The
Last Guardians.
by
Clive May (clive@cj4386.demon.co.uk
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The
copy right of all things pertaining to the concept and characters of Dr
Who is
the property of the BBC. This story is
a work of fan fiction; it has
been
written simply for the pleasure it gave me in writing it; and no money
has or
will change hands with respect to the story.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is
my take on the "Badlands" setting first used in this group by
BKWillis. Similarly, the characters of Coyote, Ember
Ash and this version of
Tegan
were all creations of BKWillis.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is
the age of the soul's darkness; and the Champions of the Light are
passing
from the world.
The
Heroes come in a procession, ragged and weary.
Dust rises about their
feet as
they trudge down the long road out of Terminus Centre.
The
country hereabouts abounds with evil, Lazars, demons and all manner of
monsters;
but these nine have no fear, for are they not the Heroes who stood
firm,
and stared unflinching into the Dark?
They
come to pledge the Tribute in honour of the mighty feat done by the
Eight
in the service of the light; and they come to claim their just reward -
for
these are they whom the Dark must not have.
High
overhead, the vultures circle. The
scent of death taints the dry air,
drawing
them down from the sky. Greedy eyes
scan the wasted earth, seeking
the
source. They have a keen eye for the
misfortune of others; and it is
surely
an ill wind indeed which blows nobody some good.
Suddenly,
the vultures dip earthwards, their attention caught by a body
sprawled
under thorns. Naked necks extended,
they swoop lower. Their
feathered
forms send bloated shadows skittering over the barren ground. At
the
last, with irritated squarks, they shear off as the body lifts a head of
red
curls, the better to watch the passing away of the last hope of this
blighted
land.
Beyond
the line of figures, the ruined hills have chewed a ragged bite from
the
sun. Mortally wounded, the ruddy disk
bleeds a gory sunset upon a
darkening
sky.
In
silence, the weary procession turns aside from the way. Like shadows on
that
sunset sky, they pass between columns of vitrified rock. Black and
huge,
like grim sentinels, the pillars guard the way to the Vale of Lost
Hopes. In moments, the procession passes into the shadow
of the gateway, and
into
legend.
It was
in this blasted vale, long ago, that the last battle with the Dark was
fought...
And
utterly lost.
Both
men and women are they. Leading this
procession is a girl on the very
brink
of womanhood. She bares her Tribute
held to her right ear. It is a
small
box painted in gaudy colours. There are
a few inconsequential knobs;
and
from one corner, a thin gleaming spike of metal spears skywards. Passing
down
the steep way into the Vale, the girl begins a shuffling dance, and
croons
the sacred mantras, as it was at the very beginning of things.
Behind
the Dancing Girl walk two from the Ivory Towers of Learning. They
bear
their Staffs of Correction, emblems of their office as Custodians and
Dispensers
of the Wisdom. Sadly, much of this
wisdom has leaked away like
fresh
spring water into a black and stinking ooze.
Marching
behind them comes the Soldier, his multi-colourd war skirt swinging
to his
resolute stride. Sheathed at his side
hangs the mighty Claymore of
terrible
legend. It is rumoured that this blade
of renown was wielded in the
time
before the Fall, striking many thunderous blows in the service of the
Light;
but the cause of the Light has failed in this land. Now there is only
the
Dark divided; and this sword will not serve such a master.
Behind
the warrior strides a young woman in the garb of the Gatherers of the
History. In her hand is clutched the Tribute, a pen
of solid gold, an
artifact
of an almost mythical age.
Blond
hair flying, steps next the Lady who claimed kin to the Mighty who fell
in the
last battle. In honour of that
desperate day, she has put about her
neck
the multi-coloured scarf. It shall be
her Tribute.
Between
the Lady and the next in line is left, by tradition, a gap of some
five
paces. It is to signify that Witches
and Demons are not welcome here,
no
matter the strength of their claim.
The
Earth Fairy comes next, clothed in red silks and a gossamer wrap that
manfully
struggles to contain the fullness of the Fairy's charms. She wears
her
tribute about her hips, an exquisite girdle of silver links that shine
bright
in the gathering gloom.
