Doctor Who: The Awakening (16 page)

Now the troopers’ slow, marching motion was propelled and echoed by the hollow heating of a drum.

Jane looked doubtfully at the Doctor. ‘They’re psychic projections?’ He nodded.

‘I’d feel happier with a gun,’ Wolsey announced. He was a true man of the soil, forthright and practical, to whom the possession of the right tool for the job always gave a sense of comfort and well-being. But there was no tool for this job. ‘It wouldn’t make any difference,’ Tegan told him.

‘They’re not real.’

‘They look solid enough to me,’ Wolsey muttered.

‘This is the Malus’s last line of defence,’ the Doctor explained. ‘And they’ll kill just as effectively as any living thing.’

The unseen drum throbbed, and the troopers marched on in absolute unison. Their austere and forbidding faces stared at the Doctor and his companions. There was no hatred in them, but nor was there any compassion; they were dead faces, with no expression at all. The little, frightened group retreated before them. moving closer and closer to the broken altar.

In the crypt below them, another trooper was stirring. The man Andrew Verney had tilled with his stone had begun to groan and murmur to himself. Now, with much grunting and pulling, he pushed himself up to his knees.

He was still only half conscious. He knelt for a while, swaying groggily and holding his aching shoulder; gradually his head cleared a little - enough for him to notice Willow’s body lying on the floor beside him. He bent over it and pulled it up to look at the Sergeant’s face.

Willow was still out cold.

The trooper let him slump again as dizziness and nausea cane flooding back. He shook his head and mumbled to himself. He couldn’t remember where he was, or what he was supposed to be doing.

Although the Doctor and his companions had withdrawn out of the nave and retreated into the sanctuary, still the ghostly figures advanced unrelentingly, and still the hollow drumming hoonsed through the roar and smoke of the Malus.

Turlough glanced over his shoulder; the stained glass window loomed above them and scattered fragments of coloured light across the floor and their bodies, making their situation even more bizarre and unnerving. ‘We’re running out of places to run,’ he murmured to Tegan.

‘That’s becoming the story of our lives,’ she sighed.

Will Chandler, tucked behind Jane, peeped out at the deathly faces advancing towards him. He had seen them before. These men had been among the Puritan force which attacked the church when the great and terrible battle began. He had seen each of them cut down by Cavaliers. Yet here they were, marching up the nave, large as life and pale as death.
Marching
. He whimpered with fear.

Verney was moving slowly backwards at Will’s side.

‘Why don’t they attack?’ he asked.

‘They will,’ the Doctor promised. ‘But in their own time.’ He looked past the troopers to the Malus. Already swollen obscenely, it was swelling still further, and shuddering – and looking their way. The huge, glinting eyes were pointing directly at them. ‘Now we’re the Malus’s last source of energy,’ the Doctor said, ‘it will make us sweat for as long as it can.’

10

In the crypt, the trooper had remembered who he was.

He was on his feet, swaying over Willow’s body. He shook his head again, trying to clear it of the dizziness which kept threatening to swamp him. Then he drew his sword and staggered towards the steps.

Their backs were to the wall. As Turlough had predicted, there were no more places for them to run to, and they were trapped.

Realising that victory was theirs for the taking, the ghostly figures stopped at the entrance to the sanctuary, close beside the archway which led to the side chapel and the steps to the crypt. With that uncanny precision they swung their hands across their bodies to the hilts of their swords. As one the troopers grasped them, and drew the swords together in a unified sweep which rasped steel on scabbard with a shrieking sound. The swords swept up into the light. Then they pointed them at the group huddled against the altar, with the colours of the stained glass window lying across them like a rainbow.

Will drew in his breath and shivered. ‘I’s gonna die,’ he moaned.

The Doctor gripped his shoulder encouragingly. ‘Be quiet, Will,’ he whispered.

‘He’s right, Doctor.’ Jane was shaking too; she could feel the edges of those swords already.

‘Not yet he isn’t,’ the Doctor said. He was sure there must be something he could do, but for the life of him he couldn’t think what it was.

The trooper, who had remembered at last that he was supposed to be searching for the Doctor and the lost Queen of the May, came lurching and staggering up the steps from the crypt. He clattered across the side chapel, swung out through the archway – and found himself surrounded by three grey phantoms.

