Heraclix and Pomp: A Novel of the Fabricated and the Fey

by Forrest Aguirre

  “There is no hope!” Mowler shouted, delighted.

  “Now you shall witness the greatest sacrifice the world has ever known! And I, I shall wrest the crown of Hell from the decapitated head of Beelzebub himself!”

  He smiled a wide, gap filled smile, then turned to Caw-Caw-Phony, who had perched itself on his shoulder. “Come, my friend, we will go open the gates of the city and invite the first of our sacrificial host. They will soon be joined in battle with the forces to the north, whom I shall rush here for the special occasion. Then I will offer them all up to the very powers of darkness and open the gates of Hell on Earth. It shall be a glorious entry that will lead to the coronation of the new King of the Underworld! Now, we must go . . .”

  Mowler paused for a moment, straining to hear something.

  “What was that? Do speak up, you stupid bird. I can’t hear what it is you are trying to tell me.”

  He moved his head to the side, closer to Caw-Caw-Phony.

  “I said speak . . . Ow!” Mowler yelped and recoiled. “Ah! Stop! What are you doing, foul fowl?”

  He winced, reached up to grab the bird, who pecked again and again at the sorcerer’s head. Soon, a light stream of blood trickled from the silver beak.

  “Get off of me!” Mowler yelled, swinging wildly at the bird. Caw-Caw-Phony deftly pecked at the sorcerer’s pate until the old lich connected with a lucky swipe that sent the bird sprawling to the ground, seemingly dead.

  “Even you are against me, but why . . .”

  He stopped as he saw the bird’s carcass flutter, lift up from the floor, and fall again. Its gut had been split, and from the hole emerged a diminutive figure who drew a bow back to its full strain.

  “Pomp hates to do this,” she said.

  Pomp let the arrow fly. It struck Mowler full in the face, causing him to jerk backward and take two staggering steps back to maintain his balance.

  As he steadied himself, his features softened. The evil grin that had smeared his countenance relaxed into a pleasant smile. His eyes grew wide and soft.

  “My, but you are beautiful,” he said.

  The wall of black flame disappeared.

  Pomp stifled a gag.

  “Pomp really hates to do this.”

  “But I, Mowler, no, call me Mattatheus, I Mattatheus, well, I don’t know if I have the words to express my admiration for you, my . . . yes, it’s true . . . my love!”

  “Hurry up!” Pomp called out.

  “Oh, but let’s not rush in, let’s enjoy the time . . .”

  “Not you!” Pomp said sternly, “Viktor, hurry up!”

  “Right away,” the real Graf Von Edelweir said, surprised that his voice had returned to him once the wizard was distracted. “But I was so enjoying . . .”

  “Now!” Pomp yelled.

  “All right,” he said, pulling a round object from his robes.

  Von Edelweir uttered some words that Mowler might have understood if he wasn’t, at that moment, completely enamored of little Pomp.

  Mowler didn’t see that the object that the graf cast toward the ground at his feet was a painted ceramic eyeball that burst open in a flash and a puff of smoke. He didn’t see the man-shaped headless figure that emerged from the smoke. Mowler only had eyes for Pomp, and he realized too late that Panopticus had eyes only for Mowler. Hundreds and hundreds of eyes.

  When he felt his soul slipping from his body he began to understand that he was being killed by the demon.

  “Pomp, my love! Help me! I only want to be with you, my life shall be a torment without you!”

  Panopticus laughed and all in the room shuddered.

  “Oh, you shall know torment,” said the demon with no mouth, “I’ll see to that. And as for life, you won’t need to worry about that any more!”

  And as the ghost slipped from Mowler’s dying body, Panopticus grabbed the screeching ectoplasmic entity and packed it with his hands as if he were forming a snowball, cramming it in on itself until Mowler’s screams grew more and more quiet—until it cried in a very, very tiny voice, it’s final word: “Pomp!”

  Panopticus laughed, holding up a barbed-tail larva by its hook, the wrinkled face of Mattatheus Mowler the only characteristic left to distinguish it from every other newly lost soul in Hell.

  “His Majesty, Beelzebub, King of Hell, shall have a devil of a time with you, my little pet!”

  “Pztkzx!” the worm replied.

  Panopticus vanished in a blinding flash leaving only the smell of sulfurous smoke behind.

  The agha and his men stumbled up into the foothills south of Bozsok, bruised and bitten. The town’s location was easily seen as a plume of smoke atop the mountain. They quickly ascended the hill, as much to flee the strange place through which they had just traveled as to meet up with the rest of the pasha’s army. The agha’s horse had to be put down, as his dancing had killed three men and broken twice as many limbs before the men came to their senses long enough to kill the beast. To add insult to injury, the supernatural forces that had terrorized his men and entranced his horse saw fit not only to force his horse to dance into his men, but to do it in the form of a most undignified and embarrassing Germanic Polka.

  But now the agha led his troops on foot up to the burning village and there reported to the pasha.

  “Most exalted pasha,” the agha reported, “I am here with my men, though we lost three men and my horse to some strange phenomena a few miles back.”

