From: "Clive May" Subject: Re: Desert of Fear next instalment 1/2. Date: 22 June 2002 22:29 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ----- The Fortress at the Worlds Edge stretched for miles along the top of the great slip fault. It was not a continuous structure, but a series of massive fortifications blocking the low points in the range of mountains thrown up by the upheavals, which had formed the great Vale. The gigantic undertaking of its construction had been completed in a past so remote that not even myth and legend survived to tell of the Builders. Nor was it known by what means it had been constructed, or why? As the defences faced north into the Sacred Land, presumably it was meant to keep something out, rather than confine something in the Vale. What that might have been, none could guess; but surely it must have been a thing of monstrous power? Had the Builders not, in envisioning and executing such a gigantic project, demonstrated themselves wielders of unimaginably vast powers? Yet they must have been in mortal fear of that unknown threat? why else should they undertake such a monumental feat? The Gate Section, below which the Servii had destroyed the Ape army, was made of a stratum of diorite schist some sixty feet thick. The slab of rock, harder than a Servii's resolve, had been tilted on end by the forces that had made the Vale. Those ancient Builders had worked on it, tunnelling into the living rock, honeycombing it with a warren of passages, rooms and halls. Near the top of the north facing wall, horizontal slits opened. They were just wide enough to accommodate the muzzles of the cannon positioned on their dollies in the gun rooms behind. The main wall rose seventy feet from the ground. Towers, inset from the front buy some ten feet, and spaced every hundred yards, rose another seventy feet over the lower sections. These stages between the towers were fenced by a six foot crenulated wall , to form a rectangular well some seventy yards long and twenty yards broad. The court thus created was deliberately left devoid of a single scrap of cover to create the perfect killing ground for troops stationed on the towers. They could direct a murderous cross-fire down upon any attackers who gained the lower levels to east and west. To storm the towers direct, an enemy would have to ascend through the narrow chimney framed by the projecting lower sections, with no room to manoeuvre, and under the cross-fire of those stationed on the lower level. It was against the killing ground directly over the great iron valves that the Servii launched their impulsive attack. High overhead, a Skyborne Recon Unit drifted closer to observe the battle. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ----- Marduk took the optick from his eyes. He shook his head in disbelief. There was no way the Servii's suicidal attack on the gate could succeed. The war band was sure to be slaughtered. That puzzled Marduk, because he'd recognised the banners of Ghorlok fluttering over the raiding party; and Ghorlok was generally thought to have a wiser than usual Servii head on his shoulders. "Oh well," Marduk said out loud; "he's not likely to keep that head on his shoulders much longer after this little dust up." He reached for his signal mirror. Angling it to catch the sun, Marduk looked round for his three companions on the patrol. His heart leapt into his throat. A vast, ominous dust cloud was crowding out three quarters of the sky in the north west. The storm was coming on in great billowy bounds, lit by the low sun. It was spreading quickly left and right, and climbing up to loom over him, almost as though the land was conhjouring a mighty hand to swat him from the sky. For one dreadful instant, he thought it was the Great Scour, one of those terrible katabatic winds caused by a collapsing column of air - and that he was dead. Then his ingrained weather wisdom informed him that these fearsome storms did not blow at this season. Belatedly, Marduk correctly identified it as a Lesser Scour. He'd been too intent on the action below to take note of his bird's growing restlessness. Already he could feel the first stirrings of the air announcing the on-coming wind storm. Only now did he recollect that the air tasted of the High Desert. He pushed the face cloth over his mouth, and pulled the goggles down over his eyes. The squall would blow itself out in an hour at the most, and would prove little more than a mild irritation to the Servii raiding party - not so for his Recon Unit. Lesser Scour it might be, but it's effects would go up well above the best ceiling the birds could manage. It was time to seek shelter - visibility was going to be down to zero feet here anyway for at least an hour. He glanced down at the developing battle under the fortress walls, shook his head in disbelief at the sheer recklessness of it all, then took a last look at the raging sky. It was as if the land herself was rising to follow her children into the hell of battle. He searched frantically for his companions, and spotted them already making tracks into the south. The best shelter hereabout was the lee side of the slip fault. There, they could circle five hundred fete down, well out of range of both wind and fortress. Not that anyone was going to be interested in taking pot shots at them while the Scour was blowing, or while the Servii were on the walls. That wasn't to say that there was not great danger in trespassing upon the air-space of the Vale uninvited. However, Marduk certainly didn't fancy going dirt-side in search of shelter anywhere in this locality. Behind his bird's tail, the great billow of dust was sweeping down upon the Fortress of the World's Edge. In only moments, it was going to engulf the raiding party and the fort in a maelstrom of wind borne sand. There was but a single chance for him to out-run the gale. Marduk pointed his mount into the south , and put his bird to a racing dive in pursuit of his fellows. In so doing, he and the Recon Unit bore witness to an event of overwhelming moment to the entire world, though they understood it not at the time. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ----- Without the wind, the Servii would not even have gained the wall. The Trinnian were seasoned warriors with no give in them, stationed at the gate because of it's strategic importance. These were no Golden Apes to fall into dismay when the red robed priests were not on hand. Fine warriors they may have been, but not born to the land as were the Servii. So, they gave back in the teeth of a gale so laden with grit it was fit to flay them to the bone. The Servii merely turned their back to the abrasive sand, and pressed on with the attack. With the Lesser Scour in support, the Servii were upon the wall almost unopposed. As they surged over the parapet, the Trinnian officer yelled an order into the teeth of the gale. A flying wedge of warriors launched a suicidal counterattack. Against men or apes, the weight of the charge would have cleared the wall. The two forces came together with a ringing crash of steel and mad yelling of war cries under the east tower. In close, with their heavily bossed shields and short stabbing swords, the Trinnians had the advantage over the Servii, who had no room to make effective use of their longer cavalry weapons; but the Trinnians simply did not have the muscle power; and the point of the wedge blunted itself against the weight of Servii determination. As the Trinnian concentrated at the breach, the Servii were over in two more places. Such a reverse would have unmanned many a fighting force, and sent them reeling back in panic; but the Trinnian set their teeth and defended with a will. Fighting furiously, they gave back slowly, exacting a terrible price for each inch of the bloody stones conceded. Just when it looked as though they must be surrounded, the officer bawled an order. Like a precise mechanism, the men disengaged. They fell back from the Servii in a disciplined withdrawal. Their officer was an experienced man. He knew that opening the distance gave the Servii room to use to better effect their greater reach and longer cavalry weapons. However, he knew full well that it would be suicide to allow his men to become surrounded. Especially, as in this wind, he could not call down a covering fire from the towers. In the Servii front rank, Ghorlok raised his bloodied sword on high. "Victory to the Sacred Land!" he bellowed into the maelstrom of hissing sand, and led the charge into the rank of Trinnian Warriors. The Servii struck the line of armoured men like a hammer blow. The fighting was furious and bloody for two long minutes. Over the sound of clashing steel, the war cries of the Servii and the screams of the wounded and dying, an insistent voice made itself heard in the insane wuthering of the wind. It was not a thing of sound, but spoke directly to the hearts of the men locked in mortal combat upon the killing ground. To the Servii it spoke of a land of trackless wilderness, beautifully painted in browns, greys, ochers and umbers, parching under a wide blue sky. The genius of this land was harsh and unforgiving of weakness. Yet those to whom it gave birth, loved it more than they loved life itself. It was the Sacred Land. It was THEIR LAND! And it cried out to