Doctor Who - Combat Magicks

by Steve Cole

  ‘To be honest, it’s my own tribe I’m more worried about right now.’ The Doctor cupped her hands to her mouth. ‘Ryan? Graham!’

  ‘Where’d they go?’ Yaz felt fear start to ball in her stomach. ‘I couldn’t see, my eyes were full of crows …’

  ‘The force-field generator’s gone too.’ The Doctor crouched beside Bittenmane who lay on the forest floor, trembling but otherwise untouched. She stroked his flank, soothing him. ‘Maybe Graham or Ryan picked it up?’

  ‘Does it look like a long crystal tied with strips of metal?’ asked Bleda.

  ‘Pretty much!’ The Doctor jumped up. ‘Did you find it?’

  ‘I did.’ Bleda held the force-field generator in both hands, pointing it at the Doctor and Yaz. His smile was gloating. ‘I wield your magicks now, witches.’

  Chapter 5

  Graham had his arm round Ryan to help steer and support the lad as the two of them legged it through the forest. Sweating hard and panting harder, he was grateful for the garish night-light the sky had become: it helped them pick a path through the trees.

  And stopped them running straight into a charnel ground of dead soldiers.

  ‘Oh my God …’ Graham skidded to a halt, and Ryan almost overbalanced.

  The dead men looked to be Huns, dressed like Bleda and his mate. They bore fresh, livid welts on their faces. ‘The birds got them an’ all,’ Ryan said. ‘Look.’

  With a shiver, Graham saw that there were crows lying among the dead. One still had its huge grey beak buried in a man’s windpipe. ‘Could’ve been us,’ he whispered, a hand straying to a cut on his own cheek.

  Then he heard the familiar growl of wolves behind them. Graham and Ryan turned to find the snarling beasts gazing from the gloom with golden eyes. They could have caught up easily, Graham supposed; it was as if they’d been told to follow, to watch.

  Then a sickly-sweet stink of putrefaction caught in his nostrils. Graham turned back to the glade of the dead – and he and Ryan gasped and clung together.

  The Tenctrama witch-woman was back, hovering above the field of corpses like a spectre of death. Somehow she’d got ahead of them. And now the burning sky revealed her form in full.

  Her skin was white as maggots, puckered and etched with deep lines. The features were loose approximations of human norms – the nose a bump with two flaring holes, the mouth a lopsided slit, cheekbones clinging to sunken eye sockets. The eyes themselves were fixed on him, irises sickly yellow with three pupils rolling in each; from the lower lid, lashes hung down like threadworms over the sallow skin. A thicket of grey hair framed the whole. Slowly she gestured to the pile of bodies.

  ‘I’ve saved a place for you,’ she hissed.

  Yaz held perfectly still just beside Bleda. She remembered the way he’d been thrown across the clearing, propelled by the force-field generator when it had been held by someone who knew – near enough, at least – what they were doing. In his hands …

  ‘You don’t understand, Bleda.’ The Doctor slipped the sonic into her coat pocket and slowly crossed the clearing. ‘You need to put down that crystal rod, there’s a crack in the circuit, residual energy is building unpredictably—’

  ‘You need to be silent, witch!’ Bleda sneered. ‘What you did to me, I shall learn to do to others.’

  ‘Doctor!’ Yaz’s attention was caught by a golden glow at the edge of the dark, encroaching trees to her left. The apparition of a figure, gnarled and wizened, was rising up from the ground. ‘Doctor, what is that?’

  Bleda swung around to see, raising the generator. At the sudden movement it glowed sun-bright.

  The Doctor sprinted for the cover of the TARDIS. ‘Yaz, get down—!’

  Yaz hit the deck just as a subsonic punch doubled her over, leaving her insides hollow. A belt of invisible energy tore from the force-field generator in Bleda’s hands and the world was ripped away. The trees and the undergrowth were stripped away, blown on the air like dandelion clocks in a hurricane.

  Yaz found herself flat beside Bleda on a tiny island of untouched mulch in a basin of dust, holding herself, gasping for breath. The space around for twenty metres was one of dead and twisted trees. The figure had vanished. The TARDIS had been knocked clean over, lying on its front, doors to the ground. Alp’s body lay twisted a few metres away, and the Doctor …

  She was nowhere to be seen.

