by Phil Foglio
The implied threat was cut off by a gigantic, shaggy green creature that leapt down from a rooftop, picked up the clank, and, with a scream of triumph, began hammering it against the cobbles.
Van sighed. “Until we know, we’ll just have to rely on the monsters.”
Agatha stared. “Monsters.” She looked at Van askance. “I would have led with the monsters.”
“Oh, well then, yes. We actually have quite a lot of those.”
This particular monster, now sporting the opera hat at a rather raffish angle, lumbered over to the two people. It looked a bit nervous. “Herr Von Mekkhan,” it said in a bubbling voice. After a bit of confusion, Agatha realized its three eyes were placed below its mouth. “Snoz can be out. They rang the Bell. They did!”
Van held up his hands placatingly. “Indeed they did!” He indicated Agatha. “Lady Heterodyne, this is Snoz. Snoz, this is the new Heterodyne.”
Agatha looked up at him. “Hello.”
Snoz looked a bit perplexed and gnawed absent-mindedly on an eyebrow. “A . . . girl?”
Agatha rolled her eyes. “Yes.”
“Huh. Never seen a girl Heterodyne before.”
Agatha crossed her arms. “And?”
Suddenly the creature grinned. “And new Heterodyne is cute!” He turned to Van. “Snoz like.” He turned back to Agatha and raised a preemptory finger. “But Snoz is already in a committed relationship.”
Agatha stared back. “I . . . I’ll keep that in mind,” she said faintly.
With a sigh of relief that a potential workplace crisis had been averted, Snoz leaned back, clapped his hands, and rubbed them together. “Snoz must go smash things now.” With a last small bow, he launched himself up onto the nearest building, and dashed off over the roofline.
Agatha glanced back at the shattered clank. “How many monsters,” she asked Van.
“Well,” he said calculating, “a couple of hundred, more or less . . . ” Just then, a low rolling moan sounded, followed a second later by a slow, lugubrious drumming. The sound caught at Agatha’s heart. It spoke of loss and a great sadness brought about by separation. Her eyes began to feel hot and tears welled up. Then, even as she listened, the sounds changed. They became a joyful roar, the roar of a conquering army finally returning home. Oddly, this didn’t stop the tears. She wiped them away and glanced at Van. A plethora of emotions chased each other across his face. “But it sounds like there are about to be a whole lot more!” he added.
At Mechanicsburg’s eastern gate, a unit of the Mechanicsburg Militia, specifically three generations of the Mitsof family, stood resolutely by the family gun. At the first moaning, they had frozen in place. The youngest clung to her father’s coat and stared out over the wall into the mists encircling the town. “What is that, Poppa?”
“I don’t know, Baylijacha.” her father muttered.
Behind them, her grandfather started like he had seen a ghost.95 “It’s the Jägers,” he breathed in astonishment. “They’re coming home!”
Now, in the heart of the mist, shapes could be seen moving. Lurching, shuffling ever closer to the gates. Baylijacha leaned over the parapet in fascination. “Real Jägermonsters?” She studied the figures and frowned. “I thought there’d be more of them.”
Her father shrugged. “Well, it has been a long time . . . ” A dry chuckle from behind them broke his chain of thought. “What’s so funny, Gramps?” The old man had leaned back against the stone wall and a delighted look filled his face. The younger Mitsof felt a twinge of uncertainty. He’d never seen his father look so . . . mischievous.
“You are,” the old man cackled. He turned his back on the advancing figures and looked out over the town. “These are the Jägers we are talking about. Right now our enemies are watching them advance, and thinking the same thing you are.” He swung about and poked his granddaughter in the head. “But don’t you be fooled.” He raised his voice confidentially, “Right boys?”
With a ringing guffaw, Jägers appeared. Popping up from manholes, creeping out from eaves and chimneys. Throwing back shutters and rooftop doors. One burst upwards from where he had been hidden in a peddler’s cart, scattering snails and giving the peddler himself a minor heart attack.
“Hyu leesten to hyu grandpoppa, keed!”
“Ve iz beink sobtle az all get owt!”
“Jah! Dot’s psykologikal varfare, dot iz!”
