The Hell-Hound of the Baskervilles

by G. S. Denning

  Holmes returned just after noon. I was pleased to see he’d divested himself of horns, though whether he’d employed magic or one of the kitchen knives, I could not tell. He’d been to Grimpen, he said, and had gathered information on where next to look for aid.

  “There can’t be too many farms about where people were eaten by horses, eh, Watson?” he said. “Sir Henry has agreed to let me use the trap. I’m going to send Wiggles back to London and do a bit of snooping about. Look for me by nightfall. If I am not back by midnight, I might not be coming. Probably best to flee Dartmoor at that point. Or England, to be safer. Then just try to spend all your money and have a generally good time until… well… you know.”

  Holmes left and the congenial air of arcane creativity resumed. We had little luck thinking of people or spirits who might have been wronged by Sir Hugo. We almost held a séance, but felt so ridiculous pacing up and down the great hall with lit candles that fits of laughter always stopped us from undertaking it in earnest. By five o’clock, biscuit crumbs and unfinished cups of tea littered the table. Darkness gathered. Holmes failed to return. Ten o’clock had come and gone and bedtime had been mentioned several times when, at last, I heard hoof beats in the drive. The doors to the great hall were open and the main door of Baskerville Hall lay just across the foyer, clearly visible. Presently, this door opened a crack and admitted Holmes, red-faced and sniffing. He closed the door as quietly as he could and crept to the great hall before returning any greeting.

  “How’d it go, Holmes?” Sir Henry asked. “Any luck?”

  “Quite a lot. Some good, some bad. I found a few objects that might help us,” Holmes said, patting his knapsack. “Unfortunately, my return trip took me closer than I would have liked to Merripit House and I half suspect I may have been seen.”

  This, at least, is what I think he said. It is hard to be sure, as the last few words were drowned out by a terrific explosion, which tore the doors from Baskerville Hall.

  16

  THE THING ONE DOES NOT EXPECT ABOUT EXPLOSIONS is the confusion they engender. I found myself off my feet before I knew what was happening. I realized I had been thrown, but not in which direction. The room was full of dust. The amount of force that had been applied to the front of Baskerville Hall had been sufficient to vaporize the aged mortar from between its stones. This, along with centuries of accumulated house dust, took to the air and went swirling into the unprepared lungs of everybody present.

  I couldn’t think or feel, only cough. I could not even discern up from down. I heard nothing but a desperate ringing in my ears. Luckily, I felt the floor beneath my hands. This not only steadied me but came with the bonus knowledge of where “down” was. As soon as my powers of cognition recovered enough to grasp the concept of antonyms, I realized I must therefore know where “up” was. I pushed myself to my feet and began to look around. I reeled—disoriented and unsteady. I nearly tripped over Perkins, which would have been bad for him, since he had a most magnificently shattered leg. The clouds of dust limited my vision, but the ringing in my ears began to resolve into the shouts and coughing fits of my stricken companions. The only thing I could hear clearly was the sound of Warlock’s voice saying, “Watson, I need you.”

  A second later something huge and flat scythed through the dust towards me. It seems Sir Hugo had wrenched both of the magnificent oak doors right off their hinges and then—exhibiting the changeability that evil sorcerers are known for—reversed his decision and sent them both flying into the body of the Hall. The first of these doors now approached and would, I think, have crushed a number of us to paste, had Warlock not stood to bar its way. He held one hand out before him, like a constable ordering traffic to stop. The first door hit his outstretched palm and exploded into a few hundred pounds of flying oak splinters. I’m sure anybody standing next to Holmes would have been shredded by the shrapnel, but the door had been shattered so completely that the tiny projectiles quickly lost all their force. In only a few feet, the deadly spray was reduced to nothing more than a suffusion of toothpicks, clattering across the stone tiles. Holmes shook no more than he would if a gentle spring breeze had broken across his palm and seemed exactly as unconcerned.

