenger worried at it. Scavenger. Carrion.
Condor.
Awareness slammed into her like a charging warhorse shouldering aside a child. He’s taking my hand!
Zerfall struggled to sit and for a terrified instant thought she’d been buried. Again she felt the distant tremor of something against her left arm. No! Gritting her teeth she forced herself into a sitting position, her body strangely heavy. She dragged her arm free of the imprisoning sand and lifted it to stare at the bloodless stump. It’s gone. The skin looked dried, mummified. White bone, hacked and splintered, protruded from her truncated wrist. That should hurt. It didn’t; everything felt distant.
Zerfall considered once again lying back in the sand. No reason to do anything else.
How had she gotten here? Why had Aas taken her hand and why hadn’t she stopped him? He loved her, worshipped her. She barely had to use her Gefahrgeist power to get him to do anything. She remembered all the times she hurt him, cutting, whipping, biting and clawing. Not once had he complained.
She remembered not remembering him, trying to command the Therianthrope and failing. Either he resisted her Gefahrgeist power, or—
Swarm. She remembered. An hallucinated hell, created from madness in the service of an imagined god. A god she once believed in. A god she once worshipped. A god to whom she helped sacrifice millions of souls. And Blutblüte, the sword which held her hell. It all made so much sense. Use the sword to condemn souls to hell.
She remembered her church, the Täuschung. And she remembered her sister.
She walked the halls of the Täuschung compound for centuries, ignoring the filth and decay. Only after reading Halber Tod’s book of Cotardist poems had she noticed the rot. But it hadn’t just been the corrosion of her religion that she saw. She became aware of the atrophying of all she was, all she believed in. Hölle had slowly been replacing her, taking over the Täuschung, deciding more and more of their path. Somehow, the more sure Hölle became the more Zerfall doubted. At some point she began to suspect Hölle wasn’t really her sister. The idea grew over decades, took root and refused to let go. The Täuschung had been Zerfall’s idea, had been her life’s work, and now she had virtually nothing to do with it.
For centuries Hölle told Zerfall how she was so much better at planning and how Zerfall’s contribution was her ability to conscript Geisteskranken to their cause. Zerfall created this religion and somehow she’d been reduced to handling the mad and often disgusting priests. She rarely even got to set foot in the larger church preaching to the sane public. Hölle worried she’d give away what she was.
Then, while Hölle babbled on about her plans for the church and everything she was going to do, Zerfall realized she had no memories of her sister from before the plague. She’d gone to bed alone, she was sure of it.
An understanding decades in the making solidified in her thoughts: She’s not my sister. I never had a sister. She’s a figment of my imagination, a Fragment.
She’d panicked.
Zerfall remembered thinking of Halber Tod’s book of Cotardist poems and how her world had lost all meaning.
She pushed the thought away, the absurd pointlessness of reality too terrifying to face.
Aas took my hand to Hölle to prove he killed me. Somehow her sister survived being stabbed. She has my sword. That tiny spark she thought dead, impaled by Aas’ arrow, sputtered to life, fed by rage. She couldn’t lie here forever in the sand, not while her sister had her sword. Blutblüte is mine.
My sword. God how she wanted her sword.
Choked grunting and the sounds of struggle penetrated her mental fog. Glancing to her left, she saw a well-muscled man clad in desert tribal attire, straddling a scrawny youth and pouring sand into a mouth wedged open with the fat blade of a knife. The man on top wore an assortment of trinkets and trophies including what looked like a rusting belt buckle. A variety of knives were strapped about his powerful body, none concealed. She watched, frowning, as the youth battered ineffectually at the man atop him.
Why is he filling him with sand? This made no sense whatsoever. None of this did.
Rising to her feet required a surprising effort and she almost gave up. Her balance felt wrong, her torso leaden and heavy. Zerfall glanced down, taking in the tattered and faded state of her clothing. Sand cascaded off her as she stood, unnoticed, behind the two men. The struggles of the youth weakened by the moment. Movement caught her attention and she glanced up to find another man, muscular and attractive, on the far side of the two struggling at her feet. He looked like his god had just risen from the sands.
Two large armed men against this bony weak-chinned youth, barely more than a boy.
Can I watch this and do nothing? Strangely, she didn’t know the answer. Part of her said this was nothing to her, that she should help the two who were so clearly winning whatever this was. And yet she hesitated. They were going to kill this boy. She could stop them. It would be nothing. Souls for Swarm.
She opened her mouth to speak and sand poured out.
“Dedi,” said the second man in warning to the one straddling the choking youth.
Zerfall stepped forward, the weight of a long knife comfortable in her right hand, and took the head off the closest man in an effortless sweep of the blade. Then she toppled forward, top-heavy and awkward, to sprawl at the feet of the second warrior. Getting her arms under herself, she struggled to rise. Her unwillingness to release her grip on the knife combined with the lack of a left hand, made it an ungainly process.
The warrior wasted no time, stamping a sandal-clad foot on her back and driving her back to the sand. Zerfall’s left arm skidded under her and she landed, trapping it beneath her, with enough force to drive a cloud of sand from her open mouth.
