EQUILIBRIUM

SIMON A. FORWARD

Contents

Author’s Notes

1 - The Chieftain

2 - The Doctor

3 - The Warrior

4 – Budapest

5 – Aphrodite

6 - The Major

7 – Melisandra

8 - The Queen

9 – Athena

10 - On-Ogur

11 – Arpad

12 – Equilibrium

13 - Liz Shaw

Author’s Notes

‘I really ought to have some sort of appropriate quote here to head up this section, to keep it in line with the other chapters, but blowed if I can think of anything.’

Me, just before embarking on this section.

Strange to think that Equilibrium was in fact my first Doctor Who novel, albeit that it remains unpublished. Originally submitted to Virgin, back in the days when they were

producing their Missing Adventures and I can remember being

at once encouraged and disappointed that their first book in the range, Paul Cornell’s Goth Opera, was to feature Doctor Who’s very own Great Vampires. Encouraged, because it

implied that Virgin were willing to explore elements of the

series continuity in (I hoped) fresh and interesting ways; and

disappointed, because I was worried that the fact that

Equilibrium touched on the same area of background would count against it when it came to being considered for

publication. Of course the very idea of an actual commission

was a pie-in-the-sky pipedream at the time, but as I was driven by that same dream since a very early age, well, there was

never any question that the book was going to be written, one

way or another.

Now, looking back from the perspective of a published

Doctor Who author, I’m at once better able to see where it might have been improved and perhaps just as mystified as to

why they didn’t go for it. But, after all, there’s no accounting for taste! Well, as a matter of fact there is some at least,

because I still have the response letter from Virgin, which

praised my characterisation of the Doctor and Liz, along with

the idea of the time-travelling house, while expressing that the idea of the temporal eclipse wasn’t original or exciting

enough, that the plot felt loose and unstructured and that it

would have been better if the story had been motivated by

characters rather than a plot device such as a timeslip. All of which was (as might be expected!) at complete odds with my

own take on the story and indeed how it was crafted, and only

goes to prove the Equilibrium’s core message about opposite reactions.

Seriously, though, that initial rejection, my subsequent

dusting off the proposal for submission to the BBC and my

eventual preparation of the full MS for the website each

inevitably led to a personal reappraisal of the story, and it was interesting to re-examine the work in the light of those initial comments as well as my own evolving views. In submitting

Equilibrium to the BBC as a proposed Past Doctor Adventure, the aim was to produce a prequel to my EDA, Emotional

Chemistry, but I left the synopsis unaltered for the most part and, presented to a different editor (Justin Richards), it met

with different comments again – the key problem this time

around being that the BBC range was undergoing a shift

towards eschewing references to other books or past episodes.

And while I would argue that a prequel could safely assume

no prior knowledge of Emotional Chemistry, the bottom line was that this book was going to remain unpublished.

Never one to waste ideas, I also recognised that I wasn’t

going to be able to retell this particular adventure as a non-

Doctor Who story – I think the fact that it was my first complete Doctor Who novel meant that it was always going to remain, at heart, a Doctor Who novel. (Virgin generally required a synopsis and a 15,000 word set of sample chapters,

and so I had plenty of submissions for which I did that amount

and no more, but Equilibrium was the only one that I just carried on writing to completion – between preparing all those

numerous other Doctor Who proposals!) So I figured, why not put it where, at worst, it would only gather e-dust and, at best, where it might be enjoyed.

In working through it to prepare each chapter for posting

on the web, it was tempting in some respects to perform a

major overhaul, refine and polish it to the nth degree and

eliminate all of its pesky flaws. But in the first place, I realised that wasn’t practically possible, both because I couldn’t afford the time and because expecting it to be perfect was expecting

too much; and in the second place, I thought that it would

offer more worthwhile lessons, for myself and for other

interested writers and/or readers out there, if it was posted –

give or take the odd edit or rewritten section (on which, more

in a moment) – in its original form.

It also means people can go easy on it because, like the

author, it’s a little rough around the edges!

So, other than the inevitable typos and the occasional

compulsion, as I worked through it, to groom a sentence here

and there, what was changed?

The most significant change was in one of the central

characters. Although the synopsis had grown to accommodate

Aphrodite and shape Equilibrium into a prequel, the original manuscript had been completed with a different character in

mind. I won’t say too much about her as, apart from a few

Doctor Who trappings, I have plans to use that same character in another (non- Doctor Who) project, but suffice to say, in the context of the original Equilibrium, she was a Time Lady –

albeit a unique and original one. So naturally, her scenes

needed some extensive re-working, although I made efforts to

keep the rewrites to a minimum. As such, for me, in this book,

Aphrodite doesn’t always read quite true, as it wasn’t always

easy to keep myself from visualising the original character in

her place and, besides, some of the lines and actions were

tailored to her replacement, rather than being born of

Aphrodite herself. It’s often a subtle distinction, but one I was acutely aware of and it will be interesting to see if anyone who has read both Emotional Chemistry and Equilibrium picks up on it.

By way of contrast, (Major) Bugayev proved an opposite

case. He had always featured in Equilibrium, but in

approaching his character I had anticipated there being some

degree of rewriting in order to ensure that he came across as a convincing younger version of the character I painted in

Emotional Chemistry. As luck would have it, I found the gap

in maturity was already there, in terms of how I’d written the

character, and I didn’t really feel any need to tamper with that.

So the fact that I had written him ten years earlier, for my

money, was what painted the prequel-portrait I was after.

Other than that there were a couple of name changes. In

the first place, when I wrote Emotional Chemistry, Justin Richards pointed out that the name of Grushkin (Bugayev’s

original second in command) was perhaps too akin to Garudin

on the page, so his name was changed to Zhelnin; hence, a

corresponding change had to be made in Equilibrium. Then, in a similar fashion, I decided that with Aphrodite and Athena

there were already too many A names involved, so I changed

the name of Alisandra to Melisandra. Simple. And, I’m glad to

say, totally insignificant in terms of any impact on the story!

So, what did I think of the story as I read it again?

Well, for one thing, I could see how it might be perceived

as loose and unstructured. The fact is, in terms of how it was

constructed, like everything else I write, it is structured – but the structure stems purely from character motivation. And

characters are often (we hope!) unpredictable and take on lives of their own. For me, structuring a plot is like growing house

plants: you can prune it here and there, you can turn it around so it’ll grow towards the light, but at the end of the day it’s going to find its own shape, by and large. Of course, I hope

eventually I’ll have more success with my plots than with

houseplants, but the point remains the same.

The difference here, I think, is that two of the characters

are powerful forces and the fact that they can manipulate time

means they can manipulate events to such a degree that

perhaps some of the characters’ actions seem futile. The clash

at the end is going to happen no matter what: that’s what

drives Athena and the Chieftain both, and although all the

behaviour of all the other characters arises from a natural

process of action and reaction, they’re all at the same time

being drawn along towards that point. Ultimately though, I do

feel the Doctor makes the vital difference – as intended – in

establishing the titular equilibrium (if I’m allowed to say

that!).

There are a few indulgences along the way: the timeslip

that enables the Doctor to hail a cab and shake off his OGRON

escort, for instance, but I always felt it was worth it for the joke. And it’s probably fair to say there’s too much running

around, getting captured and escaping, but I think in writing it originally I saw that as part of the essence of a Pertwee

adventure. In much the same way as, I suppose, being wrong

on occasion is an essential part of the learning process! It’s

just a question of what works well on screen and what works

well on the page, although I was satisfied with some of the

action sequences in the book, so again it all pretty much

balances out in the end.

The only question that remains, I guess, is what would I

have done differently had the book been commissioned and I

could have devoted a full six months on developing it properly

as a published novel? Hm. Well, I say hm, but actually I have

some very clear ideas of how I might have approached it

differently.

It sort of goes without saying – but I’ll say it anyway –

that I would have taken a good long look at the structure and

developed it anew, examining Aphrodite’s role and

subsequently writing her scenes from scratch.

In this compromise rewrite, there were all manner of

things, like losing the original Time Lady’s TARDIS, that

would have and should have resulted in significant changes to

the plot, and given what I know of the differences between the

characters, I am sure Aphrodite’s thread would have taken a

different direction here and there – rather than her actions

being grafted on in place of the previous character’s. Aspects

of her character do fit the events here, but I would have been

much happier approaching her part in the story anew.

On top of which, I would have liked to have made this

Aphrodite’s introductory story, making this her first meeting

with the Doctor, factoring in her trial at the hands of the

Magellans at the end and introducing us to her homeworld,

Paraiso, for the first time and so on. All of which would have

required a greater word count, of course, but on the other hand it might have provided a good incentive to trim out some of

the fat.

On the other hand, I would have also liked to have

developed the Kagyrn more, expanded upon their culture and

background etc. As the book stands, they serve well enough as

monsters perhaps, but I had always had them in mind as

something more. They literally arose out of that notion (from

Dracula) of vampires having wolves at their command, but as usual I did make some effort to develop them as a race in

some detail, very little of which made it into Equilibrium as it is here. Likewise, word count permitting, it might have been

matched with some measure of greater detail on the Magyar

culture to which they were bound.

It’s less easy to see what might have changed with regard

to the other characters, mostly because their actions all ring

true to me, but it’s reasonable to assume that those key

changes would have had some impact on the actions of others

in the story.

In the case of Liz Shaw, though, I feel fairly sure I would

have kept that ending. Back when I originally wrote

Equilibrium, I’d had all sorts of ambitions to write that crucial departure scene for Liz: as one of my favourite Doctor Who

companions, I really wanted to be the one to write that for her.

But when it came to writing the story and arriving at the end,

that question – of whether she would leave or continue

travelling a while (via the house) with the Doctor – well, to

leave it unanswered and hanging in the balance just seemed

the right thing to do.

Quite possibly I am completely wrong on that score. But

like I say, being wrong is all part of the learning process, and one thing this exercise – of revisiting Equilibrium here – has taught me is that I am definitely still learning.

SAF January 2005

To Jon Pertwee and Caroline John

A better chemistry than they realised.

Chapter One

The Chieftain

When Kagena’s Eagle descended,

a million cowered and burned,

Ongra’s Pack fell in Glory,

as Kagena’s Evil shone, Spurned.

Then The Chieftain rose against her,

scarred from battles Ancient and Won,

Kagena’s flame harmed Him nought,

and she fled from his fiery eyes alone.

The Poems of the Dead, <<The Battle of Sinnaca>>,

Kagren Archive Translation.

Light drizzle played a pattering rhythm on the concertina-fold

map, and was soon accompanied by the relaxed hum of some

indeterminate ditty from behind the paper’s broad expanse of

creases. Liz Shaw tugged at the brim of her hat and pulled the

short skirt of her coat further over her stockinged knees, then folded her arms with what she hoped was a supremely

transparent display of patience. She observed the beaded

raindrops as they slalomed down Bessie’s gently vibrating

windscreen.

‘Ah!’ a triumphal cry interrupted the incessant tune and

Liz was halfway through abandoning her pose when a tut

heralded the music’s return. She could stand it no longer; she

had to speak.

‘Doctor, why won’t you let me navigate?’ She evinced the

question as a child, eager to show her teacher precisely where

he had gone wrong.

Her chauffeur peered around the water-stained map. He

was a debonair gentleman, with flexibly handsome features

declaring a seniority that Liz always found awe-inspiring; but

his authority was blended perfectly with a richly disarming

compassion and the air of an affectionate old ( Oops – he

wouldn’t like that, she thought) professor. His teeming curls of electric-white hair advanced his age further than his features

should have allowed and he often combined comic

sophisticate with dashing adventurer with brilliant scientist. It was, in some ways, that wonderful mind that had frequently

reduced her to the level of laboratory technician and the reason she had already elected to return to Cambridge after serving

her notice. She would miss her companion so much; she had

grown to love him dearly.

Liz bit her lip tightly on that thought; she had yet to tell

the Doctor. She watched his smile form, its growth the speed

of a budding tulip.

‘My dear Liz,’ he said kindly, ‘you don’t even know

where we’re going.’

She mirrored his warm smile and leaned towards him. ‘My

dear Doctor, if you only told me, I could venture a brave attempt to get us there before we’re swept away in a torrential mudslide.’ She arched her eyebrows and jerked her head at the

wet slope of field around which the road smoothly curved; on

their left, the fields rolled away into a rain-greyed valley

where they lost themselves in a huddle of trees. Straightening

herself once more, she added, ‘I don’t object to being whisked

off to the countryside – particularly the South West – I don’t

mind at all. But the one doing the whisking ought to have

some clue as to where his mystery tour leads, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Provoking the driver will get you nowhere,’ the Doctor

rebuked, frustratedly stowing the map in the glove

compartment. He laughed as Liz shuddered, water trickling

from her glossy, shoulder-length hair onto her slender neck.

She favoured him with a glare, her eyes alive with friendly

fire.

‘That puts my taunts on a par with your path-finding,’ she

said wryly. The Doctor would have doffed his chapeau at that, were he wearing one. Somehow, he had never taken to the

things since the Brigadier made him return the hat he had

‘borrowed’ from a physician at the start of his unfair exile.

‘Alright, Liz. You win!’ He retrieved the map and opened

it over Liz’s lap, sighing before launching into whatever

explanation he had in store. He had to raise his voice a little to cover the approaching grumbles of widely differing air

pressures. He was convinced that the idea of a storm would

stretch Liz’s patience to breaking point.

He also released Bessie’s brake and guided her into a run.

Under the threat of heavy showers, it was best to keep on the

move.

The ship hovered over the storm-cowled planet, its crossbow-

hull glinting even in the dim light of the alien sun. Its exterior armour boasted the geometric whorls and coils of its planetary

emblem to the fellow vessels of its squadron. A honed steel

shaft jutted from the dorsal tube of its main weapon and it

waited, a sharp nail eager to skewer the body of a resting fly.

Its name was Halcyon Slayer.

Its captain was a Lady – the Lady Melisandra. She wore

the magnificent blue and white of the Elite Corps, faithful to

the High President and dedicated to the successful conclusion

of a war that had – only just – turned to their favour.

They had been saved by the invention of these ships,

devised by the champion of their Scientific Corps, and had

forced back the tide of all-consuming decay and Death.

Melisandra’s own squadron had been assigned from the

beginning, to combat the subject races of their Enemy: the

Black Host, the Seven Million, the Kagyrn Packs. For, she

knew, each of their Seven Chieftains had been blessed

( cursed! ) with the full powers of their soulless Masters. And each could only be slain in one way; one method alone

prevented the transkinetic projection of their life’s minds into other beings; one way alone robbed them of their Immortality.

To the Chieftains, Immortality was no empty purse. To the

Chieftains, it was a licence for Eternal Conquest. Glory, even.

Melisandra paced her bridge, calmly noting the trepidation

on the aged faces of her junior officers. She was neither old

nor afraid. Her age was two-hundred-and-fifty – youthful in a

thousand-year life expectancy – and she was a golden-haired

statuette, bronzed skin and supple muscular frame hidden

under the sapphire cloak of command. She was a trained killer

of killers, a slayer of wolves, and her jewelled eyes revealed

nothing of the emotional well beneath her perfect body.

Perhaps, as even she thought sometimes, the well was dry.

She never feared Death, despite the vast number of

occasions on which the ship and the War had brought her

close. She could not fear Death, for she had no expectations of Life.

They had vanished with her love. They had vanished with

the Sorcerer.

‘So what you’re saying,’ Liz gently coerced the Doctor,

slapping a hand over her hat as Bessie hurtled, bumping, along

the country road, ‘is you don’t know precisely where we’re headed, either. No wonder you have so much trouble getting

that TARDIS off the ground.’

The Doctor was hurt. ‘Liz, the TARDIS doesn’t

technically – well, er, never mind.’ He paused, affording the

sky a wary glance. ‘You see, Liz, the call came through

directly to the TARDIS console. It was a radioed invitation

meant for my ears only. This rather enigmatic lady expressed

an urgent desire to meet me – at her home.’

‘In tropical Somerset,’ Liz reminded the Time Lord about

the storm, which galloped after them like the Chaos Hordes. In

spite of the gathering gloom, Liz couldn’t help but laugh. She

teased, ‘Sounds like a terribly bold chat-up line to me!’

‘Yes,’ simmered the Doctor slowly. ‘Well I don’t know

that many lady-admirers would be able to send tight-beam

tachyon transmissions into a dislodged TARDIS console, the

location of which is a complete mystery to everyone outside of

you, me, the Brigadier and UNIT’s tea-lady.’

‘It’s her!’ concluded Liz happily. ‘Oh, Doctor, do try to let

her down gently.’

It was the Doctor’s turn to tighten his lips. ‘You know, I

often think it’d be preferable if you resorted to sulking.’ He

peered down at Liz in mock admonishment, suddenly

replacing it with a tooth-wall grin. ‘Like I do! Now, tell me if it’s the next left or right.’

Liz studied the map intently, her eyes flicking occasionally

to the first of the approaching junctions. Mentally, she flipped a penny; it came up heads. ‘I’d suggest the right. Then we’ll

stand a sporting chance of being on the map.’

‘Must be one of my off-days,’ remarked the Doctor glibly.

Melisandra came to an instant decision. ‘I’m transmatting to

the surface,’ she informed her Second. ‘I want a proper fix on

that storm-centre.’

The Second Officer, a timid old fellow who approached

his task with adolescent nervousness, frowned up at his

beautiful commander. ‘Is a landing entirely wise? With the

entire squadron in orbit, we can obtain a triangulation on the

target emissions in spite of the atmospheric disturbance.’

Melisandra sighed, her hair shimmering in the light of the

instrument panels, as she bowed over the hunched shoulder of

her Weapons Officer, inspecting the narrowing circle on his

scope. She rarely faced her Second when addressing him and

tried to find a number of other subjects to occupy her vision,

for fear that her gaze intimidated him too greatly. She

wondered, at times, why such a vulnerable specimen should

have volunteered to combat the greatest evils in the Universe;

she answered herself by contemplating the horrific slaughter

of her people – the only ones to have stood against the Hosts.

‘This is the Chieftain, remember, and I’ll not take a chance on a flesh wound.’ She turned to sweep her celestial visage

over the concentrated faces of all her bridge crew. ‘His heart, crewmen; the blackest heart that will ever exist. We may only

count on ourselves and I will not sacrifice a nanodegree of

accuracy.’

‘Elastic beam?’ the Second offered hopefully, afraid for

his commander’s life as if it were his own.

‘Very well,’ concurred Melisandra generously, ‘but I want

five full seconds before snap-back. Five.’ She held her hand

with digits splayed vertically, underlining her order so that no pangs of anxiety would deprive her of the proper

reconnaissance. She did not really know, herself, why she was

entertaining such a wild risk, but she was the rat-killer who

had never seen a single vermin; she had eliminated from high

in the gravity well, spearing her targets with a distant

equanimity that verged on the Divine. She had personally dealt

with two of the Seven Chieftains, but this last Kagyrn was

different. He – It – was as near to a god as aliens came.

She took her helmet from the console and strode to the

transmat booth with a gait that was all purpose, but she felt the tension in her crew’s faces solidifying and expanding like a

gallon of ice inside her twin hearts. As she prepared herself in the alcove, she thought of the time she had waited and waited

for news of her lover, knowing already that he was dead.

A verse of his rambled across the autumn fields of her

soul:

Pain’s sweet avenger

Is Time’s loving stranger

But as she grows wings

Must we shed our skin...

A fundament of universal physics, as he had seen it,

applicable to the emotional and psychological balance of an

individual. It was why she had taken care to feel nothing since his death and it was why, as the booth activated, she assumed

a blank neutrality with regard to her own fate when her boots

soon touched the soil of the Kagyrn homeworld.

Bessie roared along the tree-rimmed lane as the rain lashed

heavily, drops exploding and rebounding from the tarmac in

fragmented bursts. The watery barrage chased the car’s

passage, and even her yellow had dulled under the oppressive

bearing of the cloud.

The sky cracked and bellowed at the tiny car and its

passengers cowered under the insubstantial black hood.

Vengeful bolts of lightning were hurled, like burnished shafts

of steel, at the swamping earth. Billowing chaos chased the

yellow roadster, a legion of Black Knights racing to spear their routed foe. Satanic talons scratched hard down the heavenly

blackboard.

Liz felt her nerves shredding. ‘Can’t you go any faster,

Doctor? There’s – something not – right, here – with the storm.’ She had to raise her voice considerably above Bessie’s

faithful engine and the cymbal-clash of thunder.

The Doctor smiled sympathetically, and seemed ready to

assure her of how utterly ridiculous she was being; instead, he poked his head around, craning under the vehicle’s canopy,

staring intently through the sheening curtain of water. He gave up his mysterious search, but his deep eyes were slicked with

apprehension. He worried Liz by surreptitiously accelerating

the car.

An idea occurred to Liz. ‘Do you think this is connected

with those meteorological disturbances in Hungary? The ones

they wanted you to check out?’

‘Totally different, I should imagine,’ the Doctor assured

her with a loud voice and a shake of the head. ‘No, those were

sudden, freak changes – totally abnormal. We saw this one

coming, remember?’

‘Yes, I do.’ Still, Liz was determined to score at least one

point today, and she remembered only too clearly how the

Doctor had steadfastly adhered to his programme of tinkering,

rather than comply with the Brigadier’s firm request for

assistance. When it came to changing tune, Liz thought, the

Doctor was a medley of his own favourites.

‘Anyway,’ she ventured, ‘if they were so abnormal, how

come you refused pointblank to go over and investigate? We

could have had ourselves a pleasant trip overseas.’

‘My dear Liz, it’d be a sorry day indeed if I had nothing

more important to concern me than a few meteorological

hiccoughs in Eastern Europe.’

It was Liz’s turn to be hurt. ‘I happen to find the weather a

fascinating subject.’

‘Yes, well, that’ll be your English ancestry shining

through.’

Liz started to smile, but was forced to shiver as another

spine of electricity seemed to ignite the road ahead.

Bleak, mesmeric beauty surrounded Melisandra and she

remained perfectly still as the panorama penetrated her

defences; the valley below held her captivated for dangerously

long, eating up her allotted time on the planet. She transmitted the signal that would postpone her snap-back matter dispersal,

drinking in the view as if it were a delicious poison.

Shades of grey abounded; from the slate and granite of the

crags and escarpments, soaring at dizzying altitudes over

banks and ridges combed with grasses of lilac grey, the valley

spanned into a lead plain, ringed with charcoal hills of gale-

scored rock; above the whole scene fumed a cinder and

gunmetal sky. Melisandra adjusted her stance and splashed her

left boot through a small pool; she was standing atop a high

cliff of diced and fractured stone.

They materialised. Time and Space were torn in a barbaric

separation of Siamese twins; Melisandra nearly toppled from

her squall-swept ledge.

Masking the hills from sight, a vast army – an entire Pack

– of flesh-hungry wolves, bipedal and bulky in their mish-

mash of armour-plate, swarmed and writhed as a single body:

they were a gathering storm-front. The Kagyrn warriors jostled shoulders, rending the air with the clatter of asymmetrical

armour, their disorder savage in its intensity, but founded in a civilization older than Melisandra’s own. From her vantage

point, she could discern no details other than the red-giant

glow of those hateful eyes; a faint haze of smoke rode the

night above them. She was stunned with fear, even at her

range; people talked of difficulty in visualising a million; she was actually seeing it.

At the head of their Army, came the Chieftain himself and

it was his presence, she realised, that smote her courage and

robbed her of her mettle.

A swollen mutation of his kind, he stood over ten metres

high, a third as broad in his own battledress of mail and plate, cut in cruelly jagged edges and tinted with a burnished echo of the Kagren landscape. Fire-brand eyes of yellow-red shot

thermal lances into the cold damp of the plain and his massive

jaw hung open, its upper partner curling to reveal fangs that

would tear a ship’s hull into reedy strands. He was the Magi of Demons; his race were awesome, he was one of the Seven

Chieftains that existed in any generation, they had become a

subject-race of the Enemy, he had inherited their powers; then, he had become something more. Now, he towered above the

mighty and superseded the merely deadly. He transcended

Evil itself, because there were none above who might judge.

Then she wondered, With whom did this army expect to do

battle?

‘The house!’ shrilled Liz, excited and profoundly relieved.

The Doctor drove Bessie along the lightly wooded lane of

tarmac until they faced a painted wooden gate, the name of the

house stencilled on one bar in elegant white script:

FERNHILL MANOR.

Without waiting to be asked, Liz leapt from her seat and

darted for the gate, adding the shelter of her hands to the

generous protection afforded by the hat. The thunder still

shook the earth and there was an added inner chill that had induced uncharacteristic silence in both her and the Doctor

during much of the remainder of their journey. Liz was never

the superstitious type – heaven knows, the Brigadier had

endless trouble trying to convince her of what turned out to be scientific (well, solid, at any rate) fact. Somehow, her moderate ability at programming a totally alien (TARDIS)

console and her uncomfortably close encounters with extra-or

sub-terrestrial menaces had left her hardy scepticism over

ghosts and phantoms perfectly intact. As her boots skewed

through the mud and the gate was opened, she scolded herself

for this sudden weakness; but she still had to scan the lane

behind as the Doctor rolled Bessie forward.

She shook her head, grinned unconvincingly at the Doctor

and climbed aboard the car as it sailed into the yard. The

Doctor parped the horn to announce their arrival.

There was no response from the soulless windows.

Liz remembered the gate. ‘Oh, I’ve left the gate open. I’d

best –’ she faltered. Her fingers were trembling and her knees

still shaking after the Doctor switched off the engine; her

complexion had paled and her stomach had set with the cold.

She felt foolish, a little girl lost in a foreign town; there was no escaping this fear’s suffocating grip. ‘Doctor, I – would you –

?’

‘It’s alright, Liz. There’s nothing there,’ the Doctor’s tone

soothed her some and he toyed with the trailing damp locks of

her hair. She stared ahead at Bessie’s windscreen, quivering

and on the point of tears. The Doctor gave her a sidelong hug

and slipped out of the car. ‘Wait here; everything will be

alright. I’ll attend to the gate and have a little snoop around.’

‘Doctor, be –’ the words erupted from her, but she caged

them quickly in, battling this unwarranted dread. She could

never forgive herself for appearing an idiot in front of the

Doctor; he admired her for her sparkling intelligence and this

panic was unnatural. It wasn’t her. The daunting, Gothic lines

of the house added weight to her mounting fright. There was

something – somewhere.

She heard the Doctor’s feet sploshing across the yard and

the slow creak of the gate. The footsteps grew louder again

almost immediately – he was returning already. Perhaps they

might find a hotel somewhere; leave this lonely place. A tap

on the shoulder turned her head.

It was a dead man.

She screamed and heaved herself away, into the driver’s

seat; the ghoul’s face looked on, nonplussed. The Doctor

shouted, ‘Liz? Liz!’

The man struggled to speak, overcoming some shock of

his own. His face and neck were a gaunt skeleton, a thin mask

of rubber skin drawn over a haunting framework of bone. His

eyes were tiny beads set deep beneath the lined brow and, as

he parted his narrow lips, his teeth appeared as dull yellow

tombstones.

‘I offer my apologies, miss,’ he simpered, ‘I didn’t mean

to give you a scare. I heard the horn of your carriage.’

The Doctor trotted up to Liz’s side and ducked his head

beneath the canopy, taking in his companion’s distress. He

double-taked at the man on the other side of the car. ‘Ah, how

d’ you do, sir? I think my friend is a little nervous. It’s the storm.’

‘Indeed, most regrettable it is, sir.’ The man hovered,

uncertain.

The Doctor was full of concern. ‘Liz?’

Liz shrugged her shoulders, sitting up and scrabbling for

what dignity she could find. ‘I’m fine, Doctor, really.’

Suddenly, her fear had passed and her body jogged to a

suppressed tremor of laughter; all too soon, she was stifling

her mouth with a hand and leaning forward over the dash. ‘I

am so sorry; I really am. Oh dear.’

Suddenly, the storm held no more menace than a

monstrous dowsing.

The butler, Perriman, led the way inside, after indicating to the Doctor the open stable doorway, where Bessie might find

suitable shelter. As the Doctor parked the car neatly inside, Liz stepped gratefully into the dry of the house, finding herself

discomfited by Perriman’s seemingly deliberate quietude. She

wasn’t overly happy to be dripping water over the very

expensive-looking Esfehan rug.

Perriman took her coat and left her to shake the loose ends

of her hair over the already sopping mat; she didn’t see where

he disappeared with her hat, scarf and raincoat.

The Doctor swept in and closed the door, smiling, a

solitary drip dangling from his proud beak of a nose. He began

removing his huge, black cape, its scarlet lining engulfing

Liz’s attention immediately. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘so much for

English weather. Used to be a bit more temperate under

Hadrian, as I recall.’

Liz leaned conspiratorially closer to the Doctor. ‘That poor

man – what must he have thought?’ She paused, shame

crystallising beneath her glassy eyes. ‘I am sorry, Doctor.’

The Doctor was kind, as ever. ‘Not a bit of it, Liz.’ He

gazed about the clammy hallway, scrutinising the cluster of

portraits and landscapes, photographs and paintings. ‘As a

matter of fact, I’m still not happy now I’m inside.’

‘Really?’ Liz was shocked, and a little more relaxed, at the

Doctor’s admission. She looked about her.

Of the exterior, Liz only held a passing recollection, her

impressions streaked with rain, but the hallway spoke of a

distinguished history. Spacious and perfectly square, it was

panelled with a finely polished dark wood which seemed to

drink up much of the light, softening the illumination to a

calming haze. A pair of doors stood like guards each side of

the entrance, while a shrouded corridor cut through to the rear of the house, and possibly the kitchen. The ceiling soared high and the grand staircase climbed in stages to meet a landing

towards the front of the building, all the while bordered with

an elegantly crafted mahogany banister.

‘There’s something about the house itself.’ He stopped,

finger playing at his lower lip. Suddenly, it scratched at his

nose, wiping away the offending raindrop; his expression

became unduly nonchalant and Liz followed his glance to

where Perriman stood at the kitchen entrance.

‘Hello there, Perriman.’

‘And a good evening to you, sir. If I might take your

garments, sir, dinner will be served within the hour.’ He strode forward and relieved the Doctor of his cloak. ‘I was unsure as

to how many I should expect.’

‘Oh?’ inquired the Doctor.

Perriman seemed temporarily unsettled; then he turned

away with the cape, pausing at the kitchen door once more. He

stared levelly at the Doctor. ‘The Lady informed me of your

invitation, Doctor, sir, but she, herself, was uncertain as to

whether or not you would come alone.’ He gave a slight bow.

‘It will be a small matter to set another place. Please, make

yourselves comfortable in the lounge.’ His left hand indicated

a pair of doors behind Liz’s slender figure.

Liz turned to the doors and twisted the handles; she

addressed the Doctor with an inquisitive air. He was openly

ponderous and he waved her before him. ‘You go on, Liz. I

want to take a closer look at some of these pictures.’

‘Right – but don’t land us in any trouble, will you?’ She

grinned and marched into the lounge, the Doctor’s voice

trailing over her shoulder.

‘My dear girl, you do me a great injustice.’

Liz was smirking and she had seated herself in a gorgeous

Georgian sofa before she found herself gaping at the sheer

diverse splendour of the room she had entered.

There were framed photographs, landscapes and portraits

in vibrant oils and temperate water colours; there were

Chinese figurines, and porcelain cats curling at the feet of

handdecorated Russian matryoshka dolls. Thai Buddhas

squatted beside Indian totems, serenely contemplating forests

of Venetian glass and ceramics from Meissen to Nabeshima.

The cabinets, tables, chaise longues and chairs were gathered

amiably together over a Turkoman carpet, and Liz imagined

them swapping whispered tales from around the globe. Even

the potted plants fanned their leaves in a silent flaunt of their exotic origins.

There was something odd about the house.

The Doctor ahem ed at the doorway, spooking Liz into a

standing position. She glared her annoyance, tempering it with

a curl of the mouth, and tucked a hand under each arm.

‘Having fun, I see.’

‘I’m sorry, Liz,’ shushed the Doctor, striding over and

dropping into the large sofa, lips puttering in imitation of a

model motor-boat. ‘You’re quite right to be unnerved by all

this, though.’

‘Oh, how very reassuring,’ she thanked him, keeping the

sarcasm down to short measures. She sat beside the Doctor

and eyed him curiously, trying to penetrate his mask of

introspection; she tugged at the velvet sleeve of his jacket,

unwilling to allow his absentmindedness much slack.

‘Care to share a reason or two?’

‘Hmm?’ The Doctor awoke from a dream, eyes like dabs

of grey paint. He studied Liz’s furrowed brow. ‘Yes, Liz, the

house – either the Lady is a collector with a remarkable

number of fingers in an astronomical number of pies; or she

has a working TARDIS.’

Liz was stunned; she prompted her companion further.

‘Perhaps you’d better try me with the main course.’

The Doctor rose, sniffing, and walked over to the

porcelain vase dominating the polished timber coffee table; he

examined it briefly before describing a circle around an

elegant lounge chair, finishing at the central window. ‘This

Lady’s antique collection is one of the most diverse and

expansive I have ever had the pleasure of viewing.’

‘The Lady is resourceful, indeed, sir.’

Liz was again startled by Perriman’s silent motion, as she

turned her head to the ghostly figure in the doorway.

The Doctor was affably unperturbed and seemed more

than pleased to welcome the butler’s unannounced arrival.

‘Ah, Perriman, my good man – perhaps you’d be kind enough

to tell us where the Lady of the House is presently?’

Perriman coughed and bowed, fully apologetic. ‘I am

afraid, sir, that she will be unable to join you for dinner and I am regrettably unaware of her expected time of return.’ He

relaxed under the Doctor’s convincing charm. ‘Lady

Melisandra has been called away to attend one of her business

interests, sir.’

‘Ah, how very trying for her.’ The Doctor rocked slightly

on his heels. ‘And dinner?’

‘In ten minutes, sir. If you and the young lady would care

to take your places in the dining room...’ Perriman waved air

past his flank and beckoned the two visitors to follow.

Liz and the Doctor converged en route for the door. Liz

slipped an arm around the Doctor’s elbow and inclined her

face towards him. She hissed, ‘She’s a woman after your own

hearts, obviously. Invites you to the English outback, then

forgets to turn up.’

The Doctor grunted a chuckle and raised a warning finger

to his lips. ‘No sarcasm at the dinner table.’

Liz was bathed in perspiration as she escaped from the

asphyxiating grime and rubble of the Manor House, as it sunk

deeper and deeper into the liquid mud; she cried as she

remembered the vision of the Doctor’s ringed fingers flexing

and scrabbling above the turgid surface, until they finally slid away, forever consumed by the filth-infested treacle of that

graveyard-hill.

She sat up and felt the consoling weight of linen fall into

her lap. She bunched the sheets up over her chest and rubbed

one hand over her shoulder; her eyes scanned desperately

around the fermented gloom.

The storm cackled and raked outside, blasting her

bedroom window with fierce light and casting the silver-lined

shadows of trees against the ceiling’s pale screen. A twig

squeaked and tapped on the glass pane, jarring her nerves and

producing goose-pimples on her skin, despite the humid air.

That the storm had not passed, that the lightning still

flashed over the manor and the surrounding farms and town;

all of it insulted her love of science and her pursuit of the

rational.

The lightning wasn’t real.

She lay back, watching the shadow-play, remembering the

principles of reflection and refraction; the science behind the spectre. Her lids fell over her deep eyes. They flicked back

open.

She decided sleep was not for her tonight. She sat up,

threw the covers aside and swung her long legs out over the

carpet. She even had to steel herself ( ridiculous, Liz! ) before touching toes on the soft-wool pile.

‘Stupid storm,’ she muttered, then padded across the room

to where her clothes were neatly folded on the back of a

beautiful pink-rose armchair; her stockings were dried,

shrivelled like tobacco-leaves over the radiator. Quickly,

ignoring the shadowy talons of the trees, she dressed herself,

alternately standing and perching on the tail end of the bed.

Zipping her boots and straightening her skirt, she paused

to brush a few rebel tangles from her hair, then headed for the door. As she turned the handle, she silently promised herself

she would not jump a mile if she saw Perriman lurking at the

foot of the stairs.

The house seemed deserted and it fenced her in with blackness

just as it had in her nightmare. There were no tremors or other signs of subsidence, however, and Liz felt more like her

normal self as she set off along the landing, hand gliding over the balcony rail, and crept lightly down the stairs.

Idly, she pored over the fixed expressions of the portraits

as she descended; she wondered what alien powers enabled

the Doctor to sleep so soundly in this ominous abode or if he

was lying awake in one of his brown trances.

She reached the hall without producing a single creak from

the boards and could almost feel disappointed.

The kitchen door lay open, nestled behind the stairwell,

and it invited her immediately in; she was eager to replace all the moisture lost through perspiration. For a moment, her

fingers fumbled at the light switch, but the kitchen was

showered in gratefully steady illumination.

In a ghost house, she theorised, the power would certainly have been out.

Shortly, she had fetched herself a glass of milk from a

battered carton in the refrigerator; clearly the Lady Melisandra did not always stand on ceremony.

The kitchen fittings were singularly boring to Liz and the

room was a cold, insensitive place. She wandered out to the

hall, shutting the light off behind her, sipping at her milk. She stopped at the foot of the stairs, poking her tongue at her

perfect front teeth, considering her destination.

Library, she concluded breezily. Got to have a library.

Liz swept her gaze around the hallway, playing eenie-

meanie over the various doors; the lounge and dining room

held no mysteries for her, but there were another three that

Perriman had neglected to show them. Finally settled on the

forward most door, to her left, she approached and tried the

handle; it turned noiselessly.

As well-oiled as our butler, she mused, not bothering to suppress her smirk. The door swung inwards and she

followed, marching into –

The library.

The room could not have been much else. The books lined

two walls with their caredfor spines, with only a handful of

dust-jackets dangling loose threads over the lip of a shelf;

letters and titles leaped out in shimmers of gold or silver. A

third wall housed a window overlooking the front courtyard,

presently curtained, and the fourth was entirely shielded by a

curtain of dark material, suspended on a brass track.

This, Liz decided, was more like it.

She clicked the door closed and tripped the light switch;

the shaded bulb came on, yellowing the wood and the leather

of the bound volumes. Liz gaped around at the collected

works, marvelling at the filigree and the sheer numbers of

foreign literary examples.

She moved softly over to the small bureau and deposited

her glass on the surface, thoughtfully running a finger around

its underside to check for clinging liquid; the glass gave a

satisfying clunk on the desk. She brushed hands from her

waist to her skirt, folded her arms; she was stumped over

where to begin. She would be keen to uncover some rare

scientific reference – even a Time Lord thesis; the Doctor had

hypothesised about this Melisandra possessing a TARDIS.

(Doubtless, he would be after her for components to get his

own contraption back together; she hoped he didn’t leave

UNIT before she did.)

The curtained wall. No secret passage; it backs onto

another room, surely. Ah! Liz was suddenly proud of her powers of detection and she stepped smartly up to the right

side of the curtain, where a gilded chord hung in full sight of the rest of the room. She expected to find the door of a police box or some other outrageous disguise as she reeled in the

length of chord, sweeping the curtain aside.

What she found threatened to cast her irretrievably back

into the realm of nightmares.

‘Fascinating!’ agreed the Doctor, his breath stolen by the

spectacle of Liz’s discovery. His companion stood nearby,

calmly sipping more of her milk, still enthralled by the vision, but waiting patiently for the Doctor’s conclusions.

Before them, suspended over the plain expanse of wall, a

magnificent tapestry offered more than decoration. Everything

around it was dimmed in the glow of its beauty; the woven

illustration was impossibly elegant and it shone like a star in a crowd of nobodies. A classical battlescape, it was threaded

with endless colours, sparkling like gems and precious metals

even in close-up. Stitches were composed of hundreds of

smaller strands, receding ever deeper into an eternity of

decreasing size and expanding intricacy. It was a work that

demonstrated perfection, wrapping mere spectators in an aura of its dazzling craftsmanship.

The scene’s focal point was a woman, gloriously beautiful

and clad in blue and cream uniform, bedecked with insignia or

decorations; her face held the strength of an ocean, but she

was ultimately vulnerable, wedged between the combatants.

On the left there stood a Goddess; she was a woman of such

divine countenance that her true charisma shone out from the

tapestry; her hair was the gold of a solar flare and she wore

moon-bright armour, embellished with the haunting relief of a

Medusa’s head. In her right hand, she lofted an aureate sceptre as a weapon; behind her an armoured host of perfect humans

ranged beyond the dark horizon. To the right was a monstrous

Beast; he was a coal-furred Warrior, tall as the Goddess, with

flamed eyes and massive wolverine head. His armour was

jagged, completely asymmetrical, adorned with cruel symbols

and a small arsenal of weaponry; there was a battle-axe slung

from his waist, a short sword tucked into a jewelled scabbard,

an energy rifle slung over his mighty shoulder and a needled

mace clutched in a slashing prehensile tail. Milling behind him were a slavering pack of smaller warriors of his kind,

hungering for the flesh of all those too-perfect humans, while

their leader clashed his serrated broadsword with the staff of

the Goddess. The impact of weapon on weapon sparked

lightning-streaks which shattered the clouded sky and

resonated an explosion that still echoed from the embroidered

illustration.

‘Fascinating,’ repeated the Doctor, more subdued.

Liz prodded him. ‘I know that.’

‘Sorry, Liz – archaeology’s not one of your fortes, is it?’

The Doctor closed on the work of art and poked his nose up

against the cloth, picking at the thread with his fingernail; it was much too fine to allow him a purchase. He arrested the

inspection, before Liz unfairly accused him of being a vandal.

‘Never neglect the Arts, Liz.’

‘Well, it’s not a Monet...’ she brooded, stroking her chin.

The Doctor grinned; he found Liz’s sarcasm richly

stimulating. ‘Yes, well, the artist has forgotten to add his or her moniker, but it’s the subject matter – as well as the

microscopic detail – that really interests me. What do you

think?’

Liz studied the picture, shook at the sight of the Beast; she

helped another mouthful of milk down her throat. ‘Two sides

of a person,’ she conjectured. ‘The woman has a similarly

classical beauty to the Goddess, so maybe the artist is

suggesting the age-old conflict – Good versus Evil. Drawn at

half-time.’

The Doctor shook his professorial head and tapped a

finger on the breast-plate of the Goddess. ‘Athena, Liz.

Athena, from the old Greek mythology; sprouted from the

head of Zeus; the Goddess of Wisdom in Warfare, among a

number of other minor patronages.’ His hand came across his

chest to point at the fearsome Wolf-Beast. ‘And a Kagyrn

Chieftain; a conquest-hungry creature from my own world’s

mythology. They breathed fire, drank blood and converted

energy to their own strength. Earth’s folk-lore fighting

Gallifrey’s legends.’

Liz was suddenly grave; she rested her glass gently on the

bureau, where a wet ring was now forming. ‘I didn’t know

your people had a mythology – I thought they were too

advanced.’

‘Huh!’ the Doctor grunted at the ceiling, then tapped the

side of his nose and winked at Liz. ‘One of their most popular

myths is their superior position in the galaxy’s hierarchy.’ He chuckled quietly. ‘No, none of our civilizations are too old for myths or fairy-tales. The trouble is, too often, they have a

tendency to come true, one way or another.’

‘Terrific,’ moaned Liz, and her eyes fell on the Dantean

figure of the Chieftain. The fiery beams of its eyes burned into her retina and she turned away to examine the bookshelves.

Chapter Two

The Doctor

‘How’s that song go? Wherever I steal a hat, that’s my home.’

The Doctor to Liz Shaw, shortly after exile on Earth.

Breakfast was as dull as the thin wisps of morning light that

seeped through the lace curtains covering the dining hall’s

windows; Perriman limited conversation to a few inquiries

over the sufficiency of the toast and marmalade supply, and

whether or not a refill of the pot would be required. The

Doctor declined on both counts, but Liz countermanded the

order, feeling the urge to improve her health after her shaky

and largely sleepless night. The Doctor seemed unduly

agitated and decidedly restless.

‘What is it, Doctor?’ asked Liz, chiming her cup on its

bone china saucer.

‘The TARDIS, Liz; you know about my homing instinct

with her –’ He halted, unable to find an explanation. He built a house with his fingers and began massaging one slope of roof

against the other.

‘Don’t I just! You gave the Brigadier a right run-around

when you first showed up.’

The Doctor was instantly cheered at the recollection,

savouring his old friend’s mounting frustration at dealing with the traumatic process of regeneration; it had been no less a

trial for himself at the time, of course. ‘That’s right – I have a telepathic link with her; she’s almost human – poor thing.

Works even when I’m not a hundred percent; such a

dependable old girl.’

‘And when her insides have been thrown around on

rubbish tips?’ Liz conjectured, reminding the Doctor of more

recent disasters. ‘Surely, if you just fitted her console back...’

‘No, Liz,’ the Doctor was both adamant and down-

trodden, ‘she should still be there, you know.’ His finger

danced on his temple and he folded his arms before him,

sliding forward, head down, over the breakfast table. The

Doctor had crossed into the Doldrums.

Liz felt a pang of sympathy, but could do no more than pat

his arm. ‘Doctor, why don’t you call the Brigadier – check up

on her.’ She giggled. ‘Make sure she hasn’t latched onto some

other handsome Time Lord in your absence.’

Even the Doctor could not maintain his sombre depression

under the force of Liz’s irrepressible humour, and he rose

from the table feigning admonishment. ‘I might just do that;

there’s a phone in the lounge.’

‘Be careful with the truth,’ Liz warned him. ‘I mean he’s

not going to think much of your swanning off to Somerset,

particularly when he wanted to pack us off to Budapest.’

‘I keep telling you, Liz, the Hungarians can sort their own

problems –’ The Doctor was at the door before he turned,

grasping the door handle as his other hand shot to his brow.

‘Seven Chieftains! Of course!’

He made a split-second decision. ‘I’ll tell him to have our

tickets ready the moment we get back.’

The Doctor disappeared from the dining room, leaving Liz

to search for explanations in the dregs of her tea. She

considered requesting more, but the thought of Perriman’s

overbearing silence chilled her thirst into non-existence; she

was happier with him in the kitchen. Instead, she stood and

walked to the window, pulling aside the lace for a clearer view out from the rear of the house.

Beyond the wall of the garden, the hills rolled away and

climbed again towards the horizon, where the sprawling

woods were lashed by wind-blown drizzle. Even in the

daylight, the trees cast an air of gloom and despondency over

the land, rather than the natural refreshment she might have

expected.

Her eyes narrowed and her mouth dropped fractionally

open.

Behind her, the Doctor stormed in and sat at the breakfast

table with a huff of fury. ‘Phone lines are all down – we’re cut off, would you believe!’

Liz’s reply jammed under her tongue. ‘Ye – yes, I –’

There was a pause, until the Doctor came up behind her,

leaned in past her to follow her entranced gaze over the ivy-

laden garden wall. He was momentarily stilled.

‘Well, well, well. I’d never known how right I could be.’

He slid a consoling hand onto Liz’s shoulder and gently

caressed her, before continuing. ‘We really are cut off,’ he

confessed.

The curl of road that had brought them here was replaced

by a pitted track of mud and stone, winding away into the

woods, which had grown to encompass much of the hilly

terrain behind and around the manor. Too many of the hedged

fields had become open grassland and the horizon was

wonderfully and terribly free of pylons or telegraph poles.

From their vantage point, Liz and the Doctor could only

imagine what might have happened to the nearby town, where

the sun was slowly setting.

‘It appears you’re a time traveller at last, Liz,’ soothed the

Doctor kindly.

The waters ran blacker than ever as they washed beneath the

low bridge of stone and earth and Huba spurred his stallion

across with an unusually vicious kick of his heels; sufficient, he hoped, to counter the animal’s understandable sense of

trepidation. The Magyar himself viewed the dark palisade

ahead with a distinct pride that added gravity to his already

solid features. He had ordered his hundred-strong escort to

wait near the bridge; they were hardly a necessity within the

fortress. His mount’s hooves chopped eagerly along the path

to the wall and the gate was swung back to admit the single

rider.

Huba dismounted expertly and left his horse in the charge

of an attendant slave, scarcely acknowledging the man’s

humble courtesies. He powered himself briskly between the

tents of animal hides to the stone hut, his cloak sweeping a

broad trail in the dirt, encouraging the guards to stand aside.

He removed his spiked helmet and marched inside the

torch-lit hall, favouring the six occupants with a curt bow

before he had properly seen them.

A pause was required to take in the majestic figure, king

among kings, seated in the shadows, beyond the blazing pyre

in the centre of the room. He was an imperious, powerful man,

with chin and brow like rugged cliffs, surrounded by a regal

beard and extensive tufts of hair. A granite ridge of nose

separated two shimmering eyes of slate. Here was the binding

force that cemented and governed their Magyar alliance. Here

was Árpád.

The other faces, bathed in a flickering glow from the fire

at Árpád’s feet, regarded Huba with interest and an entirely

cordial amusement. There were five of them: a sign of their

Kavar allies’ exclusion from whatever portentous affair lay at

the root of Árpád’s summons. Authority and leadership

radiated from each man, and Huba acknowledged their respect

with the mild deference of an old friend.

‘My lords,’ he apologized casually, ‘I came on my fastest

horse, the moment my tasks would allow. They were

difficulties unsuited to delegation.’

Árpád laughed, his voice fanning the flames before him.

‘Ah, Huba, if Death himself came upon you, he would find

you too busy to grant him an audience!’

‘Now, there is a matter I could happily entrust to a

deputy,’ smiled Huba grandly. The seven men roared in

unison.

Árpád stayed their mirth with a raised hand and lifted his

sturdy frame easily from the simple wooden throne. ‘We meet

here this night to reaffirm our pact, sealed on the Steppes, long before we were called to pluck the Moravian thorn from

Arnulf’s paw.’

He moved purposefully around the fire, studying the

nodding heads of his six allies. He peeled the gauntlet from his right hand, drew a dagger from his belt. Solemnly, the others

followed his example.

‘We were promised conquest. We were shown the way.

Moravians or no, that is why we came. Here in these fertile

lands, we have found our destiny. This soil has been enriched

by the blood of millions, and under us it will grow richer still.’

Balling his bare fist around the dagger’s blade, he shifted

his great arm over the crackling fire and jerked the knife free of his iron grip. A trickle of red spilled after the blade and

splashed, hissing, onto the flames. To Huba, it seemed the fire burned a deeper red.

‘Our guardian-spirits come,’ asserted Árpád. ‘Seven for

Seven. To serve and to lead, to lead and to serve. From this

night, we have no equal on Earth.’

One by one, the six allies approached and slit their palms

over the pyre. Huba was the last to complete the ritual.

At Árpád’s signal, they gathered in a circle and seven

clenched fists met over the centre of the climbing flames.

For an uncertain silence, Huba felt only the heat licking at

the hairs on his outstretched arm. He was intoxicated, viewing

his own masterful face in the black mirrors of his comrades’

eyes. He trained his swimming mind on the stickiness of the

blood, congealing in his fist.

Gradually, he became aware of a second circle of eyes,

shining and red, on the heads of silhouettes, standing

ominously behind his fellow chieftains. There was a definite

presence behind him, steamy breath wafting through the dense

curtain of hair that guarded the base of his neck. Árpád’s eyes were agleam and Huba realized that no shadow haunted his

shoulder.

‘Your guardian does not appear, Lord Árpád?’ He fought

the words out, battling against the dry croak in his throat. He was a novice in the art of fear.

But Árpád grinned exultantly and spread his arms. ‘He is

here, Huba! He is here!’

Huba and the other chieftains stole a wary step backwards

to drink in the incredible sight. The fire leaped higher,

moulded by an unseen hand, sculpted into the livid, pulsing

image of a wolf’s head.

‘Have we lost it, yet?’

The question came as a demand, and Ludvika cared little

for Borisa’s tone; he may have been a friend, but he was still a subordinate. It was yet another sign of the decay that had taken hold of their company ever since the Magyars had stolen their

lands. They had lost their homes, their families; then they had lost fighting men by the score. Now they were losing the

bonds of discipline and even friendship, which were the last

vestiges of their pathetic strength.

Ludvika was too tired to argue, though, and he scanned the

forest behind them, where several of the trees burned like

torches against the curtain of night. Torn and charred corpses

lay at the base of many of those trunks: some twenty of his

own men between him and their frantically abandoned camp.

The horror had strayed upon a ripe hunting ground when it had

entered those vast woods. There was a yellow-white flash as

he watched, and another conifer burst into flames near the

forest’s edge.

‘There is your answer, Borisa!’ he pointed with his sword,

fully aware that the man had witnessed it as well as him.

Something snapped inside, and he roared at the handful of

stars in the sky. ‘The heavens have eyes, and it is a poor hound that will lose a scent as sharp as ours! Our fear carries on the air for miles!’

‘Ludvika, no!’ pleaded the younger man, his eyes darting

from his commander to the four others. Reading the crumbling

spirits in every grime-coated face, he struggled to find any

flimsy hope to hold them fast and firm.

‘There is still the river,’ he reminded his leader, insisting

with enough volume for the rest of his small audience.

‘Yes, the river, Borisa,’ Ludvika recovered his failing

thoughts, ‘I know.’ The hill ahead was a shallow climb and,

beyond its crest, it plunged steeply down to meet the bank of

the broad river. They would need to ditch much of their

armour if they were to cross without drowning, but Ludvika

knew there were a few settlements that could offer them

shelter for a time. After that, they were finished as a fighting party, but at least they could cling to life.

He started up the incline at a trot. ‘Come,’ he ordered. ‘I

only pray the Devil cannot cross water.’

Liz followed the Doctor out into the hallway, where she found

him furiously rattling the handle of the front door. As she

came up beside him, he gave it a last concerted wrench, but

the door remained stubbornly closed.

‘It almost seems magnetically sealed,’ muttered the

Doctor, sizing up his inanimate opposition.

‘You mean, now the house has transported us back to the

Nth century, it’s not going to let us out to have a look?’ Liz was conscious of her sense of relief at remaining within the

safe confines of the building; her modest knowledge of history

generally painted it as a singularly unpleasant place.

The Doctor scratched his head and stroked his chin in

quick succession. ‘Yes, I’m afraid it does undermine the point

of the whole exercise, rather.’

‘If you ask me,’ advised Liz weightily, leaning closer, ‘the

butler did it.’

‘Well, we certainly won’t lose anything by asking, will

we? Come on.’

The Doctor led her to the kitchen, easing the door gently

open, but their quarry had deserted the room. The sink held the plates and cutlery already cleared from the breakfast table,

while all else was stacked neatly in place, the refrigerator and worktops wet and shining from the attentions of a damp cloth.

The Doctor swapped a curious glance with his friend. A

moment later, he was at the other door, testing whether the

manservant had escaped via the back of the house. That, too,

refused to give way to the Doctor’s coercing hand.

Liz allowed herself to be privately scared; she never had

liked Perriman. ‘Why would he lock us in?’

‘You know, I don’t believe he has.’ The Doctor bunched

his fists in against his waist, his brow furrowing. ‘You heard

that front door yesterday, same as I did. Rather a solid affair, wouldn’t you say? Announces arrivals and departures with

equal resonance.’

‘You’re right. And the kitchen door is even closer to the

dining room. We would have heard something.’

Without a word, the Doctor strode past her back to the

hall, and, though she hesitated only a moment before

following, she saw his shoes hastily disappearing up the stairs.

‘You check down there!’ his brief instruction floated down

from the landing.

Liz hovered at the foot of the stairs, resting one hand on

the banister. She pursed her lips and surveyed the choice of

doors as she had done during the night. Finally, she headed for the lounge, taking care to open and close the door as quietly as possible, in her own reconstruction of Perriman’s mysteriously

covert movements. She concluded that any of the internal

doors could be used without alerting anyone in the house, but

nevertheless found the room devoid of life.

The remaining rooms on the ground floor were similarly

still and empty. An exhaustive search of the library revealed

no secret passages or priest-holes, and Liz returned to the hall in dismay.

Her keen eye caught the pencil-line crack in the flank of

the stairwell.

She peered expectantly up at the landing, but the Doctor

was nowhere in sight and the sudden scrape of moving

furniture informed her that he was still engaged in his search.

She murmured her lack of enthusiasm for her own benefit:

‘Looks like I get to check the dark cellar, then.’

She approached with sensible caution, but was not going

to be seen creeping towards the door. Her eyes swept around

the outline of the entrance and she was surprised to find no

handle, knob or button. She pushed experimentally at the

surface of the panel, half-expecting it to snap permanently shut and remain hidden forever.

It sprang open at her touch, unveiling a cramped room in a

chilling semi-darkness. The hazy light shone up from a square

trap cut in the cupboard floor and the twin poles of a ladder

could be seen, poking up from below.

‘Doctor!’ she called, with all the confidence she could

muster.

This had evidently been Perriman’s escape route, but there

was absolutely no sense in her pursuing him alone.

Together, they ran, puffing the heat from their lungs and

twisting their heads around frequently to view the receding

border of trees. For his part, Ludvika could discern a flitting shape like a pall of black smoke, raging amidst the fires; but

he kept his silence while he maintained his speed. The others

seemed wearier and gratefully oblivious of that demonic

hunter’s continued pursuit.

Borisa’s fist slammed into his leather-clad chest and the

six men came to a halt with their leader.

‘What in God’s name can it be?’ pressed the young

soldier; again, a demand.

Ludvika only stared ahead at the building that had leaped

up from the previously barren ridge of their hill. It was a

house, taller and prouder than any he had seen, with a first

floor protruding precariously over the ground at its front. He

distrusted its peculiar lines and its foreign materials; he

trembled under his armour at the impossibility of its sudden

existence. It had to be some apparition of his own madness.

The hopeful, begging faces of his men dragged him to a

resolution. ‘Sanctuary. It is a keep,’ he told them, his fingers seeking the cross which dangled impotently from his neck.

‘We can defend ourselves from within those strange walls.’

They advanced on the house with renewed energy,

Ludvika unconvinced that this was a genuine chance and not

simply some phantasmal taunt.

The Doctor descended ahead of Liz, feeling the way down the

ladder with his feet, then letting himself drop the last couple of rungs. Liz heard him land with a reassuring thud, then there

was a pause.

‘Alright, you can come down now, Liz.’

At the Doctor’s signal, Liz manoeuvred herself over the

trap and, gripping both struts of the ladder, slipped her left

foot carefully down until her sole met the first rung. Happy

with the steadiness of the ladder, she climbed the rest of the

way down, contemplating that faint note of uncertainty

apparent in the Doctor’s voice. By the time her boots touched

the floor, she had her answer to that one mystery at least.

They were standing on a carpet of soft blue, surrounded by

walls of white plaster. There were polished timber doors along

both sides and at either end of the corridor, while paintings

filled the spaces between. A silver mirror hung at what Liz

judged to be the midpoint of the corridor and a break in the

wall faced it, where a stairwell descended to unseen lower

levels. Electric bulbs glowed warmly from their ornamental

mounts. Above her, the ladder jutted into the shadowy opening

of the trap-door, with all the enigma of a conventional attic.

‘I don’t understand. It looks like we’re on a landing.’

‘My thoughts exactly,’ the Doctor agreed as he sauntered

along to examine the mirror and the stairs. He returned to

address Liz, sparing thought for a passing inspection of the

landscapes. ‘We’re in a completely different house. Probably

not in England, either.’

Liz allowed her mouth to drop open. ‘Are you mad,

Doctor?’ She was hissing, desperately struggling to grasp the

situation. ‘I don’t think I can take much more of this – not on top of the time travel! Not without some sort of – scientific explanation. I can’t accept that it’s just happened.’

She sensed a nervous tremor beginning in her lip and

barely arrested it. She saw that the Doctor had reached the

head of the stairs again, to stare immeasurably into their

hidden depths.

