by Steve Cole
‘I … I killed her,’ Attila said.
‘You did something.’ The Doctor ran to the doorway in time to see the light trails fading like fireworks, the guards at the door staring up in mute disbelief.
‘Oh, my …’ Yaz staggered over to the Doctor’s side. ‘What happened to me? I could hear voices, but I couldn’t see, it was like I was trapped in my own head. Like something … hungry was outside.’
The Doctor squeezed her shoulder. ‘It’s over. For now, anyway.’
As she spoke, that same unearthly golden brightness shone high overhead, just as it had done the night before.
‘Uh-oh,’ Yaz said, shielding her eyes from the brilliant buzz of the clouds.
‘The return of that atmospheric excitation.’ The Doctor looked troubled in the ashen radiance. ‘A parting shot?’
‘I can understand this glow coming on at night, when it’s dark, to help them see to fight. But why would the Tenctrama start it up in broad daylight?’
‘Light doesn’t just help things to see, does it?’ The Doctor’s eyes held Yaz’s. ‘It helps things to grow.’
‘Enough, Doctor.’ Attila turned to face her, his eyes black as flies. ‘I have need of you, or else you would be dead for the disrespect you have shown me. Yasmin shall remain under guard to ensure you do as I ask.’
The Doctor rolled her eyes. ‘And what you ask is for me to win you this battle with my mighty magicks?’
‘I require your rod of crystal that laid waste to the forest.’
‘It’s out of charge, kaput! You know that.’
‘You may use your magick wand to repair it. However! Should you use it against any Hun, or try to escape, or do anything that displeases me – I will kill Yasmin Khan, witch or not.’ He smiled. ‘And now the Tenctrama have gone, at least she will stay dead.’
‘You sound very sure of that.’ The Doctor went on staring up at the glowing sky, remembering Inkri’s words. ‘Only, how do you know that’s your own thought, and not one the Tenctrama have given you?’
Chapter 18
Graham looked down gingerly at his patient lying on the patterned mat: a wiry man in his forties with flowing grey hair. His face was round and his nose thin and curved, brows bunched over his shut-tight eyes against the pain of his wounds. There was a nasty-looking gash in his belly; the man coughed violently, groaning and thrashing from side to side. Looking away, Graham noticed the man’s left knee was mangled and swollen.
Ridiculously, the theme tune from Quincy, ME started playing in Graham’s head. ‘Come on,’ he muttered. ‘He’s not dead yet.’
‘A brilliant diagnosis,’ Aetius said dryly. ‘Now, hurry, man, his attendants will not tolerate leaving him for long. This isn’t some Gallic peasant, it’s the Visigoth king, Theodoric – and I can’t afford for him to die!’
Right royal bedside manner, thought Graham. ‘I’ll need to scrub up a bit.’ He looked at his dirty hands, very much at odds with the fine fur robe that Aetius had draped over his appropriated cloak; this patient was too important to be attended by a mere commoner and so Graham had become an honorary nobleman, escorted to this spacious tent by the mighty Roman himself. Brightly coloured sashes had been pinned to the leather walls and plant garlands placed on the floor along with healing prayers scrawled on slates. Graham reached towards a stone basin beside the patient but found it dark with something floating in it. ‘What’s this?’
‘His wound has been treated with unwashed wool dipped in wine and vinegar.’
‘What quack thought that was a good idea?’
‘My personal physician,’ Aetius said coldly, ‘working from the collected wisdoms of Pliny the Elder.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Graham sighed and pulled out the little pot of gel. ‘Well, anyway. How’d King Theodoric end up like this?’
‘He took a Hun javelin to his gut as we broke the barricade on the Aube.’ Aetius paced impatiently. ‘The Visigoths’ Tenctrama witch said there was nothing she could do for him, that his people should be glad because soon he would rise again and endure for ever. But Theodoric isn’t so keen on becoming a “mumbling vegetable with demons under his skin”, so I suggested that if magicks could not save him, perhaps reason and science might.’
‘And unwashed wool, gotcha. Explains why your boys were out for medical supplies when they found me.’ Graham started smearing the gel over the stomach wound as deftly as he could. ‘Only, I don’t get it. The Visigoths are barbarians, aren’t they? Like the Huns. How come they’re fighting on your side, and not Attila’s?’