  Bleda stood untouched, staring at the cracked and blackened tube in his hand. ‘Such magicks,’ he breathed.

  ‘What have you done?’ Yaz looked up at Bleda. ‘Where’s the Doctor—’

  ‘I’m all right! I’m all right.’ The Doctor jumped up from behind the TARDIS and stood there, swaying, a dazed smile on her face. ‘No one panic! I found cover in time. I’m fine! I’m super fine.’

  She collapsed face-first over the police box.

  Graham felt a pressure behind his ears, felt his senses distort and the world bend as if the hovering witch-woman was drawing him in with her searing eyes.

  Then the long moment that locked them together ended as a tremor shook through the ground. Graham was thrown forward and Ryan with him as a storm of white energy went fireflying through the air.

  The Tenctrama’s old, hunched body bent over backwards, split apart as the golden light knifed out from inside her, cobwebbing up across the sky like a blazing beacon. Graham closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the woman, and the light show, had disappeared, and the ashen light was fading. Natural darkness fell across the forest, a crescent moon pinned to its backcloth.

  The sudden calm brought Graham no relief; when you’ve seen horrors in the light, you know that darkness only masks them. His eyes adjusted: while the witch-woman had truly gone, she’d left the lifeless bodies of three wolves behind – and the littering of dead Huns where they’d fallen.

  ‘Well, that wasn’t at all horrific.’ Ryan got up and winced. ‘Oh, my days, those birds did a number on me.’

  Graham looked him over. ‘You’re lucky. A few scrapes and bruises. Not so bad.’

  Both he and Ryan froze as a fresh crashing carried from the forest.

  ‘Everyone out!’ A man’s bark, hoarse with fear; too close. ‘Attila’s worms aren’t worth it and Queile has disappeared. There must be other hags loose in the forest. Out, now!’

  ‘That’s got to be Roman soldiers,’ said Ryan, ‘between us and the TARDIS.’

  ‘We’ll have to try circling round to find the Doctor and Yaz,’ Graham said.

  ‘While not getting killed by every single other thing in this stupid forest.’

  ‘Not a bad plan.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘I mean, you’ve had worse …’

  Staying low to the ground in an awkward crouch, Graham and Ryan moved quickly away, skirting the forest’s fringes.

  As they departed, one of the fallen soldiers twitched dead muscles in his dead neck. Slowly lifted his dead head.

  Watched them go, through dead eyes.

  Chapter 6

  Am I getting old or what?

  Time was, thought the Doctor, the impact blast from a misfiring force-field generator would’ve given her nothing more than some colourful bruising and a dicky tummy, particularly so near the eye of the storm. But here and now …

  No. This was not your typical slip into unconsciousness. The darkness about her was sentient somehow, pooling up from the ground. The force field had swept it clear for a time, like water from a tap washes blood from a wound. But the wound remained, and the darkness, like blood, was seeping back.

  It was bitey, this darkness, and flecked with gold. Countless little golden teeth nibbling at her, golden needle-tongues poking through the tiny wounds to taste her, a billion shining sub-atomic admirers wanting in. The Doctor could feel the invisible glow building in the shattered glade; it tingled through the scorched soil, trembled through the dying roots of splintered trees, shining in the corpses of the million tiny insects already rotting in the mud depths.

 
I ought to wake up, thought the Doctor, as the glow built and beguiled her. I really, really ought to rise and …

  Shine.

  Trussed up and bundled onto a two-wheeled, horse-drawn cart, bumping along the roughest track in the world with Alp’s corpse on one side and the sleeping Doctor on the other, Yaz fretted over her friends and wondered how much of this miserable night still remained.

  Where were Graham and Ryan now? In her most hopeful daydreams, other Huns caught them and brought them back to Bleda’s camp, so they would be reunited. In her worst imaginings, the sinister apparition she’d glimpsed before figured highly. The image of something old and twisted, an atmosphere of anger and malevolence …

  Somehow she knew it hadn’t gone for good. That she would be seeing it again.

  Yaz looked down at the Doctor and found her smiling in her sleep, oblivious. With a pang of bitterness Yaz thought, Wish I was.

  Bleda had led the way from the dead clearing in fine style: he’d stolen the sonic, swung the sleeping Doctor over his shoulder and held his curved dagger to her ribs, threatening a swift incision if Yaz didn’t play barbarian ball. And so Yaz had been forced to lead Bittenmane meekly along by his reins with Alp’s broken body slung across his back, through the remains of the shattered forest.

