Sherlock Holmes: The Shadow From Beyond (20 page)

“We should arrive at the ceremony within moments

Watson! Keep on your guard!”

Upon Holmes’ cautionary remark the good doctor removed his trusty revolver from within his jacket and released the safety catch from the weapon.

Just in time it seemed as moments later chaos erupted about them.

Holmes screamed a warning from ahead, “Beware

Watson we are attacked!”

From out of the shadows emerged solid forms.

Shadow Boxing

A mass of twisting bodies and limbs lunged out of the darkness to assault them. Dark shapes that made no sound, but attacked without abandon, savage and relentless.

Arms lurched outward, fists flailed wildly.

The torch held aloft by Holmes was knocked aside and to the ground while his form grappled with a cloaked figure. “Defend yourself!” he shouted aloud.

Something heavy collided into Watson, it set him off balance and spun him about. He fired his Webley repeatedly at the form that assaulted him. The flare of spurting fire that erupted from the barrel illuminated the twisted visage of his attacker’s face, a human face now shattered and bloody. He fired again at another lunging shade; it crumpled in death before his feet. The smell of gunpowder and burnt flesh filled his nostrils as he discharged repeatedly into the determined psychotic mob.

“Cultists Holmes! Berserk with madness from the ceremony!” Watson yelled as he fired off another cartridge into the aggressors. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as his companion connected a left hook to the jaw of an unfortunate assailant, then a solid right jab to the mid- section before putting up a sturdy defense of dodges and blocks.

Holmes had years of training in the martial arts fighting style of Baritsu and further years of experience as an amateur pugilist, skills that gained him an upper hand at the moment. The detective countered a descending strike from one attacker with a sharp right hook that snapped the victim’s neck back sharply with an audible crack. A left jab to the solar plexus was followed by a hand chop to the exposed back of the neck of another cultist that quickly put an end to him. The robed figure collapsed in a heap at his feet, but was immediately replaced by the next zealot in line who attacked with fervor. Holmes kicked out and connected forcefully with the attacker’s groin. As the form doubled over, Holmes followed through with a violent uppercut. The fanatic coughed blood and spat teeth.

Watson was also trained in military hand combat tactics, but the injury he had sustained from a Jezail bullet in Afghanistan and the years of overindulging in Mrs. Hudson’s home cooking had slowed his abilities substantially. He thus relied on his trusty Webley Bulldog 38 to do most of the work for him. He spun to the right, aimed his revolver high, and fired a shot that blasted the descending dagger from a cultists grip just before it would have plunged deep into Holmes’ back. Then returning to his own defense, he jammed the flaming torch he still held in his left hand deep into the face of an oncoming zealot, it seared flesh and ignited greasy hair. The figure reeled backward in agony, his cloak engulfed by the biting flames that spread quickly about him.

They fought by tooth and nail within the glow of wavering torches and burning bodies. Holmes used his boxing and martial arts abilities to rend the mad cultists broken and battered while Watson emptied cartridge after cartridge into the surging fray until that gut wrenching;
Click! Click! Click!
sound from the revolver signaled that no bullets remained. Even empty the smoking Webley was a formidable weapon and Watson threw it forcefully into a cultists’ eye, blinding him. He then swung his torch from side to side in an attempt to ward off their further advances but was hard pressed, soon the circle of fanatics closed tightly about him.

Suddenly there was a sharp pain to his left temple, and then a blow to his kidney, and Watson fell down to one knee. He breathed heavily, spots danced before his blurring vision and he lost balance. One of his attackers had managed to sneak up behind the doctor bypassing his defenses.

Another flurry of punches and kicks laid him low and he crumpled to the stone ground. He looked upward as his consciousness failed and the last thing he saw before the darkness overtook him was Holmes reaching out to him from behind the mob, his eyes gleamed angrily in the torch light.

Reunion

“Watson! Watson my dear chap wake up!”

A heavy shaking of body brought Watson to a sudden start. For some reason he was immediately clear headed and alert, his wide eyes stared straight into the face of his dearest friend.

“Holmes! You live! Thank heavens!” He took a moment to look over the figure standing in front of him to make sure he was not dreaming. “I was positive you were murdered by those cultist swine! There seemed to be so many of them about us, and my last memories before I lost consciousness were of them overwhelming us. It is truly a miracle Holmes! How did you survive? How did I survive even? And where are we know?!!”

“Relax a bit my dear Watson, take a deep breath and calm yourself. You have had a nasty bump on the head I’m afraid, and have been unconscious quite a while. You awoke about ten minutes ago, but in your haste to stand, swooned and collapsed back into slumber. I have looked you over, and other than a slight gash, a few bumps and some bruising, you have suffered no grave lasting damage. As to why we both are still alive, I can only believe the Count has other plans for us. We will have to wait to find out what they can be, but I doubt they will point to our healthy release, in fact our deaths seem to be in his great interest.” Holmes paused a moment and met Watson gaze before he continued. “I would like to apologize, John, for my behavior earlier.”

At this statement the good doctor’s mouth opened wide, it was very rare indeed that Holmes addressed him by his first name and he was somewhat taken aback.

“What in blazes Holmes? Apologize for what behavior? I have only seen the most heroic and humane actions from you since this case began. Pray explain where are you going with this nonsense?”

Holmes looked over at his old friend, deep regret reflected in his eyes. “I left you John, back in the cave where we were attacked. Plain and simple, I left you in the hands of those savages. For this I am truly sorry. To leave a friend in such a manner is well beneath my character.” Watson realized that Holmes spoke with utmost sincerity.

Rarely did the emotional side of the great detective escape his veil of logic, in fact if one did not spend a great deal of time with him, you would think emotion was not a characteristic he possessed.

