Part 20 (2/2)

'Are you? Or is this all another sham? You were searching for your honour, remember?'

'Honour, what is honour? A word. What is that word? Honour.

What is honour? Air. Can honour set a leg, or take away the grief of -'

'Enough. I've heard it all before. When are you going to find some lines of your own?'

'Where have you heard this before? You have the advantage of me, sir. Who are you?'

'Can't you guess? When are you going to stop hiding?'

'Hiding? Hiding from what?'

'How about this?'

A sword stabbed out of the darkness. Falstaff parried more by luck than judgement. The blade appeared again out of nothing and he hacked wildly at it while trying to edge around the tree.

But the blade wouldn't let him.

'Running away again? What happens when you can't run away? Will you stand and fight at last? Have you the courage?'

The blade was weaving about him, but now he thought he could see a vague shadowy form beyond it. But however he cut and thrust he could not seem to touch it. And he was tiring. He was going to die.

'Frightened of delivering the winning blow? Frightened of committing yourself perhaps?'

Falstaff made one last desperate thrust. Somehow it got behind his opponent's guard and he felt his blade sink home. The other blade instantly dropped to the ground, leaving him with his own transfixed. And for the first time he saw who he had been fighting.

His own contorted body was skewered on the end of his blade, its features frozen in a mask of horror.

But why was there no blood? Why did his doppelganger not collapse but instead hang on his blade as light as a feather?

With a trembling hand he reached out and touched the face of his image - and it crumpled like paper. The whole body was a mere sh.e.l.l.

'Ah,' said the voice, 'an empty man. More deceptions. You have found yourself it seems.'

'That's not me!'

'Isn't it? Have you looked closely recently?'

Falstaff clutched at his own chest, feeling his fingers sink into nothing. He tore his coat open, but there was only empty blackness within. And hanging there a grubby label bearing his real name.

As fast as Qwaid, Drorgon, and the Doctor tore and cut at the roots with their knives and bare hands, more sprang up to take their place. The severed ends lashed and writhed about like white worms; even Drorgon's strength could not break the thicker roots. Slowly their feet and lower legs were becoming further tangled in the clawing roots, which began to tighten, cutting off their circulation.

Qwaid used his pistol, set on a narrow beam, on the roots about his feet. Wet earth exploded in a scorching cloud of steam.

Scalded, Qwaid yelled out and dropped the gun, which fell beyond his reach.

In desperation Drorgon turned his cannon downward. 'Don't do that - you'll blow your legs off!' the Doctor shouted.

'We're dead anyway!' Drorgon snarled.

'Then try it against the trees behind us first. Maybe they're controlling them!'

Drorgon twisted around and blazed away at the gnarled trees that clumped at their backs. A trunk exploded in a shower of splinters. Several of the roots at their feet lashed about wildly, then fell limp.

Again, said the Doctor.

Bolt after bolt smashed into the spinney of trees. Severed branches fell to the ground, slowly contorting before they were still. More roots fell away, and one by one they managed to tear their feet free, only to fall helplessly on to their faces.

Lower legs numbed from the crus.h.i.+ng force of the roots, they could only crawl away across the tussock gra.s.ses until they felt the melancholia of the mud flats descend upon them. When they shone a torch back to see if the root things were pursuing them, they saw they no longer writhed, but merely stood torn and burnt in the midst of churned earth. Beyond them shattered tree stumps smoked slightly, looking quite innocuous. Slowly, as they rubbed life back into their legs, it became harder to believe they had ever been anything else.

'Was it something real,' Qwaid demanded, 'or was it a mind trick?'

'A bit of both, perhaps,' the Doctor said, 'but I wouldn't like to say exactly what or how.'

Faintly, from the depths of the forest, came the sound of a scream, either of pain, or fear they could not tell. The Doctor started forward automatically but Qwaid restrained him.

'If they're having a taste of what we've just been through, that's their problem. You work for me, remember?'

In the reflected torchlight, the Doctor's face tightened into a mask of contempt. 'One day you'll learn there's more to life than your own selfish ambitions, Qwaid. But will it be too late?'

'I'll risk it,' Qwaid retorted. But his eyes s.h.i.+ed away from the Doctor's angry gaze.

They remained where they were, alert but uneasy, until the sky greyed with the first light of morning.

CHAPTER 18.

SHOOTING STAR.

The first flush of dawn was just beginning to tint the sky when Peri opened the TARDIS door and carried out Red's breakfast.

The great beast rose and stretched, then nuzzled against her in a friendly fas.h.i.+on. As she watched it eat she wondered if her plan was feasible. Could she really expect this animal she had known for only a few hours to take her where she wanted to go? Yet she sensed somehow that she could rely on him. At least his owner hadn't turned up in the night, and none of the locals, who seemed to have everything around here pretty much taped, had raised any objections. She had to a.s.sume it was at least permissible to make the attempt.

Peri had replaced her supplies and pack from the TARDIS's stores, and now saw there were convenient eyelets on the back of Red's saddle to fasten it securely. She didn't like the idea of leaving the TARDIS unlocked, so when she was sure she had taken everything she needed, she pressed down the door control plunger on the console and dashed out before the inner double doors could swing ponderously shut.

As on the previous evening, the stirrup flap lowered to help her mount, and soon she was seated in the saddle again. She patted the great body under her. Now I want you to go through the wood where all the signposts are. I can remember part of the way -'

But Red was already trotting off across the glade in the direction she wanted. How did he do it? Had the Gelsandorans bred a type of animal that could respond to mental commands?

It was no more fantastic than many other things she had already experienced. Peri tried to relax in the high-backed saddle and not worry about it. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth she told herself. Especially when it has teeth as sharp as this one.

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