Doctor Who - [061] - The Curse of Peladon

by Brian Hayles

  Jo took a deep breath, and didn't flinch. She hadn't come to play the coward. That'd be too easy. Grun, even without his armour, and dressed only in the knee-length tunic that went beneath it, looked every inch the warrior. He pointed first at Jo then the doorway. The message was clear - she must go! But Jo made no attempt to leave. She not only stood her ground but pointed to the carpet before her, and commanded Grun to kneel. Her face took on a regal bearing and her gestures were correspondingly decisive. Fortunately, Grun would never know that her knees were wobbling like jelly, and that if he had shouted at her, she would probably have run and hidden behind his suit of armour in the comer! He didn't shout, however. At the sharp tone of her voice, all the training of a soldier subservient to the royal line responded ... and he knelt.

  "Grun," said Jo, gaining confidence at this admission of respect, "you are a brave and honourable soldier - but you are being misled, Hepesh has tricked you with false words. I am here to tell you the truth. You will listen ... and you may rise," Jo added hastily.

  Grun stood up, his mighty form rigidly at the attention. Jo tried to remember what the Brigadier, or Mike would say to a lower rank. "At ease," she said crisply, and Grun relaxed.

  When Jo looked at him again, she almost burst out laughing. His face expressed wonderment that such a slip of a girl should have the stuff of generals in her. She decided not to overdo the sergeant-major bit: friendly persuasion was what she was here for, and she had to make it good.

  "Grun," she said. "I am entrusting you with a secret that only I and your King Peladon share." She paused, and tried to work out what she had to say next, without actually telling an out-and-out lie. "Peladon has asked me to be his royal bride-" She was about to continue, but found that Grun was once more kneeling at her feet, When she looked into his face, it was full of genuine pleasure. He took her hand and placed it on his head, a sign that he would serve her as faithfully as his present master. Jo was slightly alarmed. She hadn't said "yes" yet, but everybody seemed to take it for granted that she would! "Such an alliance, she said, "would bring the planet of Peladon and the planet Earth very close..." Grun looked, if anything, more pleased. But his face fell at Jo's next words.

  "Unfortunately," declared Jo, "this union is doomed before it has begun. The man that you are to fight in mortal combat - the Doctor -," Jo placed her hand behind her back and crossed her fingers to cancel out the bold untruth, "is the only person of rank who can grant consent for it to happen! By killing him, you will destroy any chance of wedlock between me and your king. And I think you are aware that will make your royal lord ... quite desperately unhappy." Watch it, Jo, she thought to herself. You're beginning to sound as grand and toffee-nosed as Queen Elizabeth the First! In spite of that, it looked as if her words had struck home. Grun's face was genuinely sad, and the noise he made pathetic in its pleading. She followed the direction of his pointing hand, and knew the cause of his unhappiness. He was indicating the miniature shrine in one corner of his room. In that shrine was a statue of Aggedor.

  Jo took a deep breath - this was the real crunch.

  "I know you are dedicated to Aggedor," she said, "and you have seen his face - and lived. But you do not know that both I and the Doctor have looked upon Aggedor as well."

  Grun looked at her with something approaching awe - and then she caught just a shade of suspicion at the back of his eyes. She'd have to be careful.

  "He has not slain us, as you can see," she said. "But he is angry ... and disturbed. His ways are being twisted by the very man who should be his greatest servant - Hepesh!"

  At this, Grun gave a great, troubled sigh, and hid his face in his hands. As protector of the throne, his life had been uncomplicated - until the arrival of these aliens. Now, he was faced with a clash of loyalties: should he serve his king, with whom he knew Hepesh disagreed, or the High Priest and the voice of Aggedor? If, by executing the Doctor, he destroyed the marriage that the king desired, he would be like dust in Peladon's eyes. But if he broke his bond, and defied the command of Hepesh, the consequences would be terrible indeed. For Hepesh had the power to call down the very form of Aggedor and, in a moment, he, the King's Champion, would suffer the fate of Torbis. Queen or not, this Earthling princess had no power to prevent that. He looked into her eyes, and knew what he must do. But his decision was not to be made known. Hepesh was standing in the doorway, and his gaze was like fire.

  "Princess," the High Priest's voice cracked like a whip, "I know your mind. You think that you can lure the King's Champion from the task that awaits him-but you are too late!" His command shifted to Grun, who stood alert and waiting. "Make ready, Grun. The hour has come!"

