Heraclix and Pomp: A Novel of the Fabricated and the Fey Read Online Free PDF Page A

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 blackenedwith 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, flipping 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