A Jäger dropped from the ledge above them and clapped the old man on the back. “Goot to see hyu again, Mitko! Nize lookink keeds.”
Tears appeared in the old man’s eyes and he pumped the Jäger’s hand vigorously. “Thank you, Borislav. Welcome home!”
“Tenk hyu.” He tipped his hat to Baylijacha. “Hello, leetle gurl! Later hy vill show hyu how to throw a knife!”
“Ooh . . . really?”
“Uv cawze!” Borislav clapped his hands and roared out over the unsettlingly large pack of Jägers that had assembled below. “Hokay boys, ready to paint de town red? In de best vay possible?”
“YEZ!”
That roar, and many like it, was heard all over town. One of the councilmen was fretting as he and Herr Diamont were hurrying down the road. “They’ll want to move back into the Jägerhall! But the Butcher’s Guild has been using it as a slaughterhouse.”
Herr Diamant waved a hand. “Won’t be a problem, Itzokk, we won’t even have to redecorate.”
Aboard Castle Wulfenbach, in the vast Situation Room, Boris stared at the map of Mechanicsburg. With a sinking heart, he watched dozens of units shift color or be plucked from the board entirely. Beside him, a unicycle messenger explained the changes. “—numbers indicate that all of the Jägers are there, sir! But it should be impossible, unless they somehow knew about all this days ago!” Boris massaged his head with three hands. At least days ago, he thought glumly.
“STOP!” The trooper at the door just had time to add, “INTRUDER!” before a solid fist knocked him to the floor. His assailant stepped into the room and immediately raised his arms, a tricky operation as there was a large canvas sack draped over one shoulder.
“I am no intruder,” he boomed, “Othar Tryggvassen—Gentleman Adventurer—was invited!”
Boris stared at Othar and an uncharacteristic feeling of hope washed through him. “You mean . . . you found him? You found Master Gilgamesh?”
Othar laughed as he swung the sack over his shoulder. He dropped it onto the deck with a solid thump, then opened the sack with a dramatic flourish, revealing the soles of a pair of shoes. He blinked, then with a graceful flip turned it right side up. “But of course! Allow me to present: Gilgamesh Wulfenbach!” With a second showman-like flourish, he whipped the sack upwards. There stood Tarvek Sturmvoraus, grim and seething. Othar stared for a long moment, then made a ta-dah! motion with his hands as he smoothly added, “Master of Disguise!”
As the last reverberations of the Doom Bell faded away, people inside Castle Heterodyne began to stir. Professor Caractacus Mezzasalma found himself splayed on the floor. With an embarrassed jolt, he began folding himself upwards. “Sweet lightning,” he gasped, “what on Earth was that?”
To one side, Professor Mittelmind stood enraptured. “Why, that must have been the Doom Bell,” he marveled. “Astonishing!” He saw his colleague’s distress and hurried over to help him up.
Mezzasalma stared upwards in amazement. The older man seemed perfectly unfazed and, indeed, his usual cheerful smile appeared unforced. Mezzasalma was still trying to decide if he would ever smile again. “Getwin . . . were you unaffected?”
Mittelmind shrugged as he offered a hand. “Oh yes. Already dead, you know.” He looked about. “But I am worried about Fräulein Snaug.” He grasped Mezzasalma’s hand and, revealing an unexpected strength, hauled him to his feet. “Come on, up up! Strength of the spider and all that!”
With a final mechanical ripple, Mezzasalma staggered to his feet. He looked about at the Castle. It felt . . . different. He shivered. “So the young lady reall
y is the Heterodyne. Well spotted, Tiktoffen.”
Mittelmind nodded. “I wonder if any of his machinations paid off?”
Mezzasalma snorted. “My dear fellow, he’s so convoluted, how would he know?”
Mittelmind laughed in delight, but stopped as he noticed a prone figure across the room. He hurried over. “Oh dear, it’s little Wilhelm!”
The girl was slumped against a gigantic ornamental vase. “I do hope she’s alive,” Mezzasalma said. “They’re no fun when they’re dead.”
Mittelmind frowned, “Oh, I say, sir.”