Wrapped
in her leather coat, her pack of Demon Bane upon her back, steps the
Doom of
Demons...
And
last...
The
Healer.
On they
go, their dusty clothes stirred now only by their steady stepping
feet,
led by the Dancing Girl to the centre of the Blasted Vale.
Nothing
grows in this Vale - save the eight trees.
Each tree is different
from
its neighbour, yet each is the same in its resolve to stay the Dark from
the
Hill of Last Refuge. Their leaves
whisper mantras, old and arcane, in
the dry
breeze, as they cluster in an argumentative congregation at the base
of the
hill.
The
hill is crowned with a Throne, carven from a single block of blue stone.
The
mighty seat stands forthright against the sunset sky, its sides carven
with a
pattern of round indentations. Thirteen
steps lead up the hill side.
The
procession halts at the base of the hill.
There is little ceremony. The
Dancing
Girl takes the Tribute from her ear.
With elaborate gestures, she
makes a
pretense of twisting the inconsequential knobs. The metal spike is
collapsed
into the gaudy box; and the Dancing Girl moves to the oldest tree.
It is a
gnarled and withered thing, yet still standing strong against the
Dark. It's crown of silvered leaves shine whitely
in the last of the light.
Coming
to the tree, the Dancing Girl bows deeply, and places the box on the
ground
before the twisted trunk. She
straightens , passes to the hill beyond
to
ascend the steps of shining marble set into the hillside. Quickly now,
for she
is anxious to be gone, the Dancing Girl ascends the thirteen steps,
and
sits upon the seat. Her form is almost
lost in the vastness of the stone
chair.
The
wind of forever rises with a wheezing and groaning; but it stirs only the
leaves
of the eight trees. The Dancing Girl is
gone from the Throne; and the
world
grows a little more indistinct with the darkness that is not the fall
of
night.
Next,
the denizens of the Ivory Tower come forth to do their homage to the
old
tree. Three have come to do him honour
for he is the elder and the first
to
stand against the Dark; it is a fitting honour he is done.
With
reverence, they bring forward the Staffs of Correction, emblems of their
office
as the Custodians of Wisdom. The thin
canes, curved at one end, are
laid
with reverence beside the Tribute of the Dancing Girl; and they too
mount
up the marble steps. Hand in hand, they
take their place upon the
seat. Once more the wind wheezes through the
trees; and they are gone,
leaving
the world yet more bereft of the light.
Below,
the attention shifts to the second tree.
This is more like a small
vigorous
bush. Yet it too has stood firm,
shoulder to shoulder with its
neighbours,
resolute in its defiance of the Dark.
The soldier advances on
the
tree. He bows low, and draws the mighty
Claymore. He shows it to those
who
await their moment, then drives it firmly into the ground before his
tree. He passes up the steps, the bright colours
of his patterned skirt
muted
in the growing dim. He takes his seat;
the wind wheezes; and he is
gone.
The
world grows a little darker with his passing.
The
Gatherer of Histories steps up and pledges her Tribute of a Golden Pen.
Then
mounting the hill, she is whisked away by the forever wind to her
reward.
The
golden haired Princess steps up. She is
a creature pretending a fey
youth;
but in her blue eyes rests a wearisome wisdom.
She moves to the
Fourth
Tree. Unwinding the long scarf, she
drapes it around a branch which
sticks
out at an eccentric angle. Then she too
turns to the hill, to the
throne,
commends her being to the wind that blows forever between worlds -
and is
gone.
The
fifth tree stands forlorn. There are
none fit to bear the Tribute, for
witches
and demons are not welcome here.
It is
now the turn of the Earth Fairy to pledge her Tribute. The sixth tree
is stout
of trunk, with an explosion of russet leaves at its crown. Huge,
gaudily
coloured flowers nestle among the eccentrically shaped leaves. The
Earth
Fairy moves to her tree, the gossamer shift enclosing her beauty
straining
against the fullness of her charms.
From about her middle, she
un-clips
the belt of silver links. She bows
deeply, and lays the girdle over
the
roots. Turning, she mounts to the
Throne. The wind wheezes; and another
of the
Champions passes from the knowledge of mankind.