‘Doctor,’ ventured Liz, acutely aware she was probably

interrupting some vital reverie, ‘how are we ever going to get

home?’ She hesitated when the Doctor regarded her

quizzically. ‘You know what I mean. What you’ve told me so far – it just isn’t enough!’

The Doctor took two seconds to recover from the gentle

assault, recognizing it as an urgent plea for help. ‘Liz!’ he

answered with some force. ‘I’ve gone as far as I can. Besides –

’ he broke off, conscious of some whisper of motion on the

floor below. Satisfied there was no immediate danger, he

returned his attention to Liz. She was exactly the same girl

who had assisted him against various threats to humanity, both

alien and domestic; but, here, her own rationality was being

severely tasked and the Doctor had to admit that, in many

ways, her more highly-trained intellect would need more

guidance from him, rather than less. He hastily sought the

words he wanted.

‘You see, of all the people I could teach, you’re probably

the best placed to understand, Liz. And I wish I could tell you more, I really do. But, to be perfectly honest, this is something outside even my experience.’

‘My trouble is, I can accept it, but then I forget. I start asking questions all over again, doubting, then I realize it’s

something I’ll never understand.’ She felt thoroughly dejected, separated from the crazy world in which she was hopelessly

adrift. She tugged at a tooth with her thumbnail. ‘You don’t

know a cure do you, Doctor?’

As she spoke, she watched the Doctor in contemplative

mood, studying her and apparently at a loss to help. She knew

he really wanted to be off, finding a way out of this new

house, asking questions, panning the local river of gossip for

some worthwhile nugget. It occurred to her then, as it

occasionally did, how easily she always forgot that her

companion was a Time Lord. Anatomically, she knew, he was

an alien and his brilliant mind blazed with the light of another sun. Yet, here she was, cast back over an uncertain number of

centuries into her past, feeling more totally lost than she had believed possible; and it was in this enigmatic, mysterious

traveller that she sought her mental anchor. Somehow, he was

the stability she needed right now, greeting history and the

unknown with the calm assurance of the man who’d written

many of the important scenes. Somehow, to her, he was very

human.

He laughed gently. ‘None at all, Liz. And you wouldn’t

want the medicine, anyway. That’s your strength. One of

many. You question, you want to know why all the time. It’s

why you’ll have more trouble than most with this, but it’s also the reason I’m particularly fond of you. So keep asking

questions, alright?’

‘Oh, you needn’t worry on that score,’ sighed Liz, the

Doctor’s words gradually lifting the weight from her

shoulders. ‘Remember, I’m not the veteran time traveller you

are.’

The Doctor, too, seemed cheered at the return of his

friend’s resilience. ‘Yes, well, what we have here is something more than a TARDIS. Something much less, in many ways.’

‘I take it you mean more than simple aesthetics?’

‘You’re not wrong,’ he admitted. ‘Believe me, I’d really

rather be conducting your first tour myself. It’s really not very comforting to be arbitrarily hurled about the timelines with no sense of control.’ He grunted softly, sharing some inner joke.

‘See, Liz, that house in Somerset seems to slide back and forth along linear Time, like a curtain-ring on a length of wire. It

passes through exactly the same points in either direction.’

‘And the TARDIS couldn’t do that?’ asked Liz,

deliberately lowering her voice a notch for added emphasis.

‘Certainly not, no,’ the Doctor affirmed. ‘No, the TARDIS

would always meet itself coming back.’ Liz’s face was like the

proverbial clean slate and the Doctor struggled for some

sensible addition. ‘Um, figuratively speaking.’

‘Right. Well, assuming I can handle that concept,’ said

Liz, spreading her fingers to regard her nails, ‘what about the change of interior?’

‘Oh, I should imagine a number of curtain-rings on a

number of wires, all linked together in some way,’ answered

the Doctor, evidently pleased with the tidiness of this

rationale. A quick study of Liz’s face informed him how little

she had been impressed, so he switched tactics and favoured

her with a pat on the hand.

‘I’ll get us back, I promise.’

Somehow, that was all Liz had wanted. But gratitude was

brusquely detained as the Doctor clamped a hand across her

mouth and lifted a finger to his lips. A nod of his head told her to expect trouble from downstairs.

The door opened inward without any objection, and Ludvika

sidled into the hall, his features brimming with suspicion. The covering on the floor and the smooth paint on the walls

seemed to conceal intangible threats. Unearthly flames,

suspended from above and mounted on the walls, trapped in

small globes, pained the eyes and provided no comfort. The

pictures, watching from the walls, were too real to be

decorative. Once they had his attention, he fought hard to peel it away.

In a humbled voice he beckoned his men, ‘Quickly!

Inside!’

Borisa, then the others, filed hurriedly past their leader,

spreading out into the capacious hall. Their sweeping, awed

expressions were those of men who had unwittingly defiled

hallowed ground. Borisa fired an accusatory glare at his

superior.

‘Into what have you brought us, now?’ The whisper hid

none of his anger.

Ludvika seethed, then whirled to thrust his blade across

Borisa’s palpitating throat; his left hand snatched a fistful of the man’s leather armour and pulled him close.

‘Safety, I tell you!’ Ludvika drove his message in with the

authority of a cornered snake. ‘This is all I have left to give you, and if these walls appear strange, then it is because they were built to withstand the Beast!’

Borisa grit his teeth, but his chin still quivered. ‘How do

you know it is not the Devil’s own house, Ludvika? Tell me!

Tell us!’

Ludvika’s body was a whip, coiled in the clammy hand

that clutched his heart. He felt the sword, willing its way

through his old friend’s neck; the tiniest release would send

that head bouncing over this alien hall. Ludvika bit deep into

his own tongue and waited for the pressure to ease. His sigh

brought tears to Borisa’s eyes and he let the man go with a

single word.

‘Faith!’

The other men nodded, but Ludvika could see their empty

hearts. He turned away and jammed the door shut more noisily

than he should. He hoped the sound would reinforce his

flagging command.

They were here to stay, one way or another.

‘Stay here!’ repeated the Doctor, before he sailed swiftly down the stairs and disappeared around the corner.

His shoes struck each step with the softest of thumps and

Liz tried to mimic his stealth as she went after him; on matters of stubbornness, she could match the Scientific Adviser any

day of the week – regardless of the century. She caught up

with him on the next landing and found him pressed against

one wall, listening attentively for noises filtering up from the hall below.

‘It’s nice to see none of UNIT’s military discipline has got

to you yet,’ the Doctor observed quietly, without moving his

head. He nudged himself an extra inch past the screening wall,

straining to see whatever lay below. With only the Doctor’s

shoulders in front of her, Liz could contain her curiosity no

more.

‘Well, who is it? Perriman?’ she inquired softly.

‘No, I don’t think so. Several mystery guests, I’d say,’ the

Doctor surmised. ‘They’re shifting about, talking. Dressed

more heavily than our friendly butler.’

‘Well, that settles it,’ Liz stifled a laugh. ‘You wouldn’t

hear that man if he was wearing clogs.’

The Doctor straightened and brushed hands down his

velvet jacket. ‘One thing’s certain, we can’t skulk around here all day.’

He stepped out and marched boldly down the stairs,

catching Liz momentarily offguard. Throwing caution to the

same wind, she rounded the same corner and found herself

descending towards a hallway, brighter and more welcoming

than that of Fernhill Manor, but currently occupied by a

ragged group of leather-clad soldiers. Their features were

heavy and strong, their hair matted like burnt straw; they

appeared preoccupied with their surroundings or some private

quarrel. She came abruptly to a halt behind the Doctor,

wishing herself into one of the more placid landscapes to her

right.

‘How d’ you do?’ chirped the Doctor in his most

disarming fashion.

Six hostile faces zeroed in on them. Liz swallowed on a

cold lump in her throat.

The Doctor beamed and waved an arm. ‘I’m the Doctor

and this is –’

But the soldiers heard no more and terror broke into

hatred. Two dived forward, longswords circling over their

grizzled faces; the Doctor chose to duck right, flying from the stairs and leaving his left foot deliberately trailing. Liz

watched with mounting anxiety.

The right-hand assailant was the first to fall; he had

followed the Doctor’s motion, but was ignorant of the

extended limb and went barrelling over it to meet a faceful of

carpet. Meanwhile, the Doctor had grabbed the other man’s

weapon arm and swung it down at his side, tugging the body

after it; the man went into a forced somersault and landed

hard, his spine slamming into the wall.

A third fighter charged forward.

At the last moment, the Doctor cannoned into him side-on,

wedging his right shoulder under the man’s waist; the

Doctor’s left arm shot up around his back and clutched at the

man’s outstretched hand, flipping him over neatly onto the

fellow he had tripped, who was only now staggering to his

feet. Both formed an unruly heap, while the Doctor adjusted

his stance in readiness for further conflict. Liz chuckled.

Then a fourth man gripped her wrist from over the

handrail; he had run up to the left of the stairwell and launched himself at the banister. Liz gagged on a scream and sent one of her feet smartly between the broadly spaced balusters, driving

her toes far into his stomach wall. His grip slackened and he

tumbled backwards with an agonized grunt.

As the men stirred and hoisted themselves into action, the

Doctor held a staying hand towards the bearded swordsman

who hesitated by the main door. He held his blade lamely and

regarded the mess of his felled troops in utter disbelief.

‘Now, wait just a minute!’ commanded the Doctor

emphatically. ‘I really can’t say I care for these hasty

introductions, and I’m sure your men would prefer a chance to

get their breath back.’

The silence stretched into awkwardness. All the men were

looking to their leader.

Finally, he waved off the soldiers, starving them of their

planned revenges. ‘Say your piece, stranger.’

‘Thank you.’ The Doctor abandoned the defensive posture

and attended once more to his ruffled attire. He surveyed the

wary assembly.

‘I have no desire to harm any of you,’ he informed them

casually, then adopted a qualifying cautionary tone, ‘but I’ll

gladly fight all six of you should you attempt to harm myself

or my assistant, here. Understood?’

‘You’ll also have me to contend with,’ added Liz with a

conviction to ward off Goliath.

Eyes frozen over, the bearded commander sank to his

knees and buried his chin near to his armoured chest. The

younger man, who had led the brief attack, copied the motion,

but his leader’s dignity was nowhere in evidence. Falteringly,

the four others completed the tableau.

The Doctor was annoyed. ‘Come on, get up, all of you! I

don’t want your obedience. Come on, man!’ He clasped the

leader’s arm and urged him forcefully to his feet. ‘You’re

supposed to be fighting-men, aren’t you?’

‘We were farmers!’ spat the man contemptuously. ‘I am

Ludvika – the Farmer! That dog Árpád stole our lands and our homes, and so we fought. Now, you and that Beast rob us of our courage, what are we to do?’ He practically screamed into

the Doctor’s face. ‘What are we to do?!’

‘Snap out of it, man!’ The Doctor’s voice exploded,

shaking Ludvika back to cruel reality.

Liz moved off the steps to address one of the soldiers,

granting Ludvika a chance to compose himself. ‘What’s this

Beast he’s talking about?’

‘A wolf!’ cried the more impulsive fighter, his thin face

paling at the memory.

‘Borisa!’ Ludvika tried to cut him off, but his comrade

would not be censored.

‘A wolf that walks like a man,’ simpered Borisa, trying to

taunt Liz like a teller of ghost stories intimidated by his own creations. ‘When he runs at you, though, you can see he truly

wants to be an animal. He stoops forward, prowling, his great

arms pawing at the ground. There’s blood boiling in his eyes

and fire shooting from his lance.’ Liz retreated from his

advancing leer. ‘Would you like to feel that foul breath on

your neck? Would you care to see it burn your friend? Or pin

your brother to a tree with its sword? Unh? ’

Suddenly, he lunged at Liz, fingers clamping around her

biceps. ‘I say we feed her to the Beast! This shameless harlot

for our lives!’

‘ I beg your pardon, ’ his captive demanded, her pupils

blazing.

The Doctor faced Borisa and spoke powerfully and evenly.

‘Let her go, this instant. Let her go and I won’t hurt any of

you.’

‘Do as he says!’ roared Ludvika, his head fit to burst. ‘Do

as he says, now, or I will slay you myself! Do you think this

morsel will stave off that demon’s hunger? Never! It finished

twenty of our number and comes even now to this keep! We

will live our last hours as Christians, Borisa, or we shall die now and leave the Beast hunt elsewhere!

‘ Let the girl go! ’

As Ludvika hammered home his order, sword in both

hands, the Doctor edged forward, palm stretched out towards

the wild-eyed Borisa. Liz was tensed and preparing to spring

free; the Doctor’s subtle shake of the head told her to remain

absolutely still, while the reflective flash of her captor’s blade underlined the advice perfectly. Shored by their leader’s firm

words, two soldiers moved slowly in to outflank their

comrade.

His spirit drained, Borisa shoved Liz away, into the

Doctor’s arms. She sagged with an honest sense of relief,

while the soldier collapsed, pressing the hilt of his sword into his brow, while his face contorted in tears.

With an ear-shattering crack, the front door was punched

open.

‘Where is it, all this time?’ wondered Huba impatiently,

sieving the forest for any hint of movement, his only reward

the dull orange beacons where trees had once flared into

columns of light. He heard his captain’s horse clump furtively

up on his left.

Bidding farewell to his Magyar brothers, he had departed

from Árpád’s Csepel Island fortress, his demonic guardian

marching some distance ahead of the column, yet sullen and

menacing enough to unsettle all the horses and not a few of the men. They had travelled along the river for some distance,

then arched northwest towards Huba’s encampment, their

route meandering lazily through the crawling woods. The men

were unnaturally silent and they watched that lumbering

vanguard with cagey suspicion. Huba would never find their

loyalty wanting though, and they accepted the creature as

being tethered to the soul of their leader. He had no doubt,

however, that restive murmurs had begun when, midway

through their journey, Huba drew the column to an abrupt

stand. The animal had loped off into the forest, apparently

chasing a scent.

Does Huba truly control his demon, then? they were sure to be asking.

‘To serve and to lead,’ sniffed Huba sceptically. ‘And who

is to do which?’

‘My lord,’ the captain ventured, wavering, ‘I do not care

for this beast either.’

Huba rounded harshly on the soldier. ‘Vecellin, I do not

care to hear of your likes or dislikes. It is a new warrior in our army and it obeys me as you might!’ Satisfied as to the

captain’s acquiescence, Huba returned his watch to the broad

stretch of forest between himself and the hidden river. ‘It is

like our earthly wolves, that is all. Night lends precedence to the hunting instinct.’

‘Yes, lord Huba,’ conceded Vecellin gravely. ‘But what

does it hunt?’

Huba settled in his saddle, fairly convinced of the answer.

Instead, he shrugged and speculated, ‘Oh, some likely sport, I

should say. Come morning, we may find its mood greatly

improved.’

The Doctor herded Liz in a scrambling run up the stairs and

she snatched only a glimpse of the ferocious chaos erupting in

the arena below. An image blurred by motion, it still had the

power to petrify.

One of the fighting-wolves from the tapestry, it careened

into the hall, exploding into fearsome reality. The dripping

jaws, the saw-tooth armour and the cruel weapons in each

thrashing limb; the frames of action assaulted her nerves until the Doctor’s urgent voice fixed her attention on the landing

above. The nightmare of sound continued behind them.

Ludvika, nearest the door, had staggered backwards and

his sword was only halfraised when the creature’s axe bit a

chunk from his side. Another went down to the swipe of a

barbed sword. Two attempted a retreat to the back of the

house, but the beast pounced forward, executing a cat-like

twist in mid-air; they were each pounded in the head by the

mace, gripped by a muscular tail. Borisa chipped his sword-

blade on its breastplate and his last surviving comrade swung

higher, aiming for the monstrous skull. The barbed sword

whistled through the air and severed the descending blade

from its hilt, while the mace smashed Borisa’s ribcage.

The axe chewed into the last man’s flank and he crumpled

like a paper doll.

Then the laser-beam eyes focused on the first-floor

landing, where two more enemies had just disappeared.

‘Doctor, we have to get to the attic!’ begged Liz, but he

locked her wrist in his own hand and yanked her back towards

the door he had chosen. He dragged her unceremoniously

inside, kicking the door closed after them.

‘No time!’ he insisted, and Liz was acutely aware of the

sudden quiet downstairs.

‘Those men – ?’

‘They never stood a chance,’ the Doctor shut her off,

hurriedly shoving a dresser against the door, then panning

around the large room.

There was a capacious bed, silk eiderdown draping to the

floor; a teak wardrobe and a larger dresser, which would have

been admirable barricades given more time; a bedside table

and three bow-legged chairs. Curtains of heavy velvet hung

either side of an impressive bay window.

‘Oriel window,’ remarked the Doctor, cantering over to

peer into the night. ‘Hangs over the porch; not a huge drop.

Come on, Liz.’

Liz hurried to the bed and grabbed handfuls of the

bedcover. The Doctor hefted the bedside table and smashed

out a pane with the flat of its surface, hurling the table aside.

He turned to Liz and relieved her of the cumbersome bunches

of eiderdown.

‘You won’t need that,’ he informed her. ‘You’re going to

lower yourself with both hands, then drop.’

‘Doctor, I am not James Bond.’

They were interrupted by an intense blast of heat from the

doorway. The door and dresser crumbled into cinders and fire

consumed the surrounding woodwork. A black figure was

poised on the landing.

Liz leaped for the window sill, but the Doctor hollered

‘ Jump! ’ and she didn’t wait. She flung herself clumsily at the ground, a beam of white fire eating the window-frame and

melting the glass around where she had stood.

The Doctor steeled himself to face the snarling Kagyrn.

Chapter Three

The Warrior

The howling of the wolves without grew louder and angrier...

...With such allies as these at his command, I could do

nothing.

<<Jonathan Harker’s Journal>>, Dracula, Bram Stoker The Doctor eyed the window, gauging the possibilities of a

headlong dive, but the temperature was enough to produce a

sweat, though he was a good two metres from the main blaze.

In any case, his opponent read the intention and vaulted

promptly over to bar that line of escape.

The Doctor responded by bouncing deftly away across the

bed. He finished with a turn, balancing to dodge any sudden

blow and warily facing that vicious sneer. The Kagyrn

snorted, throwing a sulphurous cloud from its nostrils and

half-open mouth. Slowly, it shouldered the metallic tube of its rifle, examining the Time Lord through lava-flow eyes. Claws

played over the hilts of the sheathed melee weapons; the tail

secured the mace in its proper mounting on the belt. An

audacious lick of the tongue flicked saliva from the roof of its mouth onto the eiderdown.

The Warrior was effectively daring the Doctor to strike. I

am unarmed, it taunted. Fight me. Show me your worth.

The Doctor was genuinely surprised. ‘My dear chap, I

really think you’re not well.’

The Kagyrn Warrior gave a savage roar and lurched

forwards. The Doctor was ready for the direct attack and

rolled athletically to his left, away from the bed. The tail

snaked out after him before his assailant had landed, the

Doctor feeling its solid impact bruise his back. In desperation, he heaved at the handle on the wardrobe door, lifting himself

to his feet and pulling the cabinet away from the wall. With a

lightning side-step, he was out of its path and it toppled

satisfactorily onto the carelessly neglected tail.

The expected yelp of pain failed to materialise and the

Doctor ducked from the room in disappointment. The Kagyrn

gnashed its teeth in fury and angrily tossed the furniture

against the remaining dresser.

Pointedly conscious of the crashing wood, the Doctor

scurried along to the second flight of stairs.

He was gambling on having enough time for a jump from

the second floor and, allowing that Liz had not moved, leading

his companion far from the house while the Warrior rampaged

through the interior. Naturally, that modified his plans for

fulfilling his promise to get them ‘home’, but he was sure it

would be a postponement at most. The Kagyrn would certainly

return to its pack, he judged, by daylight; unfortunately, he

had no way of telling precisely how far off morning might be,

but it could be little more than a few hours. All of these

thoughts flashed through his mind as he charged up the stairs

and dashed past the silver mirror, steering for a room on his

left.

Equally, all of them disintegrated as he opened the door.

Breaking up through the boards, like a submarine through

ice, the black shape of the Kagyrn ripped at the wood and

hauled his savage bulk into the chamber. Splinters fell from

his armour, while more were enmeshed in his fur. Triumphant,

he filled his great paws with axe and sword.

‘Hm, I seem to have the wrong room.’ The Doctor

slammed the door and bit his lip hard, as he headed for his

only available retreat.

The Warrior cracked through the door like an eggshell,

just as the Doctor reached the ladder. If he had chosen the

stairs, he would have had an agitated Kagyrn on top of him.

Reaching with both hands, he leaped up and pulled his body

the rest of the distance through the hatchway. He kicked the

ladder down and batted the hatch shut and sagged against the

wall.

He was in a cupboard under the stairs, in Somerset.

‘Whatever you do, Liz,’ he entreated his friend from afar,

‘don’t wander too far.’

The Kagyrn Warrior sniffed at the hatch with something

approaching disdain. The distinctive scent had gone, as if

borne away by a matter transmitter. He sheathed his weapons

and struck the offending hatch with a fist, but the material was completely unlike the flooring, in spite of its deceptive

appearance. Shooting a warning growl at his vanished enemy,

he turned and retreated along the landing.

At the mirror, his nostrils twitched.

Eagerly, he gazed into its depths and spied precisely the

very object he had scented all the way from the woods. He

reached out and forced his claws past the watery surface, felt

them close about the artefact, then steadily withdrew his arm.

Emerging from the mirror, came the sceptred head of a

golden staff.

He hissed his agony and snatched away his smoking paw,

fur falling from the charred flesh. The pain was soon

forgotten, though, as he bared his fangs at the hated object.

This was a delicious victory.

The sun broke apart in glittering shards on the surface of the

lake. Like a billion other stars, instead of her own familiar one, dancing in the water.

Bailador’s hooves splashed tentatively in the shallows as

his mistress hovered on the shores of indecision. Horse and

rider, as one, sensed something momentous lying in wait out

there for them, in the deeper waters of Espejo de Cielo.

Beyond the mirror.

Like the passing of one moment into the next, it could not

be avoided, would not be denied. It was all that even a goddess could do to postpone it. Sat high on her horse’s back, she

scanned the scene one more time, embracing it all with her

gaze. As though committing it all, sight and sensation, to

memory. Finally, she breathed a sigh that seemed like it might

travel the world and grow into one of the breezes that

whispered their way across Paraiso, kissing the leaves in the

trees and returning, ultimately, to caress the grasses on these same shores. At least then, even if she never returned, she

would leave something of herself here.

Reaching down to pat her stallion’s proud neck, she found

her resolve in the strength and power beneath his black-velvet

hide. Sitting straight, she nudged his flanks with her ankles

and kicked him on, into the lake.

Bailador relaxed into a trot, stirring the sparkling water

into a gentle froth, and she rode him out and out and out until he plunged into a swim and she slid from his saddle, holding

onto his reins. The trust between them was tangible, sure as

the leather between her fingers and the palm of her hand.

Easily, firmly, gently, she coaxed him under and they

descended together into the depths of the lake. Sinking into

inescapable destiny.

Where the lake had wrapped her in tranquillity, and Bailador

had taken to the water like Pegasus taking to the air, the peace in the forest, as they emerged into another world, cast a cloud over Aphrodite’s sylvan temperament.

Undaunted by shadows, she set out on the path in serene

confidence, making herself at home with the night. A riding

cape – of almost a fairy-tale red – shielded her from the cold

and the strangeness of the air. Enjoying the garment’s pleasant rustle over twigs and leaves, she all but floated along, her gaze and fingers brushing the bark of an occasional tree. The chorus of a few owls, heralding her passage, brought a smile to her

lips. Everything perfectly natural. But, gradually, she could

see the shadows shifting from enticing darkness to crowding

gloom, and Aphrodite picked her way more carefully, peering

out from her cavernous hood.

Lights ahead hinted of danger.

Artfully, Aphrodite slipped from Bailador’s saddle and

dodged ahead between the trees, inching forwards and

gathering up her cloak to avoid unfortunate snags. She crept

with infinite patience until she reached a small copse, from the cover of which she had an ample view of the camp. Nearby, a

pair of tethered horses acknowledged her presence by

champing and nodding their black and chestnut heads. She

blew them both a kiss, calming them instantly, before

sneaking her first proper glimpse over the bushes.

A number of campfires were dotted around the broad

clearing, illuminating the scattered shapes of sleeping men.

Horses were tied at various points about the edge of a rough

circle, while men sat in their vicinity, keeping a lazy watch

over the camp. More fires burned in the background, implying

other camps where the forest would allow. Aphrodite casually

estimated a hundred men and took note of their leather and

chain mail armour, covering – for the most part – fine tunics

of silk brocade. Passing them over, she concentrated on the

only two men standing, one of whom was an inexplicable

draw.

‘Believe me, Vecellin, this delay is a greater sore to me

than anyone. But I feel its importance in some way.’ The

speaker balled his features into a frown and raised a gauntleted hand, searching for the proof of his words. It was apparently

beyond his reach – and he gave up. ‘I cannot explain.’

To Aphrodite, the man’s admission seemed improbable.

He behaved and looked as if everything was within his grasp.

That leather voice had the same coarseness as his granular

complexion and a power that spoke just as audibly from his

eyes. The swarthy face, under its black moustache and trailing

hair, shared chilling similarities with that gloved fist.

The other man, Vecellin, broke in quietly and Aphrodite

strained to hear. ‘Lord Huba, you must know of my loyalty.

My life is yours. Yet I do not and never shall trust a fiend such as that.’ He indicated their humble theatre. ‘It has absented

itself and we make camp to attend its leisure. Do you see,

lord? I give you my service freely, but you – you are your own master. Or should be.’

Huba met his officer’s gaze. ‘I bow to Árpád.’

‘As friend and ally,’ Vecellin returned, voicing a truth the

leader clearly knew.

The pause was brief and Huba’s decision appeared to be

quickly made. But Aphrodite could tell a hundred thoughts

had passed in that second behind those eyes. ‘You are right,

Vecellin. I should listen to you more often. Pick four men who

have rested and they will ride with us to search for the stray

member of our pack. He will welcome our interest in his

safety, I think.’

Vecellin laughed. ‘Will you bring the hound to heel, lord?’

Huba moved his fist to his chin, rubbing thoughtfully. ‘I

think not, Vecellin. It has a wild heart and too much will of its own.’

He strode up to the paired horses, making for the black

stallion that had earlier been favoured with an airy kiss.

Aphrodite slunk back into the shadows, concealing her

moonlit face in a quantity of her cloak and realising how

Huba’s last statement could easily have applied to her.

Liz had already decided it was not her day when she had hit

the earth under the bedroom window: the ground proved a

good deal harder than it had first appeared. Winded and

bruised, she had rolled onto her back and lain perfectly still for some moments before guessing that the Doctor was not

immediately able to follow her. In case the creature elected to leap after her, common sense begged action, and Liz chose to

scrabble into hiding at the side of the house. There, she had

waited, a variety of sounds from inside telling her of the

Doctor’s continued survival.

It was against her best instincts to wait too long, but the

Doctor had wanted her safely outside, even at the risk of a

damaged ankle. Therefore, she reasoned, he would not be

pleased to find her wandering directly back into danger,

however much she might wish to help. Instead, she bit her lip,

stealing glances around the corner, and assessed several

hopeless plans in her head. There was no promise in any of

them.

Her spell of luck dropped another notch when she heard

movement from the front door of the house; craning her neck,

she saw the stout figure of the Kagyrn Warrior. It carried

something in a bundle of curtain.

As Liz watched, the head swivelled, sniffing her out.

Liz snapped back in horror, pressing her body deep into

the wall. One side of the lupine face was horribly decayed,

ragged flesh and fur sticking to an oddly phantasmal skull. An

eye still bulged in the skeletal socket and Liz felt pinned by

the memory of its stare. The silence transfixed her; she dared

not look again.

Knees trembling, she geared herself for a run.

Then, the clink of armour reached her ears and she

imagined its grotesque figure shambling down the hillside.

She breathed slowly out, feeding her muscles some slack,

leaning back against the house.

When she was ready, she straightened herself and padded

around to the front of the house, keeping to the shelter of the overhanging first floor. The creature could still be discerned, loping slowly towards the line of trees where thin columns of

white smoke sailed up to the sky. It showed no sign of turning

back.

‘Well we won’t be inviting you back in a hurry,’ Liz told

the departing form in no uncertain terms.

She sighed and faced the house, hoping for a glimpse of

the Doctor at one of the windows. She fought down her

concern and waited a while longer, massaging her arm and

those ribs tenderised by the fall. She called out, ‘Doctor!’

There was no reply. She started anxiously towards the house.

Before she made the door, the entire building vanished.

Urgency tempered by a degree of caution, the Doctor dropped

through the hatch, dispensing with the ladder altogether. He

absorbed the impact with the skill of a gymnast.

The stillness was characteristic of an empty house. ‘I see

the dog has been put out.’

Struck by the full significance of the fact, the Doctor hared

along the landing and pelted down the stairs; Liz had the sense to conceal herself, he was sure, but a Kagyrn warrior was not

easily fooled. Besides, the terrain outside had seemed far too

open, with the trees distant enough to discourage her from

hiding there. He was acutely aware of his inability to protect

his companions all of the time, but Liz’s capable independence

could be as much a liability as an asset. He found some

encouragement in the fact that she had remained outside after

leaping from the window; that much had worked as he’d

intended. Even so, she had no idea of what she was dealing

with, and that invariably spelled trouble.

He launched himself from the lowest of the stairs and

landed near the door, ready to grab the handle. A sharp pull

told him it was locked. A repeated tug was equally futile.

He bent to examine the barrier, running a flat palm over

the wood around the latch. He remembered the Warrior’s

forced entry. ‘Self-repairing.’

Slipping a pen-shaped device from his jacket pocket, the

Doctor thumbed a contact and described an arc over the lock.

The sonic screwdriver whistled shrilly at its impassive target

until the Doctor abandoned that line of approach.

He perched a finger on his upper lip, immersed in thought.

Then his eyes skimmed over the empty hall and he was

suddenly crouching to inspect the floor. Here and there, scorch marks showed faintly in the boards and the matting.

‘Disintegration,’ concluded the Time Lord unhappily.

He could almost see the victorious Kagyrn torching the

bodies with the rifle, searing them away to nothingness. Then

the house calmly healing its wounds as the fires died down. He

expected the floor upstairs to be similarly knitting itself into shape and was tempted to go and confirm the theory; he was

certain it would provide for a fascinating study.

His mind was changed by a sudden wave of giddiness as

he stood. The sensation passed soon enough, but it was

followed by a burst of automatic fire and the slam of bullets

into the door.

Quick to accept the shock, the Doctor went straight to the

side of the hall, every sense alert and the implications of his dizzy spell temporarily forgotten.

The firing was already over, replaced by shouts and the

tramp of boots on stone. The Doctor listened intently without

result, but could stand the suspense no more.

He climbed to his feet, tried the door and found it ready to

open.

Before him, sprawling on a cobbled street, lay Perriman,

his head towards the Doctor, but no less recognisable in death.

The ugly bulk of an armoured personnel carrier squatted

opposite the house, boasting its twentieth-century

construction. Uniformed men regarded him from several

directions, up and down the street. Most of them aimed rifles

at his chest.

Helpfully, he raised both hands. ‘It’s alright, gentlemen. I

know the routine.’

Liz felt thoroughly wretched.

It was one thing for the Doctor to go losing himself in

various dimensions, but she considered herself less well-

adapted to such situations. Here, it seemed, she was the

stranded one, rather than the more fortunate individual left to do all the pacing to and fro. The enormity of her position had

not escaped her, either, and would have overwhelmed even her

resolute nature but for the appearance of a more immediate

danger.

Liz ducked the moment she sighted the group of horsemen

approaching from the woods. Kneeling, she made herself a

less obvious target for searching eyes.

They were another band of six, riding with the manner of

landowners. Their armour comprised of several layered

sections of leather over mail, crowned with a spiked helmet

reminiscent of the Turkish style. The saddles and tack labelled them as sophisticated equestrians, but their military

demeanour encouraged Liz to spread herself flat over the earth

as their path brought them ever closer.

She stretched the sleeves of her sweater to cover her pale

hands. She kept a tight rein on her breath.

The horses came to a halt some metres away.

Face to the ground, Liz could hear the riders turning in

their saddles, scanning the horizon. There were the soft clinks and creaks of armour, the stamp of impatient hooves. There

were also words exchanged, but the language was a stream of

guttural, almost hacking, syllables that might have sounded

more at home in the mouth of a wolf.

Whatever was under discussion, Liz felt lonelier than ever.

‘The beast has slipped past us in the dark,’ asserted Vecellin, unable to conceal a note of doubt. He studied his chief

worriedly between each search of the hill’s limits, observing a restlessness that seemed wholly unnatural.

‘It could not. It must not have done!’ Huba’s expression

was pained, but his commands had lost none of their force.

‘We cannot allow it to roam free, Vecellin. It has something

precious, something essential, in its possession.’

Vecellin’s concern was suddenly magnified. ‘How do you

know this, lord?’

‘I know it!’ Huba buckled under some invisible torture.

Baring his teeth, he drew his sword and held it high. ‘That foul thing has tested me too far, Vecellin. We will recover its prize, then I will relieve it of that burdensome head!’

Huba started his horse forward, skilfully turning the

animal so he could face his troops. ‘Don’t expend any worries

over your chief. The death of our monster will be my remedy!’

The stallion shifted again and a shape scuttled away from

dangerous hooves.

Vecellin and the other men laughed, drawing their blades

to match their leader. ‘You have scared a rabbit from its hole, lord Huba!’

Huba turned his head with slow deliberation. He

monitored the progress of the fugitive towards the inadequate

sanctuary offered by the trees, seeing a pretty face glance back in fear. When the runner had achieved an appropriate distance,

he snapped his reins. ‘We’ll have ourselves two famous hunts

tonight! Follow me!’

The unsheathed sword had nearly sparked Liz’s flight, but she

had courageously held her ground for as long as she could,

trying to filter the leader’s shouts for some understanding. The clumping of hooves too close to her ears had sealed her fate.

Forced to roll aside for safety, she had followed up with a

blind, stumbling run. Only later did she bother to look to

appraise the riders’ reactions.

Initially, she thought they were shocked by her sudden

appearance. Then she saw the cool hunger in the commander’s

observation. They were granting her a head-start.

Horrified, Liz’s boots ate up the span of ground between

her and the forest, placing the site of the house and hope of the Doctor’s help still further out of reach. As she ran, she cursed the impractical heels of her boots and several times sensed an

ankle threatening to give way. Her heart beat so loudly in her

skull that the noise of her pursuers took long seconds to reach her. When it came, she imagined the thundering horses

trampling her spine, but could find no more speed in her

complaining legs. Her muscles ached and her head pounded

and she could hear the eager calls of her hunters, howling like wolves.

She amazed herself by breaking into the undergrowth,

wincing at the clawing branches. Pushing her head down, she

rushed on.

She risked another glance back to the forest’s edge and

satisfied herself that the horsemen had been slowed at least.

They urged their mounts this way and that, fighting for less

direct paths where the way might be easier. Calls and much

pointing showed they had yet to lose sight of her, but she

stood to gain a little more ground if she could resist the

temptation to collapse.

Her toe met something solid and she sailed forward, crying

out before she crashed amongst the plant life.

Frantically, Liz wedged both hands under her and prepared

to hoist herself up. The horses were crunching through the

forest floor all about her, their masters homing in on her

single, sorry yelp of surprise. She had no way of judging the

visibility of her profile here in the shrubbery, but she could not guess very well which way to run. Indecision held her to the

ground.

Then her mind was made up by a hand cupped over her

mouth and an arm encircling her waist, pulling her backwards.

Even the minimal light of night was shut out by a blanket or

sheet enveloping Liz and her captor. There was strength in the

restraint, but no violence – and Liz chose not to struggle.

Suddenly, she felt perfectly safe.

The Doctor scratched an imaginary itch under his collar and

pretended patience as he favoured the guard with a smile.

He sat on the rudimentary bench that passed for seating in

the APC, the vehicle’s ceiling low enough to compress both

mood and illumination. This was where he had been roughly

herded immediately on emerging from the house.

The commanding officer had apparently been too busy

conferring with the medic over the dead Perriman to attend to

his prisoner. The troops were clearly responsible for that

death, but their treatment of him was governed with suspicion,

regardless. The guard, standing at the open hatch in the rear,

made his personal distrust quite plain.

From the uniform and the fur-fronted shapka on his head, he was easily identified as a Russian. The rifle, with a

distinctive curve to its magazine, was a cut-down variant of

the infamous Kalashnikov, which was hardly conclusive; but

the black epaulettes bore the Cyrillic ‘CA‘ of the Soviet Army

and the hammer-and-sickle shone proudly on each button.

This guard’s long coat looked a poor fit, but the Doctor could

envy its protection against the icy edge of the local air.

‘Look, I realise I don’t have an appointment, old chap, but

I really have been kept waiting indecently long.’

The guard’s sixth sense was on a par with the Doctor’s,

because he stepped neatly aside without so much as a prompt

and the stern figure of a Soviet Major appeared in the

doorway. Tall, he stooped to enter the vehicle and sat opposite the Doctor, scrutinising his prisoner before leaning forward.

‘I am relieved to hear you are impatient, my friend. Since

you will not be leaving here until I obtain the truth, it promises a co-operative attitude.’ He removed his hat and gloves,

placing them on the bench beside him. ‘I am Major Grigoriy

Yevgenyevitch Bugayev. I would be delighted to hear any

useful information you feel able to share.’

He had a face composed of many bold strokes: harsh black

hair above a pronounced forehead of creases, straight nose

pinched hard at the bridge, mouth squashed up by a pointed

chin, deep-set eyes intensified by dense eyebrows which

angled down to meet each other. His face was an effective

warning, which the Doctor promptly ignored.

‘Yes, now let me see. I happen to know where you might

find a green-eyed yellow idol. Would that be of any help at

all?’

Bugayev’s lip curled in disdain and he looked at the guard

as he spoke. ‘I am not particularly fond of the flippant

approach, myself. Given a choice, I prefer the prisoner who

maintains a stubborn silence.’ His eyes went to the Doctor. His words were delivered, encased in the heavy Russian accent,

with the care and precision of a watchmaker. ‘I find it less

irritating.’

‘Perhaps the humour was a little subtle for your taste. I’d

forgotten I was dealing with a military mind.’

Bugayev flared, but held himself from striking out.

‘Your position is bad enough already, friend. You have a

passport?’ Here, the Doctor shook his head, but the Major

already wore a knowing grin. ‘I didn’t think so. You English

are always so quick to flash them at the first sign of trouble.’

(The Doctor chose not to dispute him on the matter of

nationality.) ‘I could hand you straight to the Hungarian police and you can sweat it out with them until the British Embassy

goes down on bended knee.’

‘I’m in Hungary am I?’ asked the Doctor for his own

benefit. ‘I rather thought I was when that fellow mentioned

Árpád.’

‘What fellow was that? Your tour operator? Or the

customs official?’ Bugayev wielded humour like a cold knife.

He clasped his hands together and adopted a friendly grin.

‘There’s no guarantee you’ll reach either the Embassy or the

police in mint condition, of course. This isn’t New York, but

tourists still get beaten and robbed.’

The Doctor drew himself up and leaned in to meet the

threat. ‘My dear sir, don’t go to any special bother on my

account! Why don’t you just shoot me like that poor chap,

Perriman? Whatever’s good enough for him is good enough

for me!’

‘Oh, you know him, do you? That’s something. Perriman.

He didn’t have a passport either.’

‘And since when did that carry a death sentence?’

Bugayev barked a laugh that was half anger. ‘Damn you!

Is that why you’re being so difficult? You think I’m a

murderer?’ He stabbed out with a finger. ‘Just answer my

questions! What’s your name?’

‘Smith. Doctor John Smith.’ It was a level response.

‘I can see I am in for a challenging afternoon.’ Bugayev

sighed expressively. ‘Look, I grant you the novel addition of

the title, but I am familiar enough with your country to know

the popularity of certain names. Particularly those aliases

preferred for covert liaisons. In short, don’t try me any further.

I am not a patient man.’

‘And you’re not a murderer, either?’ the Doctor continued

his own interrogation.

‘For the sake of productivity, I’ll indulge you this once,’

the Russian yielded thinly. ‘The old man was killed by

accident. Very unfortunate. My man was understandably on

edge and, in any case, was firing at something else. Does that

satisfy you?’

‘Not really, no. It’s a man’s life we’re talking about, you

know. Not a broken window!’

Bugayev was finally incensed. He leaped up, bending over

the Doctor. ‘Well, friend, your approval doesn’t concern me in

the slightest. Hear?! Keep your damned accusations to

yourself! I don’t want your opinions and I especially don’t

require any preaching. I want plain facts!’

His eyes tried to pierce the Doctor’s defiant stare, but the

Doctor’s temper was simmering nicely.

‘On the planet Delphon,’ he quipped, ‘those eyebrows

would earn you something of a reputation – as an oaf and a

loudmouth!’

Bugayev bashed his fist into the vehicle’s hull so close to

the Doctor’s head that even his nerves were forced to give a

tiny jump. ‘ I have had enough! ’

His voice reverberated off the metal walls for some time

and he let his rage die with its echo. Shortly, he proposed, ‘I’ll start with a few simple questions, shall I? We can work our

way up to the important ones. What’s your name?’

‘I’ve told you already,’ was the terse reply.

Bugayev’s control succeeded with only the greatest effort.

‘So you have. So you call yourself a doctor? Some aspiration

of yours, perhaps? A delusion of grandeur?’

‘Not at all, old chap.’ The Doctor played his trump card in

the shape of his UNIT identification.

Bugayev accepted the card and studied it with tightly

narrowed eyes. He pocketed it.

‘Why didn’t you show this to me earlier?’

‘I’m not altogether fond of bureaucracy,’ the Doctor told

him, ‘and I’m still less partial to thugs.’ Privately, the Doctor had to admit it had slipped his mind.

‘Perhaps you feared the forgery would be detected?’

‘Is it part of your professional training to be that obtuse?

I’ve wasted enough time here already. If you’ll excuse me –’

Bugayev cut him off, seizing his small victory. ‘Yes,

Doctor Smith, you have wasted enough time. I believe in taking the shortest route through an obstacle. Cut to the chase, as the Americans say. Whereas clearly you prefer to play your

clever games.

‘Yet, I am convinced you may yet be persuaded to co-

operate with us, after all. Maybe you will see I’m not as bad as you think and you may even take a few orders.’

The Doctor was openly dubious, but he disliked the

Major’s note of triumph. Still, he was not about to change his

attitude for the sake of a probable bluff. ‘Fancy ourselves as

something of a creative genius, do we? Another Tolstoy,

perhaps?’

Bugayev refused to be provoked. ‘Assuming your

identification is not a forgery, you may be interested to see

this,’ he said and held his hat out for the Doctor to study the badge on its front; all the guards had worn them, too. It

showed a gold hammer-and-sickle against a black circle, a

white border boldly off-setting the Cyrillic letters:

OГPOH.

‘OGRON?’ read the Doctor.

‘ Operativnaya Gruppa Rasvedkoy Obyedinyonnih Natsiy,’

the Major explained, adding an unnecessary translation. ‘Task

Force for Intelligence of the United Nations. It seems you are

my ally, Doctor Smith.’

He thrust a hand at the Doctor, showing immaculate teeth.

The Doctor procrastinated, not caring to cement an

alliance with the callous, ruthless man he had read in the

Major. His choices were limited, however, and a more

conciliatory approach could earn him some assistance in

rescuing Liz. It was a thin chance, but he had succeeded with

less than that in the past.

Overcoming his reluctance, he made the shake summarily

brief.

‘Splendid acronym, anyway. I hope you never meet the

genuine article.’

When the muffled noises of pursuit had died to nothing, Liz

felt a pat from the hand across her back and she lifted herself to sit. The cover that fell away from her shoulders was a huge

fold of red cloak. Kneeling beside her was a beautiful young

woman who slid the garment’s hood from her head to regard

Liz with the gentle curiosity of a bird. Whether she was a dove or a carrion crow remained to be seen. But no, her exotic

beauty seemed to intimate that she was a bird of paradise.

‘Are you alright? You didn’t sprain your ankle in the fall?’

Her voice had the featherlike singsong quality of a Spanish

flute.

Liz needed a moment to reply. Not to assess the likelihood

of a sprain, but simply to recover her senses. She studied her

newfound companion, and couldn’t escape the impression that

she was trying to make out whether the woman was real or

imagined. Hair and skin varying shades of golden-brown, she

could have hailed from the ancient Mediterranean. Liz could

pin no definite age to her; there was such a timeless light in

those eyes of sepia-tinted amber, set burning under fine

cinder-coloured brows.

Whoever she was and whatever she was doing here, her

quick wits had surely saved Liz from that barbaric chase.

Whether she was to be trusted or not, Liz was at least able to

recover her manners. ‘Um, no. I’m – fine. I tripped over

something.’

The woman pressed a finger to her lips, reminding Liz that

volume was still a dangerous luxury here. Reaching over, she

dug into the undergrowth and hauled a magnificent golden

sceptre free from a pile of fabric; it was as long as a spear and Liz recognised it instantly. ‘This was the something. You’ve

seen it before.’

‘Yes, I – well, not exactly. I’ve seen an illustration. A

tapestry,’ Liz stammered out the truth, struggling to convince

herself. She remembered the Kagyrn Warrior, a parcel of

curtain under its arm. ‘How did it get there?’

‘Someone – or something – dropped it, I should say.’

Unfurling her legs, the woman rested her back against the

nearest trunk, closing her eyes for a moment. ‘I think I saw the thief. I’m not sure. We’ll be safe here for a while.’

Reclining there, she gave Liz the impression of a rare

flower, thriving at the base of the tree.

‘Thank you, anyway,’ she ventured, ‘for your rescue

effort. I should have said so before. You’ll forgive me if I’m a little muddled right now.’ Another important detail sprang to

mind. ‘I’m Liz, by the way.’

‘Aphrodite,’ she smiled, offering a slender hand from

beneath the cloak. ‘And don’t think your confusion makes you

anything special around here. I am as much in the dark as you,

I think, but at least we are in the dark together.’

Those words alone confirmed Aphrodite as a friend.

The Doctor accepted the idea of a stroll with the Major as an

opportunity to think and to learn. As such, although the

company was far from conducive, he welcomed the clearing of

his head and the chance to temporarily put aside his anxieties.

The cobbled streets and varied, even hybrid, architecture made

for a perfect setting. The Major was a useful sounding-board

who lapped up every scrap of data the Doctor could provide.

‘Tenth-century Slavs, you said?’ he inquired, surprisingly

open-minded.

‘Yes, early tenth, I’d say. Their mention of Árpád helps

tremendously, of course.’

‘It does?’ Bugayev was on unfamiliar territory. ‘Our

Scientific Adviser was something of an historian also. She

went missing in that house.’

‘And who might “she” be?’

‘A brilliant scientist,’ proclaimed Bugayev with a pride

bordering on paternal.

‘Melisandra Sergeyevna Kameneva.’ The Doctor was

instantly alert. ‘Yes, I’ve heard the name before. Well, part of it anyway. She lives here in Hungary, does she?’

‘No, she has an extravagant dacha outside Moscow. Why

do you ask?’

The Doctor affected as casual a manner as possible. ‘I

have to wonder why a team of Russians would be conducting

this investigation rather than a Hungarian group.’

The Major came to a stop, appraising the Doctor

scrupulously.

‘They needed our expertise,’ he lied, resuming his stride.

‘You can tell me,’ encouraged the Time Lord, ‘I’m a

Doctor.’

Major Bugayev shook his head. ‘That’s all you need to

know.’

The Doctor decided not to press the point at this early

stage. Their alliance’s cement needed far more time to dry.

Liz recounted the tale of her adventure in the house as if it

were a dream from which she had only now awoken.

Aphrodite listened calmly and with sympathy.

‘I realise I sound mad,’ finished Liz, feeling the need to

qualify her story, ‘but that level of invention is outside my

field.’

Aphrodite nodded. ‘I know. Not everything that’s horrible

is madness, and not all that’s wonderful is sanity.’ She paused, drawing in the night air, then chuckled musically. ‘And I’m

certainly ready to believe you came from another time and

place. Your fashion sense is your biggest advocate.’

Liz appreciated the joke. ‘The Doctor never told me what

to pack.’

They fell silent, Liz thinking about the Doctor and

Aphrodite in her own reverie.

‘Aphrodite, who are you? I mean, why are you here?’

prodded Liz attentively, keen to discover more about her new

companion while equally anxious not to intrude.

‘I came here to meet some friends of mine. I seem to have

– missed them somehow.’

‘They’ve gone?’

‘No. I don’t think they’re here yet,’ the woman sighed and

her eyes wandered airily for a moment. It sounded exactly like

the sort of answer the Doctor might give.

She gasped and was suddenly on her knees. Liz followed

her gaze and felt her own pulse jump.

Bathed in its own eerie light, the Kagyrn Warrior was

advancing soundlessly through the undergrowth, its

disfigurement more ghoulish than ever. A ghastly skull

protruding from half a head of bloody fur and the withered,

skeletal claw flexing from its housing of armourplate; the

creature was no less terrifying for its gross injuries. It

staggered forward, snarling and panting, as saliva dribbled

over its jaw of exposed bone.

Aphrodite’s eyes were closed, her chest rose and fell

sharply. She despaired, ‘It’s no use! It doesn’t know any fear!’

Liz was ready to beg some explanation, but then she had

her own idea. She reached over to the golden staff. ‘Maybe it

only wants this!’

The whoops of men interrupted her as she prepared to

throw. The two women glanced about them until they finally

spotted the shifting images of horsemen, circling them as well

as the Warrior.

‘Don’t give him his bone!’ someone shouted, and Liz

realised it was a command meant for her. She restored the staff to its bundle and exchanged a nervous expression with

Aphrodite.

A bear of a man charged his horse forward, helmet bowed

to avoid the lower branches. ‘Huba,’ Aphrodite whispered.

Huba brought his stallion between the women and their

would-be attacker. Other riders closed in around the arena. He

called to them, ‘Don’t let him run!’ and drew his sword. Then

he was marching straight at the slavering beast as if it were a lamb to be slaughtered. The creature hissed its displeasure and held its ground.

‘Here’s an end to your night’s revels, dog!’ spat Huba,

sword raised in both hands.

The Magyar swung the blade around at the level of the

Warrior’s neck, driving it clean through to chop at a tree on

the other side. When he retrieved his weapon, the thing had

vanished. He wiped the sticky blood from his sword.

‘Did he kill it?’ asked Liz in a hush.

‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Aphrodite almost apologetically

and, together, they stood. Aphrodite, Liz noticed, was a good

half a head taller than her. Statuesque.

Huba was quick in coming back and, sword sheathed, he

bore his satisfaction like a medal. He paraded before them,

saying nothing, while Liz shied from the inspection of his

men’s eyes. Eventually, he stopped pacing and toyed with his

moustache. A grin was forming and it put Liz off saying her

‘Thankyous’ altogether.

‘Who would have predicted,’ he said at length, ‘we would

find so many prizes in such proximity?’

‘You are blessed indeed, lord Huba,’ praised Vecellin

energetically.

‘Doubly so.’ Huba’s gloved hand shot out and locked

around Liz’s face; she found herself shaking. ‘This one’s lost

her skirts, but she’s comely enough.’

Aphrodite hummed a lilting tune, causing Huba to discard

Liz and round on her.

‘This bird sings, Vecellin.’ Huba was vexed and he

silenced Aphrodite with a hand on her neck, which he slowly

moved back through her hair. ‘Look at me.’ She did. ‘What

are you under those feathers? A scrawny hen or a

nightingale?’

Unclasping her cloak, he threw it off behind her. She stood

in the garb of a gypsy: lace-frilled blouse and embroidered

floral skirt, flounces falling just above a pair of blacksuede

ankle-boots. A sash at her waist accentuated her naturally

alluring figure and completed a quintessentially romantic

image. Huba was caught in predatory admiration, his eyes

prowling far outside the borders of romance.

Aphrodite tensed visibly as he pressed closer.

‘I won’t break you, angel. I’ll treat you both with care,’ he

assured them, and his fingers tugged at the laces of

Aphrodite’s blouse.

Chapter Four

Budapest

To the memory of the heroes who have sacrificed their lives for the freedom of our people and national independence.

Inscription, <<Heroes Monument>>, Heroes’ Square,

Budapest

The Doctor’s concentration waded out from the decorative

fortification of Fisherman’s Bastion, across the Danube to the

autumnal grandeur of Pest. His view spanned from the

limestone cake of the Parliament Building, gilt-edged in the

sunlight, to the more functional symmetry of Elizabeth Bridge.

Sharing his vigil on this bank were the tree-furrowed brow of

Gellért Hill, the imperious Royal Palace and – to his left – the undulating, home-speckled hills of Buda. Two widely

differing cities held apart by nothing more than water.

To the Doctor, it was a scene evocative of the tapestry.

‘Two armies poised to clash, wouldn’t you say, Major?’

Bugayev stirred and joined him at the wall. ‘You know, I

always felt they were bowing to one another’s interpretation of beauty.’

‘You do surprise me,’ expressed the Doctor, looking

directly at the officer.

‘Oh, the Suvarov academy didn’t neglect my classical

education, Doctor,’ he boasted. ‘I like to think my appreciation for art and culture is as well-developed as my marksmanship

and grasp of tactics.’

‘Yes, well, what we need is a plan of action, Grigoriy

Yevgenyevich.’

‘Major Bugayev,’ corrected the Russian adamantly. ‘We

are officer and scientist, you and I. Not – comrades. What do

you suggest? Melisandra Sergeyevna tracked the source of the

disturbances to that house in Tárnok útca.’

‘I very much doubt if its the source, but go on – what kind

of disturbances?’

‘Okay.’ The Major drew deeply on a cigarette and

narrowed his eyes as if the taste offended him. ‘Temporal, she

claimed. Schisms in Time.’

The Doctor suddenly wanted to hear more and he applied a

nudge or two. ‘Temporal physics one of her fields, is it? Bit

far-fetched, isn’t it? She seems to have convinced you

anyway, Major.’

‘I am an inveterate sceptic, Doctor. But even an “oaf” like

me must accept the testimony of his own senses.’ Bugayev

observed the Doctor closely. ‘When that man, Perriman, was

shot, he was being attacked by a thirteenth-century Mongol.

My man, Chistyakov, opened fire on the Mongol, but the

bullets went through like he was a mirage. I saw it.’

‘What happened then?’

‘The Mongol vanished and,’ he shrugged, ‘Perriman hit

the ground. My men had orders to open fire on all such

manifestations. The Mongol was not the first. We have come a

long way from fluctuations in the weather patterns.’

‘You do seem to have progressed,’ the Doctor grimaced

with the guilt of his late arrival. ‘Do you have any data on

these weather shifts?’

‘Of course.’ Bugayev addressed the waiting guard, a

swarthy-skinned teenager. He snapped an order in Russian and

the young private launched himself up the street. Bugayev

commended him to the Doctor, ‘He’s a good man,

Abdurasulov.’

‘Only just,’ complained the Time Lord.

‘Another axe to grind, Doctor?’ Bugayev was amused.

‘All my men are efficient career soldiers. And experienced.’

He let that trail significantly into silence, intimating another closed subject.

‘I should be careful you don’t reveal any state secrets,

Major. You never know what’ll end up on the Voice of

America.’

Bugayev ignored the Doctor’s sarcasm, instead watching

the road. In a moment, Abdurasulov came trotting around the

corner and briskly mounted the steps. The Major took a wad of

papers from him and wedged them into the Doctor’s hands.

‘Thank you,’ said the Doctor to the boy, but his eyes were

aimed at Bugayev. Leaving the Major to smoke, he flipped

rapidly through the printouts, absorbing every key detail.

Wind velocities, cloud formations, precipitation and

temperature; all showed a series of random peaks and troughs,

some representing frightening extremes. Wind direction

altered dramatically at times, as well.

‘Well, I shouldn’t go making faces in Budapest for a

while,’ he cracked, subsequently serious. ‘There’s something

else. The frequency of the shifts is increasing. Was that one of Melisandra Sergeyevna’s observations?’

‘It was. But the weather is the less immediate problem

now.’

‘It most certainly is not,’ the Doctor contested. ‘It’s as if

Time itself were breaking apart.’

Aphrodite was trembling, but there was nothing to make her

look vulnerable under Huba’s lascivious attentions. Her eyes

burned with defiance, so it was most likely – and

understandably – a tremor of anger; but her breath quickened

with every move of his hand, as though mirroring his

anticipation. She was like a fire that wanted the man to put his hand in the flames. Unexpectedly, he withdrew his hand from

her neck, snatching his fingers away as though Liz’s

impression had somehow been made real. Too hot to handle.

Pronounced concern on his face, Huba regarded Aphrodite

as though afraid he had carelessly plucked at the petals of a

fragile flower.

‘I am sorry,’ he breathed, earnestly penitent. ‘I never

intended to frighten you. Either of you.’ He glanced at Liz.

‘Please forgive me. I –’ He broke off, trapped in some internal battle. Regaining his resolve like he was taking command of

an unruly army, he stepped regally around behind the two

women and bowed to retrieve Aphrodite’s cloak. As king to a

queen, he draped it carefully over her shoulders.

Liz was relieved, but ultimately bewildered. Aphrodite’s –

mood? – one could hardly have called it distress – was slowly

lifting.

‘Rest easy,’ Huba reassured them, ‘you will be safe with

me.’

The mounted assembly grew restless and unsettled.

Vecellin, as ever, voiced their thoughts. ‘Will you not take

them, lord Huba?’ He laughed. ‘If your desire has faded, then

may we share the prize?’

Huba’s face blackened and he stormed up to his captain.

With a bellow of fury, he pulled Vecellin from the saddle; as

the man hit the ground, his horse reared aside. Huba thrust a

fist at Vecellin’s quivering features.

‘Lay a hand on either and I will tear you open!’ He stood

back to command the other four. ‘Protect them or your lives

are forfeit! They are my wards and you will guard them as you

would me!’

Liz searched Aphrodite’s eyes for enlightenment.

Aphrodite merely busied herself fastening her blouse and the

cloak about her neck. The fire had turned cold in her eyes.

Finally, though, she favoured Liz with a wink. Trust me, she was saying.

Liz could only think to answer with a nod.

‘Lord Huba!’ screamed one of the men, wrenching the

chief from his passion.

Everyone turned to see the bestial shape of the Kagyrn

Warrior, stalking towards the easy prey presented by the two

women. Startled, Liz and Aphrodite backed away in unison.

Vecellin and the others burst into action, dashing this way and that past the creature’s targets. Huba pounced in front of the

women, shielding them with his own body. He dared the

Warrior onto the tip of his sword.

The men bore down on their foe, swiping at it with swords

from all angles, fear only apparent in their horses. Vecellin

fought on his feet.

There was a scream and a whinny, the Warrior flaring with

energy. A rider dispersed into blazing fragments, his horse

kicking a retreat.

‘No! Keep your distance!’ warned Aphrodite, starting

forward.

‘Stay!’ compelled Huba earnestly. ‘It will not pass me!’

Vecellin lunged again. Then the bedlam subsided as

abruptly as it had come. The men hovered momentarily around

where the Warrior and their fellow soldier had disappeared.

Huba relaxed and passed a gauntlet across his forehead.

‘The blood of the thing was on my sword.’ He whirled to meet

Liz’s frown. ‘It was, I tell you.’

‘We believe you,’ averred Liz a little too hastily to be

convincing.

Aphrodite fought down her emotions with an effort. ‘I’m

sorry – about your guard.’

