Beyond Redemption

I think if you walk toward the Afterdeath thinking it is a chance at redemption, it's already too late.

—HOFFNUNGSLOS

Bedeckt awoke with a groan.

This wasn't so bad. He'd expected more pain.

He moved, and burned skin everywhere cracked open and bled. He lifted his left hand and stared at it. Charred bone. Strange he couldn't feel it, but just as well.

It should probably hurt, he thought numbly.

He tried to stand, but nothing happened. He glanced the length of his body and saw his legs too were charred ruin.

That should hurt too.

A cough caught his attention and he used his remaining arm to turn painfully. Morgen stared at him through one swollen eye, the boy's face battered beyond recognition, his arms bent at impossible angles. Every joint looked to have been savagely broken or twisted out of place. Bedeckt had known grown men to die from lesser wounds.

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"I saw the fire," whispered Morgen so softly Bedeckt had to lean in close to hear.

"There was a big fire," Bedeckt agreed. Oh, there was the pain he'd expected. Talking was agony, his throat raw and seared. It felt like his lungs had been boiled.

"Gehirn?"

"Who?" Bedeckt croaked.

"Hassebrand."

"Dead. All dead."

"Good."

"Morgen."

"Yes?"

"I'm done. Your Hassebrand friend has slain me."

"Not yet."

"Soon." Very soon. Bedeckt felt his grip on life weakening. Darkness beckoned, its cool embrace growing more attractive by the second.

"I'm dying," said Morgen. "I don't know which will kill me first."

"Which?" asked Bedeckt, confused.

"The wounds I suffered at the hands of Erbrechen's men, or the Hassebrand's fire."

What is the boy saying? Bedeckt struggled to follow. It was difficult to think. "So?"

"Those whom you slay serve in the Afterdeath," whispered Morgen.

"Shite." Bedeckt understood.

"You have to kill me."

Bedeckt laughed, a dry cough of smoke. "Forget it. It's on the list. I don't kill children."

"You have to. Gehirn hates herself. I'd be too dangerous under her control." Bedeckt glared at the boy as the single swollen eye cracked open to stare at him. "And the Slaver . . ." The boy shuddered. "You have to," whispered Morgen, begging.

"But then I . . . You'll have to serve me."

"You're fallible, but you won't use a child."


"Fallible?" Bedeckt asked, dumbfounded by the boy's naïveté.

"Means you make mistakes."

"I know what it—"

"It's on your list now. You won't use children. I'll be free."

Maybe, but free to be what? What kind of god would this child be? No, that wasn't what Bedeckt cared about. He really wanted to know how Morgen could be so sure Bedeckt wouldn't make use of the fact that a god was serving him in the Afterdeath. What kind of man did Morgen think him? Which begged another question:

What kind of man am I?

There was no answer. Instead, Morgen whispered, "Soon I will know."

"Know what?"

"If Konig lied. Born of faith or . . . mother." The boy's eye closed. "Hurry. Not much time. Going."

"Can't. Ax gone. Left my knife in someone."

Morgen cracked a small smile, showing the shattered remains of teeth that were startling white in his burned and filthy face. "I have one. Belt."

Bedeckt found the knife hidden under Morgen's torn clothes. Reaching it was difficult with only one working limb, and by the time he had it, his vision had narrowed to a collapsing tunnel. The knife, spotless, glinted in the fading light. It looked familiar.

"Where?" asked Bedeckt.

"Stehlen," answered Morgen.

"Oh."

When had the boy taken it? After Bedeckt killed her? He supposed it didn't really matter.

Morgen's eyes widened as he saw the knife. That's not fear, Bedeckt realized. That's understanding. What did the boy see?

"Oh, shite," Morgen said clearly, gaze never leaving the blade's mirrored surface. "They're laughing. They lied to me. This whole time . . ." His swollen eyes, leaking tears, slid closed. "The future, it was never set in stone. I killed . . . They led me to this . . . tricked me." The boy's small, broken body shook with sobs. "They'll Ascend with me."

"They?" Bedeckt asked, confused.

"Konig was wrong," whispered Morgen, his voice cracking. "Aufschlag was wrong. I'm no god; I'm just a . . . a . . ."

"Morgen?"

The boy didn't answer, though his chest still rose and fell in short, shallow breaths.

"Morgen!"

Nothing.

What the hells was he talking about? It didn't matter. "I don't kill children. It's on the list."

Nothing.

But if he didn't . . . and then he understood.

Oh, shite!

The very same Hassebrand had slain Bedeckt. He too would soon die of his wounds. Even if he killed the boy, Morgen would still wind up serving the insane woman.

Unless . . .

Bedeckt pushed Stehlen's knife through Morgen's chest and into his heart. When he tried to pull the knife free, it stuck.

Oh, gods sticking hells, no!

Bedeckt tried again, straining with all his remaining might. The knife moved slowly, grating where it caught on a rib—Come on!—and finally slid free.

Bedeckt wept tears of joy. He held the knife clutched to his own chest, huddling it there like a lover. He strained to catch sight of the bloody blade. Stehlen. So much death they'd seen together. How many backs had she put this very knife into? How many throats had she cut in dark alleys?

Bedeckt drew the knife upward along his chest until the tip pricked the soft skin under his chin.

One more. One more death.

She'd be waiting. Stehlen would be there and he'd have to see her again. What would he say? What could he say?

"Sorry for killing you," hissed Bedeckt, and drove the knife up through his throat into his brain.