The
Doom of Demons un-swings her pack. She
moves to her tree. No bow is
offered. Instead, the Tribute is pledged with a touch
of defiance. A moment
later,
she, with a lithe grace, climbs the steps, mounts the Throne, and
leaves,
taking a little more light from this world.
Standing
alone in the desolation, the Healer looks around at the encroaching
darkness. In her soul, she knows it is not the natural
fall of night, and
shivers,
before moving to her tree. She sets
down the small knife, tool of
her
trade as Surgeon. She mounts the steps,
mounts the throne, and is gone,
carried
away by the wind out of forever.
Now the
trees stand forlorn in the gathering gloom.
A
hundred yards off, a slender girl in a ragged denim shirt and jeans, rises
from
concealment behind a rock. She pauses
to light a cigarette with a flame
which
spurts from her finger. For a long
while, she stands there in
thoughtful
silence, regarding the Fifth Tree, puzzlement and longing on her
shadowed
features.
The pale
moon hides her silven countenance behind a cloud; and suddenly,
Ember's
musing is broken by a cold hand taking her arm. The grip is of ice
and
iron. By instinct, she tries to summon
her fire; but the chill touch has
extinguished
that from her soul. Wrenching about,
she catches a momentary
sight
of an arm, marked for the Serpent, before a peal of demoniacal laughter
breaks
over her. The sound echoes from the
rocks, transmuting itself into
the
hissing of a snake.
From
far off, the chilling sound is answered by a coyote howling a challenge.
A
sudden, gusty wind swirls about Ember.
A mocking voice chides in the
suddenly
thick darkness: "Now. Now, Teggy
Poos..."
And the
Wolf Boy was there.
Tegan
releases Ember. In a blur of motion,
the Serpents Champion sweeps out
a
rapier to parry a buzzing saw-blade leaping for her throat. Easily, she
drives
off the buzzing blade. It loops around
to come at her again. For a
long
moment, Tegan fences with the blade, each ringing contact shedding blue
sparks,
lighting the sky like an electrical storm.
Then, as though growing
bored
of the sport, Tegan releases the rapier, which continues to fence with
the
blade.
She
steps back, and smiles at Coyote.
Strong men have died on having that
expression
turned upon them, many others have gone insane. Coyote just
smirks
at her and says: "You couldn't keep away, could you, Teggy Poos?"
"The
departing of the Champions of Light?
How could i?" she purrs; "And
don't
call me that wretched name.... Puppy."
Coyote
grins at her. "I suppose you think
your Principal will have a free
hand,
now that the Last Guardians have slunk away?"
Tegan
arches an eyebrow. "I do so hope
that you are not going to be a
tiresome
puppy?"
Forgotten
by the strange pair, and drawn by some ineffable yearning in her
heart,
Ember walks slowly towards the Fifth Tree.
She recognises it as a
Willow. In the pocket of her shirt, the Tribute
weighs heavy. She has kept
it with
her since the beginning, since returning through flames and heat and
fear
and tears to rescue it from the ashes of her despoiled home, without
quite
knowing why?
Perhaps
tonight, she will find an answer?
At the
tree, she pauses, uneasy at the silence behind her. She looks back
over
her shoulder to the two strange beings.
They stand in the dusk, side by
side,
watching her. Over their heads, the
blade and rapier circle about each
other
in a wary dance.
As
Ember watches, both the boy and the woman nod an assent to some purpose
they all
feel, yet none understand. Ember
acknowledges the permission with a
slight
nod. Stooping, she places the Tribute
and steps back. For a long
moment,
she frowns down at the crushed and twisted pair of half lens
spectacles
lying between the roots of the Fifth Tree.
There is a
significance
here, which she feels, but just cannot name.
At last, she
shrugs,
and turns her questing gaze to the hill.
A look
of longing settles upon her features as she gazes at the Throne; but
she
makes no move to mount the shining marble steps set in the hillside...
For she
knows, deep in her soul, that Witches and Demons are not welcome
here.
Behind
her, like two lost children, Tegan and Coyote look with an unnameable
longing
and regret at the Throne.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The End