Doctor Who - Combat Magicks

by Steve Cole

  ‘There are so many different tribes traipsing around Europe right now, but I’ve never heard of the Tenctrama.’ The Witch-Doctor looked down at him. ‘What are your lot, Bleda – Ostrogoths? Burgundians? Gepids?’

  ‘We are Hsiung-nu,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Oooh, OK! Well, you’re a long way from the steppes of East Asia. What are you doing in Gaul, sightseeing?’

  ‘We are waging war.’ He paused. ‘The Emperor Valentinian has wronged our mighty lord Attila, so he and his people must pay in land and plunder.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Fear showed clearly on Graham’s smooth, pale face. ‘Did he say …?’

  ‘Attila.’ Yaz was nodding, wide-eyed. ‘Doctor, he means the Attila, doesn’t he? Attila the bloody Hun!’

  Chapter 3

  Yaz forced herself to meet Bleda’s stare. Even as he smiled, there was a kind of cruel haughtiness about the exotic face and features. Beneath the conical leather hat, his long, thick black hair was matted with blood – perhaps his own, more likely from his victims. (She tried not to think of those heads slung about his horse like charms on a necklace. What were they, trophies? Something to show the kids back home?) His body was covered in tough but tattered leather armour, and the tatters of a richly embroidered coat of animal furs lay about him. Even injured and exhausted as he was, there was an aura of power about him that made Yaz feel uneasy. His eyes were never still, assessing, calculating; biding his time.

  ‘What’s the panic?’ asked Ryan. ‘Who’s Attila the Hun?’

  ‘Biggest, loudest and hairiest barbarian there ever was,’ Graham put in. ‘Rode around on a big horse killing people the whole time.’

  Bleda seemed amused. ‘Is that what they say in Britannia?’

  ‘That’s the caricature passed down by history.’ The Doctor crossed to where Bleda’s horse – a stocky, short-limbed animal with a head big enough to break down doors – stood at the edge of the small clearing. ‘Attila is the warlord of a massive tribal empire that came out of what would be modern-day Kazakhstan.’ She began to apply the gel from her little jar to the cuts and gashes scored into the horse’s scurfy hide. ‘Under him, his people – the Huns – conquered and assimilated everyone in their path.’

  ‘All who live fear Attila,’ said Bleda, still smiling. ‘Your witch chooses strange words, but she is right on this.’

  ‘Oi! I told you, I’m not a witch, or a Tenctrama, or whatever. I’m the Doctor.’

  ‘You throw a man from his horse with a wave of your wand, and carry crystals that make sense of your surroundings!’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Ryan shrugged. ‘That’s how we roll in Britannia.’

  ‘We’re just travellers,’ Yaz said.

  Uh-huh, she thought, and ‘just’ is the right word. Sometimes, here on the Doctor’s dark frontier, Yaz wished she were still in uniform. Wearing it back in Sheffield had always made her feel more capable, strong, part of a team. Hair scraped back, hat in place, high-vis jacket over the black and white: she was marked out as someone who belonged anywhere, ready to help and with a right to intervene. The Doctor just breezed in and made the whole universe her business like she was born to it, and Yaz longed for that confidence. Here, though, in the ancient past – almost two hundred years before the Muslim faith had even been founded – it was harder to accept she had any real status beyond ‘tourist’. And the idea that Attila the Hun himself could be nearby was just surreal.

  The Doctor finished up with the injured horse, patted him gently. ‘What’s his name?’

  Bleda grunted. ‘Bittenmane.’

  ‘Aww, that’s sweet,’ she deadpanned. ‘Bittenmane’s very alert. Who’s he listening out for, friend or foe?’ When Bleda did not answer, she turned to him. ‘You know, I’m glad we ran into each other. Always good to get a bit of local knowledge. But I am surprised to find as important a leader as you left unattended.’

  Bleda’s innocence was smooth as the new skin over his wound. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Aw, come on! You’re no simple soldier hiding out in the woods. You think we haven’t noticed the posh stitching on your fur coat there, the silver and gold on your horse’s saddle? All that bling makes you easy to spot on the battlefield – which marks you out as a military leader of some importance.’

  Yaz continued the train of thought. ‘And that wound on your face was fresh. You’re hiding out from others who want you captured or dead.’

  ‘Lower your voice, witch.’ Slowly the Hun got back to his feet. ‘I am Bleda, Commander of the Ten Thousand Horsemen, right hand to the king.’

  The Doctor bowed. ‘What went wrong?’