them for relief from the oppression of an alien thing which delighted not in the shifting shapes of the ceaselessly migrating dunes. Like a great mother calling for justice for her children cruelly wronged, the voice urged the Servii on to greater deeds of valour in setting aright the injustice done to their ancestors. And her children heeded the call. And her children answered with such a surge of righteous wrath that the Trinnian fell back in dismay before the demoniacal onslaught. The huge, green skinned warriors loomed in the howling sandy dim, like gargantuan monsters from a fairy tale out of olden times, when monsters were rumoured to walk abroad in the land. To the Trinnian, the voice spoke words of reason. "This is not the land of your fathers. Only dusty death awaits you here in this land that does not love you. Go home!" it urged them. "This is not your affair. This is not your fight! Go home! Go Home!" The Trinnian Officer, taking heed of that voice, and knowing the position untenable, bellowed out the order to withdraw. The Trinnian fell back in good order, to regroup upon the sally ports in the tower walls. In minutes the fighting was over. The surviving Trinnians had withdrawn into their stone shell, closing and barring iron bound doors, leaving the walls to the howling gale and the Servii. With the killing ground secure for the moment, Ghorlok led a party to break into the main tunnel which ran under the section. The men unfortunate enough to be trapped there were despatched quickly; and the Servii set to work to open the great valves. Desert raiders in their hundreds flooded into the fort, born on a rampaging wind laden with hissing sand. The yelling and screaming of triumph reverberated in the enclosed tunnel, eclipsing the howling gale. The dark space filled up with a thick fog of swirling dust. In its own little calm eye of the storm, a white Gurvuk paraded in under the arch. Xel sat proudly erect in the saddle, untouched by the swirling dust. Her face was composed and resolute under the painted patterns. The din quietened abruptly. The girl rode slowly through the gathered throng of raiders and came to a stop ten feet from the doors which opened onto the Vale. The Battle Mascot stood in the stirrups and pointed at the doors. A vigorous buffet of wind rattled the valves, bowling over several Servii as it shouldered against the metal plates. Other Servii ran to the capstans. The valves creaked slowly outwards. A great rush of dust drove out into the air over the Vale. Light flooded into the dark tunnel. Bathed in the radiance, the white Gurvuk and the diminutive form seated astride it, glowed in the enshrouding dust. Ghorlok and his Chief Men mounted. They lined up behind their Battle Mascot to form the Deputation of Challenge. Then, by some unsigned assent, the party moved out under the arch and onto the semi-circular terrace. A thin carpet of dust gritted under the claws. The cavalcade of seven riders paused a moment, peering into a vast gulf of sky fogged by the sun-lit sand. Three times Xel nodded solemnly, before urging the white Gurvuk to the left. At the eastern end of the terrace, a slot had been cut into the face of the cliff, forming a ramp which led downwards. Xel guided her mount into the entry. The Chief Men followed in silence. In the narrow way, there was room for only two Gurvuk to ride abreast. Open to the vale, the slot was perilous, being guarded only by a low wall. The way zig zagged down the face of the fault, turning back on itself every three hundred yards. A few hundred feet down, they moved below the layer of sand. Out over the jungle, some mounted birds of Avis City were circling just below the churning ceiling of dust. Two thirds of the way down, the Deputation of Challenge came into an area where cracks spidered over the inner wall. The water, seeping from these cracks, made the paving slimy. The going became treacherous for the lumbering beasts. The Gurvuks slowed, picking their way delicately through what was rapidly turning into a stream. In places, the paving had been broken by the cracking, making the footing even more uncertain. Water chuckled merrily as it flowed over these uneven surfaces. At the bottom of the ramp, Xel led the party out into the court of a small fortification. The chief men spread out, glad to be done with the narrow path. If the little fort had been garrisoned, the men had deserted their posts. A thin mist of sand sifted down from above, settling silently in a brown shroud over everything. Xel urged her Gurvuk to within five yards of the gate, before drawing the beast to a halt. She signed for Ghorlok to come up beside her. Reining