Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [46]
* * *
Grek pushed open the heavy door of the Temple and paused before the flight of stone steps. The darkness was overwhelming.
For a moment, he was a child again, in the Temple. The places were sometimes so unfriendly. So cold. So oppressively heavy with the weight of history.
He straightened up, feeling his too‐tight boots creaking under him, and closed the door.
Grek had never had much time for religion, save for the odd prayer before battle. Now he had found himself wandering through the winding corridors of the dug‐out towards – what? Reassurance?
Moving carefully, he began to negotiate the steps.
The complete darkness concerned him. The Temple was almost always occupied. He could feel damp clinging to the walls as he groped his way downwards. Fragments of rotten stone came away in his claws. He crumbled them between his talons with distaste.
‘Thoss?’
His voice carried, echoing, into the darkness. ‘Thoss, it’s me. Grek.’
He almost fell as the steps abruptly ceased and he advanced across the flagstones.
There was a strange, dull scraping sound and then a sudden flaring of candle‐light. Grek jumped in shock as Thoss’s face appeared, up‐lit by the candle clutched in his claw. The old man looked distracted, perhaps frightened.
Grek frowned. ‘Thoss? What is it? What’s the matter?’
The old man’s cracked black lips were trembling. He watched as his candle flame flickered and died.
Then he opened his mouth and his sepulchral voice whispered through the blackness.
‘Old things. Moving.’
* * *
9
Infernal Machines
High above the burning remains of Porsim, the fleet of Ismetch dirigibles struggled to stay airborne. An incredible force pressed down from the darkness outside, growing ever stronger as the three craft began their unwilling descent.
Liso’s crew had begun to panic as the walls of the gondola vibrated and a pounding, throbbing sound rose out of nowhere. It increased steadily to an unbearable volume, sending the instruments haywire.
The helmsman, a thread of spittle hanging from his snout, and eyes wide with terror, suddenly abandoned his post and careered across the rocking gondola.
In an instant, Liso’s pistol was in his claw. ‘Get back! Get back, mister!’
Whimpering with fear, the helmsman staggered reluctantly back to the wheel.
There was a roar of power from beyond the skin of the dirigible and the whole cabin was plunged into impenetrable darkness.
Bernice pulled herself upwards and felt the side of her face where she had connected with the wall. She winced, knowing it had bruised badly but, for the moment, she was more concerned with whatever was outside. Even in the pitch black, it was obvious that their nemesis was incalculably massive.
The heavy glass of the gondola windows began to rattle in unison as the throbbing sound rose in waves.
Liso reholstered his gun and ran to the bow, craning his neck in an effort to see above and below. The fiery light from the burning city reflected off the banks of machinery and the scared faces of the crew.
‘What is it, sir?’ asked one of the crew, his claws flexing in agitation.
Liso said nothing but bolted towards the helmsman. ‘Take us back. We’re too close to whatever it is to see.’
The helmsman obeyed, spun the wheel, and the dirigible began to turn.
‘In all seriousness,’ said Bernice, cradling her cheek, ‘do you have any lifeboats?’
Liso ignored her and passed a claw over his weary face. Droplets of sticky sweat were collecting in his empty eye‐socket.
The ship pulled back and around. Bernice crossed to the windows and pressed her face to the glass, trying to make out something in the shadowed darkness. Under the blanket of night, Porsim blazed spectacularly, fire washing over the disintegrating architecture of the once‐proud city.
She glanced quickly over her shoulder, just able to see Liso standing to attention, his claws behind his back, shadows flickering over his face.
The cabin lurched again as though buffeted by a hurricane.
‘This is nothing to do