Heraclix and Pomp: A Novel of the Fabricated and the Fey, Page 3

  “Yes, bound. You save me. You kill the wizard. I am bound to you.”

  “No, really, you owe me nothing,” he says.

  “I do!” she yells with an unreasonable hint of desperation in her voice. “I am bound!”

  “Alright, fine—you are bound. Look, be still. You are hurt.”

  “My body works. It is strong.” She stands up, falters, rights herself again. “Look, I can fly,” she flutters her wings, falls to her knees, doubles over in pain. “I will walk,” she says, disappointed.

  “No you won’t. I’ll carry you,” Heraclix says, reaching down to lift her up onto his shoulder.

  Pomp smiles weakly. “Where do we go?”

  “Back to Mowler’s apartment.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have a purpose, now: to gather what we can find of Mowler’s papers. There are things I want to know.”

  “About what?” she asks.

  “About myself.”

  “Like what?”

  “Who I was. Why I am. Who I am.”

  Pomp has questions of her own, questions like what happens when I die? The prospect of the answer frightens her, mostly because she knows, somehow, that it had almost come to her.

  And it could still be revealed.

  CHAPTER 3

  The stench of sodden ashes rarely fell on Vienna these days. It was not like the past, when rains soaked the smoldering remains of Ottoman campfires and the valleys ran with soot and blood, or when the city was a ballroom filled with Saint Vitus dancers, and stiffened heaps of spent participants vomited smoke up into the sky. Perhaps it was those communal memories—engendered by the lingering smell of the sorcerer’s burned-out apartment—that drove residents to their homes and hovels to take up the morose contemplation of darker times, times before the enlightened despotism of the emperor.

  Or, perhaps, it was the presence of the emperor’s private guard, the secretive army within an imperial army, who stole out of the charred ruins bearing stacks of loot-cum-evidence. Their white jackets made them stand out against the black background like ash on burning charcoal or clouds against walls of battlefield smoke. Whatever the reason, the puddle-strewn cobblestone streets were devoid of people save for the soldiers.

  Heraclix and Pomp looked at the apartment from an alleyway across the street.

  “We don’t dare just walk in,” Heraclix said

  “Why not?”

  “Some of us can’t just become invisible.”

  “I see,” Pomp said.

  “And I don’t. Which means the guards won’t either.” Heraclix paused as the magnitude of the thought struck him. “How strong are you now, Pomp?”

  She stood tall, becoming visible so that Heraclix could see her flex her biceps.

  “Strong!”

  “Good to see it,” Heraclix smiled. “I’ll bet it would be fun to fly in there and steal some things.”

  She returned a tiny smile. “That is fun!” She flew off, vanishing in mid-air.

  “Get the documents!” he yelled.

  A pair of guards turned around in response to his booming, hoarse voice, lowering their bayonets and approaching the alley in which he unsuccessfully tried to hide himself.

  Beyond the guards, a man on horseback came into view—a man of some importance, given the rows of medals pinned upon the breast of his perfectly clean, perfectly pressed, perfectly white uniform. He spotted the pair and called out to them.

  “What have you found?” His voice was strong with authority.

  “A spy, perhaps?” one of the guards said.

  “Or a fool,” said the other.

  “Carry on,” said the horseman, turning his attention to other matters.

  As the horseman turned away, Heraclix recognized the profile. He had seen an illustration of that face before, among Mowler’s documents. He strained his memory to recall the labels associated with the face: “arrogant,” “competent,” “brave,” “superstitious,” . . . and a name, “Graf Von Helmutter, Chief of the Imperial Guard and Minister of Defense.” Heraclix recalled that this man was of particular interest to Mowler. “His lack of fear and plenitude of pride,” the Sorcerer had written, “can both be exploited when the time is right.”

  Heraclix thought that, perhaps, Von Helmutter could provide some information on Mowler and on the golem’s own past. He rose to his full height as Von Helmutter’s soldiers drew closer.

  “I’d like to speak with the graf,” he said with as much courtesy as he could project through his gravely voice.

