Doctor Who_ Curse of Peladon - Brian Hayles [40]
‘showing not only the secret entrance to the catacombs, but the route which I took by accident to the temple.’
‘I gave this alien no map,’ denied the High Priest vehemently. But his eyes were afraid.
The Doctor turned to Jo, and held out his hand. ‘Where is it, Jo? Lets show his majesty the directions for my escape—in Hepesh’s own handwriting.’
Jo looked at him in dismay. Her empty hands showed that she no longer had the precious map.
‘Doctor... I’m sorry...’ she said. ‘I must’ve dropped it when I had a go at Aggedor.’
‘A search must be organised!’ hissed Izlyr.
‘They have nothing!’ cried Hepesh. ‘No proof to substantiate their foul lies! And now they demand time—for what? To postpone the trial by combat! It is another alien trick! Do not listen to them, majesty.’
‘Once I’ve proved that Aggedor is alive, the trial by combat won’t be necessary,’ retorted the Doctor.
‘Indeed,’ sneered the jubilant High Priest. ‘And you will spend a lifetime looking for these mythical tunnels! No—it is a coward’s excuse! Let him be taken to the Pit!’
‘No!’ cried Jo, appealing to Peladon, whose face was clouded by a deep sadness.
‘Let him face his challenger!’ declared Hepesh fiercely.
Jo could only beg with her eyes. The King gave her no reason for hope.
‘I am sorry, Doctor,’ the young king said despondently, ‘you offer me not proof, but mere words. The combat must go on.
Take him away.’
At Izlyr’s request, Peladon had allowed Ssorg to accompany the Doctor to the armoury and guardroom to be kitted out for combat. It had seemed a puzzling, even innocent, favour, but Jo was grateful to the Martian for suggesting it. At least it protected the Doctor from any more of the High Priest’s deadly tricks.
Izlyr had stalked back to the delegates’ room, not trying to conceal his cold anger. He had managed to prevent Arcturus and Alpha Centauri from pulling out of the Federation mission, but there was little else he could do by himself. Could he persuade the other two delegates to present Peladon with a firm ultimatum? It seemed most unlikely. Jo, too, had risky plans of her own: she had decided to tackle Grun, the King’s Champion, face to face. When she got to his official quarters, she found the room empty and the door unlocked. She was about to turn away when her eye caught the gleam of brightly polished armour, and she looked more closely. There, on a ceremonial stand, was a complete set of superbly worked bronze accoutrements—so magnificent, they had to be the trappings that Grun would be wearing in the coming combat. Set on its stand, the armour matched Grun’s size more or less exactly. Jo stood in awe before the empty shell that Grun would soon inhabit. The mask of Aggedor had been moulded in high relief on the great breastplate. It was terrible to behold. Each plate on the loose skirt which girdled the hips bore its own cruel design, as did the shin guards and gauntlets. Towering above the whole was the helmet. Its peaked brow, low over the wearer’s eyes and linked with the heavy nose guard and cheek straps, formed a mask more terrifying than that of Aggedor himself. The blood red crest of horsehair that topped the helmet would make Grun seem even more huge than he was already. Jo gulped as she thought of the Doctor confronted by this armoured tank of a man—David and Goliath, and no mistake! A sudden, wordless grunt of anger made her turn. There, standing in the doorway, was Grun.
Jo took a deep breath, and didn’t flinch. She hadn’t come to play the coward. That’d be too easy. Grun, even without his armour, and dressed only in the knee-length tunic that went beneath it, looked every inch the warrior. He pointed first at Jo then the doorway. The message was clear—she must go! But Jo made no attempt to leave. She not only stood her ground but pointed to the carpet before her, and commanded Grun to kneel. Her face took on a regal bearing and her gestures were correspondingly decisive. Fortunately, Grun would never know that her knees were wobbling like jelly, and that if he had shouted at