Huba’s gesture of dismissal was not made casually. His

mind was wrapped in other concerns, though, and there was no

release. ‘That creature plagues us all. I should never have

- ’ His face wrinkled in pain. ‘He had – something

valuable.’ ‘Are you alright?’ It was Liz who spoke, but

Aphrodite’s concern matched hers. ‘It’s nothing! A curse!’ He

choked on a laugh. Rubbing his eyes, he sighted the staff

on its bed of curtain fabric. Stooping swiftly, he came up

with the sceptre in his hand. ‘Yes, this will be it. I must deliver this to Árpád.’

Liz decided there was an artificial quality to Huba’s rapid

recovery.

‘Vecellin!’ he beckoned and the captain hastened over.

‘Send a messenger to the remainder of the escort. Tell them to

continue on to the encampment. You and the others will

accompany me back to Csepel.’

Vecellin was ready to question his chief’s wisdom, but

Huba quashed the thought with a look. ‘Yes, lord.’

‘And we will guide these ladies to the sanctuary of the

fort.’ Huba awarded Liz and Aphrodite a kingly smile. The

weight of the staff rolled comfortably in his gloved hands. ‘I

trust that will suit?’

‘Oh, admirably.’ Aphrodite astounded Liz with her

willingness, at least as quick with her answer as Huba had

been with his recovery.

‘We know the effect, Doctor. What’s the cause?’

Bugayev’s insistence was evident in his step as he kept

pace with the Doctor. The two men marched swiftly across the

square, steering towards the corner of Tárnok street, the

youthful guard in tow. It was the Doctor who infuriated the

officer by bringing their procession to a rude halt.

The Doctor aimed a finger at the statue on the corner of a

Baroque building. ‘Pallas Athene!’

Although an alternative depiction to the one in the

tapestry, the subject of the sculpture was unmistakable.

Helmed and robed, the goddess watched over the square,

armed with a spear and a shield bearing Buda’s coat of arms.

Hands at his waist, the Doctor stared up in quiet wonder.

An irate Major waved a palm across his line of sight.

‘Doctor, she is a popular figure in mythology.’ He added, ‘It

isn’t even an original!’

‘Oh. Are you sure about that?’

‘If it’s important, the original was an eighteenth-century

sculpture. It used to stand somewhere near this spot.’

‘Yes, it could be extremely important,’ the Doctor

scratched at his chin. ‘Look, has the mystery house a library? I wasn’t in the Hungarian one long enough to check.’

Bugayev was seconds from exploding, but calmed when

he realised the Doctor had not swung off on a complete

tangent. ‘I believe so. Quite an extensive collection.’

‘Excellent!’ exclaimed the Doctor, just stopping short of a

pat on the Major’s shoulder. He resumed their walk. ‘Have a

few of your men root around in there, while we go for a ride,

won’t you?’

Bugayev and the private hastened to catch him up. ‘A

ride? Where? And what are they supposed to look for?’

They had to wait at the barricade, while a round-faced

trooper hauled it aside. The Doctor waved an arm. ‘Legends,

myths. Local folk-tales, that kind of thing.’

Bugayev assessed the suggestion’s potential and found he

could actually see some sense in it, if not absolute logic. He

passed the barrier after the Doctor, who was headed for the

APC.

‘Doctor!’ he called, spinning the Time Lord around on his

heel. ‘In case you had overlooked the fact, the BMP is mine.

Now, where would you care to go?’

‘I’m terribly sorry, old chap. A little absent-minded

presumption, that’s all.’ The Doctor clearly relished the

current puzzle as a distraction and his mood was perfect for a

summer outing. ‘I’d like to take in a few more statues, if it’s all the same to you.’

Once the messenger had departed, Huba gave the order to

mount up. Aphrodite and Liz were shown to the spare horse,

recently brought under control by Vecellin.

Aphrodite went up with the grace of an experienced

equestrienne. Patiently, she helped Liz to clamber aloft in

front of her, reaching around her waist to keep hold of the

reins. Liz held fast to Aphrodite and worked to find some

steadier perch.

‘You’ll be fine,’ Aphrodite’s voice comforted.

‘Can you see to drive?’ Liz was sure the field of view was

badly restricted.

‘Have you ever known a horse to run into a tree?’

Huba rode up to ensure they were comfortable. Liz, loath

to worry him, zipped her mouth into a polite smile. Aphrodite,

too, nodded graciously, her gaze lingering momentarily on the

golden staff, gripped like a spear in his right gauntlet.

‘We will cross the hill and meet the river, then it will be

only a matter of an hour’s ride along the shore. Can you bear

that?’

Aphrodite was almost buoyant. ‘I’ll enjoy it!’

She prodded the horse kindly into an easy canter, leaving

Huba to take her lead. The Magyar chief gave a command and

the riding party formed up in Aphrodite’s wake. Huba closed

the distance to ride close at the women’s flank, where he could more easily assume the role of sentinel.

Liz squeezed Aphrodite’s ribs to attract her attention. She

whispered, ‘Was that your escape plan?’

Aphrodite’s face was a picture of innocence and whether it

was real or a sham, Liz couldn’t tell. ‘What escape?’ the

goddess arched her elegant brow.

The grumbling motor of the BMP gnawed continuously at the

Doctor’s concentration like a mechanical dog and once again

the Doctor was induced to envy the Russians some part of

their uniform; this time it was the hat, with flaps that folded down to cover the ears. The vibrations jarred his senses and

interfered with his powers of concentration.

Such considerations were not legible on the faces of his

fellow passengers and they rocked submissively to and fro on

the benches on either side of the compartment. Ahead,

Bugayev flaunted his upper half to the innocent passers-by,

jammed up through the commander’s hatch. The driver was

hunched up in the chamfered muzzle of the machine forward

of his superior. Sharing the Doctor’s unpleasant experience in

the rear were the six infantrymen who had been slow in

volunteering for library duty: Chistyakov, Komarovskiy,

Plankin, Saporov, Yaroslavskiy and Abdurasulov – courtesy

of a business-like introduction from Bugayev. Their

expressions varied from stern to placid and the Doctor’s

sympathy went out to them. Much of it also went to the

passers-by.

After a long seven minutes, the vehicle trundled to a rest

and the Doctor was first to emerge when the rear hatch

opened. Breathing in gratefully and stretching his limbs, he let the troops file out around him and took in the scene.

The regimented paving of Heroes’ Square spread out

before him, bordered by trafficheavy streets and a pair of

column-fronted museums. Rising in the centre were the

combined structures of the Millenary Monument,

commemorating the thousandth anniversary of the great

Magyar Conquest. The ensemble was much like an open-air

rendition of a Greek temple, with its two-part colonnade as a

backdrop, adorned with figures, and the central column rising

thirty-six metres to support the Archangel Gabriel in flight.

Huge statues of mounted warriors dominated the stone block

at its base, while more statues stood proudly forth between

each column on the background sections. Reliefs girdled the

stonework, illustrating various scenes from the nation’s past.

‘Have you seen what you want?’ The Major lifted himself

from his hole and jumped down to join the Doctor.

‘I’ll just take a closer look. Won’t be a minute.’

The Doctor started off towards the main column, Bugayev

following as he had fully expected. They passed the simpler

Heroes’ Monument, a comparatively humble block of stone

and a poignant dedication to the dead of more recent history.

The Doctor recognized its sentiment in a pause. Major

Bugayev’s inspection was unashamedly perfunctory.

The Doctor carried on to circumnavigate the base of the

central column, affording a cursory glance at the fine

sculptures and reserving his main attention for the names

carved beneath them. Bugayev waited in one spot, hands

clasped behind his very straight back. He was conscious of the

few distant onlookers, whereas the Doctor was cheerfully

oblivious as he scribbled in a little notebook. The Russian

focused on the towering figures of the chieftains, resplendent

in their armour and spiked helmets. The image of himself as a

Cossack with a sabre twirling high over his head sprang,

unbidden, into his mind.

The Doctor jotted down the last name and sauntered back,

handing the notebook to Major Bugayev. ‘Read those out for

me, would you?’

Bugayev studied the names and formed the Hungarian

pronunciations in his head. He read them aloud to the Doctor,

who had turned away to view the foremost statue; the leader,

whose name was spoken first. ‘Árpád. Rond. Ond. Tétény.

Elöd. Huba. Tas.’

The Doctor sniffed, then reeled off a second list of totally

alien words. ‘Argak. Rongra. Ongra. Tekeng. Erung. Kuba.

Tyosk.’

Bugayev snapped the notebook shut and turned the Doctor

about. ‘What the hell language was that?’

‘Kaguric. I’m a shade rusty myself.’ The Time Lord kept

his tone thoughtful, rather than aloof. ‘The names of the Seven Kagyrn Chieftains.’

‘Alright, so you can identify the Magyar chieftains with

some other race,’ concluded Bugayev intelligently. ‘Does that

place us any further forward?’

The Doctor slipped the notebook away from the Russian.

Through a cagey expression, he declared, ‘In the sense that our situation has taken a gigantic step backwards, I suppose my

answer ought to be a resounding “Yes”.’

Liz soon learned to appreciate the gifted competence of

Aphrodite’s horsemanship and, although she never fully

relaxed, she settled into the rhythm of the journey. They

located a wider path out of the forest, where the horses could

gather pace, and presently they jogged onto the open ground

climbing to the hill where Liz had first arrived. The horses

leaned eagerly into the slope and Aphrodite eased their mare

into a light gallop. Even Liz thrilled to the increase in speed.

All the while, of course, Huba clung to their side, a

constant guardian whom Liz was sure they could live without.

Aphrodite paid him no heed, but Liz had more occasion for

study and she was certain she didn’t want him around. She

desperately hoped that Aphrodite had some plan to free them

from his too-fierce protection.

As they crested the hill, her wish was granted.

In moments too scant for breath, Aphrodite had reached

and deftly snatched the staff from Huba’s grip, a blur had

shifted across Liz’s vision and the shunting beat of hooves had been replaced with a clatter like falling pebbles.

A flurry of new sensations assaulted Liz’s sight, hearing

and sense of smell in even measures. She still clutched

Aphrodite’s waist, but it was as if she could feel her own panic written in every taut muscle and each short breath. The horse

clacked noisily over cobbles and threatened to rear

dangerously as Aphrodite wheeled her round. Smoke welled in

her nose and throat; dust descended all around them. A medley

of buildings teetered on the brink of collapse. A piercing

whistle swooped down from the sky.

Aphrodite’s reflexes drove the mare under an arched

gateway. Liz just noticed the recessed seating in the wall as

the shell struck earth somewhere out in the street.

Nearly toppled from their horse, successive explosions

beating at their eardrums, Liz found herself longing for Huba’s dark aegis. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know he had

disappeared.

At the Doctor’s behest the OGRON troops boarded the

armoured vehicle once more and, for his own sake as well as

to appease the Soviet Major, the Doctor popped his own frame

through the gunner’s hatch. The two cupolas were close

enough to permit a conversation, assuming a powerful pair of

lungs for each man. The engine growled into life and the

driver headed them into traffic.

‘Well, Doctor, what am I up against?’

‘It’s too early to say,’ began the Doctor, earning a further

black mark in the Major’s book. ‘Our first clue lies in the

weather data. There were sharp aberrations, but none of the

variations were outside Hungary’s normal pattern.’

‘Right.’

The Doctor steadied himself as the light tank cornered

with the agility – and the recklessness – of a rally car. For all its trappings of war, the BMP had its appealing qualities.

‘So I’d say we were experiencing some localized

phenomenon that began on a broad and general level – like the

weather – and gradually worked down to specifics.’

‘Like our Mongol raider,’ Bugayev showed his

understanding. ‘And these Kagyrn of yours are pulling the

strings.’

‘Not that simple, I’m afraid. The Kagyrn these days are

highly civilized. They keep themselves to themselves –

generally want nothing to do with other worlds.’ The Doctor

rested his voice. ‘The only thing that occurs –’

Major Bugayev was already there. ‘Maybe it’s not the

Kagyrn of today.’

‘You’re very astute, Major Bugayev,’ commended the

Doctor, sincerely impressed. It might have taken him weeks to

convey that concept to the Brigadier. He was not so lost in

admiration, though, as to miss the transition; and he heard

himself shouting before it had really ended.

‘Major! Look out!’

He was pointing at a barrier formed by two wrecked cars,

but the driver’s natural instincts had already completed the

swerve and they were burrowing down a side street. There was

the clank of a small missile rebounding off the APC’s ribbed

glacis. Puddles of fire marked the main road where homemade

incendiaries had spilled their payloads. Men and women

tossed stones and debris from behind their crude battlements.

The spectre of their opponents had a profound effect on

Grigoriy Bugayev.

‘Tanks!’ he gagged. ‘Did you see the tanks?’

The Doctor had only seen one of the lumbering hulks,

devouring a lesser barricade under its steel tracks. Now, he

heard the spit-and-crack of machine-gun fire as they hurtled

away along this grimy avenue. A few screams and shouts

reached him despite the burring motor, carrying them away

from that theatre of bedlam.

‘What’s happening Doctor?!’ appealed Bugayev, trying to

train his eyes in all directions at once.

‘You ought to know, Major,’ the Doctor answered coldly.

‘It’s as much a part of your history as theirs.’

Bugayev shook his head furiously, hammering out the

syllables. ‘November 4th, 1956! It’s not possible!’

The Doctor watched the man’s back with concern, but his

remarkably resilient mind soon regained control. Absorbing

the impact of their predicament, he set about dealing with it,

shouting orders into his radio.

‘Make for the Elizabeth Bridge and we’ll try an approach

from the south! We must get back to the Castle District!’

Yes, thought the Doctor, everything centres around there.

They spun crazily into the next turn, forcing Bugayev and

the Doctor to brace themselves with both arms. The kerbs and

buildings pressed tighter here, limiting their room for

manoeuvre. The Doctor scanned the windows and doorways,

while Bugayev monitored the path ahead. The stuttering noise

of a one-sided battle reverberated faintly through every

alleyway.

Alarmed, the officer slapped hard on the vehicle canopy

and the driver began to slow. The Doctor peered at the metal

discs strewn over the tarmac until the truth dawned.

‘Drive on, man! They’re plates! Drive on!’

The strength of authority was the sort that Bugayev

obeyed without question. He rapped again on the hull and they

were speeding onwards, trampling the tin plates that had

imitated mines so well – well enough to fool him in the heat of the action. Determining to thank the Doctor later, he waved

him down and sunk back into his own hole, banging the hatch

shut.

A volley of missiles, incendiary and otherwise, rained on

the road after them, as the ambushers emerged from hiding the

smallest fraction too late. They withdrew again, vowing to

catch the next Soviet vehicle.

Huba brought up the reins and danced his horse in a tight

circle.

The others rode back to join him, Vecellin bearing a

mystified frown. He said, ‘They were spirits, after all.’

‘Spirits!’ scoffed Huba, punching his stallion’s neck.

‘They were no imaginings. Not like that craven wolf!’

Vecellin came close to insubordination. ‘You think the

demon was a dream? I drew as much of its blood as was

claimed by you, lord! And where is Asztrik, to speak of this

nightmare we have shared?’ Vecellin stopped there,

remembering himself at last.

Huba glared. ‘Well, Vecellin. You have more to say.

Don’t guard your thoughts from me! ’

Vecellin hesitated, fear drying his tongue. ‘Lord,’ he said

patiently, ‘the beast can be whatever it will – part wolf and

part man, we do not know. But those spirits did charm you and made good their escape into no more than the wind.’

The dawn light painted a soft glaze over Huba’s eyes. He

chewed over Vecellin’s brave words, a rueful smile

developing on his face.

‘No, Vecellin. They had their magic, it is true. But no

greater than many women.’ He saw Vecellin about to protest.

‘No! They have been abducted by another power and I know

whence it came! You all saw it burning in the creature’s

head!’ He pointed two fingers at his own eyes. ‘Yes, the light

of Death. And it still prowls the country, drooling over its

prize like a miser!’

The Magyar’s hatred was edged with pain.

‘But lord, the – women – fled with the staff.’

Vecellin gripped his master’s arm, but Huba cast his hand

aside, saying, ‘It must take much of your great courage to be

such a fool, Vecellin. The staff is not the creature’s treasure!’

Huba’s voice was hollow and bitter. ‘It was yourself who

spoke the truth not a minute ago. Part wolf, part man.

‘The one has robbed the other.’

Heel’s dug deep in the horse’s side and Huba lead his men

on over the hill: to the river and to Árpád.

There was a respite in the bombardment and Aphrodite

dismounted, Liz following suit, to creep to the head of the

archway. Aphrodite kept one hand on the reins as she peeped

out in either direction. The dusty street was temporarily silent.

‘Where are we?’ entreated Liz, starting to shiver in the

frigid air.

‘See those sedilia?’ Aphrodite nodded at the seats in the

wall. ‘That’s a very Gothic feature for a neo-classical building.

We’re on the same long hill we were traversing before.

Known as Castle Hill, Budapest.’ And that, thought Liz, was a

very Doctorish thing to hear from the mouth of Aphrodite. The

woman gave Liz some time to digest the news, using the pause

to pass her gaze over the staff. ‘I hadn’t really expected this, but it does shed some light on our situation.’

Liz stared, openly incredulous. Badly in need of a rest, she

sat in the stone recess with both arms folded. ‘And there was I wondering who’d snuffed out the candle!’

‘I’m sorry. I –’ Aphrodite arrested her apology, as boots

stomped into the archway entrance and a panic-stricken shout

snapped out.

‘ Hauptmann! ’

Quite apart from the harsh edge to his voice, the image of

the man was enough to freeze the blood in Liz’s veins; from

the angular cut of his grey topcoat to the helmet with its

kinked rim, the nearly knee-high black boots and the various

trappings slung from his belt, down to the flashes on his

lapels; the Schmeisser submachine-gun only completed an icon of terror indelibly etched on human memory.

The fact that he appeared as frightened as Liz felt gave

still more cause for alarm.

The implications were not lost on Aphrodite either.

Liz expected him to shout, ‘ Hände hoch! ’; but instead she heard, ‘Drop that! Raise your hands!’

Steadily, Aphrodite and Liz obeyed, not once taking their

eyes from the German soldier. The staff clanged loudly on the

ground; incredibly, it suffered no damage and left no shining

mark on the stone. Liz rose stiffly and cautiously to her feet.

The German – his patches indicated a sergeant, or feldwebel –

summoned his captain again, an increased urgency

demonstrated in his tightening fingers as well as his voice. The beating of Liz’s heart was painful in her chest.

The Hauptmann’s arrival was no relief. A tall, lean figure

with high cheekbones and slightly puffy eyes, he made his

entrance in a talentless act of supreme confidence. Marching

past the sergeant, he advanced on the women, curling his

incision-like mouth into a poor facsimile of a smile. He was

followed by eight troopers.

He stopped some feet away and laughed at Liz and

Aphrodite as if they were twin barrels of a loaded gun. ‘Pretty maidens in a row. How nice!’

He stalked gingerly up to Aphrodite and slipped into a

conversational manner. ‘So who are you? What are you doing

in this fine city?’

‘I am Spanish. My friend is Austrian. We’ve travelled up

from Belgrade. We thought we might be safer here.’

Aphrodite’s response was marvellously free of hesitation, for

which the German officer was ill-prepared.

After a moment, he revolved away from her, sending up

both arms and bouncing highly theatrical laughs off the

archway ceiling. Eminently pleased with his performance, he

traced a wide arc that brought him face to face with Liz.

‘Since you feel so safe,’ he began, grasping one of Liz’s

wrists, ‘you may as well dispense with these raised hands.’ He

forced her arm down to her side and quickly repeated the

gesture with her right hand. Then he was over to Aphrodite,

batting her fingertips to encourage both arms down.

He toed the staff. ‘Looting, were we? True, it looks like no

part of the Hungarian Crown Jewels, yet somehow I can’t

imagine it,’ he sneered at the two women, ‘to be part of your

own luggage.’

Clearly, even Aphrodite could offer no explanation for the

piece; she and Liz bit their tongues. The Hauptmann snapped

his fingers and had one of the troopers pick up the artefact. His interest wandered again to his prisoners, immersing himself in

the fear they tried so hard to conceal. Liz could tell she was

doing a lousy job of hiding it, and she knew Aphrodite was as

scared as her: she could feel it. She watched as the

Hauptmann’s cold pleasure grew into an almost wistful trance.

‘Pretty indeed. I shall never see the likes of you again,’ he

mourned. Head bowed, the Hauptmann turned and resignedly

flapped an arm. He walked past his troops towards the street,

hands behind him.

He sucked in a lungful of air and ordered, ‘Search them.

Then shoot them.’

As four of the soldiers rushed forward, Liz braced herself

to endure the humiliation of a patting-down. There was only

the duration of that search in which to think of something that might save their lives. Somehow Liz didn’t think they could

rely on the serendipity of another leap across the centuries.

Midway across the Elizabeth Bridge, the Soviet BMP jumped

two decades into the future, earning a heartfelt sigh from the

Doctor and the same from Bugayev, once he had fully oriented

himself to the news that he was ‘home’. Night had fallen and

the lights of cars formed their escort over the river. There were no more discussions while the vehicle wended its way along

picturesque streets and up to Castle Hill. The fact of their

return was ultimately confirmed when the three other OGRON

troopers moved the barrier eagerly aside, allowing the APC

into Tárnok street.

The Doctor disembarked over the lip of his hatch. ‘No

time like the present, wouldn’t you say, Major?’

Bugayev appreciated the joke and dropped nimbly down

by the Doctor. He had no chance to speak his retort, however,

as one of the three men came trotting to him from the

barricade. It was the lieutenant – Zhelnin, if the Doctor

remembered rightly – and he saluted so mechanically that an

unsavoury revelation seemed imminent.

‘Major Bugayev, there was an incident while we were in

the house.’

‘Report,’ Bugayev demanded, looking quickly to the

Doctor.

‘Major, we were examining texts in the library as

instructed, when Sergeant Markov observed a change in the

light outside.’ The man paused, reluctant to admit a spell of

insanity. ‘For a time, we were unable to open the door to

investigate. When we did, there were no buildings in the

vicinity. I lead a brief reconnaissance and we were able to fix

–’

‘Your position as right here!’ assisted Bugayev

generously. ‘You did absolutely right, Lieutenant. Did you see

anything else?’ The Doctor narrowed his eyes expectantly.

‘There were a few settlements, Major, across the river –

where Pest is now. And some sort of fortification down on the

northern tip of Csepel.’ His last detail went under some careful consideration. ‘And, well, Private Narmanov was sure he

spotted a figure at the uppermost window on our return to the

house, but –’

‘Didn’t you search the house, Lieutenant?’ the Doctor

pressed him.

‘Yes, Doctor, but we were unable to verify Comrade

Narmanov’s sighting. The house was empty.’

Bugayev rubbed his chin. ‘Thank you, Sergey

Mikhailovich.’ He let the Lieutenant stand down. ‘Well,

Doctor?’

‘If you ask me, figures at windows are too much the stuff

of ghost stories to be ignored altogether.’ The Doctor brooded

over the Renaissance facade, but its secrets remained and it

was time to act. ‘Still, my own feeling is that we ought to use that house to get us back to the tenth century.’

‘But I need to find Professor Kameneva,’ came Bugayev’s

objection. ‘You have earned some respect and gratitude,

Doctor, but you are still here on sufferance.’

‘Hardly that, Major. Your little outfit will need a Scientific

Adviser until we find the one you mislaid.’ As if that settled

the argument, the Doctor started for the house; but he soon

found he had more to say. ‘That short jaunt of ours may have

lifted some of the mystery, but it wouldn’t be pure

sensationalism to tell you that the danger has magnified

tenfold! A hundredfold, even! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m

going to investigate some means of accurately piloting our

rogue house and I’m sure you can find a few games to pass the

time!’

‘ Doctor! ’ roared Bugayev, arresting the Doctor as he

turned to go.

‘Oh, I’ve upset you, have I? Well, I’m terribly sorry but –’

the Doctor snapped, but was cut short as the OGRON troops

unslung their weapons. He had mistaken Bugayev’s urgency

for anger. Everyone was staring past him.

He whirled. A Kagyrn Warrior bared its fangs from the

doorway.

Making a mental note to apologize to the Major later, the

Doctor proceeded to plan his moves. ‘How d’ you do, sir?

Haven’t we met before somewhere?’ His idle banter evoked a

growl from the creature; it also clashed its two swords and

flicked its tail to show the mace it carried. The Doctor tried a feint, then dodged aside in the opposite direction.

His ploy would have failed, but for the automatic fire that

hailed into its breastplate. It staggered some, a few bullets

grazing its head, while the Doctor broke clear and ran up the

street.

‘Zhelnin! Take two men and go with the Doctor!’ Major

Bugayev was shouting commands as he sprinted for the BMP,

pistol drawn. The Warrior would not allow him the advantage,

springing the width of the road to land on the vehicle’s deck.

The Major swore and backed off, pumping nearly a dozen

rounds at the beast. It howled defiantly after him. Clicking a

new magazine into place, he reached his men and herded them

past their barrier. He watched the Doctor – aided by Zhelnin

and two others – do the same.

Only then did he notice the black liquid oozing from the

thing’s eyes, and felt some reason for optimism. ‘It’s blinded!

We can take it!’ He glanced about. ‘Narmanov! Plankin!

Move up and get to the BMP.’

The two men complied, scurrying in around the barricade

and heading for the vehicle. From the other end of the street,

the Doctor stood forward, suddenly realizing what was

happening. Zhelnin and Yaroslavskiy had to hold him back.

‘Major! No!’ he yelled, but the Warrior had pounced.

Swift, slashing motions cut Narmanov apart, shredding his

heavy blanket-like coat like wet paper. Plankin hurled himself

back with desperate abandon, his square face screwed up and

his finger glued hard down on his trigger. Bullets pummelled

the armour-plating to no avail, but the man completed his

escape.

The Warrior exulted over its defeated foe, then sniffed the

air for others.

The Doctor waved Bugayev and his men away from the

pathetic cover of the barrier. The Major nodded affirmation

then detailed his troops to various positions around the

corners. The Doctor led his own bodyguard out into the open

ground of the square, seeking some form of refuge or recourse.

The high Gothic edifice of the Matthias Church offered

temporary hope: its crypt presented a fair hiding-place; but the Kagyrn would level the building to reach its prey (and the

Doctor considered it a rather fine piece of architecture).

Similarly, the other buildings would provide a very flimsy

shelter at best. With Zhelnin, Chistyakov and Yaroslavskiy

fidgeting restlessly behind him, it was a short age before he

noticed the gift shop. When he did, he hared straight for it, the Soviets hard-pressed to keep pace.

A clear scent of many fixed in its nostrils, the Kagyrn

sheathed both blades and drew its plasma rifle. It ploughed

through the puny barrier at the end of the street and hungrily

sought out Major Bugayev’s scattered units.

At the gift shop, the Doctor hammered at the door until

Zhelnin stopped him. ‘Evacuated, Doctor,’ he explained.

‘What do you want?’

The Doctor moved to the main window, nicely latticed in a

wooden frame, and pointed. ‘Display bottle of perfume. And

you’d best get your Major on the radio. Tell him, if it attacks, to lead it to us.’

Zhelnin was doubtful, but he radioed anyway; he jerked a

thumb at the window as he talked.

The elven-faced Chistyakov looked bemused, then

smashed the window open with the butt of his rifle.

Courteously, he cleared the glass and some of the wood for the

Doctor to reach in and steal the bottle. The container was the

size of a compressed football and the Doctor weighed it

carefully in both hands.

He offered it to Yaroslavskiy, a mild-faced ogre of a man.

‘How far d’ you think you can throw this?’

‘You mean, like a grenade?’ he asked, accepting the bottle

but not the idea.

‘That’s right,’ the Doctor assured him cheerfully. ‘Eau de

Molotov. Our friend really will be blinded then.’

Yaroslavskiy mulled it over and shrugged.

‘Right, then. Come on.’ The Doctor patted him on the arm

and led his party across the square and up the steps onto the

Fisherman’s Bastion, there to skulk behind a low wall: if the

Kagyrn retained even partial vision, their ambush might fail

and the Doctor was not prepared to allow the risk. The troops

settled down and waited. The Doctor peered between the

sculpted balusters.

Their wait was short-lived.

The Major and his men filtered into the square, scooting

ahead, then turning to fire. Their pursuer alternately lunged

and paused to nose the air, sweeping its gun to and fro across

its broad girth. Fortunately, it had yet to home in on a precise target, but three buildings had sustained serious damage.

Bugayev ensured every man was keeping a respectful

distance.

Seizing his moment, the Doctor mounted the wall and

waved his arms at the Warrior. ‘Over here! I challenge you to

a duel! Single combat, then you can take your pick of the

weaklings! Come on!’

Major Bugayev tapped his head and re-trained his pistol

on the Kagyrn. In an instant, it had covered the ground to the

Fisherman’s Bastion. The Doctor barely had time to shout,

‘Now!’

Yaroslavskiy propelled the full bottle for all his worth and

the Warrior leaped through the air to meet it. Impacting on its armour, the glass exploded and sprayed expensive perfume in

a huge cloud. The Doctor, Yaroslavskiy and the others fell

hurriedly back as the Warrior landed on the wall, expecting it

to fire madly with the gun. Instead, it thrashed furiously,

screaming, as the offensive, overpowering smell tortured its

sensitive nasal membranes. Soon, its balance was lost and it

toppled noisily into the square, clawing at its own muzzle.

It was Major Bugayev who strolled up to it and emptied a

whole magazine into its head. It needed that much to stop it

moving.

Chapter Five

Aphrodite

‘Trap a butterfly in your hands, and she’ll beat her wings until they break; then her beauty will have passed the way of her freedom.’

Aphrodite, in a plea to her judges.

Aphrodite called out, ‘Wait!’ as the four searchers withdrew,

projecting her voice specifically at the German officer. ‘Surely you have wounded? My friend and I are trained nurses!’

‘That’s right!’ Liz echoed, perhaps a touch too fast. Of

course, her medical qualifications were exemplary and she

could well imagine Aphrodite kindly administering to the sick

and injured. Her friend had evidently pitched her claim at

‘nurses’ in the hope that Liz could reasonably feign a level of training she may not have had; as well as for the simple

purpose of added credibility. In her eagerness, Liz worried that she may have spoiled their slim chance.

The Hauptmann turned rather sleepily. ‘What’s that? You

want to mend our broken men?’ He seemed to find the

proposal amusing, one hand beckoning them into the street.

‘Come out here, would you?’

Aphrodite and Liz edged slowly from the archway,

passing the soldiers with some trepidation. The Hauptmann

nodded encouragingly until, with the women beside him, he

pointed briskly down the road to the right, then the left. The

crumbling walls and holed roofs, the scattered piles of dusty

masonry and splintered glass, the cratered surfaces of once-

proud buildings; it was no more of a community than a

graveyard.

‘What would be the point, hm?’ the Hauptmann asked

them plainly. ‘The Russians will grind the rest of this to a fine powder, which they will bottle and hand back to the

Hungarians, saying “Here, piece it back together!” And they

will try! Not for the first time. I mean, how many times can

you do that? How many? I find it staggering, I do honestly.’

Liz lacked the confidence to supply an answer; she left it

as a problem for Aphrodite to tackle.

‘In the case of a city,’ she conjectured, ‘there is no real

limit. While there are people with sufficient willpower and

devotion to the ideal behind it, a city can always be rebuilt. So long as you accept it can never be the same.’ Aphrodite

assumed a fiery brazenness. ‘Where lives are concerned, the

chances may be more finite, but it’s always worthwhile to try.’

‘You’re wrong. You’re very wrong,’ the Hauptmann

frowned, ignoring Aphrodite’s defiant air. ‘There are limits.

There is a point past which there is no worth in rebuilding,

past which it is better to scrap it all and begin again. I think there are ways of killing a city.’

He was interrupted by a swarm of midge-like planes

droning swiftly overhead; glancing up, he seemed infuriated at

the distraction. ‘Wasps to fend off hawks!’ he spat up at them.

Then he was back, groping again for the topic under

discussion, but had lost his thread; meanwhile, in its stead he found many of his troops waiting anxiously on his command.

‘Oh, take them to the hospital and make sure they’re useful.’

As they moved off, he stopped the soldier in charge of the

staff. ‘Wait here with that.’

Aphrodite and Liz walked humbly, shepherded by the

sergeant and six guards along the street. Liz felt the urgent

need to murmur a few questions to Aphrodite, but the

forbidding faces of their escort argued against the idea.

Aphrodite, for her part, was stealing glances aft and Liz

guessed her to be troubled about the staff. She risked a peek of her own.

The Hauptmann had just slipped an infamous Luger from

its holster.

Aphrodite ignited like a forest fire: blazing past the barrier

formed by their guards, she tore over the cobbles to the

gateway. Her inflamed yells alerted the staff-bearer, but the

Hauptmann’s expression was placid as he raised the pistol and

ejected a sharp succession of shots into the archway. Liz heard the heavy thump when the horse fell and she saw Aphrodite

fall to her knees as though the life had gone out of her as well.

Liz moved to help, but powerful hands locked around her arms

and anchored her in place. The sergeant jammed the sub-

machine-gun in her side, while the four others tramped back

and heaved Aphrodite onto her feet. She fought their restraint

with a passion, until one soldier lost patience with the struggle and jammed the butt of his rifle into her stomach. She doubled

up, her breath wheezing painfully.

Two soldiers moved in to lift her again, but she stood on

her own – and by the time she was on her feet, although she

was hugging her abdomen, her eyes were warning them off.

Even the Hauptmann, as he strolled up, shied subtly from her

direct gaze.

He gave his best attempt at a laugh. ‘You’ve messed up

her face, look,’ he complained to the troopers. ‘There’s red

around the eyes and the mouth is all twisted.’ He let his fake

smile drop. ‘Take them to the hospital, and don’t let them give you any more trouble! An injured man likes a nurse to behave

nicely. Come on, move!’

Liz, a lump in her throat, was turned to face the front and

pushed into a hurried march. She heard Aphrodite dragging

her steps. Suddenly, casting caution to the wind and worming

her way around, Liz shifted to Aphrodites’s side and took

much of her weight. There was a protest in her eyes, but Liz

wasn’t about to take no for an answer. The troops, the

Hauptmann included, offered no objections and seemed

content as long as they were still moving along.

In fact, it was the Hauptmann who stopped their small

procession and he scanned the skies.

At his barked command, the guards herded them along at a

run; Aphrodite held fast to Liz’s hand and suddenly it was

unclear who was offering support to whom. The roaring whine

overhead announced the return of the planes and even Liz’s

untrained eye could distinguish these from the ubiquitous

Messerschmitts they had witnessed earlier. Although the

shark-nosed fuselage was unfamiliar, the tail, emblazoned

with the red star, was the only identification necessary. Diving and swooping, the aircraft raked Castle Hill with shells and

loosed bombs over buildings and defences.

Small arms fire and thudding flak pocked the sky, but

scared off only one of the squadron, its wing trailing smoke.

The Hauptmann found another gateway in which to shelter

and the troops ducked quickly inside, pulling their captives

with them. One arm wrapped around the still silent Aphrodite,

Liz peered down the street, gritting her teeth against the blasts that rocked the ground. Through the dust, the vision of the

same house in which the Doctor had disappeared reached her

stunned eyes. The house that had sat so alone on the hill –

centuries before. Nestled in between the other buildings, she

was sure it had to be a mirage.

As if to convince her otherwise, one of the Russian planes

walked its bombs along that entire line of roofs – and blew

that particular house into a cloud of dust and chippings.

‘Did you have to be quite so spiteful about it, Major?’ The

question was a reproof, tempered by the Doctor’s gratitude for

Bugayev having saved his life.

‘You’re damned right I did!’ the Soviet officer exploded

predictably. He holstered his pistol. ‘Next time you come

across one of those things –’ he gestured at the dead Kagyrn ‘

– I’ll stand back and you can mollify it with pleasant

conversation and Earl Grey tea! If you’ve any intentions of

preaching humanity to me, then forget them right now, Doctor.

You’re welcome to the moral highground, as long as you

occupy it quietly and leave me to do my job. When I know the

necessary action, I take it!’

The Doctor hopped down the steps to the level of the

square, allowing Bugayev to cool. ‘Actually, I should think

one of the more piquant Chinese varieties would be more to its

taste.’

‘What?’ Bugayev was rarely nonplussed and disliked the

sensation intensely.

‘Tea, Major. Tea!’ The Doctor crouched to examine the

Warrior’s corpse, using the first seconds to remove the power

source from its plasma rifle. Discarding the gun, he proceeded

to fiddle with the belt and located a small pouch hanging

alongside the weapons. He plucked it from its tether and stood.

By now the OGRON troops had gathered closer and he opened

the pouch in plain view of several interested faces.

He tipped a tiny book into his palm. ‘Well, well, well.’

Bugayev leaned in and fingered the miniature volume.

‘What is it?’

‘Poetry,’ asserted the Doctor, riffling the pages to display

leaf after leaf of pictograms. ‘Ballads, to be more precise. The poetry is inherent in the patterns formed by the symbols. It’s

one of the few aspects of Kagyrn culture that relies on

symmetry. Rather edifying, too.’

‘You mean,’ Bugayev piped, ‘that thing read verse? And

you understand it?’

‘Well, in answer to your first question, yes. They’re highly

civilised, remember; the warriors used to craft their own

armour and weapons.’ The Doctor scratched his cheek. ‘As to

the second, only after a serious effort of translation. No, I

meant it was enlightening that our friend here possessed this in the first place. These are the Poems of the Dead: ballads of

great deeds and events from Ancient Kagyrn history.’ He let

the significance hang in the air in front of the Major, like a

carrot.

‘I see,’ understood Bugayev. ‘So this is a modern Kagyrn, after all.’

‘I did wonder about the one I faced in the house. I thought

it was a shade off-colour, so to speak.’ The Doctor indicated

the vanquished Warrior at his feet. ‘Then, when this chap

proved on the soft side, as well –’

‘Now, wait a minute, Doctor!’ Bugayev was furious at

seeing his own victory belittled; some of the men were

restless, too.

The Doctor was deadly serious. ‘Listen to me! I’m not

robbing you of your victory, and most of all I’m not making

light of that man’s death! These creatures are quite dangerous

enough, I assure you.’ He subsided into reflection. ‘But their

ancestors wouldn’t have given us any quarter. None

whatsoever. The old Kagyrn had a totally alien code of

honour; one that centred on sheer quantity of kills and the

understanding that they never gave an enemy an even chance.

They would see to it that their weapons’ power packs were

thoroughly exhausted before they even thought to wade in

with their blades and battleaxes. They didn’t hunt; they

massacred.

‘This one was baited into a duel, while the other sheathed

its weapons when it saw I was unarmed. And now I think of it,

the Kagyrn of old were reputed to breathe fire and all mine

could manage was a puff of gas. They’ve lost some of their

physical abilities as well as much of the fighting – or killing –

instinct. They’re simply emulating the great Warriors of

yesteryear.’ The Doctor deposited the book in a jacket pocket

and looked thoughtfully down at the dead Kagyrn. ‘Still, as I

say, quite dangerous enough.’

Major Bugayev surveyed his men as he absorbed the

various implications.

He noticed Zhelnin. ‘Ah, Lieutenant. Have the Hungarian

police attend to Narmanov. Take Yaroslavskiy and Chistyakov

with you and meet us back at the house.’ Watching the men

go, he returned to the Doctor. ‘See, I’ve decided to follow

your suggestion. We will use the house.’

‘Good. I’d better get to work on some form of control.’

‘Yes, just one thing, Doctor. What would inspire your

modern, civilised Kagyrn to start imitating their ancestors?’

‘Well,’ said the Doctor sardonically, ‘I sincerely hope it’s

nothing more than a surge of nostalgia; but as hopes go, it’s

remarkably thin.’ Leaving the Major to attend to the small

detail of the dead Kagyrn, he made a beeline across the square, his mind now firmly focused on the time-travelling house in

Tárnok Street.

The Hauptmann wasted no time in installing his prisoners in

the makeshift auxiliary hospital that occupied one wing of the

Royal Palace, thus ridding himself of a considerable burden.

The various staff officers en route had given the man his way

without a great deal of argument and, in less time than

expected, Liz and Aphrodite were left to their own devices in

the musty ward. The few medical staff present were too busy

to offer guidance or query their sudden arrival; a state of

affairs that was destined to continue as, when the Russian

aircraft had relented, the artillery had resumed its merciless

barrage. Aphrodite had launched herself immediately into

ministering to the wounded, while Liz busied herself with

more menial chores, making time she urgently needed to

collate her thoughts.

The hospital was not the best environment for

introspection, however. Plaster chippings crunched underfoot

wherever she moved and a biting draught whipped in where a

broken window had been loosely covered with a section of

tarpaulin. Mattresses lay on the floor between the beds and

only narrow aisles remained between them, the patients

coughing or groaning in response to anyone passing by; only

the luckiest snored and the least fortunate cried in constant

pain. Dust coiled in the air, belying the pretence of hygiene,

and Liz’s thoughts followed the same endless spirals.

She watched Aphrodite changing the dressing on a young

girl’s mangled arm. The girl was a tawny-complexioned

Hungarian and one of the fortunate handful of civilians on the

ward; proof that the Hauptmann was not the only class of

German on the hill. The child’s black hair was matted and her

little face too pale, but she seemed happier for Aphrodite’s

attentions.

Liz approached doctor and patient carefully, crouching

next to Aphrodite. Not quite sure how the language barrier

now operated, she whispered to keep her words from the girl.

‘You know, you shouldn’t become emotionally involved.’

‘I’ve no real choice,’ lamented Aphrodite resignedly. She

smoothed the child’s hair back from her brow. ‘It’s the way

I’m made.’

They rose and the girl slipped peacefully into sleep,

smiling at dreams to come. Liz rested a hand on Aphrodite’s

arm. ‘I don’t know how you do it. You have a real gift.’

Aphrodite bowed her head and cast her gaze along the

ward. ‘It’s a mixed blessing, Liz.’

‘What is it? Have I said something wrong?’

‘No, nothing wrong,’ Aphrodite brightened with a friendly

laugh. ‘We have enough problems already, if you ask me.’

‘I admire your power of understatement,’ Liz

complimented. ‘You saw the wreck of that house. I’d thought

it was impossible to feel any more cut off until that happened.

Now the Doctor has no way of reaching me.’ The emphasis

was to differentiate the new situation from whatever remote

chance the Doctor had of reaching her previously.

‘Liz. Set your mind at rest. It may be, from what you said

about the house, that it will just skip by the moments where it doesn’t properly exist, where its history is interrupted.

Remember, it dropped you in the tenth century, even though it

had no right to be there.’ Aphrodite clicked her tongue

meditatively. ‘I’m afraid I’m a strict amateur in this field. I’m better at matters of the heart than temporal physics. And not

always a mistress of the former.’ She dismissed the

recollection with a flick of her head. ‘Anyway, stay with me

and I promise I’ll get you home.’

‘Aphrodite...’ Liz saw an earlier suspicion surfacing and

decided to plunge in at the deep end. ‘What would you say if I

asked you how many hearts you had?’

Aphrodite smiled a curious smile and touched a hand to

her chest. ‘Only the one. It’s the star I steer by.’

Árpád was livid at having to cut short a speech to his clan

leaders. Huba’s intrusion had disrupted their council more

effectively than a winter’s blizzard. For the sake of form,

though, he controlled his temper all the while they filed from

his hut, conscious that any signs of division among the Seven

would carry to the rank-and-file.

As soon as they had gone, the gates opened under the full

force of his anger.

‘ How dare you! ’ his voice boomed from the other side of the fire. ‘Chieftain you are, friend you may still be, but even you, Huba, must accord me the proper respect!’ He stepped closer to the flames, trying to perceive some hint that Huba

was withering under his wrath; but the younger chieftain stood

firm, bull-faced as ever. ‘So there is something troubling you.

Speak it!’

Huba waited, declaring a resolution to begin in his own

time.

‘Troubling me, you say?’ he finally spat. ‘Troubling us, Árpád! Tell me you don’t feel the sickness that festers in us

all. No, you’re colouring your skin with dyes to hide the

pallor!’ Huba advanced on the burning pyre. ‘Listen to the

way you speak about friends! Do we have need of such words

any more? They ring false in my ears!’

Árpád paced around the fire to meet Huba on his side.

‘Why false, Huba?’

‘Why?!’ Huba seethed and stammered: he had never

considered the possibility of Árpád’s ignorance. ‘Because –

because I am wondering what we are. There was a sense in me

before that we roamed and conquered and raided as a way of

life. It was all we knew. And now we have our Magyaria, there are other possibilities in our reach. But you – you want

us to fulfil this pact! This compact with devils!’ Huba played a fist over the fire. ‘Conquest for its own sake! Árpád, can you

really believe that to be right? You and your wolf-demons are transforming the tribes into nothing more than wild packs; and

I’m forced to ask, are we still men?’

Árpád enjoyed a throaty laugh. ‘Huba, I know what you

ask yourself! You beg desperately to know if your “wolf-

demon” has absconded with your soul. Fool, you never even

had one.

‘How easily your sword used to slip between the ribs of

man or woman! How you cheered as you torched every hut

and hovel! How readily you speared the slaves that failed to

satisfy! How you drank to celebrate every slaughter! And now

you choke on the blood you’ve spilled?’ Árpád poisoned his

laugh with scorn. ‘Some woman has shed her soft light on

your black heart and now you see values that were never there!’

‘No!’ Huba denied vigorously, before countering with a

quieter vehemence. ‘How you know of her is of no

consequence; but she is not to blame. It is you, Árpád, who

brought these creatures upon the Earth; you, who assigned

each as a guardian to your allies; you, who gave me a

demonic spy to watch over my shoulder.

‘Well, now your precious spy wanders in some –’ Huba

groped for the phrase ‘-half-death, to which I am chained.

There is no breaking the bond, maybe, but I will catch it when

it is flesh and slay it like a sick dog. Then I will be free, while you, Árpád, are still bound to your master. Yes, you, too, are a slave; but to something more terrible than any of us!’

‘Take care your intelligence does you no harm,’ Árpád

warned.

Huba was immune to threats. ‘Until you rediscover your

own sense, I relinquish my stake in our alliance. Send word of

your improved health to the forest. I will be hunting there.’

‘Huba,’ Árpád’s call stopped the younger chieftain in the

doorway. ‘Pass my greetings to Tétény when you see him in

the forest. I dispatched him there with his guardian to scour for the staff and your woman. It would be unfortunate if your

hunts were to cross.’

Huba was not deterred. ‘No, it would be propitious. I

fancy Tétény’s dog will prove easier to kill than mine.’

With a grim smile, Huba departed and Árpád watched the

door for a long time after he had gone.

Bugayev could never have any idea of the fact, but it was

Tétény’s ‘dog’ that had presented him with such a headache

when it came to the matter of disposal. In the end, he elected

to strip it of its armour and burn the body. The smell of smoke lingered on his uniform as he strode into the Tárnok house.

The Doctor looked up from his work. ‘Ah, Major! Your

men have been most useful, thank you.’

The Doctor sat on the hallway floor, his side propped

against one wall as he pressed his ear to the plaster; in one

hand he held a slim tubular device with a ring-shaped nodule

on its tip. Every so often, he would thumb a contact, listen,

then move the device to another spot on the wall. He ignored

the general hubbub of soldiers moving through the house and

particularly overlooked the possibility that Bugayev might

want an explanation.

The Major, who detested mystery, perched himself on the

stairs and broke in on the Doctor’s concentration. ‘That’s an

intriguing little gadget, Doctor. What does it do?’

The Doctor sighed and reluctantly downed tools; he

appreciated that Bugayev’s tolerance level would stretch

nowhere near as far as the Brigadier’s. ‘At the moment, it’s

firing minute sonic pulses into the wall space.’

Taking the Russian’s silence as leave to continue, the

Doctor set at the wall again, probing another position with the sonic screwdriver.

‘So you’re attempting to stun rats, are you?’

‘Firing sonic pulses into the wall,’ the Doctor replied, this

time engrossed in his work, ‘will help me to map out the

house’s control circuitry. I had your chaps go around

thumping every surface until they found this. A spot of echo-

location should fine-tune their discovery somewhat. So, if

you’ll excuse me, Major, I’ll carry on with my very poor

impersonation of a bat.’

‘You’re too self-critical, Doctor. It’s a very good

impersonation of a lunatic,’ chaffed Bugayev.

‘ Lunatic. Yes,’ grunted the Doctor. ‘Just another example of mankind’s perpetual fascination with the Moon. Connects

rather well with her association with lycanthropy.’

‘Lycanthropy?’ Bugayev was unprepared for the change of

subject.

‘Werewolves, Major. Or didn’t you think our friend was

close enough to the classical image of a werewolf? An horrific

merging of man and beast. Homo Lupus, whereas what we

have here is more Lupus Sapiens.’ The Doctor tapped his chin

with the screwdriver. ‘You know, werewolves often go hand-

in-hand with vampires – or paw in claw, at any rate. That

might be the explanation behind the blood-drinking myth.’

Pleased with himself, the Doctor bent his head to the wall

again.

Bugayev ruminated a short while. Then the simplest of

ideas dawned: ‘Werewolves, eh? Would silver bullets be of

any help?’

‘Hmm,’ the Doctor gave the suggestion due consideration.

He shook his head. ‘No. Only about as effective as any other

bullets, I should imagine: they have to get through that

armour. No, what you need is Depleted Uranium.’

‘Depleted Uranium bullets?’ Bugayev knew the concept

was absurd.

‘Shells, Major,’ the Doctor elucidated. ‘Depleted Uranium

shells.’

‘We really have to get out of here,’ whispered Liz, unnerved

by the inescapable sadness that pervaded the ward.

‘Oh, I agree,’ Aphrodite murmured under her breath. She

and Liz moved further down the line so as not to attract

unwanted attention; most of the surgeons and doctors with any

authority had rushed off to the surgery to deal with the new

intake, but a few of the nurses regarded the two newcomers

with distrust.

‘But we can’t leave without Zsusza. I can’t, anyway.’

Liz could understand Aphrodite’s qualifier, but she found

it impossible to imagine them making any sort of getaway

with an injured orphan under their wing. Of course, if the new

batch of wounded included any officers, space would be

needed and the pitiful collection of civilians would be

relocated somewhere even less savoury than here. It was going

to be an uphill battle to argue practicalities in the face of that harsh prospect; especially to Aphrodite. Still, Liz saw one

possibility.

‘Listen, if we found out the exact date and time, couldn’t

you come back and rescue her. I mean, before anything could happen to her. In the house. If we can figure out how to work

it.’ Encouraged by a faint glimmer in Aphrodite’s eyes, Liz

added, ‘I’ll help, I honestly will. But right now, we have to run out of here, probably being shot at. Later, we’ll be able to step out of a filing cabinet or a police box and step straight back

in.’

‘Police box?’ quizzed Aphrodite, but her grin seemed to

imply she was converted. ‘We also have to recover the staff,

though.’

‘I was afraid you’d bring that up,’ Liz groaned, then

presented a frost-coated smile for one of the suspicious nurses who hovered in earshot. The nurse bustled away to another

bedside. ‘You do realise it’s the property of a goddess?

Athena. She might want it back.’

‘Precisely, Liz. And think how upset she’ll be when she

finds out it’s disappeared to some private vault in Berlin. If we suddenly skip back a thousand years, it could end up in South

America before we locate it again.’

Liz followed Aphrodite along the aisle. ‘Alright, what if

we reported the Hauptmann?’

‘For keeping the staff? Yes, he probably has stowed it

away – I’d say like a magpie, if I didn’t think they were such

beautiful birds.’ Aphrodite paused at the head of Zsusza’s

mattress. ‘It’s worth a try.’

‘Even if he hasn’t kept it, we can find out where it is. The

rest we’ll have to improvise.’ Liz bit her lip. ‘Sounds

incredibly risky, but I feel like we’re taking a risk every

minute we stay here.’

‘Unfortunately,’ sighed Aphrodite as she knelt to kiss the

child’s forehead, ‘so is everybody. At least we have the

freedom of choice. Our presence here is an accident, but the

history must be left intact. Luckily, there’s nothing to say we can’t make a small difference.’ She stood and, digging into a

pocket in her skirt, she produced a small bottle of scent with a spray-cap. ‘And luckily, the guards didn’t search too

thoroughly.’

‘I don’t think Chanel will cut any ice with the Hauptmann

– or his superiors.’

‘Neither do I,’ Aphrodite promised Liz faithfully. ‘Come

on.’

The Doctor stepped back and admired his handiwork; it was a

rectangle rendered in blue chalk on the wall, its knife-straight boundaries indicative of a superlatively steady hand. The

Doctor had acquired the chalk from the billiard room at the

rear of the house. ‘Well, what do you think?’

‘Lieutenant Zhelnin! Fetch the cutting equipment from the

APC!’ Bugayev was obviously reserving judgement till later.

He followed Zhelnin’s brisk exit with his eyes.

‘Better tell him to hurry,’ advised the Doctor. ‘We could

be in a different century by the time he comes back.’

‘Yes, the house does seem to drift of its own accord,’

mused Bugayev, although his expression advertised an attempt

to fish for answers. ‘Like my APC occasionally.’

‘Similar effect, superficially, but not the same cause, I’ll

warrant.’ The Doctor folded his arms and sat down once more,

this time with his back to the wall. Thinking.

‘This house is part of a purpose-built apparatus for endless

transits back and forth through Time. I couldn’t say why it

drifts, exactly; perhaps because the owner isn’t home.’

‘Or perhaps because the owner wants it to.’

‘That would be the more paranoid viewpoint, yes.’ The

Doctor rested his elbows on his knees. ‘Now, our slip into

1956, on the other hand was –’

‘Was part of the localised temporal effect! Yes, you were

going to explain about that.’ Bugayev settled on the stairs, an impatient audience.

Two soldiers traipsed by, lugging a pair of elongated

boxes. Bugayev showed his annoyance briefly, then flashed a

gratified smile as the men stacked the containers in the lounge.

‘Heavy artillery?’ the Doctor yawned. He found déjà vu

extremely tiring.

‘Don’t evade the question,’ Bugayev persisted, some of his

earlier severity returning to the fore.

‘Well, I only hope you can stomach the answer, Major,’

cautioned the Doctor, still temporising to the last. ‘You see, I believe we’re experiencing a highly brittle temporal field.

Think of local time as a pane of glass that’s recently been

struck by a stone. Time has been cracked somehow and the

fabric is weakening. Are you with me so far?’

The Major affirmed strenuously. ‘Of course. It’s a fairly

simple philosophical analogy. Can you spell out the

connection – between that and the physical effects we’ve

experienced?’

‘Gladly. You’ve a box of matches, haven’t you?’ The

Doctor held up his hands and caught the little box as the Major tossed it across. ‘Thank you. Now, you’ll need to understand

that Time does a good deal more than merrily tick by.’ He

began laying out a string of matches on the floor beside him.

‘Imagine each of these matches as an equal period of time;

years, minutes, seconds, whichever you prefer. The exact

interval doesn’t matter.’ His line was complete. ‘Time, you

see, is the governing force that maintains that straight line;

connects the end of one moment to the beginning of the next

and so on. In much the same way as gravity telling you which

way is down.’

‘Believe it or not, I’m with you,’ said Bugayev, suddenly

craving a cigarette.

‘So if some catastrophe, some impact, say, on the temporal

axis, struck with sufficient force to disrupt those connections in any specific region – your line begins to disintegrate.’ The Doctor shifted a few matches arbitrarily up and down the

ordered row. ‘Just as the effects of a broken pane of glass are progressive – with the wind or the passage of a truck knocking

more splinters free – so the same goes with our temporal

fracture. The sequence is jumbled with increasing regularity,

until’

‘Until?’ The Major was hooked.

Scooping up all the matches in both hands, the Doctor

promptly scattered them in an untidy heap, traversing each

other in all directions. ‘Until we’re ready for a cosmic game of Pick-Up-Sticks!’

Aphrodite and Liz passed smoothly from the ward without

incident. Their heels tapped like leisurely castanets under the corridor’s high ceiling. In less than a minute, they stepped

through the door that partitioned the hospital wing from the

remainder of the Palace. A single guard barred their way, an

assault rifle across his chest.

‘Go back in there!’ he commanded severely. ‘You are not

permitted here!’

‘But we want to see the – Oberst,’ Liz pleaded, recalling

the rank from a television serial. Whether she had referred to

the CO or not, she thought an Oberst would adequately

intimidate the Hauptmann.

‘I’ve even made myself up for him,’ joined in Aphrodite;

and deftly sprayed a misty vapour over her extended wrist.

She held the arm up to the guard. ‘Do you suppose he’ll like

that? Do please take us to see him.’

As soon as the guard took one involuntary sniff, secretly

amenable to the idea of two women flirting with him, he found

he had no strength to refuse them anything. All the aggression

simply flooded from his face and left him peaceably pliant.

‘That’s quite some tranquilliser,’ Liz commended

Aphrodite.

‘Pacifier, I call it,’ Aphrodite confided, but placed a finger

over her lips.

‘Tranquilliser? Pacifier? What’s that?’ the guard was full

of questions, worried by what he had heard but unable to feel

angry about it.

‘Medical supplies,’ Aphrodite filled in hastily. ‘That’s

what we wish to see the Oberst about. Will you take us?

Please?’

‘Very well,’ the guard acquiesced. ‘This way.’ He

shouldered his rifle and led them down a right fork in the

corridor.

Presently, he knocked on a large door and ushered them

into a well-furnished office, where both Liz and Aphrodite

took careful note of the calendar and the clock on the wall. A

young adjutant rose from his comfortable chair, behind the

great walnut desk, ready to confront the soldier who had

ushered them in here. Aphrodite and Liz immediately

launched into their entirely different story concerning the

Hauptmann’s private treasure hoard; a tale which caused the

guard to wonder that the women had not told him as much, but

which earned them a ten-minute audience with Oberst

Schiller.

A pan-faced man with flecks of white in his dark

eyebrows, he listened to their account with obdurate

impartiality. At the end, he ordered the guard to fetch

Hauptmann Gottlieb at once, and threw in a demand that the

Hauptmann bring whatever treasure he had recovered with

him. The wait passed in uncomfortable silence.

When the Hauptmann finally appeared, he marched

smartly in with the staff in his hand. ‘You sent for me, Herr

Oberst? I was just on my way over with this relic we

recovered from looters today.’

Liz knew better than to interrupt, but Aphrodite had no

such inhibition. ‘That’s a complete lie! Surely you can’t

believe him, Oberst Schiller?’

Oberst Schiller was a while in restoring his composure. ‘I

am well aware of the Hauptmann’s failings, thank you, miss.’

He directed his flat eyes at the Hauptmann. ‘Perhaps you had

better tell me a less flimsy story, Hauptmann Gottlieb. Your

record needs something with more substance. The ladies claim it was their property, but that they were willing to hand it over in exchange for food and shelter.’

Hauptmann Gottlieb’s agitation climbed sharply, as

though the mention of his record had touched an open sore.

‘ Herr Oberst, these ladies are the looters! They almost fooled me with their oh-so-pretty faces.’ A look from the Oberst

cowed him slightly, but he continued, ‘They have no papers

and I would have shot them, but –’

‘They say,’ Oberst Schiller pointed out, ‘you confiscated their papers on some pretext of your own; told them to collect

them from your personal quarters.’

‘Of course they say that!’ the Hauptmann dismissed his

superior outright. He walked behind Aphrodite and Liz, poked

his head between their shoulders. ‘Slanderous bitches!’ He

pushed his way through them to the front, both women

shrinking from the brush of his uniform. ‘Well, Herr Oberst, I

am handing over this treasure, whomever you choose to

believe. I hope my honest actions count for something.’ He

shrugged and waved the staff nervously. ‘It’s certain I have no use for this. If you ask me, none of us have. We’ll be so much

dust by the time the Russians have finished.’