As he fell into their midst, three glinting swords swished through the air and joined each other around his throat.

Pinned by the swords, he stood rooted to the spot for a moment, wide eyed and bewildered. His head was still dizzy, and he tried desperately to make sense of what was happening to him. He glanced fearfully from one to another of the ghastly, grey-white faces, and his mouth opened wide with surprise.

The church, which had fallen silent with the trooper’s arrival, now erupted with noise. The Malus trumpeted a triumphant roar and Tegan and Jane screamed and turned away their faces as the phantom soldiers raised their arms and swung their swords for the kill. The blades flashed and the brief, bloody, one-sided fight came to its inevitable close: the trooper shrieked in his death agony, then sank to the floor and lay face down among the debris and dust.

‘Oh, no.’ Tegan was shaking.

‘Brave heart, Tegan.’ The Doctor held her arm for comfort.

Jane was staring down the church in astonishment.

Apart from the trooper lying on the ground, it was empty now. ‘How could that happen?’ she gasped.

‘They’ve gone!’ Turlough’s voice mingled relief and amazement in equal amounts.

The Doctor nodded. ‘That fight cost a lot of psychic energy,’ he explained. ‘The Malus needs to rest. Let’s go before it recovers.’

Anxiously he herded them towards the door. They were all looking warily at the Malus: it was quiet for the moment, and seemed to he brooding, deciding on its next move. They proceeded carefully and silently, working their way down the aisle. But before they reached the door it burst open and Sir George Hutchinson came crashing through, brandishing a pistol in each hand.

His arms were outstretched and his face was twisted into a snarl. He swayed on his feet, and looked straight at the Doctor and the others.

‘It is time at last!’ he shouted. ‘I am here, Master!’

He had not even seen them. With glazed eyes he stared up at the Malus now, a look that was almost adoration.

This was the moment the Malus had been waiting for. It throbbed. With a vast, bellowing roar of triumph it shuddered and thrust forward, pushing out of the wall to greet its servant, who now stood inside the door looking bemused and dazed as if he was uncertain what to do next.

Ben Wolsey looked at the man who had used and betrayed his village, and frowned. Then, making up his mind, he said in a quiet, unwavering voice, ‘Let me deal with him.’

‘He’ll kill you,’ Tegan said. She was looking up the dark barrels of the pistols in Sir George’s hands.

But Wolsey was a man who, once he had come to a decision, was not to be put off easily. He pushed through the group and advanced slowly towards Sir George. ‘Sir George used to be a man of honour,’ he said, ‘He played the war games in the way they were intended.’

‘Forget any codes of honour Sir George might have once held,’ the Doctor, at his shoulder, advised him. ‘He’s now completely under the influence of the Malus.’

‘He’s still mortal,’ Wolsey said stubbornly. He fingered the hilt of his dagger.

Jane pushed through to be at his side. ‘Don’t be a fool, Ben.’

Wolsey turned towards her. His eyes were sad, but determined. ‘I have to try,’ he explained. ‘I feel partly responsible for what has happened here.’ He turned and stepped forward again to meet Sir George.

‘Ben!’ Jane cried out, but her voice was drowned by the bellowing of the Malus.

Now, man to man, Ben Wolsey faced Sir George Hutchinson. An area of quiet seemed to settle around them and keep all the disturbance at bay, as though they were standing in the eye of a hurricane.

‘Sir George?’ Ben Wolsey said gently.

The Squire swayed uncertainly. He heard Wolsey’s voice, but was unable to focus on it and decipher the jumbled sounds. He could not even find their source, because something terrible was in the way. Yet a voice had addressed him, and he had to answer. He tried, but the words would not come; his eyes bulged and he swayed on his feet.

But the pistols still pointed at Wolsey.

Will Chandler had not taken his eyes off them since the moment Sir George had entered the church. He felt nothing but hatred for this man, and now that the phantoms had gone and his old truculence had returned, the hatred was making him aggressive -- even courageous.

He tugged at the Doctor’s sleeve. ‘Be it better Sir George be dead?’ he asked.

‘Not if there’s another way,’ the Doctor replied.

Will was not convinced. He watched Ben Wolsey trying to talk sense to a madman, and shook his head. That, surely, wasn’t the way.

‘Sir George?’ Wolsey was trying again, and endeavouring to ignore the pistols waving in front of his face. ‘Do you understand me?’

