Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [88]
‘You chose to be there,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘You were wearing uniform. And you lived when hundreds of good men died.’
‘And every day I wish I had died with them. But I live, and I have a purpose: to bring the British Empire to its knees. Starting with you, child.’
As he spat the words, Maupertuis seemed to float up in the air and land lightly on the table. The ropes above him tautened, pulled on by his black-clad puppeteers. A creaking noise filled the room as the ropes and the wood took the strain of the Baron’s weight. Somehow the servants had divined what he wanted them to do. Sherlock assumed they had been working with him for so long that they knew instinctively the way his thoughts were going and could translate them into instantaneous action. As Maupertuis’s feet touched the table, Sherlock sprang up from his chair. Beside him, Virginia did the same.
‘Baron!’ Mr Surd called. ‘You don’t need to do this yourself. Let me kill the children for you!’
‘No,’ the Baron hissed. ‘I am not a cripple! I will erase these interfering brats myself! All those months, all that time spent paralysed and designing this harness – it will not be wasted. I will kill them myself! Do you understand?’
‘At least let me kill the girl,’ Surd insisted. ‘At least let me do that for you.’
‘Very well,’ the Baron conceded. ‘Then I will deal with the boy.’
Seemingly weightless, Maupertuis drifted towards Sherlock, his feet moving but barely touching the surface of the table. He extended his hand towards the boy, and for a moment Sherlock thought that the Baron was inviting him up to the table, but instead cords and wires suddenly pulled taut inside the sleeve of the Baron’s uniform and a shining blade slid out of a scabbard hidden along his forearm. His twig-like fingers closed around a padded hilt, not so much controlling the blade as giving it some guidance.
Sherlock backed away towards the suit of armour that stood beside the door. He grabbed the sword from its mailed grip, knocking the armour to the floor.
Sherlock was barely aware that Mr Surd was walking out of the darkness, his metal-tipped whip dangling menacingly from his hand, but then the Baron sprang off the table towards him, swinging his sabre. The scaffold-like structure that held him was on wheels, and there were more servants behind it, pushing and pulling it along and swinging it around. Maupertuis could go anywhere in the room within seconds, faster than Sherlock could move.
The Baron swung his sabre. Sherlock parried clumsily, feeling the impact tear at the muscles in his shoulder. Sparks flew from the point where the blades clashed. The Baron leaped into the air, cleaving his blade down towards Sherlock’s head. Sherlock rolled to his left and the Baron’s blade tore through the back of the chair where Sherlock had been sitting only moments before, splintering the wood and sending bits of the chair in all directions.
Sherlock glanced desperately to his right. Virginia was backing away from Mr Surd, who was uncoiling his whip. He sent it lashing out at her, like a striking snake. She flinched away, too late. A gash opened up on her cheek. Blood sprayed in a flower shape across her skin.
Sherlock desperately wanted to rush to help, but the Baron landed lightly on the floor in front of him. Springing to his feet, Sherlock slashed his blade sideways, trying to cut one of the ropes and cords that held the Baron up, but the black-clad servants pulled their master backwards, out of Sherlock’s reach. The Baron’s white, skull-like face split open in a grimacing smile. His pink, rat-like eyes seemed to glow with triumph. He sprang, his right foot sliding on the carpet and his right arm, holding the sabre, extending forward in a perfect thrust while his left foot braced his body. Sherlock could hear grunts from the servants in the shadows as they threw their weight