‘We may hate each other, but we hate Attila more. He wants the world under his boot and, if no one stands against him, Attila’s forces will sweep on into Gaul and beyond unchecked.’ Aetius looked as though he carried the weight of the empire on his shoulders, and Graham supposed that the poor sod did. ‘Should Attila and his witches topple the Emperor and make his capital in Rome, then superstition and chaos shall eclipse the sweet order of Roman rule. Centuries of civilisation and culture shall be destroyed and nothing but blood, fire and dust take its place.’
‘And you couldn’t stop him without some hairy help?’
‘The army of Rome is weak and ill-disciplined. We could not defend our territory from the Visigoths and the other Germanic tribes and so we granted them space to settle and made trade agreements. When Attila marched into Gaul, they faced a choice – to fight alongside Rome or see their adopted land devastated by the Huns. They chose Rome. But I know these people, I have lived among them, fought in their armies; the barbarian who stands with me today could turn on me tomorrow.’
‘And in any case, their help comes with Tenctrama strings attached, right? Now I get why you want to cure this bloke so badly.’ Graham cleaned out the bottom of the pot with his fingertip and applied it to the royal knee. ‘If you save the Visigoth king, he owes you a big one, right?’
‘You grasp my stratagem.’ Aetius gave a tight smile. ‘I will have achieved what the Tenctrama could not.’
‘So you reckon he’ll ditch the witches and keep in with you.’
‘That is my hope. The barbarians are strong enough already but with the Tenctrama in their ranks?’ He scowled. ‘They have turned the necessity of battle into something depraved. The fighting grows madder and bloodier with no victors …’
Theodoric writhed and groaned and, as his stomach muscles tightened, Graham saw that the flesh around the wound was knitting back together. He puffed out his cheeks with relief. ‘Reckon the king’s won his own little battle, anyway.’
A voice broke in from just outside the tent. ‘That’s enough, lad.’ It was the First Centurion, who’d been given orders to stand guard and allow no one entry. ‘You’re paid as a soldier, try to act like one.’
‘You weren’t there, sir. You didn’t see it!’
Theodoric groaned, more softly but still in distress. Aetius rose crossly and yanked open the tent flap. ‘Centurion, what is the meaning of this disturbance?’
A young legionary, panting for breath and frightened out of his wits, stood in the centurion’s grip. ‘Sir, I had to warn you. Attila has found another witch. A stronger witch than the Tenctrama. I’ve seen her!’
Aetius signalled that the Centurion should release the newcomer. ‘Explain yourself.’
‘Attila lives, sir. Our scouts sighted him, we tried to ambush his party on the approach to the Hun camp. But his new witch has a wand that sets swords and armour ablaze. With a single touch she threw me through the air!’
Graham’s heart did its own re-enactment. ‘’Ere, did she have blonde hair and was she wearing a rainbow? Was there anyone with her – a pretty girl, maybe, a black lad …?’
‘There was a dark-skinned fighting girl with her.’
‘That’s the Doctor and Yaz! They’re all right!’ Graham’s grin faltered. ‘Wait, they’re with Attila?’
‘And a dead Hun who killed three of us. Three of us who followed me back to camp.’ The legionary kept nodding like his neck was
rubber. ‘This new witch, sir. It must be she who flattened the forest.’
Aetius stared. ‘She did what?’
‘Levelled the entire northwest corner. Even the grass was torn away.’
‘The lads on the last Search and Destroy trip corroborate this story, sir,’ said the First Centurion, looking troubled. ‘They say the whole of Gaul shook and trees were shrugged from the ground like fleas from a dog’s back.’
‘So.’ Aetius rounded on Graham. ‘These are the innocent friends you would have me find?’
Graham cringed from the anger in those cold blue eyes. ‘Well, two of them, Chief, yeah.’
‘And what scientific explanations do you propose for your Doctor’s deeds, eh, Briton?’ He shook his head and started to pace. ‘I was a fool to think your medicine came from science. I imagine that, even now, your friend is granting Attila supernatural powers for the coming battle.’
‘She wouldn’t help the Huns! She’s their prisoner.’
