by Paul Kane
And that was before an old adversary announced himself, appearing as little more than a cloud of dust at first: the aristocrat, who had been all but destroyed by the Plague Cenobite back when Holmes had been freed from his Moriarty’s grasp. He could now slip easily into mouths and ears and eyes, felling my troops from the inside.
It was then that he spotted me. “Ah, what have we here? Le soldat!”
I fired off a number of rounds, but of course these did nothing. He wasn’t solid, held together only by the wicked determination of the Engineer. A raucous laughter filled the corridor, bouncing off the clammy stonework. “This time you miss, I think.”
The aristocrat flew at me, and I knew I only had moments before he was inside me. Panic setting in, I recalled words I’d read in the library, a spell that might just save my life. Speaking the incantation, I opened my right hand. There was a high-pitched scream as the aristocrat’s body dissipated, strewn in every direction with no chance of reassembling itself; I’d seen to that.
I stared at the space in front of me, thinking then that maybe there was hope.
There was a sudden flash of yellow light. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust, but when they did I saw that the band of Cenobites who’d been closest to me, ten or so at the last count, were now gone, vanished by that luminescence. But what had caused it?
Then I saw that one of the pseudo Cenobites was wearing a medallion, the source of that blast. More were stepping forward, wearing similar accoutrements, and still others had staffs and sticks, wands: the weapons Madame Veronique had spoken of back in the armoury. The approaching figures could easily wipe out the rest of my squadron, not that there were many left.
I’d failed Holmes totally: failed to make a dent in these forces; failed to flush out the Professor.
Just as it seemed all was lost, the ground shook and a hole appeared in a wall not far from those pseudo Cenobites. When the dust cleared, I could see that the aperture had been made by none other than Fist. I had thought him dead, though he was anything but, stomping through the enemy, razored knuckles tearing into them before they could even bring their weapons to bear.
The distraction was sorely needed, but I still didn’t have a clue how to turn things around. Thankfully someone else did. I’d lost sight of Mary in all the confusion, had last seen her raining blows on Cenobites under the control of the Professor, but now I heard her voice again.
“John... John, where are you?”
“I’m here,” I replied, then spied her slumped against a wall. I hadn’t been the only one who’d lost track of her, it seemed – Moriarty’s influence had worn off. I rushed over. “Oh Mary...”
“John, there’s no time. The connection.”
“I know. It wasn’t your fault.”
She shook her head. “We can use it against him. Take my hand. It might only work for a little while, but it will be time enough – I hope. Now close your eyes and concentrate.”
“On what?”
“On Moriarty.”
I focused on the last time I’d seen him, when Mary had shown me the vision of him torturing my friend. The anger I’d felt at what he’d done to my wife, the instructions he’d left to have us both killed. “Yes, that’s it. We’re getting through!”
I could feel myself looking out through his eyes. He knew we were there, but it was too late. Through him, we were able to reach out to his troops surrounding us.
I opened my eyes, watching as the pseudo Cenobites ahead of me turned their weapons upon themselves, amulets and wands; even a bejewelled hammer brought down on a fellow trooper. Fist paused, stepped back, then lumbered over to us. It was a sight to behold, and we were joined by the rest of my surviving troops, looking on in astonishment.
All of a sudden everything was quiet.
Mary leaned against the wall and smiled at me. “We did it.”
“We certainly did, my love,” I said, brushing back her hair. I looked at each of the remaining Cenobites in turn – the triplets, Jigsaw, snake-woman, Fist – and said, “Moriarty will have no option now but to move forward, because he knows what we have done, what we are capable of with those weapons – and he knows we are right on his heels. He will have no choice but to come out of hiding... To finally face Holmes once more!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
War is Hell
IT WAS CHAOS.
Bodies covered the landscape, some hanging from precipices, some littering the lower levels, nailed to archways by hooks and chains, just like the butcher, Flourret, who was hanging amongst them, almost unrecognisable. Unlike Watson, Holmes had never served in the Army; never fought in a war. It was nowhere near as glamorous or exciting as some writers made it out to be; this was dirty and bloody and unpalatable. War isHell, he thought, and nowhere was that more appropriate than here.
But it was also necessary; to stop a madman’s plans, to prevent him from taking over this dimension, and elsewhere. Holmes shuddered at the thought of a Hell populated by Moriarty’s puppets, of an Earth where he ruled supreme. Here, now, they had a chance; still had a glimmer of hope while the last of them remained standing against the mass of clockwork demons. Like the men at Rorke’s Drift, they would stand firm even though the odds were against them.
Morale was waning, though, even Holmes could see that. The Cenobites who were still up and fighting – including the female archers, and ‘Spike’ headbutting another foe – were close to exhaustion. The mechanical beings thrown at them didn’t need to rest, didn’t care about fallen companions, they simply kept coming. Not far away, Holmes saw one of the Samurai Cenobites – Hukatu – cleave a clockwork Cenobite in half with his razor-sharp katana, only to have the two separate pieces beset him; Bathory, slick with blood, was leaping onto backs, biting necks, tearing away flesh and motorised workings alike with her pointed teeth… until she was hauled off by three pseudo Cenobites who proceeded to trample her until she was merely a stain on the stone floor. Cassandra, her malleable flesh gumming up the workings of the lost souls she was fighting, came to the aid of Harrigad, who’d had most of his wire-like innards already ripped out. All this while Veronique provided covering fire using the weapon Moran had abandoned up in his nest.
Enough was enough Holmes decided.
“Engineer!” he hollered. “Show yourself, coward!”
The only response was from some nearby pseudo Cenobites who zeroed in on Holmes. He obliged them by blasting each in turn with black light, sending body parts flying.
Then, suddenly, he was there. Floating out on those hideous tentacles, grinning madly as he surveyed the scene, parting the chains that criss-crossed in front of him. “I am no coward, Holmes, as you well know from our previous encounters.” Moriarty locked eyes with his nemesis.
“And I am no longer at a disadvantage, as I was the last time we met,” spat Holmes.
“I like the new look. Very fashionable.” Moriarty’s grin widened. “I was wondering who our ‘Lord and Master’ might select now as his champion. I never in a million years imagined it would be you. That you would willingly choose to turn yourself into a monster simply to... I am honoured, Holmes.”
“You were a monster long before you came here. So, shall we just get on with this? Formalities seem somewhat redundant, do you not think?”
“If you insist,” said Moriarty, and shot a bolt of black light from his palm.
Holmes ducked, glancing back at the smoking hole the bolt had made in the floor. When the Professor attacked again, Holmes retaliated with a focussed beam of his own, relishing the look of surprise on Moriarty’s face as he did so; the Professor clearly didn’t know that Holmes had been loaned such power. Then the two streams met, sparks crackling. Holmes gripped his cane with both hands and pushed, forcing the Professor to retreat. They went on like this for a few moments, each gaining ground and then losing it, both becoming drained with the effort. The pseudo Cenobites flagged as a consequence, granting Holmes’ troops a much needed pause in the fighting.
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A mighty blast sent both parties reeling. The immovable object had met the irresistible force, but something had to eventually give. Holmes flew backwards, skidding to a halt as he landed just shy of the edge of the abyss.
Moriarty, for his part, was wilting, sagging almost to the ground, the hat tumbling from his head, before he roused himself and rose again.
“Holmes!” came a cry, and the former detective looked over to see Watson with Mary and some of the members of the squadron he’d taken, as well as Carnivan, last seen being buried by a mound of rubble. They were carrying what looked like wands and hammers, the lost weaponry from Hell’s armoury, and they were losing no time putting these to use against the pseudo Cenobites. Watson himself, however, had a pistol in each hand and was shooting at the enemy – Holmes couldn’t help thinking that the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.
Watson was making his way across the field of conflict, attempting to reach Holmes, when Moran appeared again. He was on the ground now, and had a pistol levelled at the Doctor. “Watson, look out!” cried Holmes, but his companion had already seen the danger – just not quick enough to avoid being clipped in the arm, a shot which spun him around.
Holmes was about to move in his direction when a blast of black light struck an area just off to his right, sending him sprawling. Moriarty was drifting towards Holmes, palms ready to dispense more of his deadly power. But he was just as prepared, rising and firing a blast before the Professor could shoot again. It struck him with full force, crackling around his body. At the same time, Veronique had leapt down from her position above, glass blade and whip in her hands, landing on the one remaining mechanical moth and steering it towards the Engineer. When she got close enough, she slit its throat and jumped off, bringing the ends of her whip down across Moriarty’s tentacles, severing two in the process.
He shrieked in agony, but she was already finishing the job with her glass blade – separating him from the appendages that were holding him aloft. Moriarty dropped heavily, dark liquid pumping from his back and spraying from the tendrils as they flailed across the floor. Veronique didn’t have long to celebrate, though, as the Professor sent a single, concentrated bolt of black light coursing towards her, which rammed into the Cenobite’s chest and carried her out of sight. Holmes watched her go as he tried to rise, weakened by his own efforts.
Moriarty was staggering to his feet, holding up his hands... but nothing erupted from his palms. Both parties were practically spent.
It was only now, as the Professor looked like he was about to give up, that he reached beneath his waistcoat, pulling out an amulet: the last of the Cenobite-killing weapons from the armoury.
And it was pointed right at Sherlock Holmes.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Lost and Found
FOR A LONG time I thought we were lost, hurrying down stone passage after stone passage, but eventually, we broke free – into the very heart of the war. Bodies were strewn across the floor ahead of us, and pseudo Cenobites still engaged Holmes’ forces... what was left of them. Immediately, we started to pitch in. I had not seen any sign of Moriarty on our travels, but then I saw why. Holmes was indeed facing his mortal enemy, black light pitched against black light, both combatants looking as if they had seen better days. A burst of energy crackled and blew them apart, Holmes almost tumbling into the abyss, but managing to stop himself in time; the Professor slumping with the effort of it all.
I shouted across to him. When he didn’t respond, I started to make my way over – and heard him call back just as I saw Colonel Moran, out of the corner of my eye, level his weapon and fire. I remember spinning, the whole panorama swirling around me. I lost consciousness, and when the darkness cleared, and I sat up, I was back on the battlefield – not of Hell, but of Maiwan.
Bullets were whipping by me, men crawling on their bellies to try and escape the Afghans. The fear had returned, that I would not get out of there alive, that they would do to me what they were already doing to many of my comrades.
“John? John, my love.”
“Mary?” I looked around, but there was no sign of her.
“John, where are you?”
“I’m... I’m here. I’m in the war.”
“John, you’re lost. It’s Moriarty again. Don’t let him inside your head. Come to me, find me. Follow my voice. You’re in grave danger!”
I clambered to my feet, my shoulder aching and pouring with blood, just as an Afghan was about to attack me. I blinked, trying to focus.
“My voice, John. Concentrate on –”
There was a sudden flash and the Afghan transformed into Moran, getting ready to shoot again, determined to finish the job. I stumbled sideways and more through luck than judgement dodged another of his rounds.
He was taking aim when something suddenly protruded from his chest, a large spear rammed through at speed. Moran looked surprised, head tilting to get a better look at his wound. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” someone said from behind him. Then, as he fell, revealing the person who had done the damage, she continued, “I’m Mary Watson and you killed me. Allow me to return the favour!”
She gave a satisfied nod, and I couldn’t help smiling. There couldn’t be many murder victims who had been allowed their revenge from beyond the grave – certainly none that Holmes and I had come across before.
“Found you,” I said then.
“You did,” she replied.
There was no time to rest on our laurels, however, as I looked across to find Holmes, and saw that Moriarty had been separated from those tentacles he’d been attached to – separated by Madame, no less, who had now been shot with black light for her trouble. So there they faced each other, Holmes and Moriarty, on equal footing once more. Both had evidently drained their reserves of energy, and Moriarty was losing navy-blue blood, through the gaping holes in his back.
He wasn’t done yet, though. As I watched, I saw him reach into his clothing and produce an amulet. It was one of those I had seen in action back in the corridors, like those we had brought with us: lethal to all Cenobites, including my friend.
There was no time to reach him, or even call out a warning – much good it would have done anyway. Pure instinct took over and I began mouthing incantations, reaching out with my hand to cast one final spell.
The amulet pulled sideways, but was attached to a chain around Moriarty’s neck. So I closed my fist again, issuing more strange words. The amulet folded in on itself, crushed beyond use. I’d done my bit.
Now it was up to Holmes and Holmes alone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Familiar Ground
MORIARTY GAPED AT the crushed amulet, confused.
He looked at Holmes, as if he had the answer, then gave up searching for one altogether. The Professor bent and scooped up part of a broken staff, a stick to match Holmes’ – which was already raised and waiting.
“Well, this is familiar ground at least,” Moriarty said.
“Indeed,” admitted Holmes.
The sticks clashed, in a series of moves that were part baritsu and part fencing. These eventually brought the two men together, each clutching the other, until they shoved against one another and parted.
“Admit it, Holmes – you’ve missed this!” Moriarty was smirking, only this time it was tempered by the considerable pain he was in; though, Holmes suspected, it was nothing compared with what the Cenobites had originally put him through. “No other foe has ever come close, nor ever will!”
Holmes said nothing, he merely came at his opponent, stick twirling, wood clacking against wood. Moriarty swung his weapon, smashing the glass top of Holmes’ cane. Even if he could muster any black light, Holmes had no way of directing it now. He blocked a blow to the head, but in doing so forfeited surer footing. Then Moriarty dealt him a strike to the torso with his free hand.
The former detective bent double, only to have Moriarty’s knee driven into his face. “I’m... I’m m
ore than ready for you this time,” boasted the Professor, in spite of the defeats he’d already suffered at Holmes’ hand.
He drove forward, bringing his weapon down again. Holmes blocked it, dislodging it from Moriarty’s grasp – only to lose his own in the process. Holmes grabbed Moriarty around the waist. The Cenobite brought a fist down on Holmes’ back in retaliation, but there was no real strength there. Holmes brought up the back of his head, losing his deerstalker, but catching Moriarty under the chin. It felt wrong to be brawling like this; Hell’s finest and best. But it was the only way they would settle things.
They took hold of each other again, wrapped up in more moves that were countered, blocked and parried – each anticipating the other’s blows as if seeing them in their own minds before they actually happened. There was really only one way this could end.
Holmes went in for a final attack, fully expecting it to be fended off, and when it was, he hooked Moriarty’s arms around his and pulled backwards, letting gravity do the rest. There was a resigned look on the Professor’s face as they fell, as if he’d been expecting this.
Tumbling over and over into the abyss, the two old enemies regarded each other. Moriarty shifted, removing his arms from the lock they’d been placed in. Holmes reached out, but couldn’t hold on. His mind flashed back to the Falls, to that other drop – when Moriarty fell away from him and solved the equation to enter Hell. That wasn’t an option this time, he was already here. Holmes remembered the chink of an opening; Hell not only taking Moriarty, but staring through into him. Everything had been leading up to this, when he’d had to face the Professor’s army, face the Professor again – and sacrifice himself a third time to defeat him.
