25 - Legacy

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LEGACY

By Gary Russell

To the best Mother in the world - for getting me to read at such an early age and cultivating my interest in all

things readable. Thanks.

First published in Great Britain in 1994 by Doctor Who Books an imprint of Virgin Publishing Ltd 332

Ladbroke Grove London W10 5AH

ISBN 0 426 20412 3

Cover illustration by Peter Elson

Photo typeset by Intype, London

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired

out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other

than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the

subsequent purchaser.

Contents:

INTRODUCTION

PART ONE - THE PAST

1: My Shadow in Vain

INTERLUDE 1

PART TWO - CONTEMPORARY

1: Unknown and Hostile

2: In a Glasshouse

3: Machine and Soul

4: Strange Charm

INTERLUDE 2

5: A Game Called Echo

6: Are Friends Electric?

7: Soul Protection

INTERLUDE 3

8: I Die: You Die

PART THREE - THE FUTURE?

1: Dark Mountain

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 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 Peladon, 1972 and 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 assure 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 the `death 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 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 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 Dicks 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 damn 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, friendship 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 sturdy 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 gods who sentenced

Peladon to its stormy fate.

One day.

Half-way 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 massive barbed spear was slung over his back, held there by leathery knotted

thongs. At his side hung a massive double-bladed serrated sword, its metal dulled by the mixed blood of its

many victims.

The warrior shivered. In spite of the torches. In spite of his massive, perfectly toned physique. In spite of the

fur boots.

`By the gods of Peladon, it is bitter today, Chamberlain.'

`Aye, Lord,' agreed the seedy old man hovering behind him. `The gods 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 gods 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

anticipation 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, assuming 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 scraping 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 gods 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 cocked his head first to one side then the other. Then he grinned. `By the gods,

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, crushing 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 bloody arm around his friend's shoulder. `Gart - our warriors need amusement. 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 associated 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 assassinate 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 succumb 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 balls of his feet, whipping his sword away and Erak

unbalanced, his double bladed tool crashing 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.'

Sherak leapt towards the drapes and tugged at them. They fell with ease, crashing into the flambeau torches

and igniting in seconds.

For a fleeting second, it crossed Erak's mind that Uthron, Gart and the others in his upper echelons ought to

have been alerted to the battle and arrived to cut the boy into sixteen equal parts. Maybe this one he really

would eat. Now that would be a story for his sons . . .

His reverie was broken as Sherak flicked a blazing drape towards him. Using his barbed spear, he scooped it

away, but the barbs got entangled in it and he let go.

He only had his sword left.

It was all he needed.

The boy had got cocky; he was walking backwards, towards a flambeau that he hadn't overturned. Any

second now and Erak would have his chance.

Sherak moved back -- he could feel the heat behind him and guessed what Erak was hoping for. But Sherak

could turn that to his advantage. Just as he neared the torch, lie feinted and yelled as if burned. Predictably,

Erak lunged, but Sherak was still a good three paces from the torch. He ducked to one side, kicking out and

knocking the torch forward. Erak brought his blade down savagely straight into the flames. With a screech of

pure rage and pain, Erak dropped his sword as the flesh on his hand bubbled and blistered.

Sherak took the advantage, kicking Erak's smouldering sword away from its owner.

`I don't need weapons - I have myself!' yelled Erak, thinking of his fictitious murder of Narral. He lashed out

with his good hand and Sherak ducked. Not quickly enough, and a glancing but powerful blow sent him

crashing into the wooden throne which shattered under the impact.

With a roar of triumph Erak scooped up his barbed spear from the burnt remains of the drape. A slight tug

and it was free.

Sherak realized his mistake and tried to scrabble back, but the broken throne slowed him and he looked up

into the mad eyes of Erak - the man he'd come to kill, who looked instead like destroying him!

With a final bellow Erak grasped the hot spear in both hands, relishing the pain from his burnt skin.

`Die, pretender. Peladon is mine - ' Erak stopped; he suddenly felt very hot. He looked down as his own

double bladed sword erupted through his chest, sending chunks of hairy flesh and shattered bone to the floor.

