The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

FOURTY FIVE M's Fortress

Through mazelike passages, Quatermain and Sawyer raced after Moriarty. The man moved like a ferret, streaking up the stairs, turning corners, dashing down hallways, always a few turns ahead of them. All the while, he never let go of his leather satchel that contained the items he needed to reproduce the exotic powers of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.

Though he was older, Quatermain pulled ahead of his young companion, concentrating only on catching the evil mastermind before he could find a way to escape, as he'd done so many times before. Quatermain shouldered his guns, saving his breath rather than shouting threats at the Fantom.

Sawyer lagged behind and held up his Winchester, hoping to fire it at M. The young American concentrated on his aim, still running headlong — and suddenly tripped on something unseen. His legs went out from under him, and he tumbled to the floor. His rifle clattered away. He heard a half-maniacal chuckle and saw the outline of an invisible man fall into a hanging tapestry on the wall.

"Skinner!" Sawyer cried in disgust. He sprawled on the floor, out of the chase now.

As Moriarty ducked around a corner, Quatermain looked back to make sure his young friend was all right. He couldn't wait, or the villain would escape. Sawyer waved to urge him on, and the old adventurer continued his pursuit.

The young American climbed to his feet and rounded on the unseen thief. "What the heck are you doing here, Skinner?" He brushed himself off, wanting to strangle the thief. "Now look what you did."

The invisible man continued to chuckle thinly, but the voice sounded very strange. "What makes you think I'm Skinner?" The transparent man untangled himself from the hanging fabric, and a floating knife came into view with him. "He's not here. My name is Sanderson Reed!"

The other invisible man attacked with the very visible weapon.

In the high keep of the fortress, an iron-hard door flew open, and Moriarty dashed into a stone-walled prison chamber. Quatermain bellowed after him.

This room had once been an impenetrable bastion of torture and horror, built by the Cossacks and their power-mad czar — but the place was now forgotten, cob-webbed and filled with opulent detritus. Snow blew through narrow spy slits and drifted over sealed wooden crates of books, tarpaulin-covered old furniture, and faded tapestries.

Plenty of places to hide.

Moriarty dove into the shadows, sinking down spider-silent as Quatermain entered, panting hard. He instantly quieted himself, trying to control his heavy breathing and the pounding of his heart.

Taking the time to study the room, letting his hunter instincts take over, he scanned for the dark-garbed man… and saw him crouching in the shadows. He raised the spare Winchester and drew a bead on his adversary. He couldn't possibly miss.

Quatermain had learned over the years that a hesitant shot usually let the quarry get away. He had tried to teach his son that lesson, too long ago, too late. And he had no intention of letting his quarry get away now.

"End of the line, Moriarty," he said quietly. M looked up, reacting with apparent surprise to see the heavy rifle pointed directly at him.

Quatermain pulled the trigger, and the Winchester let out a roar.

The evil genius shattered. Long pieces of reflective glass tumbled all around as the bullet demolished a mirror propped in view of the door.

Quatermain spun, taken aback as the real Moriarty charged out of the shadows with a wild yell, swinging a Mongolian mace. The deadly spiked chain-ball whistled through the air an inch from Quatermains' face.

The old hunter instinctively blocked the second blow with the Winchester in his hand. The heavy spiked ball smashed into the stock of the sturdy American rifle — demolishing both gun and mace handle.

Moriarty took a moment to recover, but he never fought with less than cold calculation. He tossed the mace handle aside and landed a heavy blow with his other hand, punching Quatermain square on the old shoulder wound, where the Fantom's stiletto had stabbed him in the Venice cemetery.

Quatermain roared in pain and swung the Winchesters broken stock at Moriarty. The evil mastermind sidestepped, moving with a feral grace. He stuck out a long bony leg to trip Quatermain, who fell, unable to get his elephant gun free in time.

As the old hunter went down, Matildas straps snapped. The big elephant gun skittered into the cluttered shadows of the old torture chamber.

Moriarty stepped back and snatched up a wicked, bent rod of forged iron. It looked as if many times it had been heated red hot and used to sizzle the flesh off of pitiful victims, Though cold now, the iron bar was still capable of being an effective bludgeon.

"To the death." Moriarty advanced on Quatermain.

The hunter prepared himself for the fight. "Your death."

M gave a thin, cold smile. "You'll need Hyde here to make it my death, Quatermain."