The Hell-Hound of the Baskervilles

by G. S. Denning

  Sir Hugo grows impatient. It is not right that he is made to wait, that he is made to sit in his hall listening to his guests dote and fawn upon the powers of Moriarty. Hardly a soul in this room does not disdain Sir Hugo and nobody bothers to hide it. They think him unworthy to sit in his own coven, welcome only because he is the steward of this sacred place: the meeting of four lines. Nowhere else in this wide world do four lines converge. Nowhere else are the powers felt so strongly, for they are never closer than here, at Baskerville Hall.

  Sanzetti and Talog have already called on Sir Hugo for wine. He told them Barrymore was here to attend their needs, but when they bellow for drink, it is Baskerville’s name they call. They think he is only here to serve, to bring the wine and the sacrifice. He has made all those preparations, but he has made a few more they do not know about. They will. Soon. Before the sun rises tomorrow, this brood will have a new master. Moriarty will be screaming in hell and these proud mages will bend their knees to Sir Hugo, he knows it.

  But for now, they drink and trade tales of how well they don’t really know Moriarty. That silly little ape of a man, Sanzetti, is gesturing wildly with his left hand and slopping wine out of the goblet in his right. Before he met Sanzetti, Sir Hugo had known physicians to use a variety of lancets. He just didn’t realize they wore so many of them. The blood-crusted collection of surgical knives clinks and rattles as Sanzetti energetically recites a tale that will—everyone assumes—eventually work its way to James Moriarty.

  “A man loses too much blood: he dies. Everybody knows this. So we learn that blood has a power—the power to sustain life. If too much of this power is drained, the life is lost. This much, of course, I have known. Only when I get this book do I see! Only when I read the word of Moriarty do I think: where does this power go? Can it be caught? Reclaimed? Used to a new purpose? I was nothing before I read this—a simple physician, only. Now, I plumb the secrets of life itself! Moriarty—a man I have never met—has taught me my art.”

  Sir Hugo glances at the heavy tome Sanzetti has placed upon the table and grunts, “It says it’s by someone named Carceau.”

  “The writer is immaterial,” Sanzetti scoffs. “I found this in a second-hand bookseller’s in Orleans. But the previous owner! Ah! Moriarty had the book before. He made notes in the margins, whenever Carceau was foolish. Light in darkness! Food for the starving mind!”

  “So you are in possession of Moriarty’s secrets and he doesn’t know you’ve got them?” asks Sir Hugo, who is feeling none too charitable tonight.

  “What? No! Well… yes, but I brought the book, see? I will give it back to him, tonight. I will thank him for making me all that I am.”

  “And perhaps he won’t kill you for it,” says Sir Hugo, raising his glass.

  Sheng applauds the story and feigns an apologetic tone as she begins to best it. “I have been honored to have three letters from Mr. Moriarty. In the first, he asked if I might prepare for him an unenclosing egg. With trembling hand, I wrote that I did not know how and sat back to await my doom. Instead, he wrote me instructions. One of the finest magical inventions of my own country, lost to me and all my kind, but Moriarty knows the secret. I steal a hundred-year-old egg, destined to be soup for the emperor. I make the unenclosing egg. I put it in a box of jade. I put this box in a box of wood. That one in a box of wicker. That one in a box of straw. I send five of our finest warriors to bring it over the long trade road, to Vienna. Four are slain; one returns but he has been driven mad and cannot tell me what has occurred. Yet I know Moriarty has the egg, for the madman bears a final letter. It says I have earned his thanks—this is my most prized possession.”

  They speak like this for over an hour. The first cask of wine is empty; the second is unsealed. Talog is terrified and hiding it poorly. Sir Hugo is near frantic, too, but the fear does not show on his face. It invigorates him. Still, he curses his missing guest. What if Moriarty does not come? What if he has guessed Hugo’s purpose and will not chance a confrontation?

  Sir Hugo almost jumps from his seat when he hears the tapping. Nobody heard the hooves, or the rattle of the black carriage. Nobody felt the attentions of the demons move across the room, straining towards the front door, eager to greet their favorite. But they hear the gentle tap, tap, tap of the silver hound’s-head cane on the massive oak door. Hugo curses. Barrymore goes to answer the door. He is trembling.

