The Ghosts of N-Space - Barry Letts [95]
Maximilian stood up, the very archetype of regal power.
His sonorous voice echoed from the granite rocks. ‘You dare to enter the realm of Maximilian, little man! You are either very brave or very foolish.’
The Doctor’s voice, in contrast, lacked all bombast.
Clear and ringing, it seemed to epitomize the rationality which ruled his life. ‘I’ve come to call your bluff, Vilmio.
This game is over. You are no king.’
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‘You do not know to whom you speak. No king? Shall I not hereafter be king of the very world? Why else do you seek my downfall? Am I not even now the king of the underworld? Where is Lucifer, where Beelzebub?’
Yes, thought Sarah, where are they? If this is Hell, there ought to be a Devil.
And then she realized with a shock of mental self-disgust that she was being sucked into his system of beliefs, his view of the world. This was N-Space, not Hell.
‘Where indeed?’ said the Doctor.
‘Did they not flee at my approach? As you should flee ere you reap the reward that your impertinence and your arrogance deserve.’
The Doctor lifted his chin. It seemed to Sarah that he grew even larger. ‘ My impertinence! My arrogance! You call yourself a king? You have proved over and over again that you are unworthy to be a man!’
‘What!’
‘Those you have killed, those you have tortured, those whose lives you have corrupted, all add their voices to mine, crying out in accusation. I say again, you are no king.
You are less than the dirt beneath their feet.’
With a great shout of fury, Maximilian flung off his royal cloak, drew his sword and leapt from the rock. to confront the Doctor; and at his movement the bat-like fiends 331
(though their faces were more like pterodactyls) unwrapped their leathery wings and took to the air, fluttering around the head of their master like butterflies around a buddleia, uttering hoarse cries of alarm and threat.
To Sarah’s horror, as the hefty sword of the ultimate pretender came crashing down, all the Doctor had to defend himself with was, of all things, his sonic screwdriver.
But as he held it up to parry the blow it was no longer a puny thing to be dashed from his fingers and leave him defenceless but a two-handed battle sword as large as his attacker’s, silver-bright and sharp enough to slice through a floating feather.
The duel that followed was no fencing match, though the heavy swords flashed through the air like sabres. The Doctor had bitten off too much this time, thought Sarah, wincing at every blow from the figure in mail – for every blow was enough to chop off a limb or cut off a life. There was no way he could avoid being killed that she could see, other than by killing Maximilian; and how he was going to do that…
The Doctor was being beaten backwards towards the steep valley side, managing to parry the torrent of blows but having no chance to riposte. But before he even got his back against the wall – oh God! – he fell. Had he tripped? Sarah’s hand went to her mouth and she almost cried out.
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But no, he’d fallen on purpose, to escape the rain of blows. Completing the backwards roll, he ducked under the flying sword and took off up the crags behind him.
‘Come back, poltroon!’ The giant voice reverberated through the valley.
But the Doctor didn’t stop until he had reached the pinnacle of the rock that he was climbing. Then he turned and stood, his sword outstretched before him, and waited.
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Twenty-Six
When Maximilian reached the Doctor it was to find that the tables had been turned. Sarah saw with a grim exultation that no matter how much he tried to reach up with his sword, the Doctor’s blade was there first, not only parrying the blows but attacking with a ferocity which had his opponent ducking and weaving as a lightweight boxer might to avoid the knockout blow of a champion; and all the time, the fiends of the air hovered and swooped around him, with their raucous cries cheering him on.
But then – first blood! Coming in under the Doctor’s guard, a lucky snick by Maximilian cut into his leg halfway down his left thigh.
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