  The pair stopped, eyes wide. One of them, a red-haired young man, barely a teenager, took a step back, jaw agape. Such a young, inexperienced lad, Heraclix thought. How could he be a member of the Imperial Guard?

  “You,” the other soldier said, “are as ugly as you are huge.” Fear caused his voice to tremble, but he stepped forward, bayonet pointed at Heraclix’s chest. “You come out real nice, okay? Don’t make any false moves and you might not get hurt.” The soldier’s voice became more full of false bravado with each forward step that he took.

  Heraclix’s left hand started to clench and unclench uncontrollably. A raw energy coursed through it. The extremity was attached to him, but as he struggled to control it, it felt like it was another being, a separate sentience on the same body.

  The soldier was now within misura, the striking range of the bayonet. His young companion had sidled up just behind him, ready to offer backup. The older soldier began circling and making tiny, hesitant jabbing motions with his bayonet, trying to move Heraclix out into the street.

  The hand loosened, relaxing for a moment.

  And just as quickly, it struck out, like a snake, grabbing the older soldier’s wrist and pulling so hard that the sound of cracking bone echoed off the walls. The soldier’s musket clattered to the street as the younger soldier fired his musket.

  Heraclix’s shock at his own action nearly matched that of the boy-soldier, who tried in vain to determine how his musket ball, fired at near point-blank range, could have possibly missed its target. The older soldier was in no less shock as he crab-walked backwards on two legs and one good arm toward the crowd of white coated soldiers that was rushing to his aid, muskets at the ready.

  The hand shot out again, this time clamping around the boy-soldier’s throat.

  Pomp flies into the ruins, looking for things to steal. But the ruins don’t look much like Mowler’s apartment. The street-facing wall is mostly collapsed, and the door is nowhere to be seen. A semicircle of burnt roof is missing, as if a dragon had bitten off the front of the building before breathing fire into it. Most of the floor is covered in deep ash and charcoal. Everything is blackened with soot, even the remaining wall outside the apartment. There is no furniture, no unbroken glass, no Mowler. Pomp gets closer, looking for any sign of the documents. She finds a half-scorched pile of papers, along with a book, peeking out from under a fallen chimney stone and works to salvage what she can.

  She is surprised by someone entering the ruins. A soldier!

  His uniform is white with blue lapels, unlike the other foot soldiers Pomp has seen in the neighborhood. A saber is sheathed at his side. He carries no musket. The insignia on his high hat indicates that he is someone special, maybe an officer of mid-rank, an adjutant to someone of great importance.

  He is alone and looks around furtively to make sure he stays so.

  He smiles as he stoops to kneel on the ground. His smile is genuine and reflects, Pomp thinks, some inner goodness mixed with a touch of lighthearted mischief.

  Pomp is instantly curious about this man.

  From his pocket he withdraws a pair of dice, knucklebones, dotted black on white. He shakes them in his hand and throws the bones on a flat stone, looking at them in wonderment, as if scrying the numbers for meaning. A pair of ones results.

  “Dog throw,” he says, “not a good omen.”

  “Two ones are bad,” Pomp agrees. “I will help this good man,” she says, does, flippi
ng one one to two, making three.

  “Three?” he says, perplexed, “How very odd!”

  He looks around, the mischievous smile slipping from his face, and squints into the ashen gloom, slowly sweeping his eyes around the ruins.

  “Who’s there?” he asks.

  Pomp sees a touch of fear in his eyes.

  He reaches down, grabs a handful of powder ash, and throws it into the air.

  Pomp sneezes.

  “Aha!” The good-natured smile returns. “Where are you, little spirit? I’d like to see the ghost that tempts lady luck.”

  Pomp hesitates, starts to say something, thinks better of it, stops, starts again. Decisions are so hard. She wants, she doesn’t want, she wants, she really wants to, she will . . .

  Musket shots ring out down the street.

  “Major Von Graeb, come quickly!” someone cries out from just outside the ruins, “Von Helmutter’s orders!”

  Von Graeb picks up his knucklebones and runs toward the street. “I’ve got to go,” he says to the air.

  But Pomp has already flown.