The voice came to Sir George as through a dense fog. He tried again to focus on the speaker. ‘Who are you?’ he asked in a confused voice.

For a moment Ben Wolsey felt almost sorry for him.

‘Colonel Wolsey,’ he said gently. ‘Ben Wolsey. Your friend.’

Finding a flaw in the determination of its servant, the Malus roared and jerked Sir George back to full attendon.

He pointed the guns firmly at Wolsey’s head. ‘Get back!’

he warned. Now, impelled by the Malus, he moved steadily forward.

Wolsey was forced to retreat. Yet despite this setback he was determined to take care of Sir George himself. ‘We’ve something to settle,’ he insisted.

Sir George did not even hear him this time, because the Malus was inside his head again.

‘Sir George,’ the Doctor said urgently. He came forward to stand at Wolsey’s shoulder. ‘It’s vital that you should listen.’

But Sir George kept moving forward, pressing them back. At the same time he was edging round towards his master.

The Malus roared.

The noise thundered down the crypt and reached out to Joseph Willow, who lay sprawled where he had fallen. It entered his mind like a lightning stroke.

Willow sat bolt upright, as if someone had dashed cold water over him. He drew his pistol hurriedly, then hesitated, trying to remember where he was. His head ached and he felt shaken; when he saw the gun in his hand he felt puzzled. Then the noise echoed in his ears again. It filled his head, drew him to his feet and led him across the crypt to the steps.

Sir George Hutchinson had worked round to stand in front of the Malus. The monstrous head loomed above him, jerking, shuddering, roaring constantly now and billowing dense smoke.

They had to shout to be heard above the noise. ‘Listen to Colonel Wolsey!’ the Doctor cried. ‘Concentrate your thoughts – you must break free of the Malus!’

‘Free?’ Sir George stabbed the pistols forward. ‘Why?

I’m his willing servant.’

‘You’re his slave,’ the Doctor argued. ‘He only wants you for one thing.’

The Malus roared; the noise buffeted Sir George and he staggered and swayed, utterly disorientated. ‘You’re mistaken,’ he cried. ‘He has offered me enormous power!’

He tried to smile, but the pressure in his head was monstrous and his face twisted with pain.

‘No!’ the Doctor tried again. How could he explain?

‘The Malus is here for one reason – to destroy. It’s the only thing it knows how to do.’

Ben Wolsey saw the confusion on Sir George’s face. The Doctor seemed to be getting through to him. ‘Now listen to the Doctor,’ he pleaded.

Sir George was being torn apart. He tried to hear the Doctor’s words but the Malus lashed his brain and he cried out in agony. He put a hand to his head to contain the noise; he felt as if his skull was breaking open. He waved the other hand, and the pistol it still held, at the Doctor. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he moaned.

The noise of the Malus was beginning to vibrate the whole fabric of the church. The Doctor doubled his efforts.

He shouted above the raging sound: ‘Without you the Malus is helpless ... through you it feeds on the fear and anger generated by the war games. Once it is strong enough it will destroy you!’

Sir George stared wildly at the Doctor. But as his uncertainty returned, the Malus began to sheer the mind clean out of him. His face moved into a paroxysm of pain.

‘No!’ he screamed. He staggered, but used all his strength to recover his balance, and levelled the pistols again.

Wolsey’s hand grasped the hilt of his dagger. The Doctor stepped forward to make one last effort, But as he did so, Joseph Willow appeared in the archway and crept up behind them. He had exchanged his pistol for a knife.

‘Sir George,’ the Doctor pleaded, ‘your village is in turmoil and you’re pointing your gun at a man who is a friend. That’s the true influence of the Malus. Cant you feel the rage and hate inside your head? Think, man!’

The Malus roared and Sir George staggered and clutched his head again. He was grunting and moaning, and beginning to buckle under the weight of pain. ‘Did you have any such feelings before you activated that thing?’ the Doctor insisted.

Sir George gasped. He reeled; he was losing control of his limbs. ‘I ... don’t ...’ He could find no words to express what he was feeling. The pain took him up into its web and enmeshed him. ‘I ... don’t ...’ he tried again, but he could make no progress against the searing lights which blocked and burned his mind. The heavy pistol dropped out of his hand. He toppled to his knees, clutching his head with both hands.