Read Online Heraclix and Pomp: A Novel of the Fabricated and the Fey by Forrest Aguirre - Free Book Online Page B

his own voice.
    He fumbled a gold coin from the pouch he had taken from Mowler’s apartment, offering the thaler to the skinny, smart-dressed man.
    “I am looking”—he tried, unsuccessfully, to clear his voice—“I am looking for a young man, or at least a person who was once a young man, who delivered some goods to Vienna on behalf of one Vladimir Porchenskivik.”
    Several of those who were sleeping stirred at the mention of the name. Heraclix suddenly felt more eyes upon him.
    The short, skinny man plucked the thaler from Heraclix’s grasp.
    “I will tell you who you seek and where to find him,” the skinny man said in a near-whisper, “if you leave and never bring mention of that name to this village again.”
    “I’m sorry?” Heraclix was confused about how he had caused offense.
    “The Serbian fiend,” the skinny man whispered. “I shall not repeat his name. Nor should you, if you value keeping your tongue in that undersized head of yours.”
    Heraclix nodded his agreement. This was a time for negotiation and compromise, not for the defense of one’s pride, however easy such a defense would be to mount, verbally or physically, even with his bad leg.
    “Good. The one you seek is Nicklaus the idiot. He lives in the hills, by himself. His little cottage is a few miles up the northern road. You will pass a pair of massive oaks—you cannot mistake them for one is the mirror image of the other. Once you pass them, you will see a faint path to your left. This path will lead you to Nicklaus. But do not venture past his little place. He is a moron—crazy, but harmless. Beyond the vale of his home, however, lies the influence of the one I will not name. It is rumored that the ghosts of . . . well, it is best not to talk of such things. Now go,” the short skinny man said, holding his hand out toward the door to indicate that Heraclix should now take his leave, which he did.

C HAPTER 6
     
    T he lightning had become more distant and less frequent, the wind had died, and the rain had settled back into a fine mist that enveloped Heraclix with a layer of water. He slid over slick roots and muddy patches, unable to see as well as he would have liked in the moisture-saturated darkness. Every bump to his leg became more and more painful as the night wore on.
    “Ironic, now, that I wish the lightning was flashing more often,” he said.
    “What is ‘ironic?’” Pomp asked, appearing right in front of Heraclix’s face as a flash of lightning illuminated the night.
    Heraclix jumped back, slipping in the mud.
    “Glad to see me?” she asked.
    “Yes, but not so suddenly!”
    “Don’t you want me here?” she said with a pout.
    “Yes, of course,” Heraclix said, picking himself up from the sodden ground. “I thought that I had lost you back in Vienna, in the fires.”
    “Pomp went . . . home for a while.”
    “You sound sad,” Heraclix said. “What’s wrong?”
    “Home is not the same!” she said. “Pomp is not the same!”
    “Are you well?”
    “I am well now. But . . . different. Pomp has . . . purpose.”
    “Good,” Heraclix said, “and I have a direction: up, into the hills.”
    “You found the messenger boy?”
    “We’re about to find him. Though I don’t think that he’s a boy anymore.”
    The rain slowed down as the night wore on, until the only remnants of the storm were the sounds of water trickling from leaves to roots.
    Heraclix limped ahead through the muck, up into the foothills he had earlier descended, as dawn turned the air from black to sickly grey. They passed the trees and took the path, exactly as described by the short skinny man with the immaculate clothes. A few miles up the path they found a small cabin with a hole-peppered roof and beams warped under the weight of years. Every crease was filled with abandoned spider webs. Bits of fur caught in the splinters marked the passage of animals that used the structure for a scratching post. The only living things to be seen