  Bleda shrugged. ‘For weeks we lay siege to the town of Orléans. But barely had the town surrendered to us when Aetius’s rabble met us there in combat.’

  ‘Flavius Aetius! Of course, Rome’s Magister Militum.’ The Doctor turned to her friends. ‘Aetius is holding Rome together, the power behind the young Emperor.’

  ‘And the Tenctrama – witches of the Goths and Alans – are the power behind Aetius,’ said Bleda.

  ‘The who now?’ said Yaz.

  ‘Did he say Alans?’ asked Ryan.

  ‘A tribe from Iran,’ the Doctor said, ‘migrated into Europe.’

  ‘The Alans are powerful warriors,’ added Bleda.

  Ryan smirked. ‘Are they, like, as powerful as the Nigels and the Kevins?’

  ‘There’s actually a tribe called the Franks,’ the Doctor revealed, and Ryan laughed out loud. ‘You’ve heard of the Goths, though?’

  ‘Course. Bunch of them hang out at the bus station drinking cheap cider and looking mardy.’

  ‘I used to go out with a goth,’ Graham recalled.

  Yaz nudged him. ‘Is that how you got your rash?’

  ‘Enough of this!’ Bleda’s eyes flashed, with power enough to silence them all. ‘You ask for knowledge, then prattle when I would impart it!’

  ‘Sorry.’ The Doctor smiled sweetly. ‘Do go on.’

  ‘Without the Tenctrama’s craft, the Romans would never have triumphed at Orléans. Even so, my men gave battle bravely and bought time for mighty Attila to escape with the bulk of our army.’

  ‘With all the spoils.’ The Doctor held up her little jar. ‘How many of your ten thousand horsemen survived along with you? I’d like to help them if I can.’

  ‘Most are dead now.’ Bleda sniffed hard, cleared his throat and spat out clotted blood. ‘In the end I took what able men I could and we withdrew under cover of nightfall … fewer than a thousand of us, with Enkalo the witch alongside us for protection.’ He shook his head. ‘But the witch was useless! The skies caught light to show us in our retreat, and we were tired by combat, and legions fresh to the fight overtook us and closed around us in a pincer movement.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps a hundred of my men fought through and fled into these woods.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Yaz quietly. ‘How long have you been hiding here?’

  ‘With the moon eclipsed by fire, it is hard to be sure.’ Bleda smiled. ‘I don’t know how many Romans followed us into the woods, but we make them work hard for our heads.’

  ‘You mean, they’re still looking for you?’ Ryan wasn’t smiling any more. ‘Hunting you down like dogs.’

  Graham glanced around nervously. ‘So that’s why their witches lit up the sky. So the search parties can see better?’

  ‘Wait.’ The Doctor pointed. Bittenmane was shifting his weight uneasily, big eyes trained on the edge of the clearing. ‘I think someone’s coming.’

  ‘Who’s there?’ Bleda’s deep voice carried into the eerie forest. ‘Bleda, Commander of the Thousand Horsemen, fears no one.’

  I thought you told us not to advertise who you are, you idiot! thought Yaz, but then a gory figure staggered into the clearing, panting for breath and clearly on the brink of collapse. His bloodied face was a real car-crash, sharp black eyes like little eggs lying in a nest of scars, the big, broken nose a crooked arrow pointing to the bared yellow teeth
and a dark beard, parted and tied with plaits of coloured ribbon, that stretched down to his barrel chest. ‘My lord,’ he said weakly, ‘my prince …’

  ‘It is Alp. A noble chieftain, badly wounded.’ Bleda crossed the clearing quickly but couldn’t reach his friend in time to stop him sinking to his knees.

  The Doctor was beside them in a flash, and Yaz joined her. ‘He looks done in. Needs water.’

  ‘He needs wine.’ Bleda crouched and pulled a goatskin flask from his belt and splashed a sour-smelling liquid against Alp’s lips, making the man splutter. ‘Why have you left cover, Alp? Tell Bleda, your commander.’

  Alp looked around, eyes clouded with confusion. ‘You … have taken prisoners?’

  Bleda dodged the question. ‘These witches wish to help us.’

  ‘Witches?’

  Alp recoiled, his eyes wide with terror, and Yaz cringed as the dark, clotted split hacked into his chest opened. She looked at the Doctor. ‘Healing gel?’

  ‘I think it’s too late to help him,’ said the Doctor, but of course she was already pulling out the pot regardless.

