Doctor Who_ Legacy Part 1

LEGACY.

by Gary Russell.

Introduction.

To crib liberally from American writer Peter David, if you don't like introductions just go straight to the start of the book; you won't miss anything important. I'd like to think you might miss something interesting, though.

The Ice Warriors were created by Brian Hayles, a writer who tragically is no longer with us. One of my earliest and clearest memories of Doctor Who was were created by Brian Hayles, a writer who tragically is no longer with us. One of my earliest and clearest memories of Doctor Who was The Seeds of Death The Seeds of Death, Hayles' second outing for the wily Martians, in 1969. From then on they were always my favourite monsters and their appearances in the first two installments of the Peladon saga ( The Curse of The Curse of Peladon Peladon, 1972 and The Monster of Peladon The Monster of Peladon, 1974) further imbued them with a believability and background lacking in the majority of the other 'rubber suits' that paraded ad nauseum across the screens of the world.

Whether it was Ice Lord Izlyr's attempts to a.s.sure an understandably disbelieving Doctor that the Martians had turned their back on militaristic conquest, or Eckersley's admission that Ice Lord Azaxyr desired a return to thedeath or glory days' of their empire, the Ice Warriors oozed sophistication and intelligence. The mark of a good writer (Robert Holmes and Malcolm Hulke being the other Doctor Who writers that immediately leap to mind) is the ability to make every character exist in varying degrees of grey rather than as whiter-than-white good guy and evil black-hatted baddy. No one in the two Peladon stories is perfect, certainly none of them are simply evil; they all exist and do what they do. By creating the medieval society of Peladon, Hayles took the rules of Doctor Who and subtly twisted them - turning The Curse of Peladon Curse of Peladon from being just a superb story into a masterpiece of social commentary. from being just a superb story into a masterpiece of social commentary.

I only met Brian Hayles once, at an open-air science fair in Windsor, in the mid-seventies. When I realized who he was I shoved my copy of his The Curse of Peladon Curse of Peladon novel under his nose and asked him when there was going to be a return visit. .Ah,' he said. 'Tom Baker's the Doctor now, so they wouldn't recognize him.' Ever the eager (pushy) teenager, I asked him what he would do next on Peladon and, like any clever person faced with the enthusiasm of youth, he turned the question back on me, What would I like to see done? So I suggested a long, convoluted and frankly ridiculous adventure, but he smiled and nodded, saying that he liked the ideas (I imagine he was being not entirely truthful) and so they have stayed with me ever since. None of those ideas are in this book, however, except the ending: an ending I considered logical and even if I did catch him surprised, I'd like to think Brian Hayles really would like it too. novel under his nose and asked him when there was going to be a return visit. .Ah,' he said. 'Tom Baker's the Doctor now, so they wouldn't recognize him.' Ever the eager (pushy) teenager, I asked him what he would do next on Peladon and, like any clever person faced with the enthusiasm of youth, he turned the question back on me, What would I like to see done? So I suggested a long, convoluted and frankly ridiculous adventure, but he smiled and nodded, saying that he liked the ideas (I imagine he was being not entirely truthful) and so they have stayed with me ever since. None of those ideas are in this book, however, except the ending: an ending I considered logical and even if I did catch him surprised, I'd like to think Brian Hayles really would like it too.

No book exists without the help of a lot of other people and Legacy is certainly no exception. In no order whatsoever, I am indebted to: Paul Cornell for 'being really cool' about my use of characters from all his excellent books; Kate Orman for coming to England and just being a fiery Pakhar; Terrance d.i.c.ks and Malcolm Hulke for making me want to write Doctor Who in the first place; Adrian Rigelsford for allowing me to plagiarize aspects of his excellent Doctor Who -- The Monsters book, specifically the events surrounding the Sword of Tuburr; Jamie Woolley for being 'serpentine' (that didn't come out right!); David Saunders and Chris Dunk for getting me into this Doctor Who world; Alan McKenzie for the initial big break and John Freeman for the bigger one; Peter Darvill-Evans and Rebecca Levene for being d.a.m.n fine and honest (with much-needed criticism, I might add) editors - and for listening when I had panic attacks and a blank screen.

