Part 28 (2/2)
Huvan turns his placid gaze upon the Doctor. 'Oh no,' he says. 'It's not like that at all. The tomb will be opened, Doctor. Have no fear of that.'
For once, for the first time ever, she sees the Doctor at a loss for words. 'What?' he mutters, regaining his composure.
'What do you mean, ”it will be opened”? Of course it won't.'
He is wrong. They all know it. He is wrong to be upset by this. 'Doctor,' Romana says, 'don't be afraid. Huvan here is about to perform a wondrous act. He will restore the universe back to its natural state.'
The Doctor shakes his head, as she knew he would. 'My poor Romana,' he replies softly. 'What has he been telling you? Didn't I warn you about boys? They'll say anything to impress. I'm sure it was on my list of ”a thousand and one universal constants to warn Romana about”.'
'I am no longer a child,' says Huvan, coldly. 'Do not treat me as such. The tomb will be opened. Now.'
Romana hears the psychically-operated locking mechanisms click apart with a great echoing screech. The embossed symbols, sleepy with age, sink into the buckled plates. All across its surface, the metal begins to soften, to alter form. Deep inside the planet, the particle accelerator screams with even more violent energy. She feels the ground shake, feels the ultimate release of energy approaching.
Soon, she realises. Soon. Happiness fills her with light.
At this point, it would probably be wise to initiate the reappearance of Robert Hopkins and Mr Redfearn. Let us a.s.sume they escaped from the collapsing palace via the transmat and have found their way here, just at this crucial moment. They bring an almost comic element to the proceedings, as we imagine their soot-blackened faces and wide blinking eyes. Let's face it, they've been through a lot.
They are watching from the wings, Hopkins astonished to realise he has finally caught up with his arch rival. Mr Redfearn instinctively lines up a shot, but his master knocks his arm away. He wants to savour the moment.
At last, however, he dares wait no longer. The rending screeches of s.h.i.+fting metal that reverberate throughout the cavern imply that this drama is moving into its final stage. All attention is on the gateway as it grinds open. Hopkins doesn't like the look of what seems to be happening here, this blurring mist that rises from the big metal slab.
He and Mr Redfearn step out of the shadows and duck and weave their way towards the group. They are all there Neville, Pelham, the Doctor, some young woman and that boy, who seems to be running the show. Hopkins instinctively understands how dangerous he is going to be.
'Take the boy,' he snaps.
At about twenty metres, and quick as ever, Mr Redfearn fires. Huvan turns and is the first to see them, but the bullet drives into his heart before even he can react.
As Huvan falls, a ball of energy blasts out from him, an energy that snakes along the ground in a line of orange balled fire.
'Mercy me,' Mr Redfearn says, smiling, as the zigzagging flame converges and bursts him out of his boots.
This achieved, Huvan, a romantic to the last, falls into Romana's arms.
Hopkins is beyond triumph as Mr Redfearn's remains sizzle beside him. He c.o.c.ks his shotgun, just to ensure full cooperation and steps into the limelight.
They face each other, the players united at last. So many, and such history between them! We have a.s.sembled our archetypes, laid out the cards (albeit with one or two little tweaks and adjustments) the sorcerer, the knight, the enchantress (Pelham, whether she likes it or not, for did she not enchant Neville with her stories?), the tragic, star-crossed lovers.
And the Doctor? What is the Doctor's archetype, his suit, his number? Not the hero, no, although he is, of course, heroic. He is too complicated for such a role. The Doctor is outside the archetype. Beyond such categories as suit and number. Only one card befits him and that is the zero, he who stands outside and sees all. Where wisdom and idiocy are combined and become the same thing. Finally, that is the card that suits the Doctor best. He is the fool.
Is it destiny that these should be here all at this time?
Perhaps the tomb of Valdemar needs all of them to reveal its secrets. Perhaps they provide some kind of arcane, critical ma.s.s, cogs and gears in a greater machine? Who knows?
Well, perhaps somewhere in the cold cosmic forces of the higher dimensions there is something, some spark of mischievous intelligence, that understands this game, and laughs.
