by Steve Cole
A prickling heat radiated from her right. All she could hear was the buzz of the sonic; it was like the sound had been sucked from her ears. Yaz risked opening her eyes, and then risked them popping out at the sight that awaited her.
It looked as if the Strava had ridden into a wall of invisible gum, as if the air itself was stretching, slowing them down. Hun riders behind them in the ranks, unable to stop in time, slammed into them. Soon, horses crammed against horses, pushing those in front up against the solid air, close enough almost to stab at the Doctor and Yaz as they rode by. Yaz saw the dog-bitten faces of those Hun warriors screwed up in pain and anger as they struggled against this pliable but apparently impenetrable barrier. Behind them to their left, the Roman forces rode full-pelt into the same invisible barricade some fifty metres deep with the same inevitable effect. Horses and riders were rammed into a struggling mass of limbs. A Strava with grey, matted fur, scythe-like claws and tusks like a woolly mammoth on steroids was tearing at the air, desperate to get to the confused huddle of Huns so close, yet impossibly out of reach.
Senses stunned, Yaz’s mind still fought to figure it out: ‘You gave Attila the force-field generator?’
‘Once I’d made a few adjustments,’ the Doctor agreed, urging Bittenmane onward. ‘Like, leaving it with enough charge for just one more shot, and softening the field density. Instead of projecting a hammer-hard wall of air, it spat out a big squishy barrier. With the sonic disrupting the energy field, we can carve a path through it – it’ll be like galloping inside a giant invisible bubble.’
‘So the two sides can’t fight!’ A nasty thought struck Yaz. ‘Until the bubble goes pop.’
‘That’s right. And I’m afraid we’re weakening it all the time just by riding through it.’
Bittenmane whinnied as the side of his head struck something invisible, lurched and almost lost his footing.
‘Structure’s breaking down already!’ The Doctor whistled and Bittenmane compensated, veering right, terrifyingly close to the Hun army and the horrifying maw of a slavering Strava. Yaz felt her leg burn as they brushed its inside edge, and Bittenmane whinnied with terror. Behind them, she saw the Roman forces suddenly surging forward deeper into the weakening barrier, falling over each other. Men and beasts alike were being trampled, on the Huns’ side too.
Feeling sick, Yaz pressed her face against the Doctor’s back. There was no miracle solution, no magic way to stop the fighting and avert the casualties. All the Doctor could do was hope not to make it worse – and stay alive long enough to fight back against the Tenctrama.
‘Almost there.’ The Doctor spoke encouragement to Bittenmane through gritted teeth. ‘Come on, boy, just a little further …’
Finally Yaz felt the air clearing around them. Bittenmane shook his head and reared up, almost throwing his riders, until the Doctor gave a sharp whistled signal and the horse recovered himself. Yaz realised that she was panting for breath, that her clothes were clinging to her back with sweat – and that, somehow, she was still alive! And all this while, behind them, the forces of Rome and Attila were charging at each other in slow motion, falling and tumbling in a surreal nightmare of acrobatics.
‘We must get clear of the battlefield,’ the Doctor said, pricking Bittenmane’s sides once more.
‘And go where?’
‘Um … how about towards Ryan and that nice-looking lady knight over there?’
‘What?’ Yaz looked up, astonished, and saw the two figures in the distance, one darker, jumping up and down and waving his hands. ‘That is Ryan! Where’d he spring from?’
‘I have no idea!’ The Doctor stood up in the saddle and waved back madly. ‘Let’s go and find out!’
‘Oh, my days!’ Ryan shouted. ‘There they are! They’re all right! They’re alive!’
‘And look at the battle!’ Liss’s eyes were copying her mouth, stretched wide open. ‘It’s impossible. How in Hades did she part the ways between two clashing armies?’
‘Course it’s impossible. She’s the Doctor, isn’t she?’
Ryan turned to check he hadn’t lost their exit back to the catacombs; it was little more than a burrow at the foot of a small hillock and not easy to spot. The last section of their long journey through the miles of underground catacombs had seen them down on hands and knees through a tiny passage off the main tunnel; the excavators had most likely dug it for ventilation as they worked.