‘You are mine, and you have done as I told you.’
‘To try and save a man’s life!’
‘Yes. Your own.’ Aetius looked over to the hazy movement of the Hun camp across the plain. ‘What does your friend plan for us, hmm? What is she capable of?’
The First Centurion looked out of his depth. ‘Do you still want to commit to taking the hill on the plains ahead of the Huns, sir? Our scouts report they’re arranging their forces.’
‘Have the watch kept and wait for my command,’ said Aetius. ‘I will go to Theodoric’s son. He will wish to thank me for saving the life of his father.’
‘But I saved him!’ Graham protested.
‘On my orders.’ Aetius smiled. ‘Whatever the means, I have succeeded where the Tenctrama could not. And I must see to it that your friend the Doctor cannot aid Attila in the same way.’
Graham felt uneasy. ‘What’s that s’posed to mean?’
Aetius ignored him. ‘Keep this man under guard in my quarters,’ he told the centurion. ‘Allow no one to see him.’
‘We had a deal!’ Graham called after him. ‘I saved that bloke to make your alliance stronger. You said you’d help!’
But Aetius was gone. Graham’s only answer was the prompting jab of the First Centurion’s sword against his neck: ‘Move.’
Chapter 19
In the alcove with Licinia, Ryan held his breath as a shadowy figure stepped cautiously into the Legion of Smoke’s secret hall. Measured footsteps rang out on stone. The undersea lighting grew brighter.
‘I’m exhausted,’ came a deep voice, followed by the clatter of a helmet being slammed down on an altar. ‘I fought three very strange Huns in a forest, I barely got away, I lost the target and my talk-box stopped working again. So don’t jump out at me from your alcove, Liss, because I’m not in the mood.’
‘It was his idea.’ Liss shoved Ryan out of the alcove into the Hall, where he stumbled and almost fell flat on his face on the flagstones.
Ryan looked up to find a blond, attractive man in his late twenties staring down at him. ‘Vitus, yeah?’
‘That’s right,’ said Vitus, staring down at Ryan with fascination. He looked to be just the sort of guy Ryan had hated in school – built like a jock, but bright with it; the sort who made him feel clumsy and stupid. Being with the Doctor had shown him that some of that was just in his head, but it was easy to fall back into old ways of thinking.
‘You said you lost the target – d’you mean Graham?’ Ryan gave him a long look. ‘Is he all right?’
‘With dead Huns roaming the forest, I doubt it.’
‘Spiritually dead?’ Liss suggested, pouring liquid from a dusty flask into a small bowl. ‘Dead at heart?’
‘Dead, dead.’ Vitus drained the bowl and smacked his lips. ‘It’s another one for the files, Liss.’
‘What, that wine?’
He ignored her. ‘I wanted you to come out and see them for yourself, but I can see you’ve been busy.’ (Ryan suspected that Vitus’s smile was mocking.) ‘Has this one helped you with your enquiries?’
‘And more.’ She came up behind Ryan and stroked the back of his neck. ‘You won’t believe it, Vitus. Ryan came here in the TARDIS.’
Vitus snorted. ‘That blue casket obsession of yours again?’
‘The TARDIS really is a ship of space! Ryan knows the Doctor!’
‘S’right.’ Ryan felt self-conscious. ‘We need to find her, and Yasmin and—’
‘If you travel in a ship of space, you should be familiar with their machines.’ Vitus held out a flat square of metal like Liss’s talk-box. ‘Why don’t you fix it, Ryan?’
‘You think there’s, like, one firm supplying the whole universe?’ Making a mental note to ask the Doctor about Apple products next time they were in the space year 17,000, Ryan studied the metal object, pressed the button on its side. Nothing happened, except that Vitus smirked. I’ll knock that smile off your face, thought Ryan. With nothing to lose, he banged the talk-box on the altar three times. The blue glow flared into life. In your face, Jock!
‘In the TARDIS we call these communicators,’ he told Vitus, coolly handing it back. ‘Now, want to hear what we think the Tenctrama are up to …?’
But Vitus wasn’t listening, and neither was Liss. They were staring at the pulsating metal plate.
‘The boss is calling,’ Vitus said. ‘He wants to talk.’
