Heraclix brought the sword down, Caw-Caw-Phony still skewered on the curved instrument.
“It is . . . dead?” Pomp asked.
“Devils don’t die, Pomp,” Heraclix said. “They just go back to the bottom of the worm-pile to recirculate through eternity.”
She hovered there with a puzzled look on her face.
“And it’s good to see you, too,” Heraclix smiled.
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Mortal humor.” He flipped the raven’s carcass off the blade. Somehow, the crown stayed attached to the bird’s head.
“Pomp, my friend,” he said, wiping the blade off on a patch of grass. “We need to get back to Vienna. And on the way, you and I have much to discuss.”
“More talking?” Pomp said, exasperated.
“More talking,” Heraclix said.
CHAPTER 28
A map of the Holy Roman Empire lay spread out on a desk between Major Von Graeb and Emperor Joseph. The northern edge of the map sagged over the precipice of the too-small desk’s edge. Several wooden chits, each signifying a military unit, were scattered across the map, the largest clump near the precarious northern edge. Von Graeb moved a small group of chits from the hanging edge, on his left, to the far right corner opposite him, where the emperor stood.
“That’s what we need.” He slid the majority of the pieces back to their original location, then pointed to the meager remainders at the southeastern edge of the map, “And that’s what we have.”
“It does seem a rather disparate concentration,” the emperor agreed with him. “but our spies in Prussia have noted a threat.”
“I’d call it a desperate concentration myself. And isn’t it odd that we have never, not once, heard from our spies in the Ottoman lands?”
“They have been rather quiet,” the emperor said.
“Excuse my boldness, your Majesty, but they have been utterly silent. They have not reported back in . . .” Von Graeb paused “. . . months.”
“In any case,” the emperor said, “there’s no sense discussing what has or hasn’t happened. You have an immediate need.”
“A need,” a third voice said from a shadowy doorway, “that I intend to fulfill.”
“Viktor!” the emperor said in surprise. “I thought you were in Saxony . . .”
Othman and Fahtma were both sick of marching. Othman, being as large as he was, felt the burn in his legs even more. His Agha had ordered him to lose weight many times. Now that they were on the march toward the borders of the empire, he had no choice but to shed the pounds.
Fahtma, in better condition, had no better of an attitude. “Ptah! What ever happened to the crusades, when the infidels came to us to be slaughtered?”
“Times have changed, my friend.”
“And you have not. Pagh! March downwind of me if you are truly my friend.”
“But then I fall behind.”
“Better you get a taste of the agha’s crop, rather than the both of us.”
“Quiet you two!” shouted the agha. “We’re about to enter enemy territory.”
“How is that even possible?” Fahtma asked in a hoarse whisper.
The agha heard him. “You question the word of the pasha? He himself has declared it.”
“He is an idiot,” Othman whispered. He was not heard by the Agha. Perhaps the plump soldier couldn’t keep up with his companion. At least he could keep his voice down.
Their unit, of which Othman and Fahtma were but a hundredth between the two of them, obeyed orders, putting one foot in front of the other. But as he watched his feet plod, Othman noticed that something was changing. The sky here seemed bluer, the air sweeter, and the clovers had teeth.
Teeth?!
“Aah!” yelled Othman, unable to keep his voice down.
This time the agha heard. Wheeling his horse around, he—his horse, really—pranced back down the line to the spot where Othman stood screaming.
“I thought I told you to be quiet!” the agha whispered with such harshness that Othman felt the agha’s spit in his own mouth.
Othman stopped screaming, but his face was still stricken with terror. He pointed to the ground, shaking.
Some of the other men also looked down to the ground. What they saw there caused them to jump back and lift their feet as if avoiding a poisonous snake.
It wasn’t just Othman’s clover that had teeth. They all had teeth. And the troops were in the center of the clover field.
The men began jumping, pirouetting, practically dancing around to avoid the tiny mouths that nipped at their soles and bootlaces.
“Have you all gone mad?” asked the agha.
A few of the soldiers shook their heads and screamed “No!” not understanding that it was a rhetorical question.