‘ Hauptmann Gottlieb! ’ The Oberst stood, slamming his

fist on the desk and knocking his chair over. His face was

cherry-purple.

Aphrodite pranced forward and tore the staff from the

Hauptmann’s unthinking fingers. Grasping Liz’s hand, she

danced the staff before the German officers’ eyes like some

mystical wand and her face bore the mysterious smile of an

especially exotic witch. Liz cringed reflexively, expecting at

least the Hauptmann to whip out his pistol and gun them

down. Instead, there was only a kind of blank stare on each of

their faces and Aphrodite led her calmly through the door.

The tin box crashed deafeningly on the hallway floor, spilling

a few of its contents.

‘Careful!’ the Doctor censured the young soldier who had

carried it in. ‘I hope there was nothing delicate in there.’

Major Bugayev laughed heartily. ‘You are joking of

course, Doctor? Those are Russian electronic components! We build everything more robust in the Soviet Union.’

The Doctor began rooting about in the box, selecting any

and every item that seemed remotely promising. ‘Is that so?’

he asked dryly. He made an additional inspection of the

sophisticated nest of circuitry now exposed by the rectangular

hole in the wall. Then he drew out a length of cable and

stretched it between his hands.

‘I tell you,’ Bugayev pursued his line of humour, ‘if a

cosmonaut drops his camera from orbit, he can still have the

pictures developed when he gets home.’

When the Doctor failed to respond, the Major’s serious

side resumed command and he wandered up to crouch at the

holed wall. Puffing on a cigarette, he blew a funnel of smoke

in among the circuitry. ‘How long will it take?’

The Doctor shot needles at this unwelcome pest. ‘A good

deal longer if I have to fill out reports for you! Not to mention rewire this incredibly advanced system because of a few

ruinous smoke particles.’ He beat away another cloud. ‘If you

catch my drift.’

Bugayev grinned almost maliciously, debating whether to

remain. Instead, he rose and headed for the lounge. ‘Let me

know when you’re done.’

Aphrodite kept them to a swift pace as they retraced their steps to the auxiliary ward. Liz was bursting with questions, but

sense and the occasional German guard commanded her

patience to the fore. Sharp calls for them to halt, particularly in the longer corridors, would echo after them, but the shouts

would chase them around corners, as though directed at their

shadows. As though by the time the guards had heard them

they had passed them by.

They were hurrying their pace, but Liz was fairly sure they

hadn’t broken the sound barrier.

They entered the ward, where even the least busy

attendants failed to notice them. Aphrodite headed straight for Zsusza and asked Liz to gently lift her, stroking the girl’s

forehead all the while. The girl slept peacefully in her new

cradle.

Then Aphrodite led them out of the hospital wing, and Liz

saw heads turning, as though at their entrance. When they

were making their exit, and turning on a course for the main

door, through which the Hauptmann had so roughly herded

them earlier. A now distant shout arose from the direction of

the hospital: ‘Hey! What do you think you’re doing with that

girl?!’

‘Taking her to safety,’ Aphrodite trilled in reply, chiefly to

herself. But their boots were crunching over the gravel, and

they stepped smartly along a line of cars. Aphrodite ignored

the sentries; near the vehicles or tucked inside rings of

sandbags, they might have been statues for all their concern.

One junior officer, waiting beside the rugged body of a

Kubelwagen, appeared almost bored as he searched the sky.

So Aphrodite relieved him of his keys as she passed. She

slipped into the back seat of the car, carefully taking Zsusza

from Liz in exchange for the keys. Thus assigned the role of

driver, Liz jumped in and gunned the engine without delay.

She reversed out and spun the wheel to steer them at the main

gateway. The car bruised its square nose on the splintered

barrier.

Belated shouts erupted in frantic succession behind them

and were soon joined by still angrier bursts of gunfire. Bullets chipped furiously at the road in their wake, before they

eventually dipped out of sight. They were whizzing along a

half-demolished street.

‘We ought to have picked up a street map,’ Liz moaned as

she powered the little car around the next bend.

‘Don’t worry, I know where to head for. Take a – left here

and that will take us off Castle Hill,’ Aphrodite’s voice called out encouragingly.

‘You know your way around,’ remarked Liz as she

followed the directions.

‘I came to the area to visit friends. Straight down here

now! Then away from the river!’

‘And the Germans, I hope.’ Liz concentrated on her

driving, almost ready to ignore the occasional shot that rang

out behind them. ‘What did you do to them?’

‘Tunnel vision,’ Aphrodite explained distractedly, her eyes

resting on Zsusza’s waking smile. The staff rolled back and

forth at her feet; she tapped it with her toe. ‘This fixed their senses a minute or so into the past. It seems to respond well to a woman’s touch, wouldn’t you say?’

Liz suspected the staff wouldn’t respond to just any

woman’s touch – but she let that one go for the present. They

were ripping away from the city at a rate of knots both

frightening and reassuring. She drove them on, according to

Aphrodite’s intuitive navigation, and they were soon cutting

between the extensive tracts of forest that spilled over the

Buda Hills. The boom of artillery had resumed over the city

and Liz suspected that the Germans had ceased to worry over

the stolen field car. She only hoped they didn’t run into any

Russians, but Aphrodite soon advised her to take a track off

the road, burrowing them safely under the cover of the woods.

After they had sustained a healthy collection of bruises

from their bumpy ride, Aphrodite told her, ‘Stop the car here,

Liz.’ Liz complied willingly, even though here was nowhere.

The track had long since faded under a carpet of grass and

broadened a little, although barely enough to be called a

clearing. ‘Wait a while. They’ll find us.’

‘Who – ?’ began Liz, but Aphrodite was hugging Zsusza

as close as her wounds allowed, brushing back her hair with a

mother’s touch. Liz watched as the child’s spirits lifted with

every caress, quite forgetting the cold of the Hungarian winter that hovered outside the car.

‘I thought we were going to come back for her, at a later

date. Well, the same date, but later.’ Liz realised she was

struggling. ‘You’re well-versed in time travel, you must know

what I mean.’

‘I do. And for a moment I was persuaded. You have a very

practical mind.’ She bent her head to plant a kiss on the girl’s forehead. ‘But I know I’m too easily swayed, too often. I have

to listen very carefully to my own heart, to know my own

course. The trouble is,’ she added, flashing a glance that

conveyed only deeper mystery, ‘my heart isn’t always my

own.’

Liz sat quietly, studying her companion and trying to

reason what that could possibly mean.

A tap at the windscreen stopped her heart. Only when it

beat again could she turn to look.

A swarthy-skinned man leaned in close to the driver’s

side, the lines on his face almost as deep and dark as his long, straggly hair. The muzzle of a rifle poked up above the level

of his shoulder and a golden ring gleamed from the lobe of one

ear. Liz saw others behind him, armed and standing amidst the

surrounding trees.

Aphrodite patted Liz on the shoulder. ‘Relax, Liz. They’re

friends.’

The man hooked a hand over the rim of the door, fingers

as stark and gnarled as the forest’s winter branches. His keen

eyes had already assessed the driver and both passengers. He

withdrew a step or two and invited the women out with a

laugh and an outstretched arm. Liz opened the door and slid

out, then turned to lend Aphrodite some assistance with the

incredibly calm little girl. Liz retrieved the staff from the car while Aphrodite faced the man and his grizzly company.

‘My name is Aphrodite Diamante. I am a friend of the

gypsies.’ The address, formal in structure, was laced with

affection in its delivery. Liz marvelled again at her friend and then at the effect she produced in the man.

He strode up and leaned over Zsusza to kiss Aphrodite’s

cheek. He retreated and slightly bowed his head, removing the

woollen hat that guarded his rough, dark hair. He sighed,

gesturing mournfully at his ragged band of fighters. ‘Ah, but

we are gypsies no more. When there is nowhere safe to roam,

we must become soldiers.’

Aphrodite’s gentle face tilted, wounded with sadness. The

words seemed to dry in her mouth.

The man hushed her, lifting a finger to his lips. ‘This, I

suppose, is the end. But you are a tale I remember happily.’

Aphrodite forced a smile and lifted her eyes. She cast a

glance at Liz, then another at Zsusza and another at the man.

‘Please, will you take her and care for her? Find her a safe

home.’

‘It will be our very next mission,’ he replied without

hesitation, nodding eagerly at both Aphrodite and Liz.

‘István!’ He beckoned one of the partisans forward and, after

giving the girl a farewell kiss, Aphrodite eased Zsusza into the young man’s arms.

‘We have to go,’ Aphrodite stammered out an apology.

She took Liz’s hand and turned, guiding her away along the

path and out through the solemn ring of men. She trained her

face on the ground, never daring to gaze back. But Liz,

peering anxiously around at her, could see and somehow feel

the two shades of her grief: like the loss of a daughter and the death of a family.

The forest lost its wintry desolation somewhere along their

path, and it only required a brief inspection of Aphrodite’s

rallying spirits to confirm that the trees now surrounding them presided over a quieter century.

‘When did that happen?’ Liz wondered.

And Aphrodite looked about her with an air of someone

who – somehow – took the crossing of a few centuries in her

stride. ‘A few seconds ago, a few paces back.’ Their progress

was helped by the rather springy turf, Aphrodite filled her

lungs as if emerging from a prolonged swim in foul waters. ‘I

was beginning to wonder when the Staff would allow us

back.’

‘Well, I have to envy you. You take it all very easily.’

‘No, Liz. Far from it. The waters are running together. It’s

all very wrong.’

Around them, the forest was alive with the rustle of leaves

and the trees stretched full limbs in the refreshing air. Under the cloudy light of day, she could see down the steeper slopes

to the east and the blue-grey ribbon of water rippling between

hills and plains. Occasionally, the roof of a house jutted up

like a tiny arrowhead amongst the trees or from behind the

brow of a hill. Thankfully, there were no signs of men in the

immediate vicinity.

Aphrodite strolled along, a renewed vitality observable in

her step. Liz fell comfortably in beside her. ‘And I really

thought you’d mastered the art.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Aphrodite admitted a shade guiltily. ‘I thought

I’d managed to wish us away from Huba; but I would never

have chosen that for a destination. Trying to use the staff is all very well, but it’s not mine – it does seem to have a will of its own. Luckily, if it wants to play with us, the reverse is equally true.’ Her thoughts drifted, riding the breeze. ‘But I have a

slight suspicion we weren’t allowed to leave there until we’d met those partisans. Seems fanciful, I know, but...’

‘No crazier than the rest of it,’ commented Liz. Her eyes

were on the woods around her, seeking movement or any

disturbance of the foliage. ‘Is it likely to be safe passing

through here?’

‘Relatively. They were out hunting the Kagyrn and us

most of last night. They’ll be resting most of today.’

Aphrodite spoke with such certitude that Liz was loath to

contend the point.

‘Besides, we won’t be staying here for long. But before we

go, I need to find someone.’

They strolled deeper into the forest and slipped some

distance off the main path, working their way through the

undergrowth. Stealth their watchword, despite Aphrodite’s

confidence, they satisfied themselves with a rather sedate

pace, covering some miles into the verdant hills away from the

Danube. Aphrodite gave the impression she was enjoying the

scenery.

Only on reaching the glade did it occur to Liz to inquire

who were supposed to be looking for. As it happened, it

wasn’t long before the answer came trotting into plain sight.

There was power in the beast, as if night had come to earth

in the form of a horse. It made Liz stand back, feeling a little foolish but not quite able to fight down the nervousness.

‘Bailador,’ said Aphrodite, moving to greet the silk-black

stallion, nose to muzzle, and taking his reins in hand.

Liz stepped up, her admiration overcoming her reticence

in an instant. As fluid as their passage from one century to

another. She patted his great neck, and he snorted and stamped

a hoof as any ordinary horse might. But Liz appreciated all the same that he could never be mistaken for that. His black hide

shimmered and there was an animal wisdom in his eyes that

Liz had only imagined before in a big cat. Perhaps he was

half-panther. ‘He’s magnificent,’ she told Aphrodite.

Aphrodite nodded, mirroring Liz’s smile measure for

measure, then stepped back from the animal and began a

cursory examination of the ground. Apparently satisfied with

the quality, she swept a boot across a bare patch of earth,

finding it suitable for her purposes. Whatever they were.

Humming a tune, she drove the base of the staff into the

ground. All the while Liz watched, the woman’s smile

remained deliberately enigmatic as she seemed to will the

artefact into concealment.

Liz goggled as the staff swam with an earthy texture and

plunged into the ground like an iron bar into water, except for a complete absence of telltale ripples. She gaped at Aphrodite, then closed her mouth. She was sure an explanation would be

forthcoming – soon.

Aphrodite turned and grabbed her horse’s reins, mounting

in one graceful motion. Before Liz knew it, she was offering

her hand and hoisting Liz up behind her. With the lightest kick of her heels and a tug on the reins, she steered the horse into a gentle trot. They were headed for the river.

‘Where are we going?’ Liz asked reasonably, considering

the simplest of the many questions on her mind for the

moment.

‘Another time,’ Aphrodite told her. ‘After a brief stop at

my place.’

And she urged the stallion into a canter, then a gallop,

revelling in the speed and the rhythm and the power beneath

them. And there was no more time for questions or answers,

so Liz just held on. And hoped.

Liz felt as though she’d been away in a dream. There had been

a glittering expanse of lake, regal mountains across the water

and a sprawling hacienda on the near shore. They had risen

from the water like – well, like a couple of Venuses – and

Aphrodite had called it home. She had also called it Paraiso, a name that summed it up perfectly.

Even after all that she’d been through recently, Liz could

scarcely believe she was feeling the warmth of another sun on

her face.

Another world, or merely a dream of one; more than

anything else of late, it felt magical. Passing shuttered

windows and sun-washed terraces, they had crossed a

courtyard, with a fountain and balconies spilling over with

plants, through into an open, airy interior; stucco walls

adorned with artistic flourishes and what might have been

souvenirs from a dozen lives. A Mediterranean mansion.

‘Tell me we’re staying.’ Liz felt the sudden need of a

holiday.

‘Not for long. Sorry. The Earth needs us.’ Aphrodite led

the way into a lounge with a view out over the lake. ‘At least

the Staff seemed to do the trick nicely.’

‘Trick?’ Liz’s eyes were everywhere, exploring every

detail of the dream, but she knew she ought to stay focused on

the matter at hand.

‘Yes, it’s omnitemporal – or monotemporal, depending on

your viewpoint.’

Liz met Aphrodite’s gaze in an acceptable imitation of a

spaniel. ‘Aphrodite, you’re not really helping.’

‘Sorry.’ Aphrodite paused, halfway to a cupboard set in

the wall. ‘To that staff, all times are one. Or, it exists in every time at once, if you prefer.’

‘Until I know a bit more, I can’t really say I’m fussy,’ Liz

told her earnestly. ‘Does this mean you have a better idea of

what’s happening here now?’

‘After a fashion. Time’s normal influence is being

severely disrupted in this area, that’s for certain.’ Aphrodite licked her lips, considering the best analogy. ‘Liz, as a girl, did you ever make daisy chains?’ With that auspicious start,

Aphrodite commenced an explanation to closely rival the

Doctor’s matchbox-lecture to Major Bugayev. In a relatively

short span she had given Liz as clear a picture as she had

herself, and rounded off by adding, ‘So I’m trusting that the

staff, now that it’s secured in one place, will act as a kind of splint. Holding the timeline together.’

‘So that you could use your –’ she looked about the room,

searching for an apposite term but finding none ‘ – own

peculiar method of time travel.’ She beamed, putting a brave

face on what amounted to her best effort to rationalise the

irrational. ‘I see. I think.’

‘Yes, it was that temporal disruption that landed me in the

wrong time. Or the right time. And now,’ said Aphrodite,

reaching for the cupboard door, ‘I should be able to take us to a better time. Somewhere to cheer ourselves up – and meet

some friends of mine.’

Liz pulled at her skirt, testing the length. ‘You don’t

happen to have some spare clothes tucked away in there I

could borrow?’ It didn’t look the sort of place to fit a

wardrobe, but there was surely no harm in asking. ‘I ought to

change, really. I’ve felt a bit conspicuous dashing about

history like this.’

‘No need,’ Aphrodite favoured her with another of her

enigmatic smiles. ‘It’s all part of the magic.’

She threw open the doors. And Liz gazed into a vista of

stars. The whole universe arrayed before her, an infinite

choice of destinations, stretching away into the miraculous,

impossible heart of the villa.

Liz wasn’t known for a delicate constitution, but she did

wonder whether fainting in a dream simply meant she might

wake up.

The return to Earth, passing through the waters of the lake like Alices through a liquid mirror, was as surreal an experience as any Liz had encountered so far. Swimming down, down, down

until they found themselves stepping through onto solid

ground and promenading together along a grassy avenue; Liz

brightening less than she might have hoped in the forest’s

peaceful embrace.

Even here, she was persuaded, a shroud of menace

encroached on the sidelines; a silent spectator to their progress that reminded Liz of the baldly staring eye of the mutilated

Kagyrn. Whether a memory or an existent threat, the fear

invaded the harmony intrinsic to any unspoiled woodland. She

was grateful for Aphrodite’s company and thrilled at the first

sight of their objective.

Ahead, there were voices and flickering camp-fires; there

were men and horses moving like shadow-puppets between

trees; and there were the picturesque outlines of caravans.

‘Gypsies,’ enthused Liz. ‘I should have guessed.’

At least the choice of outfit made sense: she was dressed

similarly to Aphrodite, in an embroidered blouse and

waistcoat, a skirt a good few lengths more than her usual, all

pleats and flounces, and a pair of what felt like riding boots.

She’d learned well enough, at first hand, that history was

anything but a costume party; but the fact that the lake had

wrapped her in its waters to form the fabrics of these clothes

lent a certain magic and an air of pageantry to it all.

‘ Romá men,’ Aphrodite sang the phrase lightly, quietly

celebrating some personal memory. ‘Come and meet one of

my families.’

Aphrodite led the way into the camp and Liz was both

flattered and overwhelmed by the rapturous welcome they

received; Aphrodite, of course, was greeted as a long-lost

sibling with hearty hugs and energetic kisses; while Liz, her

gadzho (non-gypsy) friend, was drawn eagerly into the fold with open affection. In no more than minutes, they were a part

of the community: engaging in chatter around the camp;

helping to prepare the Hungarian gulyás, ladled from a copper cauldron suspended over its own fire; and listening keenly to

the tales of ghosts and ill-fortune infesting the woods.

This last was forgotten, however, at last as the rosy flush

of sky faded to the black of night. Then they were singing and

dancing, Liz clapping as Aphrodite whirled and skipped to the

twists and flourishes of a music that was all fire and life.

And, as Liz’s fears were dispelled at last, she thought, This is my defence.

Chapter Six

The Major

‘Look at the self-willed stubborn head. A real Russian

peasant’s head with a few faintly Asiatic lines. That man will try to overturn mountains. Perhaps he will be crushed by

them. But he will never yield.’

Rosa Luxemburg, speaking of her friend, Lenin

Human ingenuity came in many shapes and sizes, and it struck

the Doctor that a good many of the nastiest forms were laid

across the sofas and coffee-table in the lounge. Hand-held

Rocket-Propelled Grenade launchers, machine-guns and

automatic rifles were all represented by at least one example;

not to mention two cases of grenades and the pièce de

résistance, in the Major’s view: a Surface-to-Air Missile.

Having jury-rigged a manual control panel for the house,

the Doctor had dutifully headed for the lounge to report as

ordered, assessing the scene as he entered. The men were

definitely at-ease and grabbing what rest they could, seated

around the walls since the furniture was occupied by this

considerable arsenal. Major Bugayev, having obviously just

completed a morale-boosting speech to his men, was

conducting a full orchestra in a rousing march and the Doctor

took a moment to locate the record-player in the corner. The

Major looked up at the Doctor’s cough, unabashed but

thoroughly irritated by the interruption.

‘The owner of this house has impeccable taste,’ explained

Bugayev, lifting the needle from the record and switching off

the player. ‘Tchaikovsky, Symphony Number Five in E minor.’

‘I should have expected Pathétique was more your style,’

the Doctor gibed. ‘When are you planning to use all this,

exactly? Or is this an example of the Boy Scouts’ motto?’

Bugayev extracted the record from the deck, handling it

with exquisite care and slipping it back into its sleeve. ‘Since we don’t have a garage and are required to leave our BMP

behind, I thought it prudent to pack a few support weapons. I

hope you don’t mind.’

‘Boy Scouts’ motto, just as I thought!’ confirmed the

Doctor. ‘You know, it strikes me, Major, that the military

mind operates on such similar wavelengths the whole world

over. It’s a wonder you fight each other at all! You should all get along famously!’

‘Ah, but it’s possible we are all so alike that we can only

hate each other!’ pronounced Bugayev victoriously. He was

suddenly contemptuous. ‘That’s the trouble with you pacifists:

you eventually argue yourselves out of existence. Now, if

you’ve finished your work and your lecture , Doctor, can we please be going?’

‘Certainly,’ the Doctor bowed cordially, before exiting. ‘I

just wanted to make sure we had everything – and the kitchen sink!’

‘Aphrodite! Aphrodite! ’ hissed Liz, rocking the woman’s shoulder.

Aphrodite floated gradually up from sleep, fluttering her

eyes open and rubbing them lightly with her fingers. ‘Liz?

What is it?’

Liz inclined her head closer, frightened to wake the whole

camp. ‘I saw it. I saw the ghost Kagyrn in the trees. It’s like it’s following us!’

‘What? Here, now? Are you sure?’ Aphrodite sat upright,

casting her blanket aside. ‘You’re sure.’

They had slept, like many of the gypsies, under the open

air, with the single blanket hardly a necessity on such a balmy night. Now, an eerie breeze was waving tassels of smoke

across their vision from a deadened fire, causing them both to

shiver. There was no proof anywhere of Liz’s sighting, but Liz

knew she hadn’t been dreaming for the simple reason that she

had not really slept.

‘It was the Warrior from the house. The particularly ugly

one that ran off with the staff.’ Liz shuddered with disgust. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever forget that eye – that skull.’

Aphrodite was on her knees. She grabbed Liz by the

shoulders. ‘It’ll be back!’

‘You’re smiling about that?’

‘Listen,’ insisted Aphrodite patiently, hands raised. ‘Huba

swore he’d killed it. He claimed there was blood on his sword.

So our ghost is real some of the time.’ She paused, following a few logical chains a few steps ahead. ‘Now, what if the

goddess Athena didn’t care for grubby Kagyrn paws all over

her staff?’

‘Seems likely,’ Liz conceded, the tapestry still fresh in her

memory. ‘You mean, she installed some defence mechanism

against them?’

‘Why not? Goddesses can manage that sort of thing, I

should imagine.’ Aphrodite was in full flow now. ‘Say it

bound him in some way to the staff. Then the Kagyrn becomes

omnitemporal as well. Except, he can’t, can he? There’s only

enough energy in him to occupy a single moment at a time –

like any of us.’

‘So he ends up spreading himself a good deal thinner – up

and down the timeline.’

‘Well, technically, physics does it for him. He’s constantly

flicking in and out of existence in every time there is, tethered to that staff –’

‘Like a dog on a leash!’ Liz finished adroitly. She

frowned. ‘How does that help us?’

Aphrodite clasped her hands in front of her. ‘It’s just

occurred to me how I might adapt my Pacifier for use against

the Kagyrn. They’re warriors, so they wage war. With any

luck, introduce them to docility and they’ll all go home.’

Liz could follow that train of thought easily enough, but

she reflected that she had somehow missed her connection.

‘And?’

‘Well,’ Aphrodite stalled shyly, ‘before we can put it into

practice we need to do two things. And one of them is to

obtain a blood sample.’

Liz laughed and coughed simultaneously.

Those with untrained eyes would have described the Doctor’s

control panel as a ‘lash-up’, with its ungainly knobs and dials set in the tin box that had originally contained the various

components. Wires ran from underneath to soldered

connections on the more intricate array within the wall; a

tangled mess of string left by a playful kitten.

The Doctor adjusted a knob and watched a dial. ‘Now, this

probably used to function on some telepathic basis. So, if you

can all picture Professor Kameneva in your heads, you might

go some way to enhancing my navigation. I’ll think of Liz.’

Bugayev bent over the Doctor. ‘How will the house know

where they are?’

‘Believe me, Major, there’s very little this house won’t

know. Particularly with regard to its owner.’ The Doctor fixed

his eyes on the readouts and left Bugayev to puzzle over that

minor titbit.

Despite an obvious interest, Bugayev postponed the

question of Melisandra Kameneva and revived another point.

‘Doctor, I’ve been considering this temporal fracture of yours.

If Time is splintering and so on, why is it just us jumping

about? The Mongol and the others we recorded turned out to

be just images – phantoms; but we were really in the Fifties.

Shouldn’t everyone be passing from one century to another, all

mixing together?’

The Doctor finished at the controls. ‘That might very well

happen at the height of the fracture, I don’t know. In our case, some other force must be filling in for us – governing our

subjective timelines while Old Father Time catches forty

winks!’

‘I don’t like the idea of anyone manipulating me,’ said

Bugayev, his voice laced with threats for anyone that could be

listening.

‘Oh, don’t worry, Major, we still have our own free will.

Nothing is living our lives for us; just holding our future in

sequence so we can achieve something useful, I imagine. I’m

rather grateful, to tell you the truth.’

‘I’ll reserve judgement,’ Bugayev vowed. ‘What about

objects, Doctor? Could they slip back through Time, like us?

Maybe stay there?’

‘No reason why not.’ The Doctor could see there was

something more than Professor Kameneva on his mind. ‘Why

d’ you ask?’

‘It’s nothing. Just a theory of the Professor’s.’ As an

attempt at prevarication, it was poor, especially coming from

Bugayev; but then, the Doctor realised, the Major didn’t need

to lie to keep him from the truth. He simply had to decide not to tell him.

The Doctor pretended not to care and stood up, brushing

dust from his jacket and trousers. ‘Anyway, we’ve arrived.

Coming for a quick recce?’

‘Yes, you may join us, Doctor,’ permitted Bugayev

acrimoniously. He turned to his troops. ‘Alright, let’s move!

You know your assigned positions, so keep your eyes sharp

and report anything. Don’t fire until I give the order, unless it’s one of those Kagyrn creatures, in which case go for its

head and Chistyakov will finish it with the RPG. Clear?’

They all stamped to attention and hefted their weapons

seriously. If any were afraid, none dared show it.

‘Maybe it’s not my place to say,’ probed the Doctor in his

best biting tone, ‘but wouldn’t two be more appropriate for

one of your reconnoitres. A shade less ostentatious, perhaps?’

Bugayev tested the Doctor’s presumption, inquiring, ‘And

which particular two would you recommend, Doctor?’

‘Well, I’m more the outdoors type, myself,’ alluded the

Doctor breezily, ‘and, of course, I’d certainly welcome the

company of an experienced officer.’ He had almost said ‘Boy

Scout’, but deemed that one bite too many under the

circumstances. He did want his own way, after all.

‘Until we know the situation, anyway,’ Bugayev

condescended to approve. He raised his voice for the benefit

of the squad. ‘Alright, orders stand, but the Doctor and I will handle the preliminary scouting. Maintain a guard, permit no-one into the house and stay alert for our return.’ He aimed

meaningful eyes at the Doctor, but spoke for the crowd. ‘That

way, if I achieve nothing else, I may have appeased the

English aristocracy.’

‘My dear fellow, it couldn’t be any better if I’d planned it

myself,’ the Doctor accorded the proposal his official stamp.

Bugayev grunted his satisfaction, then moved to the door,

batting the Doctor aside. Drawing his Makarov pistol, he

tested the handle and opened the door of the house. He peered

out on a roughly cobbled street, under cover of night.

‘Well, you haven’t piloted a house before, so I’ll go easy

on you,’ Bugayev informed the Doctor caustically, ‘but this

isn’t the tenth century.’

The Doctor scratched the base of his neck, avoiding the

Major’s scrutiny and expressing his guilt with dignity. ‘I’d

better have another go.’

Bugayev shut the door, but Corporal Grushkin, who had

been the BMP-driver, marched forward, volunteering, ‘Major

Bugayev, would it not be best to scout the area? If we were all thinking of Professor Kameneva, perhaps she is here, while

the Doctor’s assistant is elsewhere.’

Bugayev regarded his junior NCO as if initiative was a bad

habit he would have to curtail. Then his mood lightened,

appreciating the sense of the suggestion. He patted Grushkin’s

shoulder and faced the Doctor.

‘If Melisandra Sergeyevna is here you may help us find

her.’ He opened the door once more.

The Doctor, despite his disappointment at having missed

Liz, chirped, ‘Yes, I’ve been wanting to meet her for some

time, as it happens.’

From the tip of what was to become Gellért Hill, Huba panned

his eyes around in an unwavering arc over the surrounding

wooded hills. Had he known that, a thousand years on, people

would erect a fourteen-metre statue of a woman where his

stallion now grazed, he would have balked at the idea of

commemorating a struggle between foreign troops over his

race’s soil; and he may have described the face with which

they should invest her. For, as he searched, he wondered

whether Árpád had spoken a germ of truth.

As far as he was concerned, there were two quarries out

there in the forest: a demon and an angel? The thought of each

seemed to burn as a tiny fire within him, but there was

insufficient air for the both to survive. One fire would comfort, the other would eat him away, but his mind was blighted with

a pitiful inability to distinguish one aspect from another. He

ignored the voice inside, beseeching him to stamp out the

latter.

That would have been the old way, he realised. I tread the unknown –

‘Lord Huba,’ Vecellin reluctantly wrested Huba from his

thoughts, leaving them unresolved, ‘shall I ride to retrieve

your escort? They will not have made half the distance yet.’

Huba assimilated the view again, fixing his mind on a

practicality. ‘Yes,’ he said, finally. ‘You, Vecellin, ride fast to the northwest, then cut north to intercept them on the plains. I will remain here with Torda and Koppány.’

‘That is good, lord,’ submitted his captain. ‘You will be

able to watch any approach even when at rest.’

‘Rest will be scarce for us,’ Huba predicted gravely. ‘And

for you. Remember, ride fast! Never stop for Tétény’s men! I

spoke my mind to Árpád and he spoke his back with menaces.

If he suspects I will have a company instead of a quartet, then he will act on those threats all the sooner.’

‘I understand, lord Huba.’ Vecellin set about streamlining

his horse’s load, passing burdens to the other two men. ‘But

there was a time when you could speak out to Prince Árpád

and he would merely thump you on the shoulder.’

‘That is true, Vecellin,’ mourned Huba, ‘but that time is

past. Go!’

Vecellin held the reins tight, leaned into the wind and

charged off at a gallop that hinted to his master of desperation.

‘Listen,’ warned Aphrodite candidly, ‘I don’t want anyone

helping with this unless they genuinely wish to. This is likely to – no, will be incredibly dangerous.’

The spruce young man, Péter, gave the impression of

having been awake for hours. He flashed his eyes at Liz and

Aphrodite in the darkness. ‘They’re all mounting up. What are

you going to do?’ He waved an upheld palm at them and

shook his head. ‘I won’t tell them to stay at home.’

Liz was faintly amused, but Aphrodite stipulated, ‘Well, at

least not Lászlo. He’s too old.’

Although she lowered her voice purposefully for that last,

Péter leaped forward and clamped a hand over Aphrodite’s

mouth; then glanced furtively back to where the men and

women were preparing ropes and horses. One man, in

particular, with drooping moustache and dishevelled grey hair,

was making his enthusiasm for the venture known to

everyone; he peppered his speech with occasional bursts of

song, always ending in a laugh.

Péter whispered as if Aphrodite’s life depended on his

words. ‘Do not let him hear you! His temper is far worse than

his voice and maybe you can escape it, but it is more than we

can bear!’

Such was his talent for melodrama that Aphrodite had to

chuckle and push him away with a playful, ‘Go on, then. You

can play the hero, too.’

The man bounded off, celebrating. ‘Lászlo! She gives us

permission to join the hunt! But she says you must stay and

tend the washing in the stream!’

Lászlo dismissed him with gruff good-humour, ‘She said

nothing of the sort. How are we to run our prey to ground with

your mouth hailing our approach, eh?’

The entire camp seemed to enjoy the cheerful banter and

Aphrodite cherished a brief chance to listen. Liz smiled

appreciatively.

‘They are a sort of family to you, aren’t they?’

‘Mm. I’ve joined this band so many times all the way from

India, through Asia Minor, then up to the Balkans,’ Aphrodite

reminisced. ‘Then to Hungary. So many miles, so many

generations. No starship could rival a journey like that.’

‘Don’t they wonder who you are? The same woman

turning up every other decade?’ The longevity of Time Lords

was a subject on which Liz generally preferred not to dwell,

but the question

– and the question of Aphrodite’s longevity – had piqued

her curiosity.

‘Not at all. That’s their beauty. They don’t question; they

just accept me. Some call me their good luck charm.’ The

activity in the camp had almost subsided, indicating the

readiness of their expedition. Aphrodite returned from her

dreams and dug in the pocket of her skirt. ‘Which reminds me,

have some of this.’

She handed Liz a sprig of shrubbery; with dainty honeyed

flowers and miniature triangles for leaves. ‘Calluna vulgaris,

although I’d say this was one case where the Latin does no

justice at all.’ She watched Liz swivelling the plant between

finger and thumb. ‘Heather, for luck.’

Liz was doubtful in the extreme. ‘I’m afraid I’m not the

superstitious type.’

Aphrodite shrugged. ‘In that case, it won’t work. But it

smells nice.’

Liz shrugged similarly, then tucked the plant in the brooch

on her sweater.

Tárnok utca was a shambles.

Many of the houses differed in only minor details from

their twentieth century aspects, but to the Major it seemed as if they had deteriorated over the centuries through which he had

travelled back. The roofs were patchy and sometimes holed;

the walls were pitted and flaking like pastry. Almost every

house had the morose expression of dejection, bleary-eyed

from all the rotting woodwork in their windows. The prevalent

odours more than compensated for the absence of carbon

monoxide, in the Major’s opinion, sticking in his nostrils like the mud between the cobbles.

‘Right then,’ meditated the Doctor, ‘when in a foreign

town, head for the lights, and you’re sure to find a welcome.’

‘Actually, I was always taught the opposite,’ Bugayev

griped testily. He peered suspiciously at the torches and the

flickering squares of light in the buildings further north along Castle Hill. He scooted forward as far as the square, pistol in both hands and back pushed to the wall. He beckoned the

Doctor to follow.

Bugayev showed his trim teeth to the night. ‘Look. Spot

the difference.’

The Doctor sneaked to the corner, passing Bugayev and

sweeping his eyes briskly over the scene. Down towards

where the Bastion would be built, a sizeable portion of the

square had been fenced off to form a corral, where horses

milled and languished on crumpled straw. The various

monuments and familiar houses were absent or profoundly

unfamiliar. The key disparity, however, had to be in the

Matthias Church, the ice-crystal contours of its neck and

shoulders disarranged and dressed in the apparel of a mosque.

A guard emerged from around the temple’s eastern face;

the Doctor ducked out of view, carelessly knocking Bugayev

in his haste. ‘Sorry, old chap.’

The Major neither accepted the apology nor raised a fuss.

His attention was on the other end of the street, beyond their

miraculous house. Torches bobbed and fluttered along the

road towards them.

‘In here!’ Bugayev rattled a door handle and shoved open

the door behind him. He waited for the Doctor to enter, then

slipped inside after him. He eased the door closed. Then he

was at the window, eyes piercing the slatted shutters.

The Doctor took a spot on the opposite side of the

window, avoiding the wooden furniture in the darkened room;

one scrape on the sanded stone floor and there would be more

guests than the house could handle. He listened for the

approach of the soldiers.

All too soon, the light of the flames was flitting over them.

The guards were coffee-skinned with black beards; their heads

were covered with fezzes or metal helms, each with a puggree

turban wrapped around the crown to form a brim; loose

pantaloons billowed out from the base of their mail waistcoats

and each man carried either a scimitar or a spear. Their single captive, fenced in on all sides, sparked a new light altogether in Bugayev’s eyes and brought a glint of surprise to the

Doctor’s.

To the Doctor, she was the woman in the tapestry; the tiny

figure in cream and blue sandwiched between the two deities.

A statuesque figure now, she carried herself with the

deportment of victor instead of vanquished, her noble features

chiselled with the pride of a classical artist and glazed with a smooth bronze. Her polished golden hair was straight and

shimmered in the torch-lit procession. She had the body of a

gymnast, only marginally concealed by the plain dress of blue

silk.

‘Professor Kameneva,’ intoned Bugayev, watching the

group march by.

‘Melisandra,’ the Doctor copied the Major’s tone.

There was a click from Bugayev’s gun; the Doctor barely

had time to stop him before he reached the door. He clapped a

hand on the Major’s arm.

‘Don’t be an idiot, man!’

‘Those are Ottoman Turks, Doctor! Now, what do you

think they’ll do to a woman like that?’ Bugayev patronised the

Doctor from behind a murderous glare. ‘I don’t mean to teach

you history, but they won’t be putting her up in the Budapest

Hilton.’

‘Even so, this isn’t the way! How far would you get with

that little pop-gun of yours?’

The Major rolled his marble eyes. ‘I’m going back to fetch

the troops, Doctor. I might appear trigger-happy to you, but

that doesn’t make me a cowboy! Now, if you’ll simply let go

of my arm.’

‘Wait a moment,’ induced the Doctor, ‘what say, if we just

trailed them. Find out where she is taken, then you can call up your action men. Doesn’t that make sense? I’d really rather

you didn’t shoot everyone in history.’

‘Your idea has some merit,’ Bugayev conceded. ‘Come

on.’

Together, they slunk out onto the street, quickly located

the train of torches and their bearers, then pattered across the road and down an alleyway. Pacing themselves, they trotted

down the next avenue in order to skirt the exposed square;

they sheltered under the overhanging fronts of houses and

paralleled the course of their quarry, stopping to listen for the clatter of boots to their right.

Bugayev drew them both up sharply, as the guards and

their prisoner emerged from another alley ahead. The Turks

steered Melisandra towards a solid stone building and the

whole party disappeared inside.

‘That’s the Wax Works,’ Bugayev assured the Doctor. ‘Or

it will be.’

‘Does that help us?’

‘Not exactly, no. The exhibitions were – will be – in

underground caves. There’s a system of galleries under the

hill. Used for defence in the Middle Ages and, well, the

Ottoman period – now.’ The Major shook an exasperated

head; even when he accepted the fact of time-travel, the

language remained elusive.

‘I don’t care for this in the slightest,’ grumbled the Doctor.

‘Such large chunks of Hungarian history are about warfare –

battles.’

‘What do you expect? The country’s an old bone,’

Bugayev snorted. ‘Every dog there is has fought over this

one.’

‘Exactly, Major,’ concluded the Doctor unhappily. ‘What

better battleground? Perfect for two immense forces who want

to have a bash at each other, with that young lady in the

middle for some reason.’ He tipped a hand towards the future

Wax Works. ‘The Professor is not what she seems, and if

she’s real I can think of two others that might be hovering in

the wings, waiting for their cue.’

‘Two forces, hm?’ Bugayev digested the drops of

information thoughtfully, swilling them around like mouthfuls

of wine. ‘What are they? Are they coming here – to fight?’

The Doctor straightened himself. ‘Not here. The tenth

century, is my educated guess. My earliest point of arrival and where I left Liz. My assistant.’

Bugayev nodded decisively. ‘Right. Let’s go and brief the

men, grab Melisandra and make for the tenth century.’

‘Look, old man, I can mount less of a sledgehammer

operation and meet you at the house with Melisandra.’ The

Doctor spoke agreeably, but overdid the off-handed manner.

‘Don’t want to alert the entire garrison.’

‘Sanctimonious as ever,’ groaned the Major expressively.

‘But if things are as desperate as you claim, I haven’t any time to waste. So I’m not sitting at home, twiddling my thumbs

while you ask nicely if we can have our scientist back.’

‘I don’t see why not. You can listen to your Tchaikovsky

while you wait.’ The Doctor had dispensed with diplomacy.

‘You can’t go careering through the past with guns blazing!

Not only will you get yourself killed, you stand to do some

damage that will actually matter to the world at large!’

‘That’s enough!’ Bugayev shouted the Doctor down as if

he were a bad pupil. He added an aimed gun to the power of

volume. ‘We do it my way. And you can listen to music in the

privacy of your own room, with a guard outside. Move it.’

The Doctor made a show of despondency and started

down the street, leading the way on the return to the house.

Content with the Doctor’s co-operative manner, Bugayev

relaxed a level as he scurried along behind. He nearly thudded

into the Time Lord’s back as he halted in a doorway.

‘Patrol!’ cautioned the Doctor, waving Bugayev back from

the corner. ‘I think your ranting must have alerted them.’

‘Inside, then! It worked before.’ The Major growled at the

Doctor’s sloth.

The Doctor obliged, fiddling at the handle. The door

swung open and Bugayev barged inside, scouting the shadows

for danger. Impatiently, he signalled, ‘All clear! Come on!’

The Doctor, treating himself to a grin, slammed the door

shut and twisted the iron key that someone had negligently left in its lock. He heard the pounding of Bugayev’s fists on the

wood, even as he ran to rescue Melisandra.

Liz had credited Aphrodite with a strength at least equal to her beauty; and she had not been mistaken. The clamouring

protests of a dozen hopelessly chivalrous gypsies could not

shake Aphrodite from her chosen role of bait for the Kagyrn.

She stood some distance down the track, Liz occasionally

glimpsing the white of her blouse through the mesh of twigs

and branches.

From her vantage point in the tree, Liz could see most of

the components of their scheme arranged around the clearing

that played host to Aphrodite’s caravan. There was the

ebullient Lászlo perched in the tree opposite; he held the blade that dangled from a length of rope like a sword of Damocles

over the whole plan; secured to a high branch, it would swing

towards her and she would catch it after it had cut through the ghost-Kagyrn. Embedded in the centre of the clearing was the

copper handle from the cauldron, providing a conductor from

the staff to the Warrior; this would feed him the energy he

needed to grow more substantial and, hence, donate a healthier

supply of blood on the sword. Off in the undergrowth, Péter

(Aphrodite’s loudest opponent on the matter of her role) and

the others sat astride their horses, ropes in hand; they were

ready to charge forth, throwing lines between them to topple

the Kagyrn. Then, Aphrodite would retrieve the staff and

touch it to their foe and dispel the beast for good.

To Aphrodite, that last act was to be a merciful dispatch

and she was the one to perform it because she would allow no-

one else close to the deadly Kagyrn. Liz wondered if the

creature would treat them with similar compassion.

She searched for Aphrodite again, but her faint figure had

strayed behind a tree.

Out on the track, Aphrodite braced her weight against a

stout trunk. Closing her eyes, she cast her fear out on the

prowling darkness, a fishing line into black water. Her heart

stuttered. There was a rustling in the lush forest floor.

The Kagyrn had come, straining to stay where the hunting

was good.

Come on! thought Aphrodite as she retreated slowly onto the path. She aimed for the clearing and began a stroll, her

eyes on the screening fence of trees and shadow. The

underbrush bristled and snapped under the passage of

something heavy, then shushed to no more than a breeze.

Aphrodite moved to a gentle canter and gasped softly as the

spectre projected its gory face on the air close to her left. Her heels scuffed the dry track, propelling her into a graceful run.

After her through the trees, flashing madly from phantom to

flesh, came the ravening ghost of the Kagyrn Warrior.

Sometimes she was chased by sounds alone; a rabid

snarling, the crash of metal and clack of bones. Sometimes he

was there; a staring half-skeleton with blood-smeared fur and

melted armour. Its single eye burned for her.

Aphrodite ran full-pelt into the glade and angled directly

for the protruding bar of copper. Pirouetting, she fanned her

skirt wide to conceal the improvised conductor and met the

Kagyrn’s starved gaze with a wily smile. Undeterred, the

creature bounded at her, claws and tail poised to rip her apart.

Aphrodite hopped aside with the confidence of a gazelle,

but winced as her ankle bent under her and she foundered.

The stampeding bull of the Kagyrn curled around to pin

her in his sight. Touching the staff indirectly, he felt the

current of new life pulsing up from the ground. In an instant,

he was baring very real canines at his fallen victim, saliva

dripping in glistening threads.

Aphrodite heaved herself up with difficulty, setting her

foot down tentatively. She limped towards the Kagyrn, the slight pain in her ankle the only mar to her perfect composure.

The Warrior froze, bewildered and frustrated. An angry

hiss blew a lock of Aphrodite’s hair.

‘ Aphrodite! No! ’ Liz was as startled as the Kagyrn at first, but now she screamed as though waking from a nightmare.

She clasped a hand to her mouth too late. She had woken the

Kagyrn from its daze.

On hearing her name, Aphrodite had spun away. When

Liz’s ‘No!’ rang out, the Kagyrn swung its claw.

There was motion from the woods and Liz, already feeling

awful, saw Lászlo pull the swordhilt from its loop of rope and

swing down with the blade in hand. The branch supported his

weight just long enough and he struck the ground between the

Kagyrn and Aphrodite, slicing cleanly through one of its great

arms. He pushed Aphrodite back further while the creature

recovered from the surprise.

The riders plunged into the clearing, stringing their ropes

as planned, but they were not going to arrive in time.

Lászlo discarded the all-important sword and threw

himself over Aphrodite; the Kagyrn leaped forward and

slashed him across the back with both claws. Liz nearly

choked to see the ruddy gouges in the old man’s torso.

Péter and another man rode hard, dragging the Kagyrn

over with their line of rope at chestlevel. The creature crashed like a felled tree and immediately struggled to stand. The

horses and men were no match for its power, but as it strained

at the rope it began to pass through it. Away from the

conductor, the Kagyrn was fading rapidly, much of its energy

expended.

The Kagyrn rose and stalked from the clearing, a

dissipating phantom.

Hurriedly, Liz dropped from her branch and ran over to

Lászlo and Aphrodite. Péter and all the other riders

dismounted and gathered round, rolling the old man’s body

carefully to one side and helping Aphrodite up. She fought off

the attendant hands, staying on her knees and cradling the

gypsy’s head in her hands.

His eyes were blank, but he wheezed and forced out a few

words. ‘Aphrodite,’ he warmed faintly, ‘you mustn’t cry for

old fools. I – should have – trusted you. You are – still our –

Lady – Luck.’

The life left him and Aphrodite laid his head slowly to

rest, her hands quivering and tears streaming down her cheeks.

Liz felt her sorrow like it was her own.

One of Major Bugayev’s failings, in accepting the abnormality

around him, was that he continued to operate in accordance

with normal procedures. Only after some kicking and banging

on the door did he remember that radio silence was not a

factor in this particular enemy territory. Reaching for the

walkie-talkie he raised Zhelnin on the second call and issued

clear directions to the building in which he was imprisoned.

He had to admire the Lieutenant’s reserve in only questioning

the instructions once. Shutting the radio off and restoring it to his belt, he paced the floor with the air of an expectant father until the lock rattled and he was free.

He stormed outside where the troops collected in a semi-

circle. ‘Alright, what happened to the formation? Sort

yourselves and post a watch on the corners.’ He motioned

Zhelnin into a conference. ‘Sergey Mikhailovich, I confess it

was the Doctor who tricked me. Now he has gone to get

himself arrested by the Turks. But we have located – Professor

Kameneva.’ He had to pause over the name, reflecting on what

the Doctor had said; he had not known the Professor long, and

yet she was preceded by a truly magnificent reputation.

( Brilliant mind, handsome woman, cold as a Siberian winter, he had thought on their initial meeting.) ‘So we will mount a

jailbreak!’

‘Yes, Comrade Major!’ snapped Zhelnin eagerly. ‘Turks,

you say, Major – what will be our approach?’

‘Nothing fancy,’ Bugayev dismissed the point as trivial.

‘My guess is we’re up against seventeenth-century Ottomans.

They may have some muskets, but if you instruct the men to

take them down first, I’m sure the spear-throwers still won’t

have time to close.’ He smiled comfortably, reconsidering that

Professor Kameneva was a Caribbean summer by comparison.

‘Remember, their cyclic rate-of-fire will be in the order of one a minute.’

Still, Lieutenant Zhelnin was troubled. As ever when there

was a doubt, he dived in and prepared to accept the

consequences. ‘Major, if we are in the seventeenth century,

will we not have some detrimental effect on – our future?’

Bugayev laughed, ‘Go back to your farm, Sergey

Mikhailovich!’ He looked on his Lieutenant to show it was a

friendly joke. ‘Any time soon – maybe next year; hell, it might even be tomorrow there’s a massive Christian army going to

storm into the city and wipe the Turks off the pavements.

Now, you ask me if our little band is going to have a

detrimental effect on that? What can it hurt if we kill a few

before the Papist army gets here?

‘You’ve seen that plaque commemorating the recapture of

Buda, 1686? It lists them all – Swabian, Hessian,

Würtembergian, Bavarian, Austrian, Flemish, Walloon,

Spanish, Italian and Hungarian!’ He listed the nationalities

grandly, savouring a fine piece of military history. ‘What an

army! And when I get back, Lieutenant Zhelnin, I’ll have you

carve in “Russians” right at the end! Agreed?’ He spread both

arms. ‘Though their part was small, they played it

courageously!’

Lieutenant Zhelnin discreetly filed his concern in a small

box. He idly inspected his gun, a cut-down Kalashnikov AKR.

‘What about the Doctor, Major?’

Bugayev tapped his own chest resolutely. ‘Oh, I’ll kill him.’

Had the Doctor known how little head-start he had, he would

not have afforded the heavy vault door, barring his path to the stairs, such a patient examination. Once the lock was

confirmed as screwdriverproof though, he only took a few

seconds more to attain the solution.

Finding a small magnet in his pocket he delved again into

the jacket and produced the Kagyrn’s energy-rifle power clip.

Working the one against the other in easy strokes, he

magnetised the back-plate of the energy unit. In a mood of

elevated self-satisfaction, he then clamped the device to the

ironwork on the door and retired to a safe distance.

From out on the street, glancing left and right, he aimed

the sonic screwdriver at the power clip and triggered a

disruptive frequency pulse. The effects were suitably dramatic

and wonderfully quiet.

The destroyed power unit released its energy in a blinding

wave of superheat; the entire door, metal and wood alike,

bloomed white and disintegrated, leaving a frame of red-hot

stone. The Doctor ran through before it began to cool.

He descended a round stone staircase, heels clicking

lightly on each step, keeping as near to the narrow-wedged

side as he dared. Torches appeared at infrequent intervals, but the climb was not overly long. He soon came out into a natural

cave, formed over millions of years, he inferred, by thermal

springs. The flames provided plenty of illumination and a

pleasant draught blew from elsewhere in the caverns. Powder

barrels, crates and other supplies were stacked in every recess and a tunnel lead away opposite the stairwell.

There were also two guards, behind him as he entered.

Thankfully, they were as surprised as the Doctor and one

of them could not help voicing it. The Doctor, dismayed

expression at the ready, whisked around in a circle and

grabbed the shaft of the nearest man’s javelin. He brought it

up like a quarterstaff to parry the attack from the second man.

The first Turk shoulder-charged him and bowled him onto the

hard floor.

Winded, the Doctor still managed a favourite move; foot

raised high, he sent his attacker in a low-level flight over his head.

Raining curses, the second Turk thrust viciously forward

with the javelin, intent on skewering the intruder like a

grounded fish. The Doctor barrel-rolled and swept his own

spear in a wide curve; the Turk spiked the ground and the

Doctor knocked the weapon out from under him, leaving the

man fall flat on his face. By the time he and his companion

stood, the Doctor was up and ready for them both. Each flew

at him; the Doctor tripped one and chopped a hand down on

the base of his neck; the other seized his arm, but the Doctor

took him by the tunic and drove him headlong into the wall.

The man’s hat failed to save him from a nasty knock and he

slumped unconscious.

The Doctor promised himself he would look around

corners in future, then thanked the Time Lords for selecting

this rather more able body over the previous one. He hid the

prostrate defenders behind the highest batch of containers,

then raced into the tunnel.

From far above, an alarm bell pealed frantically. He was

halfway along the tunnel when the sound of more guards

reached him and he was caught. It was too far to return

without being spotted. He had to trust in their eagerness to

respond to the alarm.

Squatting, back to the wall, he tore off his jacket and

dumped it over his head, impersonating a dark limb of rock

midway between two torches. A herd of feet rushed up on him

– then passed by, bound for the stairwell.

The Doctor, no time for relief for fear they might send

someone back on discovering the missing guards, clambered

to his feet and donned his jacket on the move. He slowed as

the tunnel widened into another cavern, searching the dim

hollows and alcoves. Finding no likely opposition, he entered

the gallery and ascertained that one half had been walled off to provide rooms. The barred windows on the doors were

promising signs and he hastily tested each with a glance.

In the fourth he jumped at the close-up of a face; it backed

away with a start.

It was Melisandra, and she buckled up with laughter. ‘I’m

sorry! I was looking out, trying to see what the commotion

was!’

The Doctor saw the funny side, but he stamped a finger

across his lips. Checking the entrances at either end of the

cavern, he bent to try at the lock.

The satin voice from above said, ‘Who are you? That is, if

you don’t mind me asking. It’s interesting to know who’s

rescuing you.’

‘The Doctor! How d’ you do?’ replied the Doctor

amicably, without breaking from his task. The screwdriver

whistled truculently and the first screw loosened from the

latch-plate. ‘Have to get at this from the inside, I’m afraid.’

‘I suppose you know who I am,’ Melisandra speculated

winsomely, ‘otherwise you wouldn’t be going to all this

trouble.’

‘Actually, with me it’s compulsive,’ professed the Doctor,

enjoying the woman’s effortless humour as a distraction from

the task at hand; his operation on the lock was laborious, but

not taxing enough to occupy much attention. He trained

another ear on the bell, only to learn that it had stopped

ringing.

Melisandra pressed her face to the bars. ‘You wouldn’t

know what that bell was for, by any chance?’

‘Unfortunately,’ answered the Doctor, realising a

possibility as he spoke, ‘I can only think of one occurrence

with the likelihood of causing that much alarm: another

escape, I shouldn’t wonder.’

When he saw the new group of Turkish soldiers hustling to

join the action, Major Bugayev groaned at the additional delay

they represented.

At the first encounter with a patrol, the engagement had

ended succinctly and in their favour, the troops dealing with

the threat with a competent display of martial arts; but

replacement enemies had arrived with unnerving speed and his

men had been forced to install themselves in various buildings

along the street. Bugayev had a commanding bay window on

the second floor and a computer-precise map of his men’s

positions in his head. No sooner had they dug-in than they

were assailed from the other end of the street by a mob of

Europeans in Turkish garb: the janissaries, the Major recalled

as formidable ex-prisoners and slaves, were supposed to have

been invincible in battle. To him, now, they were a disorderly

rabble who had fled under a hail of gunfire.

Never knowing what hit them.

With the arrival of reinforcements from the north, he could

expect the janissaries to rally for another go from the south.

He advised Zhelnin of the probability over the radio.

‘We’ve both flanks covered, Major,’ the Lieutenant’s

voice promised him faithfully. ‘They’re only wasting our

time.’

‘That is it in a nutshell,’ Bugayev congratulated the junior officer. ‘I am being too damn soft on them, and we’re paying

by the clock.’ He perused the schematic in his mind. ‘Look,

Chistyakov is three windows on, first floor up across from

you. Signal him to hit the north hard. Those with the elevation needn’t conserve their grenades, either. Out.’

Zhelnin returned his acknowledgement, grimly loyal.

Moments later, the expected onslaught came.

A volley of musket reports sounded from the south and

Bugayev heard a ricochet off his window-frame. Then the

war-cries blew through the street like a huge wind and the

twin waves of soldiers surged towards the OGRON positions.

The Kalashnikovs replied to the muskets, each a quickfire

thunderstorm. Calmly, Major Bugayev leaned on the window

ledge and picked his mark in the milling mass of barbarians to

the south; he wanted to bag a janissary. The heathens

ploughed on over their dead comrades, but they were charging

on in the face of death; for a moment the Major feared they

might be overrun and he felt a twinge of admiration for their

raw courage; even as he fired a single bullet at his target and saw the man fall. Yaroslavskiy’s machine-gun added its blast

of chorus to the defence of the north, then the plume of a

rocket funnelled out from Chistyakov’s window; the explosion

splintered the entire corner of a house and showered the

attackers with debris. One of the men to the south, probably

Sergeant Markov, lobbed a fragmentation grenade into the

fray. Both assaults were in an irredeemable mess.

The guns trailed into silence, the smoke spread a haze over

the scene and Bugayev watched the tattered survivors retreat

with wary eyes on every window.

He sat back and deposited his gun on the sill. Tired, he

stretched, rubbed his eyes with both hands and massaged his

neck. The Doctor, he knew too well, would have condemned

that engagement as a bloody slaughter; but what the Doctor

seemed to forget was the question of what the enemy would

do to you if you downed guns. Heads on spikes, he would have told the Doctor, and worse. They had started off in good order, fending off their opponents with a minimum of fuss,

then the situation had literally exploded into that madness out there. And once it gets to that stage, he would have added, there is no stopping until you’re safe – because the enemy

doesn’t work like that.

Pleased with having won an argument with the Doctor – in

his head, at least – Major Bugayev settled back and waited for

the streets to quieten sufficiently before he ordered his troops to continue the rescue operation.

Sparks shot up to dance with the stars. The fire consumed the

painted wood of Lászlo’s caravan with a ferocious joy that

sent huge spouts of flame climbing over the roof to meet in the middle. Inside, Liz knew, were all his belongings and she

could not shake the image of a man’s entire spirit being

engulfed in that blood-orange glare.

Aphrodite, Péter, the other men, the women and children

all surrounded the pyre in humbled silence. Liz touched

Aphrodite’s arm.

‘I’m so – sorry,’ she managed a faltering whisper.

‘I know,’ Aphrodite consoled her through benign tears,

‘and I know you’re blaming yourself. Don’t.’ She squeezed

Liz’s hand affectionately. ‘If anyone is at fault it’s me – and Lászlo himself.’ Aphrodite detected the susurration of shock

in Liz’s eyes. ‘Oh, he wouldn’t object to my saying that. You

know, he always feared a quiet death.’

‘Are you alright?’ Liz wondered sincerely.

Aphrodite nodded and turned to sprinkle her thoughts onto

the roaring fire. ‘The longer you live, the more friends you’ll lose. And I miss every one of them so much.’ She swallowed

on a memory. ‘But it’s the violence that makes me shiver. That Kagyrn was energy with a killing instinct. That’s all that was

left. We have to put an end to it.’

Liz put in, ‘I know. The Doctor would feel the same way.’

Then she pondered how she might lift her friend from her

current depression; her own mood had improved without her

notice at the thought of the Doctor.

Péter held Aphrodite’s hands and led her, uncomplaining,

inside the circle of people. The faces were brightening and the first few bars of a slow-quick tune trickled forth from a variety of instruments. Some danced while spectators clapped, and if

the fire had enveloped the man’s spirit, then this was a

celebration of his life. It was not Liz’s custom so she bowed

out, but she saw in every movement of Aphrodite’s a passion

for life and energy.

There was scant time for pleasantries once the lock had been

tripped, the Doctor managing to open the door one second

before a trio of Ottoman guards clattered into the cave from

the inner entrance, drawing scimitars. The Doctor jumped

forward to meet them, forming a gentlemanly shield, which

Melisandra promptly refused to hide behind.

Two went at the Doctor; the other ran into Melisandra’s

fist. The Doctor bent under the first blow, while another sliced dangerously close on his left. Melisandra caught her fallen

opponent’s sword, following with a fierce kick at the Doctor’s

left-hand assailant; the toe of her boot split the man’s knee and he tumbled in agony. Meanwhile, the other guard’s scimitar

swished the length of the Doctor’s jacket. The Doctor

retreated, the Turk came after him, overreached; then the

Doctor gripped his sword-arm and touched a finger to the back

of the man’s jaw. It was as if he had found the ‘OFF’ switch.