  “You need not make up stories for why you are late, agha,” the pasha said. “Today will be ours. I can understand your giddiness at the prospect of victory.”

  “Victory, so soon?” the agha asked.

  “Very soon. Look back whence you came.”

  A cloud of dust ascended from the foothills.

  “The sultan has heard of my genius and has sent his army to join the fray! I shall be rewarded handsomely, I suspect.”

  The hooves of the approaching cavalry became a deafening roar. The air choked with dust.

  But it wasn’t dust that caused the pasha to wrinkle his brow. Though his own ego inflated with the thought of rich reward, it didn’t fully overshadow his reason. He recognized the sultan’s guard, the swordmaster at the head, a pair of janissaries behind him, and a cadre of viziers, at the center of which rode the sultan himself. Surely the entourage was meant to show the importance that the sultan had put on his meeting with Pasha Mustafa Il-Ibrahim.

  One question nagged at him. “How did they get here so quickly?” he said aloud.

  “Probably the same way we came,” the agha replied.

  “But that was not in the plan . . .”

  “Pasha Il-Ibrahim!” the sultan called out. “Come forth!” The sultan’s entourage parted to allow the pasha to dismount, bow, and crawl toward the Sultan’s horse.

  Il-Ibrahim expected to lift his eyes to a vision of grandeur: the sultan, fat and smiling, his gold tooth sparkling in the sun, hand extended to the pasha with a bag full of precious gems, a pair of shapely virgins to whom the sultan would nod, signaling the women to take their place by the pasha’s side to be wed right there on the spot.

  “Pasha!” the sultan’s voice called him out of the dream.

  He looked up and was sorely disappointed.

  A circle of lance points converged on the area around his head like a sharp iron halo.

  “Pasha. I did not authorize this incursion.”

  “Ah . . .” Il-Ibrahim began.

  “Silence dog! Do not speak. You shall never again speak as a pasha.”

  The sultan gestured to the side.

  “This,” he motioned for someone to come nearer, “is your replacement, the new pasha, Beyruit Al Mahdr.”

  Al Mahdr ceremoniously stooped down and removed the fez from Il-Ibrahim’s head.

  “He won’t be needing that any more,” the sultan joked.

  The shadow of an ax made its way through the crowd.

  EPILOGUE

  Heraclix and Pomp walked and fle
w, respectively, down a long, flat road lined with broad canals, sun to their right as evening approached. Behind them, Vienna was lit up with candles in celebration of the marriage of the new Viennese Ambassador to the Ottoman Empire, Graf Felix Von Graeb, to the emperor’s cousin, the Lady Adelaide. Across the canals, vast fields of tulips swayed in the spring breeze, the cool, salty wind of the North Sea gently blowing in their faces. An old man in a green boat waved without looking, then retracted the gesture when he saw the enormity of the lone traveler. Of course, Pomp couldn’t be seen.

  “Another hour or so, and we’ll be there,” the giant says.

  “Tell Pomp again, before we get there.” She was quite proud to be the only one in Faerie to understand “before.” “Tell Pomp why you must go.”

  “Think back”—Heraclix was amused and quite proud that Pomp was, perhaps, the only fairy who could understand these words—“to what happened after Pasha Beyruit Al Mahdr met Graf Viktor Von Edelweir, the real Von Edelweir, at the borders of Bozsok.”

  “They both smiled much.”

  “Yes?”

  “They shook hands, talked, and wrote together.”

  “That was a treaty they were signing, Pomp.”

  “Treaty?”

  “They were agreeing not to fight each other.”

  “By writing their names down?”

  “In a way, yes—each representing their empire.”

  Some things Pomp would never understand.

  “But wouldn’t their people still be mad at each other?”

  “Of course. But Von Edelweir and Al Mahdr explained it to the people so they wouldn’t be mad.”

  “All the people? But how?”

  “Al Mahdr sent his messenger, Al’ghul, to the Ottomans to spread the word. And Von Edelweir sent Von Graeb to Vienna, Prague, and other parts of our empire.”

  “Spread the word?”

  “That a sorcerer had come among the people of the Holy Roman Empire and tricked them. So the Ottomans came to their aid. Together, they killed the sorcerer.”

  “But Panopticus killed Mowler.”

  “The people wouldn’t understand. Not quickly enough, anyway, if they were told the whole story. It would be like you trying to explain what ‘yet’ means to all the fairies at once.”

  “That would be hard. I think I understand. And what will they do yet?”

  “Who?”

  “Al Mahdr, Von Graeb, everyone!”

  “Those are three different matters, Pomp. And there are many more than that. But I’ll try to explain as best I can.”

  Pomp landed on his shoulder to be able to concentrate better.

  “Von Graeb and Al Mahdr will continue to talk to keep the peace between their countries. They will use reason and logic to try to make good decisions.”

  “But will they?”

  “Make good decisions? I hope so. I suppose everyone makes mistakes, but these are good men. They’ll do the best they can.”

  “Will Von Graeb fight?” Pomp said the word with some excitement.

  “No!” Heraclix said.

  Pomp felt sorry for what she said, though she couldn’t figure out why she felt that way.

