by Paul Kane
I glanced across in time to see the spider I’d kicked about to leap on the Cenobite. “John... the magick,” said Mary. “Use your magick!”
There was no other option; I mumbled the first words I could call to mind, held out my hand and closed it into a fist. The spider curled up into itself, mangled into a tight ball by my spell.
I opened my fingers slowly, amazed by what I’d just done.
Veronique turned, looked down at the mess, and nodded. As much of a thank you as I would get from a servant of Hell. Hugging Mary close, I said, “I... I thought you said this place, these books, were protected?”
Then I looked again at the devastation Moriarty’s beasts had wrought, to find everything in its rightful place. The books that had been destroyed were back on the shelf, as were the ones that had fallen on those spiders who attacked me.
We joined Madame, who was examining the dead Cenobitical spiders nearest to her. “Lucky you happened to come along,” I said.
“It was no coincidence. I was sent to fetch you both at my Lord’s behest.”
I sighed. “What does your god want with us now?”
“Not my god,” Veronique explained. “My Lord and Master. The being that was once known as Sherlock Holmes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Born Again
DYING WAS HARD.
However, what followed was the most painful thing Holmes had ever experienced. Inside that great machine he’d been slowly unpicked, piece by piece, until there was only his essence left. He was confronted not only with his failures, but the fact that his existence had been insignificant compared with the future that awaited him. Yet something kept drawing him back to that moment at the Falls, grappling with Moriarty, losing his footing and tumbling over and over – losing sight of the Professor, but seeing something as the man fell away from him. The opening of a door, a gateway unlocked by the solving of a mathematical puzzle. A gateway through which he’d seen something; through which something had seen him.
The sight had instilled in him a desire to find out more, and the nagging feeling that something terrible was going to happen that he needed to prepare for. That moment had led to him finally being mangled himself by his arch-nemesis, who’d escaped and suffered at the hands of the Cenobites, only to claw his way to the top of the ranks and operate behind their god’s back. A god that now needed Holmes’ help, that was prepared to heal and transform him so that he could finally put an end to Moriarty’s schemes.
This was how they were made, he’d been told – how they always had been since anyone could remember; unique individuals chosen to fulfil a certain set of duties. A constant stream of servitors to do Hell’s bidding. Something of the previous character would always be retained, however – reflected in the dress or what was done to the flesh. Holmes’ coolness, his aloofness, should have stood him in good stead during and after his conversion, if it hadn’t been for the Engineer’s heightening of his senses. Consequently he’d felt everything, not just the pain but every single moment of his being, good and bad. Every kind of emotion bombarded him at once, so many that he thought he was going to explode.
However, his alteration was different to those who had gone before. Their god had handed over as much of its power as it was able, enough – hopefully – that he would be able to stop Moriarty. He would be himself, but at the same time its vessel.
It would take a god to fight a god.
So he was pieced back together. Born again. Organs, muscle, bone and skin. All much stronger than before, his outer-layer bearing the markings of his transformation: blue flesh patterned with redness. Then clothed in the traditional leathers, the finishing touches added. A worthy general to command Hell’s forces.
As he stepped out of the ‘womb’, she had been waiting for him. Veronique, who had escorted him to parlay with a deity, who had saved him so that he could take the place of her beloved.
Her reaction was... unexpected. Mouth gaping, hands trembling, she fell to her knees in front of him, swearing her fealty. He doubted the others would be so quick to do the same, some would take greater persuasion – but in the end they would see it his way. There was a war coming and he needed soldiers.
But first, he needed his best friend.
He needed Watson.
WHEN VERONIQUE RETURNED from the library with the man himself, accompanied by his late wife, the Holmes Cenobite was standing and looking out at the view.
Now he knew every single corridor of Hell, knew where each archway led. He could even find his way to the heart of the maze; and he admired the simple complexity of it all, the beautiful contradiction. He was also aware now of every single member of the Order, had already sent out a call to them. A call to arms; a summons stronger than any opening of the box, than any solving of a knot or code or origami exercise.
But Watson, well he’d had to send for him the old-fashioned way. Veronique had been all too willing to oblige, obeying her first command with delight. She’d known, even as she was carrying him to make his pact, that this was the only way to ensure Hell’s survival. That he was the key to the Engineer’s downfall, and subsequently, her revenge.
“Here they are, my Lord. They were under attack when I found them.”
He did not turn, not yet ready to see the horror in his friend’s eyes.
“Holmes...” Watson began, and he could hear his footsteps. “Holmes, what have you –”
Holmes finally faced his old companion. “Only what I had to do,” he replied. But instead of horror, he saw yet more sadness there. The kind of sadness that comes with grief at the loss of a loved one. “What was necessary.”
“Oh Holmes,” was all the Doctor could muster. “Surely there must have been some other way?”
“If there was, I remain at a loss to see it,” he admitted. “You and I both know what is at stake here.” Once again, he had sacrificed himself – a means to an end. The same means to an end, in fact: to rid the world, both these worlds, of Professor Moriarty. “Have you yourself not crossed a line, also?” he said. “I can smell the dark magick on you.”