‘Come on!’ The Doctor sprinted ahead of Melisandra and

they headed for the staircase, ascending it in long strides.

As they reached the top, a blade chinked loudly into the

stone doorframe above the Doctor’s head. Ducking, the Doctor

rolled aside and came up to deliver a chop to another waiting

guard. Melisandra leaped into his place at the doorway and

swiftly parried a second strike, bringing her scimitar in a

lightning swipe back across the fellow’s midriff. Hands to his

abdomen, dropping his sword, the Turk doubled up.

Melisandra skipped over him to join the Doctor at the street

entrance.

Streams of fireworks sounded from the south.

‘Automatic fire! No prizes for guessing who that is!’

remarked the Doctor irritably.

‘We’d best not stay here, Doctor!’ Melisandra’s tone was

insistent, but firm and free of panic.

Together, they dashed along the street, only covering a

short distance before some twenty horsemen broke in from a

side road. The riders, lances held vertically, hovered between

joining the violent maelstrom of the main battle or to run

down the lone pair of fugitives.

‘This is one time we’re not meant to cheer when the

cavalry arrives. Come on!’ The Doctor guided Melisandra

back along their course, tearing away from the horses without

a single glance aft. Melisandra kept level with him all the way.

Multiple hooves angrily pummelled the stones on the road;

half the lancers had plumped for the easier game. The Turks

tilted their weapons forward, each shining tip seeking a

contact.

‘Down here!’

Melisandra tugged the Doctor after her, into an alleyway.

The cavalrymen had to brake their mounts hard, turning the

horses for the narrow opening; the breadth of which permitted

only the lead two. The escape route ended too abruptly in a

tiny avenue and the fortress wall. The alleyway vibrated to the flamenco-clap of hooves.

Instinctively, Melisandra swung them left and found the

path blocked by a wagon. In a single breath, Melisandra

vaulted onto the cargo-bed and lunged sidelong at the

battlements, hauling herself onto the wall. The Doctor

followed suit, perhaps lacking her avian grace, but nonetheless with a style of his own.

They threw themselves to the ground below, vaguely

aware of the shouting horsemen jammed in the avenue behind

them.

Both ended the fall with Olympic-class landings, although

the Doctor mentally awarded the gold to his companion.

Hurriedly, they left the shadow of the fortifications and hid

themselves in the cover of the dingy streets and terraces.

Continued shouting and the resonant stamp of feet, as well as

hooves, encouraged them to continue their flight further. They

finally stopped when they reached a badly damaged sector of

the city, on the western outskirts.

‘This will do for now,’ supposed the Doctor. ‘It’s not that

far back to the Castle, so we can keep an eye on the level of

activity.’

Melisandra agreed, her breathing deep but controlled.

‘Yes, this corner of the city seems entirely deserted.’ She

scanned the scarred buildings with distaste. ‘We’d better talk

softly. Some of those houses are ready to fall down.’

‘I’ll be careful where I lean.’ The Doctor appraised

Melisandra now she was out in the open. ‘I must say, you’ve

kept yourself very fit in between weaving exquisite tapestries.’

Melisandra smiled, a word of thanks on her lips. Before

she could speak, soldiers swarmed in on them from all sides.

They wore breastplates and rounded helmets over leather

uniforms, some with ruffed collars. This, their swords and

their complexions told Melisandra and the Doctor that,

whoever they were, they were certainly not Turks.

The Doctor could not immediately decide whether they

were good news or bad.

Chapter Seven

Melisandra

‘Our love can be a bridge to span the Universe.’

Melisandra, on her parting with the Sorcerer

Melisandra resumed her role as captive with a bravura that

annoyed and confounded their captors as surely as any

resistance she might have offered. To judge from the funereal

solemnity of the soldiers’ faces, the Doctor might have

believed them to be the ones with their wrists bound behind

them, on the march from the city limits. For his own part, he

refused to be intimidated by what was for him an everyday

occurrence.

The haughty soldier, rocking idly on horseback at their

left, had taken charge of the procession, announcing that they

(the Doctor and Melisandra) were now prisoners of ‘His

Highness, Prince Eugene of Savoy’. A red sash was looped

over his breastplate to support a fine scabbard, as well as

advertise his importance, and slightly tarnished greaves

protected his legs. Neat, blond hair was combed back from his

pallid forehead, while a prominent mouth, like a crimped ridge

of pastry, was defined even further by a bushy roll of a

moustache and a triangular beard. He peered down from on

high as if his prisoners were a source of great shame to his

venerable personage.

He had spoken less than twenty words to his charges, a

high self-regard implicit in his practised baritone.

The Doctor, though, had gleaned much from that brief

volley of words and the subsequent silence had aided in sifting the implications. The rider was an Austrian baron, Mörtenhof

of Krenowitz, and an officer in the great multinational force of the Habsburgs, commissioned to expel the Turks from Buda.

That placed the year at 1686 and the date nearing September

3rd. It placed him, Melisandra and their entire predicament in

a worse state than ever: as liberators the Habsburgs were an

uncivil lot.

Escape had not been an option though and he and Lady

Melisandra were consigned to a long march, hemmed in by the

Austrian musketeers and joined by others on their route out of

the city. With this gradually swollen escort, they had been

driven through a squalid collection of tents and mostly

slumbering troops, after which Mörtenhof’s adamantine glare

had herded them west, into the voracious darkness of the

forest.

Melisandra remained undaunted by the gloom. She

measured her steps with the same calm pride she had carried

amongst the Turks, permitting herself infrequent glances at the Doctor, the Baron and the surrounding woods. Like the

Doctor, there were probably a thousand thoughts playing

behind her static features, largely illegible to all those around her.

Their path carried them a couple of winding miles along a

tree-cluttered valley, before the commander signalled a turn

northwards and they squeezed extra power from their legs,

mounting a steep incline. The soldiers tramped loudly over

leaves and twigs, sure of the territory’s friendliness and

apparently enjoying the persistent crunch under their feet. By

then, the Doctor and Melisandra were the image of contented

ramblers despite the mild discomfort of their secured wrists.

Mörtenhof rode mindfully past every tree, as if appraising its

suitability as a scaffold.

When the rise had benevolently levelled, he called for a

short spell of rest and was answered with grateful murmurs.

He stood in his stirrups and viewed the undulating blackness

of the woodlands behind them. He pulled his horse round for a

better impression.

The Doctor, too, found his curiosity aroused by a lone fire,

set in a distant hillside like the blinking orange eye of some

fallen beast. No others burned nearby and, from the Austrian

noble’s affronted scowl, he could be sure it was not a

Habsburg camp. In any case, the blaze seemed too tall and

unrestrained for a campfire.

‘Bah!’ the officer barked, dropping into his saddle and

effectively rejecting the Doctor’s curiosity as well as his own.

The site of the fire was too great a diversion and too small a

concern.

Frustration now his spur, Mörtenhof immediately ordered

the troops to proceed, now that they were ‘sufficiently rested’, and their group dipped down over the hill, the brow of foliage

banishing the orange shard from sight.

The words ‘I can’t’ had all but spilled over Aphrodite’s lips

when she abandoned the polite protest altogether. The gloss of

the mare’s coat and the shining eyes was matched by the

gleam in her own as the animal was led forward. There was an

encouraging warmth in the smiles of Péter, who held the reins,

and Liz, who stood beside her.

‘You know full well, if you had ever asked, Lászlo would

have given her freely,’ the youthful gypsy reiterated, ‘and

anyone can see how you’ve fallen in love with her already.

Right?’ He looked for verbal confirmation from Liz.

‘Head over heels,’ Liz laughed gently, a hand on

Aphrodite’s shoulder to nudge her forward.

‘Nivasi,’ Aphrodite tasted the name slowly, ‘She’ll make a

good companion for Bailador. I’ll treasure her.’ The vow

made, she stepped up to smooth the horse’s nose. Accepting

the reins from Péter, she moved past him, her fingers gliding

down the animal’s powerful neck. She kissed the young man

and hugged him with her free arm. Then he helped her aloft,

where she settled into the saddle and arranged her skirts while she waited for Liz.

‘I could walk beside you, if you like,’ Liz proposed, even

as she wandered over and offered her hand to Péter.

Aphrodite evaluated the idea mischievously. ‘Ah, now I

could use a trusty squire. No, it’s no good, my conscience

won’t allow it. Come on, I promise a leisurely pace this time.’

She extended a hand down and assisted as Péter launched

Liz up in front of her. Once again, Liz found herself

rummaging for a more comfortable seat, but she soon relaxed

and invested her trust in Aphrodite’s prowess as an

equestrienne. The two women smiled at the young man.

‘Take care of yourselves,’ he implored them earnestly.

‘Listen,’ Aphrodite replied with a kindly advisory note,

‘will you do something for me? When we’ve rid the forest of

ghosts, try not to be such a serious old man.’

Péter laughed and raised both hands in apology, waving

them on their way. The horse started into a trot and Liz

followed the receding figure of the man with her eyes; he was

heading back to the camp, where the round of fond farewells

had been said, and where the final embers of the burning

caravan were now a dull red glow.

The delays between offensives had steadily lengthened until

Major Bugayev had chosen to evacuate his troopers from their

defensive positions, hurrying in on the subterranean entrance

and leaving the Turks wondering where their fearsome

enemies had disappeared.

The plan had not unfolded as intended, but with

adrenaline, the elixir of supermen, to bear him along, Bugayev

held his team steadfastly on the new course and learned, to his delight, that the outcome was less disadvantageous than

expected.

Shortly after the order had been issued, he had clumped

both boots down on the cobbles, landing from the second-

storey window and breaking into a run immediately. His

troops had scuttled from a wide variety of holes all around

him, rats erupting through the wainscoting. Sergeant Markov

had chosen an exclusive rooftop escape, burrowing up from an

attic window and eventually risking a daring lunge across onto

the Castle battlements; Bugayev and the rest had ducked along

at streetlevel.

From the temporary cover of a corner-house doorway,

Bugayev had seen the first of the Turkish lancers gallop out

from a small lane, a shaft drilling for Plankin’s unknowing

heart. A warning yell grating the inside of his throat, Bugayev sprang forward, slamming an elbow into the mounted Turk

and displacing the man from his horse. Clutching at the mane,

he yanked himself astride the rearing animal’s back and turned

his pistol on the astounded riders bursting from the lane in

single file. His gun issued forth a stream of satisfactory

reports, at close range; then Plankin joined with the

convincing addendum of the RPK automatic rifle. The Turks,

with no room to flee, or to aim their lances, had discarded their cumbersome weapons and charged madly on, some managing

to draw their scimitars before unseen impacts blew them

backwards.

Handgun empty, Bugayev rode on, rising to the role of

Cossack, leaving the remnants of the threat to the steel punch

of the RPK, the ammunition drum clattering violently with

each burst.

By then, shots had been cracking in his ears all around and

more of their Ottoman friends had been tempted back. Zhelnin

sailed up to him from an unseen quarter, declaring the

subterranean entrance to be full of dead Turks; despite him

having been the first to reach there. ‘Now,’ he had pointed out,

‘the area’s filling up with live ones.’

Certain of the Doctor’s involvement, hopeful of the man’s

escape with Melisandra, Bugayev ordered a withdrawal from

the area of the ‘Wax Works’; a radio call from Sergeant

Markov guided the withdrawal in the direction of the inland

wall, away from the river.

Now, Bugayev rode into the narrow street that paralleled

the wall, while Lieutenant Zhelnin stationed rearguards to

cover every possible approach. Markov waited, low-light

binoculars in hand, as his Major clambered from the horse to

the battlements with the confidence, if not the expertise, of a circus performer. There was a body, its jaw smashed, barring

Bugayev’s path, so he levered it onto the road below with the

firm pressure of a boot. Then he was next to his Sergeant.

‘Well, Sergeant Markov, you did say good news,’ he

cautioned.

The senior NCO saluted and stated, ‘Comrade Major, sir, I

sighted what can only have been the Doctor and Professor

Kameneva, captured by European troops.’ He straightened an

arm in the general direction.

Zhelnin appeared behind Markov, having climbed up from

a nearby cart. Major Bugayev was busy digesting the glad

tidings.

‘No casualties, Comrade Major, save a musket-graze for

Private Saporov,’ the Lieutenant announced cheerfully.

‘Ammo status?’ the Major inquired, his mind divided

between their various choices.

‘Half our ready supply, Comrade Major,’ came the

response.

‘That, then,’ concluded Bugayev, ‘is our second piece of

good news. It means we can chase after the Doctor and

Melisandra Sergeyevna without ducking back to the house for

the reserves.’

‘Can we be certain to find them?’ Zhelnin prompted

worriedly. ‘They may have gone anywhere.’

‘They may indeed, but yes we can.’ In Bugayev’s mind,

the job was already done. ‘Sergeant Markov’s hawk-eyes have

the approximate area. We only have to track them from there.’

Lieutenant Zhelnin and Markov nodded in unison.

‘Meanwhile, Lieutenant Zhelnin, I suggest we play a

special gambit of our own. You,’ he aimed a pistol-barrel

finger, ‘can take Abdurasulov with you back to the house. The

Doctor is convinced the tenth century is the start of this

business, so slide the control back to zero – and, ah, think very hard about our key objective, hm? Memorise the current

setting and send the house back for us if you can.’

Zhelnin was fascinated by the vulpine cunning etched by

Bugayev’s facial lines. He was a short while in responding

with the expected salute, then he stamped off, returning to the street and grabbing Abdurasulov en route.

In the present quiet, Bugayev summoned his other soldiers

onto the wall as the quickest means of exit from the Castle, his fox-like eyes panning around the lightening horizon and at

least half his mind trying to recall an English expression

regarding wild geese.

The journey north developed into a trek, the undulating terrain beginning to exact demands on even the superior stamina of

both Melisandra and the Time Lord. The swish of leaves

overhead was eventually drowned out by the laboured

respiration of the soldiers, who were conscious and jealous of

the rhythm still maintained in their prisoners’ breaths. Baron

Mörtenhof was appreciative of the men’s grumbles and flared

his nostrils at the Doctor, particularly, for not having the

decency to be quite so exhausted as his guards. During the

final stage of the march, the Doctor obliged him with the first few beads of sweat on his forehead.

Here, the forest petered out over flatter ground and they

approached a once-exalted fortress, constructed on two levels.

Battered ramparts encircled the base of a hill like a pair of

granite arms, breached in places and braced weakly by grey

towers that reeled drunkenly. The keep backed onto the

embankment, up which steps climbed to greet a war-scarred

palace, lighted by the rising sun; a rival for Versailles erected within the bounds of Gormenghast. Its hidden face gazed

dolefully into the River Danube, mourning the lost beauty

manifest in its reflection.

‘Visegrád,’ Baron Mörtenhof informed his charges.

The Austrian noble guided his troops and prisoners

through a miserably repaired gate, swung respectfully open by

a handful of guards, into an imposing fortress ruined by hostile and negligent occupation. Wooden stockades, carts, limbers

and guns were all gathered in the straw-covered courtyard as

men bustled about them, making assorted preparations in a

show of chaos peculiar to military organisation. Livestock and

men crossed paths in this confused fashion, narrowly avoiding

wheeled guns, wagons and hooves. Scarce were the eyes that

looked on Melisandra or the Doctor, and all were as drab as

the fortress walls.

The Baron paused only a minute to converse with the men

in the grubby courtyard, spreading the news of his success;

then they struck out for the keep, a path cleared for them in the mass of men, horses and materiel. After a while, the Doctor

and Melisandra found themselves completely ignored.

At last, the noble dismounted and handed them

unceremoniously into the custody of four guards inside the

doorway. He parted their company without any signal of

farewell and traipsed inside.

The guards hesitated, checked the prisoners’ bindings,

then grabbed their arms to lead them off at a right angle. The

noble was nowhere in sight and the Doctor memorised their

course along the dingy corridors, right up to their being flung rudely into the wall of an open, straw-matted cell. Sturdy

chains were the only decorations on the stone-block walls, a

rickety wooden table and chair the only furniture; all the poor light strayed in from the corridor. The scene was

uncomfortably familiar to the Doctor and he chanced a

grimace in Melisandra’s direction. She appeared equally

unimpressed.

Taking care to watch them closely, one guard remained

planted in the doorway, one fist over the hilt of his sword.

While the Doctor’s pockets were searched and emptied (with a

deeply perplexed inspection of the sonic screwdriver),

Melisandra was briskly manacled around the ankle; the Doctor

followed suit, handled marginally more roughly. The length of

chain was generously meant to reach the chair, but, for now,

the two were shoved into sitting positions in the earth and

straw. Then, to their collective surprise, a guard leaned behind each of them and, knife wielded cleanly, slit the ropes that

bound their hands.

‘You’ll need them to eat,’ he said.

‘I was rather afraid we’d missed breakfast,’ the Doctor

addressed the man mordantly.

The guard dealt him a dose of regret for that, with a single,

sharp swipe across his head, using the flat of the blade in his palm. By the time the Doctor looked up, the guards had

crossed the floor, slammed the door shut and drawn the bolt

with an ominously heavy clank.

Aphrodite was true to her word and the ride through the forest

began as a surprisingly pleasant experience; if cross-examined, Liz would still have preferred a car, but at least she slowly lost her fear of falling and could watch the dawn light as it crept up its daily arc, unfurling a backdrop of silver to their path.

This bright screen of sky defined the silhouettes of danger

just as well as those of beauty.

Aphrodite tugged the reins once and Zephyr halted

faithfully, perfectly untroubled. Liz, too, felt a shielding calm even as Aphrodite leaned close and whispered in her ear,

indicating the soldiers moving amid the undergrowth ahead.

‘We’ll have to skirt around them.’

‘Can a horse creep?’ Liz hissed back, positive she already

knew the answer.

‘No, but she can move slowly.’

As Aphrodite skilfully steered the mare aside from the

track, Liz wondered why she, herself, was not particularly

scared, especially as the outlines of muskets, in the hands of

the soldiers, came to her attention. There was such serenity in Aphrodite’s expression, when she glanced back, that Liz had

to attribute the sensation to plain trust; it was a trust oddly in contrast with that she placed in the Doctor: he earned his very early on, with authority, warmth and confidence; the

foundation for Aphrodite’s shone like a bronze halo.

They rode between the trees, picking their way by inches,

it seemed. Behind them, the figures trod heavily through the

brush, their own rustling steps concealing much of the horse’s

sounds. They were still too distant to reveal any detail on their uniforms and they spoke in low voices, if at all, keeping any

accent or identifying feature well below audibility. Liz

watched the muskets, questioning which way they were

pointed whenever their profiles shortened.

‘Flemish soldiers,’ murmured Aphrodite, obviously having

heard and seen more, tingeing the explanation with sadness.

‘There’ll be a battle. We’ll have to get to get back to Paraiso before –’

The horse faltered, in time with Aphrodite’s voice. The

soldiers spun at the movement and came loping at them,

suspicions aroused.

Liz, suddenly uneasy, turned around. Aphrodite’s eyes

bore a delicate varnish, but she swiftly recovered herself and

clicked the reins. The horse, careless of its own noise,

splashed rapidly through the undergrowth.

Aphrodite glanced into the trees, searching for the soldiers.

A musket puffed angrily like a tiny dragon; something whined

past their ears. Aphrodite leaned forward, and Liz held on to

her as the horse’s hooves made solid, lively drumbeats over

the earth. The soldiers were left standing, their aim spoiled by nature as Aphrodite’s promise of a sedate pace lay broken in

their midst.

Liz had cause to wonder, with the threat of the soldiers fast

disappearing behind them, why her sudden trepidation refused

to fade.

Melisandra produced a handkerchief from inside her sleeve

and sidled nearer the Doctor. Lacking any water, she wet the

cloth with a small drop of spit and rubbed the moisture into the fabric. She gave the handkerchief to the Doctor, advising him

to mop his brow where the knife’s hilt had cut the skin.

‘Not very hygienic, perhaps, but it’s the best we have.’

‘Thank you, anyway.’ The Doctor obeyed, flinching only

slightly.

Melisandra admonished him, ‘You know, the Time Lords I

know would have been decidedly more careful when to speak

and what to say.’

‘Yes,’ the Doctor held the red-smudged cloth before him,

‘well I was never much of a conformist in that respect,’ he

returned dryly, then indicated the spot to which he was

attending. ‘Or any other, for that matter. Of course, there’s the occasional price to be paid for the privilege of free speech.’ He paused, stuck for what to do with the lightly stained

handkerchief; but Melisandra helped him out by snatching it

away and tucking it back inside her sleeve. He noticed her

anew. ‘You say that as if you weren’t a Time Lady. And I’d

made up my mind that was all you could be.’

Melisandra drew her legs up and clasped her hands over

her knees. She opened her mouth before the words had truly

ordered themselves in her head. When she did speak, she

selected a tone of consolation.

‘You’ve not guessed badly, Doctor – you’re really not

very far out. But, for one reason and another, I’m afraid I only qualify for the title of Lady.’

‘My dear Melisandra, that much should be apparent to

anyone,’ the Doctor grinned in a required display of gallantry.

‘Thankyou, Doctor,’ bowed Melisandra magnanimously,

‘your charm does wonders for my deflated ego, in the current

circumstances.’ (The Doctor perceived her to be anything but

deflated.) ‘No, I am a Gallifreyan Lady, but I’m more a victim

of time than her mistress.’

The Doctor shifted himself on the floor, as if anxious to

gain a better view of his fellow prisoner; as if that would

verify the incredible revelation that stirred the musty air into sudden activity. She didn’t look as though she could be

considered – least of all by herself – a victim of anything.

‘No, it’s true,’ she testified gamely, ‘I was born some

while before they started plastering Time all over their titles.

I’m a genuine antique, and then some. There’s an interesting

story behind it might pass our time more favourably. Would

you care to hear it?’

‘Shall we say I can recognise a rhetorical question when I

hear one?’ the Doctor gave all the necessary answer with his

eager eyes.

Melisandra tilted her neck back and raised her face to the

grimy ceiling, seeking her starting point. As she did so, an

unwelcome interruption from the rattling bolt at the door

brought a flash of irritation to the Doctor’s face; a flash that he hurriedly replaced with a smile on seeing the guard enter with

their breakfast. Two tin plates, loaded with a pasty gruel and a dry crust of bread, and a metal jug were banged down on the

table. The guard withdrew, joining another who had watched

the entire delivery from the corridor.

The door thumped shut and the bolt was rammed home,

leaving them alone once more.

‘I think, if you don’t mind,’ ventured Melisandra with a

sidelong look at the table, ‘I’ll skip breakfast and carry on with my modest tale.’

The Doctor regarded the meagre offerings. ‘I think I’ll

skip breakfast and confine myself to listening to you.’

‘Well, now,’ Melisandra began, and she started with her

appointment as commander of the Halcyon Slayer.

In the cool dawn, Major Bugayev and the OGRON troopers

moved with practised efficiency, probing the way ahead with

sight, hearing and a sixth sense that seemed to sniff the air

from somewhere in the muzzles of their various firearms.

Some way past the spot where Markov had witnessed the

Doctor’s and Melisandra’s arrest, Bugayev had detected a

humble military encampment.

This, the Russians fell upon with the deadly stealth of

snakes.

Too late, drowsy men, half in armour, rushed to arm

themselves. Commanded to restraint, the Soviets downed their

first victims with well-directed thrusts from their rifle-butts and brutal stabs with bayonets. Men dashed to all corners of

the camp, some emerging from the ragged tents, fearing Turks

and discovering worse; while the defenders scattered, the

attackers swarmed between them, shouting and striking

everywhere. The clash of metal was eerily absent: whenever a

blade swung in seventeenth-century hands, the Russian would

dive aside and another would assail the swordsman from

behind, burying a knife in the man’s back or sliding it across

his throat. Yaroslavskiy, equipped with a machete, stormed

into his foes with the voracity of a madman and the precision

of a surgeon. To the poor defenders, mayhem had been

unleashed; to the attackers, the chaos was decidedly under

their control.

Bugayev darted to and fro, rolled under an arcing sword

and kicked out at the wielder, snapping a leg with his boot. He carried through onto his feet and stood face to face with a

second enemy; a third was rushing up on his right. Fingers

together, he dug a deep hollow in the first man’s stomach, then whirled and chopped the other fellow, then arriving, across the jugular. Both dropped, one dead.

Around him, the fight had concluded and not a shot had

been fired. The only traces of smoke came from the campfires,

the faint crackle of which he had heard throughout.

Some of the OGRON troops gathered round; others

roamed among the fallen with guns at the ready. But for their

lying face down, the Austrians might have voluntarily returned

to sleep.

Against the ensuing stillness, Bugayev knelt beside the

first of his victims, laying a hand on the man’s collar. The man grumbled and moaned something acceptably within the scope

of Bugayev’s German.

The Major attacked him straight away with, ‘Two

prisoners; strange clothes; white-haired man and a woman in a

blue dress; have you seen them?’

‘I – yes – they – passed through here. I was –’ the man

stammered on until Bugayev shook him.

‘Where? Which way?’

‘Visegrád.’ The man needlessly and feebly tried to point.

‘Looks like our luck is holding up admirably,’ Bugayev

remarked contentedly.

‘She was a statue to magnificence, in many ways – like a

Liberty or a Britannia, I suppose – except gloriously alive –

but there was a disturbing quality to her that I never pinned

down,’ Melisandra expounded with a light shiver, a rare and

involuntary concession to frailty. ‘If the Chieftain and his Pack were the thunder, I suppose she, with her army, was the

lightning; but burning perpetually at the other end of that

valley. And she was as tall as the Chieftain, a great, golden

light-sculpture.’ She broke off, saying, ‘I hope I did her justice in my tapestry.’

‘Even without having seen her, myself, I’d say you

haven’t understated her. She must have made a lasting

impression.’ The Doctor had found himself absorbed in the

story, none too surprised to discover the real event behind the scene depicted in the tapestry.

‘Oh, she did that, alright,’ the Gallifreyan Lady assured

him expressively. ‘There was I, on my ledge, about to witness

a genuine clash of Titans and, I know, any sensible

commander would have returned to her ship without delay.

But I was gripped. My feet had taken root in the rock. But if

there was one thing that snapped me back to reality, it was

when they met. That first strike of weapon on weapon, sword

upon staff, ripped the sky clean open.’

‘Ah yes, the rays of lightning,’ guessed the Doctor,

recalling the image.

‘Well, that was essentially artistic licence. The only way I could represent it pictorially. It was like the impact of a stone in a pane of glass, but the cracks were spreading out in all

directions. Even directions I couldn’t see; but I was – aware of them. I mean, memories were resurfacing before me and I saw

the world of Kagren fragmenting, but it didn’t happen. I’m sorry; I lack the vocabulary.’

‘Past and future!’ breathed the Doctor, fingers coursing

through his hair. ‘Those cracks spread in all dimensions, not just directions. Omnitemporal weaponry! When they clash, all

Eternity feels the shock waves.’

Melisandra shrugged blithely, casting off the mantle of

awe. ‘Well, that’s outside my field of expertise, Doctor. All I knew was, I was scared. And,’ she then chewed on something

bitter, ‘I’d given up being scared for myself some while before that. So I knew there was much more at stake than me. Much

more. And I did the only thing I could: I commanded them to stop.’

There was a note of supreme nobility in her whole manner,

leaving the Doctor convinced of her success; her force of

character hinted at the power to stay the hand of a god, or even two. The Doctor let her continue, without saying a word.

‘And they did. Both of them. The armies stopped

advancing, they lowered their weapons. I had two million eyes

on me and, to tell the absolute truth, I had exhausted all the

speech I had. Stop! There wasn’t any more I could add after

that. So I was sure they would just swat me aside and carry on

with their battle.

‘But no. For some reason, no. Athena’s eyes blazed the

brightest of all. She just stared at me, all over me and through me. She did not appreciate the interruption! Then everything shifted and I thought I was floating in orbit, but – and this was no hallucination – it was as if Athena had wrapped herself

around me. I was a defenceless chick under her wing and I

honestly felt protected. She didn’t say anything and I just hovered there.

‘Then I saw the Chieftain, floating like a mote in her eye.

He was chasing after us – wherever we were. And the whole

thing splintered again. I was left to fall, forever and a century.

Not a pleasant sensation; worse than zero-gravity. Limbo.

Take my word for it.’

‘Yes, I think I may have some idea on that score,’

interjected the Doctor, referring to a recent sideways fling

through Time. ‘You’re saying Athena hurled you into the

future.’

‘That’s right. To Gallifrey, as it emerged, a long time ago

now, subjectively speaking, but much, much closer to what

you would call modern times. And, although she was gone,

Athena was still with me. I was aware of those wings from

then on; a cloak drawn around my mind.’ She twirled a golden

lock. ‘Apologies for all these metaphors, by the way. Athena

and the Chieftain generally appear to defy plain description.’

‘Trust me, you’re doing wonderfully,’ encouraged the

Doctor affably. ‘You were thrown to your own world’s future

and Athena left a hint of herself with you for some reason. A

souvenir, perhaps?’

‘It’s a theory I wish the Time Lords had settled for,

certainly,’ Melisandra rejoined. ‘No, my world wasn’t mine by

then. The High Council – which was all new to me, of course

– once I had told them my story, were sure I had been used as

a decoy. They were extremely worried that the Chieftain was

bound for their Gallifrey, after me.

‘Still, they weren’t about to execute an ancient – because

that is what I am and there’s no point denying it – fellow

Gallifreyan who had devoted and, according to history, lost

her life to the defence of their world. At least, I’ll never know how close they may have been to deciding to execute me – as

the simplest option. But, as you can tell,’ she flexed her arms as proof of life, ‘they never did. So they had to come up with

something else: exile.’

‘For the Lords of Time, they can be very short-sighted,’

reflected the Doctor moodily.

‘What? You think they should have killed me?’

Melisandra joked.

‘Not in the least,’ the Doctor smiled, ‘but their solutions to

various problems do tend to follow rather predictable patterns.

I know from experience.’

‘Well, I can’t complain. They did their best for me. Built a

very extensive prison complex here on Earth. Telepathically

shielded to keep the Wolf at bay.’

The Doctor made a point of sitting up. ‘The houses, of

course. They granted you a good deal more freedom than me.’

‘My sentence was protective custody. What was yours?’

she engaged her cell-mate with a half-taunt, pleased to see she had guessed correctly about him. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t pry.

We’re still on the subject of me, here. Although there’s not

much else to tell. I’ve been living in that network ever since, relocating to another wing whenever takes my fancy. I

suppose you have it all figured out by now. Direct,

transdimensional links between properties, each building lives

up and down its allotted life span – from initial construction to final demolition, you know.’

‘Yes, I don’t mind admitting, I wasn’t too far out on that

front either,’ the Doctor laughed softly. He added, ‘But the

system can’t be functioning properly at the moment. The

Tárnok house went back as far as the tenth century. That

would make for some very interesting external effects.’

‘Materialisation of the interface – the house exterior – for

one,’ remarked Melisandra. ‘Not to mention de materialisation when the interior shifted forward again. Now I don’t know

much about it, but that’s not supposed to happen. The Time

Lords are very particular about anachronisms.’

‘No, the fracture must be disrupting the network, allowing

individual buildings to stray outside their natural timespans.’

The Doctor folded his arms and sat forward, stroking his

chin with a spare thumb. He was contemplating an impression

of Liz, stranded on a dark hillside, watching helplessly as a

lonely Renaissance house vanished before her eyes. The

thought provoked a whispered exclamation from his own

mouth: ‘Poor Liz!’

‘Poor Liz’ was currently in her element, left to the luxury of a pristine and eminently equipped laboratory. It was a beautiful

sight and one which distanced the memory of that

disappearing house still further from her conscious mind.

Across the other side of the courtyard from the lounge and

the navigational controls, the room relegated the cherished

sophistication of her old laboratory at Cambridge to the

proverbial Stone Age. There were, alongside the post-NASA

devices mounted on the traditional benches, a large number of

tributes to antiquity, of which, she was sure, the electron

microscope was one. The benches, in contrast to most other

laboratories, were devoid of clutter, with a vast collection of test-tubes, pipettes, petri dishes and other such common fare

all neatly stacked in glass-fronted cabinets, establishing the

room’s jurisdiction firmly in the worlds of chemistry and

biology. The balance between all the sophistication and the

idyllic surrounds of the villa was a surprisingly harmonious

one. Perfectly in keeping with the mistress of the place.

The only modest disappointment was the absence of any

makeshift gadgetry of the kind always being manufactured by

the Doctor; proof against Aphrodite being a tinkerer in

electronics. And even if she had been, Liz was reasonably sure

she would have arranged all the circuits and wires more neatly

than the Doctor could have managed.

Such passing thoughts kept her spirits and humour light as

she occupied herself scraping Kagyrn’s blood from the fateful

sword.

She heard the door open behind her, but there was no need

to glance up to know that Aphrodite had entered. There was

her presence – a kind of aura that didn’t even need to be seen; something that Liz didn’t care to think about too much, for

fear it would totally undermine her adherence to scientific

principles and all things rational. And there was the graceful

sound of her approach, her every step a precision beat leading

in to a song you longed to hear.

‘How are we getting on?’

Liz stood aside to show her the slide with its few dry

specks of black, no more gruesome than coal-dust. ‘I hope it’s

a pure enough sample.’

The lady of the house – of this world, even – had changed

her rustic attire for a creamcoloured dress, drawn in at the

waist by a belt of intricate gold chains. Not exactly a standard lab coat, but again it chimed perfectly with the setting.

Somehow.

‘I’m sure it will be.’ Aphrodite’s unquestioning confidence

was exactly the sort of tone Liz scarcely ever heard in a lab.

‘We’ll simply slot that in the cellular analyser and give it the appropriate settings. Then it’ll know what we’re looking for.’

Liz hovered uncertainly, surveying the lab with care.

‘Which is more than I do. Your cellular analyser must be a

different model to the one I used back home.’

‘Sorry,’ Aphrodite slipped the sample from Liz’s hand,

enjoying the sarcasm, ‘allow me.’

She sauntered over to the polished, box-shaped machine

that straddled the end of the next bench. There, she activated a calculated sequence of switches, inserting the slide in a narrow slit in its right face. A visual display dappled her face with

light and several diodes blinked into action. Aphrodite studied it all with the enraptured curiosity of a young pupil, all the

time adjusting dials and triggering different functions of the

analysis with measured applications of thumb and fingers.

Liz came up beside her to help decipher the results.

‘The Kagyrn antibodies are likely to be tough,’ Aphrodite

hypothesised, ‘so we’ll need a sturdy protein to fight them off, or a crafty one to fool them.’

‘You’re aiming to convert your Pacifier into some sort of

virus,’ Liz realised, her imagination already captured.

‘After a fashion. I don’t generally approve of biological

warfare, you understand, but there’s a very good reason why I

don’t think this counts.’

‘Small Pax?’ Liz volunteered tentatively, afterwards

heartily sympathising with Aphrodite’s soft groan. Their

collective suffering was relieved by an impatient, repetitive

bleeping from the analyser. With a little guidance, Liz found

she could interpret the displays competently enough; inwardly

reassured to learn that future computer scientists had

discovered user-friendliness.

‘Incredible! It’s not what I’d call blood, but the cells are

still alive; positively thriving! There’s simply an outer shell of dead matter.’

‘Hm,’ Aphrodite was pensive, bending her face to the

display, ‘it won’t live forever outside the body. Most of the

Kagyrn’s matter was converted into energy, remember – that

has to be what’s sustaining them. There’s even plenty of

energy for multiplication, look.’

Liz met Aphrodite’s glance and voiced a shared thought,

her enthusiasm for the project expanding with every moment.

‘If we had more, we could use the Kagyrn cells to host the

virus.’

‘You’re absolutely right,’ Aphrodite’s gaze lit up

mysteriously, ‘and we will have more.’

‘So my premonition about them selecting Budapest as their

battleground doesn’t sound too farfetched?’ asked the Doctor,

the lines on his face deepening to ravines. ‘And where could

be more appropriate? An eternal battleground, if ever there

was one. Two forces, two cities.’

‘I know it’s not much compensation for being right,’

Melisandra commiserated. ‘But that’s part of the impression

Athena left on me. She has to destroy this evil, the Chieftain.

No matter what the cost to us mortals.’

She spoke this last so resentfully that the Doctor was lifted

from his own thoughts and turned to examine hers. This was

her second lapse into bitterness and she endured it with

shameless dignity, as if it comprised no taint to her grace. It was, though, a glaring chink in her armour of virtuous courage

and aristocratic tenacity. Her eyes dwelt on the table, averted from the Doctor’s scrutiny.

‘You’ve paid your share already, I see,’ observed the

Doctor gently. ‘The loss of freedom, or is it something more?’

‘Oh, I never mourned for freedom, Doctor,’ Melisandra

champed sourly, ‘not once. If you consider yourself caged in a

zoo, I could range all over my nature reserve. No,’ she

confessed, a saltwater glaze coating her eyes. She fought to

hold it in place. ‘It’s actually a chain I miss – an emotional

one. Love.’

‘Someone you left behind?’

Melisandra nodded, gazing coldly at nothing. ‘In a way.

He was killed – in the War. He was part of the scientific effort, engaged in a research mission to some world named Belogar.

They found pieces of his ship embedded in the ice. Such a

pointless, ordinary death for someone so – so – unique.’

One silver tear finally rolled down her golden cheek. Still

she refused to shake with sobs. The Doctor laid a comforting

hand on her shoulder. She patted it gratefully, controlling her breathing to gradually cheer her spirits.

‘He had your preference for a title over his real name,

Doctor,’ now she remembered lovingly, picturing his features

in the air before her. ‘The Sorcerer.’

‘An impressive name for a scientist,’ complimented the

Doctor.

‘The perfect name for him,’ Melisandra pursued fondly.

‘He adored physics and mathematics. It was more than mere

research, more than application. It was a real mission, with him. He wove spells, commanded the elements and he

fashioned such wonderful poetry.’

‘Poetry?’ the Doctor was intrigued.

‘Hmm. It was his second greatest passion, you know. He

always referred to the “Poetry of Physics”. He’d have talked

for a century with you on that subject.’

‘Rhyme and reason,’ mused the Doctor. ‘Yes, I expect he

would have. Assuming he could have strayed from your side

that long, mm?’

At last, Melisandra managed to angle her face at the

Doctor, an ornate smile illuminating her features with her

more customary majesty. ‘You’re a gallant gentleman,

Doctor.’

The Doctor’s response was trapped under his tongue by

the clatter of the opening door, sending two guards barging in

on them. They marched directly at Melisandra and hoisted her

onto her feet, one hand under each of her arms. One drew his

sword while his fellow bent to unlock the restraining manacle.

‘What’s going on?! Where are you taking her?!’ The

Doctor’s sudden motion brought the guard’s sword

dangerously close to the tip of his nose.

A face stepped up to the doorway. It was the haughty

Mörtenhof who had accompanied them all the way from

Budapest. He deigned to grant the Doctor an explanation.

‘She’s coming for questioning. I expect she’ll be brought

back, so you won’t be alone for long.’

The Doctor glared back at the man, then sent a searching

glance at Melisandra. Pinioned between two guards, she met

that glance head-on, fighting the guards’ combined strength to

earn her a pause.

‘Don’t worry, Doctor, it’s a far, far better thing,’ she

parted on a brave jest.

But her humour rang hollowly under the low ceiling. She

was dragged and shoved out of the cell and the Baron heaved

the door to with a disdainful sneer. As the Doctor heard the

bolt secured, he was thinking, ‘It was the worst of times, it

was the worst of times.’

Aphrodite was the only one qualified to operate the temporal

accelerator and, while she supervised the machine in its efforts to speed the process of cell multiplication in the Kagyrn blood, Liz was pretty much her own boss in another sphere of the

work: that of isolating or synthesising an enzyme which would

catalyse the formation of RNA from the neurochemical

compound that made up the Pacifier. The resultant virus would

live happily in the Kagyrn blood cell, which would act as a

host bacterium, attaching itself and transmitting the virus to

other cells. All this would go on and the antibodies would

leave well alone.

Liz was at home with the technicalities and now

conversant with all the advanced equipment her work

demanded. Aphrodite, appreciably sensitive to Liz’s nature,

had devolved a large slice of responsibility to her. Their heads would occasionally come together for consultation and

assistance and they would take pleasure in watching each

other work. So understanding, Aphrodite gave Liz room to

perform that the Doctor, in his unwitting genius, generally

overrode.

Liz wasn’t altogether comfortable making those sorts of

comparisons.

On the other hand, Aphrodite, despite her generosity,

made Liz feel inadequate in other ways. Trying to reconcile

her friend’s two sides and marvelling at the absence of any

visible join, Liz saw a perfect mixture. Consequently, she

found one side wanting in herself.

She folded her arms and leaned on the bench. ‘You know,

I can’t help envying you.’

‘Why d’ you say that?’ queried Aphrodite, suspending her

work.

‘You’re a very special blend, I suppose,’ considered Liz,

thinking aloud. ‘Oh dear, now I’ve made you sound like a

coffee. No, it’s your laboratory precision I can compete with –

I’ll prove it in due course – but you’ve a – a romance about you that leaves me standing. Dance and music, together with

medicine, biology and chemistry, and I’m afraid to guess what

else. My pitiful degrees probably don’t come up to scratch.

Even that wouldn’t be so bad, but I just can’t see where they

clash. So tell me, what’s your secret?’

Aphrodite tested her warmly: ‘Do you know what music

is?’

‘Well, yes, it’s –’ Liz had to reconsider.

‘Music is the closest humans will come to imitating

nature,’ Aphrodite answered herself with what might have

been a favourite maxim; pure and free of any lofty pretension,

as though she was simply expressing a heartfelt belief.

‘There’s a definite science and an order to it, but it’s still

beautiful. And why shouldn’t it be? The same that’s true of

birdsong is true of the bird that sings, trees, leaves, or anything else nature has to offer. Now, even if I do own up to a sound understanding of how all those things tick, that doesn’t mean

any of them lose their magic. Not to me. And the same is true

of people.’

‘You’re saying there’s a magic in me?’ Liz tripped the

question out with a laugh.

The wealth in Aphrodite’s smile was surprisingly

convincing evidence in itself. ‘Oh, yes. Your romance is in your passion for science, and your zest for knowledge; the

way you pursue your research with delight, the way your heart

warms to every discovery or success.’

‘I never thought of it like that.’

‘That’s my point. Don’t think of it,’ Aphrodite instructed

her, ‘just feel it, like I do.’

Liz was struck by Aphrodite’s insight and was conveyed

to another mystery that descended over her friend like a veil of lace.

‘Yes, that’s another thing – how do you manage to read

people so well? And you manage to charm them too. Is that

how you tackled Huba? I’m guessing it was more than

psychology.’

‘Now you’ve found me out,’ Aphrodite shrugged

reflectively. ‘Among my – people, I’m a mutation – a freak.’

Liz objected inwardly at that; both words seemed too

harsh to retain any possible connection with Aphrodite. ‘You

mean, you’re an exile – like the Doctor? Is that why you live

here alone?’

‘Something like that.’ Aphrodite stopped what she was

doing, a wistful melancholy transfixing her. One that Liz felt

acutely, taking possession of her own features. ‘Emotions are

my incurable weakness, see,’ Aphrodite explained with some

effort. ‘And I’m as contagious as I am susceptible. People

have to take great care if they want me around.’

‘They’re your strength,’ Liz argued, recollecting her own

vacillating emotions during their travels. ‘I can vouch for that.

I’m feeling it right now. Along with – I don’t know – so many

other things.’

Aphrodite chuckled softly over a sob and dabbed her eyes

with a silk handkerchief. ‘Now I’m sorry. There you are, no-

one is safe. Your best chance is to keep making me laugh.’

She reached over and mopped the wet rings from under Liz’s

eyes. So naturally maternal, or sisterly – or both. All possible things at once.

‘Dear me. What are we like?’ Liz was already laughing

along with her friend.

Left to his own devices, the Doctor resolved to find some way

of leaving his cell before he was overcome with boredom. His

devices, however, were limited in their potential, but he

viewed each artefact with as open a mind as possible.

Breakfast, if there was any justice at all, had to provide more than tasteless nourishment.

He tested the manacle in both hands. It was an old band of

metal and hung loosely around his ankle; removing his shoe,

he could slip it down to touch his heel at the back. The setting for breakfast assumed a whole new meaning.

Standing, he hobbled over to the chair and picked up a

platter, returning to sit on the floor, once he had used the bread to wipe off the mush; the stuff flopped into a more

unappetising heap on the straw. Holding the tin platter behind

him to muffle the sound, he began to scrape the rim back and

forth against the stone of the wall, occasionally flipping it onto the reverse side; even less occasionally pausing to gauge his

progress. In a fairly short space of time, he was satisfied to see a burnished and reasonably sharp edge in place of the

previously battered one.

There was still work to be done, of course, for the tin

would never last long against the iron manacle, but by now he

was ready to hum a quiet tune.

Back on his feet in an instant, he went to sit at the table, to all intents and purposes about to partake of Melisandra’s

uneaten meal. Instead, he chose a section of table and

commenced cutting at the wood with his improvised, and

wholly manual circular saw. Whenever he flicked a glance at

the door, there was no sound to bother him, so he kept on

sawing until a sizeable chunk of the wood splintered free.

Actually, it proved too large, but he braced that on the table

and chopped it down to an appropriate wedge.

Stooping, still seated on the chair, he used the flat of the

plate to hammer this wedge in between the locking-plates of

the manacle. This part of the procedure was noisy and

hazardous to his shins. Still, he persevered.

Finished, he calmly retrieved the jug and spilled the water

over his foot and waited. There was just enough give in the

clamp and, with a moderate struggle and a minimal amount of

pain, the Doctor slipped his foot free. He tossed the metal

hoop aside and replaced his shoe.

‘Next, the door,’ he remarked under his breath, scooting

up to the side of the portal. ‘Guard! Guard! Here, guard!’

His best hopes were fulfilled, when the bolt was drawn

and the door swung open. The guard was suitably lax and

terribly surprised to find his prisoner absent from the chained position at the wall; he was more surprised at the impact of the Doctor’s elbow in his unarmoured chest. The subsequent blow

encountered his neck and he blacked out before his face met

the straw and mud of the room’s floor.

The Doctor was out. He ran down the corridor, trying to

reason where they might have left his sonic screwdriver and

various other possessions. The passages were deserted and he

took full advantage of the fact. So careless was he that he

nearly ploughed into Major Bugayev.

Bugayev prodded him with a fist. ‘You didn’t have to

come out and meet me, Doctor. I would have shot you in your

cell.’

The Doctor decided that this stale crust of humour was in

need of a little butter. He said, ‘I never thought I’d be pleased to see you, Major Bugayev. You did well to find me so

quickly.’ Serious again, he continued, ‘Have you seen

Melisandra? They took her away for interrogation. We should

try to find her.’

‘I’m aware of that, oddly enough,’ snapped Bugayev, with

a pained expression. He turned to address his troops who ran

up behind him. ‘Fan out and search around the keep. She can’t

be far.’

The Doctor watched the troops file past. ‘You seem to

have lost some men. Lieutenant Zhelnin and Abdurasulov. I’m

sorry, Major.’

‘Their lives weren’t wasted,’ Bugayev assured him grimly.

‘We left a campful of Austrians drinking the morning dew.

That’s how we traced you.’

The Doctor thanked him rather mutely, preferring not to

think about whatever actions the Major had sanctioned.

Instead, he peered about him. ‘Where are the Austrians, I

wonder? Is the rest of the fortress this empty?’

‘Skeleton staff, Doctor. My guess is they’ve gone to join

the final assault. Today’s the big day!’

‘The recapture of Buda,’ mulled the Doctor. ‘You could be

right.’

They waited in silence.

Bugayev’s impatience won out and he shouted down the

passage after his soldiers. ‘Come on! Where are you? It’s a

long walk home!’

Sergeant Markov was first to return. He delivered his

report solemnly, expecting some retribution from his CO.

‘Comrade Major, sir, as far as we can ascertain, there is no

sign of Professor Kameneva anywhere in the building.’

The Doctor thought of her parting words: an innocent joke.

He knew too well how such things tended to rebound.

Chapter Eight

The Queen

‘Come, you spirits

That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here;

And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full

Of direst cruelty.’

Lady Macbeth, <<Macbeth>> by William Shakespeare

The Doctor paced his thoughts around inside his head, all the

time watching each of the Major’s loyal soldiers return and

deliver reports similar to Markov’s. At the arrival of the last pair of boots, owned by the somewhat Elvish figure of

Chistyakov, he had reached an unpalatable decision.

‘We have to leave now, Major, without Melisandra – and

without some very valuable possessions of mine.’

Bugayev cocked his head and peered doubtfully at the

Doctor; the proclaimed element of sacrifice had not persuaded

him in the slightest. ‘We may well leave without your gadgets,

or whatever else they’ve taken from you, but Professor

Kameneva is my concern, and I’ll be grateful if you’d allow

me to give any orders relating to her. If you’d be so kind.’

The Doctor steamed impatiently, willing the temperature

to cool as much as possible before he spoke.

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I never meant to undermine your

authority. I realise how responsible you are. But, in the first place, I can tell you definitely that Professor Melisandra

Sergeyevna Kameneva is simply the role an extremely special

woman has been playing for your benefit.’

‘I’d gathered that much,’ Major Bugayev professed,

between thin lips.

‘Good, I’m pleased to hear you’re with me so far. In the

second place, I don’t enjoy the idea of not having her with us, either. She has an invaluable insight into the nature of the very forces we have to confront. Now that I’ve lost the Poems of

the Dead, she could prove to be the nail we’ll find wanting

before too long.’

‘So we’ll find her first!’ Bugayev threw an order at

Markov. ‘Find me a guard.’

‘No, Major!’ the Doctor upbraided him. ‘Despite her

singular importance, we don’t have the time, you see! Those

two forces I told you about; they could be ready to face each

other any moment soon in our subjective future! And when

they do, if their weapons meet just once, the shock waves will

be enough to fracture Time in this entire region! And

humanity will find to its cost that a temporal fissure is

something you can’t patch together with goodwill, grim

determination or chewing gum! That’s always assuming

humanity is around to even give it a try!’

‘I’ll be here,’ the Major swore calmly.

The Doctor could scarcely comprehend the enormity of the

officer’s arrogance. ‘Maybe you will,’ he humoured him for

the present, ‘but that’s simply another reason for leaving right this minute. You’ll be here – in the seventeenth century! If that house happens to be damaged or destroyed in the

recapture of the city, we’ll have no way to gain access to it.

And since that house is our only link with other times, perhaps that much light will penetrate even your opaque skull!’

‘You do have a point, Doctor,’ Bugayev conceded at great

length, abnormally content to pass over the insult. Still, he

turned his face on the indecisive presence of Sergeant Markov.

‘Sergeant, didn’t I just ask you to fetch me something?’

There was such placid composure in Bugayev’s tone, that

Markov was quickly chilled to the core; that tone was the tip

of a very nasty iceberg, with which all the troops, at one time or another, had been familiar. If it ever struck, each man knew the consequences for his career. Privately chastising himself

for succumbing, albeit momentarily, to the strange Doctor’s

power of command, Sergeant Markov furnished the Major

with the most polished salute of his lengthy service, then

trotted up the passage in quest of a useful prisoner.

She sat impossibly tall and erect in the saddle, a woman with

all the final majesty of an El Cid, save that her own ceramic

mask of death was animated by a glaze of supernatural beauty.

But this was only a hard shell, another assumed persona; a

vessel for all the hatred pouring in from the cup of memory.

The horse beneath her was the painful white of sunlight; the

golden curves of her body were wrapped in glacial silk over

beige leather trousers, shielded by silver breastplate, greaves and a skirt of chain. Her sword and pistol were trimmed with a

gilt to compliment her hair. It was all part of the same armour.

She flexed the reins in one suede-gauntleted hand, sending

the dazzling horse forward, its hooves daring the earth to mark its clean, trim legs. She rode past the dulled and battle-tarnished guns, ensnaring every man’s attention, stopping at

the crown of the hill.

From there, she could survey the army, ringed halfway

around the walled city, as one devoted animal: officers on

every side were the creature’s brain, the infantry its claws, the cavalry its jaws and the cannon its fiery breath – oh, how she loved the irony in that metaphor. From there, she could master the beast; from there, she could temporarily drain that cup of

all its bitter memories. Of Kagren. And before.

Major Bugayev had led them all outside, to wait near the door

of the keep. The Doctor eventually unfolded his arms, as

Sergeant Markov wrestled an argumentative guard –

undoubtedly the fellow the Doctor had left on the floor of his

cell – into the moody daylight. The Sergeant dutifully pushed

the Austrian onto his knees at Bugayev’s booted feet.

‘Where is the woman prisoner, brought in with this one?’

Bugayev demanded in German, expending no effort in either

formalities or a civil reference to the Doctor.

The man stared with malicious awe at his interrogator and

his circle of bewildering subordinates. Bugayev drew his

pistol and spent a round on the sky.

‘Major, you won’t get your information that way!’ the

Doctor reprimanded him.

‘Shut up!’ Bugayev erupted ferociously, his blood rising

like magma. He motioned for Yaroslavskiy to stand nearer the

Doctor, then aimed the pistol close to the Austrian’s head and

addressed him in restrained temper. ‘You now know this for

what it is – yes, it is a gun. Where is the woman? Where are

all your soldiers? That’s all I want to know.’

‘The woman – I truly do not know! I beg you, believe

me!’ enjoined the already pitiable guard. ‘The army is taken to sack Buda; all the forces are assembled. The Queen has

promised victory over the heathen Turk.’

‘Queen? What queen?’ Bugayev’s gun held as steady as

his voice. (The Doctor was tensed to prevent him firing,

Yaroslavskiy or no.)

‘The Queen,’ the Austrian repeated helplessly. ‘She leads

us into battle.’

The Major shrugged and holstered his pistol (permitting

the Doctor to relax). The next minute, he was scratching his

cheek in a casually pensive manner. ‘Mean anything to you,

Doctor?’

The Doctor studied the quivering guard sympathetically

for a moment. He shook his head, ‘No, nothing definite. It

does make me wonder what happened to Prince Eugene of

Savoy, though. He’s not supposed to have been dislodged by a

queen, you know.’ Reading the patent dissatisfaction in the

Major’s face, the Doctor presently added, ‘The name of

Athena might enter into it somewhere.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Bugayev remembered, ‘your obsession with

statues. I guess we’ll see soon enough. Come on, we’re

heading back to the city.’

‘Without Melisandra?’

Major Bugayev was already marching across the dirt-

caked courtyard, beckoning his troops after him. He turned

and walked slowly back, saying, ‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t

it, Doctor? Honestly, some people can’t even recognise when

they’ve won their argument.’

The Doctor looked on with despair. The Russian troops

were moving out, leaving the Austrian alone with his fears.

Patting the uncertain guard on the shoulder, by way of a

farewell and a reassurance, the Doctor set off to follow the

OGRON troops, but was met head-on by Bugayev, who had

timed his return exactly.

‘Between you and me, Doctor, I would never commit

murder without a very sound reason, but any time you want to quit this operation,’ he suggested with quiet menace, ‘you only need to question my authority during an interrogation one

more time.’

The Doctor gave the Major a look of lazy exasperation,

before patronising him with a reply.

‘My dear Major, there might very well come a time when

I’m willing to let this planet fend for itself against any number of threats, extra-terrestrial or otherwise. But let me assure you, I would never, for one minute, consider leaving the fate of the world in hands such as yours.’

He strode purposefully by, fairly certain Bugayev would

never sink so far as to shoot him in the back.

Aphrodite rubbed her eyes and stretched. The resultant yawn

from Liz had nothing to do with Aphrodite’s mysterious

emotional resonance; it was a perfectly natural case of

infectious fatigue.

They had worked several hours without a break and now

their researches waited on the crystallisation of the

successfully tailored Pacifier virus in the temporal accelerator.

Its success had been verified by a complex computer

simulation, run by Aphrodite, which had mechanically

predicted matching results in the real world at a probability in the very high nineties. Congratulations, Aphrodite and Liz had

had to award themselves.

‘It should even work on humans, to a lesser extent,’

Aphrodite had pointed out. ‘The Kagyrn cells will last some

time in the human bloodstream before the antibodies can fight

back. Say, a matter of weeks.’

‘And we want it to work on humans?’ had been Liz’s

hedging supposition.

‘Well, if it stops them fighting for a fortnight, then it can

only be a good thing. By the time they recover their aggressive tendencies, they’ll be free of the Kagyrn influence, at least.

They’ll only go back to killing for their own purposes, but –’

she had given a heartfelt sigh that reached Liz from halfway

across the laboratory, ‘that’s something we can do nothing

about. Good or evil, history is sacred.’

Now, with time to spare, Aphrodite hauled herself from

her stool and smiled an invitation. ‘Care to idle away some

time? A safe, leisurely stroll?’

‘Yes,’ Liz agreed readily, ‘I don’t mind if I do. I’m

thinking of re-doing my living room back home, so I might

pick up a few ideas.’

Aphrodite wasn’t buying that for a minute. ‘Come on,

then,’ she beckoned, eyes shining as she ushered Liz before

her with the affectionate, guiding hand of an elder sister.

Liz felt that bond more closely than ever since the

additional shoring provided by an easy working relationship.

A tour of Aphrodite’s home presented an opportunity, like the

whirlwind tour of any friend’s house, to gain an additional

dimension of insight into her companion’s enchanting

character. The few rooms she viewed contained such an

apparent richness and depth that, initially, she believed she

might never know more than a minute segment of Aphrodite’s

true self. Realisation soon dawned, though, that the nature of

those details was uniform throughout: just as the sunlight

seemed to reach everywhere in the house, there were no dark

corners to Aphrodite’s personality. She was an honest portrait

of herself. Such secrets as she had, were there for all to see, like the rainbow shine on a magpie’s black feathers, or the

enticing complexity of a snowflake. And there was the subtle,

yet essential distinction between her and the Doctor: you

trusted the Doctor in a few short instants, even though you

would never completely know him; with Aphrodite, for all her

mystery, you trusted her and knew her in that first magical eye contact.

Aphrodite’s rooms, corridors and hallways were adorned

with splashes of history, chiefly from Earth, with elements of

unknown cultures. Her gardens were, as well as a magnificent

library of plant life, several centuries of lovingly crafted

sculpture. Birds dipped and wheeled over the lake, or flocked

to the trees to fill the branches with colour and song. The

horses roamed the lush grassland to the right of the house, not far from the shore.

‘You’re not afraid they’ll run away?’ Liz ventured,

although she didn’t think so for a minute. ‘I don’t suppose the builders thought to include a stables?’

‘They did. They’re to the rear of the house – but they’re

rarely used.’ They walked together along the lake shore,

admiring the sun playing on the water, in its attempts to dazzle them. ‘Bailador is part of the lake, this world. And Zephyr, I

suspect, will not stray far from Bailador.’

‘It’s wonderful here,’ Liz inhaled deeply, ‘like a separate

Universe.’

Aphrodite welcomed Zephyr with firm strokes of her

palm. ‘That’s exactly where we are. Violence, horror; they’re

all shut out here.’ She nodded ahead to where the horses were

grazing. ‘And I don’t believe in shutting things in, if I can help it. It’s ironic, really. I’m free here, I’m at home. But the truth is, this world is my prison.’

Liz stared at her friend in disbelief, and glanced around

warily at the world, as though the fairy tale might come

unravelled at any minute. It didn’t. But then, the fairy tale was easier to believe than the idea that Aphrodite was any kind of

prisoner.

The Queen unleashed her beast.