Neil C, Paul C, Nick P, Barnaby E, Simon S, Paul V, Simon 'Scibus' M, Nick B, Warwick G, Mark G, Ian M and especially Gareth Roberts for the support, friends.h.i.+p and Jackie impros.

Justin, Andy, Craig and Jim for wanting to help and accepting my (probably erroneous) refusals.

Marc Platt and Nigel Robinson, two of the greatest guys in the world, who read and critiqued my original 1991 submission.

And of course special thanks to John Ainsworth, for just putting up with bad moods, frayed tempers, late nights and exceptionally loud music.

GPR 12/93.

PART ONE

THE PAST.

1: My Shadow in Vain

The storm ripped its way through the almost never-ending darkness that encircled Peladon. Flashes of lightning reflected off the planet's tri-satellite-dominated heavens and flared back against the dark side of Mount Megeshra; highest, widest and most deadly of Peladon's mountains. The terrible winds roared loudly enough to deafen anyone foolhardy enough to venture out, if they were not smashed to the rocky ground first.

At the foot of the mountain were the st.u.r.dy granite settlements where the Pel miners and soldiers lived with their families. Each day, in their respective groups they would enter the network of tunnels that had been carved into the mountain, digging and building for the planet's future.

One day, it was said, a vast citadel would sit atop the mountain, a defiance to the angry G.o.ds who sentenced Peladon to its stormy fate.

One day.

Halfway up and inside the mountain, a large habitation had already been constructed. Linked by many tunnels, a huge circular building occupied about three hundred square feet of the blackness. Flambeau torches illuminated, badly, the walkways within the structure, and heavy burgundy drapes acted as walls between the rooms.

Sat in the very centre room, surrounded by the largest and brightest torches, was a man. Long, untidy brown curls hung to his waist and a streak of burgundy ran through the centre of this hair from forehead to tips.

His face was scarred and pitted - physical medals gained in countless battles against countless now-dead foes. A torn burgundy toga hung from one shoulder, looped under his loins and back up again. Fur boots kept his feet from the chills and a ma.s.sive barbed spear was slung over his back, held there by leathery knotted thongs. At his side hung a ma.s.sive double-bladed serrated sword, its metal dulled by the mixed blood of its many victims.

The warrior s.h.i.+vered. In spite of the torches. In spite of his ma.s.sive, perfectly toned physique. In spite of the fur boots.

'By the G.o.ds of Peladon, it is bitter today, Chamberlain.'

Aye, Lord,' agreed the seedy old man hovering behind him. 'The G.o.ds appear most displeased -' The moment he had spoken, the aged chamberlain knew he had made a grave mistake. His lord pulled himself out of his wooden chair, kicking aside one of the flambeaus.

'Dare you suggest that the G.o.ds are angry because of my actions?'

bellowed the warrior. 'Have I not slaughtered my foes, their families and villages single-handedly? Have I not wiped out all unbelievers and desecraters? Have I not destroyed deviants of colour and love? Do you tell me that I have done all this only to anger them? Well?'

The old chamberlain smiled weakly. Of course not, my Lord, I merely said -' He got no further because his head was silently and swiftly detached from his shoulders by the double-bladed sword. It bounced twice and came to rest at the foot of the drapes.

'Captain!' roared the warrior.

An instant swish of an opposite drape and a younger warrior appeared, a single-bladed sword drawn in antic.i.p.ation of attack.

'Put aside your weapon, loyal Gart. I am in need of a new advisor and chamberlain. Get me someone. Now!'

Gart sheathed his sword, bowed and vanished as swiftly as he had come.

The warrior knelt beside the corpse. Blood was pouring out of the severed neck like water from an overturned goblet. He sat the corpse upright, a.s.suming this would stop the flow. Instead it just spurted more. With an angry shove, the body was pushed back floorwards again. The warrior snarled, looked around and saw the head to one side. The eyes were wide open, staring accusingly. 'Bah!' He gave the head a savage kick, noting with relish the sound of the nose bones crunching, and it vanished under the drapes.