in beside the Battle Mascot, Ghorlok peered at the view through the arch. He liked not the aspect thus revealed. Across a cleared area some two hundred yards broad, tall trees loomed against the sky. Ghorlok suppressed a shiver of loathing at the sight. He liked not the close growing plants, or the confining shadowy dark which lurked in sodden menace between the trunks. Fleshly pale lianas held the forest in an obscene tangling of snake-like coils. Everywhere was dampness, dripping from the trees, misting the air, running down the stonework of the gatehouse, and collecting in stagnant pools on the boggy ground. No! He liked it not at all. Recalled to the matter in hand by Xel's imperious hand held out to him, he drew a short spear tipped with a leaf shaped blade. He leaned across and held the stabbing weapon to Xel. The girl took a hold just behind the blade, steadying it with a delicate hand. She pressed her forehead to the shining steel. When she drew away, a ghostly image of the eye remained on the blade. The girl nodded, released the shaft and pointed at the arch. Ghorlok rode forward. As he did so, the view of the jungle clouded as a grey murk distilled in the gateway. Ghorlok hesitated. At his back, Xel commenced a low, sighing song, which sounded like sand driven before the Lesser Scour. The low, wuthering wordless melody, made the air inside the court vibrate unpleasantly. The grey pollution festering under the arch, thinned reluctantly away. Once more, Ghorlok pressed his Gurvuk forth. Hissing with disquiet, the beast walked forward under the arch, and picked its way with evident distaste onto the spongy ground of the Vale. It was an act of great moment. Ghorlok was the first Servii in generations uncounted to come thither of his own free will, and as master of his destiny. A hundred yards beyond the gate, he reined in. Standing in the saddle, he roared a mighty war cry, and hurled the spear with all his might. The head flashed briefly in the attenuated sunlight, before it drove in among the trees. The gauntlet had been thrown down. As if in answer to his challenge, a mighty peal of thunder cracked high in the sky. A great flock of multi-coloured birds exploded from the trees. They wheeled frantically in the air, crying loudly as the thunder rumbled. Above the dust layer, an incandescent fireball streaked north over the Vale, streaming a luminous tail of light. In moments, it had passed from sight beyond the lip of the rift. The sonic boom of the Assault Boat's re-entry slapped a pattern of criss-crossing ripples in the ceiling of sand roofing in the Vale. Spreading waves of light and shadow expanded outwards in the dust, writing and re-writing in runes incomprehensible the vast significance of this moment. "Trumpeted by thunder, and writing his will upon a golden sky, comes the Spellcaster, to fulfil his obligation to the Sacred Land," Ghorlok quoted aloud from the Temple Tablets containing the Histories of the Tribes. He had never understood what the words portended; but they fitted the moment so precisely, that he knew the formalities of his audacious Challenge had been properly sanctified. There was nothing more to be accomplished here at this time. His small raiding party could not hold open the road to the Vale; and it would not do to be trapped down here in the heartland of the enemy. It was time to withdraw. There could be no loss of honour in that. For where they had come once, they would come again, next time in greater numbers, afire with righteous wrath. He took a last look at the encroaching vegetation, and had just begun to turn his Gurvuk back to the gate, when the world threw a monstrous fit. The only warning was the sudden bellow of panic from his mount. It reared up in a four footed bound, as though the ground had become suddenly too hot. A moment later, Ghorlok himself felt the concussion rippling through the earth. Somewhere overhead, a mighty creaking and cracking filled the air. Ghorlok stared up in horror at the face of the cliff, where a vast area of rock was suddenly riven with smoking fissures. The entire area bulged outwards, as though a behemoth trapped inside had tried to punch its way free from an insupportable confinement. Another bone jarring concussion rippled through the ground, making Ghorlok's Gurvuk roll drunkenly. The creature was giving frantic voice to its panic; but the terrified bellowing was drowned out by a thunderous rumbling as a massive chunk of the cliff face came away, carrying with it a goodly portion of the ramp. In a dreadful slow motion avalanche, the millions of tons of rock began an inexorable slide towards the small gate structure at