Part 12 (2/2)

'Azmael is now my slave. I have taken over his mind.'

That's not fair. He's an old man.' The words sounded foolish, almost childish, but then the Doctor wasn't used to seeing physical transference of one creature's mind to another.

'I could do the same to you, Doctor.'

'Then prove it!'

The face of Azmael sneered. 'All I need is...' but Mestor didn't finish the sentence. Instead his voice faded, Azmael's pained and agonised voice replaced it.

'He's weakening, Doctor. Mestor is attempting to control too much... All Jaconda is affected with his thoughts.' Azmael paused, his body heaving with the effort of controlling the unwanted presence in his mind.

'We must mind-link,' insisted the Doctor. 'Together we can destroy him.'

'No!' The voice sounded more agonised than before. 'He will pa.s.s to you, and you will be lost.'

'I can contain him.'

'I may be old,' croaked Azmael, 'but my experience in mind control is greater than yours. You must destroy Mestor's body, otherwise he will attempt to return to it.'

But how?

The Doctor's experience in dissecting two metre long slugs was non-existent, although he did recall having once read that the garden variety could be destroyed by covering them with sodium chloride. But where would he find enough salt?

'Hurry, Doctor!' screamed Azmael. 'I cannot control Mestor for much longer.'

Suddenly the Doctor remembered the second flask of Mosten acid and set about searching for it in his cavernous pockets.

The Doctor was angry with his lapse of memory. He had wasted valuable time. Azmael had been right to warn him against taking on Mestor. In spite of his vast improvement, the Doctor's regeneration was far from complete.

Finding the flask, he moved to the gastropod's moribund carca.s.s and emptied the contents over it.

The response was immediate. Huge blisters began to form on the moist, oily epidermis which then burst, scattering dry clouds of flakey skin. At the same moment, the corpse started to sag and fold in on itself as though a large invisible weight was pressing down on it.

As the dehydration process continued, Mestor's spindly limbs snapped and powdered like old paper exposed to a sudden gust of wind. Then his face dissolved into thick chunks of heavy cardboard which crumbled, yet again, into dust.

A moment later, all that was left of the Lord Mestor was a pile of fine grey dust, not unlike the ash of spent charcoal. The Doctor turned to Azmael. 'It's done,' he said quietly.

'Too late, Time Lord!' It was voice of Mestor. 'I now completely control your friend's mind.'

But he had spoken too soon.

Suddenly the body of Azmael began to sway, then reel like a drunken man. 'What's happening?' roared Mestor.

There was a pause, then the strained, agonised voice of Azmael was heard. 'You're dying, Mestor. I'm doing the one thing you cannot control - I am regenerating!

Again, the voice changed and Mestor started to rant and shout.

The Doctor turned away, angered and frustrated that he could do nothing to help. The mortal battle which was taking place inside his friend's mind was one that could only be fought by him alone.

To interfere could prove fatal.

As Azmael struggled to stay upright, he staggered and wobbled about the room. But even with the wall as support, the effort proved too much and he collapsed.

Horrified, the Doctor rushed to the crumpled heap. 'You can't regenerate,' he pleaded. 'You've used up your allotted number of lives.'

Summoning the last of his energy, Azmael forced a smile to his lips. 'Do you not think I know that?'

As he spoke, a black, amorphous stain seemed to swirl and spread under the skin of his forehead. For a moment, the Doctor thought his friend was experiencing a ma.s.sive haemorrhage.

'Do not be afraid at what you see,' said Azmael. 'It is all that remains of Mestor. He is trying to break out, evacuate my dying frame.' The strain grew into a pulsing blob. 'But he won't succeed.

I can sense his strength is failing.'

Azmael began to cough tiny specks of blood. 'He is finished.'

Then slowly, almost imperceptively at first, the blob began to shrink. Somewhere, in what sounded like the distant depths of time and s.p.a.ce, a ghostly scream was heard. It was Mestor.

'Why did you regenerate?' said the Doctor sadly.

'I had no other choice.'

'We should have mind-linked. Together we could have defeated him.'

Again, Azmael coughed, but this time blood flowed freely from his mouth. 'My friend, you are too unstable. He would have swamped you... You would have been the pebble drowning in his lake.'

'But to throw away your life ...'

Azmael smiled for the last time. 'It was nearly over.' He paused, the effort to talk was proving very painful. 'My only regret,' he panted, 'was leaving Gallifrey when it needed me most... To become a renegade is to give up one's roots...'

The Doctor nodded, knowing only too well how he felt.

'But still, my friend,' the voice was even weaker, 'I did try to do my best for Jaconda...'

Azmael started to cough violently, the rattle of death apparent. The old man was fading fast.

'Jaconda certainly gave me a good life... Many great moments.'

The words were separated by violent gasps for air. 'But one of my best... was that time by the fountain... my friend ...'

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