The army stirred into vengeful action and went at its

victim with an incongruous sluggishness. Various divisions

surged patiently forward from all directions, darkening the

landscape like earthbound clouds, every yard of their advance

breaking the formations despite the best will to maintain them.

Blocks of musketeers and pike-bearers rolled steadily onward,

trudging the grass mercilessly into the dirt, while massed rows of cavalry poised themselves and shuffled in anticipation of

their charge. Already, mounted couriers belted across the field with orders and intelligence destined to be heeded, ignored or

lost in transit. From her vantage point, atop the hill to the

north, all signs of humanity were absent from the scene; as

they were from her own features.

One of her adjutants observed privately, Never was cruelty

so visibly and disturbingly drawn than in the lines of such a beautiful face.

She turned that beautiful visage on him, transforming the

thought, if not the adjutant, to stone.

Reading her gaze as an order, the man bowed and

gratefully rode off to disseminate them as swiftly as his horse permitted. Others raced away to different corners of the

battlefield, to the ranks of guns arrayed on several hills.

Shortly, the opening strains were expelled by the

orchestral clamours of those same guns.

Everywhere, the cannons spewed fire and sound, crushing

eardrums in the immediate vicinity or heralding its own

contribution with a muted crash from far away; every mouth

coughed up plumes of smoke to haze the air. Favourable

winds carried much of the first volley to punch craters in the

earth just below the walls of Buda; subsequent blasts shattered the stones, scattering dusty smoke and chippings, along with

men, from the battlements. With each agonised hack, the guns

trundled back and retched on their carriages, instantly rushed

forward to have more crammed down its soot-smeared throat.

The air was alive with screeching whistles and thunderclaps.

As the crude boxes of troops crossed an invisible line, the

Turkish guns responded in kind, finding their marks on open

ground and bludgeoning walls of flesh in payment for their

stone. Some of the attackers fled in disarray; most were

ploughed forward under the hail of Turkish grapeshot.

To Turkish eyes, the walls had betrayed them to their

enemy, offering no more protection than wood, shaking at

each impact, tossing more of their numbers into the streets,

burying shrapnel in their sides. Still, the great shapes, charging up at the ramparts between pillars of smoke, were solid

masses. The Turkish barrages had failed to thin them. Gates

were opened and soldiers spilled out, driving to cut through

the tightening noose; several columns competing for the

nearest bridges, only to be pulverised by merciless barrages

from along the riverbank.

She, the self-appointed conductor of this barbaric feast,

spied one limb of the Turkish army flailing in her direction.

Seizing her moment, she drew her blade and launched her own

horde of cavalry off the crest of the hill, her features twisted in malevolent expectation.

The hillside disappeared under the swiftly stamping

hooves, weight of horse and rider digging a spreading mess of

craters in a miniature cannonade of their own. The dry rattle of that frenzied rhythm pumped the adrenaline to fever-pitch,

fuelling the killing instinct until the men felt starved. As this spearhead plunged into the flank of the Ottoman cavalry,

flintlocks discharged, arms swiped everywhere with swords,

legs kicked and horses reared, screaming as wildly as their

masters. This savage melee of man and beast still sought to

move, merged into a single organism and veering randomly

over the mutilated turf. It finally stalled, seeming to keel over in imitation of the individual bodies, felled by slashing rapiers and scimitars, trampled to death under its own feet.

She, the Queen, revelled in it all, gladly staining her snow-

white horse with splashes of red.

Bugayev, shoulder against one side of a tree, wiped his mouth

with one hand and passed the binoculars around the trunk to

the Doctor.

‘There you are, Doctor, what do you think of that?’ he

asked plainly. ‘All sanctioned and financed by the Pope.’

The Doctor tightened his brow over the eyepiece, scanning

the knotted clusters of violence with a sense of fading hope.

Through the lenses, he could see the breached walls of Buda;

men were piling through the gaps, scrabbling over the bodies

of others and beating back the thin fences of resistance.

Muskets chuffed and cracked timidly at this distance, but the

Doctor heard a great many shots keenly. He handed back the

binoculars.

‘Even the holiest of men are still men,’ he said

dispiritedly. ‘The real question is, what do we do now?’

Bugayev stood simultaneously with the Doctor. ‘My own

inclination is to go in anyway. Right now. Chances are, the

house is okay at present. We may not want to leave it any

longer. And in the midst of the confusion, we may pass

unnoticed.’

‘Those bodies on the ground all passed unnoticed,’ the

Doctor cautioned him.

Major Bugayev contemplated his men, resting peacefully

under the shelter of a number of trees. They were genuinely

and understandably tired and would not last long in a

protracted firefight. They could relax properly inside the

house, but there was no guarantee they would reach the front

door through that murderous shambles.

He arrived at his decision. ‘We move in and wait a short

while. Then we hijack a supply wagon and ride in with that.’

‘Congratulations, Major, you’ve discovered stealth,’ the

Doctor offered his praises.

‘I discovered it a long time ago,’ scorned the Major,

undaunted. ‘I only stick to whatever works best.’

‘Have you tired of idleness, yet?’ Aphrodite’s question floated across the veranda as Liz stepped outside to join her.

Liz, smoothing down her clothes, cast aside the temptation

to sit right down and bask in the sunshine and favoured her

hostess with an affirmative nod. Washed and refreshed, Liz’s

spirits were at their all-time high since her unhappy

abandonment in the tenth century. ‘You may not believe it, but

I’m ready to face anything now.’

‘Good.’ Aphrodite twirled around and headed for the

house. ‘Let’s pick up the Pacifier virus from the lab.’

Together, they passed along the villa’s decorative

corridors to the laboratory, where they extracted the

crystallised virus from the accelerator cabinet. The crystal was roughly the size of a small football, glistening jet and

presenting no more menace than a congealed lump of bath

salts. And why not? thought Liz. It was designed to spread waves of passivity to its victims, and she could find no better comparison than the delicious perfume of a relaxing soak such

as she had recently enjoyed. This image was further validated

by Aphrodite’s avowed method of delivery, revealed as her

hostess carefully manoeuvred the crystal into an unassuming

sack.

‘I think the surest way would be to sprinkle it into their

water supply – up the river from Csepel Island. It should

dissolve perfectly; no visible traces and relatively quick

dispersal. Gone in a matter of days to weeks. Also, I think, in the hot springs just under Gellért Hill, where the Magyars are

supposed to bathe occasionally.’

Liz chuckled softly at the coincidence of the idea.

‘What?’ Aphrodite flashed her eyes inquisitively.

‘Oh, nothing,’ Liz collected herself. ‘I like the idea. The

feeling we’re simply spreading a little happiness.’

‘One of my favourite pastimes.’

Aphrodite slipped the gloves from her hands and folded

them before storing them in a cupboard on the wall. She tidied

away the last few outstanding items remaining from their

researches; although most had been disinfected and returned to

their proper places as their purposes had been served. This

predilection for neatness in her laboratory was another of

Aphrodite’s subconscious expressions and mirrored much of

the scrupulous cleanliness shown by her gypsy family. Her

working method would surely have driven the Doctor spare.

With the laboratory restored to its prior spotless condition,

Aphrodite hummed satisfactorily and escorted Liz outside to

the lake shore. Liz was sorry to leave the villa and its

surrounds and, standing at the water’s edge, it was hard to

believe that they would soon be slipping through the surface,

back to Earth. Stepping into her own world’s history had felt

like trespass in an alien land, whereas here, on Paraiso, despite a compulsion to marvel at everything and her inclination to

question her presence here, Liz had felt at home. But perhaps

it was impossible to feel anything else when you were a guest

in Aphrodite’s home.

Placing her hand in Aphrodite’s, and her trust along with

it, she waded out with her friend into the welcoming waters of

the lake. Espejo de Cielo. The name conjured all kinds of magic, none of which Liz had time to question, as they slipped

under and into a realm that not only defied belief, but defeated it. Utterly.

Aphrodite had expanded only moderately on the subject of her

imprisonment. As far as Liz understood it, this remarkable

woman was an exile, somewhat like the Doctor. Through the

interface of the lake, her prison allowed her some latitude.

Much as the Doctor was anchored to Earth, but free to wander

anywhere in the world. Or, as the rather more sober

comparison occurred, just as the ghoulish Kagyrn creature was

bound to the Staff, like a dog chained to a post, a strict limit on how far it might roam. It was something that Liz had begun to

understand only recently, and then only barely. Other factors

deprived her of the freedom to wander time and space: how

could she be expected to appreciate the extent to which

Aphrodite or the Doctor had been deprived of their respective

freedoms? But she did know that, no matter how inadequate

her own grasp, Aphrodite and the Doctor, tidiness of

laboratories aside, would understand each other perfectly.

Thoughts of the Doctor were displaced again by thoughts

of the macabre spectre of the Kagyrn, as Liz realised they had

stepped through into the woods that were the creature’s

hunting grounds. It didn’t look to be quite the same clearing, where Aphrodite had planted the Staff, and she wondered

whether that was because they had arrived in a different

clearing or because they had arrived in a different century.

Either was possible.

‘We’ve certainly moved,’ stated Liz, holding her arms

apart to illustrate her meaning. ‘In space or time, I can’t quite tell which.’

‘Time,’ Aphrodite enlightened her. She laid the sack on

the ground and moved across the clearing. Instinctively, she

stopped some way short of the trees and crouched down to

examine the ground. ‘We’re back in the tenth century.’

Liz, a little wary of leaving the precious sack lying around,

picked it up and wandered over. ‘Even though we left the staff

in the –’

‘That’s right.’ Aphrodite looked up in mild surprise.

‘Omnitemporal, remember. It might not look it, but more often

than not I know what I’m doing.’ She laughed as she delved a

hand into the ground. ‘Of course, you can put it down to my

rather freehand navigation if you prefer.’

‘Oh, never! You forget, I know a skilled pilot myself. At

least, he says he is.’

‘Yes, your Doctor,’ mused Aphrodite. Slowly, she eased

the golden sceptre from its place of concealment in the earth,

its muddy texture fading as more of the shaft revealed itself.

Aphrodite’s hand came away perfectly clean as she stood, staff

in hand. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing him.’

‘So am I,’ observed Liz wryly. ‘Still, first things first.’

‘Still ready to face anything?’ she quizzed finally, testing

the regal weight of the staff.

‘Absolutely,’ Liz attested. ‘Let’s go now, before I change

my mind.’

Capturing the wagon, as weary as the troops were, proved the

simplest part of the operation. Their chosen cart had loitered at the rear of its group, a short distance from the concealing

border of trees. The OGRON soldiers had taken full

advantage.

Moulded into the base of the cargo bed, tarpaulins hauled

over them, the OGRON troops were safely out of sight. The

Doctor and Bugayev, heavy coats thrown over their normal

attire, sat up at the front, doing their best to appear

inconspicuous. The unconscious (the Doctor had insisted on a

nonlethal approach) forms of the wagon’s previous masters

were hidden beyond the tree line. Still, the group of wagons

had not budged and both the Major and the Doctor were tired

of waiting; plus the longer they remained stationary, the

greater the chance of discovery. Feigning the receipt of orders from some invisible source, the Doctor flicked the reins and

clicked his tongue, starting the vehicle into a creaking progress down the hillside.

They had travelled fifty yards or so past the foremost row,

when a shout commanded them to halt immediately. Another

few yards were to be gained in the pretence of deafness, then

the insistence and volume grew too pronounced to be ignored.

Since the command had been given in another tongue, with the

language-barrier miraculously restored, Bugayev stood and

hollered excuses back in German. They trundled on another

few valuable yards. Then a single horseman, the indignant

officer who had been doing the shouting, came galloping after

them to clarify his message. The flush of his cheeks was

visible from some way off. He rode promptly up, boiling mad

at the necessity of reprimanding these stupid wagoners on the

move. The obstinate or senile old fool, with the white hair,

persisted in driving the wagon resolutely on down the hill.

‘Hey there! What the Devil do you think you’re doing?’ he

clacked furiously at them in Hungarian.

‘What’ll ’e be wantin’, d’ you suppose? the Doctor nudged

Bugayev, adopting an appropriately colloquial accent;

confusing even Major Bugayev for an instant with his amateur

dramatics.

‘I’ll try to find out,’ Bugayev told the Doctor. He frowned

at the Hungarian and favoured him with a deliberately

querulous response, in German. ‘What is your problem? They

want their supplies in the city, don’t they?’ He pointed at the city for effective demonstration.

The Hungarian pointed steadfastly back to the collection

of more obedient wagons on the hill. ‘Get back to your station

this minute! We’ve received no orders!’

‘E’ll do himself an injury, ’e will,’ opined the Doctor,

immersed in the role of simple carter.

‘You’ll do yourself an injury,’ the Major passed the

warning on in helpful German. He looked bemusedly back to

where the Hungarian had pointed, welcoming the sight of the

lengthening distance.

The Hungarian officer shook his fist at them, cursing the

concept of multinational forces, and leaned out from his saddle to clutch Bugayev by the collar. The coat opened to reveal the

OGRON uniform, minus its greatcoat. The Hungarian gaped;

the Major glanced down. The Hungarian rotated in his saddle

to yell an order. Bugayev jammed the words in the man’s

mouth with a brisk punch.

The poor officer tumbled from his horse. Bugayev

successively batted the Doctor’s shoulder and slapped the

planks of the wagon. Heads arose from beneath the tarpaulin.

‘Stealth! Ha!’ the Major complained, then leaped into the

saddle of the accompanying horse.

‘Heeyah!’ urged the Doctor, coaxing the pair of cart-

horses into a more energetic run.

Cries had gone up from among the other wagons in

sympathy with the assaulted officer’s fall and now other riders charged out and raced headlong after the fugitive wagon. A

detachment of helmed infantrymen, ran forth and knelt to fire

their muskets; the guns cracked off in a sharp sequence. At

that range, with the wagon bouncing and wheeling all over,

only two musket balls pocked the cargo bed. The musketmen

clambered to stand and continue the chase. Meanwhile, the

horsemen had closed the gap on the wagon.

The jarring, rickety flight of the wagon was a severe

hindrance to its Russian passengers, but a few maintained a

kneeling position long enough to loose off a covering spray of

automatic fire. Yaroslavskiy sensibly prostrated himself and

braced the PK machine-gun on its bipod; his fire was no more

accurate than the rest, but it came more consistently, throwing a number of their pursuers into hasty retreat as a chain of small explosions ripped up the turf. The Doctor sped the horses

along in a mad dash for the city walls, trying to absorb the

bruising impacts of every jump of the bucking wagon.

The first of the braver cavalrymen sailed up beside

Bugayev, blade scything the air. Bugayev produced his pistol

and downed the man. A second rider cut in between him and

the cart; he spun and squeezed the trigger, but the gun stuck

uselessly. Although nearer the wagon, the cavalry officer

sliced at the Major, but the long reach robbed the swing of its strength and Bugayev barely winced at a grazed arm.

Alerted to the Major’s predicament, Plankin lunged out

and clubbed the rider’s back with his RPK. The rider,

unaffected, faced Plankin, who had already collapsed

backwards at a solid jolt from the cart; Bugayev had all the

time he needed to steer his horse closer, releasing his own

reins and gripping the enemy’s sword-arm. Twisting the arm

back, Bugayev pistol-whipped the man just under the exposed

jaw. He toppled from the saddle and rolled dangerously close

to the wagon’s rear wheel.

Still more riders ranged up on either side, but the Russians

stole what shots they could, infrequently finding their target

and knocking him from the saddle to fall like a poor acrobat.

As enough of their number had been picked off, to lie among

the dead of battle, the riders drew back and slowed their

horses, leaving the ‘treacherous peasants’ to their spoils. The scene around and within Buda spelled a victory for the

Habsburg forces and the wagon-thieves, if not caught and

hung, would escape with little of any practical worth.

Pleased to witness the steady dropping away of the

pursuers, Bugayev rode up alongside the wagon and shouted at

the Doctor to slow, a request that was echoed loudly by most

of the buffeted troops in the rear. The Doctor, unwilling to

inflict further injury on his allies, eased back the reins and

graded their flight down to a less urgent trot. The Major, for

comfort’s sake, remained on his borrowed horse. Their escape

assured, they travelled up to one of the ragged holes in the

wall.

The gap had cleared of fighting some time since, but they

had to abandon their transport and negotiate their way on foot, stepping over the gruesome tangle of bodies and spreading

cautiously out in the street beyond. The sounds of fighting had carried to another area of the city and their point of entry was strangely subdued. The smoky spines of the first fires were

bristling above the rooftops.

Orienting himself hurriedly, the Doctor led the group off at

a run, Bugayev trusting him enough to follow without

questions, and they trotted down the tattered row of houses,

ducked through filthy alleys and swerved aside at the earliest

signs of trouble. Occasionally, as milling rabbles of troops

appeared, they would seek refuge in a smashed hollow

building, searching for an exit through the rear or finding

some shattered window at the side. Eventually, without

another shot fired, they had themselves positioned at the

southern end of Tárnok Street, on Castle Hill. The assembled

shouts stopped their progress, dead.

The Doctor filched a glimpse around the corner, snatched

his head back in profound disbelief.

‘What is it?’ Bugayev demanded impatiently, but he

would not wait for the Doctor to form an intelligible answer.

He crept past the Doctor and poked his own eyes around the

building. Their house stood proudly, suffering from

remarkably minimal external damage, so he passed over that

and fell on the mirage of white, silver and gold, climbing

down from her snowdrift horse amid a furore of victorious

Habsburg troops. Her face was one he knew only too well.

‘It’s Melisandra!’ he exclaimed, his whisper more

expressive than any shout.

‘Isn’t it,’ seconded the Doctor, trying to figure the

consequences.

The Queen, or Melisandra, gloried in the adulation hurled

upon her by the throng. Here, around her, was the only scene

in Buda at present that resembled the established view of a

celebration; elsewhere, the mood was equally jubilant, but it

was being expressed with fire, looting and pillaging. The

soldiers had fought hard for this success and they fought still harder for their enjoyment of the spoils. If humanity had been

somehow forgotten in the confused machinations of the battle,

now, in the enjoyment of their victory, humanity was to be

openly scorned and abused. Queen Melisandra enjoyed that

prospect as much as she enjoyed the praises of her officers.

She dismounted, retaining her stature in some inexplicable

way.

‘Take the whole city, if you will,’ she permitted her

retinue of officers. ‘But this house is mine.’

Mörtenhof, privileged to be counted in her honour guard,

interposed. ‘But this building is very ordinary, Majesty, and

has survived very poorly. Will you have no other, perhaps?’

Melisandra quelled her subject with a look far keener than

any sword. She decided there and then that time had no further

use for this man.

‘My task is, for the present, done. I will recall you when I

need you.’ She used the last pronoun collectively, seeming to

encompass more than the immediate gathering of officers and

men. Her coldness still earned her several loud cheers.

Gratifying them and herself with a dignified bow of her

elegant neck, she spun about and swept into the house,

shutting out the crowd.

The crowd seemed to collect itself, with officers mounting

up and men dispersing hurriedly along the street in either

direction, eager to catch up on the looting and sacking of

Buda. Feet and hooves tramped noisily past where the Doctor

and his OGRON allies had been only moments before.

Mörtenhof was later killed by a stray musket ball.

They used the distraction provided by the Queen’s grand

departure to slip around the front and secrete themselves in the house which had afforded them cover. The emptying of the

street had come as a surprise and the Doctor was in agreement

with the Major that they should take the trouble of watching

the house for a short period before attempting to move in.

Most sensible people, when luck performs incredibly on their

behalf, are unwilling to test its generosity further.

Melisandra, the Queen, failed to reappear. The street

remained deserted, a remote island of stillness in a tormented

city destined for ruin.

‘Alright, we’d better move now,’ the Doctor decided in a

moment. ‘History dictates that this area isn’t to be left intact for too much longer.’

‘You make history sound decidedly undemocratic,’

remarked an acerbic Bugayev. He motioned his troops to the

door, from where they exited professionally, two by two,

scouting the road up and down as they stormed across to the

other house.

The Doctor and the Major followed, with Chistyakov

bringing up the rear. They slipped easily inside, suddenly

feeling a good deal safer.

Bugayev had his troops fan out through the building and

they whipped through it like probing termites. Meanwhile, the

Doctor and Bugayev retired to the lounge, where the latter

glanced over the supplies of ammunition and spare weaponry,

privately satisfied to see certain items missing. Zhelnin and

Abdurasulov had equipped themselves properly for their

mission. The Doctor, though, was drawn to a selection of

artefacts deposited on the turntable of the record player. He

went over, lifted the cover and retrieved them.

‘What have you got there?’ Bugayev prodded

suspiciously.

‘I’m not stealing the diamond stylus, if that’s what you

think,’ retorted the Doctor amicably. ‘But I think you can call off your search for Melisandra. She’s probably gone out for a

stroll – in another century. Look, she’s kindly returned my

possessions.’

He exhibited the sonic screwdriver.

‘And the Kagyrn poems?’

‘Them too,’ the Doctor confirmed, waving the little book

before sliding that back into his pocket along with all the other bric-a-brac. ‘All of it, in fact.’

‘So what’s her game? This mystery woman, who pretends

to be a Russian Scientific Adviser, then changes costume for a

promising performance as a Warrior Queen, both of whom we

must assume never really existed?!’ In agitation, Bugayev

yanked his cigarettes and matches from his pocket, proceeding

to light up. ‘I like chess, where the rules stay set, or war,

where you make them yourself.’

‘I wasn’t aware that majors devised the rules of warfare,’

contended the Doctor, seating himself to think.

‘Well, no, but they interpret them freely, because they

have to. In any case,’ Bugayev stared over the flaring

cigarette, ‘I can cope with the fluctuations – the fortunes – of war. What I don’t like, is discovering somebody is not what

they seem.’

‘Oh, there’s nothing wrong with an occasional helping of

mystery,’ the Doctor was forced to disagree, fully conscious of his own ambiguous identity as far as the Major was concerned.

‘It’s altogether possible that Melisandra is using the benefits of this house to exact some revenge on the Universe in

general. She would have reason enough to be bitter, but there’s no presentable target for her revenge – but that hasn’t stopped others throughout history. Of course, there is another more

worrying possibility.’

‘Which is?’

‘Which is still a vague possibility,’ the Doctor

procrastinated, reluctant to commit himself on the thinnest of

hunches before someone like the Major. He stood. ‘However, I

suggest you personally conduct a thorough search of the

building, but this time ask the men to pay particular attention to secret passages, concealed entrances, that kind of thing. I’ll occupy myself with some library research.’

Bugayev stood to keep level with the Doctor. ‘Well, I’ll

tell them, rather than ask them, Doctor. But why “personally”, specifically?’

‘Specifically,’ smiled the Doctor, wafting away some acrid

smoke that trailed in his direction, ‘because of my highly

developed sense of smell.’

Bugayev acquiesced, leaving the room with a rare bout of

laughter.

The Doctor had passed some time, as promised, in the library,

having initially set the house on a journey, he hoped, back to

the tenth century and Liz. Dipping only briefly into books,

undaunted by most languages, pausing only as long as

necessary to digest the relevant details, he had not found the

exact information he wanted, but had learned sufficient to

warrant sharing with the Major, at the same time establishing

how far the search had progressed.

He met Bugayev descending the stairs. ‘Anything?’

Bugayev shook his head. ‘Only an attic we can’t open.’

‘Ah, yes, I should have mentioned that. It’s an access to

another wing of the house entirely. It’s not important right

now.’ The Doctor made this assertion so readily that the Major

reacted as intended; he postponed it for later attention. The

Doctor, by way of added distraction from a subject altogether

too complicated, went on, ‘Look, I’ve uncovered a few minor

points of interest, so far.’

‘Go ahead.’ The Major rested one arm on the banister.

‘It’s not much yet, but my earlier speculation about a

vampire connection might not have missed the mark totally,

you know. Transylvania, for one reason or another, seems to

have been treated separately by successive regimes throughout

Hungarian history; generally more favourably than the rest of

the country. Myths and legends.’ He paused. ‘Also, the

Magyar people’s origins are shrouded in mystery. That’s the

upshot of poor documentation, by and large, but there’s some

suggestion, to my mind, that the Chieftain had his paw in their destiny from a long time ago. The Carolingian Emperor,

Arnulf, invited them into Hungary from the Don, to help assert

his authority over a troublesome Moravian duke. But some

unknown cause drove them from their original homeland in

the first place, southward into the steppes.’

‘The steppes?’ Bugayev could hardly conceal his lively

interest. ‘Roughly where?’

‘The lower Don, towards the end of the ninth century.

Why?’

But Bugayev only nodded and deflected the Doctor with

another question. ‘The Chieftain? That would be the second of

these forces,’ he conjectured shrewdly, ‘with Athena as the

first.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

A shout broke forth from the dining room. The Doctor

raced Bugayev and won. They found Saporov and Sergeant

Markov, the table moved and carpet tossed aside, shining

torches down into a gaping, shadowy hatchway.

‘The floor just vanished when I put my hand to it,’

explained Markov dubiously.

Wasting no time, the Doctor and Bugayev sat at the rim of

the rectangular hole and lowered themselves into the dimly

illuminated space below. Their feet clapped down on stone

after a short drop. Markov dropped after them with his torch.

For a short while, the beam just rocked madly about,

rebounding off the grey walls. Then it settled on the obtrusive bulk that dominated the centre of the chamber, identifying the

room clearly as a crypt.

‘Vampires, you said,’ derided the Major.

A solid, stone sarcophagus, its surfaces riddled with ornate

carvings, sat squarely on a low dais, a massive slab guarding

its contents. As the torch bobbed closer, the Doctor had it

circle the tomb with him to allow for a detailed inspection of

the reliefs; they were too fine to have been fashioned by man-

made tools. They depicted the Goddess, as shown in the

tapestry, dominant in a number of scenes extracted from

history: leading a rampaging Greek army of archers and

spearcarriers across a broad plain to meet their cowering foes; driving a chariot, at the head of an unruly Celtic horde, into

the terrified ranks of Romans; surrounded by armour-plated

knights, bound to a stake and holding her head proudly above

climbing fires; soaring into the night sky, borne on eagle’s

wings, as the flagship in a formation of gun-infested

spacecraft.

‘Athena, Boudicca, Joan of Arc and – ‘ he stopped himself

briefly ‘ – something after our time.’

‘All the same woman?’ Bugayev closed in.

‘Perhaps. Either that, or representative of her influence.

Female warriors up and down history, and not confined to

Earth, either, by the looks of things. I wonder if we can

remove this lid?’

‘Wonder no longer,’ Bugayev instructed him, then walked

back under the hatchway to summon a number of strong men.

The helpers were a very short time in coming, clumping one

by one down onto the stone floor. They traipsed smartly over,

Yaroslavskiy fortuitously among them.

They stood in deferential silence, only desecrated by the

Major’s order .

Together with the Doctor, they all heaved and levered the

massive slab, grating ominously over the walls of the

sarcophagus. They rotated it by inches, leaving it rest

perpendicular to the length of the coffin. The troops, in spite of temptation, stood back to allow the Doctor and the Major to

advance for an inspection of the contents. The two of them

leaned in, while Markov held his torch behind their heads. A

few of the men reached for the guns they had left in the rooms

above.

The Doctor and Bugayev exchanged a transitory glance.

‘Old bones,’ declared Bugayev disappointedly. Then,

more thoughtfully, ‘A woman.’

The Soviet commander was right, but the Doctor felt a

twinge of something far more acute than mere disappointment.

The pitiful wicker framework before him had supported a

remarkable life, the mocking skull had been layered with the

finest noble features, the cavernous sockets had been home to

a sparkling pair of eyes. The Doctor reached in and ran his

reverent fingers over the skull to make sure of himself, his

eyes roving intently over the skeleton.

Gallifreyan bones, the Doctor thought and kept it to

himself. He waited, before sharing his conclusion aloud. ‘I

think we’ve managed to find the real Melisandra, at last.’

Chapter Nine

Athena

Minerva – Latin, from the same root as mens, meaning Mind.

Origin of the name of the Roman goddess, identified with

Athena

Liz and Aphrodite might have found the peaceful surroundings

idyllic, but their walk through the forest was otherwise

clouded with the same contaminant gloom that had affected

Aphrodite’s sensibilities on her first arrival here and

imprisoned Liz’s better judgement until her heart-warming

welcome into the gypsy camp. Now, the feelings of both were

more overcast than ever, with the rustling canopy of leaves

invoking in Liz a discordant echo of those irrational fears

sparked by the storm in Somerset. She was, on this occasion,

grateful for Aphrodite’s company, since she managed to cloak

her own spirits with a resilient cheer, her inner warmth taking the edge off the threatening chill for the two of them.

Liz’s own failing nerve had been elevated, over the first

couple of miles, to the point where she could almost attribute

the mounting darkness solely to the gradual slide of the sun

from the sky. Still, she must have been reasonably tensed, for

she clutched her chest against a fugitive heart when a sudden

shadow flapped loudly above them, parting the leaves and

branches.

Aphrodite’s hand gripped her wrist urgently.

Eagle or angel, Liz could not tell; but the creature floated

down as though from the heavens, striking the earth like a

belated shaft of sunlight. The brightness glared without

hurting, ebbing and flowing over the feathered face, melting it all away to unveil a sublimely beautiful woman. The feathers

stripped themselves down to quills, which then narrowed to

the finest hairs of pure gold. The wings fanned out behind her, sporting an array of colours to humble a peacock. The

woman’s smile, in consort with her eyes, formed a brilliant

constellation on a backdrop of forest.

The pattern was astoundingly familiar to Liz, who only

then spotted the Medusa’s head, emblazoned on her

breastplate. The face, with a raw physical power on the brink

of masculinity, was that of the Goddess – or was it of the

woman who had stood between Athena and the Chieftain? Liz could no longer differentiate the two in her memory: they had

been similar already to her mind.

Whose face it was held no more import; it was a maternal

image, to be obeyed.

‘You’re not a bad likeness for a friend of mine,’ Aphrodite

aired her own appraisal, caution flowering into fragile

defiance, ‘but her beauty and courage beat from two hearts.’

Clearly having guessed something of the creature’s nature,

and therefore her identity, Aphrodite pushed the staff into

Liz’s compliant hand. The weight of it managed to revive

Liz’s senses to some degree; she lowered the sack to the

ground and grasped the staff in both hands as if her life

depended on not dropping it. Aphrodite was edging forward

through the glade, resembling a fragile moth fascinated by the

glow of the Goddess.

Athena spoke, her voice chiming like a bell lined with silk.

‘I knew your friend well, Aphrodite.’ Her tone was of

someone offering her condolences, in the wake of a friend’s

passing. ‘Give the Staff to me.’

Liz felt her mouth trembling and was unable to produce a

sound. Aphrodite approached a foot short of the shimmering

corona. The comment about her friend had evoked a single

tear, but Liz guessed there were a thousand more inside. She

was sure she could even feel them. Aphrodite, though, was

mastering herself with that strength which Liz had so far only

glimpsed.

‘We had intended,’ she said, without a trace of timidity,

‘to return the staff to its rightful owner.’

‘Your honesty is creditable, Aphrodite. The staff is mine.

It is the Staff of Minerva. Athena. Pallas Athene. My names

outnumber the galaxies. Give the staff to me, Elizabeth Shaw.’

Liz raised the staff aloft, her face alive with wonder,

although she hardly knew what her features or any of her

muscles were doing. She advanced slowly.

‘But,’ interrupted Aphrodite, again resurrecting Liz’s

consciousness, ‘I did say we had intended, you see.’ She clasped her hands regretfully and curtsied deferentially to

Athena. When she arose, her face was a perfect vision of

earnest apology. ‘Unfortunately, now I’ve finally met you,

Athena, I’m no longer sure you can be trusted with the Staff.

How do you wish to use it?’

Athena levitated a metre off the ground, ruffling her wings

as if in indignation. She took an age to settle once more. ‘Your courage is also worthy, Aphrodite. It will serve me far better

than it serves you. The same is true of both your intellects.

Yes. Although it is an entertaining thought, you will abandon

this notion of infecting my enemies with peaceful dispositions.

There must be a battle. You will not avert that, though you may serve in other ways.’

Liz bowed, the staff held vertically.

‘I refuse,’ determined Aphrodite fairly promptly.

‘Oh, but my dear, dear sister, you have no choice. Your own emotions will enslave you,’ Athena fixed her motherly

gaze on Aphrodite’s upturned face. She watched the inevitable

transformation take place, wiping away Aphrodite’s defiance

with the passage of a gentle eraser. Athena was delightfully

surprised by the placid mask of devotion she had sculpted in

its place.

The Goddess gave a trickle of laughter, a melodious peal

of the bells, at the enveloping joy of servitude with which she had managed to fill the suddenly vulnerable Aphrodite.

Aphrodite’s eyes shone in worshipful homage to the light

of the Goddess. She expressed her pleasure in the most natural

way, commencing with a patiently formed pose, curled arms

and balanced toes. From there, she presented herself as a gift

to the rhythm of the surrounding forest and Athena’s quivering

delectation. Slipping into easily measured motions, Aphrodite

glided from foot to foot, dancing to each delicately plucked

note of the gypsy tune playing in her senses, handed from

partner to partner in her elegant passage between the trees.

The tempo gathered pace, a wind fanning her fiery passions

ever higher; then she was spinning, weaving, stooping and

leaping in a captivating flurry of swirling skirts and butterfly limbs. In a state of constant change, she emulated nature from

second to enthralling second; first, arching her back like a cat, then soaring like a bird, then twirling down to the grass like a sycamore seed. And wherever the dance carried her, her eyes

would meet the enraptured attention of the Goddess.

Liz, who had missed most of the display, found herself

freed from Athena’s spell. She, too, was almost immediately

drawn into Aphrodite’s magical dance, but she forced herself

away, desperately figuring some means of releasing Aphrodite

from the same power. Stuck for options, she adopted the blunt

approach: she hurled the Staff of Minerva at its unsuspecting

owner.

Incredibly, Athena seemed to reel with the blow, the

momentum of the staff pushing her uncontrollably backwards.

Aphrodite recovered in no time, snapping reflexively out

of her dance, running over to scoop up the sack and grab Liz’s

arm. Aphrodite towed her friend into a hasty run.

‘Come on, we won’t have much time!’ she urged.

‘You were in pretty deep there!’ Liz pointed out, on the

move.

‘Me? You mean Athena!’ Aphrodite smirked proudly. ‘I

out-enchanted her! That was quick thinking with the staff, by

the way. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to do next.’

They raced on, not daring to glance behind. Liz thanked

whatever forces had delivered her into Aphrodite’s hands and

expressed another observation out loud. ‘Yes, well I wasn’t

sure whether goddesses were subject to conservation of

momentum!’

‘What kind,’ panted Aphrodite with breathless humour, ‘of

second-rate school did you go to, anyway?’

Athena charged after them, a burning fireball with no hope

of losing their trail.

The Doctor and the Major, deciding there was little more to be

gained by staring into the depths of the tomb, retired to the

lounge, both made thoughtful by the miserable occupant of

that hidden grave. The Doctor spread several tomes before him

on the coffee table and buried most of his concentration in

those; including the tiny volume of the Kagyrn Poems of the

Dead. Bugayev had no such diversions for the present, but for

once he refrained from intruding with questions, convinced

that answers would eventually appear of their own volition.

To pass the time, Bugayev had Saporov, the team’s medic,

attend to his graze.

‘Here’s something,’ announced the Doctor finally,

developing a theory marginally ahead of the spoken words.

‘The Turul Eagle. It’s a Hungarian folk-tale concerning a magical eagle supposed to have given birth to the father of

Árpád.’

Bugayev sat forward, enthusiastic to hear anything.

‘Where does that lead?’

‘Ultimately, parthenogenesis, I think,’ the Doctor hinted

enigmatically. He drummed his fingers over the open page of

the Kagyrn Poems. ‘It’s all a matter of interpretation,

correlation of myths.’

‘Oh, that’s Saporov’s field,’ growled Bugayev

sarcastically. Poor Saporov was preoccupied with swabbing

the Major’s arm with disinfectant; he looked up in terror of

what else might be asked of him. ‘Relax, Saporov. Get on with

it.’

The Doctor realised that this last was meant for him, rather

than the medic. ‘Well,’ he pursued obediently, ‘there’s a

section in the Kagyrn work that refers to Kagena’s Eagle, and

I happen to know Athena was originally beheld as a Bird

Goddess – in addition to a Serpent Goddess, incidentally.

Now, if we can reasonably suppose “Kagena” to be the

Kagyrn word for Athena, we can equate Athena with the

Turul.’

‘On what basis?’ Bugayev upset his attendant with a jerk

of the shoulders.

‘On the basis of everything that’s happening here,’ the

Doctor quashed the Major’s ready arsenal of objections before

they were fully deployed. ‘This segment of the Poems of the

Dead, “The Battle of Sinnaca”, states in one line that Athena

consumed all of Ongra’s Pack in a ball of fire. That’s one

million Kagyrn, including their tribal chieftain. The very next line refers to the Chieftain rising against Athena and scaring

her away.’

‘That could be wishful propaganda, Doctor,’ advised

Bugayev cynically. He settled back in his seat, interfering with Saporov’s work once more. ‘History might dictate what

happens, but how it’s written down is generally up to

individuals.’

‘Very good, but it hardly matters,’ the Doctor

congratulated him cordially. ‘We’re not concerned with

whether Athena was frightened off or not. Only that the

Chieftain rose directly out of the flames with which she

annihilated Pack Ongra. My own guess is that Ongra himself

wasn’t destroyed.’

Bugayev shrugged, eliciting a frustrated glare – hurriedly

concealed – from Saporov. ‘A phoenix?’

‘It’s a fair comparison. Now, bear in mind that the seven

Kagyrn Chieftains were reputed to be capable of transmuting

all energy to their own advantage.’ He reiterated, digging at

the table with a forefinger, ‘They could convert energy

directed against them to increase their own power. So what

happens when you fire a pseudo-magical energy at something

like that – an energy, to all intents and purposes, verging on

the divine?’

It was meant as a rhetorical question but, again, the Major

proved his sharp intelligence. ‘You create another magical

being. A god.’

‘The Chieftain. Exactly. Parthenogenesis.’ The Doctor

rubbed his hands together in front of his weary eyes. ‘Now,

how’s your genealogy, Major?’

‘Family trees?’ Bugayev quizzed, then neatly followed the

skip in sequence. ‘The Chieftain is Árpád’s father?’

‘Metaphorically speaking, yes.’

‘Metaphorically speaking,’ deduced Bugayev, ‘you are full

of pleasant surprises, Doctor.’

A flickering, blazing spear of fire shot through the forest, its tip seeking the fleeing forms of the two women. A vengeful,

headless snake of pure flame, it licked angrily at the air and

slithered faster and faster along the emotion-scented track. Its body writhed with the energy of the chase and the sheer

torment of being fooled, ensnared by a mortal. It would scorch the layers slowly away from Elizabeth Shaw’s bones.

Something else would have to be imagined for the hateful

empath.

There they fly!

The crackling rush of fire on the air forced Liz to look

behind her. She screamed at the column of flame resolving

itself into the Angel of Death, homing in on their backs.

Athena was upon them and they were both going to be killed.

A primeval snarl competed with the roaring flames;

Athena, assuming her classical image, with plate-shielded

breast and Greek helmet, veered aside to face the ghoulish

outline of the ravaged Kagyrn Warrior. Its killing lust was

excited into blind fever, a murderous appetite grotesquely

reflected in Athena’s celestial visage.

‘ Come on! ’ Aphrodite injected a new dose of vigour into Liz’s run. The two women were bound away, darting between

the trees like startled birds.

Behind them, Athena drew back the Staff, inviting the

Warrior onward, although the beast needed no enticement. A

slavering, rabid hatred instilled the creature with that supreme vision of this mighty Kagena reduced to bloody shards and

tatters in his own claws and fangs. It was the last picture in his mind, as he bound forward. The dream was flushed out by a

tidal wave of energy that swept him and his body away,

dashed his decaying form apart on some rocky shore and

sucked him into the infinite depths of the Staff of Minerva.

Ashes cast upon a limitless sea.

Athena smoothed the shaft of the weapon with a mother’s

loving hand. A descendant of her ancient foes was adequate

recompense for the loss of two mortal females. She elected to

let them live.

For the immediate future.

‘So,’ said Bugayev in a calculated tone, probing the insides of his dismembered pistol on the table, most of his mind on the

larger issue, ‘Athena took the real Melisandra’s place in this

house. May have killed her, even. Doesn’t strike me as an

honest, trustworthy sort of lady.’

‘Yes, well, her striking appearance means little in terms of

morality,’ the Doctor told him ruefully. He had risen from the

sofa and strode over to peer out between the curtains. The hill outside was dark and barren, as he had first found it when

persuading Liz to leap from the oriel window upstairs. They

were in the tenth century and, somehow, he had quite

abandoned the hope of finding Liz waiting meekly outside. ‘I

should have thought you’d have known that it’s not always the

heroes that wear white.’

‘We do have winter fatigues,’ Bugayev delivered a jest in

the midst of concentration on his task.

The Doctor had to grunt his amusement at that, before

resuming undiluted seriousness. ‘No, we’re facing two very

opposite forces, but nothing so simple as Good versus Evil.

Two wrongs, Major – and I trust you know what they won’t

make.’

‘Well,’ the Major seemed unduly relaxed, holding up a

component of his gun, ‘I would prefer to look at it

mathematically: the sum of any number and its complement is

a big fat zero.’

The Doctor turned slowly from the window, regarding the

Major for some minutes. He watched while the Soviet officer

tended to the insides of his gun with the considerate delicacy

of a surgeon. He was fiddling patiently with the hammer and

the sear lever, the care taken over his weapon a source of

mystification to the Doctor; demonstrative of both his

hardened militarism and his more refined points that deserved

a level of regard, much as his comment had done.

‘You know, Major,’ he said unequivocally, ‘statements

like that must be the very reason I’ve not completely fallen out with you yet. Despite your shameless preference for solving

everything with violence and the fact that you’re still

concealing some important truth from me, you do sometimes

appear to have quite a brain in your head.’

‘And,’ deflected Bugayev, glancing up for the first time,

‘you have quite a tongue in yours, Doctor.’

Still, as the Major began to reassemble the mended

weapon, he treated the world in general to a tempered smile.

‘You know, Doctor, it’s occurred to me that we can take your

genealogical theory one stage further.’ He flicked a tiny

screwdriver into his fingers, starting to fasten the gun’s casing.

‘If you equate this Chieftain to Árpád’s father, then Athena

emerges as something like the great grandmother of Hungary.

And, although patriotic pride should prevent my saying so, I

gather Hungary’s population has one of the highest

proportions of genius in the world. Something in that, do you

think?’

‘Perhaps,’ the Doctor nodded, one finger tapping an

unheard rhythm on his chin. ‘It depends how far you intend to

scatter her over the landscape, wouldn’t you say?’

The Major, despite friendly amusement, remained non-

committal with the obstinacy of a veteran politician.

Some time ago, Lieutenant Zhelnin and Abdurasulov had

stood just beyond the window out of which the Doctor had

peered. They had met the sight of the vanishing house with an

alacrity that Liz would have secretly, or even openly, envied.

‘That must be one of those American mobile homes,’

Zhelnin had laughed, heading them on their way to the most

obvious first point of reference for their search.

Having kitted themselves with several extras from the

store of equipment in the house – such as a supply of Czech

plastique, detonators and timers, SVD sniper rifle, and a number of grenades – Zhelnin conducted Abdurasulov on a

circuitous route through the denser area of forest away from

the river, to provide for better cover. They were troubled here by a few searching Magyar horsemen, but successfully

avoided an encounter, flattening themselves under a clump of

shrubbery at the base of a grand old tree; Zhelnin highlighted

the necessity of saving both ammunition and themselves for

later. Abdurasulov watched the passing cavalry through the

masking screen of leaves, conscious of the bulging pack on his

back. After the cavalry drifted by, the Lieutenant nudged the

young Abdurasulov onto his feet and the two soldiers stole

towards the river, where the trees petered out to a light

sprinkling of vegetation. Daylight was seeping away and the

two Russians worked their way up the river, staying with the

shoreline. Now they hunkered down and aimed binoculars

over the surface at the island fortress that was their target.

Under streaked clouds, Csepel Island seemed to float on

the blackened, gently corrugated river; a half-submerged

chunk of coal, its visible portion fashioned into a crude, lumpy knife that parted the river. At the tip, directed towards the

Russians, the upper surface had been levelled and cleared a

short way from the banks, then nailed deep with a square of

sturdy trunks; the heads of the nails having then been honed to vicious points. The structure showed as a collection of flame-lighted edges, like the silver scratches in an etching-plate.

Zhelnin and Abdurasulov accorded their observation plenty of

time, reserving special attention for the single spar of stone

bridge that traversed the western branch of the river.

The water lapped daintily at their boots.

Abdurasulov had a question: ‘Comrade Lieutenant, does

this seem a likely place after all?’

‘Well, we’ll have to make certain anyway. There is no

other obvious choice, and at the very least we may learn where

to look next. My own instincts tell me we’re close.’ The

Lieutenant raised the binoculars once more, sweeping

systematically over the scene. ‘See, the bridge shows signs of

recent strengthening. Heavy stonework, surplus to requirement

for the standard horses and carts. This is the place.’

Abdurasulov fell silent. There was nothing more to be

said. He admired and respected Zhelnin, maintaining faith in

his seniority and judgement without the fear necessarily

inspired by Major Bugayev. Lieutenant Zhelnin was a highly

personable officer in addition to his capabilities. The plan of attack would already be forming in that officer’s mind.

‘The bridge is too exposed and we’ll never climb that

palisade,’ Zhelnin asseverated. ‘We’ll take the bridge and

worry about the next step later.’

At first, Abdurasulov was worried that his trust may have

been sorely misplaced these few years of his service, but then

he caught the joke in Zhelnin’s tone. Clearly, as with all

Zhelnin’s humour, there was an element of dry truth in it, so

he rose and prepared for a sneaking advance on the bridge.

Lieutenant Zhelnin moved off just in the lead and they

shortened the distance between themselves and the crossing.

At an appropriate point, hidden by a kink in the shore, Zhelnin unshouldered his gun and began removing his coat. Not

waiting for an order, Abdurasulov followed the example

soundlessly. They bundled their coats and dumped them in the

mud at the riverbank, then spent a few more moments loading

their pockets with gear from the pack, wrapping vital items in

plastic sheets or bags.

With gun-muzzles thus clad in plastic, they waded

gradually out into the cold water. The surface climbed around

them like twin hoops of icy steel, merging into one tightening

ring as it reached their abdomens.

When the level had reached their waists, they turned to

walk towards their objective, eyes alive to the presence of

danger and to the acute vulnerability of their own position.

Since neither Russian believed in such abstracts as luck, slackness on the enemy’s part, rather than good fortune, kept

the attention of the handful of troops on the bridge well away

from them. The guards at the gateway seemed wholly

interested in the activities and movements of their fellows.

Shortly, silently, the two Russians had closed in under one

side of the bridge, out of sight from all the known enemy

vantage points. Now, their only potential traitor was sound.

They waded further out, the noose of water travelling up

over their chests. The guns, notoriously robust, were held

slackly, gripped with a finger around the trigger guard, while

the free hand touched the cool stone of the crude, but firmly

constructed bridge. The water sloshed sedately between their

bodies and the construction, dribbling off the stones.

Abdurasulov heard each sound echoing in his ears, his mind

estimating the probable volume at various distances from their

current position. There was one point where he could not tell

the voices above from the whispering air between the bridge’s

supports.

Zhelnin pushed a hand at the private’s chest, braking his

passage through the water. They had stopped, a little under

halfway.

‘It’s time for a few preventive measures, Abdurasulov,’

laughed Zhelnin as grimly as he did quietly. He handed his

AKR to the young private, keeping the SVD slung over his

shoulder. Then he was busy extracting one yellow block after

another from his upper breast pockets. Gently, these were

slotted into available crevasses between the stones, plugged

with wires piercing the plastic sheet and tamped in with

pebbles previously scooped from the riverbank. Zhelnin

worked on, ignoring the chill fingers of water that clamped so

tightly around the younger man’s ribs. Abdurasulov wished he

had something to engage his mind and distract his senses.

Sooner than expected, though, Zhelnin was finished, taping a

timer switch to the support and setting it with a final deft

motion.

‘It’s all I’ve got,’ Zhelnin offered his hushed apology. ‘If

we’re not out in thirty minutes’ time, I suggest we swim out in thirty-one.’

Abdurasulov managed a boyish grin in spite of his

dampening mood. He handed Zhelnin the AKR, eager to be on

the move again.

They swam off again, the water rising and lifting them off

their feet, though guiding hands were kept on the stones to

their right. From above there occasionally came the trudge of

boots or the exchange of voices, relaxed and inattentive; all

unaware of the two pairs of alligator-eyes that skimmed

towards the island above the rippling surface. The guards

evidently expected no trouble.

They emerged stealthily from the water onto the island

shore, the wet dripping from their drenched uniforms, pressing

their boots down flat to prevent them from sliding in the mud.

Zhelnin and Abdurasulov clambered up as far as the grass,

training their eyes on the gateway and the figures dotted across the bridge. Abdurasulov stripped the plastic from his assault

rifle and he crawled the expanse of clumped grass and reeds to

meet the base of the palisade, Zhelnin having moved on ahead.

Nestled in against this, they worked their way along, walking

on their elbows until they had drawn nearer the gateway.

‘Now comes the tricky part. We’ll be using the front door,’

warned Zhelnin as the private came level. He licked his finger

and held it aloft, testing the breeze, laying the still-wrapped AKR at his side. ‘Should last long enough for us. Move up

ahead of me; throw a smoke when you hear the shot.’

‘Comrade Lieutenant,’ acknowledged Abdurasulov

plainly, continuing his crawl towards the gateway.

Zhelnin knelt, back pressed to the palisade, bracing the

stock of the SVD solidly against his shoulder and closing his

eye around the lip of the sight. The crosshairs focused on a

lone Magyar guard, about halfway across the river; Zhelnin

steered them onto the man’s arm. The Magyar remained

helpfully still.

He squeezed the shot off; barely had time to see the man

snatch at his upper arm and fall back onto the bridge, before

he was on the move.

The young private breathed in, tossed a grenade out in the

mouth of the gateway and heard the muted crump of the

detonation. Smoke pumped out and sent a cloud billowing

away over the water. Confused guards were already running

through the gathering pall to assist their mysteriously afflicted comrade. Zhelnin, SVD shouldered on the run, came up past

Abdurasulov, then they were both charging forwards into the

smoke and turning in through the gateway.

There was still one guard on his post at the gate.

Abdurasulov lashed upwards with his rifle, thumping into

the man’s chin before his hand had closed on the sword’s hilt.

Zhelnin and the young private sped on inside the fortress and

ducked down behind some tents sited near the walls. Vaulting

the pegged ropes, they hurtled through the shadows, alert to

dangers and hunting out the object of their expedition.

One region of the fortress was devoted to ten covered

hulks, each with the appearance of a square marquee, arranged

in a tidy row out past the well-stocked corrals. So far

unopposed, their run soon carried them to the nearest of these.

Certain of his find, Zhelnin swept down one flank of the

large tarpaulin, rushing to hack at the ropes and kick the pegs loose from the soil. Abdurasulov trailed behind, heaving great

flaps of the material up onto the roof of the vehicle.

Once the door of the cab was revealed, Zhelnin urged

Abdurasulov aboard and hovered outside, scanning the

immediate vicinity with the intensity of a hungry watchdog.

The first shout went up as soon as the engine growled

alive.

Heads poked out from nearby tents, but Zhelnin ushered

them back inside with a few controlled bursts from his

Kalashnikov, the first one rupturing the plastic still shrouding its barrel. Agitated figures were running in from all directions now and Zhelnin spun, firing bursts at random positions to

slow them. Swords were drawn, shouts issued forth from

everywhere. Abdurasulov called out from inside the cab.

Zhelnin tossed one grenade after another in a very

approximate circle; some smoke, some fragmentation.

Explosions, angry curses and the whinny of frightened horses

shook the entire fortress awake. Mixed in with this, the engine gave a deep, zealous purr, thrilling to the start of its run.

Confused shadows moved in from the thickening bank of

white fog; they were trying to slash the curtain with their

blades. Hands and magazine emptied, Zhelnin pulled himself

up into the cab and slapped the dashboard to signal

Abdurasulov it was time they left.

The truck thundered out from under its canopy, half-

dragging the covering with it, churning the earth and flinging

as many men as sprays of mud to either side of its stampeding

wheels.

Aphrodite negotiated her way down the embankment,

extending one foot before her and an arm behind to steady

herself. She finished with a delicate jump, landing on the track that ran parallel to the riverbank. Liz came down next to her,

managing to slip part of the way because she had her eyes on

the dark square of the fortress across the water.

Aphrodite glanced up and down the Danube, one palm

resting lightly on her chest while the other held the sack. Liz puffed from the exertions of their journey and she brushed

herself clean of most of the vegetable matter that had

somehow hitched a ride on her clothes.

‘We’re some way upriver from the springs, but there’s

Csepel Island, anyway,’ Aphrodite informed her companion

with the breezy acquaintance of an experienced tour guide.

She had made no reference to her friend, and Liz was sensitive

enough not to probe. Aphrodite’s reserves had only postponed

the eclipse. For now, and perhaps for Liz’s benefit, she wore a bright corona. [‘See what I mean about freehand navigation.’]

‘No need to worry on my account,’ Liz assured her. ‘I

enjoy a leisurely evening stroll, and the scenery’s

magnificent.’

‘Oh, we’ll have to do it again some –’ A crisp, sharp crack

severed the tail of Aphrodite’s words. It was followed rapidly

by others, exciting the air above the fortress.

Aphrodite tensed and crouched, cat’s eyes wide as the

moon. Liz hunched down beside her, following the searching,

anxious gaze out to the fortress. The dull crump of explosives, then the traces of smoke soon after, were the subsequent clues

to meet their senses. The sound of many men shouting rode up

with the smoke. Then some other noise, distinct and Herculean

in the tenth-century night: a grumbling diesel motor.

Headlamps arcing like great lances, the vehicle responsible

broke out from the gateway and powered across the barely

adequate bridge.

A squat and chunky shoe-box, mounted on six great

wheels like squashed black balloons, with a cruelly flattened,

broad wedge for a nose; which the truck’s belly sloped

upwards to meet, hinting vaguely at the prow of a poorly

streamlined boat. The roof seemed compressed flat under

some unseen weight and its body was finished in an

uncomplimentary drab-green livery. Three windows were set

in a backward slope behind the nose. A red star was picked out

with a white outline on the vehicle’s exposed flank, as it

crossed the bridge like a ferocious, hornless rhinoceros.

It looked to Liz like a launcher vehicle of some kind.

Aphrodite and Liz gasped together. Men dived from the

bridge in panic. The vehicle roared past, veering around a

hazardous bend and ploughing along the track, following the

river downstream. Liz gasped a second time.

Aphrodite stood slowly and drew Liz back with her from

the side of the track. The vehicle rumbled slowly up to a stop, rocking and creaking on wheels almost as tall as Liz.

Aphrodite glanced at Liz in a daze, but Liz only answered in

kind.

The door swung open and a mature, friendly face looked

down from inside the cab. He was dressed in a military

uniform, with an angular cut Liz associated with Eastern

Europe and which went well with the Slavic features. He

smiled briskly and beckoned them up insistently.

‘Come on! Hurry!’ He leaned out and lowered a hand

towards Aphrodite. As he did so, he addressed Liz. ‘One of

you is the Doctor’s assistant, yes? I’m Lieutenant Zhelnin.

We’ll take you to him!’

Magyar cavalry was streaming from the gateway of the

fortress.

‘Good enough for me,’ enthused Liz at the mention of her

Time Lord friend.

‘And for me,’ approved Aphrodite, placing her foot on the

first rung of the metal ladder. Zhelnin, raised as a gentleman, helped Aphrodite into the cab with one arm wrapped around

her waist, easing her past to sit between himself and

Abdurasulov. Quickly, he leaned out again and favoured Liz

with the same chivalrous treatment, slotting her in next to

Aphrodite; the cab was capacious enough, with seats arrayed

behind the three windows and a panel of sophisticated

electronics. He slammed the door closed with a clang, shutting

them in with the vibrating engine.

Abdurasulov was a moment greeting the two female

passengers with his youthfully attractive smile. Aphrodite,

particularly, returned the expression.

Lieutenant Zhelnin reminded his driver of the urgency of

their situation with a glare of grim impatience. Abdurasulov

rushed a salute and released the brake, gripping the oversized

wheel. The cheerful teenager accelerated them away along the

bumpy track. The swarm of cavalry were just visible in the

stalk-mounted mirror outside his windscreen.

Liz wondered about their cargo, shielded under the

armoured hull behind them.

Chapter Ten

On-Ogur

The federation of the Seven Magyar and three Kavar tribes

was known as the “Ten Arrows”, or On-Ogur, from the Slavic pronunciation of which the word “Hungarian” derives.

Summation of source material, <<History of Hungary>>, Encyclopaedia Britannica

The cavalry galloped madly after the vehicle, but their dash

along the riverbank was arrested by the volcanic blast that

sheared the bridge and threw jagged fragments of stone across

the water. The sound died with the final few splashes of falling stone, while a dusty cloud drifted languidly down over the

bent and splintered palisade at the gateway. The riders

gathered round in consternation, sharing their attentions

between the receding giant wagon and the cloud over the

ragged spine of bridge.

The leaders eventually herded their men back to assist

with repairs.

Meanwhile, the mammoth vehicle rumbled on, steered

with energy by Abdurasulov, heading off the track and

assaulting one face of the rise destined to become Castle Hill.

The tyres bit hard into the dirt with their rubber teeth, mashing the grass to pulp as the truck hauled itself determinedly up the hillside. As the ground levelled, they could see the lonely,

conspicuous house and Liz failed to restrain her yelp of

excitement.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered earnestly, gripping Zhelnin’s

arm, ‘thank you so much.’

‘It was only a lift, Miss Shaw. It was nothing, really.’

Lieutenant Zhelnin slid her hand considerately from his

uniform’s sleeve, a touch embarrassed; friendly introductions

had been traded moments earlier. Gradually, Liz managed to

compose herself, as the truck closed steadily on the building

she had never expected to see again.

‘I’d like to thank you, as well, Lieutenant Zhelnin,’

Aphrodite put in quietly, ‘for not leaving us at the mercy of

those Magyars. And you too,’ she turned to speak to their

driver, ‘Private Abdurasulov.’ Aphrodite seemed to handle the

very proper addresses a little clumsily, as though such formal

modes of address went against her personal grain.

Abdurasulov noticed her difficulty: ‘Ah, you’re welcome

to call me Kolya, Aphrodite.’

He wheeled the lumbering truck around to park it in front

of the house. They waited for the suspension to stop swaying

and Zhelnin censured Abdurasulov’s unsoldierly fraternisation

by use of a discreet glare. Then the Lieutenant jumped down

and turned to assist the ladies safely to the ground. Troopers

were emerging from the front door of the house, most pausing

to admire the hulking amphibious truck before passing on to

appreciation of the two lovely women being ushered from the

crew compartment.

Major Bugayev marched through his troops to meet

Zhelnin. Aphrodite gazed up at the house, only half aware of

the Major’s approach. The Doctor, at first stunned with

disbelief at the arrival of the wheeled monster, temporarily

shelved all other thoughts on seeing Liz alive and well. The

OGRON troops parted courteously, allowing Liz to trot up to

the Doctor and lock him in a heartfelt embrace. Her eyes

smarted with tears of joy.

‘Liz, it’s good to find you safe and sound,’ the Doctor held

her at arm’s length for an improved study. ‘I promise you I

never meant to desert you like that. The Kagyrn detained me a

little longer than I’d have preferred.’