“Present company excepted, of course.” Mezzasalma leaned in and checked Sanaa’s neck. “A pulse, and a very healthy one.” He gently moved her chin to one side, and the collar around her throat fell apart, the pieces dropping to the floor. Both men gasped in horror, then felt a further wave of panic as their own collars disintegrated into shards that pattered down through their scrabbling fingers. For a timeless moment they stared at each other and then realized they were, in fact, not going to blow up.96
“The Castle,” Mittelmind whispered in amazement.
“It’s repaired,” Mezzasalma shouted. “They rang the Doom Bell!” He allowed himself to believe the unbelievable. “Good gracious, old fellow, we’re free!”
CHAPTER 8
The period of political unrest that subsequently became known as The First Shudder officially began when Baron Klaus Wulfenbach was injured by the Lady Heterodyne at the Battle of Balan’s Gap. Up until this point, the Empire of the Pax Transylvania had seemed unstoppable and, indeed, inevitable.
Analysis indicates a great deal of Wulfenbach’s initial success was due to the absolute chaos that reigned in the areas he conquered. The power of traditional royalty, as exemplified by the Fifty Families, was on the wane. Ascendant sparks, long kept as servants to royals, were realizing they could sit in the Big Chair themselves. Of course most sparks found it hard to understand that the ability to create carnivorous butterflies did not in fact prepare them for the complexities of good governance. Once they were in charge, things usually deteriorated quickly. The empire, on the other hand, was very well-run indeed, if only because the Baron tended to sweep up sparks and other disruptive elements and find ways to keep them productively occupied, preferably somewhere well-removed from the center of governance. After the first decade, several kingdoms and independent principalities actually petitioned to be absorbed by the empire.
Of course, even in the face of what everyone else considers a universal advancement, there are always those who have something to lose. Aside from the aforementioned Fifty Families, there were sparks, trade guilds, and other religious and fraternal organizations that believed they had been unjustly reduced in power and influence under Wulfenbach rule.
Many of these coalesced in the effort to overthrow the empire and reestablish the Storm King who, being a more traditional monarch, would theoretically be more willing to recognize the inherent superiority of established authorities.
The original cabal had a fairly well-thought-out long-term plan that analysts today still insist had a very good chance of success. Unfortunately for the plotters, and one could make a good argument for the rest of Europa as well, a series of metaphorical hammer blows shattered this plan into fragments.
Among these were the revelation that the Baron had a son, Gilgamesh Wulfenbach, who looked to be as strong a spark as his sire. Secondly was the appearance of an actual Heterodyne heir who, just to throw a further monkey wrench into well-laid plans, was female. The third was the discovery that the Other, the terrible and mysterious spark who had been the scourge of Europa a generation ago, had managed to infect a significant portion of the population with mind control wasps. Infected individuals were now simply waiting, often without their own knowledge, to be activated as the Other’s slaves and soldiers.
When news spread the Baron was seriously injured, the temptation to act quickly proved simply too great. Carefully laid plans were hastily abandoned and easily several dozen factions attempted to be the first to seize the moment. The coalition was shattered.
It was at this point, when the firm hand of the empire was needed most, that the word spread that Baron Klaus Wulfenbach was not injured—but dead.
—An excerpt from Professor Gaspard Van Loon’s A History of the Pax Transylvania: Europa’s Golden Age (Amsterdam Free Press)
Atop the Tower of the Doom Bell, Baron Krassimir Oublenmach realized his tongue was touching the stones of the roof. They tasted like the snail vinaigrette at his favorite restaurant in Krakow, which he found rather amusing. Then he realized he might possibly be insane. He took some comfort from this and attempted to sit up. He failed miserably and wept at the unfairness of it all.
This small movement brought him to the Castle’s attention.
“Heh heh heh,” it chuckled. The sound awakened survival instincts Oublenmach had long ago assumed were unnecessary and taken to their primordial bed. Oublenmach swiveled an eye upwards and saw the bell-striker slumped against the bell itself, the great hammer propped up against his knee. “You are still alive, little adventurer?” the Castle boomed. A gigantic finger gently poked him in the side. He twitched. “Extraordinary.”