Gart reappeared, two old men hovering meekly behind him, bowing and sc.r.a.ping as if their lives depended upon it, which they did.

The warrior looked them over. 'Hmm. Look.' He pointed at the corpse, whose blood-flow was stemming slightly now. 'Disappoint me and that is your fate. Understand?'

The two old men understood.

Totally.

Absolutely.

Without any doubt at all.

The warrior nodded. 'Right. Names?'

'Voss,' said one.

Uthron,' said the other.

'Voss,' said the warrior, I don't like your name.'

It was the one I was born with, my Lord.' Voss shrugged.

It is the one you have died with as well!' Voss didn't have time to draw breath as the double-bladed sword tore into his side, slicing him neatly, if not bloodlessly, in two.

Uthron's already parchment-like skin went a shade whiter.

The warrior laughed. 'His response should have been to change his name, eh Uthron?'

Uthron realized that his volatile Lord was not likely to like whatever response he gave to that question, so he swallowed hard and said, Indeed, my Lord,' and nothing else.

'Chamberlain Uthron, I wish you to record in the palace records that I, the greatest warrior ever born on Peladon, have been appointed by the G.o.ds to become king of Peladon. From now on, the name Erak will be known throughout history as the first and greatest absolute monarch of this planet.'

Uthron bowed a little bit lower than before. Erak nodded. 'You may go, Chamberlain Uthron.'

'My Lord . . . Your Majesty,' he corrected quickly. 'Where do I locate the palace records to mark this momentous occasion in?'

Erak stared at Uthron. He c.o.c.ked his head first to one side then the other.

Then he grinned. 'By the G.o.ds, Uthron, you are a wit! I shall enjoy you being my chamberlain. There are no palace records, yet. You will have to start them from this moment. Off you go!'

Uthron had moved to the drapes when Erak beckoned again, this time in a rather bored tone. Oh, Uthron. Get someone in here to clean this lot up, will you?' He lazily reached out with his sword and skewered Voss's head neatly through the eyes.

'Yes, Your Majesty.' Uthron left swiftly.

Two hours later, after three wenches had carried, mopped and dried, Erak sat back in his throne, closed his eyes and remembered glorious battles.

It was raining. Hard. The battlefield was pure mud, and he was almost forced to jump every time he wished to move. Faithful Gart was at his side as they slashed and hacked their way through the menfolk of Narral's village. Narral - pretender to Peladon's throne. Ha!

Before long every able-bodied man in Narral's village lay dead in the mud.

Erak had lost none. Narral himself stood in front of a large stone hut, sword brandished.

erak!' he yelled. 'You have no right to take rule of the planet. We have survived generations with each village appointing a headman to be on the joint council. You are an evil butcher, not a king!' Erak had smiled and rocked back on his heels with laughter. And you, Narral, are the last of those weak-willed councillors. They all lie dead, their villagers with them.'

'Then you will have no one to lord over, you monster!' Narral shouted back.

Erak strode towards his foe, as much as the mud would allow. Narral waved his sword in front of him but Erak grasped the end, ignoring the cutting edge. He squeezed and the blade shattered. With his other hand he reached out and grasped Narral's right shoulder, crus.h.i.+ng the bones to dust. He grinned at his agonized foe, palmed his right hand, drew it back and then pushed forward, ripping directly into Narral's stomach. As his hand went in, he grabbed Narral's backbone and pulled down sharply.

Narral died instantly as his neck was broken, and Erak withdrew his hand.

Tossing the body aside, he marched into the hut. An old woman, three boys and six girls aged, Erak guessed, at between nine and fourteen, cowered at the back.

Gart entered. 'My Lord?'

Erak threw a b.l.o.o.d.y arm around his friend's shoulder. 'Gart - our warriors need amus.e.m.e.nt. The girls are theirs - when they have finished with each one, they may of course dispose of them.'

The old woman gasped in horror. Erak's blade flashed briefly and she fell dead. 'The boys?' asked Gart.