  They’d chanced on the upturned cart still hitched to the terrified horses – abandoned after the animal attack or the force-field explosion, who could tell. Once they’d righted that, Bleda had bound her wrists with Alp’s leather lasso and shoved her on the cart alongside her prostrate companions while he rode one of the two horses pulling them and Bittenmane trotted alongside. They were following Attila’s retreating Huns, a trail that was hard to miss since the muddy track had been churned all to hell, and the cart creaked and rocked from side to side, throwing Yaz around until her bruises had bruises. Bleda just glanced back at her now and then, smiling like a hunter who knew he was bringing back one hell of a meal to put on the table.

  For all he was a hairy maniac, Bleda had played things pretty shrewdly. There were no signs of any Romans left in the area now: most likely they’d been scared to death by the force-field eruption and all legged it back to camp. The glow had gone from the night, too, so presumably the hunt for Huns was over.

  Bleda gave a short, sharp whistle to his horses and they slowed and veered left towards some scrubby plants. Bittenmane began to crop the choicest greenery and the other two horses ate around him, straining against their reins.

  It was Bleda’s feeding time too, it seemed. He reached behind him, pulled something wormy and grey from under his horse’s saddle and stuffed it into his mouth.

  Yaz stared. ‘What did you just eat?’

  ‘Meat.’

  ‘Meat that’s been left on a horse’s back under a saddle?’

  ‘Want some?’

  ‘Is it halal?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Think I’ll leave it, thanks.’

  He scoffed. ‘You can magick us a ten-course feast, if you wish.’

  ‘Only I can’t.’ Yaz was losing patience. ‘Because, like I keep telling you, I’m not magic. The force-field generator isn’t magic. It’s just a special kind of tool that was damaged when we—’

  ‘Yasmin,’ said Bleda, thoughtfully, ‘you are a very boring witch. Be happy, like your Doctor. See, she smiles! She knows her wand did good magicks, knocking down the forest. Better magicks than the Tenctrama.’

  ‘For the last time, it’s science that knocked down the forest!’

  ‘Then science is also magick. Who cares?’ He shrugged his big shoulders. ‘It is for scribes to know the difference.’

  Yaz shook her head, wearily. ‘If scribes really do know the difference, please can we see a scribe?’

  ‘No.’ Bleda swallowed his meat and his crafty smile returned. ‘But I will show you great Attila.’

  Yaz felt her prickling palms turn clammy. Meeting with Attila the Hun! The idea of being surrounded by thousands of warriors like Bleda, an unstoppable, nightmare force as scary as any aliens, trampling reason and civilisation under their hairy, smelly feet …

  ‘Here.’ Bleda rooted again beneath the saddle for some more grey gristle and held it out to her. ‘Even a boring witch should eat.’

  Set to feed him a piece of her mind, Yaz opened her mouth – as the Doctor’s peaceful smile exploded into a scream, and she sat bolt upright, shaking and panting for breath.

  ‘Doctor!’ Yaz tried to put an arm around her and winced. Her wrists were still tied tight, of course. ‘Easy, Doctor, it’s all right …’

  ‘No.’ The Doctor’s eyes were wide and watery, she looked traumatised. ‘No, I don’t think it is all right. No. It’s really not.’ She looked around wildly in the darkness, struggling to free her hands from behind her back. ‘Oh. Bleda’s taken us prisoner?’

  Bleda watched the Doctor beadily. ‘You belong to the Huns now.’

  ‘The sonic. Where’s my sonic?’

  ‘Your magick rods also belong to the Huns.’

  ‘Well, that’s a comfort. I always wanted the best for them.’

  As Bleda whistled to the horses and they set the cart moving again, the Doctor took deep breaths and puffed them back out. ‘What about Graham and Ryan – do they belong to the Huns?’

  ‘The rooks and ravens chased your slaves into the forest, remember?’

  ‘They’re not slaves, they’re our friends.’ Yaz rested her head against the Doctor’s. ‘Bleda wouldn’t let me look for them.’

  ‘If we found them, you would outnumber me four to one!’ Bleda scoffed. ‘Do not fear, witches. Attila will give you better slaves than them if you serve him loyally.’