‘Come on, Doctor …’ She was still riding that shaggy old horse towards them. He felt exposed enough standing just here, how must she and Yaz feel? Ryan kept nervous eyes flicking between the rest of the armies’ colossal forces, too, which hadn’t yet moved. ‘How come that lot are just staying put?’
‘Waiting for orders,’ Liss supposed. ‘Both sides want the hill. Their strategies for what happens next will depend on who gets it. And while the Doctor’s magicks—’
‘Sonicky science stuff.’
‘—yes, that, while that’s in place, the armies can’t get at each other.’
That was, of course, Fate’s cue to fizzle out whatever impossible barrier had sprung up between the two opposing forces. The Doctor shouted encouragement to her horse to gallop faster still. Behind her, Ryan saw a massive hulk of horn and wolf-hide tear away from the Roman scrum of horses and people, its claws tearing great chunks from the ground as it ran straight for the Huns, its howl like a clarion calling across the battlefield.
‘Strava,’ said Liss. ‘War beasts given to the Visigoths by the Tenctrama.’
‘And, whaddyaknow, they gave them to the Huns too,’ Ryan said with a shudder. The beasts on each side looked the same; Ryan wondered how the generals would tell them apart when they fought each other. But it seemed the issue wouldn’t arise – the Strava ignored each other completely, and only tore into the cavalry. War cries, and the screams of men and horses, rose up from the battleground, as the whistle and thud of flying arrows looped into a sickening beat. The Strava were soon stuck so full of swords and spears they looked more like hairy porcupines, but they didn’t seem to feel it. They pounded through the ranks, taking down all within reach.
Ryan turned his eyes from the carnage back to the Doctor and Yaz as they rode up and jumped down from the horse. The Doctor reached him first and grabbed him so close, and gratefully he buried his face in her shoulder, breathed in her scent of camomile and engine oil. Yaz piled in and made it into a group hug.
‘So good to see you!’ the Doctor said. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Just about,’ said Ryan.
‘Where’s Graham?’ she went on.
‘I saw Graham!’ Yaz revealed. ‘When I was in the Tenctrama ship, they could see him in the Roman camp. They know about the healing gel.’
The Doctor and Ryan looked at her and both said, ‘Huh?’
Yaz nodded. ‘Graham killed one of them in a bath with it!’
‘What the …?’ Ryan was thoroughly confused. ‘Graham had a bath with one of those witch things?’
Yaz grimaced. ‘No, I think she fell in the water.’
‘Explains why Inkri told me we were messing up her harvest,’ the Doctor said. ‘The gel generates living cells to counter genetic damage, which must make it poison to the Tenctrama. But where’s Graham now?’
‘He is with Vitus,’ said Liss, ‘and safer than we are here.’
Yaz pointed to the Roman girl and mouthed at Ryan, ‘Who’s she?’
‘Better option than the Strava.’ Ryan pointed behind them at one of the bloodied beasts, which had torn free from the battle and was limping towards them across the battlefield.
‘We must go.’ Liss strode back towards the opening in the ground. ‘This is no place for a reunion.’
‘Wait,’ said the Doctor, facing down the Strava. Gold sparkled in the dark slits of its eyes as it grew closer, rock-sized teeth bared, a growl building in its belly. ‘I want to know where these things came from.’
Ryan grabbed her arm. ‘I’m pretty sure I know where w
e’ll end up if it gets us!’
But the Doctor had pulled out the sonic screwdriver. Ryan heard the same deep, penetrating vibration he’d heard back in the forest before the crows had broken off their attack, and his legs almost gave way beneath him. The Strava lowered its tusked head as if about to charge, but then it twitched and huffed out a long, steaming breath.
‘It’s stopping,’ Yaz realised, clutching her ears.
‘The sonic’s interfering with the command centre of his brain,’ the Doctor said, checking the readings. ‘The Strava aren’t living creatures in the conventional sense – they’ve been created and animated by the Tenctrama, and conditioned to attack certain targets.’ She scowled. ‘But how do they do it? How do the Tenctrama appropriate life like that?’
‘Or death like that,’ Liss said, teeth gritted as the vibration shook on.
The Strava raised its head and roared, snapping its jaws.
The Doctor made the sonic buzz more loudly. ‘I can’t stop it,’ she shouted. ‘Get behind me! The will to kill is too strong.’
