Heraclix and Pomp: A Novel of the Fabricated and the Fey (18 page)

“We are looking for a ghost. One that came here shortly before we did.”

“Oh, that is unfortunate,” the devil said.

“What is unfortunate?” Heraclix demanded, taking a step forward as if he were going to tear another arm off the devil-fly.

“I can find this ghost! I can!” Estok cried.

“Take me to him,” Heraclix said.

“I was hoping you’d tear another arm off,” Pomp said.

“Not just yet,” Heraclix replied.

“Come with me,” the devil-fly motioned for them to follow with his three remaining arms.

They walked up out of the sharp-ridged maze that they had been in since their introduction to Hell, up a smoldering mountainside, black with ash and white with smoke. An occasional burnt skeletal hand emerged, groped around, then disappeared again beneath the ash. Bones crunched under Heraclix’s feet. The summit flattened out into a desolate plain, littered with sharp shards of obsidian. Scattered across the plain were gaping sinkholes that occasionally spouted flame. Estok wove a curious course among the pond-sized sinkholes, assessing each one in turn, carefully looking for some feature or criteria, the nature of which Heraclix couldn’t divine.

After passing a dozen or more of the holes, Estok finally stopped at one that seemed to meet its approval. Something in the eyes above its broken nose hinted at glee as it knelt down at the edge of the flaming orifice. It reached in, heedless of the flames that burned the hairs from its arm, and tried to pick up a writhing something. It was difficult to catch, and Estok had to plunge his other two arms in to successfully retrieve the thing from the hole.

Heraclix was shocked at the sight of the wriggling grub in Estok’s hand. It looked just like the creature embossed on the
back of the book
The Worm
, which Pomp had found at Mowler’s burned-out apartment. Heraclix took the book from his back waistband, where he had carried it, and unwrapped it from the cloth he used to protect it. The worm on the cover was pictured with a human face and a large stinger coming out of the other end. The squirming thing that Estok held was like the representation of those abominations in every way, save one: the worm’s face was clearly that of the old man whose spirit had fled, leading them on the Hellish chase that ended here at this pit.

“Qurzzikacpzz!” the old man said as Estok held the worm by its stinger, dangling it in the air.

“Excuse me?” Heraclix said.

“Xtzbshzz!” the worm exclaimed, then tried to curl up to bite Estok’s hand. Estok flicked its face with a finger, causing it to go limp. It peed on itself.

“He can’t talk to you,” Estok said.

“Well, of course not,” Pomp said indignantly, “you made him dead!”

“Can’t,” Estok said, staring at the old man-worm with something like fondness, like a grandfather looking at his newborn grandson. “He’z already dead, izzn’t he?”

“I . . . think . . . so,” Pomp said with a puzzled look.

“He’z juzt a baby,” Estok said with reverence. “Can’t even talk yet, though he wantz to, wantz to say all kindz of nasty thingz to you.”

“How long will it be before he can talk?” Heraclix asked, growing impatient.

“Four, five hundred years . . . if he stayz on top of the heap.”

It dropped the unconscious worm back into the sinkhole. “He won’t stay on top. Too much competition, and he’z only a newborn.” Estok shook its head. Its nose slapped from side to side.

“This is hopeless,” Heraclix said.

“Thizz izz Hell,” Estok said.

After a short silence, Estok said, “So, I may go now?”

“No,” Heraclix said. “I need you to find someone else.”

Estok stomped its crow feet like a little child. “I need to get back! The demonz don’t like uzz missing confessionz.”

Heraclix spoke calmly, but firmly, “I need to talk to someone from Prague, someone well-connected, who died there recently.”

“Prague? That’zz easy! We have a special place in Hell for thoze that lived in Prague—Jew and Gentile alike.”

“Then you must take us there. Then I will release you to go enjoy your . . .” Heraclix realized his mistake too late, “. . . erm, torture.”

The devil glared at the golem.

“You are truly an idiot,” Estok said with disgust. Then, walking off and looking back with disdain, it said “Are you going to come along or not?”

Pomp flew in front of Estok, careful to keep out of the devil-fly’s striking distance.

Estok spoke aloud, unabashed. “I have all eternity to find you again,” it said. “Your brutish friend can’t be with you forever. Next time, there will be too many pieces of you to rescue. Your big friend will have to sew you up like a little dolly, just like he iz all sewn up!”

The thought made the devil smile, though it really couldn’t help it.

They left the desert plateau, passing through a forest of dead, charred trees before spotting a color-bleached city that exactly mimicked the form of the earthly Prague. The city was painted weary and dreary. The inhabitants of this mock-Prague were mainly of the devil-fly sort. The occasional greater demon, like the ones Heraclix and Pomp had seen in the torture arena, could be seen strolling through a market place, plundering the unpaid merchants of their wares. The goods consisted of cast-off or involuntarily removed limbs, eyes, and other assorted parts, which customers sewed, tied, or stapled on to replace members lost at the rack.

Estok led them, at Heraclix’s request, to the place where Caspar might have once dwelt on the earthly plane. It knocked softly, almost daintily. The devil-fly listened carefully at the door, but its attention was soon turned to the noise of a pair of out-of-tune trumpets coming down the cobblestone street.

Estok darted behind Heraclix, where it cowered, whimpering in fear. Heraclix put his hands out to his side, trying to reassure Estok with his protection from whomever—or whatever—threatened it.