‘There’s always something more important on your

agenda,’ she accused him, with a familiar soft chuckle in her

throat.

‘Yes,’ the Doctor boxed her tenderly, then nodded at the

vehicle, ‘like right now, for instance.’ He strode by, guiding

her to follow, heading for the Major who had recently

completed a thorough examination of this side of the truck. As

the Doctor and Liz came up, however, they found Bugayev

engrossed in a heated verbal battle with Aphrodite and

Lieutenant Zhelnin.

‘Believe it or not,’ blazed Aphrodite defiantly, ‘vile as

your machine is, I do not have the faintest desire to spread

news of its existence around the globe! I would like to know what it’s doing here in the tenth century, but assuming we can destroy it or return it to its proper time, I can assure you I

won’t be stopping long enough in the twentieth century to say

more than a few goodbyes! In short, your secrets are safe with

me. On the other hand, if I can’t persuade you I’m not a spy, your best course would be to shoot me right now!’

Bugayev tapped his holster as if seriously contemplating

this suggestion. ‘Don’t tempt me with ideas like that, Miss.

Because that would be the easiest and safest option, whether I

can trust your silence or not. And don’t ever castigate me again for disciplining one of my men’ – he nailed Zhelnin with a finger – ‘for admitting civilians on board a classified weapon that has yet to enter full service!’

‘Comrade Major,’ Zhelnin made a tentative effort to

smooth the situation, ‘the women were in immediate danger of

being overrun by cavalry, giving chase as a direct result of our provocation.’

‘Provocation!’ Bugayev barked into his subordinate’s face.

‘Lieutenant Zhelnin, the fact that you succeeded in recovering one item of the Soviet Union’s property is barely enough to let you off with a verbal warning for the fact that you then chose

to advertise that property to citizens of a foreign power! Is that all perfectly clear to you, Lieutenant?!’

‘One?!’ Aphrodite stormed upon the Major as he was

turning away. ‘How many are we talking about, exactly? If

there are weapons of mass murder here in the tenth century,

you can’t just try to hide them like a guilty schoolboy who’s

misplaced his homework!’

That was sufficient to tip Bugayev’s tolerance firmly into

the red; he rounded on Aphrodite, his arm cutting back ready

for a swipe.

The Doctor, by then, was close by and prepared. He

trapped Bugayev’s arm before the hand could slap Aphrodite’s

face. She stared boldly into the Major’s eyes, ignoring the flat palm hovering a few inches from her cheek; the violent

emotions behind her face and Bugayev’s act of physical

aggression were separated by the breadth of a universe.

The Doctor released Bugayev’s arm. He postponed his

own anger in favour of greeting Aphrodite. She smiled with

her customary well of affection and the Doctor shook her

proffered hand with a similar warmth. Liz performed the

introductions, studying them both with that tension normally

attached to the initial meeting of two dear friends. As it was, she needn’t have worried: the glimmers in their respective

gazes were a strong indication that they already knew one

another. Liz was less surprised than she thought she should

have been. Bugayev, meanwhile, busied himself directing

Zhelnin and Abdurasulov to drive the TEL to another spot,

further north along the ridge of the hill, so as not to obstruct the approach to the house.

‘Aphrodite’s the reason I’m safe and sound,’ Liz

volunteered.

‘In that case, I’m especially grateful as well as very

pleased to see you here,’ declared the Doctor sincerely, as the three of them ambled to the house together.

Aphrodite accepted the Doctor’s compliments graciously

and opened her mouth to say more, but before any words

escaped, Bugayev chose to intrude, heading the trio off at the

threshold. He sneered, ‘This is so touching, it hurts, but we do still have a number of problems demanding our attention.’ He

jabbed a finger at the Doctor before marching inside. ‘And

you needn’t think I’ve forgiven your interference, Doctor.’

‘I’m not the sort of chap to jump to any such rash

conclusions, Major,’ replied the Doctor frostily. He led his

little troupe after Bugayev. ‘Aphrodite is absolutely right, you know. We need to know the precise nature of those vehicles

your two “dead men” recovered, and how many. I can make

my own sound guess on the first point, so you needn’t be too

specific.’

Bugayev appraised them thoroughly with his eyes. He was

several long seconds coming to his decision.

‘The Magyars have nine others,’ he revealed grudgingly.

‘They are Tochka class TELs that’s Transporter-Erector-

Launcher vehicles. The West will probably designate them

SS-21 if they haven’t done so already. I have no idea what

ridiculous name they will dub it. These test missiles have a

one-kiloton warhead; the operational payload is and will

remain a state secret. They went missing from their test

ground in the southern steppes, and that is as far as I go.’

He concluded with a vehemence that closed the subject

with an audible slam.

‘Hence, the Russian involvement,’ the Doctor realised,

shaking his head. ‘Ten nuclear missiles. The Ten Arrows of

the On-Ogur.’

‘What?’ frowned Liz.

‘More myths and legends, really; or Hungarian history. I’ll

explain later,’ the Doctor deferred the point. His anger had

been reined tightly in for far too long. ‘Major, the only

criticism I might level against Aphrodite is that she let you off far too lightly. You’ve guarded this information childishly all along and now I find the entire situation is immeasurably

worse than I ever had reason to suspect!’

‘Worse?! How can it be worse than you predicted?’

Bugayev threw his arms up in disgust. ‘Space and Time

shattered! The end of civilisation, blah-blah! And a few

nuclear warheads are going to make a massive difference to

that?!’

‘A difference likely to be discernible to even the most

obtuse minds!’ The Doctor’s temper was fully fired. ‘For your

information, I was in the midst of formulating a plan to

extricate this planet from the impending threat posed by two

supremely dangerous forces; one that may just have worked.

What I don’t have, though, is an answer to a misappropriated

nuclear arsenal which could have dire consequences for

history if so much as one of them is ever detonated! It should

be obvious that one of those forces – our enigmatic friend, the Chieftain – has intentions to use those missiles to weigh the

battle in his favour somehow.

‘I should thank you, Major, for managing to spring an

added difficulty on us in what was already a near-impossible

situation! Are you sure you haven’t a few more problems you

could dig up for us?!’

Bugayev filled the hallway with his countering outburst.

‘Oh, yes! That’s all very fine, Doctor! I’ve upset people with my secretive nature! But what have you done? Formulated a

plan? Well, that’s decidedly strange, because I haven’t heard a whisper out of you until now!’

Liz watched the mounting argument with a corresponding

sinking feeling. She feared her diplomatic skills were not up to separating the two factions. She searched hopefully around for

Aphrodite, confident in her ability to restore a more

productive calm. It was then that she first noticed the woman’s absence.

Aphrodite must have slipped away unseen, some moments

ago.

This house had been Melisandra’s home and it didn’t take

Liz’s mathematics degree to put two and two together; maybe

Aphrodite wanted some time alone.

Perhaps it’s just as well, Liz tried to console herself.

Despite her evident tendency to touch others with her own

emotions, there was an outside possibility that Aphrodite’s

pacific stance may have antagonised the Major still further.

Huba kicked his black stallion and rode forward to confront,

rather than greet, his old friend Tétény. He would rely on his

own forceful persona to deter any hostile action, although the

presence of his fully reassembled escort, visible through the

trees, would provide a supplementary deterrent. Tétény, on a

point of pride, was obliged to wave his own men back and

they reversed their horses a few reluctant steps down the path.

Huba brought his sleek stallion’s head to cross with the neck

of Tétény’s stately dun.

Words were a luxury for which both men were prepared to

wait.

Tétény was older than Huba, the white strands of his beard

a commanding contrast to the swarthy, taut skin stretched over

his narrow face. The grooves around his eyes and mouth and

his weather-beaten complexion presented him as a wise old

tree, with a thin but rugged trunk. It was down to him to break their silence.

‘You should have journeyed as far as possible, Huba,’ he

counselled, sitting high in his saddle to underline his seniority.

‘Prince Árpád will ask me to scratch the source of his

irritation, I’m sure. And then I will do it. With regret, but I will do it.’

‘Hah! Are you ill, Tétény, that you forget how impervious

to threats I am? Perhaps your memory is failing.’ Huba sat up,

craning around to view the surrounding forest. The night held

no unnatural shadows. ‘Where is your dog? Has the faithful

hound deserted you? To hunt, perhaps? They are apt to do

that.’

The elder Magyar drew a reed of air over his teeth. ‘Árpád

was equally convinced of your ailing condition, and now I can

see it for myself. True, you have a willpower to resist a god’s wrath, but that used to have a companion in respect.’ He

bunched the reins in his fist, but his fury subsided into reticent sobriety. ‘It is my own sense that my Warrior is slain. I do not know how.’ He shrugged off the burden imposed by the

recollection. ‘It is of no matter now. Its death must mean I no longer have need of its guardianship.’

‘Did you ever?’ scoffed Huba. He was envious of

something in Tétény’s ease of manner. ‘But it appears to have

left you intact, I see.’ Huba was unable to stop a twitch of his facial muscles. ‘It was not so with me. I – I – know the beast is slain. But there is something still missing inside.’ He clasped his breast under the chain shirt; Huba felt his control faltering under the pressure of unendurable loss. ‘Take care to – count

your possessions, Tétény; for revenge must be delayed, when

the thief has absconded to another world.’

For the first time, the elder chief appeared concerned for

his ally. ‘Huba, you do suffer from some affliction. Return to Csepel with us, that we might determine its nature and seek a

remedy; I beseech you. Huba!’

Tétény’s appeals were cast off with one wave of Huba’s

strong arm.

‘There is no remedy in Csepel!’ the younger Magyar

snarled, his resolution returning. ‘I know where to seek it. And I know how to cure my misguided allies of their ills! You

return to Csepel, you say. Well, you may tell Árpád that if

Huba sees only the snout of one of his black dogs, he will

cleave it in pieces and feed it to the fire! Then we may build

our Magyaria, instead of an animal lust for blood!’

‘You are no longer a Magyar! I wonder that I don’t kill you now, Huba,’ Tétény’s agitation was emphasised in the

clumping hooves of his fidgeting horse, ‘to end your misery as

well as my own. You are a sorry sight to behold.

‘Yes, I return to Csepel. As do we all. I have encountered

Rond, who has already lead his tribe to the fortress. There has been an attack and it is time for our forces to gather. You have lost all chance to be a part of that.’

Tétény whipped his reins emphatically, driving his horse

past Huba and signalling for his men to follow. The riders

tried to avert their eyes from Huba’s piercing review.

Huba shouted after Tétény before he lost sight of him, ‘I

have lost far more than that! Of it all, I mourn for that the

least!’

Liz eventually decided to depart the lounge and track down

Aphrodite; the room being fully occupied by the Doctor and

Major Bugayev, at loggerheads once more over the optimum

course of action. There had so far been one short-lived spell of calm and that was due to the temporary absence of the Major,

who had departed the house to issue orders for its defence.

Bugayev’s efficiency brought him back from that task sooner

than either he or the Doctor might have preferred, and Liz had

felt the need to escape only minutes later.

She loitered in the hall for a while, listening to the sounds

of the men outside, digging themselves a few foxholes and

constructing crude ramparts. She wondered whether the Major

had favoured that line of defence as a matter of tactical

doctrine or because of the Doctor’s warnings about possible

permanent damage to the building in the event of heavy

fighting inside.

After looking left and right, Liz moseyed towards the

kitchen, nearly colliding with Aphrodite as she came out, a

loaded tea-tray in her hands.

‘I should mind where you’re pointing that thing,’ Liz

cautioned her whimsically. ‘Where have you been? We could

have done with your help earlier, maybe. Probably still need it now.’

As Liz fell quiet, they could both hear the raised voices

emanating from the living room. Partially dampened by the

staircase, it could equally have been a television left on at a high volume, playing out some domestic drama.

‘Oh, I took some refreshments out to the soldiers,’

Aphrodite explained with a dismissive flick of her hair. She

winced slightly and nodded at the closed lounge door. ‘I

thought we could do with some lubrication in here, as well.

I’m sure that nice Major would react well to a civil cup of tea.’

Fairly certain that Aphrodite was not the sort of woman to

content herself with making the tea, Liz indulged in a little

benevolent scepticism. ‘Since when have you wanted to play

waitress?’

‘Oh, I’ll admit it was some way down my list of

ambitions. But I’m not above playing the hostess when the

occasion demands.’

Liz sniggered, then gave Aphrodite a conspiratorial nudge,

with proper regard for the tray. ‘Well, a dose of sweeteners

certainly couldn’t do the Major any harm.’

Aphrodite chuckled softly and they entered the living

room together, stifling girlish smiles before any eyes had

turned on them. Aphrodite laid the tray on the coffee table and stepped back with a curtsey. ‘Shall I pour?’

Bugayev sniffed at the cups from where he stood, as if

convinced they were coated with poison. ‘Well, at least one

person doesn’t see the situation in the same urgent light as us, Doctor.’

The Doctor, standing in the corner, drumming his lips with

the sonic screwdriver, escaped his reverie and defended

Aphrodite’s kind hospitality. ‘On the contrary, Major; it

strikes me that Aphrodite has only recognised the important

contribution to the cognitive process that can always be made

by a strong cup of tea.’

‘Precisely!’ agreed Aphrodite, clapping her hands. ‘I can

feel several ideas brewing already.’

‘You’ve come to provide the floor show, have you?’

grated an intensely snide Bugayev, although Liz detected a

hint of fascination in the man’s gaze whenever it passed in

Aphrodite’s direction. He chose to ignore her presence for

now though and fired an ultimatum at the Doctor. ‘The way I

see it, we either need an idea from you now, or we don’t need

any at all. If you haven’t anything better very soon, Doctor,

I’m going ahead with my plan.’

‘What’s that, exactly?’ inquired Liz dubiously; this was

news to her.

‘Since we are now obliged to operate in a spirit of

complete openness,’ said Bugayev with forged charm, ‘or, if

you prefer, Miss Shaw, a don’t-need-to-know basis, I won’t

mind sharing that information. I am considering conducting a

raid, similar to that mounted so admirably by Lieutenant

Zhelnin, to recover the remaining missiles.’

‘That will involve a great deal of bloodshed,’ simmered

Aphrodite, a gentle tremor to her lip like the presage of an

impending earthquake.

‘Huh, not on my side, I hope,’ Bugayev snorted. He tried a

half-hearted moderation, saying, ‘An acceptable level, in

relation to the severity of the situation.’

‘ Acceptable to whom?! ’ roared Aphrodite, her fine-grained voice breaking like rapids. She shivered at some unknown

cold. ‘There’s always an alternative! You only have to think a

little harder.’

‘Precisely what I’ve been telling him,’ seconded the

Doctor, placating Aphrodite with the promise of a staunch

advocate.

‘Oh, wonderful! Another of your kind, Doctor,’ Bugayev

was exasperated. He rose and walked over to Aphrodite,

inspecting her like one of his soldiers, poorly turned out for

parade. ‘Only, she’s worse than you. We have a real dove this

time. And tell me, what is the honest use of a dove? Shoot one

of its young, and it’ll fly to you with an olive branch and ask you very sweetly not to do it again! Whereas an eagle will

peck your damn finger off so you’ll never pull another

trigger!’

Liz was not prepared to see her friend bullied. ‘Major, I

should pick your opponents with more care, if I were you.’

Bugayev spared her an insidious smile. ‘She’s not an

opponent. We’re all in this together, so to speak. It’s just that some of us aren’t particularly useful. Now, if either of you can use a gun –’ He permitted the offer to hang.

‘You’d best not hand me one at the moment,’ glowered

Liz.

There was no genuine sentiment in Liz’s realistically

menacing tone, and Aphrodite readily welcomed the humour.

Although she had relaxed, her temper still maintained an

underlying, lively crackle. ‘Aside from my personal

objections, Major, how can you expect to achieve surprise,

when you behave with such predictability? I think I’ve read

you pretty well during our short acquaintance, so it’s fairly

certain the Chieftain will anticipate a direct attack. Your raid would achieve nothing but bloodshed.

‘As it happens, I also doubt the efficacy of an olive branch

on this occasion. However, that doesn’t rule out some suitable

alternative.’

The Doctor applauded her speech, satisfied to see the

Major’s self-proclaimed ‘eagle’ being challenged by the

woman he had cynically labelled a ‘dove’.

‘What? You’re suggesting we should negotiate with this

Chieftain – and Athena?!’ Bugayev mocked her incredulously.

‘Well, it’s only what I was about to propose, myself,’ the

Doctor put in, scratching idly at the base of his neck.

Bugayev gaped from Aphrodite to the Doctor. He looked

at Liz as if she were their keeper. ‘They are both insane. It’s down to us.’

‘Personally, Major, I don’t think you want to hear my

opinion,’ Liz registered her vote firmly with the Doctor and

Aphrodite, although mindfully saving the Major from any

increased irritation. Bugayev threw himself back into the sofa

with some sense of despondency, actually finding solace in

pouring himself a cup of tea.

The Doctor proceeded, ‘Of course, I’m going to need your

help, Aphrodite.’

‘You can take that as a given.’ Aphrodite smiled and Liz

fancied she could see the Doctor’s reflection in the gleam of

her eyes. ‘What is it you want me to do?’

‘Well, it’s more what you can do for Earth, of course,’

replied the Doctor amiably, ‘but I’ve been considering what to

do about this temporal fracture. If we can contain that, I’ll be negotiating with some measure of bargaining power behind

me.’

‘How’s that?’ requested Liz.

‘Well,’ the Doctor responded slowly, ‘Athena seems to be

flitting freely about the timelines, but the source of the fracture has to remain fairly static. And since one of our players has

yet to show his hand, my guess is that the Chieftain has been

sitting still, biding his time at the root of it – if he isn’t the cause himself.’ The Doctor returned to briefing Aphrodite.

‘So, if you could arrange some small countermeasure, while I

pay a call on the Chieftain –’

‘Name it,’ Aphrodite instructed him.

‘I want you to try to extend the force field of the house

along the temporal axis – in either direction. If you reel it in like a net, you should eventually meet the limits of the fracture and –’

‘And,’ Aphrodite finished enthusiastically, ‘haul those

limits back in with it. Like healing a wound by binding the

skin together! I was drawn here, to this century, so we must be very near the origin of the fracture; therefore, I should be able to compress it to almost nothing. Especially as you’ll be

distracting the Chieftain. I like that, Doctor. I like it a lot.’ She flashed a roguish grin at Liz: it was an expression that was

pure Doctor. ‘With any luck, that will banish most of the

Chieftain’s and Athena’s tampering to a genuine never-never

land.’

‘But can you do it?’ Liz wanted to know for sure.

‘With my eyes closed,’ Aphrodite guaranteed. To Liz, that

sounded unfortunately like one of the Doctor’s infamous

reassurances. The ones that tended to go wrong. What worried

her most, though, was the fleeting nod of approval with which

Major Bugayev greeted the plan.

The Csepel fortress had completed licking its wounds, with

more stones dumped into the river to plug the jagged lesion in

the bridge. Now, the men were amassed in their tribes and

clans, kneeling before their great Prince Árpád. Many a torch

floated on that dark sea of people and Árpád surveyed them as

if he were on a soaring promontory instead of a towering,

midnight horse.

The horse was nearly as resplendent as its rider, decked in

the trappings of war. Árpád rode down an aisle formed by two

blocks of loyal warriors, trailing three Magyar chieftains and

their Kagyrn warriors in his wake. When he returned to the

high centre of the fortress, lining his entourage outside the

stone hut, he thrust a sword into the sky.

‘Magyar warriors! Though, this night, the On-Ogur has

been defiled, still they may be the Ten once more; or, if not,

we will exact our payment in the blood of Humanity and our

Enemy shall know that Nine Arrows may strike with the force

of Ten! I, Prince Árpád, consecrate those Nine with the Flame!

I, Prince Árpád, charge their servants to attend them and bind

them to their targets for tomorrow’s Battle!’

On command, the nine covered shapes erupted into flames,

the tarpaulins consumed in whirlwind cones of fire. The army

bowed its innumerable heads with heightened reverence; it

chanted the name of Árpád. Men sallied forth from each clan

and surged towards the row of burning covers, forming a ring

around each conflagration. The tarpaulins melted away, the

fires dying as suddenly as they had come.

The servants closed their circles and leaped upon the

exposed Launcher vehicles.

Two men boarded each cab and worked competently and

ardently at the intricate board of electronic switches and

indicators; others danced on the roof. Engines fired, stabilisers protruded from the vehicles’ flanks, double doors opened in

each armoured canopy at the rear, throwing off the dancers.

The men reformed their circles.

Tétény and the two other chieftains, Elöd and Tas, drew

their bright swords in unison. Blades started up in every hand.

‘I give you the Almighty Power of the On-Ogur!’ exalted

Prince Árpád, his voice thundering over the fortress. ‘I give

you the Eternal Glory of the Magyar race!’

Steadily, as if in response to the fervid incantations of the

soldiers, the nine missiles arced back into their vertical

positions; a fearsome magnification of all those thousands of

swords, piercing the night sky in expectation of triumph.

Liz hugged the corner of the house and waited for the street to go away again. It did, in the space of thirty seconds, and

several men bumped back into their foxholes from the cobbles

that had appeared from nowhere. The breaks in Time were still

very much in evidence, but the shift had at least had the

decency not to cut the soldiers in half with the sudden

materialisation of several feet of soil and stones. Liz couldn’t bear the thought, let alone the possibility.

The Doctor took her by the arm and she opened her eyes.

‘It’s typical, isn’t it? My first hop through Time and the thing can’t keep still.’ Under the circumstances, she couldn’t stop

thinking of Time with a large capital T.

‘Hm, well, we’ll be trying to bring it back into line

shortly,’ said the Doctor, almost apologising on Time’s behalf.

‘That was a decidedly small fragment; means the fracture is

spreading, although it’s been slower to develop than I

expected, thankfully.’

‘You can thank Aphrodite for that. She braced it all

together with a stick, would you believe?’ Liz knew the

Doctor’s appreciation for irony. ‘Admittedly a large golden

stick, but still.’

‘The Staff of Minerva. Yes, a very smart young lady, she

is too.’ Praising Aphrodite in her absence, there was

nevertheless a distinctive light in the Doctor’s gaze that might well have been some part of her. ‘Of course, her temporal

theory could use a little work and, what with the Time Lords’

tampering with my knowledge on the subject, we were rather

longer over the directional field calculations than I would have preferred. Deployment of a force field along the temporal axis

is a very tricky operation, you know.’

‘Goes without saying,’ agreed Liz. She hesitated. ‘Doctor,

you’re not really set on facing both those creatures alone? I

mean, take it from me, Athena is not the most gracious

hostess; and from his portrait alone I’d say the Chieftain

wasn’t exactly the sort to fetch your newspaper and slippers.’

‘I’ll only be in serious trouble if he wags his tail,’

commented the Doctor, remembering the preferred position of

a Kagyrn’s mace. ‘Besides, we may have got him all wrong.

Appearances can be decept –’

There was no warning: the attack fell on the Doctor’s

words and silenced him in a split second. The shots of the

defenders, out on the perimeter, splintering the stillness like the first bite of an axe into dry wood, alerted them to the

approach of a Magyar offensive. The troops nearby, their

greatcoats replaced by flak jackets, readied their weapons and

trained barrels on the brow of the hill.

Bugayev dashed out from the house, Aphrodite a second

or so behind him. The Doctor held on to Liz and scanned

around for the first visible signs of the enemy.

‘No, Major!’ Aphrodite cried frantically. ‘Don’t fight!

Please! I can –’

‘ Shut up! ’ the Major silenced her and shoved her away, jumping into a hole of his own and pressing a radio to his

mouth. ‘Markov! How many; over?’ – there was a fuzzed

reply, but Bugayev must have caught it – ‘Get yourself out of

there, around the base of the hill; link up with Zhelnin and

Abdurasulov at the missile; out!’

The shots from the forward post had fizzled away; Markov

was either on the move or dead. Aphrodite was tensed,

quivering with dread. Liz wanted to go to her and the Doctor

released his hold, ducking down next to the Major.

‘If there are too many, we’ll need some other way,’ he

urged the Russian officer.

Bugayev scowled and hollered over to Yaroslavskiy in the

pit directly in front of him. The burly soldier, his PK machinegun mounted on its tripod, leaned around and chucked the

Major his assault rifle. It fell past the Major with a dull clatter, but he swiftly retrieved it and released the safety.

‘This is madness! What do you hope to –’ But the Doctor

couldn’t complete the objection, because the Major drowned

him out with his, ‘Too late, Doctor!’

Like the hammering of a thousand hearts, the hooves

ascended the hill and brought a hundred horses stampeding

towards their positions. The riders were yelping and whooping

like moon-crazy wolves, blades and spiked helmets glinting

with the same wild light as in their eyes. Leading them, came a bear of a man, swollen by fur cloak and a mass of brown hair

over a jutting chin: a Magyar chieftain, on a chestnut steed.

None of the OGRON troops had to wait for orders;

Bugayev had already made that clear. Guns juddered and

cracked, straining to jump from the soldiers’ hands, spewing

bullets and coughing up brass. Red gouges opened in horses

and men; but the Magyars still charged onward. Chistyakov,

on the right flank, found their centre and fired the RPG, its

whooshing tail of flame so like Athena’s fiery serpent. The

blast rattled the windows and a ball of dirt, smoke and blood

punched a crater in the galloping herd of cavalry; but still the Magyars charged onward. Zhelnin, over with Chistyakov, and

Saporov, to the left, held off firing to lob grenades, inflicting wounds to compare with the RPG round; but still the Magyars

charged onward.

‘ Doctor! ’ Liz was panic-stricken. Aphrodite’s breath was trapped in her lungs and a she had stumbled, steadying herself

against Liz. Her eyes focused on air, denying the chaos around

them. As the Doctor looked over, Liz was struggling to keep

her steady. Aphrodite muttered something, like a rapid mantra,

but the words – if that was what they were – escaped her

soundlessly.

The Doctor launched himself out of the hole and darted to

join Liz. Taking hold of Aphrodite’s arm, cradling her head,

he hurried an examination; pulse, heartbeat, respiration, eyes.

‘It’s almost a regenerative coma,’ he whispered. The fight

gnashed and screamed from behind him, reminding him of

Liz’s description of her friend and clicking a diagnosis into

place. ‘I think I know what the problem is, but it hasn’t a hold of her yet. She’s fighting it. Hurry!’ he pressed Liz fervently.

‘Get her into the house! It’s telepathically shielded!’

Together, with the battle raging, Liz and the Doctor helped

Aphrodite and the Doctor, to speed things along, lifted her and carried her in through the doorway of the house. The Doctor

kicked the door closed and bore Aphrodite’s slender weight

into the lounge, laying her head gently on one arm of the sofa.

Aphrodite’s eyes came alive and she tried to sit, but the Doctor eased her back to lie still. ‘I’m all right,’ she insisted.

The shots still echoed from outside, mingled now with

other terrifying noises. Aphrodite seemed more tranquil, less

perturbed by the sounds alone. Liz knelt beside her and the

Doctor headed for the door.

‘You’re not going back out there?’ Liz demanded,

bordering the question on an order.

‘I have to, Liz! I think the Major’s overlooked something.

Stay with Aphrodite.’

With that emphatic command, the Doctor was gone. Liz

recognised all of her anxiety mirrored with crystal clarity in

Aphrodite. She gripped Aphrodite’s hand to comfort herself as

much as her patient.

Outside the house, the Doctor was shocked to see the reduced

numbers of the Magyar cavalry, but there was still a cluttered

mob overrunning the Soviets’ defences. Horses bounded over

the foxholes or galloped between them; Magyars pounced

from their horses to brawl with the Russians, clashing swords

against hastily swung rifles. The ground around that end of the house was awash with bodies, rearing horses and fighting

men. He spied the Major, a face of stone, emptying his pistol

at selected targets, punching or kicking grounded Magyars,

pulling riders from their mounts. There was Yaroslavskiy,

wielding his PK like a ten-kilogram cudgel; there was Plankin,

slicing and stabbing with his bayonet. They were the only

recognisable faces the Doctor saw, until he ran around to the

left and found Saporov, unmolested in his hole, picking off his enemies with single, clear shots. The situation looked near to

hopeless for everyone but Saporov.

The Doctor hurtled on past, stealing a sword from a dead

Magyar’s fist, and continued out towards the TEL truck,

squatting along the hilltop like a beetle on a rock. The beetle carried two figures on its carapace. One of them was

Lieutenant Zhelnin; the other was precisely what he had

feared.

The Doctor raced there with all his energy. Lieutenant

Zhelnin, as with Yaroslavskiy, held his gun like a club. The

Russian was edging way from the Kagyrn Warrior, running

out of room. The Kagyrn brandished twin axes and drooled,

poised to cut his prey in two. Zhelnin, to the Doctor’s

amazement, was toying with the Kagyrn, delaying him with

something like the opening courtesies of a martial arts

tournament; these modern Kagyrn were susceptible to such

points of honour.

Still, the Doctor knew the Kagyrn would not hold from the

kill for long. Braking his run hard, he spun the sword in both

arms and hurled it with his utmost strength at the Warrior. The Kagyrn swatted it aside; but the creature’s attention was

diverted. ‘ Galfek! ’ he salivated, nostrils piqued by some scent and knocked Zhelnin off the TEL with a poor swipe that

missed its mark. Then the Warrior covered the full distance to

the Doctor in a single vault.

The Kagyrn sheathed its axes and spread his claws out to

either side, puffing vapour and dribbling long strings of saliva.

The Doctor was unfortunately short of solutions.

‘Doctor! Get out of there!’ It was Sergeant Markov, a

short way beyond the vehicle, a cumbersome tube on his

shoulder and most of his face obscured by sights. The Kagyrn

steered its head around to view this new ‘threat’.

The Doctor used the distraction to dodge backwards, the

Kagyrn only partially noting the movement. It could deal with

the Galfek later. Keen to match weapon for weapon, the

Kagyrn whipped the plasma rifle from his shoulder, but before

it was properly in both claws, Sergeant Markov triggered the

SA-7 man-portable SAM; its infra-red seeker had homed in

nicely on all that hot gas from the creature’s throat.

The missile jetted forward on a screeching wind,

describing its path with an expanding plume of smoke. The

Kagyrn was a fraction faster; cutting to one side and melting

the SAM from the air with a beam of plasma.

The Kagyrn aimed at the attacker, but Markov had

disappeared behind the TEL. The Doctor could almost see the

temptation building in the creature’s flame-charged eyes.

Finally, it roared with savage frustration and fixed once more

on the Doctor.

The Russians had only had the one anti-aircraft missile. So

the Doctor glanced about him for some sort of weapon. It was

hopeless, of course, and, anyway, there were none available.

The Kagyrn stomped purposefully up to him, sliding the

plasma rifle neatly away and replacing it with the axes. The

Warrior was now intent on the kill, free of its finer points;

much more like his ancestors.

Snarling, the Kagyrn thrashed his tail and flipped the

Doctor over.

The Doctor was winded and he stared up at the certain

knowledge of defeat. His muscles still tensed to react, but an

axe would catch him whichever way he rolled. The moment

stretched; the Doctor’s senses were deadened.

The thud of hooves, the Kagyrn spinning, a shout, some

gruesome, splitting crunch. The Doctor rolled automatically,

seeing the wolf-like head fly from the armoured shoulders and

the great body crash over the spot where he had been lying. A

Magyar chieftain, with features like a clenched leather

gauntlet, mounted on a glossy black stallion, reined his horse

around to trample the corpse.

Huba’s sword was stained black; there was a vicious red

gash in his side. ‘It will trouble this earth no more,’ he vowed, accepting the Doctor’s nod of gratitude.

Then he galloped off, with other Magyar horsemen

following, headed for the house, where steel now clashed

against steel. Although the Doctor had no answer as to why

these Magyars had come to their aid, the battle now seemed

considerably less hopeless. The Doctor picked himself off the

ground and set off at a trot to witness the battle’s end.

Into the mix of Russians and Magyars, more Magyars had

poured, relieving the Soviets of a weight that had just begun to crush. By the time Huba arrived, it was nearly over, but it was only on seeing him that the other grizzly of a chief screamed at his men to retreat. Huba fought his way through to drive him

off. ‘Fly to Csepel, Rond! Tell Árpád I have slain another of

the beasts!’

Rond bellowed in response, as he extricated his own horse

from the melee, ‘I only go to save myself from your sickness,

Huba!’

‘Fool! I’ve saved you!’ Huba mocked Rond’s receding

form over the dying clamour of battle. He glanced around him,

dropped his sword to the dirt. ‘Enough!’ he ordered.

‘Enough!’ The noise filtered out and the last few of Rond’s

men beat their retreat. Everyone moved slowly, adjusting

themselves to the sudden calm; the only exception being

Saporov, who hastened to the fallen, moaning figure of Private

Komarovskiy.

Bugayev rubbed sweat and blood from his forehead and

saluted Huba. ‘I’m grateful to you, whoever you are. Let my

man tend to your wound.’

‘It is nothing,’ Huba claimed, but he clamped a gauntlet

over his eyes. When he brought it away, his face was clearly

pained. ‘Where is she?’

Bugayev frowned, searching the surroundings. The Doctor

had appeared at the corner of the house. Liz was following

Aphrodite out through the front door. Huba’s eyes rested on

the women, shimmering hopefully.

The Magyar chieftain slid down from the saddle and

walked his horse through the silent aftermath. Liz shied back,

drawing Aphrodite away with her, but Huba only knelt at

Aphrodite’s feet. His hand and face went up imploringly and

his voice croaked weakly, ‘Please, my soul was lost to the

beast. I need your light to make me whole.’

Aphrodite seemed greatly affected by his plea. She slipped

from Liz’s arm and knelt before Huba, taking his huge, rough

hand in both of hers. She inhaled deeply and said, ‘You’ve lost nothing, Huba. I only meant for you to protect us. I must have

delved too deep and now you’re unearthing your sense of

humanity.’

‘But there is such remorse in me,’ Huba trembled, his grief like a slowly crashing wave. ‘All the blood I’ve spilled, all the lives I’ve taken. If you could feel the pain in things I’ve done, I –’ Huba broke off, biting down on a bitter string of images;

as though he could see only pain mirrored in the beautiful face before him. ‘I need – I beg your forgiveness,’ he begged finally, the leather voice cracking with the strain.

A tear rolled down Aphrodite’s cheek, but she ignored it

as though it wasn’t her own. Liz laid a consoling hand on her

shoulder anyway.

Aphrodite told him, ‘Huba, I can’t be the one to grant you

that. It isn’t me that you’ve hurt.’ She swallowed a mouthful

of sorrow and held Huba close. ‘Listen to me; I could never

create what isn’t there. Is it enough that I don’t hate you?’

One of Huba’s strong arms pressed Aphrodite to his

breast. He embraced her there for a long, peaceful minute.

Then a firmer voice thanked her: ‘Yes. It is all my spirit

needs.’ He commended her to Liz, in all earnestness. ‘If love

were a living creature, it would be she. This creature here.’

Huba rose steadily. Meeting Aphrodite’s gaze steadfastly

now, he bowed to her, then to Liz, before mounting the

stallion that had waited faithfully behind him. The horse

performed a small jig. Huba showed a palm in salute, then

guided the stallion into a run.

‘Come, Vecellin, let us heal ourselves at camp!’

The Magyar horsemen assembled and followed Huba in a

gathering stream. Vecellin rode past Aphrodite and gave her a

curt nod, perhaps of thanks. The swelling river of horses and

men flowed down the hillside into the forest.

Liz lifted Aphrodite to her feet and the Doctor strolled up

to meet them.

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Aphrodite reassured him and Liz

together.

But their exchanged smiles were soon to be tainted:

Sergeant Markov and Lieutenant Zhelnin trudged towards the

house, the limp shape of Abdurasulov carried between them.

Heads bowed, they laid the soldier out on the ground before

the Major. Even Bugayev swallowed and his eyes flinched as

he stared at the mutilated torso, where an axe had hacked

through the young man’s flak jacket.

The OGRON troops clustered around in muted regret.

Aphrodite went to the body and fell to her knees at its side,

but this time there were no tears. As though grief too had died.

Despite that outward absence, it was like Lászlo’s death, all

over again: there was more here than sorrow for Abdurasulov,

and Liz felt a welling of emotion inside that threatened to

overwhelm. He might have been a stranger, but he was a

young boy, and that was reason enough for tears, but there

were other forces at work here and Liz knew their source. And

just as Aphrodite had said, understanding a force of nature

deprived it of none of its power. Controlling her own tears

with a massive effort, she rushed to Aphrodite’s side.

Eventually, she was able to tease her friend away and she

escorted her in silence back to the house.

Behind them, the men’s eyes remained fixed on their

fallen comrade.

Liz sat with Aphrodite on the sofa, and they rested there,

both physically drained. Aphrodite assured her, ‘I’ll be alright in a while, I promise.’ She glanced up as the Doctor entered,

before her gaze swam back to Liz. ‘Time is a healer, but ultimately the energy has to come from yourself. Whatever

else I am, I’m blessed with a tremendous resilience. That’s the key to my survival. It’s my greatest strength.’

Liz patted her hand and withdrew from the sofa, leaving

her friend to meditate on the torrent of feeling she could still feel passing through her.

‘It’s just as well she is resilient,’ remarked Liz

sympathetically, under her breath. ‘How could anyone bear the

horrors in a life as long as hers? She’s so sensitive to all of it.’

‘Yes, she has a very special nature, Liz,’ the Doctor

reflected, studying Aphrodite’s recumbent figure from the

doorway. ‘Time Lords are innately telepathic, you know; but

Aphrodite is a different story. She’s unique, Liz, and her

empathy is a unique part of who she is – and part of her prison too. Empathy: manipulation of emotions in others and an acute

receptivity to the feelings around her. A blessing and a curse.’

‘That’s what she said,’ Liz remembered clearly.

‘Even with an entire world to herself, she would have been

so trapped if I hadn’t intervened on her behalf,’ the Doctor

estimated, telling what Liz felt sure was a fraction of the story.

‘The emotional chaos of a battle is harmful enough – her

feelings out there could so easily have turned to violence. But a solitary existence on Paraiso – well, she would have felt

something like a caged bird. She would have had to leave or

eventually die. She did nothing wrong, she was merely

someone who was born outside the rules of her society. I

persuaded her people to be merciful in her case. They’re

powerful beings, but not too powerful for compassion.’

‘So they gave her her lake. Espejo de Cielo,’ Liz spoke the

name just to enjoy the sound. ‘You did that for her.’

The Doctor nodded. ‘They had to give her that much

freedom.’

‘Is that a note of envy, Doctor?’ Liz queried affectionately.

‘No, Liz,’ the Doctor testified, his gaze roving over

Aphrodite’s still figure, steadily, gradually returning to some sort of peace. ‘I don’t think I could ever be jealous of her.’

Chapter Eleven

Arpad

i – ‘And these Magyars are a Turkish race and their leader

rides out with 20,000 horsemen...’

ii – ‘The Magyars are fire-worshippers; they dwell in tents and pavilions...’

iii – ‘It is said that the great king of the Turks cannot show himself, and that if he did, no one could support the sight of him.’

Early Arabic accounts of the Magyars and their Kavar

allies

Aphrodite had disappeared in the first misty light of morning,

bound for her world and the gathering of a few items of

equipment she would need for the task the Doctor had set her.

Liz had watched her strike out, down the hillside where

disturbed earth had thankfully hidden most of the night’s

death. Happy to see Aphrodite’s more buoyant spirits

renewed, Liz had declined an offer to accompany her,

choosing instead to remain and go with the Doctor to Csepel.

So it was not without some irritation that she heard the

Doctor’s firm request that she stayed safely behind at the

house.

‘You expect me to hang around here and do nothing?’ Liz

protested strongly. ‘I could have gone with Aphrodite, after

all.’

‘Actually, I’d have preferred it if you did, but it’ll be too

late to catch up with her now,’ the Doctor replied, searching

the line of trees as if he might spot Aphrodite over the distance she had covered in the last hour. In all probability, she was

home by now – on another world entirely. ‘You’ll be perfectly

alright here, Liz, and you can keep an eye on the Major for

me. It’s not what I expect you to do, of course, but it’s what I want you to do.’ He squeezed her arms firmly.

‘Very well, Doctor,’ Liz finally conceded defeat.

‘She’ll be fine here with us,’ the Major promised,

approaching from the house, an AK-74 rifle perched in the

crook of his arm. He scanned the hill for signs of trouble,

plucked the cigarette from his lips and stamped it underfoot.

‘She had better be.’ The Doctor followed the movement of

the Major’s boot with some distaste. ‘You know, Major, aside

from everything else, you must have strewn the centuries with

countless cigarette ends and spent cartridges.’

‘You’re saying I ought to develop a more responsible

attitude to time travel?’ Bugayev grunted philosophically. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor. It’s not really for me. Still, it should please you to know I have every intention of settling down in the

twentieth century when we’ve corrected this mess. I can

hardly say fairer than that, can I?

‘However, for now, I hope you’ll be satisfied with my

small measure of improvement; namely, that I’m assigning

you an escort. Chistyakov and Yaroslavskiy. I wouldn’t like to

lose another Scientific Adviser and I absolutely insist on being informed.’

‘There’s really no need, Major,’ the Doctor argued

politely. ‘The less people directly in danger, the better my

chances of success.’

Bugayev would hear none of it. He gave a purposeful

smile. ‘Doctor, this is no mean contribution I’m making. With

Abdurasulov dead, Komarovskiy badly wounded; I have

barely enough men left standing.’

‘Enough for what?’ probed the Doctor suspiciously.

‘To guard the house, of course. Our transport home. Good

luck, Doctor,’ Bugayev effectively ended the conversation. He

motioned the two troopers up from the porch and they stood

either side of the Doctor. The Doctor glanced from one to the

other.

‘Feeling as safe as this, I shouldn’t think luck will enter

into it,’ he quipped for Liz’s benefit.

Liz watched him go with the two men in tow. She had

conveyed all her good-luck wishes wordlessly. Now, she

added a quiet, ‘Take care, Doctor.’

She stood there for an indeterminate time, after the Doctor

had vanished, barely conscious that Bugayev had left her alone

with her thoughts. It occurred to her that Bugayev might

possibly have acted from consideration after all, so she turned to smile at him in case he could still be seen. He could; but her smile was wiped clean away.

The Major was over at the launcher vehicle, directing his

remaining troopers.

Telling herself they were engaged in entirely routine

systems checks, or something, Liz still felt nervous about being kept in the dark. Besides, there was nothing of interest

to her in the house; only the sleeping Komarovskiy and that

room where they had laid the poor Abdurasulov, and she

didn’t want to share a building with that memory. Forcing a

sigh, she jogged in as leisurely a manner as possible over to

the Soviet truck.

Bugayev intercepted her, grabbing her arm.

‘What are you up to?’ she glared.

‘Don’t worry your pretty head,’ Bugayev warned severely.

He beckoned Saporov with a shout and a sweep of the rifle.

The medic trotted up, bearing the questionable gift of a

crumpled rubber suit. The men at the truck were donning

similar gear; hooded one-piece garments, complete with

gloves and masks. ‘Put this on,’ the Major commanded.

‘No,’ smouldered Liz plainly.

‘Put it on,’ Bugayev persisted, under an impatient breath,

‘or I’ll shoot you and zip you in it myself.’

Liz reconsidered for as long as she dared, then relieved

Saporov of his bundle. ‘Well, I hope you’ve managed to get

my size right, Major.’

‘You’ll fit,’ Bugayev predicted, releasing her arm but

maintaining a careful watch, while Liz unfolded the suit. ‘I

had hoped you’d be going with one of your friends. Still, at

least the most objectionable ones are out of my hair.’ He

paused, his attention dwelling impassively on Liz’s slender

legs as she slipped each of them into the suit; Liz ignored him with grim stoicism.

‘At least your Doctor has some degree of respect for me,

some sense of proper conduct,’ Bugayev went on, his audience

truly captive as she tugged the suit up over her everyday

clothes. ‘That Aphrodite – you saw the way she reacted to the

fighting – and Abdurasulov’s death! She didn’t even know

him. It was unseemly.’

‘Unlike most of us, she doesn’t measure acquaintances in

terms of time,’ Liz retorted, fed up with the Major’s concept

of small talk. She shoved her arms into the sleeves and sealed

the cumbersome NBC suit over her chest. Then she pulled the

hood up over her head and tucked her hair in underneath,

feeling angry and ridiculous. ‘Didn’t you wonder why she

took such an instant dislike to you?’

‘People’s opinions rarely concern me, Miss Shaw.’

Bugayev showed he was equally weary of Liz. ‘However, if

Aphrodite responds to death with tears, I respond with

something far more effective. She’ll no doubt cry her delicate

heart out when she sees the mushroom cloud over Csepel

Island. We’ll be rid of the Chieftain, Athena, the whole

pantheon!’ The Major grinned, satisfied with either his

humour or the shocked expression frozen on Liz’s face. ‘And,

in case you have any complaints of your own, I’m going to ask

that you put your mask on ahead of time.’

He kindly held the gas-mask out for her. Liz snatched it

and turned her back on him, ablaze with contempt.

‘Zip me!’ she snapped. It was a wholly unnecessary

request, but as a euphemism for ‘Shut up!’ it served extremely

well.

The Doctor exchanged scant words with his enforced escort,

only occasionally welcoming their continued presence with a

thin smile or a curt nod. He led them in a relatively casual

riverside stroll, making his point in an unmistakable

admiration for the scenery. Chistyakov and Yaroslavskiy

spared little time for such niceties and quietly asked

themselves why the Doctor was taking it out on them.

The river’s surface was laced with sunlight and the whole

countryside was possessed with an immeasurable calm;

striking the Doctor like the receding waters prior to a tidal

wave. As he anticipated, the environment shifted. And for a

change, this time, it was most opportune.

The two Russians were alarmed by the bronchial whine of

a motorbike. Together, they flung themselves off the road and

rolled onto the pavement, under a row of four-storey

tenements. They were in the tawny streets of modern Buda,

their nostrils sniffing at the fumes of the evening traffic.

Chistyakov was first on his feet. Yaroslavskiy brushed his

greatcoat before standing. ‘I’ll never get used to that.’

‘No, only the Doctor seems to take it in his...’ Chistyakov

heard his words trickle to nothing. He twisted his neck this

way and that, stood on his toes to see over the repetitive tops of the cars, burring past and honking their annoyance at

competing drivers.

A good many were tooting horns at the taxi-driver who

had pulled sharply up fifty yards down the road to grab a fare

from a well-dressed gentleman with a mane of white hair. The

Doctor, in respect to the other drivers, boarded the cramped

taxi in a hurry and sat back, requesting a speedy passage to

Csepel Island. The driver, a rotund fellow with dark brown

skin and clipped black moustache, cheerily accelerated his

vehicle away from the curb, excited that the end of his

tiresome day was about to be rewarded with a generous tip.

The Doctor peered out through the rear window,

disappointed to note that his escort had caught sight of him.

Chistyakov and Yaroslavskiy were in pursuit, on foot.

The driver barged his way between the streams of traffic

where he could, showing off his proud little car to the full. The two Russians disappeared from view soon enough and the

Doctor relaxed to the best extent, troubled by the probable

effects of inertia in the event of another temporal shift. His

theoretical anxieties were not tested in practice, however, and he stopped the taxi on demand just opposite the industrial

clutter of Csepel Island.

He stepped out onto the pavement and walked up to the

driver’s window, digging in his pockets and enduring the

driver’s hopeful face with cordial civility. The absence of any forints in his pockets was not exactly a surprise for the Doctor, but his flicker of apprehension caused a similar change in the

driver’s expression.

‘Ah, well,you see – I –’

The Doctor was sure he would remember that driver’s face

for a long time, after the twentieth-century cityscape had

faded. His reputation was irreparably dented in Budapest, he

was certain. He might have to postpone any return visits until

he had a different face.

There was no opportunity to reflect further on that, though,

as the scuff of hooves announced the arrival of a group of

Magyars, riding down on him from the direction of the tenth-

century fortress. The Doctor raised his hands as he turned to

face them, narrowing his eyes at the Kagyrn Warrior, loping

towards him at the head of the riders. The beast halted a

disconcerting metre from the Doctor, clacking its teeth.

‘Rather a lot of you chaps about, aren’t there? I trust

you’re familiar with the sign of surrender.’

‘ Galfek! ’ snorted the Kagyrn, in imitation of Rond’s

Warrior the night before.

‘Yes, I take it you mean Gallifreyan,’ the Doctor

interrogated the Kagyrn cautiously. ‘Even though I don’t

suppose you’ve ever met one.’

‘The smell lives forever in our race memory, Galfek! ’ the Kagyrn formed its answer through gnarling fangs and a

dripping tongue. ‘You will be a precious kill.’

‘There’s no need for that, old boy,’ the Doctor appeased

the Warrior awkwardly. ‘I want you to take me to Árpád.’

The Kagyrn bobbed his head in deliberation. ‘That is

where you are expected.’

Illuminated from underneath, the face of Árpád was contorted

into a tragic mask of coruscating flesh and writhing shadows.

Inhumanly regal, enveloped in the darkest majesty, the

Magyar leader speared the Doctor with his prolonged scrutiny

from across the tattered curtain of flame.

‘Leave us!’ he ordered the Kagyrn who had offered the

Doctor up for sacrifice. The Warrior ducked obediently out,

not even pausing to pay the respectful acknowledgement that

would have been expected from a human subordinate.

The Doctor was alone in Árpád’s shadow.

‘Doctor!’ the kingly voice boomed, blowing the fires into

a renewed fury. ‘Is your life so worthless that you must throw

it so readily at my feet?’

‘I was told you expected me,’ quested the Doctor, his head

tilted to on side. ‘That’s unusual foresight for a Magyar king.

Still, not quite so unusual if my suspicions about your lineage are anything like close to the truth.’

‘I am willing to believe they are,’ Árpád hinted at an

answer. He moved around the pyre and seated himself on the

throne, all with a grand sense of purpose. ‘You have struck me

as an intelligent man, Doctor. There is always some

compunction partnered with the destruction of intelligence.’

‘Of course, I speak from a biased viewpoint, but surely

you’d be better off following your conscience?’ The Doctor

chanced a modest smile.

‘As you have already deduced, I follow a force far higher

than conscience.’ Árpád spread his arms over the arms of the

throne, balling his hands into fists. Each gauntlet was like a

small club. ‘Doctor, you know whose spirit has guided my

Magyars; you know whose eyes burn behind mine. You know

who plucked the On-Ogur from future lands and who instilled

us with the knowledge to use them.’

‘Yes I do, Prince Árpád,’ said the Doctor, hurrying into

the gap in Árpád’s speech, openly antagonistic, ‘but I’m

hoping that you don’t have the will to use them! You are a Prince, the High Chieftain of the Magyars! You don’t need

another Chieftain above you!’

Árpád rocked his head back with laughter, unclenching his

fists and gripping his fingers tightly over the arms of his great chair. His mirth lingered many seconds in the confines of the

stone building after his mouth had fallen closed.

‘Doctor,’ the Prince spoke at last, ‘I was chosen as the

figurehead for the largest army the Universe has ever known.

It will be an army to rival the Seven Packs of the Ancient

Kagyrn; an army the size of a galaxy! There can be no honour

to compare with that!’ Árpád fumed quietly, apparently

trapped in his own dreams. His nostrils flared. ‘That has been

the Chieftain’s intention right from the beginning, when his

victory was robbed from him at the Battle of Kagren. It will be I, Árpád, who leads forth his next army; and with that army I,

Árpád, shall dig graves to the core of every world, Doctor, and plough in the dead!’

There was a regal energy in Árpád’s words that banished

all hope that they might be mere rhetoric. The Doctor steeled

himself to pursue the matter, dredging the shadows for facts

and tentatively seeking realisation of his worst fears.

‘When does this crusade begin, Prince Árpád? When?’

‘When Kagena,’ the cavernous voice screamed the name,

‘is met and her evil is erased from Eternity! When Athena is smashed to nothing! Today, with the conclusion of the Battle and the summit of Time’s eclipse!’ Árpád’s rage declined with

the languor of a thunderstorm. ‘Unless you now promise your

impartiality, Doctor, it will not be your privilege to live until then.’

The Doctor knew then that his life was suspended on the

passage of a single thought through the mind behind Árpád’s

mask.

A muffled cry issued from the doorway, followed quickly

by the thunk of a slumping body. Hopping in over the felled

guard, rushed Chistyakov and Yaroslavskiy, respectively

wielding an assault rifle and a PK machine-gun. They slid in

between the Doctor and the crackling fire, levelling the

weapons on the Magyar Prince and bringing Árpád rocketing

to his feet.

‘No! Get back to your Major!’ the Doctor berated them

immediately.

‘Was this the reason for your delaying tactics, Doctor?

Surely, you must have known more than that!’ Árpád’s eyes were livid with scorn. ‘Such mistakes must honour their

forfeits in pain! I will have my Magyars kill you, Doctor; dragged by horses over the plains!’

‘In your dreams,’ Chistyakov denied him stiffly.

The Doctor called out, ‘ No! ’

Chistyakov’s finger squeezed the trigger home,

Yaroslavskiy’s tightened a second later. The stone hut was

alive with the rattling, grating blast of both guns, spraying

bullets through the flimsy wall of fire. Árpád sailed back

against his throne, jerking violently as the rounds pitted his

armoured body and sprinkled blood all around. The guns

emptied as the Doctor looked on in horror, surrounded by an

impossible stillness. Árpád’s corpse sagged uselessly onto its

knees and tipped forward, the dead face crashing into the fire.

‘There, Doctor, there’s one problem sorted for you,’

Chistyakov indicated the body with satisfaction. Yaroslavskiy

nodded grimly.

‘Really, Chistyakov, you know I think you stand a very

good chance of making major one day,’ the Doctor responded

with a harsh bite. ‘Look!’

The face in the fire was that of a giant wolf. With rapidly

increasing momentum, the flames licked all over Árpád’s

corpse, swelling his limbs and torso, enlarging his head and

extending his features as they glared up from the dying

embers. The fire was flowing from its appointed place,

infusing the body of the Magyar Prince with its divine force.

Still engulfed in flame, the body staggered to its feet, mutating in the fierce orange glow. Sprouting claws, a lashing tail, a

massive lupine head; cladding itself with jagged plates of

armour; the fire and the body had given life to the fearful

image in the tapestry.

The empty shell of Árpád had become the Chieftain.

Chapter Twelve

Equilibrium

For every force, there is an equal and opposite force.

In essence, Newton’s Third Law of Motion

Bound at the wrists with a short length of rope and effectively gagged by the gas mask, Liz was limited to the role of anxious

spectator as Major Bugayev, now also dehumanised by the

NBC suit, supervised his men in the exacting preparations for

the missile launch. NBC, thought Liz. Nuclear Biological Chemical; a suit designed to protect against three of the

dirtiest forms of warfare. Meanwhile, it suffocated her spirits and trapped a deepening depression inside with her. She was

very much alone, shoved out on the wing, as skull-masked

OGRON troops attended to their tasks.

The double doors had opened in the vehicle’s roof, while

the four stabilising jacks were jutting from its lower hull to

plant metal feet firmly into the ground. It was Plankin and

Saporov who walked down either side of the missile housing,

crouching to remove a few restraints and checking the

hydraulics that would hoist the missile into launch position.

Sergeant Markov busied himself at the computer console,

revealed where a panel opened in the truck’s flank, not far

from where the NBC suits had been stowed; he occasionally

co-ordinated his meticulous systems checks – guidance,

ignition, warhead activation, tracking – with the two on the

roof, by the industrious use of shouts and hand-signals.

Lieutenant Zhelnin unpacked and began to set up a small radar

dish for the assimilation of meteorological data, running a

cable into a socket in the computer panel. Corporal Grushkin,

with the privileged assignment of guidance officer, was

currently occupied with trajectory calculations, using tripod-

mounted theodolites nearer the house, where he had a splendid

view of the designated target.

The Major, like most supervisors in a capable team, had

precious little to do. He turned on Liz and raised his mask,

affecting to appear moderately more human. ‘You’re being

very quiet, Miss Shaw. Very co-operative of you.’

Liz mumbled a scathing insult. Bugayev obliged her by

lifting her mask over her brow. She presented a sweet smile as

her face was unmasked.

‘You’ll find it easier to be understood without having to

shout,’ he explained.

‘Thank you. I would hate to get a sore throat at this stage.

Actually, I was just offering my assistance,’ claimed Liz,

adopting a marked innocence and hoping it was not overacted.

She had secretly originated a scheme for derailing the Major’s

insane plan, as a means of lending herself some trace of hope.

She nodded in Zhelnin’s direction, guessing his identity from

his stature. ‘I assume the Lieutenant’s feeding in the

meteorological data. That’s one of my strongest fields.’

Bugayev looked idly back to where Zhelnin was engaged.

‘Smart reasoning for a civilian. But then, you must glean

something of military matters at UNIT.’ He wore a pained

expression. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Shaw. I think I’d rather rely on

Lieutenant Zhelnin’s modest store of knowledge than your

questionable motives. It’s nothing personal.’

‘You’re going to kill your own men, you realise?’ Liz’s

innocence had been crumpled up and thrown away, no longer

of any use. ‘That’s nothing personal either, I suppose?’

‘Well, no. But there’s not really much choice, you see. I

can easily target the missile on Csepel; and hitting an island

isn’t a huge problem with a CEP of less than a hundred

metres.’ Bugayev stopped himself, conscious of having leaked

a significant detail of the weapon’s specification; the Circular Error Probability being a measure of accuracy: the general

radius within which the missile is likely to fall. He decided

that Liz’s anger would effectively divert her from this

particular. He hastened to say, ‘It’s a matter of timing, though.

I need to know when the Chieftain and Athena show their

faces, so I can be certain to catch them in the warhead’s

footprint. I mean, I’d like to bag them both, but you only need to kill one to prevent the Battle. So I’m striking the minute we have one in our sights. I can’t afford to waste an asset like this.’

‘If your plan goes really well, you may even kill us,’ Liz flared. ‘Has anyone figured that into all your calculations? I’m no military consultant, but we can’t be very far outside the

burst radius of a one-kiloton detonation!’

‘Four kilometres clear!’ Bugayev shouted her down. He

gulped down his ire as if it were stomach-acid, then proceeded

more sympathetically, ‘For our own safety margin, I’m

targeting an area the other side of Csepel from our position.’

He surveyed the trees and the slovenly clouds. At the truck,

Lieutenant Zhelnin had achieved his object with the radar dish

and now entered data at the computer keyboard alongside the

other operator, Markov.

The Major noted this as well and said, ‘Fallout is our only

potential problem, but the winds are favourable.’

Liz gagged; he could have been discussing an afternoon’s

sailing trip. She felt a chill perspiration creeping over her skin.

It was impossible to find a rational answer. ‘You’re no better

than a murderer.’

‘No!’ Bugayev objected immovably. ‘ Murder is always

unnecessary. Believe me, Miss Shaw, I will be sorry to see the

Doctor pay his fraction of the price for saving the world. I

respect him a great deal. But he is only paying one share.

Abdurasulov and Narmonov have paid theirs to get us this

far.’ The Major studied the effects of his remembrance on

Liz’s bowed head. ‘The Doctor will be keeping the Chieftain

suitably distracted. We all have our parts to play, no matter

what it costs us personally.’

He grinned almost kindly, a hand hesitating to caress her

shoulder. ‘All you have to do is stand there and look pretty.’

‘It’s alright,’ Liz blazed, lifting her head, ‘you can touch

me; I think I’m adequately protected.’

The Major clutched the mask and tugged it back down

over Liz’s face. Liz was shut away and neglected once more, a

lonely observer to all the troopers’ diligent preparations,

labouring steadily towards the certain destruction of the

Doctor.

