Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [0]
by Mark Gatiss
‘No time. They have come. They have come at last.’
The Doctor and Bernice visit Betrushia, a planet famous for its beautiful ring system. They soon discover that the rain‐drenched jungles are in turmoil. A vicious, genocidal war is raging between the lizard‐like natives. The ground itself is wracked by mysterious earthquakes. And an unknown force is moving inexorably forwards, devastating everything in its path.
Ace wanted out; she’s resting on a neighbouring world. But from the outer reaches of space, a far greater threat is approaching Betrushia, and even Ace may find it impossible to escape.
With time running out, the Doctor must save the people of Betrushia from their own terrible legacy before the wrath of St Anthony’s Fire is visited upon them all.
Full‐length, original novels based on the longest running science fiction television series of all time, the BBC’s Doctor Who. The New Adventures take the TARDIS into previously unexplored realms of space and time.
Mark Gatiss is a writer and performer of comedy – half of the team responsible for The Teen People. His first book, Nightshade, was consistently voted one of the most popular in the series by fans.
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Prologue
1: Planet of Death
2: Battle Fatigue
3: The Eleventh Colony
4: Freaks
5: Raining Stones
6: Church Triumphant
7: Pale Horseman
8: Servus Servorum Dei
9: Infernal Machines
10: Attack from the Unknown
11: The Rings of Betrushia
12: Return of the Keth
13: Auto‐Da‐Fé
14: Papal Bull
15: Yellow Fever
16: Slayed in Flame
17: Time Before
18: Revenge of the Chaptermen
19: Sun Stroke
20: St Anthony’s Fire
Epilogue
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Grateful thanks to all my friends and family for their love and support, particularly:
Simon
Lou, Sara, Matty and Sandy (up the Gunners)
Ian
Gary
and Roger (for particular unhealthiness)
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For William,
Love, laughs and two peaches in a bag
‘We worship saints for fear, lest they be displeased and angry with us or hurt us. Who dare deny Saint Anthony a fleece of wool for fear of his terrible fire, or lest he send a pox among our sheep?’
William Tyndale
* * *
Prologue
By the end of the night Neerid knew she would be dead. Her whole body shaking, she sank down on the grass, breath coming in rasping hiccoughs. Exhaustion flooded through her like anaesthesia, seeping into every bone, every aching sinew; forcing her heavy head down towards the pasture. Neerid’s eyes clamped shut and there was a brief period of luxurious, cool darkness. She listened for the sounds of the world around her.
There was nothing. No wind. No voices. Not even the mournful cries of the beshet which normally wheeled and flocked in the winter sky. Nothing. She kept her eyes shut and ran both her hands down her body, feeling the wet sheen of her skin as though for the first time.
Almost over.
There was a deep, startling rumble from the far horizon. Neerid’s yellow eyes flicked open and she cocked her head to one side. Above, the sky was darkening, thickening.
She leapt to her feet and took off across the pastureland, long toes digging deep into the ground. Something seemed to rush at her and she stumbled, knees ploughing into the soil. She gasped, winded, and struggled for breath, willing air into her screaming lungs. Sniffing the air, Neerid’s small, warty face wrinkled in disgust.
It was coming.
She could smell it.
The thunderous boom came again, rolling into one long, disquieting peal. Ahead, the forest stirred as though unnerved, spindly branches tearing at the air like the hands of ebony skeletons.
Neerid bolted towards the only shelter she knew, clutching the spool in her sweat‐soaked hands for dear life.
So little time.
All at once, Feeson was in front of her, waving his hands frantically and casting anxious glances at the darkening air. He was bellowing something but Neerid couldn’t make it out. Behind him, the polygon shone dully, like a fragment of storm‐cloud ripped from the sky. Feeson was already half‐way inside.
‘Quickly! Run, Neerid! Run! Run!’ Spit flew