  Yasmin shook her head. ‘He thinks we’re witches. Well, you’re the full-on witch, and I’m magic too.’

  ‘Course you are. I thought you looked familiar.’ The Doctor grinned. ‘As in witch’s familiar. Yeah?’

  Yaz forced a smile for her friend’s benefit. ‘Look, here’s my familiar grin.’

  ‘Then things aren’t all bad.’ The Doctor grew serious. ‘With any luck, Graham and Ryan will get back to the TARDIS. They should be safe there.’ She looked down at Alp’s lifeless body beside her. ‘This is a dangerous world.’

  ‘Where did you go to, Doctor?’ Yaz asked. ‘You were out cold for ages, but you were … smiling.’

  ‘Was I?’ The Doctor pulled a variety of manic and slightly disturbing grins. ‘Like this?’

  ‘No, sort of peaceful.’

  ‘Peaceful? I was having a nightmare. I couldn’t leave the clearing. Something wanted me to stay there till it was ready …’ She frowned. ‘No. Until I was ready.’

  Yaz frowned. ‘Ready for what?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’ll tell you what – I’m starving.’

  ‘Then eat, Witch-Doctor!’ Bleda pushed his hand under the saddle for a further scrap of grey meat, and offered it behind him to the Doctor, who leaned forward and took it in her teeth.

  Yaz grimaced. ‘You’re not actually …!’

  But she was, she was chewing it. ‘Not bad! And very practical.’ The Doctor licked her lips. ‘See, the meat is warmed by the horse’s flesh and tenderised by the pressure of the saddle. And because it’s salted, it doesn’t go off. It’s preserved …’ As the cart jerked away, she looked down at Alp’s body. ‘You know how salt preserves things? Basically osmosis. Salt draws moisture out of organic cells, drying the meat and destroying the mould and microbes that want to destroy it. Use enough salt, you can preserve meat for months. Years, even. Nice, well-stocked larder.’

  ‘It would be totally gross to eat, though,’ said Yaz.

  ‘Someone might have a different use for that super-salted meat than just eating it.’ The Doctor didn’t look up. ‘Like, left outside in your garden, all that salt could kill the local slugs.’

  ‘I hate slugs.’ Yaz stared at her. ‘Doctor, what are you on about?’

  With a sudden rush of breath, Alp opened his dead, grey eyes. Yaz cried
out in surprise, which made Bleda start. He looked back, and his black eyes widened. Alp sat stiffly, his arms twitching, hands clenching and unclenching, mouth hanging dry, dark and open.

  ‘He lives,’ hissed Bleda. ‘This is your work, Doctor?’

  The Doctor shook her head; she wasn’t afraid, she just looked thoughtful. ‘Just spitballing here … but do you think that creatures from far away who were clever with salt could tell much difference between us and the slugs?’

  Chapter 7

  The night was long and the going was hard and the fields went on for ever and ever, apparently. Ryan was tired of following Graham’s backside through the undergrowth, but accepted the need for caution. Didn’t matter if Huns or Roman soldiers spotted them; both sides would happily use them for sword practice. And as for running into any more witches, well, no way was that on his bucket list …

  What Ryan didn’t accept was that they weren’t completely lost.

  They’d had to make a couple of detours. The Romans were using one side of the forest as an assembly point for troops, returning from bloody skirmishes with the Huns, and attempts to circle round them had been complicated by the course of a river – a river that was a magnet for thirsty soldiers, wounded soldiers and any other soldier caught short, to say nothing of their various horses. So, basically, don’t drink the water and stay well away. But as a result, in the dark, after all the stops and starts and retracing of steps, Ryan wasn’t sure they were anywhere near to the forest where they’d find the TARDIS, Yaz and the Doctor.

  ‘They’ll wait for us,’ Graham said, as if reading his mind.

  Ryan stopped for a moment, leaned heavily against a tree. ‘Yeah. They’ll put themselves in danger waiting for us, and it’s my fault. I should never have run.’

  ‘You should never have become a piñata for a bunch of bleedin’ birds, either, but it happened.’

  For the tenth time, Ryan checked his phone: the display showed real-world, normal-day-in-Sheffield time, three minutes after noon – funnily enough Roman Gaul fifteen hundred years ago wasn’t one of the pre-set time zones.