The Doctor and the two Russians flew back as the Chieftain

erupted over the centre of the fortress with the force of a

meteor impact, climbing like the blackest dust cloud from the

crater. The Kagyrn deity, his mountainous frame adorned with

weaponry, smashed up and out through the stone building,

scattering pieces all over the camp like so much brittle

eggshell. A hurricane roar accompanied every exaggerated

motion.

The same tearing wind brushed the rubble from the bodies

at the Chieftain’s feet and cast the stones out over the fortress walls, hissing into the waters of the Danube. Magyars bolted

from their tents and huts, arming themselves or taking up

torches against the premature fall of night. The Chieftain, at

the core of the sudden darkness, spread limbs like armour-

plated tree-trunks and commanded the whole of Csepel to

unholy silence. The nine missiles formed bizarre totems. The

sandstorm subsided and the Magyars were kneeling in homage

to the Beast who had shot down the sun, the entire army

suspended in stasis. Their alien Chieftain tipped his boulder of a head over to peer down at the dusty shapes in the bare ruins

of the building at his feet.

The Doctor was the first to stir. He gazed up at the

demonic face seeming to soar just under the clouds. Shielding

his eyes with one hand, his perspective adjusted soon enough,

but the Chieftain was still a daunting ten metres. The Doctor

sat up to take in the battered forms of Chistyakov and

Yaroslavskiy; he was aware of the Chieftain’s head shifting to

follow his glance.

The Doctor looked up, against the vengeful glare of those

eyes. ‘I beg you, please spare their lives. Their actions had

nothing to do with anything I might have been doing. Yes, I

was trying to delay you, but only until I had an argument that

would stop you from fighting your Battle! As reckless as these

men were, they’ve done you no harm and you knew they never

could! What do you gain by killing them?’

‘Nothing,’ the Chieftain admitted hollowly, prolonging his

sonic-boom voice and apparently savouring the noise. The

Doctor had yet to dissuade him.

‘You used to be Ongra, chieftain of the ancient Kagyrn

pack of that name,’ the Doctor entreated, rising to his knees

and trying not to sound hurried. ‘Surely, you have to be

something more than that now! Of course, a Kagyrn chieftain

would take the kill without question; and I wouldn’t even be

here talking. And I certainly wouldn’t be naive enough to ask

for their lives. But now, you no longer need to live by that

primitive code.’

‘There is nothing I need do or must not do,’ the Chieftain growled a threatening reminder. ‘However, they shall be

spared.’ He enjoyed the Doctor’s relief and surprise for a

moment, his tongue coating his fangs with oily saliva. ‘I am

Ongra in spirit, but the mind requires more. Reborn as a god, I have learned the clemency of a god. There must, indeed, be

more aspects to a being such as I, in order to accommodate

this new wealth of energy.’

‘Thank you,’ the Doctor expressed sincerely. He scrabbled

to stand and absently brushed down his jacket. ‘Perhaps we

might continue our talk?’

‘There is time. Though, the Battle will be fought.’

‘Then, perhaps you won’t mind telling me what you intend

to do here,’ braved the Doctor. ‘I know you’re the cause of the temporal fracture.’

The Chieftain sniffed the air as if truth could be discerned

by smell.

‘Very well.’ One huge arm gestured, indicating the still

fortress. ‘The Magyars are the key, Doctor. My people as

much as the Kagyrn.’ He chose a direction and moved with

incredible poise in each expansive stride, armour-clawed boots

sending up showers of earth; his tail lashing like an agitated

python. The thousands of Magyars remained paralysed in

worship. The fluttering torchflames and the nervous horses in

their corrals were the only other sources of motion.

The Doctor was unavoidably impressed as he followed the

Chieftain between these motionless ranks.

‘You see, I am Ongra in spirit and to fight and conquer are

my sole pleasures. To rule a territory, no matter its extent, is to bury yourself in the earth. Subtract from me the will to fight

and I will lose the will to survive. There: I have instructed you on how you might destroy me, though it is an impossibility.’

‘I rather thought it would be,’ the Doctor acknowledged

the Chieftain’s humour.

‘Good, you do not argue with the inevitable. That is as

good a promise of your impartiality as I may expect.’ The

Chieftain snorted satisfactorily, smoke spouting from his

nostrils. ‘The Magyars, Doctor! They compare so admirably

with my Kagyrn Horde of old. These feeble specimens I

enlisted from Kagren are worthless imitations; they strive to

emulate the savagery that to their ancient brethren was inborn!

But the Magyars! Yes; they have the killing spirit; they have my lust for conquest, Doctor. Here, on Earth, I have found the

source of my new Pack. A Pack that will shrink the ancient

Horde to a litter!’

‘How can that be?’ the Doctor pried. ‘There can’t be many

more than ten thousand Magyars here.’

‘Your words are truth as far as they comprehend,’ the

Chieftain grunted, half-mocking the Doctor’s apparent

ignorance and delighting in the Galfek’s narrowing eyes.

‘Under my guidance, they will flourish far beyond the bounds

permitted by history. When this land is sealed in its fractured Time, they will never be trampled under all the intruding

armies of other nations that Time brought to bear; they will

never burden themselves with spoils so as to invite easy attack on their return. I will cultivate them and they will be plagued by none of this human error and waste!’

The Chieftain’s hiss nearly blasted the Doctor over. The

Time Lord retreated a step or two and probed the burning eyes

in that mass of fur. He sensed he was on the edge of a dizzying revelation. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there? The nations of the world together would still be a match for the Magyars,

whenever you decided to mend the fracture.’

‘Oh, very much so, Doctor. I am not apt to overlook these

considerations.’ His immense body quaked under a clatter of

armour. ‘The fracture will splinter Time to the smallest

degrees and it will be my hand that rearranges the pieces.’ He

clenched his rock-sized paw around imaginary sand. ‘The

grains of all those lives will be unleashed simultaneously,

Doctor. They will all share the same present. How many

minutes tick by even in the life of a mortal man? Less than in

yours, Doctor, but still not too few to be labelled countless.

Fifteen hundred different lives in every man’s day! Or shall I

count a human’s life in seconds? And these will live until death in battle because they will be mine! Not all the stars could defeat an army of those numbers!’

The Doctor was stunned. There was no argument to give.

Amid the remains of the stone hut, Chistyakov and

Yaroslavskiy stayed low, hearing and seeing the Chieftain

with a fear as omnipotent as the spell of stasis over the

surrounding army. An image of the Major was enough to

shake Chistyakov to life though, and he drew his radio from

the belt at his waist. At a sign from his comrade, Yaroslavskiy obediently crawled forward to bar the Chieftain’s view.

Chistyakov inhaled deeply before clicking the transmit

button. He was expected to word his report clearly and

concisely.

The glint of metal between the blades of grass offered Liz the

light of hope. She inched sideways towards it, cursing the gas

mask for inhibiting her field of vision and preventing her from noticing it sooner. She stared out through the goggles,

constantly monitoring the activity around the launcher and

praying that no eyes turned on her. Eventually, she reached the object and identified it as a sword.

With a special glance at the Major’s back, relieved to see

him engrossed in some radiocommunication, she flopped

down and sat cross-legged on the grass, the sword behind her.

Gently looping the bindings under the blade, she slid her

wrists back and forth, conscious of the proximity of the sharp

edge to some fairly major veins, but hopeful that the heavy

suit would afford ample protection from fatal injury.

She tensed and froze. The Major had pocketed his radio

and looked her way. Liz was certain he must have spotted her

moving arms. He shook his head, then returned his attention to

his troops at the vehicle, where the preparations seemed to be

largely finished. Liz breathed out heavily and carried on

slicing the rope against the sword.

Meanwhile, Saporov and Plankin jumped down from the

TEL and withdrew along with most of the others, picking up

their weapons from the grass. Corporal Grushkin installed

himself in the cab. The roof of the truck disgorged its rather

stubby missile, until it resembled a tilted spire. Major Bugayev marched up to the door and issued a few instructions, finally

replacing the mask over his face and confidently slapping the

truck’s hull. Either they’re pulling back to avoid the rocket exhaust, Liz fretted, or the Major expects a serious accident.

To Liz’s dismay, the troopers were gravitating towards her

spot, for want of any other landmark. None of them were

attentive to what she was doing, but she knew the Major

would be tagging along any minute now. She rushed her last

several furious strokes and her body sighed as the rope

snapped free. She assumed a nonchalant expression before she

remembered her face was hidden. For now, she stood, with

hands clasped behind her to hide the trailing ends of rope and

planted her feet over the sword to conceal its presence as

comprehensively as possible.

Bugayev slammed the cab door on Grushkin and retreated

at a trot to where the others had assembled, the AK over his

shoulder. His zombie mask dwelt temporarily on Liz and she

knew there was an expression of the deepest suspicion behind

it.

Liz angled her head skyward and rocked on her heels to

illustrate apathy, but Bugayev was already absorbed in the

arrangement of his men in a tidy row, standing at ease; with

eyes front.

Liz’s time had run its course. This was her best and last

chance; she dared not see it slip by. Expelling all thought for the consequences, Liz dived headlong into a run, motoring

straight for the TEL vehicle. She could scarcely miss it, but

she oriented herself once to home in directly on the stillopen

computer panel.

Behind her, the Major whirled and emitted a muted bark.

Unslinging the assault rifle, he pressed the butt to his shoulder and swiftly centred the muzzle on Liz’s spine. His finger

hooked around the trigger; his thumb tripped the safety; he

tracked her running form with the barrel, making sure of the

kill.

Lieutenant Zhelnin flapped an arm, obscuring the Major’s

aim. He nodded vehemently at his superior. ‘Comrade Major!

I’ll tackle her!’

There was a second’s decision. ‘Then do it!’ Major

Bugayev lowered the AK and watched Zhelnin’s powerful run

in pursuit of the Doctor’s troublesome assistant. He swore as

he noticed that Liz’s slender legs had carried her almost to the vehicle, in spite of the encumbering NBC gear.

‘Move it, Zhelnin!’

Liz could hear the beat of chasing footsteps, but she

focused harder on attaining her object. She practically rammed

into the side of the vehicle and scanned the computer console

before her with rapid sweeps of her eyes. The Cyrillic alphabet was going to be as severe an impediment as the chubby fingers

of her gloves, but she quickly recognised the meteorological

data packed into one small screen, its own set of keys beneath; she didn’t attempt to decipher the statistics blinking on the

other screen, but guessed they were related to the missile

itself. Fighting down a panic, battling the thump-thump of

approaching boots, she punched in a series of entries on the

compact screen, beginning with wind direction and speed. Her

sabotage progressed no further than that.

Lieutenant Zhelnin seized her around the arms and

wrestled her away from the machine. She wriggled in protest,

but Zhelnin held her fast, flipping her onto the ground and

restraining her there. He forced a shout into her hooded ear.

‘Give it up, Miss Shaw! He will kill you!’

Liz searched the eyes behind the gas mask. She submitted.

Lieutenant Zhelnin helped her to her feet, holding her arms

secure. He yanked her back to the panel and inspected the

alterations she had completed. Pretending to shake her

roughly, he pushed his mouthpiece close to her ear once more.

‘It was a foolish risk –’

The cab door opened and Grushkin poked his shrouded

head out, his whole posture a question. Lieutenant Zhelnin

retained his grasp on Liz as he rounded angrily on him.

‘There’s nothing to see; no harm done! Proceed with the

launch!’

He escorted Liz back to the others and had to report that

Miss Shaw had managed to achieve only what would amount

to a minor course deviation; insufficient to warrant an abort

for reprogramming. Major Bugayev stared at Liz, the reflected

missile screening his eyes in their visored sockets. He

growled. ‘Lieutenant Zhelnin, kindly place her in storage

somewhere. Out of my sight and out of harm’s way.’ He

waved her aside and turned to observe the launch. Zhelnin

eased Liz away into a march, his hands gripping her shoulders.

The rocket ignited. Steam jetted down, floating the rear of

the truck on a churning bed of filthy vapour. The tail drove a

blinding stake of flame into the ground, vibrating and straining on its invisible leash. On the sound of a constantly crashing

wave, this fat javelin screamed aloft in a funnel of smoke and

fire.

Liz wept and trembled with the realisation of her own

failure, but only Zhelnin knew anything of her distress. And he carried on shepherding her towards the house.

Aphrodite folded her arms and stamped a boot in a display of

benevolent impatience. The Doctor had exposed the house’s

force field systems and the controls he had rigged were

nothing short of a mess, a mess that, despite her best efforts, she had compounded with her own modifications. So no doubt

the signals were having trouble navigating their way along the

tangled spaghetti of wires. People or machines, they all took

their time to respond, but the difference with people was that

Aphrodite generally knew their responses before they voiced

them. Machines, if there was any delay at all in their

operation, kept her guessing.

Well, there certainly wasn’t any time to tidy up the wiring.

Deciding not to wait any more, she reasoned a few more

adjustments ought to make a more visible difference. She set

about operating the force field controls with her mannered,

delicate touches, even her easy concentration totally at odds

with the situation’s pressures.

After making sure she had correctly tapped in the Doctor’s

figures, in which she had every faith, she checked the

chronometer she had built into the panel. Everything certainly

looked to be functioning perfectly; according to the dials, she had successfully redirected the field up and down the temporal

axis.

‘Now for the challenging part,’ she jested for her own

benefit. She licked her lip.

Sliding twin controls, now synchronised, she trawled in

the limits of the force field towards her current temporal co-

ordinates: centred on the house’s position in time. The

Doctor’s theory was sound and she had every reason to believe

the practice would generate the same result. She was

surprised, even so, when her hands met actual physical

resistance from the controls. The field had met the first point of opposition.

‘Ah! Well, our fish is too big to slip through the net, that’s

certain,’ she murmured lightly, pursing her lips tightly in

contemplation, ‘but can it tear it apart?’

She heaved with all her strength on the controls and edged

them back several notches further. She breathed a sigh and

waited. Then she tentatively removed her fingers from the

slider. At least the controls had yet to bounce back to their

original position. The span of the fracture had narrowed some

hopeful centuries already.

Struck by another idea, she opened the plate above the

slider and lit up the intricate circuitry with one of her rings.

She commenced rerouting power to the slider mechanism

itself, to assist in her subsequent attempts. After some minutes, she replaced the plate to hide away even more untidy wiring,

rubbed her palms and tugged at the slider again.

It shifted more freely now, Aphrodite almost ready to

rejoice as she drew the control closer to home. But the panel

whined and sent up a cautionary wisp of smoke; and the slider

jammed once more. Aphrodite huffed her exasperation and

stood away, hands on hips. ‘Hmm.’

She shook her head, then shrugged. ‘Well, I’m sorry,

Doctor. What we really need is something to remove the

Chieftain; then we can have our never-never land.’

Something flashed bright in the living room window and

Aphrodite heard the roar of a rocket engine outside. Hurrying

into the room, Aphrodite looked up and out at the object now

arcing through the sky on a supporting trail of smoke. The

Major had launched the Tochka missile.

Aphrodite’s lip curled ever so slightly at the corner of her

mouth.

There was nothing more she could do about that now. Let

the Major play with his toys. She went back to the controls to

see if she could make more of a difference there.

The Chieftain snuffed the air again and seemed to puncture a

hole in the clouds with his massive bellow. His armoured

chest inflated with the fury or exultation – it was impossible to tell which – then the noise filtered away to a low gargle

between his crag-like teeth.

The Doctor forced himself into a patient wait for the

Chieftain to reveal the cause of his outburst.

‘Ah, Doctor! I am attacked on all fronts. But your Russian

allies have betrayed you, offered you up for sacrifice! These

human loyalties are so fragile.’

‘Something I’m constantly made aware of,’ the Doctor

pointed out, perfectly alert to the fact that Aphrodite must

have embarked on her dangerous struggle against the fracture

and his own need to divert its creator, ‘but what have they

done? I don’t know quite what you mean.’

‘There is a nuclear missile, speeding to annihilate this very fortress! None of us is to survive!’ The Chieftain found untold pleasure in the prospect, but far more in the figures of

Chistyakov and Yaroslavskiy, who had escaped as far as the

gate.

The Doctor adopted a forceful tone, attempting to break

the Chieftain free of this jarring elation. ‘Surely, nuclear

weapons are no threat to you! Can’t you do something;

prevent the detonation?’

‘It is already done!’ the Chieftain declared in that instant.

‘We are spared!’

‘ What have you done?’ demanded the Doctor, brusquely

doubtful.

‘Grant me my due respect, Doctor, and I will grant you

yours!’ the Chieftain commanded a penitent bow from the

Doctor. Placated, he enlightened his audience with the news

that, ‘Such a miserable weapon, it has been swatted away. It

will strike its target at some other random time.’

‘But that’s terrible!’ The Doctor was mummified with

horror. ‘That simply plants the same problem on another

century! There’ll be a nuclear detonation somewhere in

Hungary’s past or future! You must prevent it!’

‘No! I must not. And I do not wish it. If it is the Major’s

pleasure to explode a nuclear device in his own world’s past,

then why should I deny him? Here, I have saved the lives of

my army of Magyars, two of the Major’s warriors and

yourself. There is room for gratitude I trust, Doctor?’

‘The Major is an irresponsible idiot! And –’ The Doctor

clamped his own mouth shut, wary of straying outside the

bounds of diplomacy.

‘A single thought, remember!’ The warning reminded the

Doctor of an earlier sensation: that his existence would hang

on nothing more material than an idea in attempting to face

these creatures. Either Athena or the Chieftain could wish him dead. He had to maintain his distraction so that the Chieftain

couldn’t deal with Aphrodite’s attack in a similar fashion.

As it was, in that moment, his task was done for him. A

falling star, brightening the sky to twilight, swivelled the

Chieftain’s head to the west of the fortress. ‘ Kagena! ’ he announced her entrance in hateful ecstasy.

The Doctor raced to the palisade and hopped up a rickety

ladder to stand on the planking, set below the cruel tips of the wall.

Over the west bank, Kagena’s Eagle, borne on feathers of

golden light, descended with diamond claws reaching for the

earth. She landed with destructive grace, throwing out ripples

of energy to consume the trees and clear a circular plain; the

glowing rings sinking to the ground and moulding into

soldiers, horses, and cannon. The Eagle’s wings folded around

the body, then blossomed to their full shimmering span,

disclosing the classical statue of Athena, the Staff of Minerva in her marble hand. She was crowned in a Greek helmet, the

mask raised on its hinge to unveil all the serene belligerence of her face.

The concentric bands of her army were the multinational

Habsburg force, stolen from the seventeenth century. The

Doctor was appalled.

The fortress burst into chaotic life. The Magyars washed

over the ground, freeing their horses from the enclosures and

mounting up to a chorus of wolfish howls. Torches and swords

were thrust aloft as the clans formed up, gathering around their leaders and the Kagyrn warriors. The Chieftain himself

unsheathed an asymmetrical sword, with a viciously barbed

edge, from hilt to tip the length of one of his arms. The blade swam with a curious sheen.

‘An omnitemporal sword,’ the Doctor whispered from his

vantage point. It was easy to envisage exactly how Time was

to shatter into so much sand. Diverting the Chieftain was

achieving nothing: the effects were already being felt, but the break had yet to occur!

‘My Timeblade!’ boasted the Chieftain, exhibiting a

Kagyrn’s pride in his own craftsmanship. ‘To cleave Infinity!’

‘Why fight at all?! Hers is the greater army! She has eight

centuries of technological development in her favour!’ The

Doctor waved an arm at the assembled guns on the plain.

‘The On-Ogur will boil her army from the surface of the

planet! Enough! Our talk is done, Doctor! The Battle is

joined!’ The Chieftain’s rallying cry invoked a further tide of yelps and cheers from the incensed Magyars. Then the

Chieftain released them from the fortress.

Many flooded out through the gateway, but others ranged

behind the Chieftain, whose flamethrower breath disintegrated

entire sections of the palisade, opening gaps through which the cavalry could pour. The Doctor’s segment of wall was jostled,

but remained intact; the Doctor having to wedge an arm over

the space between two posts to stay on the catwalk. He hauled

himself upright in time to see the Chieftain marching outside

onto the island.

There the army paused, facing its enemy across the water.

The antagonists greeted each other with poisoned scowls. The

Doctor drank in the scene, in real danger of intoxication. He

was sure, now, of how Melisandra – the real Melisandra –

must have felt all those millennia in the past, overlooking that valley on Kagren, crammed with the forces of these two

demigods.

Boil her army...? The Doctor tore his gaze away and

panned it around the empty fortress. It was not quite empty, of course.

Chistyakov and Yaroslavskiy had been over by the gateway

when the Chieftain had delivered the news of the missile’s

launch and subsequent deflection. True to their professional

training, they had not remained very long in that position once attentions had turned away from them.

Chistyakov, the smarter of the duo, had learned the error

of the Major’s plan; in short, that the beings they faced were

invulnerable to nuclear missiles. He had witnessed Athena’s

descent with the same faltering courage that had accompanied

the Chieftain’s materialisation. He had already reasoned that

the Chieftain was determined to use ‘his’ nine missiles against Athena – possibly by way of a feint. Then, while he and

Yaroslavskiy were flitting between the tents, avoiding the

crush of Magyars, he had inferred, from the Chieftain’s words,

that the warheads were to be detonated over Athena’s army.

Since this constituted no direct attack on Athena herself,

Chistyakov carried the point further, she may well fail to fend off all nine; therefore, they were in danger of dying.

Besides, the Major wanted the other nine missiles

recovered.

As all this clicked into place, Chistyakov had resolved the

only course open to himself and Yaroslavskiy. Now, they were

committed to that course in full.

Jogging swiftly, they forged a path towards the row of

TEL vehicles, taking care to duck out of sight until they were

sure the Chieftain had departed the fortress. Once Chistyakov

saw him exit, he urged the burly Yaroslavskiy into a faster

pace, mindful of their available time diminishing rapidly with

the approach of battle. Soon, though, they darted up to the first of the trucks and Yaroslavskiy pounced on the ladder,

wrenching the cab door rudely open.

The Magyar, seated at the launch console, gaped blankly

at the instruments, one bat-like gauntlet hovering over the

buttons that would key the ignition. Undeterred, Yaroslavskiy

punched the man across the face. The Magyar crewman

collapsed, allowing the stocky trooper to haul him out and

dump him on the ground.

Chistyakov stood guard as Yaroslavskiy climbed in and

operated the electronics to disarm the missile and the

hydraulics to lower it safely into its armoured housing.

‘You go,’ he advised Chistyakov. ‘It’s the work of one

man.’

‘One your size,’ his comrade quibbled, but hastened on to

the next truck.

It was then that the Doctor spied the elf-like soldier and his

colleague, immediately guessing the nature of their actions. He observed them avidly, tracing each man’s hopscotch progress

from one TEL to another; neutralising the weapon’s operator,

boarding the vehicle, working furiously at the controls, leaving his fellow hurtle past and proceed along the line of trucks. The Doctor frequently transferred his attention outside, where he

found the Chieftain’s army still forming up on the stone bridge and the island shore.

This time, when he looked, the Chieftain’s eyes drilled

right at him.

‘You and your infernal allies learn nothing!’ the Kagyrn raged.

‘The weapons are no good to you,’ the Doctor pleaded,

buying every moment possible for the men behind him, ‘so

why avenge their loss? They would have vaporised both

armies equally. They don’t discriminate!’

‘They do when I command it! I was prepared; Athena was

not!’ The Chieftain becalmed his army once more, venting

brimstone clouds at the fortress. ‘This time you shall see

which forces are mine to command!’

‘No!’ was on the Doctor’s tongue, but intuition turned his

head. Yaroslavskiy dropped from the last truck, but his boots

never touched the ground. He and Chistyakov were drowned

in a violent flare, their flesh and uniforms swimming together, the molten surface broken by protracted screams. Then the

flare intensified, the liquid evaporating into misty figures,

dispersed by the natural breeze.

The Doctor rounded on the Chieftain; only to be ignored.

The Danube ran with a viscous fluid, solidifying into blue

glass. Mirrored in the surface, under the imposed twilight, the Magyars galloped over, the animals’ hooves finding an

adequate grip. The Magyar chieftains, the Kagyrn warriors,

the clan leaders and the hordes of riders swamped the smooth

screen like a thick coat of oil, then flowed up the bank to

regroup on the other side. The Chieftain waded through his

own men to take their lead.

Scattered trees were blasted from existence, cleaning an

expanse of plain all the way to meet Athena’s patient

multitude. Then they faced each other, just as in the tapestry.

There, before him, was the scene hinted at by the two cities of Buda and Pest, suspended on the brink of a disastrous war, and

the Doctor, from his viewpoint on the battlements, could

believe himself the only factor keeping the forces apart.

Events had run ahead of him, all sense of control slipping

inexorably through his fingers.

Then he recollected what Athena, in playing the part of

Melisandra had said, and that the Chieftain had heard even his

whisper. When anyone really wanted their message to be

heard, all they had to do was shout.

‘You compare yourselves to gods and yet you’re as blind

to obvious facts as any common-orgarden human general!

Wars always have their level of futility, but these Battles of

yours are absolutely pointless!’ The deaths of the Russians had robbed the Doctor of his caution for the present, and he

delivered his lecture with reckless zeal.

Athena and the Chieftain paused, their conflict suspended

on a thread of Melisandra’s tapestry. While their respective

armies froze, forming a monumental tableau on the dusky

landscape, the two faces compelled the Doctor to finish his

speech.

‘Athena brought us here to engineer an advantage for

herself against you, the Chieftain. All we’ve managed is to

cancel the advantage of the missiles on your side!’ The Doctor

drove the main force of his argument at the Chieftain, his

instincts presupposing a better chance of success there, if only because he was more sure of the entity’s nature. ‘Destiny itself has enforced the balance! There will never be a victor without

an ultimate sacrifice!’

The Greek goddess and the Kagyrn hero prepared to

disregard the Time Lord and resumed their stances for battle.

The opposed armies stirred restlessly. The weapons lingered in

tantalising proximity, compressing infinity between them.

‘But don’t you realise, you’re a perfect match!’ persisted

the Doctor, straining the desperate tone from his voice.

‘Neither one of you can ever win the victory you want! Don’t

you see? Athena created you her equal.’ The Doctor pointed across the distance to the Chieftain; he was on the wings of a

stage and his voice carried to the centre because at least one of these entities wished to hear him. ‘You’ll each need to commit

every last erg of yourselves to cancel out the other. Destroy

yourself in order to destroy your enemy! The victory belongs

to the one who chooses to make that sacrifice!’

There was a strenuous pause. Once again, the scales

wavered, then steadied.

‘Ah, Doctor, you are clever, I’ll grant you,’ trilled Athena,

intimating that she believed precisely the opposite. Her voice

swept over the Doctor with the passing clouds. ‘But you will

not talk us both out of existence. No. We each desire to win, but it matters little whether I achieve my goal this time or the next. I will persevere forever and the dictates of chance will

grant me my opportunity; whereupon I will seize it. There is

no hurry, you see.’

The Doctor applied a liberal coat of sarcasm. ‘Spoken with

true irony, madam.’

‘She toys with you, Doctor,’ opined the Chieftain. ‘She is

given to frivolity.’

‘She is frivolous – and wrong,’ the Doctor amended him.

‘She intends to go on forever flipping a coin that’s destined to land on its edge every time.’

‘You speak the truth in vivid colours, Doctor,’ the

Chieftain belied a rumbling note of admiration for the

mediator.

Athena sneered at the Chieftain, the expression ruinous

even to her sublime beauty. ‘So you grow conversational with

this Galfek now? Why don’t you kill him so we might

commence this battle and I may prove him wrong? Come, or

can you be contemplating his proposal of suicide?’

‘My sword hungers for your kiss, Kagena,’ simmered the

Chieftain in return, ‘but I know that the Doctor speaks truth.

My Timeblade will never destroy you and this I have known

for the span of my existence.’ He aimed his diabolic head at

the puny figure of the Doctor. ‘This harpy created me with her

own destructive energies; on that you are not mistaken. The

transformation was total. I was a being apart from my own

race – unique, since my nature was still my own. No longer

did I depend on the life force of others. To feed me with

energy would now be to spill a vial of scent into an Earthly

ocean. You would gain nothing. Where, then, was my

existence?

‘There was but a single cause. Kagena. My only worthy

opponent. To slay her was my sole desire. Yet, if I were to

pursue that goal, what would become of me when it was

attained? I am ended. There is nothing left. I die. So I reasoned it all as you have done and made my conclusions: that only

self-destruction wins her destruction.

‘My old spirit lives within me and it breathes too deep to

allow me that choice, so I must be satisfied with the pleasure of our bouts and the fulfilment of conquest. These alone can

fill my eternity. And if any Battle affords more than pleasure, then I may fill my eternity all the more.

‘Your intelligence does you credit, Doctor, and I will spare

you.’

‘Well, I suppose I should be grateful,’ grudged the Doctor,

‘but I must say I find your admission deplorable. You’re

talking of battles, wars even, as entertainment! Both of you are equally guilty in that respect, of course. I’ve seen the evidence on Melisandra’s tomb.’

‘I didn’t kill her,’ Athena insisted, with a very human note

of defiance and almost as if sensitive to the Doctor’s

judgement. Then, too, there may have been a sliver of regret.

‘She was a mortal and she died of natural age.’

‘That’s rather beside the point!’ the Doctor objected

fiercely. ‘Not even Man fights his battles for reasons as flimsy as amusement. Oh, he’ll fight for territory, glorification, over some point of honour or belief – pretty much anything you

care to mention! But never simply to pass the time!’

Athena displayed a lofty smile. ‘Gladiators,’ she stated.

‘You’re argument fails, Doctor. They killed and others had

them kill for the amusement of spectators. Today, you may be

our audience. For, if I attack, the Chieftain has no choice but to defend, and so begins the Battle.’

Her muscular arms raised the magnificent Staff of Minerva

in a challenge to the Chieftain. Her enemy bared his fangs and

touched his Timeblade to the clouds. The armies behind each

tremendous being fomented in anticipation of battle. Death or

glory? was a question caught in every mouth.

The two weapons swung apart. When they clashed, Time

fell asunder.

Chapter Thirteen

Liz Shaw

‘I suppose you must think of me as a very junior apprentice.

Well, I may be some distance behind you, Doctor, but at least I know where I’m going.’

Liz Shaw to the Doctor, during joint research work

‘Wait!’

It was probably the most important demand the Doctor had

made in his life.

Incredibly, it had the desired effect. First Athena, then the

Chieftain, turned attention on the Doctor and slowly lowered

each mighty weapon. In the silence that ensued, even the huge

armies that ranged across either side of the plain fell as still as glaciers. The broken skies above, so like a shattered pane of

dark glass, were melding together once more; Aphrodite’s

efforts were containing the effects of the gods’ weapons. For

the time being. There was death in Athena’s beautiful eyes,

disbelief in the fiery glare of the Chieftain.

The two deities – and the fate of the Earth – hung on the

Doctor’s words.

‘I cannot allow you to do this. Either of you.’ The Doctor

delivered his simple proscription with accomplished

equanimity, folding his arms to await the reaction.

Athena spread her wings, bridling visibly. She fired an

enraged appeal at her opponent. ‘Hear him! The Time Lord

issues decrees to you! Will you spare him even now? Brush

him away and let us begin.’

The Doctor fancied there was some amusement in the curl

of the Chieftain’s oily lips. If there was, then there was also some measure of promise. Skilfully concealing his

apprehension, he confronted the Goddess head-on. ‘Now, wait

a minute. Why don’t you do your own dirty work, Athena?

Why don’t you kill me yourself?’

Athena was nearly apoplectic. ‘I do not like your tone!

Remember, you address a Goddess!’

Now, the Doctor’s confidence flourished and he slipped

into a decidedly informal patter. ‘Do I now? You know I can’t

help wondering if you’re as all-powerful as you’re cracked up

to be. Perhaps I’ve been mistaken. Maybe you’re not the equal

of the great Chieftain here. Maybe he has one-up on his

creator.’

‘We are exactly matched!’ Athena boiled. ‘Chance will

give me my victory!’

‘Perhaps you’ll entertain me in a little harmless

speculation, then. A small delay can hardly matter to you, can

it? Of course, a great deal depends on how much truth you let

slip when you were posing as poor Melisandra.’ The Doctor

had obviously struck a chord. He pressed on, confidence

gathering pace steadily. ‘Yes, I see it all now. Let’s trace your history shall we?’

The Chieftain sheathed his sword, snarling with glee. He

clearly sensed the Doctor’s assured manner and delighted in

any ruffling of Athena’s feathers. ‘More of your

entertainment? Why not?’

‘Play your games, then,’ Athena acceded pompously.

‘Of course, I have seen the real Melisandra. I expect she rendered a decent self-portrait in her tapestry. That was her

work, I’m sure, and my companion, Liz, actually remarked on

the similarity between her and the Goddess in the picture.’ The Doctor could readily visualise the tapestry in his mind’s eye; it was a work which would probably stay with him for the rest of

his lives. ‘Well, now I’ve seen both genuine articles, so to

speak, I’m inclined to heartily endorse my friend’s opinion.’

Athena affected boredom. ‘What of this?’

‘Athena – sprouted from the head of Zeus!’ proclaimed the

Doctor theatrically, always fond of drama where appropriate.

He clutched his chin, feigning puzzlement. ‘What does that

sound like to me? It can’t literally mean what it says. No, poor Zeus would have had a dreadful migraine! No, it sounds rather

like an idea, I’d say. And who could Zeus be? Father of the ancient gods! Well, who was the father of the ancient gods,

but mortal Man? He was dreaming up deities all over the place

– a god for this, a goddess for that. Mount Olympus was

positively overcrowded.’

‘I was created by no human, Doctor,’ Athena hissed her

contempt.

‘No, I never said you were.’ The Doctor was committed to

a bold offensive now. ‘No, I think this Zeus was a Gallifreyan.

That’s right, a Galfek. I think the fellow was a remarkable young man who discovered some way to transpose his

imagination into a living reality of energy and matter – cast

spells, if you will. I think he envisaged a beautiful weapon to combat the threat of the Kagyrn Chieftains, with little

understanding of their powers for transmutation. And, most of

all, I believe he modelled this saviour in the image of the woman he loved!’

The Chieftain’s giant frame rocked gently underneath his

armour; he was laughing through his fangs.

Athena laughed silkily. ‘Oh, you tell a fanciful story,

Doctor!’

‘You’re unusually transparent, madam,’ the Doctor

accused her, no longer looking up at her in anything but a

physical sense. ‘I know it’s the truth. A truth you refuse to see, but truth is the one constant with which you cannot play. You

were created a goddess, a self-willed entity with extraordinary power, but with one primary purpose to fulfil before you

earned your freedom. Destroy the Kagyrn Chieftains! Destroy

the enemies of Gallifrey!

‘Only in that first battle on Sinnaca, you learned how you

were destined to fail. In your very first attempt, you created an equal out of the mighty Ongra. You fled in desperation and

uncertainty. What was to be your next course of action? Stop

me wherever I go completely off the rails, won’t you, madam!

‘You raised an army of humanoids to face the Kagyrn.

Dedicated yourself to the destruction of the fiend you’d

brought into existence. You came to that battle on Kagren to

try your luck. But you hardly expected to see the Lady

Melisandra there, did you? Your own face on a mere mortal!

That must have been a grave wound! You couldn’t kill her,

because your Gallifreyan creator had given you that limitation

at least. So what did you do?

‘You overlaid her with a shell of your own persona – your

aura, if you will – to decoy the Chieftain. Then you cast her

through Time so he might destroy her for you.

‘Now, tell me where my equation doesn’t add up!’

Athena’s natural glow intensified and the Doctor could

feel the anger, the frustration, the desire to kill him welling up inside her; he could feel the breath of destruction dammed up

behind that beautiful face. There was nothing she could do.

The Chieftain was quietly elated, his mirth a gentle quake

on his tongue and in his eyes. The iron was hot and it was left to the Doctor to strike the final few blows.

‘You are the greater evil, Athena!’ he condemned her

ardently. ‘The Chieftain fights his endless battles because war is instinctive to Kagyrn. You were devised for good, but you

threw all that into the nearest star! You chose your path of war, siding with any cause that took your fancy; any history,

any world – but why should it matter to you? As long as you

were the people’s champion, as long as you were the heroine!

‘You’re as dispassionate in your killing as the Chieftain,

but at least he has the honesty to do his own! And the honesty

to admit what he is! What did you do to your creator, Athena?

How did you engineer the man’s end for creating such a

failure? You must have despised him for all that humiliation!

‘But if you are the greater evil, then you are very much the

minor deity. The Chieftain was created by a goddess, after all.

Whereas you began as nothing more than a young man’s

romantic dream! You are the end result of wishful thinking. In

short, madam, you are a bad idea!’

The Chieftain’s volcanic mouth swung open and he

exploded into mocking laughter. Behind him, an echo rippled

through the assembled ranks of his Magyar army. The Kagyrn

Warriors snorted fitfully in their master’s shadow. Athena, the awesome Kagena, was a joke.

‘You are my inferior, after all!’ the Chieftain bellowed

ecstatically.

Athena, snake-venom on her lips, exulted: ‘Then my

victory is all the richer!’

She lunged at the Chieftain in a wash of brightest flame,

her wings and armour melting away to pure energy. White fire

enveloped the black mass of the Chieftain, consuming him

body and soul until he was no more than a darker fire burning

inside the crowning conflagration of the Goddess. Magnesium

flames expanded out and out, then collapsed inwards, fading

to nothing. Lingering in that void, the Doctor was sure he saw

the outline of Athena’s celestial features, her heavenly mouth

curled in a triumphant smile.

The waters ran blacker than ever as they washed beneath the

low bridge of stone and earth and Huba spurred his stallion

across with an unusually vicious kick of his heels; sufficient, he hoped, to counter the animal’s understandable sense of

trepidation. The Magyar, himself, viewed the dark palisade

ahead with a distinct pride, tinged with the gravity of the

moment. His hundred-strong escort clattered over the bridge a

respectful distance behind him; they were hardly a necessity

within the fortress, but would be Huba’s contribution to the

honour guard. His mount’s hooves chopped along the path to

the wall and the gate was swung back to admit the rider and

his entourage.

Huba dismounted expertly and left his horse in the charge

of an attendant slave, scarcely acknowledging the man’s

humble courtesies. He powered himself briskly between the

tents to the stone hut, his cloak sweeping a broad trail in the dirt, encouraging the guards and lines of people to stand aside.

His escort waited on their mounts, silently greeting the

horsemen of the other tribes.

Huba removed his spiked helmet and marched inside the

torch-lit hall, favouring the occupants with a curt bow before

he had properly digested the scene.

A pause was required to take in the majestic figure, king

among kings, lying on a stone slab in the shadows, beyond the

blazing pyre in the middle of the room. He was an imperious,

powerful man, with chin and brow like rugged cliffs,

surrounded by a regal beard and extensive tufts of hair. A

granite ridge of nose separated two eyes of slate. Here was the binding force that cemented and governed their Magyar

alliance. Here was Árpád.

The other faces, bathed in a flickering glow from the fire

at Árpád’s feet, regarded Huba with interest and a mute

cordiality. There were five of them: a sign of their Kavar

allies’ exclusion from this sombre affair. Authority and

leadership radiated from each man, and Huba acknowledged

their respect with a grave deference in keeping with the

occasion.

‘My lords,’ he apologised profoundly, ‘I came on my

fastest horse, the moment my tasks would allow. They were

difficulties unsuited to delegation.’

Árpád jested weakly, his voice husky with the effort of

speech. ‘Ah, Huba, when Death comes upon you, he will find you too busy to grant him an audience!’

‘Now, there is a matter I could happily entrust to a

deputy,’ smiled Huba humbly. The seven men shared a soft

chorus of laughter.

But the moment of humour was short-lived.

Rond, Ond, Tétény, Elöd, Tas, Huba; each of the six

chieftains knelt and paid their respects at the altar as the breath seeped from their leader’s body. As Huba stepped forward, he

felt a cut, like a blade slicing across his gaze. A jump, a flinch, some fleeting sensation he could not grasp. He mistook it for

one of the rebellious tears he would not permit himself.

And when it was gone, nothing had changed. Not even the

mask setting on his leader’s face.

Huba sent a guard to fetch Árpád’s Kavar wife and his

boy, Zoltan, from outside; then he took his chieftain’s hand

and kissed it, whispering, ‘Names will be our only epitaph.

Yours will be this country: the nation of Magyaria.’

As Huba stood away, Árpád died.

The flare receded as unexpectedly as it had come, leaving

behind only a bizarre calm on the plain near Csepel Island and

a painful afterimage on Liz’s eyes, despite the barest glimpse

to which she had been exposed. Squirming past Zhelnin in the

doorway, she barged her way out to the front of the house and

the gathered soldiers. She blinked and looked again in the

direction of the fortress.

She knew the Doctor could not have lived.

The fact that the TEL vehicle had vanished was a minor

detail to her and the ensuing frenzy of voices and activity

made no impression until the Major brought it to an

unexpected end.

‘Stand at attention! There’s no cause for alarm! The

Temporal disruption is over! We have won!’ There was no

cheering though. Only a stunned silence.

‘How, Major?’ Lieutenant Zhelnin came up, asking on the

men’s behalf.

‘I don’t know! The missile, I expect. Did it detonate after

all?’ demanded Bugayev furiously, words muffled but

discernible. ‘Where’s the damned cloud?’

Turning a glare on Bugayev, Liz whipped off her gas mask

and yanked the hood down around her neck. She brushed a

sleeve across her sweating brow. ‘Is that really all you care

about? Where’s the mushroom cloud? Did the weapon

function properly?’ She arched her lip in obvious distaste. ‘If you ask me, the Doctor went to deal with the wrong monster!’

‘What’s the counter read, Corporal Grushkin?’ Bugayev

urged the trooper, but the slight figure shook his head and

there was scarcely a crackle from the device in his hand. The

Major tossed his mask aside and regarded Liz sympathetically.

‘Miss Shaw, you’re clearly distraught and, believe me, I

understand. But the Doctor died a hero, and you’ve every

reason to be proud.’ He cuffed her chin surprisingly gently.

‘Don’t touch me!’ she exhorted, shying away.

There was an undulating clump of hooves as a horse

trotted gracefully up the hillside towards them. Liz turned and was cheered to see Aphrodite, emerging from the house to

welcome Bailador.

‘Oh, no,’ groaned Bugayev. ‘The dove of peace has

arrived. She will certainly peck me to death over this.’

But the fact that Aphrodite had summoned her mount

implied to Liz that her friend was preparing to depart, her job done. Aphrodite guided the stallion to a halt before her.

‘Hello, Major,’ she chimed softly, immediately patting the

horse’s neck and approaching to greet Liz. ‘Liz, how are you?

Did they force you into that?’

‘It’s hardly the Paris spring collection, I know.’ Liz

admitted, pulling at the hips of the NBC suit and staring down

at herself. She suddenly remembered the brilliant flare. ‘Oh,

Aphrodite! You don’t know what’s happened. The Doctor –’

Aphrodite buttoned Liz’s mouth with her fingers. ‘He’ll be

fine, Liz, honestly. He’s got a fair walk, that’s all.’ She read Liz’s fears in an instant. ‘Trust me. Trust me.’

‘You’ve been in contact with him, then?’ inquired

Bugayev.

‘No, I’m a gypsy fortune-teller,’ testified Aphrodite, with

the convincing innocence of a lamb. ‘And for the Doctor, I’d

predict a long life with plenty of travel and new friends

wherever he goes. At least, that’s my hope for him.’

‘Oh, shut up!’ Bugayev swatted her away impatiently, then

signalled the rest of his men to remove their NBC gear.

Running fingers back through his hair, he told the two women,

‘Neither of you know the whole story, so stay off my back.’

‘Yes, but she was right on one score, at least!’ called the

Doctor, appearing from nowhere and trudging up the steep

flank of the hill from the riverside. In his hands he carried

Athena’s Staff and a frighteningly large sword. He looked like

an off-duty monarch who didn’t quite know what to do with

his symbols of state.

‘Oh, Doctor!’ Liz skipped over to meet the familiar figure

and practically flung herself at him, wrapping both arms

around his neck. Smiling, the Doctor surrendered to her

embrace, taking care to hold the two artefacts apart behind her back.

‘Yes, I’m perfectly well, Liz. Just a few minor bruises

around the neck and ribcage now, that’s all.’ His eyes shone

tenderly as she released her hold.

‘The explosion was your handiwork, I take it?’ guessed

Liz.

‘Yes, I think you could say I played my part. All it took

was a subtle tip of the scales on one side. Of course, they

sprang promptly back in the other direction and there you are!

Equilibrium.’ The Doctor held the sword and staff up at equal

but opposite angles.

Liz walked with him to join the main group. ‘You do

realise the Major gave you a hero’s death a while ago?’

‘Yes, quite. I’m very much afraid that might be said of

Chistyakov and Yaroslavskiy – but not me. Hello, Aphrodite,’

he gave the young lady a warm-hearted nod, before handing

her the artefacts, asking her to take care of them for a moment and rounding abruptly on the Major. ‘Of all the ignorant,

stupid, pig-headed things you could have tried, that, sir, does more than take the biscuit! That demolishes an entire packet! I won’t waste my breath on what could have happened, since

my opinions evidently don’t feature too highly on your list of

priorities. But the Chieftain brushed your insignificant spear

aside in Time and now I have neither any idea when it might

detonate, nor if it’ll be possible to prevent a massive disaster!’

‘Doctor –’ interposed Aphrodite, but her quiet voice was

no match for the Doctor’s temper.

‘I’ve not quite finished yet, Aphrodite.’ He jabbed a finger

at Bugayev’s chest. ‘Do you have any idea of what you’ve

done, Major? A nuclear explosion over Budapest at any time

in its past or future! We could be talking about millions of

lives, all down to this irresponsible madness you call

"necessary action"! You, sir, are the most callous, dangerous maniac I have ever seen leading anything smaller than a

country!’

‘Doctor – !’ Aphrodite persisted, a tremor of anger rising

in tune with the Doctor’s.

‘Shut up!’ Bugayev yelled at her. ‘The Doctor has made

his point with his usual eloquence; and his usual supply of half the facts!’ He slapped the Doctor’s arm aside and aimed his

own finger at the Time Lord. ‘In the past, I have taken all the necessary actions you can think of in the interests of security –

national and global! I have done it all, and you don’t have the first clue! Believe me, it is enough to make your fine head of

hair whiter still!

‘And through it all, I measure my success in terms of one

question: have I done my job to the best of my ability? The

answer is always yes – always! And not once have I ever had

cause for regret. Not once have I had to think back and wonder

if I had done the right thing. But it’s not enough, because you

–’ he fired a gun-barrel finger at first the Doctor, then

Aphrodite ‘ – and you want everything done with handshakes and kisses! And that, my friends, is not living in the real

world!

‘And did it never occur to either of you, with all your

superior intellects, to stop, just once, and consider the outside possibility that, perhaps, this outrageous solution was going a little too far even for the hard-hearted Major!’

‘You’re claiming you were controlled to launch the

missile?’ The Doctor’s scepticism was wholly unrestrained.

‘You know, Major, you never struck me as an easy target for

telepathic manipulation. Far too strong-willed.’

‘And your emotions are firmly in the passenger seat,’

added Aphrodite, offended by the verbal tirade and appearing

flustered at having to go unheard.

‘I’m claiming nothing,’ Bugayev snarled. ‘I merely put it

forward as a possibility, something to make you think before

you assault me with your high-minded accusations. But let me

make something very clear, Doctor. I don’t care enough to lie.

But those were god-like beings we were dealing with, and the thing you have to ask yourself is, would Major Bugayev have

knowingly sacrificed his men and you, Doctor, to save the

Earth?’

He smiled thinly, his voice perfectly calm. ‘And the

beauty is, you will never truly know.’ He tapped the side of his forehead. ‘Because the answer stays locked in here.’

For once, the Doctor had no words, matching Bugayev’s

impenetrable stare.

Gratefully, Aphrodite intervened. ‘I’m sorry to take the

wind out of your sails, Major, but the issue is rather moot,

anyway.’ She smiled faintly to herself. ‘You see, I’d already

disabled the nuclear warhead and equipped the missile with a

container of my Pacifier virus. Liz would tell you about it, but the exact specifications are top secret.’ She shared a roguish

grin with Liz, then sighed listlessly. ‘Wouldn’t have hurt

anyone, the fight would have been cancelled and they could

have all gone home. Such a shame it was a wasted effort.’

‘That’s right,’ seconded Liz helpfully. ‘Even the

belligerent deities might have lost their aggressive instincts.

We should have saved some for you, Major.’

The Doctor chortled softly, a weight lifting from his mind.

Major Bugayev digested the news far less appreciatively, his

eyes darting around the small assembly.

‘How dare you tamper with Soviet military equipment!’ he

shook a fist at Aphrodite, all the more annoyed when her

eyelids failed to flicker. ‘Why didn’t you enclose a bouquet of flowers while you were at it?’

‘I didn’t have the time,’ lamented Aphrodite. ‘But it would

have been a lovely touch.’

Fuming, Bugayev seemed to search around for something

to strike; the soldiers respectfully avoided him. He steadily

recovered his senses.

‘Just a minute, my little gorlitsa, how could you disable the warhead? Such a frail creature would have needed some

assistance. Who were the other saboteurs?! Who helped you?!’

Aphrodite, unintimidated, coolly delivered her reply. ‘It

was Abdurasulov. Only him.’ Behind Bugayev, Liz noticed

Zhelnin incline his head and shift his stance. After a moment,

Aphrodite added, ‘And I’m not your little dove.’

‘Have it your own way!’ relented Bugayev, seeing no

advantage to arguing. ‘I’m sure I would only have a mutiny on

my hands if I arrested you.’ He barked a number of orders at the troopers who moved off in the direction of the house,

Zhelnin keeping his eyes resolutely away from Aphrodite but

of course Aphrodite would know the extent of his gratitude:

she would feel it, Liz was sure. Bugayev treated them to a

haughty smirk. ‘Fortunately, I have a few more pressing

matters awaiting me in Moscow.’

‘Ten of them in Budapest,’ the Doctor refreshed his

memory. ‘The Magyars brought those missile-trucks from the

Steppes. Ten Arrows! There won’t have been any spatial

transition on the return journey, you know.’

Bugayev was appalled, his beady eyes swelling

dangerously. Lacking any solid target, he punched his own

open palm. ‘One on Castle Hill and nine on Csepel! The

Hungarian police will be swarming over them!’ With pristine

humility, he issued a curt salute to the trio, insinuating good will. ‘Goodbye. Thank you so much for all your help. If we

must meet again, please make sure it’s on my home territory.’

He carried himself in a masterful pace all the way to the

house, entering the doorway without turning back. In seconds,

the building had blinked out of existence.

‘Will he send it back, do you suppose?’ asked Liz, a short

while later. ‘For us?’

She gave a start as the house reappeared.

The Doctor patted her arm sympathetically. ‘Yes, it does

rather creep up on you. Not like a TARDIS at all.’

‘If you say so, Doctor,’ murmured Liz, lacking the energy

to disagree.

‘No materialisation or anything of the kind. Remarkable

piece of temporal engineering.’ The Doctor was in full

professorial mode. ‘Of course, the damage will have to be

rectified. Can’t have these buildings slipping outside their

allotted time-span just as they feel.’

‘Is that what you’re going to do?’ Aphrodite was studying

the Doctor keenly. ‘Put the house in order? Maybe the entire

network’s impaired. Quite a job. Could be very time-

consuming.’

She was teasing the Doctor for the truth, Liz could tell, but

he attempted a deflection anyway. ‘Someone has to do it, you

know.’

Liz glanced between the two of them. The Doctor and

Aphrodite. Two mysteries with an unspoken understanding of

one another.

‘There’s an alternative, of course,’ posited Aphrodite,

looking whimsically askance at the air, her fiery eyes alive

with some plot. ‘I mean, if you wanted a proper break from

your exile, there are rooms available in a humble villa I know.

I don’t generally have many guests, it’s true, but it wouldn’t

be the first time. And you know it would be no imposition.’

The Doctor nodded, more unspoken mystery passing between

their gazes, until the Doctor glanced away and Aphrodite was

left studying his profile. ‘Three’s not a crowd in paradise, and I know what it would mean to you, Doctor.’

Liz saw how the Doctor was moved by her generous

candour. Here was a glowing opportunity to decamp and

thumb his nose at the sentence of exile. He glanced at her, as if figuring her own desire to see other worlds into the equation.

In his expression, Liz fancied there was an apology, telling her it simply wasn’t a factor.

‘Yes, you do know what it would mean, Aphrodite – and

I’m honestly touched by your offer,’ he smiled, with both

hearts. ‘You know that too, but I may as well say it too. But

it’s not an offer I can possibly accept. Sooner, rather than later, the Time Lords would realise and I’d be straight back here.

Worse than that, I’m afraid they wouldn’t thank you for

having helped me escape. They’re terrible sticklers for their

rules, you know, and they’d most likely see you pay with your

freedom.

‘And I know what that would mean to you.’

Aphrodite smiled ruefully, accepting an answer she had

already known deep down. She strode forward and enfolded

Liz in a sisterly hug. A hold that didn’t want to let go. ‘Take care,’ she instructed her. Then, she breathed, ‘Remember,

science has a poetry all its own.’ She pulled away, her hands

lingering on Liz’s shoulders for a moment longer before

passing to the Doctor.

The Doctor bowed and kissed her hand. ‘It’s been a

pleasure.’

‘We got there in the beginning, didn’t we?’ she joked

slyly. Drawing back into a curtsey, she approached Bailador

and glided up into the saddle. The sword and staff were

strapped, held fast in place behind the saddle. ‘I’ll see to it these are buried deep.’

‘Yes, we cut things a little more finely than I would have

liked.’ The Doctor laid a hand around Liz. ‘Time is going to

need some bracing if she’s going to heal over this wound.’

‘You mean – ?’ started Liz.

The Doctor flexed his features slightly awkwardly, clearly

not proud. ‘Yes, I’m afriaid so. It’s not a serious break,

nothing a couple of omnitemporal splints can’t help mend. But

don’t worry.’ He favoured Liz with an encouraging squeeze.

‘History has been held together by flimsier threads than that

before.’

‘A wing and a prayer, Doctor,’ said Aphrodite. She

grabbed Bailador’s reins, ready to ride off. ‘Goodbye. Both of

you.’

‘Oh, Aphrodite!’ the Doctor called, striding up. ‘By the

way, you do realise, your Pacifier missile might not have been

such a wasted effort. It’s a guess, but it could have detonated in the middle of the thirteenth century, don’t you think? It’s

quite possible it took more than the death of a Khan to turn

back the Golden Horde.’

Aphrodite rolled the idea around on her tongue. ‘The

Mongols, you mean?’ She laughed. ‘Well, like the Major’s

mystery, we’ll never truly know the answer. But I like your

version. It’s wonderfully neat.’ She smoothed the horse’s

neck.

‘Of course, when you are out in the Universe again,

Doctor, you’ll be sure and look me up, won’t you?’ Gathering

the reins again, she prepared to depart. ‘By the way, Liz, after I’ve buried these somewhere, I’ll wait down by the river for an hour or two. Goodbye.’

A flick of the reins sent the stallion into a healthy canter,

bearing her mistress, Aphrodite, homeward.

‘And to think, I never used to believe in magic.’ Liz

watched horse and rider recede only for a moment. ‘Doctor,

what on earth did she mean?’

The Doctor shuffled from one foot to the other, his gaze

passing gradually out over the Danube. ‘I’d say it was her way

of inviting you to go with her – or offering you an alternative route to UNIT HQ –’ he reasoned, admiring the view. ‘A more

– direct route.’

‘Direct?’ Liz cursed the sluggishness in her brain, but as

her own gaze fell on the lonely Renaissance house she could

almost hear the click – of the light going on in her head.

‘Oh, I see,’ she smouldered, tucking one arm under the

other and resting her weight squarely on one hip. ‘Your

maintenance work is going to take you all round the world, back and forth in your precious curtain rings, is it?’

The Doctor faced her with hands in pockets. ‘Well, it’s not

likely to be for long, Liz. Most probably, the Time Lords will

want to close it all down once they learn of Melisandra’s

death.’ His expression was a plea in itself. ‘There can’t be any harm in exploring the other houses, anyway – in the meantime.

And since I’ll not have left Earth, the Time Lords can hardly

lodge any serious complaints.’

‘When were you going to let me in on this, exactly? When

we stepped through the wardrobe into Narnia?’ Liz sensed an

agitation surfacing in her and she knew the Doctor had noticed

it already. Why did he have to mention UNIT? she thought.

‘If you don’t want to come, Liz, I’ll understand. You can

go back to UNIT and wait for me there.’ There was a paternal

quality in his manner that Liz knew was meant to charm her.

He finished, ‘I’m sure you’ll straighten everything out with the Brigadier for me.’

Liz bit her lip and searched the stretch of the Danube for

any defence against the threat of tears. ‘Oh, Doctor, if I go

back to UNIT I’ll only be serving out my notice, and how long

do you suppose that will take?’

‘Yes,’ the Doctor bowed his head soberly, ‘I rather

thought you might be leaving.’

Liz spilled over with frustration. ‘There you go again! You

wouldn’t even let me spring that much surprise on you!’ She

turned away and the house was in her field of view again. ‘I

haven’t a clue what I’m meant to do now.’

There was an awkward pause, filled by the distant chatter

of birds.

‘What did Aphrodite say to you?’ Liz heard the Doctor’s

note of idle interest; he had detected the whisper, but the

words had been meant for her alone. She ran over them in her

mind.

‘She was telling me I should be happy with who I am,’

divulged Liz hesitantly.

The Doctor said, ‘And?’

It was the question of a lifetime, of course, because he was

really asking, ‘Are you coming or aren’t you?’ It wasn’t a

choice she wanted to make, but there was no escape clause.

Naturally, it wasn’t a matter of swaying her from her

resignation; on that she was committed. It was the

uncomplicated issue of how she was going to spend her last

days prior to that, and simplicity suddenly seemed a foreign

word. The Doctor had effectively opened a jam-packed

cupboard, causing all manner of bric-a-brac to tumble over

Liz’s mind. She stood helplessly in the midst of it, wondering

where to begin.

On the one side, there was the mundaneness of serving out

a month’s notice in the UNIT laboratory, drumming her

fingers on the bench and watching the rain outside; and never

mind if there was an alien invasion in the interim. There would be the clipped conversations with the Brigadier, liberally

seasoned with inquiries after the Doctor’s whereabouts – as if Liz would know! Then there would be her departure, with every probability of no farewell from the Doctor because of

his continued absence; a distinctly grey end to this chapter of her career. Against all that was set the unknowns of an

expedition through a machine that defied reality and would

send international air fares crashing if widely publicised.

Where would the Doctor take her? She’d have no trouble

adapting to anywhere around the globe, but there was the extra

dimension of when. History had never fired her imagination

fantastically in the classroom, much as Aphrodite had

neglected her temporal physics; up close, the snatches she had

seen ranged from hospitable to horrific; and though there was

something to be said for the spice of danger, she was sure the

Doctor would find more trouble-spots than leisure centres. The

future held more promise, but even there Liz was forced to

weigh whether she was meant to go there at her own pace,

watching it unfold through telescopes and microscopes;

making her own special contribution.

When she turned again, the question was still etched on

the Doctor’s face.

Liz knew her answer would be just the one word, but it

seemed to her an awful long time in coming.

THE END

Document Outline

Front cover

Rear cover

Title page

Contents

Author's Notes

Dedication

1 - The Chieftain

2 - The Doctor

3 - The Warrior

4 - Budapest

5 - Aphrodite

6 - The Major

7 - Melisandra

8 - The Queen

9 - Athena

10 - On-Ogur

11 - Arpad

12 - Equilibrium

13 - Liz Shaw