The agha set about beating his men with his scabbarded sword, forcing them back into something like a marching line, only crooked and broken, nothing like a marching line. Well, at least his horse obeyed him.
Momentarily.
The horse executed his assigned duties with great precision until something sharp stabbed him in the flank. This would normally have had little effect on an Arabian stallion. Horses such as this were bred for war. They were disciplined and knew little of fear.
And even less about dancing.
But he felt first a desire, then an urge, then an outright compulsion to do just that: dance!
“What are you doing? the agha yelled, bucking in the saddle. “Settle down!”
But this was the last thing the horse wanted to do. No, its blood was up, it heard the call of the music, and its shoes went from metal tools to taps in a matter of seconds.
“No! Turn, I say, turn!” the agha yelled, quite forgetting his earlier orders to keep quiet.
The horse turned, just not in the direction or at the pace the agha would have preferred. The horse kept turning, whirling, really, like a dervish in trance. He spun and pranced, carefree and wild, touched by some musical ur-horse spirit (actually, he had been touched by a particular fairy’s arrow, but such things can’t be explained to horses). The agha, who had ceded control over his beast, simply held on to the saddle horn for dear life while his men screamed at the tiny teeth beneath them, only to be silenced on the unlucky occasion where man’s fear and horse’s dance came into conflict.
Physics dictated that the more massive object win.
Then there was the matter of the winged shadows overhead, hooting in chorus as they dove down from the sky toward the moil of humanity beneath.
“Word of the southern invasion came, and I thought it best to return quickly.”
“Your timing is excellent,” the emperor said. “Felix is in need of soldiers—”
“Which I have sent!” Von Edelweir interrupted the monarch. “They should be here in two days.”
“Herr Graf,” Von Graeb said, “the force is too small.”
“Three hundred men and two pieces of artillery are quite enough to hold out until more help can be sent,” Von Edelweir said in a voice full of condescension. “How long until further reinforcements arrive?”
“Three more days.”
Von Graeb’s jaw dropped. “Three more days? How can we possibly defend the city? The emperor? The empire itself?”
“You are a good soldier,” Von Edelweir said. “You will, I am confident, keep the enemy at bay.”
“By myself? Pardon my frustration, but we cannot defend the city with so few! We need more men in less time!”
“I cannot recall my orders. Events are already in motion,” Von Edelweir said with an inflection of finality that made Von Graeb uneasy. “The orders stand.”
The major stood in stunned silence.
The emperor looked back and forth at the two men, waiting for one or the other to speak. Just as he inhaled to begin talking, a shout erupted outside the door. The door opened, and in stumbled Lescher, clothes in disarray, sweating and panting for air.
“Milord,” he bowed to Von Graeb, “Mi
lord, your majesty,” he bowed to Von Edelweir and the emperor. “Terrible news. Bozsok is in flames.”
“Bozsok! Von Graeb said. “How?”
“The Ottomans have overrun it.”
“The Ottomans,” the emperor said, confused. “But last we heard they were marching from Sofia.”
“There is no doubt,” Lescher said, finally catching his breath. “A handful of survivors have reported it. One of the enemy was captured and interrogated. He divulged little, except that the force is led by Pasha Mustafa Il-Ibrahim and is coming to destroy some kind of super-weapon, though details on what exactly the weapon is or does were scanty.”
“But no army can march that fast,” the emperor said. “What kind of sorcery is this?”
“I think I can answer that,” Von Graeb said.
“Answer what?” Lescher asked.
“The emperor’s question: ‘what kind of sorcery is this?’”
Emperor Joseph urged Von Graeb to go on, anxious to hear his reasoning.
“I have no direct evidence, I must admit. All I have is my intuition and a couple of observations.”
“Scant argument, Major,” Von Edelweir said with a hint of derision.
Von Graeb ignored the comment.
“I think that the same kind of sorcery that could bring an army from the center of one empire to the border of another in such supernaturally short order might also bring one man from the northern end of an empire to its southern end just as quickly.”