  The boy-soldier went limp, dead before Heraclix could pry his autonomous left hand free with his obedient right.

  Three more guards raised their muskets and fired. One ball whirred under Heraclix’s arm, tearing a hole in his cloak. The other two hit him—one on the forehead, another on the chest, and ricocheted off at odd angles, one breaking a nearby window. The three guards looked at each other, momentarily stunned, then quickly gathered themselves and reloaded.

  Heraclix, holding one arm up to protect his head, lumbered toward them, emboldened by the surprising deflection of the balls that had bounced harmlessly off of him.

  The guards shot again at close range, and again the balls spun off of the monster’s body and into surrounding buildings. Screams rang out up and down the street.

  Heraclix waded through the cloud of gunpowder smoke that blotted white the space between. He swatted at the muskets with his right hand, only wanting to disarm them.

  They stabbed in unison, twisted the blades, but penetrated nothing, only succeeding in pushing Heraclix back an inch or so.

  Heraclix’s left hand shot out, trying to grope past the musket barricade to find a throat. He again swatted at the muskets, this time knocking them from the guards’ grasp.

  “Run!” he yelled, not as a threat, but as a warning. He did not want anyone else to be hurt by the renegade left hand.

  The guards did not run, but they backed away, drawing their swords and making way for Graf Von Helmutter, who had dismounted his horse and drawn a short silver dagger.

  “Back down,” he told the guards, “Cordon off the street.” He flipped the dagger around in his hand, twirling it around his fingers, savoring the prospect of one-on-one combat with a man, a beast, such as this.

  “I did not mean to hurt anyone,” Heraclix said to Von Helmutter, “nor do I want to fight with you.”

  Von Helmutter’s face remained grim, determined.

  “Lies,” Von Helmutter said. “How can any . . . thing . . . so beastly speak anything but lies?”

  “I am just a man,” Heraclix said.

  “I’ll bet you almost believe that. But, no, you are a Hell-spawned demon.”

  Another group of soldiers a dozen strong moved around the pair to block off either end of the street. All doorways and windows, save the burned-out cavities on the ruins of Mowler’s apartment, had been shut, locked, and barred. The guards’ bayonets came down, turning the section of street into a coffin lined with spikes, an iron maiden in which Heraclix and Graf Von Helmutter circled each other, one looking for an opening to strike, the other trying to stop the conflict by giving ground.

  “I have been trained by tutors greater than any general to handle your kind,” the graf boasted. Then, quietly, only for Heraclix’s ears: “I know the secrets of eldritch warfare, fiend. I know what can hurt you. You can’t be harmed by mundane weapons,” he shook the blade of his dagger at Heraclix, “but silver cuts on every plane of existence, earthly or demonic.”

  Von Helmutter lashed out, but his lunge fell short. Heraclix backed away.

  “Cowardly devil!” Von Helmutter spat.

  Von Helmutter stepped in foot-over-foot, passe’ avant, cutting the distance between them so quickly that Heraclix stumbled in an effort to get out of his way. Too late! Von Helmutter stabbed underneath the golem’s left arm, aiming for the torso, but Heraclix’s stumble invited the blade to his lower tricep.

  The silver bit deep, and Heraclix cried out in pain. From the wound, a shimmering liquid, like quicksilver, spurted forth, trickling around his arm, dripping down his side, and evaporating in an evanescent sparkle that left no evidence of wounding save the gash itself.

  Still, the giant backed away, struggling to control his left hand. He only wanted to defend himself, but the hand seemed to have a will of its own. If he failed to control it, he would be responsible for the death of yet another victim.

  The more experienced guards chuckled lightly, while the newer recruits watched in awe at the prowess of their commander, who could single-handedly wound this brute when eight musket balls and more bayonet stabs couldn’t harm him.

  “I don’t want to harm you,” Heraclix said, spittle whistling from between his gritted teeth.

  The guards laughed, all except for a soldier in the back who wore the gold sash of an officer. This must have been the graf’s major, likely the “Von Graeb,” who had been summoned by the infantrymen earlier. He looked on with steady curiosity, studying the situation, walking around the perimeter behind the guards, but never taking his eye off the pair in the middle.

