25 - Legacy.pdf - Doctor Who novels - KotwGlanach

LEGACY

By Gary Russell

To the best Mother in the world - for getting me to read at such an early age and cultivating my interest in all

things readable. Thanks.

First published in Great Britain in 1994 by Doctor Who Books an imprint of Virgin Publishing Ltd 332

Ladbroke Grove London W10 5AH

ISBN 0 426 20412 3

Cover illustration by Peter Elson

Photo typeset by Intype, London

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired

out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other

than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the

subsequent purchaser.

Contents:

INTRODUCTION

PART ONE - THE PAST

1: My Shadow in Vain

INTERLUDE 1

PART TWO - CONTEMPORARY

1: Unknown and Hostile

2: In a Glasshouse

3: Machine and Soul

4: Strange Charm

INTERLUDE 2

5: A Game Called Echo

6: Are Friends Electric?

7: Soul Protection

INTERLUDE 3

8: I Die: You Die

PART THREE - THE FUTURE?

1: Dark Mountain

Introduction

To crib liberally from American writer Peter David, if you don't like introductions just go straight to the start of

the book; you won't miss anything important. I'd like to think you might miss something interesting, though.

The Ice Warriors were created by Brian Hayles, a writer who tragically is no longer with us. One of my

earliest and clearest memories of Doctor Who was The Seeds of Death, Hayles' second outing for the wily

Martians, in 1969. From then on they were always my favourite monsters and their appearances in the first

two installments of the Peladon saga (The Curse of Peladon, 1972 and The Monster of Peladon, 1974) further

imbued them with a believability and background lacking in the majority of the other `rubber suits' that

paraded ad nauseum across the screens of the world.

Whether it was Ice Lord Izlyr's attempts to assure an understandably disbelieving Doctor that the Martians

had turned their back on militaristic conquest, or Eckersley's admission that Ice Lord Azaxyr desired a return

to the `death or glory days' of their empire, the Ice Warriors oozed sophistication and intelligence. The mark

of a good writer (Robert Holmes and Malcolm Hulke being the other Doctor Who writers that immediately leap

to mind) is the ability to make every character exist in varying degrees of grey rather than as

whiter-than-white good guy and evil black-hatted baddy. No one in the two Peladon stories is perfect,

certainly none of them are simply evil; they all exist and do what they do. By creating the medieval society of

Peladon, Hayles took the rules of Doctor Who and subtly twisted them - turning The Curse of Peladon from

being just a superb story into a masterpiece of social commentary.

I only met Brian Hayles once, at an open-air science fair in Windsor, in the mid-seventies. When I realized

who he was I shoved my copy of his The Curse of Peladon novel under his nose and asked him when there

was going to be a return visit. .Ah,' he said. `Tom Baker's the Doctor now, so they wouldn't recognize him.'

Ever the eager (pushy) teenager, I asked him what he would do next on Peladon and, like any clever person

faced with the enthusiasm of youth, he turned the question back on me, What would I like to see done? So I

suggested a long, convoluted and frankly ridiculous adventure, but he smiled and nodded, saying that he liked

the ideas (I imagine he was being not entirely truthful) and so they have stayed with me ever since. None of

those ideas are in this book, however, except the ending: an ending I considered logical and even if I did

catch him surprised, I'd like to think Brian Hayles really would like it too.

No book exists without the help of a lot of other people and Legacy is certainly no exception. In no order

whatsoever, I am indebted to: Paul Cornell for `being really cool' about my use of characters from all his

excellent books; Kate Orman for coming to England and just being a fiery Pakhar; Terrance Dicks and

Malcolm Hulke for making me want to write Doctor Who in the first place; Adrian Rigelsford for allowing me to

plagiarize aspects of his excellent Doctor Who -- The Monsters book, specifically the events surrounding the

Sword of Tuburr; Jamie Woolley for being `serpentine' (that didn't come out right!); David Saunders and Chris

Dunk for getting me into this Doctor Who world; Alan McKenzie for the initial big break and John Freeman for

the bigger one; Peter Darvill-Evans and Rebecca Levene for being damn fine and honest (with much-needed

criticism, I might add) editors - and for listening when I had panic attacks and a blank screen.