Our brave warriors must be hungry, Gart. There's little meat upon them, but these wars are hard for all of us. It is a long while since we have tasted meat!'

The three boys instinctively gripped each other as this time Gart's sword sung its lethal song.

Erak was awakened suddenly by a noise. He sat up in his chair, furious that his memories of past glories had been disturbed.

Of course, there had been a fair bit of dramatic license in his dream - Narral had been an old man who died of a seizure early on in the battle; Erak had lost fifteen men and although the young girls had been raped and slaughtered so as not to breed inferior or tainted stock, there had been no little boys to eat. That part had come out of necessity months later when needing a threat to ensure his own children went to bed on time. 'Go now, or your father will eat you as he did Narral's sons!' was a frequent bellow in his chambers.

The drapes were drawn back and Uthron cowered there.

'Well?'

'Your Majesty - there is a young warrior to see you. He . . . he . . .'

Out with it, Chamberlain! You need not be afraid of your king!'

Uthron, of course, was completely terrified of his king and being told that he ought not to be only made things worse. 'Your Majesty, he says - and I only report what he says - that he challenges your right to be Peladon's monarch. He says. . .'

'Yes, yes, I get the idea, Uthron. Send this new pretender in - I'll soon kill him and be done with it. Off you go.'

Moments later, Erak confronted his would-be usurper.

He was a young man - probably in his late teens. A shock of blond hair hung to his neck, the traditional burgundy stripe not yet stretching to the tips of his hair. Like Erak, he wore a simple toga, his of white. It barely covered a lithe but taut frame, muscle and sinew evident but not exaggerated. The boy had not seen a great deal of combat but was clearly fit and healthy. He carried only a short training sword but something about him sent an unaccustomed chill through Erak.

It was his eyes. Piercing blue eyes, of the sort normally a.s.sociated with scholars and artists. Yet they possessed an inner fire that left Erak in no doubt he faced a mature, intelligent and capable fighter.

Determined not to let it be seen that he was slightly surprised by the newcomer. Erak reverted to his brazen, gruff act. 'Well, well, well,' he laughed. A boy. A child whose loins have barely felt gravity. Who would send such an innocent against me, King Erak of Peladon?'

'My Lord,' the boy said in a soft but strong tone. 'My Lord, you cannot be king until you are publicly enthroned. You must let the people see this event, so that they may truly know it has occurred.'

Of course!' Erak nodded quickly. In fact he had no intention of being crowned in public. He knew he was king, and besides some foe might take the opportunity to a.s.sa.s.sinate him. However, he could not say this in front of the child. No. 'My coronation will be a spectacle for all to behold. Lavish and glorious, it will mark a new age for Peladon.'

Indeed it will, Your Majesty. An age of death, doom and destruction. An age when a man who slays young girls out of fear will rule. An age when a man who cuts down old women in case they spit at him will rule. An age when a man who fears his own shadow and murders old men because their names do not sound right will rule. In short, Your Majesty, an age in which Peladon will succ.u.mb to, and never escape from, sheer terror. No age of greatness but an age of stagnation, deceit and lies. You are not fit to be king of a cesspit, let alone an entire planet. I shall stop you.'

Erak looked at the boy, and laughed. 'You have guts, I'll grant you. I suspect that they shall be set before me on a dish before this night is out however, boy. What do they call you?'

'I am Sherak.'

'The name is familiar, boy, but I cannot place it right now.'

'No, Your Majesty, I did not expect you to. I am too lowly, too far beneath you. Yet I shall be First King of Peladon. A benevolent and just king who will bring his people together in unity, trust and - '

Erak had drawn his double-bladed sword and lunged at Sherak before the boy had finished his sentence. Sherak's own blade parried expertly and held the blow. Erak reached behind him and drew his barbed spear. He lashed out towards Sherak's head, but the younger man ducked, letting his sword take more pressure from Erak's. At the last second, he spun on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, whipping his sword away and Erak unbalanced, his double bladed tool cras.h.i.+ng into the ground. 'You are a cold warrior, boy,'

acknowledged Erak. 'But your inexperience shows - sadly there will not be time for you to profit by my teachings.'