The emperor turned toward Von Edelweir, then back toward Von Graeb. “Are you saying . . .”
“Careful, boy!” Von Edelweir said. “Your implication is subordinate, possibly even treasonous.”
“As treasonous as slowly poisoning the minister of defense in order to place another in his stead?”
“What are you saying, boy?” Von Edelweir could hardly contain his anger.
“I’m saying that the mysterious death of one minister of defense, so swiftly followed by the arrival of a long-lost noble who conveniently fits the need to fill the vacated position, one with such intimate knowledge of the Ottomans, and this followed by the unwarranted redistribution of troops that leaves the empire’s flank barely protected from an unprovoked attack at the same time—I say ‘unwarranted’ distribution because our spies in Prussia became very talkative and influenced the focus of our military at the same time that our spies in the Ottoman Empire seemingly disappeared. This was, as you know, not long after Graf Von Helmutter passed away a sickly and depleted man, though he had been a man of great vigor to that point . . .” Von Graeb stopped mid-sentence. He knew he needn’t say more. He waited for their reactions.
The emperor spoke first. “Are you saying that Graf Von Edelweir engineered these events?”
“I am saying no such thing. I am saying that Graf Viktor Von Edelweir is not all that he appears.”
“Not all that he appears?” the emperor asked.
“No. In fact, this Graf Viktor Von Edelweir is not the graf at all. This, your majesty, is a charlatan.”
“But how can these accusations be proven?” the emperor asked.
“They cannot!” said Von Edelweir.
“Oh, but they can, your Majesty. By producing the real Graf Viktor Von Edelweir. In fact, I believe he should be arriving at any moment.”
Through the doorway, a babble of voices arose into a crescendo of shouts. The voices, barking with authority, had to be those of the imperial guards who were charged with securing the room.
“Halt!”
“You can’t just go in there without authorization.”
“No, wait! Herr Graf? But . . .”
“It can’t be him. He’s up in Saxony.”
“A Turk with him?! He must be an imposter.”
“You two, stop!”
A look of rage rippled across Von Edelweir’s face as a pair of men walked in. One was young, not much more than a boy, obviously Turkish, dressed in well-worn traveler’s clothes. The other man wore long, black flowing robes of exquisite workmanship. A white skull was embroidered on each sleeve, reflecting the skulls on Graf Von Edelweir’s and Von Graeb’s fezzes. His face, much to the emperor’s shock, was an exact replica of the Graf Von Edelweir that stood nearer the emperor and Von Graeb.
Graf Von Edelweir, the one dressed in the death’s head-surmounted uniform, laughed so hard that his voice cracked. It continued to crack as he spoke, as if his vocal cords were shared by two men separated by wide gulfs of age and attitude.
“Ah, so a doppelganger! But your so-called disguise is imbecilic in its simplicity. You wear the robes of a necromancer.”
“A very specific necromancer,” said the second Von Edelweir. He held his arms up to display the garment. “These are the robes of one who died long ago. One named Octavius Heilliger. Does the name sound familiar to you, minister?”
The laughter stopped. “I don’t know who you are referring to, necromancer.” His voice took on more and more the tone of the bitter, aged man. “And who let you in, anyway?”
“I did!” a voice, deep and gravely, echoed through the hall, the sheer volume of the bellowing causing all in the room to startle.
The emperor watched, wide eyed, stepping behind Von Graeb, who had drawn his saber, as a gigantic mangled man stooped through the doorway. He turned sideways to let his bulging, scar-stitched form through the portal. When he stood to his full height, he almost entirely blocked the doorway.
The uniformed Von Edelweir visibly shrank. “You!” he said in what was now clearly not the young graf’s voice.
“Your old student, Master Mowler. You told me once that my name was Heraclix, but I’ve learned otherwise. I’ve learned a great many things about you and about myself, not the least of which is my true name. I am Octavius Heilliger.”
Von Edelweir, the Minister of Defense, seemed to age on the spot. His face became splotchy and crows’ feet began to show at the edges of his eyes.
“What proof do you have that he is not the deceiver?” the minister said, pointing toward the graf in the necromancer’s robes.