Neil C, Paul C, Nick P, Barnaby E, Simon S, Paul V, Simon 'Scibus' M, Nick B, Warwick G, Mark G, Ian M

and especially Gareth Roberts for the support, friendship and Jackie impros.

Justin, Andy, Craig and Jim for wanting to help and accepting my (probably erroneous) refusals.

Marc Platt and Nigel Robinson, two of the greatest guys in the world, who read and critiqued my original 1991

submission.

And of course special thanks to John Ainsworth, for just putting up with bad moods, frayed tempers, late

nights and exceptionally loud music.

GPR 12/93

PART ONE - THE PAST

1: My Shadow in Vain

The storm ripped its way through the almost never-ending darkness that encircled Peladon. Flashes of

lightning reflected off the planet's tri-satellite-dominated heavens and flared back against the dark side of

Mount Megeshra; highest, widest and most deadly of Peladon's mountains. The terrible winds roared loudly

enough to deafen anyone foolhardy enough to venture out, if they were not smashed to the rocky ground first.

At the foot of the mountain were the sturdy granite settlements where the Pel miners and soldiers lived with

their families. Each day, in their respective groups they would enter the network of tunnels that had been

carved into the mountain, digging and building for the planet's future.

One day, it was said, a vast citadel would sit atop the mountain, a defiance to the angry gods who sentenced

Peladon to its stormy fate.

One day.

Half-way up and inside the mountain, a large habitation had already been constructed. Linked by many

tunnels, a huge circular building occupied about three hundred square feet of the blackness. Flambeau

torches illuminated, badly, the walkways within the structure, and heavy burgundy drapes acted as walls

between the rooms.

Sat in the very centre room, surrounded by the largest and brightest torches, was a man. Long, untidy brown

curls hung to his waist and a streak of burgundy ran through the centre of this hair from forehead to tips. His

face was scarred and pitted - physical medals gained in countless battles against countless now-dead foes.

A torn burgundy toga hung from one shoulder, looped under his loins and back up again. Fur boots kept his

feet from the chills and a massive barbed spear was slung over his back, held there by leathery knotted

thongs. At his side hung a massive double-bladed serrated sword, its metal dulled by the mixed blood of its

many victims.

The warrior shivered. In spite of the torches. In spite of his massive, perfectly toned physique. In spite of the

fur boots.

`By the gods of Peladon, it is bitter today, Chamberlain.'

`Aye, Lord,' agreed the seedy old man hovering behind him. `The gods appear most displeased -' The moment

he had spoken, the aged chamberlain knew he had made a grave mistake. His lord pulled himself out of his

wooden chair, kicking aside one of the flambeaus.

`Dare you suggest that the gods are angry because of my actions?' bellowed the warrior. `Have I not

slaughtered my foes, their families and villages single-handedly? Have I not wiped out all unbelievers and

desecraters? Have I not destroyed deviants of colour and love? Do you tell me that I have done all this only to

anger them? Well?'

The old chamberlain smiled weakly. `Of course not, my Lord, I merely said -' He got no further because his

head was silently and swiftly detached from his shoulders by the double-bladed sword. It bounced twice and

came to rest at the foot of the drapes.

`Captain!' roared the warrior.

An instant swish of an opposite drape and a younger warrior appeared, a single-bladed sword drawn in

anticipation of attack.

`Put aside your weapon, loyal Gart. I am in need of a new advisor and chamberlain. Get me someone. Now!'

Gart sheathed his sword, bowed and vanished as swiftly as he had come.