Watson hung his head. “So,” he said when he looked up, “you have done what you have done. You are their leader now, you have an army of Cenobites at your disposal. Why do you need me anymore?”
Holmes placed his hands on Watson’s shoulders. “You think I don’t need you?” he said. “I need you more than I have ever done before. You are my right arm. You are my constant companion. You are my friend... And you are my Major. It is not just my army to command – it is ours!”
Watson stared at him, searching a face that he knew and yet didn’t. Then he looked back over his shoulder at Mary, who smiled. “Very well,” he said, turning back and nodding. “What happens next?”
“I would seek your counsel, Watson. There is much preparation to do before we meet our enemy on the field of combat.” Holmes waited a moment or two then finished with, “And our army will need to be armed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Hell’s Armoury
BY THE TIME Madame Veronique had led us to Holmes, I’d worked it out.
I knew by the way she now referred to him – her Master; her Lord – that whatever deal he had done with their god, it had put him in charge; Glass’ replacement as Hell’s favourite son. I had to hope it was only temporary, although when I saw him standing on the edge of that precipice, surveying his new kingdom, I began to wonder if it was. His stiff demeanour had returned after the rigours of his time with Moriarty. His clothes – that dress, the leathers of his trousers and cape – mirrored the outfit that I had seen him wear so many times, on so many adventures, but it was only as I called out a greeting and he turned, that I saw exactly what had happened to Sherlock Holmes.
His pale face was covered in markings – his flesh tattooed with symbols from the box, grafted not just onto his countenance but also visible on every inch of exposed skin. The scarification looked red raw, but Holmes showed no sign that he was in pain.
However, it was his eyes that most startled me, not totally devoid of white, but cloudy and swirling, as if full of the black light that had so empowered the Professor.
“What have you done?” I asked him.
“Only what was necessary,” came his reply. Yet, the more I looked at him, the more we talked, the more I sensed the true Holmes beneath it all. The one I had so wanted to return to me ever since his... since his death. How ironic that it had taken his actual death, that it had taken being turned into one of them – one of the Order – for this to happen. His very survival dependent on his dying first. And how strange that after all the disguises I had seen him don over the years, I found this one – a Cenobite, and a Cenobite general at that! – the least convincing. Nevertheless, it appeared the most permanent.
My shock at all this would have to wait, though. As Mary had said, and Holmes confirmed, he needed me now more than ever and what forces were his to command were also mine. But first, before we could talk about how we were going to fight Moriarty, I would need to see what kind of weaponry Hell had to offer.
If anything, its armoury – which Veronique took us to next – was larger than its library. Knowledge might well be power, but one would have been able to rule entire continents with only a fraction of the arsenal in that place.
“I’ve... I’ve never seen anything like it,” I admitted. And I never would again. If you took all of the weaponry from all of the wars I’d been taught about, and placed it together, then you still wouldn’t have any sense of the cache that had been amassed and stored here.
There were swords and axes, so sharp they could cleave stone in two; maces I couldn’t even lift, that would cave in a skull proficiently if wielded by expert hands; spears forged from gold and silver, decorated with jewels – although whether they were for show or to cause more damage, I could not say. There were scythes that would have made the Grim Reaper green with envy; bows and arrows and crossbows I was assured, when used, would penetrate even the toughest of armour. Defensive weapons too – shields of every size and shape, polished and gleaming. There were rifles and pistols that would never run out of bullets; shells so large that they could probably destroy an entire building. I picked up several of the handguns, testing their weight in my hands and finding each one perfectly balanced.
All of this on top of the supernatural powers that were already at each Cenobite’s disposal.
“What’s behind there?” I asked Madame, pointing to a huge metal door that had a padlock on the handle.
“Our most dangerous array.”
“More dangerous than all this? Is that even possible?” Poor choice of words, I know, for none of this should actually have been possible. Part of me was still waiting to recover from whatever drugs or hypnosis had been used on me. But all I could really do was play along and hope for the best. If the fate of the world, my world, rested on what happened next, whether this was real or not, I had to give it my best shot.
“Yes. Staffs of power, magical hammers, amulets, wands and stones... They are locked away because they are the items that are potentially the most harmful to us. That can do us the most damage.”
“Forgive me for saying so, but I think right now we could do with all the damage we can get our hands on, don’t you?” I looked from Mary to the female Cenobite. Veronique thought about it for a moment or two, so I prompted her. “Holmes did say all of this was at our disposal.”
Finally, she agreed and opened the door with a key while mouthing a series of incantations. “I... This is not right,” she said gazing into the vault.
Mary and I peered around her, but all we could see was blackness. “There’s nothing in here.”
“The weapons have been stolen!” shouted Veronique.
“If I was still a betting man, I would put quite a considerable amount of money on who has taken them.”
Mary closed her eyes and nodded. “You would not lose that bet, John.”
“Then the situation is graver than we thought.”