“I think it’s becoming quite clear,” Heraclix said.
The crow’s feet were joined by other lines that spread across and creased the minister’s face. His mustache grayed, then fell away, as did his hair. Like a wilting flower, his skin withered, hands curled, and back hunched. He spit teeth out from the puckered rictus that was once the graf’s charismatic smile. There was no doubt of the deception. From the youthful bloom of Graf Viktor Von Edelweir’s false form, the core of the infamous wizard had emerged in all its decrepitude.
“So it’s me. What harm have I done, playing a little chess? Surely this was all a game. No less, no more.”
“More than a game,” Al’ghul finally spoke. He drew out a small scroll from beneath his vest and held the document aloft. “Your intent was far from harmless,” the youth declared in a heavy accent. He unrolled the scroll and read aloud: “Most Eminent Pasha Il-Ibrahim, of course our agreement shall be honored once control is assumed. You shall have the Lady Adelaide for your harem, still a virgin, in adherence to your own high moral standards. Sincerely, Graf Viktor Von Edelweir.”
Von Graeb turned and swung his saber at Mowler. In a move far too quick for his aged frame, the necromancer deflected the blade with his bare hand. Von Graeb fell off balance as the weight of the blade was scattered into a thousand tiny shards that harmlessly rained down on the floor. He stood in an attempt to grapple the old man, but a circular wall of black flame sprang up around Mowler.
“Ah! So cold it burns!” Von Graeb shouted, withdrawing from the black fire. He put his burnt hand into his jacket and withdrew.
Viktor and Al’ghul both sprang toward the sorcerer, but they were likewise repulsed by the eldritch fire.
Lescher, infuriated, yelled “You used me! I thought you were the graf! My dedication is to the empire, not to a devil-lover. I’ll have you, old man!”
The servant hefted a nearby wooden chair
and threw it at Mowler, but it bounced harmlessly off the flickering ebony wall.
The sorcerer still stood, so Heraclix, determined to rid the world of his curse, drew the silvered scimitar and approached.
Mowler held one hand up, then the other, as if to defend himself from the golem’s imminent attack.
Suddenly, Heraclix stopped still, frozen to the floor, unable to move.
“He has the marks!” Shouted Al’ghul, “the marks of binding on his hands!”
Those who could see his upheld palms through the black flame beheld two glowing yellow sigils there, as if hot coals had been embedded in the old man’s flesh. Indeed, smoke writhed up past his fingertips and into the air before him.
“You know you could actually do me harm with that sword,” Mowler taunted, “if only you could move . . . boy!
“As for the rest of you. I will hear no more of you. Silence!” he yelled, his voice magically amplified to the point that the chandelier in the room shook and all in the room covered their ears, momentarily deafened. Each tried to cry out, but their voices were mute.
If they could have heard, they would have heard a strange noise, a voice, but not a completely human voice, croaking its way through the air and into the chamber.
“Caw! Caw! Phony!” it said, circling overhead.
“Cacophony, my old friend,” Mowler said. “Good. I was afraid I was at a momentary stalemate. Now the tide turns in my favor yet again. Come to me, my friend.”
Caw-Caw-Phony flew down in an ever-tightening spiral, well within the circle of flame by the time the raven-demon glided beneath the topmost black tongues.
Mowler turned toward the emperor, whose hearing, as with the others, had now returned.
“Your majesty, perhaps you should save everyone here a great deal of pain by voluntarily surrendering to the Ottomans. It would be most judicious of you. They are, by now, through Bozsok and approaching the city gates. So much destruction is avoidable, if you make it so. So much sorrow. Such a waste.”
The sound of running boots preceded the entry of Sergeant Herzog into the chamber. At first all he could manage was “What in . . .” Then, seeing the emperor, Herzog bowed, after hastily acknowledging the others in what appeared to be a rather chaotic matter of state in which he didn’t want to become involved, and gave this report: “Your majesty, the enemy army is on its way from Bozsok followed by another Ottoman force ten times larger marching in its wake! There is little hope . . .”
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