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

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 havea 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