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Book: Heraclix and Pomp: A Novel of the Fabricated and the Fey by Forrest Aguirre
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Authors: Forrest Aguirre
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the invisible leaves, clouds rolled in, and rumbling thunder heralded gentle sheets of rain that distorted—but did not completely muffle—the sound of wolves baying in the distance.
After pain-filled and uncomfortable hours of travel, the mountains settled into less-densely forested foothills, the wolves’ howls decreased, and the intensity of the storm increased. Lightning, striking from all directions, led to confusion, hesitation, and bad judgment that had Heraclix heading back up into the mountains before he realized that he was going in the wrong direction. He doubled back again, frustrated at the setback. Heraclix was wet, miserable, and distraught. The agony of his leg had grown. The wound was indeed spreading beneath his stitched up skin. His time was limited.
Half the night had fled by the time he finally found the edges of the village. The rain was a torrent by this point, and the lightning only let up for short periods. The buildings all had their shutters tied with leather thongs to keep the elements outside.
One structure was larger than the others—possibly the centerpiece of town, though it was difficult to judge the relative size of the buildings in the fluctuating perspective caused by the lightning. A large wooden sign swung back and forth over the front door. On it, a carved octopus wrestled with an armored unicorn over an unfamiliar constellation of stars. The engraved words above them read T HE E TERNAL S TRUGGLE in Gothic script.
The oaken front door was sticky, swollen in its frame from the rain that beat sideways against it. Heraclix tried to open it, but he had to push his shoulder up against it to get enough leverage. The door suddenly opened with a snap and Heraclix fell onto the floor. He gathered himself up, thinking of how his position reminded him of his birth in Mowler’s apartment.
The door slammed behind him, shut and barred by a middle-aged man in an apron whose most striking feature was his bushy, tightly curled black hair and handlebar mustache.
“You’re the last one!” the curly-haired man said. “Next person that tries to come in, I stab him!” he held up a corkscrew. Heraclix looked around the room and understood the man’s consternation immediately. It was a tavern, and everywhere were people, some speaking in low tones, most sleeping on any flat surface they could find, be it floor, table, bar, or crate. This might have been the entire village’s shelter from the storm. And the entire village, save for a trio of passed-out drunks in the corner, looked at Heraclix with wide eyes.
“Furthermore, if I have to mop . . .” the curly-haired man looked up at Heraclix’s bulky frame, his speech incrementally slowing with each word “. . . one . . . more . . . drop . . .” He stopped without finishing his sentence.
“Ah, I’m afraid,” the man said, apologetically, “you’ll have to rest by the door.”
The rest of the crowd was not inclined to take so generous a view of the giant in their midst. Those who did not immediately roll back over into sleep glowered at Heraclix and mumbled among themselves. Heraclix wondered if he had not found himself in the Gypsy quarter of Bozsok, if there was such a thing.
“Look what the storm drove in,” said a muscular bearded man with a long mane of red hair. He wore an apron that branded him as a bartender, butcher, or blacksmith. Heraclix decided he must be the last, given the charcoal smudges on the man’s fingers, temples, and forehead.
“You’ve never been here before,” said a short, skinny devil of a fellow whose piercing eyes were almost as dark as the black doublet and breeches that he wore. He was decidedly ugly, but his clothes were of the finest workmanship and neatly pressed, unlike the restof the motley villagers in the tavern. Heraclix could even catch the shine of the man’s boots from across the room.
“I am only a humble traveler seeking information,” Heraclix said. He winced at the hoarseness of
After pain-filled and uncomfortable hours of travel, the mountains settled into less-densely forested foothills, the wolves’ howls decreased, and the intensity of the storm increased. Lightning, striking from all directions, led to confusion, hesitation, and bad judgment that had Heraclix heading back up into the mountains before he realized that he was going in the wrong direction. He doubled back again, frustrated at the setback. Heraclix was wet, miserable, and distraught. The agony of his leg had grown. The wound was indeed spreading beneath his stitched up skin. His time was limited.
Half the night had fled by the time he finally found the edges of the village. The rain was a torrent by this point, and the lightning only let up for short periods. The buildings all had their shutters tied with leather thongs to keep the elements outside.
One structure was larger than the others—possibly the centerpiece of town, though it was difficult to judge the relative size of the buildings in the fluctuating perspective caused by the lightning. A large wooden sign swung back and forth over the front door. On it, a carved octopus wrestled with an armored unicorn over an unfamiliar constellation of stars. The engraved words above them read T HE E TERNAL S TRUGGLE in Gothic script.
The oaken front door was sticky, swollen in its frame from the rain that beat sideways against it. Heraclix tried to open it, but he had to push his shoulder up against it to get enough leverage. The door suddenly opened with a snap and Heraclix fell onto the floor. He gathered himself up, thinking of how his position reminded him of his birth in Mowler’s apartment.
The door slammed behind him, shut and barred by a middle-aged man in an apron whose most striking feature was his bushy, tightly curled black hair and handlebar mustache.
“You’re the last one!” the curly-haired man said. “Next person that tries to come in, I stab him!” he held up a corkscrew. Heraclix looked around the room and understood the man’s consternation immediately. It was a tavern, and everywhere were people, some speaking in low tones, most sleeping on any flat surface they could find, be it floor, table, bar, or crate. This might have been the entire village’s shelter from the storm. And the entire village, save for a trio of passed-out drunks in the corner, looked at Heraclix with wide eyes.
“Furthermore, if I have to mop . . .” the curly-haired man looked up at Heraclix’s bulky frame, his speech incrementally slowing with each word “. . . one . . . more . . . drop . . .” He stopped without finishing his sentence.
“Ah, I’m afraid,” the man said, apologetically, “you’ll have to rest by the door.”
The rest of the crowd was not inclined to take so generous a view of the giant in their midst. Those who did not immediately roll back over into sleep glowered at Heraclix and mumbled among themselves. Heraclix wondered if he had not found himself in the Gypsy quarter of Bozsok, if there was such a thing.
“Look what the storm drove in,” said a muscular bearded man with a long mane of red hair. He wore an apron that branded him as a bartender, butcher, or blacksmith. Heraclix decided he must be the last, given the charcoal smudges on the man’s fingers, temples, and forehead.
“You’ve never been here before,” said a short, skinny devil of a fellow whose piercing eyes were almost as dark as the black doublet and breeches that he wore. He was decidedly ugly, but his clothes were of the finest workmanship and neatly pressed, unlike the restof the motley villagers in the tavern. Heraclix could even catch the shine of the man’s boots from across the room.
“I am only a humble traveler seeking information,” Heraclix said. He winced at the hoarseness of
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