“Ah. Good news… good news… erm… and we think you’ll keep the leg?”
“Holmes, I think I’ll keep these trousers.”
Holmes nodded, hooked both thumbs over his belt, stared up at the ceiling a few minutes while he rocked back and forth on his heels, then idly wondered, “I don’t suppose there’s anything you can… um… do for him?”
“What? No! That man has been very killed!”
“Well, it’s your fault, Watson.”
“Oh?”
“When you stop and think about it.”
“I suppose that would be my soul-blade jammed through the victim’s mouth, then?”
“Don’t be silly, Watson.”
“I don’t think I am the one who is being silly, Holmes.”
And we might have gone on like that for a while, if the border between worlds had not cracked. If the light of the twin suns of Tord’Th’Orath had not suddenly spilled in upon the room. If a quick wave of burning, sulfurous wind had not intruded from a realm we should never have seen. And, of course, if a nine-foot-tall battle demon had not come to visit.
Nine feet, not even counting the horns. Even the extraordinary height of the room was hardly sufficient to accommodate him. With one hand, he dragged a bag made of interlocked chains, padded with the still-bleeding skin of some unknown unfortunate. Within the bag were several huge blocks of gold, which clinked as he pulled them through the portal—they must have weighed several hundred pounds. His hide was red, and thickened in places, with callouses so dense they seemed like armored plates. His eyes were deep black pools, flecked with amber. His limbs, preposterous knots of muscle. His hands bore claws that looked as if scything through torsos would be a much easier exercise for him than… let us say… picking up a toothpick. His jaw was strong and broad, but more notable for its length—jutting forward an extra foot or more, just so it had room to accommodate all of his teeth. The function of which, by the way, could not be mistaken by any reasonable observer.
As he entered, he proclaimed, “Weep, denizens of my new realm, for your master has arrived. Those that live will serve me. Those that feel will fear me. I am Garrideb the Devourer. My reign will—Oh! Woah! Ohmigosh! What happened here?”
He had caught sight of Holmes’s latest handiwork and recoiled in disgust. The three human Garridebs peeped out from behind cabinets and cases all around the room to stare at the demon. Strange—though fear was present upon their faces, more notable was a brand of stupefied worship. Holmes gave the invader a grim look. I… well, I just stood there, I suppose.
As nobody was answering his question, the demon lifted his bag of gold up and displayed it. “I’m… um… supposed to be meeting a guy named Jimmy,” he spluttered. “He’s bringing me dinner and I’m bringing him this bag of gold. Not sure why he wants it; it’s really heavy. But… um… is Jimmy here?”
Um… is Jimmy here?
Holmes’s eyes flicked towards the mutilated corpse, pinned to the wall. Garrideb the Devourer followed his gaze.
“Wait! No! That’s Jimmy? That’s Jimmy? Ohhhhhhhhhh, what happened?”
In a tone hardly louder than a whisper, Holmes replied, “He displeased me.”
Garrideb’s eyes went wide and he stared at Holmes in gobstruck horror. It rather looked as if he was about to cry. “Um… do you know what? I think I’ve come at a bad time. Are you busy? You look busy. Maybe I’ll just… go.”
But Holmes thrust his hand forward and called, “Hie, Melfrizoth!” The black blade yanked free from the wall and sped to Holmes’s hand, dumping the earthly remains of James Winter to the floor and drawing a squeal from Garrideb the Devourer.
“Demon!” Holmes roared. “Invader to this world! Now you will face me!”
“No thank you! No. I think I’ll just—”
Holmes sprang forward to the attack, shouting, “Defend yourself!”
Which Garrideb did. A bit. He tried to slap Holmes away with one hand. There was a certain panicked-five-year-old-swatting-at-a-bee flavor to it, I must confess. Still, as the hand in question was huge, mighty, and currently clutching a chain-y skin bag with several hundred pounds of gold in it, even such a rudimentary effort was not without an element of threat. The bag spun towards us in a huge arc, smashing several of Garrideb Grub’s discount artifacts and spraying us all with debris. It would have bashed Holmes to paste, if he had stood his ground. Instead, there was a loud crack and when the bag passed through the space where Holmes had been, there was nothing but a swirl of black smoke. The same instant, Holmes appeared behind Garrideb the Devourer. He was facing the same way he had been when he left—which is to say, away from the demon—but he must have known exactly how matters stood, for he lashed out with a graceful back swing. The flaming blade sang through the air behind him and Garrideb cried, “Aaaagh! M’ leg’s off!”
Holmes slashed back the other way.
“Owww! There goes the other one!”
And finally, Holmes spun to face his foe, lashing out a third time.
“Urk—” was the only noise Garrideb the Devourer made, for Holmes’s final blow struck his head from his shoulders and sent it bouncing onto the be-sigiled floor. One interesting aspect of the demon’s physiognomy was this: he had no blood, or indeed any fluid within his body that seemed to have an even remotely blood-like function. Which was fortunate, really, for I’m sure it would have gone just everywhere.
Holmes looked rather pleased with himself for just one moment, but then the portal behind him gave a tortured groan.
“Ah!” he cried. “It’s closing! Quick, Watson, we’ve got to get everything from that other world back through that portal!”
“Are you sure, Holmes? That’s rather a lot of gold.”
“Get it out! Get it out!”
“Oh, very well.”
Holmes jammed Melfrizoth into the floor, tore open the chain bag and began hurling bars of gold through the doorway. I busied myself with demon chunks, marveling just a moment at