  When the hall door sweeps open, none of the assembled mages know what to expect, but one look at Moriarty is enough to teach them that he is exactly what they should have expected. He is a large man, yet thin. His stride displays a vigor that belies his age. He is dressed all in black, but not as an affectation or a sign of forbidden strength—only as a mark of austerity. He looks just like what he is: a scholar. His small black eyes seem to take in everything, but if they come to judgment on any of it, they choose not to make it known. Compared to the others assembled here, his appearance is so normal that he might go unremarked, were it not for his companion.

  The boy is naked but for a tattered loincloth. He is bent and tousle-haired and adorned with a magnificent collection of bruises. He keeps his eyes on the floor, as if all resistance and sense has been beaten from him. It very nearly has. Moriarty spares the room no greeting until he has swept off his long black cloak and flung it at Barrymore. He straightens his cuffs and without looking up, says, “Lady, gentlemen, I am James Moriarty. I am pleased to make your acquaintances.”

  There is silence until Moriarty and his boy cross the threshold into the great hall. With a sudden shriek Fasoul falls from his seat, crying, “Tatters and ashes! Tatters and ash! Look who comes with all the secrets! The promises… See how they dote on him? See how they fawn? Black Prince! Black Prince, we hail you!”

  Nobody else has found their voice yet, so Moriarty addresses them, one by one. “Sheng Xia, so good to meet you at last. I owe you my thanks and shall express it thus: whatever happens tonight, you are spared. You shall not suffer by my hand, or any other. Let your mind be at ease. Sanzetti, keep the book. It is right and fitting you should have that knowledge; enjoy it with my regards. Talog To-Tek, you are a fool. If there is one thing I may salute in you, it is this: that you have had the audacity to put yourself in the way of your betters. Go cautiously tonight and you may learn much. If you are rash, you shall perish.”

  Moriarty’s eyes fall on Fasoul, but he makes no greeting. What would be the point?

  When he comes to Sir Hugo, he smiles. “Ah, our host. None of you lot know it, but this is the best of you.”

  Sheng Xia and Sanzetti laugh. Sanzetti because he has no fear of Baskerville, Xia because she thinks Moriarty is joking. Moriarty is never joking. He turns to the room and barks, “Are you all so blind? Do you measure your power in corpses? In gold? In the number of men who fear you? Who else among you has had the wit to marry their fate to a place such as this? To spend all their earthly effort commanding the spot where four lines converge? To build—not so much a house—but a stone cistern for those outside powers we all study? Yet still, still, his finest achievement is yet to come. It happens tonight.”

  Moriarty looks about the room, studying each mage’s eyes. He is looking for a sign of recognition, a flicker of guilt that will betray its owner as a confederate of Hugo’s, or at least somebody who expected his plot.

  “None of you know?” Moriarty asks, almost dumbfounded. “None of you know why you are here? None of you understand why—tonight of all nights—I have agreed to come?” He laughs. “Tell them, Hugo.”

  Hugo is sweating. He is shaking and his palms are slick. This is the moment upon which all else hangs. He steps forward, points one finger in the face of his honored guest and declares, “Moriarty, you are in my power!”

  “Oh, Sir Hugo, I assure you I am not,” Moriarty says. “Sheng Xia, you are well versed in the ways of magic; what do you know of the Sothothian Knot?”

  Everybody turns to Sheng, who mumbles, “I have not heard of such a thing.”r />
  “You may know it as The Confounding Assurance of the Fullness of Tang.”

  “Ah! A protective ward. Dangerous to any who attempt to dispel it.”

  “Correct,” Moriarty says, “because there is only one thread of binding magic in it and… how many glamours?”

  “Nine?” Sheng hazards.

  “Sixteen. Pluck at the real thread and the spell is undone. Select one of the glamours and you invite its trap into the center of your soul. You will be bound to the will of the caster more surely than by any other spell. It takes a high degree of arrogance or desperation to dare to attempt dispelling a Sothothian Knot. Or a high degree of skill. Sir Hugo here has a particularly rudimentary version of it, woven around this very hall. Three threads that would dispel, only four to trap.”

  “Five!” protests Hugo.

