Doctor Who_ Bunker Soldiers - Martin Day [60]
Through the heat haze I saw a twisted structure at the far end of the corridor, stretching up into the ceiling. I ran to the staircase and ascended it quickly, using my arms for balance but keeping my hands as far from the glowing stone blocks as possible.
As I climbed, I glanced down to see one of the soldiers diligently following me. Though less than three metres in height, the staircase became noticeably cooler as we ascended. It terminated in a simple peaked archway with a heavy curtain of stained brown fabric suspended over it, and I pushed my way through.
I was in a much grander corridor – the curtain that covered the archway matched a number of other tapestries and drapes along the walls. One doorway was open, the door itself having caught fire and fallen to the floor. It seemed that a spark had ignited the tinder-dry wooden beams at the far end of the corridor; these flames, in turn, had spread through the floor to the ceiling of the lower passageway we had been in moments ago. The fire had also spread to the opposite end of the corridor, where rugs and drapes had created a solid wall of fire. I sensed, rather than heard, voices beyond the flames, and guessed that Nahum and the others were there, trying desperately to peer through the billowing smoke and fire.
The soldier and I ran through the open doorway into the room beyond; I was moving instinctively, and I wondered if the man knew where he was. I pulled the rags from my hands and held them over my mouth, for the air was thick with debris and sparks.
There had once been a table or desk in the room, but this was now little more than a framework of blackened spindles.
Everything else was either invisible beneath tongues of fire, or had already burnt out, surrendering to the heat. Even the window shutters were ablaze. Scraps of burning parchment, lifted by the heat of the flames, drifted around the room like vengeful spirits.
There was a second doorway, a smaller one near the window, and in it I noticed something dark, just extending into the main chamber. I ran towards it, dodging the flames as best I could.
It was the slumped body of a man. I wondered if, in blind panic, he had sought refuge in the smaller room which was less affected by the fire. However, the fumes seemed finally to have got the better of him.
I reached for his clothing and found it warm, but not hot, to touch. The soldier and I turned the man over. It was, as we had hoped, Isaac, his face blackened with smoke and a little dried blood on his lips.
We began to haul him from the room and into the main chamber just as one of the great wooden timbers that supported the ceiling gave way. It fell to the floor, shattering in a shower of golden sparks.
XIV
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus, quem patronum rogaturus, cum vix justus sit securus?
The Doctor was saddle-sore, thirsty and bored by the unchanging terrain, but most of all he was grateful to be alive.
The Mongol archers had killed the soldiers in seconds, and without compunction. Only Mykola’s status as leader of the men and the Doctor’s distinctiveness had saved them. The Doctor’s expressions of outrage had fallen on deaf ears. The dead men were left where they had fallen, without ceremony or second glance.
The Mongols had indicated that the Doctor and Mykola should remount their horses, and had tethered the ones the men from Kiev had been riding to their own, much smaller mounts.
As soldiers, they cared little for human life, but as horsemen they were not about to abandon any creature.
Soon the archers were joined by other riders wearing tough, folded leather armour and carrying great spears