  “No, his is a mission of peace. He refused to become minister of defense when the position was offered to him by Emperor Joseph.”

  “Then who will do it?”

  “Apparently a cousin of your Polish friend Yrzmowski.”

  “Really? But he—”

  “He is not his cousin. I am assured that the new minister of defense will be just that, a minister of defense, not a minister of offense. Besides, Von Graeb asked and received a favor of the emperor that should ensure that the new minister administer his duties properly. At Von Graeb’s request, Lescher is the new minister’s right hand man. He’ll behave.”

  “Lescher or the Minister?”

  “Both!” Heraclix laughed.

  “Then what does Von Graeb do yet?”

  “Lady Adelaide wants to move to the country, and Von Graeb has promised that they will do so once he has filled his duty to visit the edges of the empire to deliver news of the treaty.”

  “And Al’ghul?”

  “Al’ghul has a long road, many long roads, ahead of him. He is young now, but he might be old by the time he has finished delivering his message to the ends of the Ottoman lands. They are a little more elaborate in their meetings and a little more deliberate in giving news.”

  Ahead of them they could see a small port city and, beyond, the sea. Sails like white butterflies caught the wind and pulled their ships off toward the horizon. They could see the sunlight reflecting off the buildings as they walked closer. Heraclix was struck silent by the beauty of it all. Pomp was also quiet for a long time. Then she spoke.

  “Heraclix, am I good?”

  The golem smiled. “Yes, Pomp, you are good.”

  “I’m glad. Because I’ve seen Hell, and I don’t like it. There’s no one there that I like.”

  “I can understand that,” Heraclix said with a hint of remorse.

  “The Serb wasn’t there. And your Elsie and Rhoda weren’t there, either.”

  Heraclix simply continued walking, watching the ships come and go. He wondered to where and whence and how long the seas would be there to sail upon.

  “Will we go back . . .” Pomp asked with trepidation “. . . there?”

  “I don’t know, Pomp. I am working with the Shadow Divan now, and my work may take me there. We are going to cut off the entrances to Hell, or at least to ensure that they can be used only one way: in.”

  “So, no more Panopticus?”

  “No. No more Panopticus, no more Bozkovitch, no more Beelzebub. They will not come here again, we will see to it.”

  “Why?” Pomp could hardly believe she had asked the question. It seemed to come out of her mouth at its own wish.

  “Now is a new age, Pomp. An age of reason. An enlightened age. Devils, sorcerers, even golems and fairies don’t make much sense here.”

  “But you’re still here.”

  “Until my task is complete, yes. Then I shall close the door on this age and, likely, on this world, behind me.”

  Pomp thought about this for a long time as they wove their way through the streets of the city. She spoke up as they approached the docks.

  “Friend Heraclix, if there is a Hell, then there might also be a Heaven.”

  “I hope, someday, to find out. But not today.”

  “Today you will find your ‘yet.’”

  “Yes, friend Pomp. But not without you. This is our ‘yet.’”

  They ascended the ramp of a large, three-masted clipper and boarded. The sails caught a stiff breeze and snapped in the wind, enticing the ship toward new horizons, beneath new stars, under a new sky.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks first and foremost to my wife, Natalie, and my kids, Issaka, Kaiser, Hayden, and Oakleigh (and even Loki), for tolerating their dad’s long hermitic stretches at the writing desk. And special thanks to Kaiser, my best first reader. Heraclix & Pomp wouldn’t be what they are without you. To Mom, thanks for the gift of the creative spirit and, Dad, thanks for corrupting my young mind with a love of science fiction and fantasy. Thanks to Kris O’Higgins, for believing in my work and your persistence in the face of my persistence; to Mark Teppo and Darin Bradley on the start of this new publishing adventure; and to Claudia Noble for the most beautiful cover I could have asked for. Heraclix would like to thank The Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble and Nick Cave for his soundtrack, while Pomp thanks Big Bad Voodoo Daddy and They Might Be Giants for hers. Mowler could not be contacted to ask his musical preferences, but I think he was rather fond of Blood Ceremony, Opeth, and Jess and the Ancient Ones. My thanks also to all else who lent any kind of help to this team endeavor. Most of all, thank you, reader, for taking this adventure with Heraclix, Pomp, and me. We hope you’ve enjoyed the ride!

  Forrest Aguirre was born in Wiesbaden, Germany, the son of an Air Force Sergeant. Afte
r living in five different countries and roaming the world like a gypsy, he finally settled in Madison, Wisconsin with his wife and four children. He holds a bachelor’s degree in Humanities from BYU and a Master’s in African History from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. His short fiction has appeared in over fifty venues and his editorial work has been recognized with a World Fantasy Award. He is best bribed with very expensive dark chocolate, herbal tea, role playing games, books, swords, early modern silver coins, Badgers regalia, and canoes.

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  Heraclix & Pomp is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used in an absolutely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Forrest Aguirre

  All rights reserved, which means that no portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Map courtesy of The National Library of Israel, Shapell Family Digitization Project and The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Department of Geography—Historic Cities Research Project.

  ebook ISBN 978-1-63023-022-7

  First ebook edition: October 2014