  “Four. Did you not examine the final glamour? It was so clumsily added that a tug on it would dislodge the second binding thread, long before triggering its feeble curse. Though it was a glamour, it was as good as a true thread, to a thief. Three to dispel; four to trap. Did none of you notice this ward?” Moriarty asks the room. “You all walked in unawares? Always I except Fasoul, of course, who could not have failed to notice but is incapable of fearing it. Envy him, for he will never be fooled by a thread of glamour. None of us—not even I—will ever bind Fasoul.”

  The assembly is shocked. Sheng, in particular, cannot believe she was fooled.

  “Forgive yourselves,” Moriarty decides. “It was better concealed than it was constructed. Yet, this is only one example of the many traps our host has laid to make sure that each of us—myself most of all—are at his mercy. Isn’t that right, Hugo?”

  “Every sorcerer has his precautions,” Hugo says, his mind reeling. How many of his plots can Moriarty have discovered? How skilled is he?

  “You are no sorcerer, Sir Hugo, and you certainly are not cautious. You are daring—as a true wizard should be! If you were cautious, I would have killed you already. You have the audacity to try and shed my blood—mine!—to fulfill your plan. And what a plan! Or do I miss my guess? Are there no other traps you have laid? Is this my place at the table? It must be, eh? Why then, this would be my wine. I think I shall try it. Ah, a fine vintage, though I do note it tastes just a bit like Parthian granite. Yes, I think I shall drink it all. Please, give me a moment… Yes, an excellent wine. Oh wait, one drop is left. Ah! Delicious. Now, I think I shall carelessly hold this chalice in my good right hand for a few moments, before putting it down. Is there nothing you wish to say to me, Sir Hugo?”

  “…”

  “No? Do you not wish to note, perhaps, that by the strength of earth, I am bound to your will?”

  “…”

  “Are you sure, Sir Hugo? Look, I am putting down the cup. If you believe in your spell more than you believe in me, you must say those words. Say those words and forego my mercy, or admit that you are bested!”

  “…”

  “Well. The moment is past. I am done with my cup. I am pleased that you did not attempt to bind me, Sir Hugo. There are so few geniuses left in the world, it is always a waste to slay one.”

  Sir Hugo staggers, then collapses into his chair. His world is coming down. Yet the great gears of his plan are still grinding forward. The spell he’s been weaving for months is unstoppable, yet incomplete. If the sacrifices are not made by midnight…

  “He is a genius, you know,” Moriarty says. “Did none of you notice the floor?”

  Moriarty whisks his hand and the great oak table slides aside. A second brush and Sir Hugo’s concealing layer of granite powder is blown away, revealing the white lines that run beneath.

  “What do you suppose that white marble represents?” Moriarty asks.

  “Lines of power. Here is where the dark ones’ attention runs, back and forth,” Sanzetti says.

  “Correct. Two of them, you will note, are irregular and do not continue through. They end right here, in this hall. The others pass through the nexus and continue on. This great hall was constructed so the lines all converge under the chair at the head of this table. A clever touch, but here is where it becomes masterful: how many lines are represented?”

  “Four,” says Sheng. “Baskerville Hall is unique in that it sits atop the convergence of four lines of—”

  But Talog, staring at the floor, interrupts. “Five.”

  “Yes,” Moriarty beams. “Five. Now do you understand your host? No mortal has ever attempted to direct the opening of a new ley-line, or to determine its course. To endeavor it is daring; to succeed at it is wondrous. Yet that is what Sir Hugo stands to do, this very night. How could you have come to this hall for all these years and never recognized the genius of the man who built her? For shame.”

  Talog To-Tek is first to respond, with a cry of, “Ho! Ha-Ho!” He jumps from his chair. He bites his right thumb. He raises his fist. Six drops of blood fall to the floor in salute of Hugo Baskerville. Sheng begins a polite applause. Sanzetti joins; he had not seen it—any of it. Fasoul says nothing, but gives a little whimper. His head lolls north, south, north, east. He can see a storm, when one is coming.

  “I admit I have not worked out your entire plan,” Moriarty tells Hugo, “but I think I understand the basics. Have you a sacrifice of virtue prepared?”

  “She is in the East Tower,” Hugo says.

  “Excellent,” says Moriarty, and pours a cup of wine. “These grapes are not from Carpathia, I trust?”