The warrior knelt beside the corpse. Blood was pouring out of the severed neck like water from an overturned

goblet. He sat the corpse upright, assuming this would stop the flow. Instead it just spurted more. With an

angry shove, the body was pushed back floorwards again. The warrior snarled, looked around and saw the

head to one side. The eyes were wide open, staring accusingly. `Bah!' He gave the head a savage kick,

noting with relish the sound of the nose bones crunching, and it vanished under the drapes.

Gart reappeared, two old men hovering meekly behind him, bowing and scraping as if their lives depended

upon it, which they did.

The warrior looked them over. `Hmm. Look.' He pointed at the corpse, whose blood-flow was stemming

slightly now. `Disappoint me and that is your fate. Understand?'

The two old men understood.

Totally.

Absolutely.

Without any doubt at all.

The warrior nodded. `Right. Names?'

'Voss,' said one.

`Uthron,' said the other.

'Voss,' said the warrior, `I don't like your name.'

`It was the one I was born with, my Lord.' Voss shrugged.

`It is the one you have died with as well!' Voss didn't have time to draw breath as the double-bladed sword

tore into his side, slicing him neatly, if not bloodlessly, in two.

Uthron's already parchment-like skin went a shade whiter.

The warrior laughed. `His response should have been to change his name, eh Uthron?'

Uthron realized that his volatile Lord was not likely to like whatever response he gave to that question, so he

swallowed hard and said, `Indeed, my Lord,' and nothing else.

`Chamberlain Uthron, I wish you to record in the palace records that I, the greatest warrior ever born on

Peladon, have been appointed by the gods to become king of Peladon. From now on, the name Erak will be

known throughout history as the first and greatest absolute monarch of this planet.' Uthron bowed a little bit

lower than before. Erak nodded. `You may go, Chamberlain Uthron.'

`My Lord . . . Your Majesty,' he corrected quickly. `Where do I locate the palace records to mark this

momentous occasion in?'

Erak stared at Uthron. He cocked his head first to one side then the other. Then he grinned. `By the gods,

Uthron, you are a wit! I shall enjoy you being my chamberlain. There are no palace records, yet. You will have

to start them from this moment. Off you go!'

Uthron had moved to the drapes when Erak beckoned again, this time in a rather bored tone. `Oh, Uthron.

Get someone in here to clean this lot up, will you?' He lazily reached out with his sword and skewered Voss's

head neatly through the eyes.

`Yes, Your Majesty.' Uthron left swiftly.

Two hours later, after three wenches had carried, mopped and dried, Erak sat back in his throne, closed his

eyes and remembered glorious battles.

It was raining. Hard. The battlefield was pure mud, and he was almost forced to jump every time he wished to

move. Faithful Gart was at his side as they slashed and hacked their way through the menfolk of Narral's

village. Narral - pretender to Peladon's throne. Ha!

Before long every able-bodied man in Narral's village lay dead in the mud. Erak had lost none. Narral himself

stood in front of a large stone hut, sword brandished.

`Erak!' he yelled. `You have no right to take rule of the planet. We have survived generations with each village

appointing a headman to be on the joint council. You are an evil butcher, not a king!' Erak had smiled and

rocked back on his heels with laughter. `And you, Narral, are the last of those weak-willed councillors. They

all lie dead, their villagers with them.'

`Then you will have no one to lord over, you monster!' Narral shouted back. Erak strode towards his foe, as

much as the mud would allow. Narral waved his sword in front of him but Erak grasped the end, ignoring the

cutting edge. He squeezed and the blade shattered. With his other hand he reached out and grasped Narral's

right shoulder, crushing the bones to dust. He grinned at his agonized foe, palmed his right hand, drew it

back and then pushed forward, ripping directly into Narral's stomach. As his hand went in, he grabbed

Narral's backbone and pulled down sharply. Narral died instantly as his neck was broken, and Erak withdrew

his hand. Tossing the body aside, he marched into the hut. An old woman, three boys and six girls aged,

Erak guessed, at between nine and fourteen, cowered at the back.