  ‘No!’ Alp rasped, terrified. ‘No witch will touch me!’

  ‘Alp, you idiot.’ Bleda took a swig from the flask himself, grimaced and then tossed it aside. ‘Why are you here? I told you to stay hidden and wait.’

  ‘I had to tell you.’ Alp stared at him as if trying to bring him into focus. ‘The Roman soldiers … have left the forest. Enkalo is slain.’

  Bleda took the news like a cuff round the face. ‘Slain?’

  ‘Enkalo’s your Tenctrama witch, right?’ said Ryan.

  ‘Enkalo stayed with us, for … “protection”.’ If a fifth-century barbarian had heard of air quotes, Bleda surely would’ve used them then. ‘We have only her mistress, now: Inkri, who remains at camp.’

  ‘I’m surprised Attila agreed to leave Enkalo with you.’ The Doctor was searching out Bleda’s face. ‘He must value his commanders very, very much.’

  ‘He values me most of all,’ Bleda bragged. ‘What happened, Alp?’

  ‘The Romans dragged her from hiding. She did not resist. She did not scream when the life was hacked from her body. She only laughed. Then there was a great light. It flashed through the forest …’ Alp gasped suddenly, twisted hard in pain, and the Doctor squeezed his hand until his body relaxed. ‘The soldiers ran, calling to their brothers. They said it was time to leave the forest.’

  ‘Perhaps it was poor old Enkalo that the Romans were after,’ Graham suggested.

  ‘Makes sense,’ Yaz agreed. ‘If your man Aetius has witchcraft on his side too, she was, like, competition.’

  ‘Bump her off and the magic defences go with her,’ was Ryan’s elegant conclusion.

  Alp took a fierce grip of his comrade’s arm. ‘I cannot die now! Enkalo’s soul is waiting to take me. You heard what she said, that we’d all meet again in the hereafter …’

  ‘Wait.’ The Doctor’s head was cocked to one side, as if she could hear something they couldn’t. ‘Can you feel it? Hairs on the back of the neck. No one else? Just me?’

  ‘What’s up, boss?’ said Graham.

  The Doctor looked at Bleda. ‘The soldiers might have gone, but I don’t think they’ve given up on you. Or, something hasn’t.’

  Yaz could feel it now. A tingling through her skin, like thunder was coming. There was a noise too, a low, rhythmic rustling, things beating at the air. Distant explosions of sound went off alongside: a man’s scream, twigs snapping … distant but getting louder. Closer. Bittenmane reared up, spooked, and turned in a tight circle.

  ‘Come on.’ The Doctor bent over Alp and put her hands under his armpits. ‘The Romans didn’t leave the forest, they evacuated it. Made way for something else to come and drive you out more effectively. We’ve got to get back to the TARDIS. Help me with the Huns!’

  Ryan stooped to grab Alp’s feet while Graham went after Bittenmane. Yaz almost gagged at Bleda’s stench as she tried to help him up.

  Then the leafy branches above them exploded darkly as crows and ravens swooped down in droves upon the clearing. Their black eyes shone in the unearthly light, and great beaks gaped and snapped as they fell upon everyone in the clearing. The Doctor dropped Alp and pulled out the force-field generator – but the curved blades of a raven’s beak knocked it from her grip. Yaz gasped and covered her head, doubled over, terrified. The huge birds were everywhere, flapping over her, biting and scratching. The assault was overwhelming. Yaz fell to her knees, the air thick with crows, the murderous laughter of their cawing ringing in her ears.

  Chapter 4

  Ryan swiped blindly at the crows as they bit and flew at him. Through the heavy flicker of dark wings all about he caught the scene in flashes: the Doctor and Yaz were huddled together; Graham was spinning in a circle, flailing about; Alp lay prone and bloody as the storm of black feathers consumed him. Only Bleda seemed more or less unaffected, curled into a ball.

  A rook landed on Ryan’s chest, and its huge, sharp beak started hammering at his neck. Next second it was knocked clear by a hoof as Bittenmane jumped over Ryan, rearing up and kicking out at the storm of black around him. But the birds didn’t seem interested in the horse; the rooks and ravens tore instead at the gruesome heads that hung and bounced from the leather strap about the horse’s neck.

  It’s like the birds have been programmed to attack humans, Ryan realised numbly. This isn’t random. They were sent here. Targeted.

  Witchcraft.