  Hugo shrugs and looks to Barrymore, who says, “No, sir. From France. Burgundy, I believe.”

  “Very good. It is best to be cautious. Boy!”

  Moriarty’s boy hastens forward and his master holds forth two cups—one of wine, one of water—saying, “Go to the prisoner in the East Tower. Give her these. She must drink them both. Tonight she dies—if she is fortunate.”

  The boy takes the cups and shuffles from the hall. Barrymore goes too, at least so far as to show him the path to the East Tower. The boy drags his feet and sheds tears. He hates his master. He hates his own actions. Whether the tears are for his own lot or the girl in the tower, he cannot say. The stairs are steep; his legs are weak. Five flights up, to the top of the tower—his own heavy breaths almost hide the other sound. Crying. He comes to a door with a hatch, through which food can be passed.

  “Pardon,” says the boy, without looking up. “Pardon, but my master says you are to drink this.”

  He has surprised the occupant, who did not hear his steps. She rushes to the door. Hands clasp the bars. She pushes her face to the hatch.

  “Who is it?” she asks.

  “Please, you must drink this. My master says.”

  “Why? Who are you? Who is your master? Sir Hugo?”

  “This one is water. This one is wine. You must drink.”

  “Why? What is happening?”

  He looks up at her. He doesn’t mean to. She has such a sweet face; it reminds him of his sister. Imagine, if they could escape together. If they could go far away. She would be so grateful and so would he and any time either of them cried, the other could kiss their brow and remind them: all is well, now. She is so pretty. He wishes he hadn’t looked. “I… You must drink this… I’m so sorry…”

  “Who are you? What are they going to do to me?”

  “Please drink.”

  “What are they going to do?”

  “My master says… he says you will die tonight.”

  Silence for a moment, then the boy begins to cry. He is always crying. He hates himself. She has reason to weep, not he. Yet she is strong. Coward!

  “They’re going to kill me?” she asks.

  He only cries.

  “What is your name, boy?”

  He only cries.

  “Please. My name is Bhehr-Lylegnag. What is your name?”

  “That is a pretty name,” says the boy.

  It isn’t. It is the worst name she can imagine, but she smiles at him. What a sad little boy. Well, he is
almost her age—almost a man—but he seems so young. Funny, she feared this news would come; yet even in the face of it, she feels sorry for the boy. Maybe she is relieved it is only her life they seek.

  “What is your name?” she asks again.

  The boy sniffs. He wipes away his tears, but they are instantly replaced.

  “Warlock Holmes.”

  11

  DEEP UNDERGROUND, THE WORMS OF THE EARTH ARE turning. They are moaning. Realness is parting and unrealness rushes into the void. The outer truth is spilling in, to nobody’s benefit. The fifth line is opening.

  In the East Tower the boy can feel it. Possibility is flooding into him. He is sweating. He can feel the tiny parts—the tiny parts that make up everything. He feels it in the gold; he feels it in the lead; he feels it in the iron. The tiny parts that pull. The tiny parts that push. The tiny parts that do nothing, but contribute weight. All of them are waiting to respond to him. What is his wish? They are so bored of being trapped in their current state. Would he like to change them? Would he like to change the bars in the window? The chains upon this girl’s wrists? His fists are clenched with effort. His green eyes are burning; they light the cell.

  The girl is holding back her screams, terrified that she will cry out and alert the men below. What is wrong with this boy—this messenger? Is he an angel? Iron bars are become as glass, transparent and brittle. Now they are as water, running down the cold black stone. Now they are gone. Her chains have vanished. The air smells hot and strange. She cannot know it, but she is breathing in the remnants of her manacles.

  Downstairs, the festive atmosphere has returned. It had been strained. Now the guests are convinced. Now they marvel at the mastery of James Moriarty. They know that this Michaelmas is special. If they are faithful to Moriarty they will survive it and bear witness to the greatest magical event of the generation, perhaps of the millennium.

  “Of course, Sir Hugo here needs two sacrifices, to stabilize the line,” Moriarty says. “He has a sacrifice of virtue: the girl in the tower. Yet, he also needs a sacrifice of art: a practitioner of magic. Now that I am escaped from his little trap, whom do you suppose he will choose?”