Yaz tried to walk as slowly as she could beside the Doctor, but their sweaty, sour-faced guards were having none of it, herding them along. The sky was still burning gold above them, weirding her out, and she felt sick at the thought of being held at knifepoint until the Doctor had presented Attila with his fully functional weapon of choice. While Yaz was to be taken to the Field of Shamans, the Doctor’s workshop was to be set up in the tents of the Tenctrama, sited at the bounds of the camp.
‘It’s a good thing, really, Yaz, our splitting up.’ The Doctor, as ever, was putting a positive spin on everything. ‘I get to have a good poke around Inkri’s lair, look for clues left behind about who the Tenctrama really are, where they’ve come from, what they’re after. And you can get some rest.’
‘I don’t need any rest,’ Yaz protested, but even as she spoke she felt dizzy. Her head was pounding, she hadn’t slept in what felt like a week and she was still worried sick for Graham and Ryan. She was worried for everyone.
The higher land Attila had chosen for his tent gave a good view of the assembling armies. There was an impressiveness to the speed and precision of the parade as the soldiers filed into line, a grand scale to it all – it just seemed so terrible that the end result of all this was going to be a bloodbath.
They walked on through the vast camp, through blue smoke drifting from campfires, the smell of charcoal, meat and fat. Thirsty horses crowded at the dammed-off stream like aphids on a juicy vine, and servants hurried in all directions with jugs and kettles for their masters, or with sides of butchered meat draped over their backs. Their guards stopped to take the coconut half shells tied to their belts and dip them in a trough half full of water; green moss floated on the black surface like bacteria on a microscope slide, grossly enlarged. They offered one to the Doctor and Yaz. Nice cup of cholera, Yaz thought grimly, but she accepted all the same, parched as she was.
‘This is where the shamans stay.’ The stockier guard led them past a horse skull mounted on a tall pole that perhaps advertised wise men the way red-and-white stripes did a barber shop, and behind a line of wagons to where the shamans had pitched their tents; it gave the holy men some privacy as they went about their sacred work. The six tents, each covered with white horseskins, were arranged in a half-circle around a stone altar that bore the ashes of an old fire. No one was about.
‘Thanks for dropping Yaz, Mr …? What’s your name?’
He grunted. ‘Bial.’
‘Well, Bial, I bet the shamans had their noses put out of joint when the Tenctrama came along, eh?’ The Doctor nudged him. ‘You should tell them the
hags have been booted out. They’ll be back out here in no time, sharing the wisdom of your ancestors instead of sulking in their tents.’
Bial shook his head. ‘The shamans meditate.’
‘Meditation, right. Yeah, I pretend sulking is that, sometimes.’
Yaz smiled; she could hear the Shamans in their meditations now, quietly chanting inside their tents.
‘I’d best be off!’ the Doctor declared. ‘Bye, Yaz. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Oh, and Bial, I don’t want a hair on her head harmed while I’m away, ’kay? Not a hair.’ She rattled the sword hilt at her own guard’s side. ‘Come on then, march me faster …’
Bial glared at Yasmin and gestured that she should sit down on a bale of hay. She lay down on it instead and closed her eyes. She felt uneasy. The sky was still burning down above the plains of Catalaunum, and no one in Attila’s camp knew why.
No one except for the creature watching from one of the tents, crouched over a shaman’s muttering corpse.
The Doctor looked around the Tenctrama tent and sighed. The tent was made of bearskin. It was marked outside by a hank of long grey hair tied to a stake in the ground, and inside by the stink of smoke and rotting meat. The gloom was barely relieved by stubby candles. There was a rough-hewn workbench half buried with herbs and plants, a stone pestle and mortar, the bones of small animals, and wizened, shrivelled things that might once have been human heads, or possibly fruit with ideas above its station.
The guard, a charmer called Kason, hovered outside – he knew what Attila expected of him, but was clearly unhappy at being so close to the Tenctrama’s inner sanctum. Just the effect, the Doctor supposed, that Inkri and her brethren would’ve been going for.
She leaned in closer to what looked to be the skull of a wild boar on a pedestal. ‘See anything suspicious?’ she asked, peering into its dark sockets.