  “Oh, but I want to hurt you,” Von Helmutter said. “I’ve encountered your kind before.”

  Von Helmutter stabbed again, missing short of his target’s belly, then slashed upward, opening a shallow cut across Heraclix’s chest that welled up with quicksilver, glittered, and again disappeared, leaving the skin etched where the dagger had met flesh.

  But, rather than following up with another thrust, the graf swatted at some invisible pest that had taken an interest in him. His hand connected with the assailant, knocking it aside.

  Von Helmutter advanced, once more, toward Heraclix.

  The graf’s free hand suddenly shot up to his eyes. He screamed something incomprehensible, dropping the dagger to the ground as he reached up with the other hand to cover his nose, which had begun to bleed profusely.

  The onlooking soldiers muttered among themselves.

  Just then, the graf’s breeches fell down around his ankles. His hand shot down to cover his exposed groin. He screeched out in pain and dropped to his knees, one hand trying to protect his face, the other his naked crotch.

  The guards moved in, the experienced ones assisting their commander, the inexperienced ones laughing at his embarrassing plight. In the background, the one called Von Graeb seemed to be hiding a smile behind a raised hand.

  Heraclix turned round and round, not knowing where to go or what to do.

  “Pomp!” he cried out.

  “Here I am!” she said, alighting on his arm, coming into visibility. The left hand, almost instantly, calmed itself.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “That way!” she giggled, pointing east.

  The pair bowled their way through a set of guards who had set themselves to receive Heraclix’s charge.

  Heraclix ran through the streets, bounding over carts and barrels, knocking over anything he could to create obstacles for any pursuers. Soon, he and Pomp ran across a bridge, disappearing from the guards’ view.

  Von Graeb stooped down to pick up the silver dagger that Von Helmutter had dropped. It was a crude weapon, rough hewn from a single silver vein, with marks on the handle that might naturally have occurred in the ore from which it was extracted, or might have been intentionally carved—a set of sigils whose purpose he could not divine. He wrapped it up in a cloth in order to return it to Von Helmutter.
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  “A dead giant lives. A ghost fixes the dice of chance to turn a prediction of misfortune into one of good luck, then the Chief of the Imperial Guard reveals himself as a demon-hunter trained by who-knows-who or what. Grandmother would have known what to make of this,” he said to himself. “But she’s gone now,” he sighed, “and I am left to winnow through my own memories for enlightenment.”

  While the others were attending to Graf Von Helmutter, Von Graeb surreptitiously wandered over to look into Mowler’s apartment. He looked back to where the men were helping the indignant Graf to gather his things. “I wonder,” Von Graeb said, “If there’s a connection . . .” He turned to the burned out remains one last time, then, shaking his head, he began to walk back toward his men. “How odd,” he said. “How very odd, indeed.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Every flash of white—every mislaid ribbon, painted door, or cloud in the sky—sent Heraclix darting for cover in an alleyway or behind a wagon. His wounds still ached with a burning pain that ebbed and flowed, though it never fully left him. He didn’t want to encounter Von Helmutter or his men again, that much was certain. Nor did he want a repeat of the uncontrolled actions, his uncontrolled actions, that had resulted in the death of the young guard.

  Mid-day burned off any remaining clouds that had lingered through the morning. Heraclix and Pomp found shelter from the sun in an abandoned stable near the outskirts of town. Insects bothered the golem’s seams but kept a respectful distance from Pomp, who baffled them whenever she appeared. She was so like a bug, yet so unlike a bug. What was a tiny insect to think of her?

  “You rest,” Pomp said to Heraclix, who kept rubbing the sore spots of his wounds. “I need to get something.”

  Heraclix started to call after her, then stopped, remembering the consequences of his last outburst. Best to keep quiet.

  He watched her wink out of sight and groaned as the insects that had surrounded her now flocked to him, joining the others to explore his seams and gashes. But not only did the bugs crawl over and through him, questions also buzzed through his thoughts like gnats. He swung blindly for phantom answers.