  Ssorg indicated the various pieces of armour hanging ready for use, and whispered urgently, "Prepare yourself, Doctor. You will need this primitive protection."

  The Doctor glanced at the breastplates and leg guards, and shook his head. They were heavy and well made - but little use against an axe or sword wielded by someone the size of Grun.

  "They'll only slow me down, Ssorg," he said firmly. "What I need most is speed. Grun's a trained warrior, and pretty deadly, I don't doubt. I'm no match for him in a straight slogging match, so I'll have to play it my way . ."

  He smiled at what must have been consternation in Ssorg's mind. "I think I'll give him a few surprises. Don't worry..."

  "But, this Grun ..." hissed Ssorg, "he will have armour. How can you hope to harm him? My people have long known that great strength in defence, added to superior fire-power, is essential to victory in battle."

  "I knew your ancestors well, old chap," murmured the Doctor drily. "They were great warriors, bred for battle, and you're the culmination of their greatest qualities. That isn't so with me. I've come to discover that brute force isn't always the answer," he smiled, "and now's my chance to prove it!"

  "You are brave," hissed the puzzled Ice Warrior, "but you are foolish. Perhaps you are skilled in the use of Pel weapons?" he added hopefully.

  "I'll have no idea until I get to the Pit, old chap," said the Doctor cheerfully, taking off his cloak and folding it neatly. Ssorg took it from him. He also slipped out of his elegant jacket, and handed it to Ssorg for safe-keeping. Still strikingly elegant in his ruffled shirt and dark trews, the Doctor now had a freedom of movement. But to a trained soldier like Ssorg, he looked ridiculously vulnerable; like an insect to be swept aside and crushed.

  "At least take a suitable weapon of your own," insisted the Martian. "A laser pistol would destroy Grun and end the fight in seconds!"

  "The combat has to be on their terms, I'm afraid," pointed out the Doctor. "The weapons to be used are waiting for us in the Pit, and I doubt if there'll be anything as sophisticated as that sonic gun of yours, Ssorg." The Doctor indicated the small but deadly sonic impulse destructor that was an integral part of the Ice Warriors forearm.

  "Grun will kill you," replied the Martian, fatefully.

  "He's got to catch me, first," retorted the Doctor. " 'Float like the butterfly, sting like the bee,' " he quoted, with a wry smile and his own variation of the Ali shuffle, "so lets see what Grun will make of that!"

  Alone in the temple, Peladon stood before the mighty image of the Royal Beast, its stern face seeming to shift and ripple in the drifting smoke of the incense burners. In the old days, the king would come here to pray, to seek guidance, or ask for reassurance for his own decisions. Now, Peladon had a dedication of a very different kind, and one for which, if Hepesh was right, the young king would be forever damned.

  "Oh, Aggedor," began Peladon, then stopped. Angrily, he realised he was confronting a being that, in all intelligence, he knew could not exist in any form other than an image. He was trying to communicate with a figment of Hepesh's warped mind! How can I ever hope to be a progressive ruler, he thought bitterly, if part of me is still bound up with the deepest superstitions of my backward people? Perhaps never, came his minds reply. But he could at least take the first step and release himself from the bondage
of irrational belief: Peladon raised his face to the stone image yet again, but there was no fear or weakness in his voice now. When he spoke, it was to an equal.

  "Aggedor, you have cast this fear upon us, hear me, Peladon of Peladon, whom it is your duty to guide and protect. Your wisdom is that of the savage. Your retribution in my name is barbaric. Your title, once honoured, is now another name for Death. I say there shall be no more killing in your name. This dawn, an alien will fight for his life, challenged by your ancient law. If he dies, understand this: all images of Aggedor shall be cast down, and your shrines and temples walled up with the heaviest stones. All mention of your name shall be forbidden!" Peladon paused. If he was to be struck down for sacrilege, now was the moment. Nothing happened. He took breath, and went on, "But if the alien lives - even at the cost of my Champion's life - then shall the name of Aggedor be honoured and respected once more in the land of Peladon as a bringer of peace and good fortune." The young king bowed and saluted in the traditional manner, then, straightening, ended his edict: "So be it." And as he spoke, he saw the figure of Hepesh step forward from the shadows into the torchlight. The old man's face seemed carved from stone, yet his eyes blazed.

  "I am the voice of Aggedor," came Hepesh's chilly tones. "I am his eyes, his ears, his messenger! No one but I-"

  Peladon cut in, harshly. "Are you above the king? I am the king. You heard my words. They were addressed to my servant, Aggedor. You in turn are his servant, and my subject! Do not argue with your king!" It was as though Peladon had struck the old man in the face. Hepesh seemed to flinch, then, drawing in his anger, he composed his face, and bowed before speaking. "All is ready at the Pit of Combat, majesty. We only await only your presence."