To Oublenmach’s astonishment, the great figure then leaned over and rearranged him so that he was lying a bit more comfortably. The striker then continued conversationally, “You wanted the treasure of the Heterodynes, yes?” Oublenmach didn’t bother to deny it. He was a man who would work twice as hard on a project if it meant avoiding the terrible sameness of “honest labor,” and he had found hints of something wonderful behind the hyperbole usually associated with the mythic treasure.
“Well, I don’t know if you care anymore, but it’s here.” This statement acted as a tonic on the supine man. His eyes widened as a massive shape clawed its way up and hung effortlessly from the edge of the tower.
It took a few seconds for Oublenmach to understand what exactly he was seeing, but when he did, the breath caught in his throat. It was a dragon. Not your elegant, gracile dragon who dined exclusively on chivalric knights honey-baked in their own armor, no. This was a cobby, coarse, workaday dragon with a hide that could stop a cannonball. Round, green-tinted brass meters were implanted along its length. As it heaved itself to a slightly more comfortable resting place, Oublenmach saw the impossibly small, outstretched wings and the great iron door strapped like an improbable corset across its chest. A porthole in the door’s center gave off a yellow glow, hinting at the alchemical energies roiling within.
The great head swung about and glanced at Oublenmach with sleepy eyes. Then the beast gave a great snort of dismissal. It addressed the bell-striker in a voice like boulders grinding together: “You woke me up for this?”
Oublenmach thought this a bit unfair. The bell-striker’s hand gestured placatingly.
“A Heterodyne has returned to us,” the Castle said.
With a grunt, the dragon hauled himself the rest of the way onto the tower. One of the reasons for his clumsiness became evident when he laboriously swung a huge, mildewed canvas sack over the parapet, setting it down hard with a metallic clink that immediately caught Oublenmach’s attention. He then rested both clawed hands under his wings and leaned back, producing a series of meaty crackles. He sighed with satisfaction and looked around. Below, a large part of the town was burning or at least smoking. The dragon blinked and looked interested. “Hey, I think we’re being attacked.”
There was a significant pause before the Castle replied: “You’re not really a ‘morning person’ are you Franz?”
The dragon had begun to breathe faster and a cloud of steam purled from his jaws. “Hold on,” he muttered. “Hold on. This means I get to do this the fun way!” He waddled across the tower to look over the other side and almost stepped on Oublenmach. He peered down at the man. “So what is this?” He glanced over at Octavo. “You got me breakfast?” He considered Oublenmach critically. “I’d prefer a croissant . . . ”
Franz swiveled a skeptical eye back down at Oublenmach. “Technically, huh?” He sighed. “Fine.” The dragon then dug into the great sack, swung his hand out, and opened it, releasing a great handful of gold coins that rained down onto the startled man’s head. “LONG LIVE THE NEW HETERODYNE,” he bellowed. “REJOICE, YOU.”
Franz looked up. “That was unsatisfying,” he said. He looked down on the beleaguered town. “What about your job, Castle? Doesn’t look like you’re doing much from up here.”
“I am not,” the Castle said bitterly, one put-upon employee to another. “I am repaired, but my power is nearly depleted. I am doing what I can. The rest of the Heterodyne’s servants are awakening and returning.”
“Will that be enough?”
“That depends on the Heterodyne. Everything depends on her now.”
Franz’s eye ridges rose. “A ‘her’ is it? That’s different.”
“You’re not going to get overly traditional about this, are you?
The Dragon wistfully licked his pebbly lips and sighed as he looked out over the town. “Can’t see as the traditional Heterodynes have been terribly effective lately. A change sounds good to me.” He sniffed. “Not that the rest of us are chopped liver.”
“You might as well be,” the Castle sniped back. “As long as you just stand around here jawing!”
“Okay, I’m going, I’m going!”
Unnoticed by the two, a wondrous thing had occurred. Whether it was the dragon’s voice roaring scant meters from his head or the heap of gold millimeters from his nose, Oublenmach’s broken mind had shuddered back into productive operation once again. His hand reached out and grasped a pile of coins, while his mind spun back up to speed. Gold. The dragon. The Great Guardian. All of the legends were true. He gave a feeble chuckle that came out as more of a wheeze, but all things considered, it was still impressive. I can do this, he realized. There really is a treasure. Now all I have to do is make it mine, and I’ll have won!97