“Left me? How is that?” It was obvious that Watson was befuddled by Holmes’ statement. “We were both deep in their midst without hope, I not even conscious. You were obviously overpowered as well. Are you sure it is not you who suffered the bump on the head?”

“No Watson,” Holmes replied, returning to the familiar title he used while addressing his closest and probably only true friend, “I am actually quite alright considering recent actions, but let me clear up the situation and fill you in on the events that had occurred from just after you had been knocked into dreams.”

“I must say,” Holmes recounted, “that rage overwhelmed me upon the site of your prone body on the cave floor; in fact I had assumed the worst. With blood streaming from your temple and cultists surrounding you, I thought you may be dead. The rush of anger pumped adrenaline deep through my veins, I became beyond myself with energy and strength. Those following moments seem a blur, but I vaguely recall using all my abilities to tear into the pack, to get to you at all costs. At least two of them will not wake again, and a few others will be lame, but their numbers proved too large, the odds were well against me and soon I was on the defensive again. In the end I was able to fight them off and flee down a side tunnel, leaving a few of the cultists’ battered bodies behind to block my escape. It was extremely dark without a torch to guide me, surely tricky going, and I often stumbled on loose stones and tore my skin upon jagged rocks.

“The cultist had not followed for long before I managed to lose them in the confusion of the twisting passages. At one point I also became disoriented and had to take a moment to gather myself and check my options. I decided to follow the ongoing sounds of the drumming and chanting litany to its source, and somehow put an end to Lebda’s occult ceremony by any means at my disposal.

“If I escaped alive I vowed to search you out, holding onto the slim hope that you still lived, or to hunt down and extract my vengeance on any responsible for your death if that was the case. But here you are Watson, alive and well considering! I must say I almost cried tears of joy when I was thrown into this cell and noticed your sleeping form upon the cot.” Holmes paused to look over Watson, a light smile upon his lips.

“Anyways back to the tale,” he continued, “After a short time of following the sound of drumming down winding passageways I emerged upon a ledge that overlooked a large cavern, the occult ceremony was spread out below me. There I gazed down upon a bizarre sight indeed, one both horrific and fantastic, for assembled were at least a dozen or so persons attired in the hooded garb of those cultists who attacked us earlier. The torches that lined the cavern walls shed an eerie glow on the assembled group and cast sinuous shadows along their painted stone facades. I noticed that patterns and images had been rendered along the walls of this subterranean cavern, alien symbols and exotic images of unknown subject that covered all the exposed surfaces. The rich smell of burning incense filled the moldy air and plumes of purplish clouds added to the already claustrophobic atmosphere.

“At the head of the assemblage upon a raised platform, stood a man who must have been Count Lebda himself. He was cloaked in a crimson robe embroidered with golden patterns that shimmered and seemed to move and entwine within themselves upon the silken fabric. He was leading the group in the devilish ceremony, and in his upraised hand he held aloft the ‘Eye of the Watcher’, of this I was sure, as it was identical to the drawings in Professor Harper’s journal, and the newspaper photo detailing the museum theft. The relic itself is definitely empowered somehow for it glowed with a brilliant light that illuminated from within, the gem that was once pitch black swirled with a strange ethereal radiance.

“Behind Lebda I noticed a large stone portal carved into the wall, a doorway of sorts, arched and framed by dark polished stones etched with ruins unfamiliar to any human culture. At the center of this archway was an immense large black stone that, although polished to mirror sheen, reflected nothing upon its inky surface. Just to the right of Lebda’s outstretched hand stood a stone dais, with an ebony statue upon it. This statue stood only a few feet high, but was of the most grotesque and alien form I have ever laid eyes upon: A pulpy mass of writhing appendages, ropey tentacles, and gaping mouths that featured multiple rows of sharpened fangs is how one might describe it, but many of its physical characteristics were beyond association. The head, which was far too large for its body, was also covered in coiled feelers, and large wings seemed folded intricately behind its back. The black sheen of this ghastly representation glittered in the glow of the torchlight.

“The only area of the statue devoid of detail was a circular indentation at the center of its so called face, where a large cycloptic eyeball would normally be located. Obviously this area was meant to contain the relic in Lebda’s outstretched hand, the Eye of the Watcher!

A couple of entranced cultists drummed madly upon tight skinned tam tams, creating the savage cadence that propelled the ceremony onward. The remaining followers were all prone with hands splayed on the floor in front of them and foreheads pressed vigorously against the cold stone ground. All were in the midst of chanting their cryptic litany. Sickly sweet sounds of alien dialect issued from their lips to mix with the fevered rhythmic beat that echoed ominously about the claustrophobic cavern;

“ENU SHUB

AM GIG ABSU

KISH EGIGGA

GAR SHAR DA SISIE AMARADA YA

DINGIR UD KALAMA SINIKU

DINGIR NINAB GUYU NEXRRANIKU

GA YA SHU SHAGMUKU TU !”

“The chant was deep and other worldly with elements of unknown vocabulary and unusual phonetics intermixed within its twisted harmonies. It was mesmerizing Watson, the rhythm penetrated deep within my mind, the thick incense filled my lungs and eventually a dreamlike state of relaxation overcame me and weakness filled my muscles.

“I was logical of mind but unable to function physically. My will fought so hard against this hypnotic trance, the fate of the world depended on my next actions, and yet I failed once again.” Holmes voice dropped a level in volume, his eyes looked away. “I have failed and now I do not know what can be done to stop Lebda from accomplishing his goal.”

Count Lebda

“It’s alright Holmes, at least we are safe and alive.” The doctor consoled as the two sat in the humid cell deep under tons of rock.