  Reluctantly, Alpha Centauri and Arcturus had agreed to attend the deadly contest - but not without protest.

  "Our presence is not required," insisted Arcturus. "We must make ourselves ready to escape, if necessary!"

  "I cannot face such a barbaric ceremony," shrilled Alpha Centauri. "I shall faint - I know it!"

  Izlyr would make no allowances. "It is essential that the Commission be present," he hissed, "if we are to make an adequate and objective report to the Galactic Council."

  This was something that the other delegates couldn't very well argue with, and, silently, they took their places. Jo deliberately placed herself near Izlyr and Ssorg. Whatever the Doctor thought of them, Jo thought they were the only people to be trusted. The only people now missing were the king and Hepesh. The king's chair was set within an enclosed cubicle at a prime viewing point along the gallery that encircled the upper rim of the Pit of Combat. He would sit down alone. All other observers were free to move about the gallery, and watch from whatever vantage point they chose.

  "He may yet survive," whispered Izlyr to Jo.

  Her face was drawn, and she shook her head wanly. "You haven't seen Grun in his armour, Izlyr. I have. He's -" she paused, trying not to sound utterly defeatist, "he's going to be very hard to beat." Her voice trailed away.

  Into the royal box stepped Peladon. The combat would soon begin.

  Everyone was nervously awaiting the arrival of Grun and the Doctor. Jo looked down into the Pit. She had half expected an arena rather like a Roman amphitheatre; flat, sandy, with steep walls and a cage-like entrance. The Pit was very different. The entrance was covered by a heavily spiked portcullis. The floor was of highly polished granite so smooth that it reflected like a lake of still water. There were only three small areas in which direct combat could easily take place. All the rest of the ground space was filled with steps, mounds, steep slopes and a jumbled medley of pillars and short columns of stone. On the walls, on the pillars, and scattered here and there about the Pit, were a variety of weapons: a four-edged axe, a sword with a broad blade that became a vicious prong, a lance with a barbed, three-forked head, and a triple ball and chain, hideously spiked. She shuddered, and was about to turn away when the portcullis slowly opened-and into that strange arena, stepped Grun and the Doctor.

  The formalities were simple. The two combatants were to march to the centre of the arena, turn and face the king, and await his signal. They could take up or reject any weapon, choosing those that would best deal with whatever situation arose. No tactic was forbidden. From the moment the contest started, the only aim was to kill. Surrender was not allowed. One man only must leave the Pit alive.

  Side by side, the strangely matched pair walked to the centre of the arena and paused. The Doctor, flamboyant and unprotected, looked up and saw the distant figure of Jo, high above. He gave a small, confident wave, and smiled. Grun, too, saw the Earth Princess, and her words echoed inside his head-only to be drowned by the final words of the High Priest.

  "He is our enemy, Grun," Hepesh repeated fiercely. "For the honour of the king and of Aggedor, he must be destroyed. Do your duty - kill!" He struggled to concentrate on the task in hand, and nearly overstepped the centre marker. The Doctor's cheerful voice murmured in his ear, irritatingly bland. "Watch what you're doing, Grun old chap. You'll spoil the show otherwise."

  As the king stood up, they bowed in unison. They rose, and looked up at his slight but regal figure, poised above them. He raised a hand. In it he held a scarlet pennant, bright against the drab grey of the castle stones. The fluttering scarlet fell. The fight had begun. Neither of them had been inside the Pit before, but Grun had at least viewed it many times from the gallery above. He studied its complexities and hidden snags, and knew the dangers of the polished stones. More than this, none of the deadly weapons in the Pit were strange to him. Some were so antique that they were no longer used-but he, as the King's Champion, had had access to them and had taken delight in testing their power. Other weapons were more common and, thus, he was even more skilled in their use. His rich armour weighed on him, but this was necessary. With the correct arms, he was impregnable. While he loped towards the weapons that he wanted, the Doctor scarcely moved. The alien was obviously confused by his surroundings. Now was the moment to strike and strike swiftly, for there was no honour in baiting a helpless opponent. His hand grasped the razor-edged flail, and the nearby shield: he stood, immense and magnificent - and all thought of mercy left his mind. He was the greatest of Peladon's warriors, and it was a warrior's destiny to kill.