Gart entered. `My Lord?'

Erak threw a bloody arm around his friend's shoulder. `Gart - our warriors need amusement. The girls are

theirs - when they have finished with each one, they may of course dispose of them.'

The old woman gasped in horror. Erak's blade flashed briefly and she fell dead. `The boys?' asked Gart.

`Our brave warriors must be hungry, Gart. There's little meat upon them, but these wars are hard for all of us.

It is a long while since we have tasted meat!'

The three boys instinctively gripped each other as this time Gart's sword sung its lethal song.

Erak was awakened suddenly by a noise. He sat up in his chair, furious that his memories of past glories had

been disturbed.

Of course, there had been a fair bit of dramatic license in his dream - Narral had been an old man who died of

a seizure early on in the battle; Erak had lost fifteen men and although the young girls had been raped and

slaughtered so as not to breed inferior or tainted stock, there had been no little boys to eat. That part had

come out of necessity months later when needing a threat to ensure his own children went to bed on time.

`Go now, or your father will eat you as he did Narral's sons!' was a frequent bellow in his chambers.

The drapes were drawn back and Uthron cowered there.

'Well?'

'Your Majesty - there is a young warrior to see you. He . . . he . . .'

`Out with it, Chamberlain! You need not be afraid of your king!'

Uthron, of course, was completely terrified of his king and being told that he ought not to be only made things

worse. `Your Majesty, he says - and I only report what he says - that he challenges your right to be

Peladon's monarch. He says. . .'

`Yes, yes, I get the idea, Uthron. Send this new pretender in - I'll soon kill him and be done with it. Off you

go.'

Moments later, Erak confronted his would-be usurper.

He was a young man - probably in his late teens. A shock of blond hair hung to his neck, the traditional

burgundy stripe not yet stretching to the tips of his hair. Like Erak, he wore a simple toga, his of white. It

barely covered a lithe but taut frame, muscle and sinew evident but not exaggerated. The boy had not seen a

great deal of combat but was clearly fit and healthy. He carried only a short training sword but something

about him sent an unaccustomed chill through Erak.

It was his eyes. Piercing blue eyes, of the sort normally associated with scholars and artists. Yet they

possessed an inner fire that left Erak in no doubt he faced a mature, intelligent and capable fighter.

Determined not to let it be seen that he was slightly surprised by the newcomer. Erak reverted to his brazen,

gruff act. `Well, well, well,' he laughed. `A boy. A child whose loins have barely felt gravity. Who would send

such an innocent against me, King Erak of Peladon?'

'My Lord,' the boy said in a soft but strong tone. `My Lord, you cannot be king until you are publicly

enthroned. You must let the people see this event, so that they may truly know it has occurred.'

`Of course!' Erak nodded quickly. In fact he had no intention of being crowned in public. He knew he was

king, and besides some foe might take the opportunity to assassinate him. However, he could not say this in

front of the child. No. `My coronation will be a spectacle for all to behold. Lavish and glorious, it will mark a

new age for Peladon.'

`Indeed it will, Your Majesty. An age of death, doom and destruction. An age when a man who slays young

girls out of fear will rule. An age when a man who cuts down old women in case they spit at him will rule. An

age when a man who fears his own shadow and murders old men because their names do not sound right will

rule. In short, Your Majesty, an age in which Peladon will succumb to, and never escape from, sheer terror.

No age of greatness but an age of stagnation, deceit and lies. You are not fit to be king of a cesspit, let alone

an entire planet. I shall stop you.'

Erak looked at the boy, and laughed. `You have guts, I'll grant you. I suspect that they shall be set before me

on a dish before this night is out however, boy. What do they call you?'

'I am Sherak.'

`The name is familiar, boy, but I cannot place it right now.'