As his ruptured lungs deflated, he staggered round, the last of his strength fading. He dropped the spear as

he saw Gart standing there, having just released his grip on the sword.

`Why?' Erak wanted to yell. To scream. `Why have you betrayed me?'

Instead, globules of blood spat from his mouth. An airless gurgle rattled in his throat and he fell to the floor.

`Because,' Gart said in reply to the unspoken question that, after seven years of campaigning with Erak, he

knew would have been in his lord's mind, `I hate you. You are the most evil, inhuman monster that ever set

foot on this planet. I have been training my son for this day since the moment he could walk. For sixteen

years he has trained. He has dreamt. He has planned for the day when he would wipe the blight that was

Erak from the face of our planet and the records of our history. And he has done so.' Gart knelt to his former

lord and master for the last time. `May the gods make a plaything of your body and torment you for eternity to

somehow atone for the evil you have done in your ill-begotten lifetime.'

Gart felt a hand on his shoulder. `He is dead, father. Do not waste your energy on the defeated - use it to

shape the living.'

The soldier looked up at Sherak and smiled. `You will make a good king and leader for our people.'

'And you, father,' Sherak said, `you shall be my first warrior - the king's champion.'

`And I?' croaked a voice from the other side of the room.

Sherak crossed the room and gripped Uthron's hand. 'Your part in today's events shall be rewarded,

Chamberlain. Only you could have kept Erak's maidens and staff away during our battle. The position of

chamberlain is still sorely needed. You are known and respected by the miners and the villagers. Will you

remain in your post under a different king?'

Uthron coughed and pointed at Erak. `He would never have been a real king. But you? You make me proud to

be a Pel.' Uthron dropped to one knee and crossed his chest with his right arm. `May I have permission to

address the king?'

Sherak turned to his father, who immediately adopted the same position.

`May I have permission to address the king?' he echoed.

The son looked at the father and the friend, and laughed. `I haven't actually been crowned yet!'

Five summers passed. King Sherak, the first appointed monarch of the planet Peladon, matured into a wise,

loved and successful king. He reunited the scattered people of Peladon, made the Pels feel at one with

themselves and their home. The more superstitious amongst them noted that more and more mornings gave

way to bright, rainless afternoons and evenings. It was as if with Erak's death, the ancient gods were

appeased and content to allow Peladon to forge its own destiny.

Nevertheless, it was on a very stormy, dark afternoon that Sherak decided to explore the dark side of Mount

Megeshra.

He greeted Uthron, now getting quite unsteady on his feet, at luncheon, asking him to find a strong equinna

that he could use as a mount. Uthron warned his liege against the action.

`My Lord, the dark side of the mountain is not named thus due to some poetic conceit. It truly is a

dangerous, unexplored part of our land!'

`Then how does everyone know it is so awful?'

Uthron sighed. `Because those that have set out to explore it, either on foot or on beast, never ever return.

Only one riderless equinna has ever returned, badly mauled and assaulted. The poor animal died very soon

after. At least take some of your stoutest guards with you.'

`And they would volunteer to join their king on such an apparently foolhardy escapade?'

'Your Majesty knows the bravery of his palace guard.'

`His Majesty also knows,' countered Sherak, `that his guards are not stupid. They would come if I ordered

which I would not - and some would come through loyalty. But none would innocently volunteer for such a

journey. Besides, loyal Chamberlain,' he said, resting a hand on the older man's drooping shoulders, `I have

to go alone. Call it madness, call it suicide or call it a compulsion. All I know is that I must do this. To

appease the gods and, more importantly, to appease my own soul.'

Uthron seemed to sag a little more. `And your fath . . . your champion? What does he say to this

recklessness?'

'Which recklessness is this, wise Uthron?' said a concerned voice from behind them.

Sherak rose out of his small but ornate throne and stepped down the raised dais it sat upon. His father stood

by the double doors, the light from the nearest flambeau flickering over him, casting dark shadows around his

eyes and mouth.

`Oh father, I knew you would argue. I intended to go without your knowing.'

`To the dark side of Megeshra? Is that your plan, my Lord?'

`It is.'