  Although apparently still and unmoving, the Doctor had swiftly taken in the bizarre contrasts of the Pit. He had also seen Grun move, none too swiftly, to pick up a weapon that he obviously knew was there. It was now the Doctor's turn to find some means of defending himself before Grun attacked. But from where he was standing, he could see no suitable weapon. Grun was almost on top of him before the Doctor slipped nimbly to one side and began to clamber up a short slope. The flail slashed down, missing the Doctor by inches. He looked back and saw the marks where the razor-sharp blades had scoured the stone, and blinked: this was no time for the finer points of ring technique! He scrambled rapidly out of Grun's range, and looked about him desperately for a weapon. A bright hilt glinted close by, and he grabbed at it eagerly - then almost immediately flung it from him. It had been a poignard, little more than eighteen inches long and no defence at all against the vicious blades that Grun used so deftly. Again, the flail sang its deadly song through the air; again the Doctor dodged, this time nearly slipping from his higher vantage point, down to the smooth granite below. He altered his balance in mid-air and swung away from Grun's next sweeping blow. He grasped a nearby hanging net. It was made of finely wrought metal, and linked so ingeniously as to be as supple as fine cord. Yet, in itself, it wasn't simply defensive: every link thrust out a wickedly pointed hook.

  The Doctor lifted the net from the wall, and stood poised several feet above Grun. The Doctor realised that he had, for once, a definite advantage: his positioning was good and Grun knew the dangers presented by that clawing net! If he could only cast it skillfully enough ... The net flew through the air. Grun, neatly side-stepping, avoided its tearing barbs. Even so, he slipped and found his
flail caught and tangled in the metal net. One jerk from the Doctor, and the weapon was torn from Grun's gauntleted hand. But its weight made the net useless, and both men ran for other weapons. The Doctor took up a trident-headed spear. Grun now held a massive, four-bladed axe. The spear was not balanced for throwing, but could keep Grun at bay long enough for the Doctor to size up his next move-or so the Doctor thought. With surprising agility, Grun shifted his position to a stump of stone overlooking the Doctor, and swung the axe at the full limit of its shaft. The Doctor barely had time to turn and clumsily parry the blow. His spear shaft was reduced to a useless stump in his hands. With a roar, Grun struck out again, leaping downwards at the Doctor as the axe heads glinted in the torchlight. Nimbly, the Doctor leaped to one side, but miscalculated his footing, stumbled, and fell sprawling on the smooth granite below. In a flash, Grun had sprung after him, and stood poised, arms high, the axe at its peak-but before it could be brought flashing down to cleave its target, the Doctor, at full-length, flicked out a stabbing foot against Grun's left ankle. Grun toppled and fell, like a mighty tree. Unable to take advantage of Grun's position, the Doctor rolled aside and sought yet another means of defending himself. Grun, in turn, found the axe shaft had shattered on impact with the granite floor, and he too sought another weapon - this time, the fearsome triple ball, spiked and spinning from its shafted chain. He reared up to his full height, and began to whirl the chains about his head. Instantly, the Doctor recognised them as a variation on the South American bolas. Thrown through the air, they could bring down a charging bull; or tear a man to shreds. As Grun hesitated, the Doctor seized a two pronged throwing spear and flung it, full-force. His aim was sure. The prongs caught Grun's throwing arm at its full stretch upward and he was yanked backwards, his arm pinned against the stone by the prongs of the spear. The throwing chains, entwined around the prongs and shaft of the Doctor's spear, made it impossible to shake free, even though Grun's great strength tore the prongs from the wall behind him. His effort brought him stumbling down the incline to the arena below, and it was here that the Doctor took his chance. From a ledge at the height of Grun's shoulder, the Doctor gave a sharp, explosive cry, and launched himself into a flying jump-kick. The impact of his out-thrust heels caught the already staggering Grun on the side of the neck, close to his Adams apple-and the effect was spectacular and horrifying. As Grun smashed into the dust, his helmet went flying. He began to fight desperately for breath, his great gauntlets tearing at his throat, his lungs pumping and rasping as he tried to suck in precious air. His bulging eyes hardly saw the Doctor take up the poignard that he had once thrown down as useless. With Grun lying helpless it was the perfect weapon for the coup de grace. The Doctor knelt over the fallen King's Champion and, with deliberate precision, placed the needle-sharp point against his opponent's neck. Grun, still heaving for breath, grew still. His staring eyes fixed on the Doctor's face. He knew he was as good as dead - but still he gave no indication of fear.