`No, Your Majesty, I did not expect you to. I am too lowly, too far beneath you. Yet I shall be First King of

Peladon. A benevolent and just king who will bring his people together in unity, trust and - '

Erak had drawn his double-bladed sword and lunged at Sherak before the boy had finished his sentence.

Sherak's own blade parried expertly and held the blow. Erak reached behind him and drew his barbed spear.

He lashed out towards Sherak's head, but the younger man ducked, letting his sword take more pressure

from Erak's. At the last second, he spun on the balls of his feet, whipping his sword away and Erak

unbalanced, his double bladed tool crashing into the ground. `You are a cold warrior, boy,' acknowledged

Erak. `But your inexperience shows - sadly there will not be time for you to profit by my teachings.'

Sherak leapt towards the drapes and tugged at them. They fell with ease, crashing into the flambeau torches

and igniting in seconds.

For a fleeting second, it crossed Erak's mind that Uthron, Gart and the others in his upper echelons ought to

have been alerted to the battle and arrived to cut the boy into sixteen equal parts. Maybe this one he really

would eat. Now that would be a story for his sons . . .

His reverie was broken as Sherak flicked a blazing drape towards him. Using his barbed spear, he scooped it

away, but the barbs got entangled in it and he let go.

He only had his sword left.

It was all he needed.

The boy had got cocky; he was walking backwards, towards a flambeau that he hadn't overturned. Any

second now and Erak would have his chance.

Sherak moved back -- he could feel the heat behind him and guessed what Erak was hoping for. But Sherak

could turn that to his advantage. Just as he neared the torch, lie feinted and yelled as if burned. Predictably,

Erak lunged, but Sherak was still a good three paces from the torch. He ducked to one side, kicking out and

knocking the torch forward. Erak brought his blade down savagely straight into the flames. With a screech of

pure rage and pain, Erak dropped his sword as the flesh on his hand bubbled and blistered.

Sherak took the advantage, kicking Erak's smouldering sword away from its owner.

`I don't need weapons - I have myself!' yelled Erak, thinking of his fictitious murder of Narral. He lashed out

with his good hand and Sherak ducked. Not quickly enough, and a glancing but powerful blow sent him

crashing into the wooden throne which shattered under the impact.

With a roar of triumph Erak scooped up his barbed spear from the burnt remains of the drape. A slight tug

and it was free.

Sherak realized his mistake and tried to scrabble back, but the broken throne slowed him and he looked up

into the mad eyes of Erak - the man he'd come to kill, who looked instead like destroying him!

With a final bellow Erak grasped the hot spear in both hands, relishing the pain from his burnt skin.

`Die, pretender. Peladon is mine - ' Erak stopped; he suddenly felt very hot. He looked down as his own

double bladed sword erupted through his chest, sending chunks of hairy flesh and shattered bone to the floor.

As his ruptured lungs deflated, he staggered round, the last of his strength fading. He dropped the spear as

he saw Gart standing there, having just released his grip on the sword.

`Why?' Erak wanted to yell. To scream. `Why have you betrayed me?'

Instead, globules of blood spat from his mouth. An airless gurgle rattled in his throat and he fell to the floor.

`Because,' Gart said in reply to the unspoken question that, after seven years of campaigning with Erak, he

knew would have been in his lord's mind, `I hate you. You are the most evil, inhuman monster that ever set

foot on this planet. I have been training my son for this day since the moment he could walk. For sixteen

years he has trained. He has dreamt. He has planned for the day when he would wipe the blight that was

Erak from the face of our planet and the records of our history. And he has done so.' Gart knelt to his former

lord and master for the last time. `May the gods make a plaything of your body and torment you for eternity to

somehow atone for the evil you have done in your ill-begotten lifetime.'

Gart felt a hand on his shoulder. `He is dead, father. Do not waste your energy on the defeated - use it to

shape the living.'

The soldier looked up at Sherak and smiled. `You will make a good king and leader for our people.'

25 - Legacy.pdf

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