Doctor Who_ Bunker Soldiers Part 3

Taras and the others were talking loudly when Yevhen returned later that night.

'I have heard,' said one man, flapping his arms excitedly, 'that the horses of these devils snort fire from their nostrils, and that each hoof as it hits the earth thunders like a winter storm!'

'And the Tartars call up such curses,' added another, 'that fire falls from the sky like rain.'

Taras nodded sagely. 'I have family in one of the fallen cities,' he said. 'I know in my heart that they were wiped out in an instant.'

'Quiet!' hissed Yevhen. 'You rabble! You want the city guard alerted to our presence?'

He strode towards the knot of men, imperious in his bright robes. They instantly fell into a hush, bowing their heads.

Yevhen looked down at them scornfully a pitiful bunch, dressed in rags.Was this the best Taras could do? He turned to Taras, who seemed to antic.i.p.ate his question.

'These are all the men I can trust,' Taras said.

Yevhen shook his head sadly. 'What of Vladimir, of the Rope-Makers' Guild? Alexander? Your cousin, even?'

'All were wary of desecrating the house of G.o.d.'

'Desecrating?' hissed Yevhen, loud enough for the others to hear. 'We are not desecrating. We are releasing the angel of the Lord!'

'But the others... They are superst.i.tious.'

'If the people of Kiev were more more superst.i.tious,' spat Yevhen, superst.i.tious,' spat Yevhen, 'then perhaps G.o.d himself would liberate us from the devils on horseback. As it is, we must pray and be prepared to play our part.'

In silence he led the group to the side of the great cathedral.

There was a small door there, facing a stunted row of artisans'

dwellings, long since closed. Not a candle burnt in the surrounding buildings, or in the cathedral itself.

'Here, hold that lantern steady,' barked Yevhen as he sorted through the iron keys. He finally found one that fitted and unlocked, then pushed open, the door of blackened oak.

Followed by the men, he stepped down into a small room of yellowish stone. It had once been some sort of vestry, but had long since fallen into disuse. Torchlight revealed one or two simple wooden stools, and a broken storage box containing only a few sc.r.a.ps of clothing.

Despite the room's appearance, and the rat droppings that littered the floor, the men knew they were on holy ground. If they had immediately become quiet when Yevhen appeared, they were now as hushed as the grave.

Taras closed the door behind them, cutting out the scant light of the moon. The only illumination came from torches and lanterns, showing suddenly fearful faces made waxy by the sulphurous glow.

Yevhen pushed open an inner door and led the men into the cathedral corridors. He had obtained a faded map of the building some months ago, from a stonemason who claimed that one of his ancestors had worked on the original cathedral. The plans were, he said, priceless, a family heirloom, though a few tankards of ale soon brought their value down to a more reasonable level.

Yevhen peered at the map. Three main areas, representing the triune nature of the G.o.dhead, were further subdivided into twelve sections, which stood for the apostles of Christ. The entire edifice its golden towers, its weighty arches, its geometrically precise aisles rested upon deep foundations riddled with catacombs and tunnels. And one of the tombs was rumoured to contain the very angel of G.o.d.

Yevhen led the men through the corridors to another dark door, this one even smaller than the others and surrounded by enormous stone columns that stretched up into the shadows like angular trees. The door had two locks, one old, one recent, but Yevhen had the correct keys for both.

He pushed the groaning door open, releasing the musty air and damp chill of the catacombs. A tight staircase twisted down into nothingness.

Steeling himself,Yevhen bent through the doorway, holding his lamp low to illuminate the unscuffed steps. And began to descend.

He placed his feet carefully on one block after another, grateful for the limited light. As he concentrated on each step, it was as if he was descending in a vertical shaft. Had he been able to see better, he might have realised that the darkness was not the darkness of stone, but the darkness of empty s.p.a.ce and that one stumble could see him pitching downwards into infinity.

Yevhen forced his fears to one side, thinking only of the complex patterns of tunnels and vaults that awaited him and his followers. He permitted himself a deep breath of satisfaction when he finally reached the bottom of the steps. He turned to see a procession of lights descending, like slowly spinning motes above a fire.

He could smell the rats down here, and thought he could hear the scrabble of claws even over the mutterings of the descending men. The walls, cold with decades of neglect, were marbled with filigree lines of fungus. The floor was damp underfoot.

When the men had finished their descent Yevhen again set off without a word. A selfish thought occurred to him perhaps they should stay here, with provisions, and wait for the Tartar hordes to sweep over them. But then he remembered his daughter, and the countless other sons and daughters who would die if left unprotected, and thought only of the angel of G.o.d, and the protection it offered.