  The idea cast a horrid spell on Ryan, robbing him of reason as ravens flew at him, clawing at his clothes, slicing at his back with curved scissor beaks. Desperate for cover, Ryan broke into a stumbling run, hoping to escape them. He tried to look at his feet, to place himself into the space about him as he crashed through twigs and bracken. He heard Graham shout, but the sound was growing fainter and Ryan’s body felt heavy, his eyes were watering, he could barely see, and still the birds kept thundering down around him, into him. Ryan’s head struck something hard – a tree trunk, maybe – and he fell, face-first into mud. He felt the birds writhing about him, biting at his neck, hammering at the backs of his hands as he tried to protect himself. He couldn’t breathe, pain was knifing through his limbs—

  A high-pitched hum shocked through Ryan’s head. The pain felt physical in his brain. Can’t take that, he thought, screwing his eyes shut. He wasn’t sure how long it stayed dark but suddenly there was noise and movement at his ear, and something was carving a path through the feathered mass, helping him up. Ryan wiped at his eyes.

  Graham’s face – pale, scratched and concerned – was up in his own. ‘It’s OK, mate. Cuts and scrapes, but you’ll be all right.’

  ‘You came after me?’

  ‘Course I did! Thought I’d lost you.’ Graham leaned on Bleda’s sword like a walking stick. ‘You’re definitely winning at the whole space-awareness thing, you took off like you had wings yourself.’

  ‘That noise in my head.’ Ryan tried to calm his breathing. ‘Was that the sonic?’

  ‘Must’ve been. Guess the Doc scrambled those birds’ feathered brains long enough to break whatever was controlling them.’

  ‘A witch’s spell?’ Ryan looked around the eerily lit forest. ‘Guess we’d better get back.’

  Graham nodded and they turned.

  ‘Oh, my days,’ said Ryan.

  An old woman, her face sinister in shadow, was watching them from just a few metres away. She was dressed in sackcloth rags, and her narrowed eyes held a golden glow. ‘Who are you?’ Her voice sounded ancient, like two people speaking – one high and weary, the other unnaturally deep. ‘What do you bring to our world?’

  Graham swallowed hard, glanced at Ryan. ‘Your world?’

  Ryan backed him up. ‘It’s our world too, last time I checked.’ He lowered his voice to Graham. ‘Alp said the Huns’ witch-woman was dead. This must be the Romans’ one.’

  ‘Right,’ said Graham, before raising his voice: ‘Um
, viva Roma?’

  ‘Who are you?’ the old woman said again, unmoving in the shadow of a dead tree. A stench of decay carried with her words. ‘The Tenctrama must know.’

  A wolf came out from behind her rotting skirts, and then two more. She held out taloned fingers and all three beasts growled.

  Graham and Ryan looked at each other for a moment’s unspoken conference. Then, with a nod, they both turned and ran.

  Defiant, the Doctor’s arm was held up straight like a periscope, the sonic screwdriver clamped in her hand, its resonant whirr dying away under the heavy kaah and kreee of the carrion birds as they shuddered and fell.

  Ears ringing and cuts stinging, Yaz scrambled to join the Doctor. ‘Mass bird attack, what was that about?’

  ‘No idea. If they’d been griffon vultures I could maybe understand, but …’ She pushed herself up on her hands, blew the hair from her face. ‘Sorry about the bad vibrations. That was an unkindness of ravens all right …’ Her hair hung over her eyes as she sadly searched the ground. ‘And a murder of crows.’

  Yaz felt cold to find the clearing carpeted with large, black birds. ‘They’re dead? Did the sonic …?’

  ‘I didn’t kill them.’ The Doctor was stroking a dead jackdaw, staring at it, distressed. ‘Whatever controlled them did when it was done with them.’ She placed the bird back down on the ground. ‘Or … maybe they were already dead?’

  ‘Zombie crows?’ Yaz said, frowning.

  ‘Will you witches never be silent?’ Bleda was cradling Alp and stroking the man’s bloodied lolling head. ‘Alp’s heart has stopped. He is dead.’

  ‘Oh, no. I’m so sorry.’ The Doctor crawled closer to see. ‘He was already weak from losing so much blood, the shock of a further attack—’

  ‘Alp was never weak.’ Bleda’s voice was a fierce hiss. ‘Battle did not kill him, Tenctrama magicks did.’ He paused, traced a finger over a particularly livid scar on Alp’s cheek. ‘While your magicks saved me.’

  ‘Science, not magicks.’

  ‘You can make other magicks?’ He got to his feet. ‘Magicks to help the Huns?’