Neville, no longer the proud Magus he once was, can only stare at Huvan's body, at the death of his dream.
To be foiled at this last possible moment, and by Hopkins.
It isn't fair. It isn't fair!
Ignoring the shotgun, and Hopkins's gloating, he launches himself at his rival. If his enemy gets a shot out, Neville doesn't hear it. He smashes the gun from Hopkins's grasp and grapples him to the ground.
He could have been great; the universe should have been his! As he tears at Hopkins's flesh he is gripped by a fury worthy of Valdemar himself. All the planning, all the endless waiting, all the dreams, gone in an instant. Dark One! Protect your servant, he begins to pray. The Magus is there, distant but not yet departed. He cannot stop now. Neville is thy rod and thy staff, thy instrument of holy vengeance. Rise, Valdemar. Rise!
Hopkins head-b.u.t.ts him, and the stars in his dreams burst open.
The Doctor uses the opportunity to wrest Romana away from the gateway. He hauls at her arm and Huvan drops with a thump to the ground. Romana is dazed, the black coral round her eyes flaring with anger. 'No, no!' she yells as he pulls her away. Miranda Pelham comes and provides what little aid she can.
'Don't touch me!' Romana shouts. 'Let me go!'
At last, they restrain her furious struggling form. The Doctor piles on top of her, pinning her down. 'Romana, Romana,' he insists. He tries to keep his voice even, hypnotic, desperate to ignite whatever spark of herself remains inside her. 'Don't let it work on you, remember who you are. It's all over, it's all over.'
He looks at Pelham and the fear on her face mirrors his own misgivings about whether this is actually the end of the matter.
Neville tumbles backwards. Hopkins finds he is laughing, laughing with relief. He has triumphed!
He ignores the pain in his face, where the other man attacked him. They stand, the rivals, facing each other.
Neville's beard is streaked with blood that pours from his nose, but his eyes glitter with hate. Hopkins punches him but he does not fall. Instead, the blow is returned and both men stagger.
All Hopkins's thoughts of a long, lingering death for Neville have been displaced now. Forget the long session on the rack, the lingering pain; forget even the broken man paraded round the New Parliament. This is a fight to the death, and one he does not intend to lose.
Neville backs away, racing towards the gateway which is steaming but now silent. Hopkins pa.s.ses the others, ignoring them. No one else matters, just Neville. Just Neville.
The magician's feet sink into the undulating gateway, and he falls.
'Valdemar! Hear me!' Neville screams, arms raised. 'Live!
Live and strike down the heretic!'
Hopkins, hot and boiling in his ruined armour, sprints to the metal slab. In his madness, he is braying with laughter.
'Your G.o.d is dead, Neville!' he screeches. 'There is only me!'
He reaches his quarry on the flimsy cover that is the burning gateway. The metal feels soft, like soup beneath his feet. He stumbles, like he is running through glue. Yours is a just cause, he says to himself; you are a true paladin.
Nothing can stop you.
Neville swings round to him, and the insanity on his face stops Hopkins for just a second. The magician doesn't even look human. Then battle is rejoined.
The pair thump, kick, flail at each other with a frenzy beyond any rational control. Hopkins smashes a metal fist into the other's face, utterly shattering his nose. Neville returns the blow with a swinging kick that hits Hopkins's thigh like a hammer. Both drop, sinking knee-deep into the swampy, hissing surface of the slab. Neville grasps Hopkins's arm and twists. Bone cracks but Hopkins feels no pain. He responds with another blow to Neville's face.
The ground s.h.i.+fts and a blast of hot steam scalds both of them pink. They sink further, lost to their descent in their struggle. Only the glue that suddenly grips their limbs interrupts their rage.
Through a red mist, Hopkins realises he is now waist-deep in this mire. He redoubles his efforts and hooks his good arm round Neville's slippery neck. His opponent's robes are starting to smoulder. His own armour spits as it fries blood and sweat. Slowly, Neville raises his hands and they end up facing each other, choking the life out of their mutual selves.
<script>