Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [89]
‘I was the greatest fencing master in the whole of France!’ Maupertuis gloated. ‘And I still am!’
Virginia cried out, and Sherlock glanced involuntarily in her direction. Surd had her pinned by the wall. Another cut had been opened up across her forehead. The redness of the blood was dulled by the copper of her hair, glinting in the sunlight that spilt through the undraped window. Sherlock tried to move towards her but the Baron’s sabre came flashing out of nowhere, slashing through Sherlock’s shirt collar and carving a line of fire across his chest. Pushing himself to his feet he backed rapidly away, his blade weaving in front of him in a desperate attempt to block the Baron’s thrusts.
With a heaving of wooden machinery and a creaking of ropes, the Baron’s body levitated and flew forward in a way that no merely human swordsman could match. He swung his sabre horizontally, like a scythe. Despite his claims to be a master swordsman all thoughts of swordsmanship appeared to have vanished from his mind. He was just hacking mindlessly at Sherlock now, and Sherlock’s arms were tiring from the effort of blocking the blows. His muscles burned and his tendons felt as tight as violin strings.
Something flew through the air past Sherlock’s head, and he turned to look. It was a metal gauntlet, part of the suit of armour he had knocked over earlier. Virginia had scooped it up off the floor and thrown it at Mr Surd, who was shielding his face. Virginia picked up a metalled boot and flung it. The metal toe caught Mr Surd above the eye, and he swore.
Sherlock moved backwards as Maupertuis strode forward, the ropes above the broken man creaking under the strain. How did the black-clad puppeteers manage to coordinate their movements so well? Maupertuis walked as well as anyone without those terrible injuries. There was even a swagger in his step.
The Baron raised his sword up past his left ear and slashed diagonally downward at Sherlock’s head. Sherlock blocked the blow. Sparks from the point where the two swords clashed flew away like tiny glowing insects, stinging Sherlock’s neck and shoulders.
It was hopeless. Maupertuis was a master swordsman, even handicapped as he was by having his every move performed by anonymous servants. Either those servants were themselves master swordsmen – which Sherlock could almost believe – or they and the Baron had trained together for so long that they instinctively operated as a single organism, without the need for communication or thought. How many thousands of hours had Maupertuis spent drilling them until they worked almost as extensions of his will?
Sherlock edged backwards, but his elbow and shoulder banged against something hard. The wall! He had retreated as far as he possibly could.
Maupertuis’s elbow jerked back and his sword flashed forward like lightning. Desperately, Sherlock slid sideways, and the blade sliced through the collar of his jacket and on, grinding into the gap between two blocks of stone. Sherlock tried to pull away, but he was pinioned, stuck like a butterfly on a board.
He braced himself, waiting for Maupertuis to withdraw the blade ready for a final strike so that he could slide down and escape, but instead Maupertuis brought his left hand up. Wires and cords writhed like tendons, and something slid out of the Baron’s left sleeve. For a moment Sherlock thought it was a knife, but there was something strange about the tip. It looked more like a metal disc with a serrated edge.
Something whirred in the darkness behind Maupertuis and the wheel began to spin, scattering glittering shards of light in all directions. Sherlock could feel the air brushing past his face as the Baron brought the saw-toothed wheel closer and closer to his right eye.
Despair washed over him. Sherlock was no match for the Baron. He couldn’t last against this kind of punishment for