Doctor Who - Combat Magicks

by Steve Cole

  Bleda snorted as the cart shuddered noisily over a pothole. ‘You are a very annoying witch.’

  ‘Probably!’ The Doctor frowned suddenly. ‘Attila, though. He’s got a dozen different peoples behind him, fighting in his army as if they’re Huns themselves. Doesn’t his needing the Tenctrama smack of vincibility in the eyes of the world?’

  ‘Attila allows them to serve. Inkri, their wisest and eldest, came to his father, Mundzuk, many years ago. She explained that the Tenctrama had warred among themselves and broken into factions. Each group went to different territories and approached different rulers, seeking to trade their magicks in return for protection. But Inkri knew that Mundzuk’s son, Attila, was destined to rule all – and so she and her sister, Enkalo, swore to make the Huns stronger than all other nations, to make us—’

  ‘Invincible?’ The Doctor nodded. ‘I imagine the other Tenctrama said the same to your rivals.’

  ‘It makes no difference, for Attila is stronger than them all!’ Bleda swore. ‘Accepting aid from the Tenctrama was good for all Huns. The Tenctrama have helped us. Grown special herbs that make us faster, stronger … bred beasts that will fight for us … provided crops that thrive on stony ground against all nature to feed our multitudes …’

  ‘But if each side has the same advantages, then each side has none,’ the Doctor concluded. ‘Makes you wonder what they fell out about in the first place, doesn’t it? If they’re all after the same thing.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Bleda growled. ‘Attila now has an advantage the others don’t: the two of you, and your different magicks. Stronger magicks.’

  ‘Oh! You’re recruiting for the post of Magical Adviser to Attila the Hun!’ The Doctor’s eyes locked with Yaz’s. ‘What a good job we’re free to apply.’

  Finally, Yaz felt the last strand of leather snap and could’ve cried with relief as she flexed and shook her wrists. Then a terrible smell made her eyes water in quite another way. ‘Ugh, what’s that?’

  The Doctor pretended to roll the smell around her mouth. ‘I’m getting pitch, smoke and excrement. And sore nostrils.’

  ‘We are nearing the camp,’ Bleda announced. ‘Be quiet. The approach may be dangerous. Rome will have spies and scouts in the area, keeping eyes on our actions.’ He whistled to the horses, who stopped abruptly, Bittenmane too. ‘There they are, you see? The plains of Catalaunum.’

  ‘Scenic stop!’ hissed the Doctor. ‘Love it!’

  ‘The chosen battleground.’

  ‘Chosen by Attila?’ asked the Doctor. ‘Or by the Tenctrama?’

  Bleda declined to answer, which Yaz took to mean the latter. In the pinkening light of dawn, Yaz could see that they were halfway down a rolling hill that bordered an enormous and near-featureless plain. ‘It goes on for miles and miles,’ she breathed, eyes adjusting, slowly making sense of the details. A river flowed at the borders and a long, high ridge rose in the distance. Nestling perhaps a mile away was a town with low, conical buildings made of stone with tall, thatched roofs; it was like a reconstruction that Blue Peter presenters might visit but, no, this was the real deal, an archaeologist’s dream standing before her.

  Beyond the town was the camp. She could only see the shadow of it in the weak light, but there were sounds too along with the stink: the ring as hammers struck anvils, the clank and clatter of heavy lifting, and voices raised in what might have been prayer, or laments. Far away across the plain, the shadows seethed with movement. She saw with a chill that men and wagons, thousands and thousands of them, were moving in a column like ants.

  ‘Something is wrong.’ Bleda seemed concerned. ‘I had ordered that our allies the Gepids were to be stationed at the River Aube, to cover our armies and force the Romans to come at us from the west, so they would fight with the morning sun in their eyes.’

  The Doctor looked at Bleda. ‘So you’re Commander of the Ten Thousand Horsemen and Gepids Monitor? That’s a lot of responsibility.’

  The Hun did not reply, but he seemed deeply troubled.

  ‘Well, I’m no expert,’ the Doctor told him, ‘but it looks to me like the Romans have broken through your lines. They’ll be facing you from the east when battle comes.’

  As she spoke, four black horses erupted from the bracken lining the track to block the way ahead.

  These were no short, hairy Hun horses like Bittenmane. To Yaz, they looked like police horses from back home. Each stood perhaps fifteen hands high, powerful and muscular with arched necks and high-set tails.