the base of the cliff in which Xel and the five Chief Men waited. Ghorlok screamed some incoherent warning, which was lost in the thunderous noise. It mattered not, for the next instant, the white Gurvuk with Xel astride came out of the disintegrating structure at the full gallop. The crazed creature went past him like a bolt of white lightning, headed for the trees. Behind it came the rest of the Deputation of Challenge. Gathering momentum, the galloping Gurvuks thundered down upon Ghorlok. He waited to see no more. He loosened the reins, and let his mount have its head. The terrified creature took off with a gargantuan bound. In a moment, it was tearing in the wake of the white gurvuk. Another vast concussion made the ground writhe under the flying feet of his mount. Before him, he saw a jagged crevasse open scant yards in front of Xel's Gurvuk, giving it no time to check or turn. A second later, its forelegs hit the nearer edge; its back legs came under, thrust mightily, and the creature took ponderous flight. It cleared the further edge by a good distance, to crash down in a great splash of mud and bushes. The gallant creature stumbled, recovered, and with Xel hanging on for dear life, blundered in among the trees. A second later, Ghorlok's Gurvuk was on the brink, and lunging for the far side. Its front claws came down on the edge of the widening abyss, almost unseating its rider. There followed a mad scramble of claws as the beast strove to gain a purchase on the crumbling brink. Slowly, both rider and mount began an unstoppable slide into the abyss. Ghorlok was vaguely aware of more ponderous shapes in flight as the mounts of the chief men bounded over the widening gap to left and right of him. There came a mighty juddering crash at his back as the avalanche of rubble reached the ground, obliterating the small gate structure. The air around Ghorlok, was suddenly full of whizzing gravel and careening boulders. A great wind, displaced by the avalanche, boosted his Gurvuk over the edge, sending it crashing in among the trees. Jagged shards of rock pursued him, bounding along, smashing flat whole swathes of jungle. Ghorlok laid himself flat along his mount's straining back and clung on for dear life. Broken branches and whip-lashing lianas dragged him from the creature, sending him tumbling to the forest floor. Grate waves were running through the earth, making the ground heave like a storm tossed sea. The still standing trees thrashed back and forth, groaning and cracking. Ghorlok mumbled a prayer for protection, and clung to the heaving earth while the rain of boulders crashed down about him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ----- The Doctor made his decision. At that moment, the green eye in the ceiling flared; the air in the chamber shimmered; and a naked woman was suddenly standing between himself and Prak. In the throne, jo stirred. The wistful smile on her face widened into a cheeky grin. From overhead, the Lord bellowed in outraged fury at this brazen trespass upon his domain, his mighty voice shaking the chamber. Over her left shoulder, the woman shot a lop-sided look of panic at the Doctor. "Be quick! Be quick!" she sang out. "For this is the very heart of Old Snout Face's madness. And I cannot long endure here." The possessed Prak uttered a wordless snarl of fury, and drew back the spear, aiming it's blade at the woman. The green light of the Lord's will flamed triumphantly in his eyes. Muscles bunched in his shoulders, as he readied the spear for a murderous thrust. Reed turned her face upon him; and a smile deepened on her crooked lips. She appeared quite unperturbed by the steel point aimed at her vitals. Holding out a strong hand to the young man, she quoted: "Put thy trust in Purpose. Put thy hand in mine; and together we shall stand, to meet the murderous charge of dark, which threatens life and land. Do you not remember our pledge, my Bonny, Bonny Boy?" The green glow in Prak's eyes dimmed. All the triumphal gloating drained from his face; and he lowered the spear. Uncertainly, he reached out a hand towards the woman, compelled by the dim recollection awakened by her words. As though being pushed through treacle, Prak's hand closed with painful slowness upon the strong fingers held out towards him. The Doctor, with a jeweller's glass screwed in his eye, was working furiously on the circuitry. The fingers of the outstretched hands had barely interlaced, when the Doctor cried out: "That's it!" He flipped a switch. A strange thrilling sensation pervaded the chamber. The naked woman staggered as though shot. Her hand clutched at Prak's fingers with ferocious