He peered at the map again. It showed a number of unmarked tombs, but one in particular caught Yevhen's eye. It was a smallish room surrounded by seven larger enclosed vaults like protective animals. And immediately above it, in the main cathedral building, was the largest altar, the heart of the church.

Surely this would be the one the legendary protector of Kiev resting at the very centre of the city.

It appeared suddenly in the darkness as the thick stone ribs of the roof descended to form the ceiling of a small tomb. It was square, and seemingly just tall enough to allow one or two people to stand comfortably. Its outer walls carried only the simplest of patterned adornment.

Yevhen nodded, speaking at last. 'Yes, this is it.'

'How can you be sure?' queried Taras.

Yevhen did not answer, for he did not know. Instead, he moved to the door of the tomb, which was held shut by one of the smallest, most delicate locks he had ever seen. He could find no key to fit it.

He turned to Taras. 'Break it down.'

The shock on Taras's face was clear, even in the gloom. 'I cannot do that!'

'You will break open the door,' snapped Yevhen. 'It is only a small lock. It can be replaced once we have been saved from our enemies.'

Taras did not argue further, though his body language spoke of a man whose boyish excitement had turned swiftly to fear. He put his shoulder against the door and, as Yevhen had indicated, the lock snapped almost instantly. Taras pulled at the bra.s.s handle, tugging the door open.

The air within was freed with an audible sigh, and Yevhen could feel some of the men behind him take a nervous step back.

He began to wonder if it had been right to bring along so many others perhaps he and Taras could have achieved their objective, and with less fuss, on their own. And, in any case, what opposition was he expecting? He was an adviser to the governor, after all.

He turned to Taras. 'Follow me. The rest of you may stay here.'

Yevhen and Taras ducked through the doorway, then straightened to hold their lamps high above their heads. It was a plain stone room, lacking any hint of finery. And if it had been cold in the catacombs, in here it was colder still. It was as if the entire structure had been carved from ice. Their breath spiralled upwards like plumes of smoke from a fire.

Worse still, a chill of apprehension began to grip Yevhen.

For in the centre of the room lay a rounded silver casket.

The more Yevhen looked at it, the more the casket seemed to glow, as if it was greedily sucking on the first light it had been exposed to for decades. But perhaps it was his eyes growing accustomed to darkness, or a trick of the flickering torchlight.

Taras's earlier apprehension had vanished, and was replaced now by an excitement laced with awe. 'You are right!' he exclaimed in a cracked whisper. He stepped forward eagerly, running his hands along the surface of the casket.

Yevhen was about to warn Taras to be cautious, but again he reminded himself what have we to fear? Are we not upright men, striving to liberate an angel of G.o.d?

On closer inspection, the casket seemed less like a manmade structure of metal and more like something that had grown naturally. A flattened dragon's egg, perhaps, or the sh.e.l.l of some great sea-monster.

Yevhen tentatively extended his hands, brus.h.i.+ng his fingertips over the surface of the casket. To his surprise, and despite the temperature of the tomb, it was warm to touch.

Taras squatted and ran a probing finger along its outer edge, tracing a fine line. 'There is a joint here. Presumably a concealed hinge.' He drew a sharp knife from his belt, and attempted to force it into the slender gap.

It would not fit.

'We need more than brute force,' said Yevhen, his attention drawn to a series of nodules and depressions along the top of the casket. One pattern, at the centre, reminded him of a hand, though there were only three slender marks for the 'fingers'. He put his own hand in the depression, but nothing happened.

Taras stood up, boiling over with schoolboy excitement. 'Let me.' He ran his hands over the complex pattern of marks and ridges, randomly prodding and tugging. Yevhen noticed increased movement in the nodules; whereas at first they seemed as solid as granite, now they began to give a little, the depressions occasionally blinking with pinpoints of light.

'You see?' said Taras. 'It is a machine of some sort and it recognises an engineer's touch!'

Yevhen was sure Taras's fumblings at the controls were random guesswork, rather than the studied experimentation of a scientist, but he said nothing. It mattered not if they were being blessed by G.o.d, or simply lucky. Something Something was happening. was happening.

There was a final pulse of light that made the entire casket burn briefly like a fire, and a clicking noise that they felt rather than heard.

Taras stood back, and Yevhen found himself gripping the hilt of his knife tightly.