  ‘Where’d they come from?’ Yaz wondered aloud.

  The hedgerows were suddenly alive with fists and swords as half a dozen Roman legionaries burst out from either side of the track.

  ‘Ambush!’ roared Bleda.

  Alp snapped into action, leaping down from the cart. Fearless and unarmed, he grabbed one of the legionaries by the throat and started to squeeze.

  On instinct, Yaz flattened herself down inside the rocking cart beside the Doctor as the violence exploded around them. She heard Bleda dismount, swearing and threatening; the swoop and swing and clash of swords. Risking a look, Yaz saw Alp smash his victim to the ground. Another legionary stabbed Alp in the back with his sword, but the Hun noticed nothing; he swung round, gripped the man’s head and shoulder and snapped his neck.

  ‘Keep down,’ the Doctor told Yaz. ‘I’ve got to get the sonic.’ She vaulted over the side of the cart.

  ‘Doctor, wait!’ Yaz sat up automatically, saw the Doctor duck under a swinging sword and heard Roman voices rise over the holler of battle.

  ‘That’s not possible,’ shouted one of the Romans. ‘He’s up and fighting.’

  ‘It cannot be,’ another whimpered. ‘Macro was dead. Throat slit! Macro was dead!’

  A man loomed up over Yaz, his skin black and shiny, his features locked in hatred, his throat a gory beard of dried, blackened blood; Macro, she presumed. He raised a short and bloody sword, ready to drive it down into Yaz’s chest.

  Chapter 10

  Graham forced a path through the tangled trees, trying to double back round to where he’d lost Ryan. He felt sick with fear and worry. What had happened to the lad? Was Vitus still alive? Who was his friend? Where were Yaz and the Doc now?

  For that matter, where the hell was he?

  He wandered around, listening for sounds of battle or pursuit, but could hear only the blood-beat in his temples and the snatching of his breath. Finally he chanced upon the hill where the spooky knights had shown up, and followed the horseshoe prints that ran down it. The clearing was empty, but here and there in the dirt he could see tracks. More horseshoes and—what was that?

  He crouched down, muttering a prayer of thanks as he found the precise geometric imprint left behind by the soles of Ryan’s sneakers, and some that were deeper and smeared. They vanished after that, but the hoofprints went on.

  ‘Where’s Bear Grylls when you need him?’ Graham muttered as he set off, searching out the tracks.

  Yaz felt her heart pound as if trying to bail from her chest before the murderous Macro could skewer it. She lifted both legs and kicked the man backwards. He fell staggering into Bittenmane, who reared up and knocked him down.

  ‘Quick!’ The Doctor was dancing towards Bleda through the thick of the fighting, dodging blows and blades. ‘My sonic – the wand I used to stop the birds – gimme!’

  Bleda punched aside a Roman and swung himself into Bittenmane’s saddle. As he did so, he tossed the sonic at the Doctor, who caught it left-handed. She ducked as a sword swished over her head and jammed the sonic’s tip against it. Electric crackles engulfed the sword and its owner dropped it, reeling backwards. But two more Romans were coming up from behind.

  ‘Doctor, look out!’ Yaz jumped from the cart onto the back of one, and his legs buckled so that he fell face down in the dirt. Then she pulled off the man’s helmet and clobbered him with it. The Doctor turned, called ‘Thank you!’, then banged the sonic against the other Roman’s breastplate.
Sparks shot through the metal and with a high-pitched cry the man was sent somersaulting into a dazed heap beside the cart.

  Yaz looked about to see how the fight was going, and wished she hadn’t. One of the poor carthorses lay dead beside her, its companion straining to bolt with the cart but hitched to the dead weight. Alp was impaled on the end of a Roman sword, but he made no sound. He simply brought his hand down to snap the blade in two, twisted the jagged sword-stump from his would-be-killer’s hand and thrust it into the man’s chest. Then he reached behind him, took hold of the protruding blade by the gory point, and hurled it at the last Roman standing. A split second later, the sword-shaft was wedged in the man’s torso, and he stood no more. Yaz stared with horrified fascination as the wound left in Alp’s back bubbled with a clear fluid as if filling with hot fat, and soon healed over. All that was left was a scarlet scar.

  You can’t get stuff like that over the counter on Titan, she thought.