‘We have to go!’ Liss shouted.
‘What about Bittenmane?’ Yaz pressed her hand to the horse’s neck. His sides were flecked with foam, and he was shaking his head and snorting in distress. ‘He can’t come with us down there.’
The Doctor pressed the sonic into Ryan’s hand. ‘Take over.’
‘Me?’ Ryan’s heart flipped.
‘Of course, you. You’ve got this.’ The Doctor put her head against Bittenmane’s. ‘You saved our lives, you clever horse. Thank you. Now you have to go.’ She slapped the horse on his rump, whistled, and with a bob of his head he turned and galloped away. ‘That’s it, run!’
Liss was staring. ‘That horse really seemed to understand!’
The Doctor smiled. ‘Well, I happen to be fluent in several equine dialects …’
‘How about we all get giddying up, yeah?’ Sonic clamped in a death grip, staring down the slavering Strava, Ryan backed away, waving the Doctor, Liss and Yaz back towards the tunnel with his spare hand. ‘Shift!’
Chapter 25
From his vantage point on the left flank, Aetius watched as chaos engulfed the hillside. Bad enough that Attila’s new witch had clearly granted him magicks with which to shield his forces, but to see the Strava running wild and unrestrained …
Naelsa had provided ten of the supernatural beasts to the Visigoths, claiming they would break the ranks of the Hun army, allowing the Roman cavalry to simply pick off the fleeing warriors. Except, of course, the Huns proved to have their own Strava, and just as many. Now they were destroying his forces, just as his were tearing through theirs.
Aetius had never feared battle, but this … This was not war, it was simply carnage. The Strava refused to attack each other, and since they were already dead, they were near impossible to bring down. It took forty or fifty men to destroy a single Strava, with most dying in the attempt.
With dread prickling along his spine, Aetius saw those dead men rise again from the crimson mud of the plains and jerk back into combat: the dead falling on the living, the beasts rampaging on, ignoring the dead.
The metal plate tucked behind his breastplate buzzed and shone with familiar energy. Aetius swore – he hated such unnatural devices! – but turned and discreetly placed the talk-box to his ear. ‘Well?’
‘Licinia, sir. We have captured Attila’s witch and removed her from the field via the catacomb vent, Eastern Sector. She can give the Huns no further magicks.’
Aetius’s tired features almost found a smile. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘watch her closely.’ Then he put the talk-box back behind his breastplate and signalled to his First Centurion. ‘Prepare the catapults and the spear shooters,’ he said. ‘We must bring down the Huns’ beasts with more efficiency—’
‘Here, Flavius Aetius!’ Theodoric, king of the Visigoths, approached with his bodyguard and Mekimma, the last of the hags, in tow.
Aetius stared at Mekimma. ‘Why did you bring this witch?’
‘She refuses to control her monsters. I no longer protect her.’
The crone looked placid, unperturbed. ‘You wished for beasts that could eat an army. You have those beasts.’
‘So too do the Huns!’ Theodoric’s face, or that part of it that wasn’t beard, had flushed bright red. ‘My faith in you is spent, witch. Flavius Aetius, you have spoken against the Tenctrama many times, and your sciences saved me when hers could not. I bring Mekimma to you now to punish as you will.’
You mean, thought Aetius, that you fear the old woman and want me to incur the Tenctrama’s wrath in your place. The crone was nodding as if eavesdropping on his thoughts, the lopsided smile more of a sneer now. He was aware the men were watching him, waiting for decisive leadership, and knew too that the Tenctrama stood condemned by her actions.
He had no choice.
Aetius took a deep breath. ‘Witch, I believe that either your magicks are spent, or else you act in treason to our cause. You cannot heal the sick. You cannot call off your war-beasts. You cannot prevent the dead from rising. I, Flavius Aetius, Protector of Rome and all her allies, swear now that you will die if you will not perform as we demand.’
‘Very well.’ Mekimma’s smile grew wider. ‘Grant me, then, one last request.’ She turned to stare up at Theodoric. ‘This man has been corrupted by healing magicks. The wheat is made chaff. He must be removed.’
Theodoric glowered, but Aetius saw the tremble in his hand as he raised it against her. ‘You would threaten a king, crone?’