Around the bend and down the sloping street walked another devil-fly. This one’s head was even larger than Estok’s. Atop the
newcomer’s bulbous head was a floppy feathered hat, outdated by at least two centuries, with some sort of shiny coin attached to the front of it. The bigger devil was clad in a dark blue tailored coat that was so thickly studded with ribbons and medallions that it jangled as the wearer bobbed down the street. Two smaller devil-flies, dressed in black robes, walked behind him. Each one carried a beaten brass trumpet.

“The mayor!” Estok cried.

“Well, well!” the mayor exclaimed. “Estok, what have you brought uz here?”

“He . . . he came here by himself!” Estok said in a quavering voice, coming out from behind Heraclix and pointing frantically at the golem.

“Interesting,” the mayor said. “And you didn’t report this earlier?” It shot a glance at Estok, who shrank back again, cowering.

“And what bringz you here, my fine fellow?” the mayor asked Heraclix.

“I desire to speak with Caspar Melthazaar. Do you know where we might find him? He doesn’t seem to be at home.”

“Oh,” the mayor shook its head and looked at the ground. “I’m afraid Caspar never made it here. We had planned on him coming here, but apparently hiz planz changed.”

“Changed? You knew he was coming?”

“Maybe not ‘knew,’ exactly. But we felt he waz a strong candidate, from the incoming reportzz we received from newcomerzz. Apparently our informantz only looked at the man’z actionz and did not know hizz heart.”

“Do you get reports of others who come here or who might be . . . heading this direction?”

“Of course, it happens all the time.”

“What then, of the sorcerer Mowler?”

“Mowler?!” the mayor shouted the name aloud. “Mowler! I have no need of hearsay regarding that man . . .”

“What do you mean?” Heraclix asked.

“I mean that I know Mowler. Or I knew him. He wazz a contemporary of mine for a time while I served in Prague.”

“Please tell me what you know. It is very important to me.”

“And me!” Pomp said.

The mayor fidgeted, as if nervous. Then, looking at his trumpeters and Estok, he spoke again, in a restrained voice.

“Why . . . why iz thiz knowledge of such importance to you?”

“I am seeking to know what has become of him. I think he might have answers to some questions we have.”

The mayor looked up at Pomp, licked its lips, cleared its throat, and shook its head quickly, as if trying to regain its concentration after a momentary daydream.

“And what shall I gain from imparting such useful information? Only I have the knowledge you seek,” it gloated at the other devils. “Such knowledge can be had, for the right price.”

Heraclix thought about it a moment. He narrowed his eyes and came so close to the mayor that their faces almost touched. “I shall refrain from ripping your nose off.”

“This is Hell,” the mayor laughed, “Do you think that such a threat can actually frighten me? Especially after . . .”

“After what?” Heraclix asked, pouncing on the mayor’s pause.

“After he killed me,” the mayor admitted. It lowered its head. “Of course, I had it coming. You don’t handle snakez without being bitten.”

“What?” Pomp asked.

“Mowler. I made the mistake of trying to handle him. I waz young, and he waz already old and experienced when I came on the scene. I immediately recognized that he waz smart and cunning. I knew I wanted him on my side. Who would not want such an erudite, educated man in hiz cabinet?”

“Not me!” Pomp said.

“Well then you are not suited for politicz,” the mayor said condescendingly. “He waz a valuable ally, able to divine information that my best spiez couldn’t hope to gain. He waz charizmatic, too. The ladiez loved him, though he gave them no more than a smile and a reluctant kissz on the hand. He had a strange aversion to small, petite women, though, preferring more corpulent female friendz.”

The mayor looked at Pomp meaningfully, as if expecting some kind of reaction. Not getting any, it continued.

“Mowler waz a man of great vision in some wayz and very conservative in otherz. He waz not fond of the poor and uneducated. Thiz caused some friction between uz, since I waz, I am
proud to say, a champion of the unfortunate and downtrodden, a real enlightened leader. When I proposed that all of the city’z inhabitantz be taught literacy, he balked, even rebelled, though he kept hiz feelingz on the matter hidden until the last momentz before my demize. He iz a great actor, that one.”

Heraclix stopped the mayor with an uplifted hand. “You don’t have to recount . . .”

“Oh, but I do! I attempted to argue with him, but waz cut short. It waz a painful death, but interesting, at least. Somehow, he called down lightning right there in my office. He chanted some garbage—I thought it waz a joke, to be honest—then he said ‘Now I will show the ignorant masses real power! Not political power or the holier-than-thou emptiness of the priests and practitionerz of religion, but
my
power, the power of superior intellect and discipline, the ability to control the very powerz of nature and, in time, the very powerz of Hell!’”

“‘But you said it was your power,’ I argued, ‘not the power of nature that—’”

“My train of logic was cut short by a clap of thunder, the echoes of which I didn’t hear. Some of my other counselorz told me, after they arrived here, that the spectacle waz most impressive. The citizenz were awestruck.” The mayor puffed out his chest, “I waz wept for over three dayz.”

“Three days?” Heraclix asked.

“Yes, three dayz, the polite amount of time over which someone of my office should be mourned. No more, no less.” It held its nose in the air. “This waz a formality, you see? Etiquette demanded that every good citizen mourn me for three dayz. They didn’t really love me, though I tried to at least provide them a free education, being an enlightened ruler.” The mayor sighed. “No, they were more concerned with my personal life than my policiez. They would rather see me in my bedroom than in my officez. Unfortunately, some of them did.

“So, since they thought me depraved, they only mourned as much as was required, then they spread the rumor that I had been stricken down by God’s own wrath at my liberal policiez and my bedroom practicez. Though I wouldn’t call them practicez. They were really more like competitionz between my—”