  Where was Bleda? She saw him, still astride Bittenmane, fighting the undead Macro with his sword.

  ‘This man won’t fall!’ Bleda snarled. For every stripe gouged in the man’s flesh, the sizzling goo roiled up in place of blood to seal the wound. ‘He’s like Alp. This is Tenctrama work!’

  Alp was ignoring his friend and comrade. He towered over Yaz, his face a pantomime grimace of hate, and with a thrust of his dagger killed the Roman she’d knocked out.

  ‘No!’ she shouted. ‘That man was no threat to you!’ But already Alp was turning murderously to the sonicked soldier down by the cart who was starting to stir.

  The Doctor grabbed hold of Alp’s sword arm, holding him back. ‘No way, Alp, you’ve done enough,’ she gasped. ‘Help me, Yaz!’

  Yaz got up and together they delayed Alp long enough for the dizzy legionary to register the danger he was in, roll over and stagger off in the opposite direction. As he fled from sight around the corner, Alp stopped struggling and stared down at the ground, suddenly oblivious to everything around him once more – including Bleda’s ongoing struggle with Macro.

  ‘All in the Pit,’ Alp muttered. ‘All of us join together in the Pit, all of us …’

  ‘How about that. He’ll kill a Roman who’s hurting no one, but won’t stop a zombie from trying to kill his commander.’ The Doctor marvelled at the Hun. ‘Looks like his bloodlust’s reserved for the living, not the dead. Or us.’

  Yaz shivered. ‘Perhaps he wants Bleda to become like him?’

  ‘Or perhaps he’s been programmed with targets and we don’t fit the brief,’ said the Doctor. ‘Another weapon handed over to both sides, to make the fighting worse.’

  ‘Damn it, Alp!’ Bleda turned to his countryman in fury. ‘Would you let your king die in front of you and do nothing?’

  Yaz raised her eyebrows. ‘His king?’

  Just then another dozen Huns came pushing through the hedgerows and, without hesitation, six or eight of them fell upon Macro, wrestling him to the ground. Yaz shut her eyes but she couldn’t block the sickening sound of the swords as the Huns set about him. It was a long time before he fell silent.

  Bleda swung himself down from Bittenmane, and the other Huns knelt before him.

  ‘Attila lives!’ the cry went up.

  ‘Great Attila,’ gushed one of the Huns. ‘Praise the maker, you have returned to us.’

  ‘But that’s Bleda …’ Yaz broke off. ‘Oh. Oh, now, hang on …

  The Doctor nodded. ‘He’s been playing us since we first met.’

  Yaz looked at her. ‘He’s Attila the Hun?’ She groaned. ‘That’s why he made a big thing about being Bleda of the million horsemen when Alp came along. So the big guy didn’t give the game away.’

  ‘Watch these women carefully.’ Attila’s smile was regal as he signalled his men to close in on the Doctor and Yaz. ‘They will not hurt you – they reject violence – but they’re magical and devious.’ He held out his hand. ‘Return to me your wand, Doctor.’

  ‘Can’t,’ said the Doctor. ‘You fibbed to us. I don’t reward fibbers.’

  ‘You will die if you don’t. No! Wait.’ Attila smiled as he reconsidered. Slowly he crossed to Bittenmane and held a dagger to the chestnut neck. ‘Do it, or the horse will die.’

  Yaz felt sick. ‘Bittenmane’s yours. You wouldn’t.’

  ‘I have four hundred thousand like him in my camp. Well?’

  ‘Well played, Attila. Very good.’ Grudgingly, the Doctor handed the sonic to the nearest guard, who took it gingerly and passed it to Attila. ‘So tell us. Who’s Bleda?’

  ‘Bleda is the name of my dead brother.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  ‘I’m not sorry I killed him.’ Attila put the sonic away inside his tunic. ‘You will excuse my deception, I trust? Since my entire division was isolated from my retreating army by the magicks of the Roman Alliance, Aetius’s curs have been searching from here to Orléans for the Lion of the Huns. I am hardly likely to announce my true identity to slaves and strangers.’ He turned back to his men, who cowered from the anger in his eyes. ‘And now, you, my people! You did not come to aid your king? You did not raze the forests to find me, did not throw yourselves upon my enemies to hasten my return?’