Mekimma darted out her withered fingers, dug them in Theodoric’s face. ‘I kill kings like summer flies.’
‘Stop her!’ Aetius snapped to his guards, but no one moved, staring in horror. Theodoric was already glowing red as hellfire. A stink of roasting flesh and burning hair engulfed the reeling onlookers, as the Visigoth king exploded into embers and his bodyguards fell to their knees, moaning with fear.
Outraged, sickened, Aetius spoke with his sword: with both hands, he drove it down into the witch’s back. The point of the sword embedded in the mud, sticking her there.
Aetius had seen many things that he could not explain, many that he had tried to conceal, suppress and file away. None touched a deeper terror inside him than the sight of Mekimma’s head twisting slowly through a hundred and eighty degrees to stare up at him. ‘This is not your war, human,’ she rasped, a golden-bright light building inside her. ‘It is our reaping.’
The next moment she exploded in light, a million fiery trails blistering across the battlespace.
Aetius rounded on his troops, many of whom were backing away in terror. ‘No one deserts,’ he growled, ‘or I’ll watch you rise from the dead here and now. Fetch the spear shooters, and the catapults. Aim for the Strava and scatter the Huns.’ He turned to Theodoric’s guards. ‘Tell your commanders and your soldiers that your king died bravely in battle … that his last words were that they must fight under his son, Thorismund, who is the new king.’ The guards nodded, turned and ran. ‘And tell them to stay alive, damn it!’
‘The Huns, sir!’ a messenger called.
Aetius already knew what news the boy brought; he could feel the rumble through his feet, the pounding of a million hooves. He looked across the battlespace and saw Attila committing the full force of his cavalry into the field. His own commanders were already responding, the infantry holding up their shields as the skies darkened with the first rain of arrows.
Aetius pulled his sword from the ground and wiped the blade on the mud, as his trebuchets sent boulders as big as men flying towards the hillside. He crossed to where his horse was being dressed in the last of its armour by a stable lad. He remembered himself as a child, doing the same for his general on another battlefield in another distant land, such a long time ago.
Once again it was time to fight.
Chapter 26
Consus had never felt so scared. Freedom should mean he could do anything at all. In practice, it saw
him frozen with indecision on the higher ground east of the plain, watching the battle unfold.
Such a spectacle he’d never seen. Exotic beasts tearing through the far flank of the battlefield as spears and boulders carved their way through the sky! It was like some terrible tale from the Greek myths, made true. And across the plains, Consus saw that the Huns’ reputation as the fiercest fighters in the world was no story. There had to be a thousand riders in each regiment, galloping in huge circles before breaking away in formation to confront the enemy. Hundreds of Huns, advancing in waves on the fastest horses, each man loosing seven or eight arrows at the same cluster of Roman infantry, seeking to break the defensive line, then peeling away to collect fresh arrows from the ammunition holders at the rear, while the next wave came forward to do the same. Even as the Huns’ war horses galloped pell-mell over the churned-up ground, their riders would shoot from all angles – leaning back until they were horizontal to shoot arrows far behind them, or twisting forward to shoot lying on their fronts. There was almost a poetry to it! Consus had always loved poetry, loved especially those nights when Aetius, lying on his couch and weary with the world and his problems, would make him read aloud from Ennius or Naevius.
For the hundredth time Consus fought the urge to return to the camp, to throw himself on the mercy of his master. But Aetius was a man of dark secrets; for all he claimed to detest magicks, he knew wizardry. Consus had heard him talk to the air and receive answers. And when he’d sliced Consus open like a joint of meat to be healed by the Briton’s unnatural powers, he’d gone too far. Aetius had brought witches rising and horrible, unnatural death into the heart of his army home. Consus wanted none of it.
And from the way the battle was going … the impossible terror on the field, the dead jumping up from the ground to overcome the living … would there even be a camp to return to? Consus glanced again at the scar on his arm, the puckered line that looked years old already, and cringed. He felt marked by magick. Perhaps he could hide himself among the people of Orléans, help the town elders rebuild in the wake of the barbarian siege. He was bright, he could read Latin and Greek, he could find someone to take him under his wing. He should leave now, begin the journey today, put miles between him and these hairy barbarians. Against the odds, he had survived. Consus was a slave no longer. He was free.