desperation. She writhed, shrinking in upon herself, the flesh withering from her frame, the bones protruding through her suddenly parchment yellow skin. Through lips drawn tight in pain, she cried out in a voice full of anguish, edged with agony: "Remember, My Bonny, Bonny Boy... Stand thou firm our Champion. Stand thou firm we say!..." A spasm ran through her body, and her voice trailed away into a vast distance, echoing faintly. Reed's withering fingers slipped from Prak's grasp; and she collapsed into a small heap of detritus on the damp stones. A large yellow blossom that had been twined in her hair made a pathetic splash of bright colour next the small heap of grey dust. "There now," the Doctor said cheerfully, still peering at the helmet through his glass, and quite unaware of the horror. "That ought to keep the two of us free from that fellow's mental influence...Prak? Whatever's the matter, old chap?" The young man was staring white faced at the remains. He hunched awkwardly down on his good leg, and picked up the yellow flower. Its rich scent filled the musty air. "You've killed her!" he accused. "Tantavirain's Thrall?" the Doctor said. "Did you know it?" Prak nodded, not trusting himself to words. "I'm sorry, Prak," the Doctor said gently. "But it could not be helped. The Thrall wasn't really alive, you know, at least it hasn't been in any proper sense for a very long time." "Her name was Reed That Whispers With The South Wind." Prak said in a desolate voice. "She wanted me to call her Reed. We pledge...We pledged..." He trailed into a silence of anguished recollection. Then he said disbelievingly: "She wasn't real?" Noticing the tender way Prak was cradling the yellow flower, the Doctor said nothing for a long, thoughtful moment. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle: "She was very real, Prak, as real as you or I." "Then, why?..." Prak waved a hand at the dust on the stones between them. "She has been too tightly entwined with the under mind for too long." the Doctor said. "After so many centuries, she could only exist as a projection of old Tantavirain. Shielded from the well-spring of his life force, she had no chance of an independent existence." Prak looked hard into the Doctor's face. "Did she know?" The Doctor nodded. "She was fully aware of what would happen when I turned on the shield. She had the power to stop me from activating the screen. She chose not to do so." "Reed sacrificed herself?...To save us?" "Most certainly. She had the power to stop me," the Doctor reiterated. He handed the helmet to the dazed young man. "She could have wrecked this before I had a chance to use it....And saved herself." Prak accepted the device. He stared blankly at the circuitry covering the surface, then at the flower in his other hand. "This was my helmet," he said. "The one Cain gave me before I set out..." "Cain?" the Doctor asked. His expression darkened with sudden foreboding. "...What have you done to it?" Prak asked. The Doctor, for whom the name 'Cain' had evoked grim memories, did not answer immediately. When he did, it was in a distracted tone. "Oh. I reversed the polarity of the neutron flow." At Prak's blank look, he gave a wry smile, and explained: "It's a Gallifreyan psionic masking device. It shields the mind from telepathic interference. Normally, it would only protect the wearer but I've inverted the field. Now, so long as you stay within fifty feet of it, the effect will shield you from outside influence." He paused to consider Jo, studying the girl's face in the green gloom. Her eyes were still tightly shut. Confusion had clouded her smile. "Shouldn't it have freed Jo?" Prak asked. "In theory, yes," the Doctor said. "But..." Would it help if I brought it closer?" Prak asked. "No. She is shielded from the influence as we are." "Then what's wrong with her?" "It might already be too late. Her mind might have already been absorbed." "You mean she might be a mindless husk?" "We can soon check that," the Doctor said, and brought his hands together with a smart crack right before the girl's face. Jo started violently. The head-dress slipped from her head over the back of the throne. Her eyes snapped open. For a long moment they were filled with puzzlement; then she screamed. Her horrified gaze was directed beyond the two men. Prak swung round to see a red robed priest with arm upraised to strike the blade into the Doctor's neck. The gaunt man's eyes held a pale vacancy that was terrible to behold. His skull-face was crazed with a fear inspired hatred. Prak lunged between the Doctor and the priest. The blade swept down. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -----