Sherlock Holmes and the Servants of Hell

by Clive Barker

  One Cenobite stood poised to strike, with a six inch knife in one hand, a curving blade in the other, shrouded in a cloak of darkness. He was still known only as ‘Jack’, even in Hell, but Holmes was now privy to his true identity – had once helped Inspector Abberline pursue him, London’s most notorious killer – and it at least cleared up the mystery of where the villain had disappeared to. He wasn’t at all surprised that the man had been added to the Order, given his penchant for slaughter, his talent for inflicting pain. Holmes never dreamt they’d ever be on the same side.

  Umbra favoured rope as his method of self-harm – or self-pleasure, as it was here – and they had been wrapped around the Cenobite with the skill of a seaman. Some were so tightly wound the muscle on either side was grossly swollen. Then there was Gamont, whose skin had a rough, rock-like texture. Meanwhile Harrigad’s frame more closely resembled that of a scarecrow, but instead of straw it was sharpened wire he’d been ‘stuffed’ with. Cassandra’s flesh looked like melting wax, her features shifting with each movement, bare arms and legs hardly able to retain their shape, her torso barely contained by her leather corset. Flourret, meanwhile, looked like he had just come from an abattoir; a magnificent super-butcher complete with apron, and with a slab of meat slung over one shoulder, he held a massive cleaver which dripped with blood.

  Perhaps the most disquieting of all, however, was the Cenobite who had a metal spike rammed right through his head, dried blood caked around the sides, a helmet helping the skull to retain its shape. It was as if he’d been the victim of some sort of train derailment, and had no business being up and about, let alone in the ranks of their crude army.

  On and on, no two alike, so many variations, plucked from different places, different times. Holmes saw some costumes that resembled Samurai dress, others that were more like the knights of the Middle Ages or gladiators of classical times, while still others looked like pirates, complete with eye-patches and cutlasses. There were those who’d been snatched from more modern conflicts, holding their rifles and pistols, but would it all be enough? Holmes had to hope so, had to claw back some of that lost – broken – hope Moriarty had ripped from him.

  There was no more delaying, the great bell was tolling, signalling the approach of their enemy. Holmes reached down and picked up his headgear, placing the black deerstalker on his head and snatching up his cane before making his way down to join his soldiers. Mycroft had often told him when he was younger to make the best of things, to take advantage of all situations and see them as a way to learn. Maybe he was doing just that now, but he doubted it.

  What he was doing was settling an old score.

  The rumbling started across the way as he descended the steps from the balcony. He’d ordered several of the arches across the plaza to be demolished, hindering the progress of the enemy, funnelling the Professor’s troops in one direction, so they could be picked off as they struggled through. And, as they started to emerge, the monstrous Hound leading the way, it seemed like that plan was working.

  The first of the Engineer’s clockwork monstrosities ventured through and were met by Holmes’ initial line of defence, hooks and chains flying into them, pulling them in every direction. Holmes might have felt sorry for them, had he not come to terms with the fact that they were giving them a sweet release, granting them their ultimate freedom... as long as Moriarty didn’t reanimate them.

  The strategy seemed to be working, but seconds later, there was a massive bang followed by flying masonry – some of it hitting the Cenobites at the front. Other explosions followed, clearing the blockages and allowing more of the Engineer’s foot-soldiers free passage. Even Holmes balked at their numbers. It was only now that he could see what had caused the blasts: one of Moriarty’s men had a cannon fixed to his chest – no, in fact it was his chest, firing discharges of pure black light into the crowds Pieces of stone erupted into the air where the blasts hit, taking Cenobites with them, raining down debris and body parts alike.

  There was no sign of the Professor; he was obviously letting his troops clear the way before showing himself. But that wasn’t going to be Holmes’ way. Climbing into the back of a chariot attached to a skeletal steed, he took hold of the reins and urged his vehicle forward. A path opened up, Cenobites moving aside so he could make his way to the front.

  “Charge!” he cried at the top of his voice.

  Holmes gripped the reins with one hand and brought his stick to bear with the other; attached to the top was a large round object that looked a little like a magnifying glass. He let loose a bolt of black light, focussed by the glass: fighting fire with fire. Hellfire with Hellfire. It sprayed the pseudo Cenobites, scattering them. But there was another wave coming immediately behind: more of those mechanical human-spiders that had caused Watson problems back in the library.

  He couldn’t help it, even as he led this fight against the enemy, Holmes’ thoughts turned to his friend, wondering how he was faring, hoping at least that part of their plan would work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Best Laid Plans...

  IT WAS A variation of the strategic envelopment manoeuvre.

  That’s what Holmes and I came up with after conferring about the best way to proceed. It wasn’t easy, let me tell you – after all those times in his study, mulling over cases, while he smoked his pipe or we drank brandy; to see him like that, to be around him in his new guise. Soldiering I understood; I didn’t much care for it after everything I’d seen and experienced, but I at least understood it. This... this was beyond any comprehension. Yet I persevered and, once we had gone through all the options – including the possibility of using flanking, pincer or encirclement manoeuvres – we settled upon a variant of the tactic Napoleon often favoured (ironic, given who we were up against). Holmes and his forces would face the enemy head on when they came, trying to bottleneck their advance by blocking off certain routes. Myself and another group would skirt around the back, attacking from the rear.

  “It’s risky,” I told him, “but it could work. If he’s ploughing most of his number into a full frontal attack, which Mary insists he is, then they won’t be expecting us to come at them from behind. It might also be where they’re hiding the weapons they stole, so if I can take those out of the equation as well...”

  I could tell Holmes would have felt more comfortable if I had remained with him, to offer support and strategy in the midst of the battle, but it would take someone who knew what they were doing to time it just right.

  Holmes shook my hand before we headed off, wishing me luck. “They will follow your orders to the letter,” he assured me, gesturing to my small squadron.

  They were bizarre, freaks to a man – and woman – each as monstrous as the next, and I couldn’t repress a shudder of disgust at their appearance. One of them looked like the living embodiment of a jigsaw puzzle, his flesh made up of sections that had been slotted together; the grooves thick with dried blood. One of the female Cenobites was covered in scales, a forked tongue flicking in and out of her mouth. Then there was the Cenobite that had two huge cuts for a face – no other features, just the titular gashes of the Order – one running vertically, from domed head to chin, and one where his mouth should have been, resembling an inverted cross. There was even one creature that looked to be three Cenobites in one, wound into each other: triplets perhaps? I’d seen conjoined twins before, but never anything like this, attached as they were by the legs, the waist, and their heads; most of their disfigurement thankfully covered over by copious amounts of leather.

  It almost made me sick to look at them, worse than anything Bosch could ever have conceived of, and yet we would have to rely on each other wholeheartedly. Thankfully I would have Mary by my side. Part of me wanted to keep her away from any of the fighting, but then – as she argued – nowhere would be soon safe.

  “John, my love – it is too soon to be parted again,” she had said, and I concurred. I never wanted to let her go again, if the truth be to
ld.

  Concealed about my person were a variety of pistols, and I’d donned a sturdy breastplate. In my hands I held a rifle, which I had been told could fire repeatedly without having to be cocked after each shot. How much of an effect it would have on Moriarty’s playthings remained to be seen, even if it had come straight from Hell’s armoury.

  I’d experienced warfare before, killed men I did not know, merely because they happened to be on the opposing side. Perhaps they had deserved it, yet I’d always regretted the loss of human life – how could I not, given that I had also trained to preserve it? This, though, was an altogether different kettle of fish. The tortured souls that the Professor had used as raw material for his puppets, I had to believe, would welcome the chance to be free again; for their spirits to go wherever they were destined, before he got hold of them. This thought made it somewhat easier to fight them – and did nothing to quell my hatred of the person who was really responsible for all this; for the death of my wife, as well. I know Holmes had his own axe to grind, and had suffered so much at Moriarty’s hands, but I really hoped I would get a chance to have my own revenge upon the Engineer.

  Our goodbyes said, we set off then down the winding corridors. It did not take as long as I thought to reach our destination, having benefited from a few short-cuts known to Mary and the Cenobites. We were behind enemy lines, closing in on our targets: those making up the backbone of the Professor’s forces. We proceeded quietly, pressing ourselves up against the stone walls and sliding along until the mechanical pseudo Cenobites were in view. Then we waited, and waited...

  “The Engineer is mounting his first attack,” Mary whispered. “It is time, my darling.”

  I nodded, and held up my hand to my troops. I was just about to drop it when I felt fingers around my throat. Shocked, I turned awkwardly to see Mary, face contorted. “It’s... it’s not me, John,” she said through clenched teeth.

  Her grip tightened, and her voice changed, becoming deeper. “I thought I felt someone poking around in my mind. The thing about connections like ours, Doctor, is that they work both ways!”

  Mary flung me across the corridor and into the opposite wall. Moriarty was controlling her, just like he was controlling his own people.

  “Men!” Mary cried in that same deep voice, shouting out a warning – or an order – to the pseudo Cenobites. The row of soldiers spun around, and we were just as suddenly facing as much trouble as Holmes and his band out there on the front.

  The best laid plans had gone awry in the space of just a few moments.

  A couple of the Cenobites lunged at Mary, perhaps thinking – too late – that they could silence her. “No!” I screamed, for she was not responsible for her own actions. I needn’t have worried, for my spouse stuck the first across the jaw, then shucked the other one off her when it tried to grab her arm.

  “John,” she pleaded in her own voice, but I wasn’t sure what I could do. And we had other problems. The pseudo Cenobites surged towards us. The Cenobite who had only cuts for features, soon added more to his collection as a mechanical warrior with a rotating blade arm drove this into his ‘face’, splattering blood everywhere. The snake-woman ducked, shrugging off one of her attackers and lashing out with a huge tongue that wrapped around its neck so she could draw it in for close combat. Sadly, another pseudo Cenobite grabbed the tongue with both hands and pulled in opposite directions, ripping the thing in two. The snake-woman stumbled backwards, clawing at her mouth. Jigsaw seemed to be faring better, for whenever he was struck his flesh would open up and then knit itself together again as hooked chains flew in from every direction, ripping apart his opponents.

  I rose and fired into the mob, but no matter now valiantly we fought, it was clear we were hopelessly outnumbered.

  Our plan had quite spectacularly failed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Rush

  SHERLOCK HOLMES HAD never felt such exhilaration, such a rush. This must have been what it was like during those great historical clashes – kings fighting shoulder to shoulder with their countrymen to drive back the enemy. They were hopelessly outnumbered, of course: Moriarty’s hordes continued to flow through the gaps in the walls, reminding Holmes of what had happened to Carnivan; ants swarming over a hill. He watched as one of the Professor’s creatures unfurled a huge scorpion-like stinger before burying the tip into a Cenobite’s skull. The combatant – a tall, rake thin Cenobite known as Brakis – was lifted into the air and battered against walls and pillars. His cries could be heard even above the fighting as he was cast down into the waiting abyss below.

  A centipede-esque pseudo Cenobite, made up of dozens of the lost souls welded together, powered through Holmes’ ranks, winding in and out to knock combatants clean off their feet. One of Holmes’ best warriors – Matadin, who was an overweight individual with rolls and rolls of fat – had unleashed a hook and chain to snag the beast, using his weight to anchor himself and direct it off course; while Jack had climbed up on its hind quarters, kicking away a multitude of hands as he cut into leather and metal alike, making his way to the front to shove a blade so far into the creature that the whole muddled mess unravelled. He just about had time to spring off – losing his hat in the process – before the pseudo Cenobite came to a halt at the base of one of the pillars. His grimace of satisfaction soon changed to one of despair as the individual lost souls that had made up the creature scampered their separate ways to continue the fight.

