The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(109)
“Good God, Arthur!” Jane cried as she saw the blood seeping through Doyle’s fingers. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, it’s only a scratch,” said Doyle, narrowing his eyes and looking around him. “But clearly that thing was intending something worse.”
Shaken by this clear attempt on Doyle’s life, the group remained huddled in the center of the room.
“Where the devil is it?” said Murray, his eyes darting round the room.
“Look, over there!” cried the petrified Great Ankoma, whose bushy beard had become unstuck and was dangling from his face.
They all saw one of the swords being unhooked from the shield he was pointing to. For a few seconds it remained suspended in the air, twisting slowly, the adjacent candles twinkling ominously along its blade, as if the creature had paused to marvel at its sharp edge before using it on them; then they looked on in terror as it cleaved the air with a couple of two-handed swishes. There was an evil threat implicit in those preparatory movements, but they also revealed the creature’s position. Doyle and Murray understood this at the same time. Murray grabbed a chair and, raising it above his head, hurled it at the sword. There was a grunt of pain as the weapon dropped to the floor, and then an angry roar split the air. Meanwhile, Doyle had plucked the sword from the painting and was advancing toward where the creature supposedly was, swinging the blade furiously with both hands as he shouted, “George, keep Jane safe! Woodie, Gilmore, grab a weapon! Surround the table and—”
Before he could finish his sentence, he doubled over, crying out in agony. A second later, he straightened up abruptly, his face toward the ceiling, as if he had received a powerful uppercut, and tottered for a moment before collapsing. Almost instantaneously, the Great Ankoma felt a violent shove propel him toward the dining room table. As though swept up by a tornado, he landed on it with a terrifying crunch of splintered bones and wood, while the oil lamp rolled onto the floor, depriving them of the main source of light in the room. Jane gave a bloodcurdling scream that was quickly eclipsed by the creature’s evil laugh.
“Give me the book, George!” the voice insisted. “Hand over The Map of Chaos and all this can end!”
He began to howl like an angry beast, and several of the portraits on the walls came crashing to the floor.
“Grab as many weapons as you can and defend yourselves!” Doyle spluttered, standing up and trying to make himself heard above the creature’s spine-chilling cries.
Murray obeyed. He unhooked a sword from the nearest wall and threw it to Wells, who, paralyzed by the hellish scene before his eyes, failed to catch it. The haft hit him on the head, and that seemed to rouse him. Sluggishly, he retrieved the weapon from the floor and looked at Murray, visibly dazed.
“Get Jane out of here!” Murray ordered, grabbing another sword from the wall.
Wells nodded but remained rooted to the spot. Jane took his arm and dragged him toward one of the doors. Murray looked around for Doyle. He was tracing broad circles with his sword as he made his way over to the table where Wood lay a heap. Murray followed him, also repeatedly lunging at the air around him. The creature’s yells had subsided, making it impossible to locate him. He could be anywhere. As soon as they reached Wood, Doyle felt for his pulse.
“Is he alive?” asked Murray, who had positioned himself behind Doyle and was still cleaving the air with his sword.
“Yes, he’s only unconscious, but we must get him out of here, Gilmore. Help me to—”
“We’re locked in!” Wells shouted from across the room, he and Jane having just tried both doors.
“What!” Murray exclaimed. “Where are the keys?”
“Damn! I left them in one of the doors,” replied Doyle. “Are you sure they’re not there, George?”
“Of course, Arthur, otherwise I wouldn’t have said we were locked in!” yelled Wells impatiently. He had sandwiched Jane between himself and the wall and was brandishing his weapon with more energy than dexterity, ready to protect her against any possible attack.
“Haven’t you a duplicate key on you, Gilmore?” Doyle whispered to Murray, listening for the slightest sound that might betray the creature’s position.
“No, but there’s a set in the hall, hanging on a hook by the main door,” Murray whispered back. “We could all try shouting to alert Baskerville, though I doubt the old fellow will hear us from outside . . . but, what the devil . . . ?”
Doyle swung round, feeling a burst of heat on his face as he saw what had shocked Murray: the flame from a fallen candle had set alight the oil from the lamp, and a tongue of fire was climbing up one of the faded wall hangings.
“Damnation! We have to put out the flames!” exclaimed Doyle, tossing Murray his sword. “Keep him away from me!”
Murray positioned himself behind Doyle, flourishing both swords vigorously while Doyle took off his jacket and used it to beat at the hangings, causing a flurry of sparks to rise with each blow. But his efforts were in vain. The barely smothered flames quickly spread to an adjacent portrait, and from there to the next, greedily devouring the ancient canvases and wooden frames. With a gesture of defeat, Doyle gave up trying to fight the fire. Plumes of dusky smoke, like a gigantic ectoplasm, had begun to materialize in the room, spreading with extraordinary speed, the tentacles reaching up to the ceiling. Both Doyle and Murray started to choke. Across the room, Wells and Jane were also watching the fire spread with a look of terror.