The entire top half of the casket began to hinge smoothly upwards. Within, Yevhen could only see darkness, the inky darkness of a night sky with no stars.

Taras was saying something babbling prayers or simply babbling, Yevhen could not tell which. Yevhen concentrated instead on the motion of the 'lid', which at last came to rest when it was vertical.

There was a sigh as the awesome machinery became silent.

Yevhen could feel his heart pumping; could hear the pounding of blood in his ears. His mouth was dry, his mind reeling.

Something moved within the casket.

Yevhen felt movement at his side. He half-turned, to see Taras falling to his knees in superst.i.tious awe.

'Get up, man!' hissed Yevhen. 'We do not know for sure '

Something came at Taras in a rush of light and shadow.

Yevhen caught only glimpses of slender limbs, a sinewy back and a soulless face angled at Taras's head.

Taras's screams were brutally cut short. His lantern tumbled away, flickered for a moment, and was then swallowed by the darkness.

Yevhen, frozen for a moment, saw the creature turn. He glimpsed a purplish, rounded mouth like that of a leech, and specks of blood over heavily lidded eyes.

With a whip-crack of legs, the creature hurled itself towards him.

III.

In truitina mentis dubia fluctuant contraria Dodo was just finis.h.i.+ng lacing up the front of her dress. I couldn't help but notice that each tug on the leather strip was more harsh than the last.

'There are servants who will help you get dressed,' I observed. Dodo snorted in response, but said nothing.

'And perhaps you should consider covering your hair. You don't want to attract too much attention.'

'Steven,' said Dodo with feigned patience. 'We might be here for ever. Perhaps I should think about attracting a husband!'

She was obviously in one of her moods, but I didn't blame her for a moment. There's a world of a difference between examining another culture and actually living it. For both of us, the novelty had long since worn off.

For my part, I didn't like the food, my clothes made me itch constantly, and I shared my bed with numerous fleas and ticks.

However, the Doctor was adamant. We were not going to return to the TARDIS for food or clothing, and therefore we had to make the best of it.

Dodo didn't see it that way. 'I can't stand these shoes,' she commented, sitting on a bench to do up the buckles. 'The soles are so thin. I may as well walk around barefoot!'

'There are plenty in the streets who do.'

Dodo paused. We'd had this argument before, and it normally progressed along similar lines. 'Yes, I know I should be grateful!' she continued, indicating her room with its bed covered with thick woollen blankets, its hanging tapestries, its exquisitely carved tables and stools. 'I know this is luxury as far as most people are concerned.'

'And something worse than poverty awaits them.'

Dodo nodded. 'I know, I spoke to the Doctor yesterday. I just wish there was something we could do!' She glanced away. 'I reckon it would be better if we poisoned the lot of them. At least it would save them from the Mongols!'

I put my arm around her shoulders. 'I know. That's why we must help in whatever way we can.'

'Even if the Doctor doesn't approve?'

I walked over to the window and pulled back the shutters.

The governor's staterooms had panes of gla.s.s, allowing him to look out over the city and its people. In Dodo's chamber, as in mine, the window was covered with a wooden lattice filled with thin strips of polished horn. The horn felt like plastic, and let in an incredible amount of light, but was not as transparent as gla.s.s. Buildings became dark shapes, and the movement of people in the streets was simply a kaleidoscope of blurred colours.

'It looks fine today,' I said, avoiding Dodo's question. 'A good day for drying grain.'

Dodo nodded. She was helping to oversee the storage of food in preparation for a long siege; by all accounts, she was proving to be an excellent manager and co-ordinator, though the men were still not disposed to take orders from a woman, still less one who hoisted her dress above her knees whenever the sun came out.

There was a polite tap at the door.

'Yeah?' answered Dodo gruffly.

It was Lesia, daughter of Yevhen. She had struck an up an almost immediate friends.h.i.+p with Dodo I think because each recognised something of her own character in the other and I was glad that they spent a great deal of time together. For Dodo, this was the one bright spark in the whole awful situation.

'Good-day, Steven, Dodo,' Lesia said, the formality of her words blunted by her generous smile. I'd noticed, too, how she was at great pains to p.r.o.nounce my name differently from her father's (many were not so careful). I got the impression that she and her father did not always see eye to eye, and that the p.r.o.nunciation of my name was, therefore, a very necessary distinction.

'Hiya,' said Dodo. 'You ready?'

Lesia nodded and they trouped off, arm in arm, giggling like children followed closely by the guards who had been stationed outside Dodo's room.