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

Author:Forrest Aguirre [Aguirre, Forrest]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781630230227
Publisher: Resurrection House
Published: 2014-09-17T20:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 15

One moment, Heraclix was immersed in his surroundings, soothed by the breeze-driven susurrus of the barley fields through which he waded, mesmerized by the golden waves under the blue sky; the next, a sharp cry snapped him out of his reverie. Comfort fled, and he, as an almost automatic reaction, ran toward the source of the interruption. A flock of white birds, flushed from his movements, rose up in a column just ahead of him, like a feathered geyser.

Barley parted like water before him as his muscular form carved through the fields. But even the hissing and popping of the grass as he passed couldn’t conceal the grating of saber blades being slid out of their scabbards. He turned his head to look back over his shoulder and spied a pair of saber points bobbing up and down through the grass. The hunt, it seemed, was already on, like it or not.

The screams—clearly from women—grew louder, and more adamant with each step he took. His pace increased into a full run. He charged forward and broke into a clearing, heads of barley exploding all around him then raining down onto the road on which he suddenly found himself sprinting.

Ahead was a tangle of bodies on the road, above which stood a tall Cossack wielding a riding crop. To the right of the people was a small caravan of three brightly decorated, horse-drawn wagons, painted to attract customers. A man lay on the ground, each limb held down by the dirty hands of a grubby Cossack. The body of another victim lay partially-concealed in the grass, bloodied legs out on the road as if the man had tried and failed to leave the road before being cut down by the Russians.

The men on the ground, living and dead, were dark-bronze-skinned with black, curly hair and thin, pointed beards—both likely Turks, Heraclix thought. The dead man bore a matrix of whip-scars along his back, still bleeding into the dirt and barley. The living was about to gain some scars of his own, though he struggled mightily to be free, lithe muscles straining against his captors. But the more he bucked, the harder they pressed his wrists and ankles to the ground.

The lash of the riding crop, followed by the screams and whimpers of the captive Turk elicited, again, the women’s cries, though Heraclix hadn’t seen the women on the road. Perhaps they were in the wagons. After all, two men could not steer three wagons, and, from somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that Turkish culture wouldn’t allow a woman to ride as anything but a passenger. Still, there must be another man somewhere, unless he was fled or hidden in the deep grass.

Seeing the tall Cossack’s hand raising the threatening riding crop, Heraclix closed the distance between himself and the tormentor. The golem’s left hand twitched and pumped almost uncontrollably, anticipating the throat of its victim. The Cossack was so engrossed in the torture of the Turk,

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