  The second door didn’t even make it to us. As it rocketed in to spell our doom, Holmes fixed it with a look of intense displeasure. It ceased its advance and hovered in the air. Loath as I am to attribute emotional processes to wood, there seemed to be a touch of reluctance in its bearing. Repentant of its earlier rashness, it reversed its course and spun off into the night to crash down on some unsuspecting patch of moor or other. Glad as I was that the door would not be joining our gathering, I was forced to admit that the next attendees to arrive were even more dangerous.

  The Stapletons were dressed for dinner.

  Jack—well… Sir Hugo—cut quite the figure in a black dinner suit, so excellent it could not be spoiled even by the ridiculous collar he’d fitted to it. Beryl wore a blue evening gown that suited her perfectly. Oh, she was radiant.

  “I told you,” she said, indicating Holmes. “It’s him. It’s the boy.”

  “You may be right, darling,” Sir Hugo said, stepping over the rubble in the doorway. “It’s been a very long time, Warlock Holmes. I must say, I didn’t expect to see you about.”

  “Me?” said Holmes. “I admit I’ve lasted a bit longer than most fellows do, but at least I’ve still got my throat. You are the one who ought not to be here, Sir Hugo. On a lighter note: welcome back, Bhehr-Lylegnag.”

  “It’s Beryl now,” she said.

  “You see?” said Holmes. “I told you it was a pretty name.”

  “Watson, I need you!” Holmes said again, but this time it came in the middle of his conversation with Beryl. I was certain his lips had not moved. I scratched my ear. Had I perhaps suffered a concussion?

  On the off chance, I said, “You need me?”

  His eyes flashed in my direction for just a moment and I distinctly heard, “Don’t talk to me, Watson; think to me! I am sending you instructions as best I can. If you wish to tell me something, you must think it at me. I know it is strange, but it’s the only way we can talk without them knowing what we’re up to. Have you the hatbox?”

  “It’s on the table… or it was,” I replied.

  “Find it, Watson. Oh, and you’re still talking out loud—just think.”

  I began casting about in the rubble for the hatbox Holmes had left me that morning. I was vaguely aware that Holmes and Sir Hugo were negotiating for my life.

  “I have no quarrel with you,” Sir Hugo said, “and I suppose you must have some art, or you would not have lived this long. Let us avoid unnecessary conflict. I offer you Watson; take him and go.”

  “A generous offer, Sir Hugo, but I cannot accept.”

  I could not find that damned box! The force of the first explosion had sent chairs, plates and portraits bouncing all over the great hall. At last, I spotted a chair leaning at a suspicious angle. When I looked to see what was propping it up, there was the hatbox.

  “Got it!” I thought to Holmes.

  “Ah! Good. Take the hat and comb and put them on one of the ley-lines. They’ve got to go on opposite ends of the same line.”

  With horror, I realized my situation. I think part of me had been hoping just to sit back and cheer on my favorite sorcerer, with no personal say in the outcome of the evening’s conflict. But no. Clearly, Holmes was only stalling Sir Hugo while I did the actual work. I prayed I’d be able to finish it before Hugo became suspicious and burned me alive.

  Holmes had adopted a new tack, and was speaking to Beryl. “I just wanted to say that I am very sorry for what happened to you, Bhehr-Lylegnag. I can’t imagine what you’ve suffered all these years. I only told Foofy to take you somewhere safe, where Sir Hugo couldn’t kill you. Once you were shot, the only place he could think of was… well…”

  “Foofy?” Beryl asked.

  “The hound?” asked Sir Hugo, wide-eyed.

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nbsp; “Yes. I made him and told him to go save Bhehr-Lylegnag, but—”

  “You made the hound?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Well… not on purpose. But yes, I did.”

  “It took me to hell!” Beryl screamed. “It took me to a burning plane of sadness, with only it and Sir Hugo to keep me safe!”

  I reached the west side of the room and dropped the comb onto one of the lines with feigned nonchalance. I glanced up nervously to see if I’d been noticed, then popped the top hat on my head and set off across the room, for the other end of the line.

  Near the ruined entry, Beryl was screaming, “For forty years I hoped you’d come and rescue me! I didn’t know how, but you were the only one who’d ever tried so… I just hoped it would be you! You never came! What did you eat for breakfast those forty years? I had burning maggots that bit the inside of my throat! That’s what I had! What did you have? Crumpets?”

  “I’ve never been partial to crumpets, really,” said Holmes, which turned out not to be a very good answer.

  “Forty years, I held out against him! Forty years I did not give in! I didn’t change myself! But you didn’t come! I had to give myself to him! I had to!”

  Suddenly, inky black bat wings erupted from Beryl’s back. Well, I shouldn’t say that, as if they burst through her skin, or appeared from nowhere. It was a much more natural thing than that. She merely unfolded them and I realized they had always been there. We’d all just been ignoring them, so we could convince ourselves she was perfect. How long had I known?

  “That is why I am so sorry, Beryl,” Holmes said. “I only meant to help. You know that, don’t you? I only meant to rescue you.”

  “Worst! Rescue! Ever!” Beryl raged. She had claws now, and the burning eyes that typified highly magical individuals. Fire ringed her dark brown irises. Somehow, it made them even prettier.

  On the pretense of tripping over a chunk of stone, I “dropped” my hat onto the far end of the ley-line and thought, “Done! Now what?”

  “Get John Barrymore onto one end of a line and Eliza on the end opposite him.”

  John Barrymore had moved to a point not far from me and was crouched over a huddled figure, which I soon realized was Sir Henry. He lay unconscious with a remarkable lump forming on one side of his brow. Still, his breathing was regular and I knew from past experience that the man could take a beating better than most.

  I bolted over to Barrymore and hissed, “Leave him. He’ll be fine. Go stand on that line over there and do not abandon it! Even if something kills you, make sure your corpse falls on that line or we are all done for!”

  John looked as if he wanted to cry, but he shuffled off to the nearest line. I left him and began casually sidling over to Eliza. I passed Gunther on the way, huddled behind a table doing his best to comfort Molly. True, she was neither as terrified nor as injured as many of the others, but she was pretty, damn it, and he was going to comfort her.

  At the entrance, Holmes was stammering, “So, I don’t mean to be rude… but… er… ah… it seems you’ve transformed into a succubus. Is that right?”

  Let it never be said that Warlock Holmes had a way with the ladies.

  “That’s what he wanted!” Beryl protested. “That’s what he made me!”

  “Now, this is just a guess, but—I imagine it was your… enhanced wiles that lured Sir Charles out so Hugo could scare him to death, yes?” Holmes wondered.

  “I am bound to my master’s will,” she said, evasively. I thought I saw her blush just a bit.

  Holmes gave a sad smile and said, “No longer. Tonight, I will unmake you. But I just wanted you to know I was sorry.”

  Sir Hugo grunted out a wry laugh. “I wondered if it was really you. When Mortimer said he was going to consult the famous detective Warlock Holmes I thought, ‘Perhaps it is a common name. It can’t be the same, stupid child, can it?’ Your little Watson-pet gave up no clue.”

  “Good old Watson,” said Holmes.

  “I’m glad it’s you,” Sir Hugo snarled. “Now that I know it was your hound that killed me and doomed me to hell, I am pleased to have the chance to thank you as you deserve.”

  Sir Hugo lunged into the air and hung there. All five lines on the floor of Baskerville Hall gave a collective creak and began to emit a faint light. Sir Hugo uttered a few words in some hideous, foreign tongue and streaks of purple fire shot from him towards Holmes. Much to my wonderment, Warlock seemed pleased by this. The first fireball he simply sidestepped. The second two he blocked by raising chunks of rubble into their paths. The fourth was disabled when Holmes said, “Azazel. Stop it.”

  From beneath the earth, a great and powerful creature could be heard, saying, “Awwwwwwwwwww!” and the fireball winked out, just a few feet from Holmes.

  I made good use of the time, dodging across the room to Eliza Barrymore who, I must say, was cooler under fire than many of my army comrades had been at Maiwand. I told her the same thing I had told John. This, she took in her stride, saying, “You have no worry of me. I will stay my ground.”

  “They are in place,” I thought at Holmes.

  “Good. Get my knapsack. Use the items in it to block another line.”

  That required more boldness than I cared for. The knapsack lay at Holmes’s very feet and he was the subject of quite a bit of negative attention.

  Sir Hugo hissed, “Vetches-Res-Hroth,” and a number of translucent arms rose from the ground to clutch at Holmes’s feet. I’m fairly certain it was an accident, but one of them grabbed the knapsack as it groped blindly about. I had to kick and kick at it, but it finally let go.

  Holmes was doing his best to keep Sir Hugo engaged in conversation, rather than battle. “A pity you weren’t Moriarty’s slave longer,” Holmes shouted. “He could have taught you some art. Look at this: so much power! No subtlety. No restraint.”

  I scooped up the knapsack and ran. When I reached inside to draw out the objects, my hand came down on a slippery, wet, flesh-like gob. I almost yelped, but mastered my disgust and drew out a mildew-covered leather feedbag. The second item was not as bad: an old wooden spindle from some long-forgotten spinning wheel. That was all.

  “A proposal, Sir Hugo,” said Holmes. “Let us take turns hitting each other with the softest killing spell we know, until one of us is dead. I wish you to know how little it takes to destroy you. You may go first. Muster your wit. Hit me with your softest shot.”

  Sir Hugo did take a turn, but not the one Holmes had asked for. He smiled back, raised his hands and shouted, “Mulciber!”

  Even I could feel the magic gathering. The white lines on the floor pulsed with energy. For an instant, fire burst from Holmes’s mouth and eyes, just as it had from Selden’s the night before. I thought all was lost, until Holmes said, “I think not,” and raised his hand skyward. All the candles in the hall’s many dusty candelabra burst into flame at once. Holmes shook his head. “All force. No art.”

  All around me I could feel the suffusion of magic coming to life. On the far side of the room, the top hat I had placed began to shake and bump, and I swear I heard it harrumph. Nearer to me I heard a lady’s voice say, “Oh look! Look what I have found!” The jeweled comb clinked and slid an inch further away from me.

  I plopped the disgusting leather feedbag down onto the last two-way line and began my headlong run for the other side of the room. I no longer cared for subtlety, hoping my enemy was too embattled to notice. Sir Hugo was, but as I plunged past the table Beryl yelled, “What is that one up to?”

  “Shut up,” Sir Hugo yelled back. “Holmes! Grab Holmes!”

  “Er… please don’t?” Holmes suggested, but Beryl spread her wings and flew straight at him. I saw her claws cut his arm and shoulder as she dragged him backwards. When he hit the table, Sir Hugo smiled and uttered a few more words in his guttural, demon tongue. The dining table sprouted two six-foot splinters, right through Holmes’s legs. He cried out in pain. I don’t know if it was a legitimate accident, or if
Sir Hugo really had so little care for Beryl, but one of the splinters pierced her through her abdomen, just above the left hip. She screamed. For an instant, she and Holmes were pegged together by the great table of Baskerville Hall. But only for an instant; no sooner had the splinters pierced Holmes than his eyes lit up their fiercest green and the great table liquefied and splashed down onto the floor. It was amongst the strangest things I had ever seen. It is not that it turned to water, oil or any known liquid. It was still wood. It flowed like water. It splashed as I ran through it. Yet, even in its strange new state, it kept its grain.

  Oh, and it gave me a devil of a time, finding the other side of the third ley-line. Throwing myself to the floor in what I judged to be basically the right area, I feverishly swiped wood-sauce this way and that, until I caught a glimpse of the lighter marble. With a relieved sigh, I dropped the spindle into place.

  “Done! What now?”

  In response, my mind flooded with agony and I fell, grasping at my legs. I slapped at them, trying to understand what had injured me. But there was nothing, only the projection of what Holmes was feeling. It came through with the rest of his thought. It was hard to tell which was more terrible.

  “Nothing, Watson,” Holmes thought. “That was all I found.”

  The pain subsided, yet the horror of that statement remained. We had not addressed the two short lines at all and I hadn’t seen any effect from my work on the other three. If only we’d had time to find more allies, or time to form a better plan… but no.

  Our time was up.

  Sir Hugo hovered farther into the room, sighing, “Ahhhhhhh, it feels so good to be home. Do you know how hard it was, restraining myself at all Sir Charles’s damned parties, with the lines just right here?”