Heraclix and Pomp: A Novel of the Fabricated and the Fey by Forrest Aguirre Page A

quarter.
    Their pursuit was a bungling mess. They were not swift among the building brambles. Heraclix intentionally took face-first stumbles and pratfalls to let them keep up with him. They took the bait and closed with him as he led them toward the outer edge of the quarter, away from the bulk of the Romani.
    He looked back frequently to make sure the soldiers kept him in their sights. Occasionally one of them fired a musket. Whether they missed him or the balls simply bounced off his body, Heraclix didn’t know or care. They were following him, and that was all that mattered . . .
    . . . until he turned around to see Von Helmutter, on his horse, silver dagger drawn, barring the path, waiting for Heraclix to come to him.
    Heraclix—who didn’t want to harm the soldiers but did want to draw them away—had no choice. He charged Von Helmutter.
    The graf smiled, steadying his horse.
    Another shot rang out behind Heraclix. In front of him, Von Helmutter’s horse screamed as a red flower blossomed in its front flank. The beast reared, throwing Von Helmutter just as Heraclix overran his position. Heraclix trampled the graf. The wounded horse kept bucking, preventing further pursuit. Heraclix waited a moment to allow time for the men to clear the horse, to draw them further out. But then he realized that Von Helmutter wasn’t the only one who was injured in the collision. A deep puncture in Heraclix’s upper thigh gushed silver. He looked at the wound, realized its severity, and hobbled toward and through the city gate as Von Helmutter sent pursuers after the giant.

C HAPTER 5
     
    P omp hears cries and the cracking of burning wood, but above all else she hears shouts, in Romani accents—angry shouts, but the anger is not directed at the soldiers. The people are angry at Vadoma and “the fugitives”!
    We cannot stay here , Pomp thinks. They hate us now!
    Pomp flies above the fray, looking for Heraclix. Through the smoke she espies the giant running from the city walls toward a deep, dark forest at the foothills of the mountains. The soldiers chase after him, but he is tearing a path through the trees and leaving branches behind him. Von Helmutter’s men cannot keep up with Heraclix. They shoot at him, but their bullets either miss or bounce off of him. After going into the woods only a few feet, the soldiers give up their pursuit and turn back.
    “Heraclix is free,” Pomp says as she watches the giant disappear into the woods where the imperial guards dare not follow without provisions.
    “And now, so is Pomp!”
    She flies off, directionless, heading for the portal that will lead her to her kin. She follows the contours of a hill that is not a hill, flying through a tear in the veil of the world, into a world that is not of men.
    This is familiar, this place. This is home. But she can’t help but feel that she has been away more than usual. However, she is not sure if this is true and is equally unsure about why she is notsure. Something is—what is the word?— different ? Not different with here, but different with her. She dislikes the feeling and the realization. This is home, but she . . . is not. At least not completely.
    She spots one of her ten thousand sisters, Gloranda, the rainbow-haired one. Gloranda is leaning around the edge of a tree, peeking at something, with her back to Pomp.
    Pomp buzzes over and lays her head on Gloranda’s shoulder.
    Gloranda barely acknowledges Pomp, so focused is she on what she is watching.
    In the distance, plump Doribell and Ilsie, twins, are saddling a large bat.
    “He bucks!” Doribell says, giggling.
    “And squeaks!” Ilsie says.
    They jump on the bat’s back, nearly crushing it. The bat squeaks, the fairies giggle.
    “Hi, Gloranda!” Pomp says.
    “Shh!” says Gloranda. “I’m doing a trick.”
    “It is good to see you,” Pomp says.
    “You are here,” Gloranda says matter-of-factly.
    “I am here . . . now,” says Pomp. “There is another place where I