  Above the battle, huge moth-like creations soared through the air, spewing gouts of black light that exploded amongst the Cenobites below. Though he should have felt dismay at the carnage before him, Holmes realised that this was the perfect opportunity to reveal his surprise. His troops could sense it as well, for they were huddling together, trying to lure the flying aberrations towards them. Nearer and nearer, waiting for their mouths to open again and –

  Suddenly his troops ducked, drawing out polished shields, slotting them together to form one massive barrier that reflected the black light right back at the winged monsters, incinerating them with their own blasts of energy. Having tackled these, Holmes’ troops turned and angled their shields to face the oncoming horde, deflecting the blasts from the huge cannons mounted in the chests of the pseudo Cenobites, turning their deadly discharge back on the enemy.

  Moriarty was using so much of his own power to keep his men going, that Holmes hoped he was beginning to spread his resources too thinly, and they could keep his troops at bay long enough for Watson’s squadron to have some kind of impact on the other side.

  Holmes ducked just in time to avoid a metal claw. A pseudo Cenobite had thrown itself at Holmes’ chariot, but that had turned out to be a distraction, as a javelin was tossed into the spokes of the wheels, causing the vehicle to upturn. Holmes was pitched forward, landing awkwardly on a nearby group of enemy soldiers. He rose up, his cane held aloft, turning in a circle and completely obliterating his assailants with his black light beam.

  Cenobite warriors were dropping all around him, riddled with bullet-holes... But these were no ordinary wounds, caused, as they were, by small pellets of rock; pieces of sacred stone, one of the weapons stolen from the armoury broken up. Holmes looked up and across, tracing the trajectory of the unusual bullets. He’d known even before his eyes found the man that it had to be Colonel Moran, camped out on a high balcony and hunched down over a rifle that was pumping out round after round.

  “Veronique!” shouted Holmes, and gestured up towards Moran. She nodded, signalling Lilith to join her. There was a brief exchange, after which Lilith picked Veronique up and unfurled her wings. They rose rapidly, narrowly avoiding a collision with one of Moriarty’s moth-creatures, which Veronique shredded with her whip.

  Moran saw their approach and trained his rifle on them, letting off two shots in quick succession. Lilith banked and the pellets fell just short, but it drove home that they couldn’t wait any longer. Lilith let her living payload go and Veronique’s whip was
out again, the sentient barbs digging into the edge of Moran’s perch. He leaned over, aiming for her, but the angle was too acute this time, and, seconds later, Veronique had swung up to wrap her legs around the sniper’s neck, twisting and causing him to tumble forward into thin air.

  Holmes let out a sigh of relief as he saw the man plummet towards the ground, but it was short-lived when he witnessed another of the winged creatures swooping in to catch him. Below, another wave of pseudo Cenobites flooded in and submerged his troops. Holmes could only watch as Gamont was pushed to the edge of the precipice and shoved over, dropping much further than Moran had with no hope of rescue; not even Lilith could reach him in time, even if one of her wings hadn’t just been damaged by a spear thrown in her direction. She spun downwards, and careered into a group of enemy soldiers, knocking some of them over the edge in the process. It was a bitter triumph given the circumstances and the fact that, bit by bit, Holmes’ army was being eradicated.

  Still there was no sign of his true enemy. Where was Moriarty hiding? But, perhaps more importantly:

  “Watson, where are you?” Holmes shouted, dodging another blow – this time from a ridged saw that stood in place of one poor unfortunate’s forearm. He brought his cane down and relieved this particular lost soul of his weapon, before sweeping the soldier’s legs out from underneath him, staking him with the bottom of his cane.

  “Where are you?” he repeated, and surveyed the scene of devastation.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Darkest

  WE WERE ON the verge of defeat, I don’t mind admitting. Our darkest hour without doubt, and certainly mine since this whole sorry story began.

  I could do nothing to help my comrades – such as they were. Monsters themselves, and perhaps deserving of the end that was coming to them, they were, however, all that stood between us and the fall of this second front. My bullets were finding their marks, but against such odds our chances of survival, let alone success, seemed pitifully low.