Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [69]
Liso jerked his head back and forth in agitation as he watched his comrades and former enemies scatter back towards the dug‐out.
The ship finally came to rest and sat like a vast patient spider on the muddied, cratered battlefield.
‘Well,’ breathed Bernice as silence returned. ‘What do we do now?’
Lightning flashed again in the opaque clouds. Liso’s eye swivelled round. ‘I don’t know. But if your Doctor friend is right, we’d better start thinking. Fast.’
Bernice smiled ruefully. Beneath her feet the ground was trembling.
* * *
Ran thrashed at the jungle with his claws, striding unperturbedly through spiky cane plants and dew‐heavy ferns. He found the familiar clump of spindly trees, rounded them and pulled up sharply at the shelter.
It was a small brick and metal construction, rounded like a pottery kiln. Moss and glutinous vegetation had crept over its surface, providing excellent natural camouflage.
Ran was grateful for this. The shelter contained the most precious thing in his life. He unbolted the door and stepped inside.
Inside, it was hot and dark, a few low‐level gas jets giving fitful illumination. At the centre of the circular room stood a large brass and crystal construction, thick wires plugged into its sides leading to the gas pipes which covered the walls.
Ran approached the machine and bent down reverently, his boots creaking as he sat on his haunches.
The light from inside was warm and comforting. Ran stretched out his claw and placed it against the crystal front. He closed his twitching eyes and smiled.
* * *
The Doctor was lost. Although, he told himself, whether or not it was actually possible to be lost in a place you did not know your way around in the first place, he couldn’t say.
The featureless metal corridor had given way to another, then yet another, at right angles.
‘To my way of thinking,’ he muttered, ‘this betrays a very dull sort of imagination.’
It had long been a pet hobby‐horse of his to berate architects and town planners for their lack of verve. Surely even the most functional of corridors could be given some individuality.
‘And it might help me remember where I’m going,’ he added aloud.
He stopped suddenly as a low mumbling sound broke the silence. He pressed his ear to the cold metal wall and listened attentively. The noise was so indistinct, he couldn’t tell if it was made by voices or machinery.
The Doctor pulled away and bit his lip thoughtfully.
Ahead of him, the corridor continued unbroken. He sighed and walked on, his hands plunged disconsolately into his trouser pockets.
The corridor walls, however, were not entirely uniform. As the Doctor passed, a section of the wall hissed backwards and slid open with a soft click. Someone stepped out of the darkness and, with great care, began to follow him.
* * *
The woman tensed as she heard the approaching footsteps ringing through the cathedral. The gong continued to boom out through the echoing stone vaults.
In her heart of hearts, she knew to whom the footsteps belonged. This ceremony could have only one purpose.
The cathedral was packed with Chaptermen shuffling like bees over every inch of the flagstones. Lining the walls, flagellants scourged themselves with knotted ropes, biting their lips until they bled in an effort to stop themselves crying out. The penitents lay in front of the cages, swaying and moaning in unison, the absurd but hideous cylinders pressing down onto their yielding heads.
Inside the cages, the imprisoned wretches had begun to wail.
On the opposite side of the hall, a second pair of huge oak doors shook as bolts were drawn back. The doors were flung open and a man was silhouetted in the doorway, his cloak streaming behind him.
As he stepped into the blaze of the candles, the woman gasped. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
Beneath his billowing robes, every detail of his magnificent body was revealed. The