  ‘My king …’ One of the men, a noble like Alp from the looks of his finer clothes and the bling on his scabbard, stepped forward. ‘Our troops have been searching for you in their thousands. Inkri the witch said she saw where you were in her dreams, she guided our raiding parties. But time and again, you had moved on and we found only the Roman legions or their allies waiting for us.’

  Outrage twisted Attila’s features. ‘Inkri deceived you?’

  ‘She claims Aetius’s witches foretold our coming.’ The noble shrugged, looking fearful. ‘Our forces clashed. Hundreds died on both sides but we were no nearer finding you.’

  ‘This reeks of witches’ trickery …’ Attila spat on the ground. ‘And what of the Romans breaking our defences to strike from the east. Did the hags make that happen too?’

  ‘There is much that has happened, Attila.’ The noble looked grimly at Alp. ‘Much we must show you.’

  ‘Then do so.’ Attila swung himself up onto Bittenmane. ‘Come.’

  Yaz looked at the Doctor as the guards shepherded them along the path down to the Hun encampment after Attila. ‘Why would this Inkri trick the Huns now if she’s been working for them for years? What game are the Tenctrama playing?’

  ‘That’s for them to know, and us to find out.’ The Doctor looked at the mumbling Alp and the Roman remains on the track with stone cold eyes. ‘And we find out now. There’s been enough deaths chalked up to Tenctrama magic around here. One way or another, we bring an end to this today.’

  Chapter 11

  Ryan was feeling nauseated, lurching ever forward, arms clamped around Reduxa’s neck, unable to see or even hear clearly, hot and half-suffocated by the sack over his head. ‘Is it much further?’

  ‘I’ve told you, no, it’s not.’ Licinia had, apparently, zero sympathy. ‘You’re clinging on so hard. You really never rode a horse before?’

  ‘What gave it away?’ Ryan muttered.

  Reduxa brought him onwards. Morning broke with the sun on his back, and brightness warmed the hessian for a time until his smudge of vision grew deeper and the conifer smell of woodland gave way to something sweeter, and his bumpy ride finally came to a stop.

  ‘We’re here,’ Licinia announced. One hand pressed against his arm and the other pulled off the bag from his head.

  Ryan blinked in the light. The world around him felt unnaturally quiet. No birdsong. No drone of distant traffic, or aeroplanes flying overhead. He focused on his surroundings: an overgrown field dotted with ornate but crumbling monuments, statues and stones. Ahead stood an old, brick-built arcade perhaps ten metres long; steps at one end led into a dark tunnel entrance.

  ‘This is a graveyard,’ Ryan realised. ‘Nice place for an office.’

  ‘This cemetery was once used b
y the richest families and public figures of a city called Cabyllona. But when the Visigoths, the Alans and the rest settled in these parts—’

  ‘Including the Nigels.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘When the barbarians settled in these parts, well, you know – there went the neighbourhood. The good Roman citizens moved away.’ Licinia shrugged. ‘This place hasn’t been used in forty years or more.’

  ‘Except by you.’

  She looked up at him. ‘The Legion has secret offices in strategic centres all over the empire. This one’s my favourite, though. A fake family tomb adjoining ancient catacombs. I call it “Hidden Hall”.’

  ‘How many of you are there in this Legion of Smoke?’

  ‘We have agents based all around the Empire.’

  ‘And here in Gaul?’

  ‘Me and Vitus. With basically all the Tenctrama gathered right here on our doorstep.’ She shuddered. ‘We thought at first they’d come here looking for us. But it’s really the barbarians they sponsor that have brought them here. Their armies have massed just a few miles away.’

  ‘Kind of a weird coincidence, though?’

  ‘Yes. And I don’t like coincidences.’ Licinia was still looking up at him. ‘Hey, I’m getting a stiff neck. Would you like a hand getting down?’

  ‘I’m good.’ Ryan took a deep breath, relaxed his arms and slid ungracefully down from Reduxa’s back, landing with a stumble that almost propelled him onto his face. ‘So. Is your mate here yet, with Graham?’

  ‘I don’t see his horse,’ she said, tying Reduxa to a tree. ‘They’ll be along, I’m sure. Come with me.’

  Licinia led the way into the cold, dank tunnel. Small lamps burned on the floor at intervals, enough to cast feeble light around a large, square room, supported in its centre by four pillars with long arcades on each side. Cracked stone sarcophagi stood against the far walls, crowned with carved figures in repose.