“And if you’re going to arm the Cenobites, you need to do so quickly,” Mary added. “Because it is about to start. The Professor is gathering his troops together. Soon they will march and then...”
“Then,” I said, “then you will have your war.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Hellfire with Hellfire
THE MAN WHO had once been SherlockHolmes stared out over the congregation of Cenobites below, armed and as ready as they’d ever be, laid out like pieces on a chess board.
His father would have been proud that he commanded such an army, though probably not what they consisted of, nor the way he had come by his new rank.
(And he knew he was fortunate that he was even able to retain those memories; none of the other Cenobites had... apart, of course, from the Engineer, by way of trickery.)
“Sherlock,” his father had once said, “it does not take courage to send men into battle. But it does to lead them into battle.” Those were words he intended to honour. He would not hide behind a wall of bodies until the fighting was done. No, he would lead by example.
His gaze swept over the figures in black, metal glinting here and there in the cobalt luminescence of Hell. Still, there were not nearly as many as there had once been – and now he knew why. The secret vault of the armoury had been accessed, the most lethal weapons of all taken; used, a few at a time. Moriarty had been building his own creations and simultaneously whittling down the number of true Cenobites, knowing that this day would come. One step ahead, as usual.
One step ahead until he’d let Holmes escape from his clutches, that was; a move which had forced his hand, escalated things somewhat. He might have gone on, destroying servant after servant, draining off more and more black light until his victory was all but assured. And then... well, who knows what would have happened once Hell was under his control? What might still happen...
It was a powerful drug, the light. Even now he felt it coursing through him, strengthening him; more potent than anything he’d ever taken, more toxic than any poison he’d ever fed himself. Part of him couldn’t blame the Professor for wanting more, for wanting so much he would elevate himself above all other Cenobites, so much he would practicallybe a god himself. If the amount he’d ‘borrowed’ made Holmes feel like this, how would it be if it was all inside him?
But it wasn’t his to take, to own. It belonged to something else. His new father and mother combined, who had granted him this form. Who would ordinarily have winked him out of existence just as quickly for such thoughts – if it hadn’t needed him so badly. As badly as he’d needed Watson’s support himself.
Time ran differently here, but it could still run out, and they’d only just had enough to confer about the best course of action, broaching ideas about the strategies that might win them this war, eventually coming to an agreement on one plan – and with another little surprise up their sleeve from Holmes. Something, hopefully, the Professor had not anticipated.
It was how they’d always worked best, Watson asking those niggling little questions and forcing Holmes to think harder, to be on top of his game; to doubt himself, but to finally break through to a solution. Oh, Holmes masked it all the time, the doubt which was always there, but knew Watson suspected the truth.
He looked over at Veronique, who had substituted her skirts for leather breeches and was now preparing to lead her own troops: a squadron of Amazonian-looking Cenobite women, some – who were holding bows already primed with arrows – having cut or cauterised their breasts in order to obtain a better aim. Holmes knew they had enjoyed this process of scarification, the ladies being Cenobites after all. Also amongst their number was the winged Lilith, first wife of Adam, seductress and child-murderer; Eve, who many still believed to be the first woman and was often blamed for original sin; Cleopatra the Alchemist, originally from the 3rd Century AD and not to be confused with the famous Egyptian Queen, she had actually been one of the few who possessed the knowledge of the Philosopher’s
Stone; Joan of Arc, who had been influenced by her countryman Gilles de Rais and took part in rituals to bring forth demons to help the French fight the British, creatures who had eventually ‘saved’ her from the fire after recognising her potential; and the woman who had once been known as Elizabeth Báthory, who had bathed in the blood of her hundreds of victims, and was now permanently red and slick with the stuff...
Veronique herself was armed not only with her whip, but with the weapon she’d stooped to snatch up when they were escaping from Moriarty’s lair: her former leader’s glass blade. She must have felt Holmes’ eyes upon her because she looked up and saluted. Holmes nodded and returned the gesture.
Holmes looked out over his army. Even the most rebellious Cenobites had rallied to his call now he had been so transformed. One, called Tomain, had such tiny pin-prick eyes it was a wonder he could see anything. Another had several bulging, bloodshot eyes that stood out on its shaved head. He was known as The Watcher. One Cenobite had skin that looked paper thin, almost translucent. His mouth was damaged, flesh ripped away to reveal ragged teeth, and his eyes glowed red in his skull. This was Vestimenti, one of the oldest and wisest of those gathered below; Holmes was lucky to have gained his support.
Holmes’ gaze came to rest on The Ravisher, whose eyelids and lips had been wrenched back by hooks; more a lover than a fighter, even so he had answered the summons. As had The Confessor, with his jaw stretched obscenely wide, to accommodate his many writhing tongues. Not far away was the Cenobite known as Our Lord of Quarters, a demon obsessed with wealth and the striking of bargains, his finest hour had been in Constantinople many centuries ago. Coins formed the irises of his eyes, and were embedded in his gums, flashing whenever he grimaced. And who could forget The Gardener, usually found in the centre of his own maze of foliage; his body alive with branches, plants and vines.