`I forbid it!' Gart stepped forward, a flash of fury crossing his face. `And I speak as your father. A father who

has never forbade anything of his child until now.'

Sherak looked at his father. It was true that Gart had never raised his voice, let alone a hand, against his son.

Instead he and Uthron had guided him, wisely and pleasantly, into becoming a popular man of the people.

But this was the time to be defiant. To be strong.

'I hear what both of you say. I love you both and respect your fears. But despite that, my mind is made up. I

will go, this very afternoon. And nothing you can say will stop me.'

Deadlock. The three men stared at each other. After what seemed like hours but was less than a moment,

Uthron bowed and stepped back. He knew that his king would brook no further argument from one such as he

- this was a matter for father and son. 'I shall return later, my Lords.'

'Stay,' hissed a furious Gart. 'Your king needs guidance from you.'

Sherak frowned. 'Your king?' he repeated. 'What do you mean by -'

Gart proudly drew himself erect. 'Whilst you insist on this madness, I neither serve nor acknowledge Sherak

of Peladon. Your king, Uthron, no longer has a champion. Or a father.'

A second later Gart was gone.

Slowly Sherak turned and sat again on his throne.

Uthron was at a loss. 'My Lord?' When Sherak again looked up at the old man, Uthron noted a new gleam in

his king's eyes. The blue eyes seem to have almost turned steel-grey. There was no laughter, no joy, no life

reflected in that face.

'Find me a mount, Chamberlain,' he said. 'Find me the strongest, best-trained equinna in my court. I ride in

one hour. No one is to know where. No one is to know why. And anyone who follows me will die, at my hand,

in seconds. Understand that, old man, and nothing else.'

Sherak almost jumped off his throne and turned to the back of the chamber, where a single door was

concealed behind a burgundy drape, interwoven with gold. The king went through the door and Uthron heard

the bolt being slid back on the other side. There would be no following him.

Unknowingly echoing the thoughts of a bestial warrior five years before, Uthron realized that for the first time

he had seen how cold a man his well-loved liege really could be.

As the equinna bounded away from the underground stable, carrying its master on its strong back, Sherak

allowed himself a last look back at the Citadel.

The miners and builders had spent three summers and winters struggling against Peladon's elements to haul

the vast slabs of granite up through the network of tunnels. Much of the main facade of the building had been

carved out of the rock itself. Many a builder had fallen to a horrible death during construction, a victim of loose

rocks or the savage winds. Eventually it had been built - a home for the royal courtiers and soldiers, while the

miners and other craftsmen had remained in their villages at the foot of the mountain. A magnificent building,

reaching up and proving to the gods that Pels could survive on this harshest of worlds.

Sherak turned away from it. If he survived the task before him, he would finally know he was fit to lead the

Peladon people. Uthron and his father could not understand. Yes, he had defeated Erak - but in reality it had

been Gart who had delivered the death-blow. In fact Sherak might well have died if not for his father's

intervention. But the people believed that it had been he, not his father, who had the victory. And although

Gart never, ever mentioned it, Sherak knew. Sherak had not proved himself to be a king that day; merely a

figurehead - someone to rally the people around. He wasn't embarking on this quest for the Pels. He was

doing it for selfish reasons.

He wanted to prove himself to himself.

Ignoring the howling winds and heavy rain, he rode on, his familiar burgundy cape flying behind him.

Four hours later he knew he was in unchartered lands.

The terrain was rocky and lethal. His equinna was limping slightly and his own bare legs were scratched and

bleeding from the shrubbery that littered the tops and bottoms of the hillocks they rode over.

He tugged the reins and with a snort, the equinna turned left. They rounded a set of boulders and Sherak

pulled them to a stop.

They had halted at a sheer drop. Hundreds of feet below was a flat plain, lush with green grass and

fruit-bearing trees. In the distance, the more familiar rocks and lifeless terrain. He again stared at the eden

below. How could such a beautiful area exist in such a tiny and remote section? He could see no way down

for the equinna, but hunger and thirst plus a large helping of curiosity made Sherak want to explore. He

tethered his mount to a rock and opened the satchel slung over its back, behind his saddle. Three items:

Erak's double-bladed sword, Erak's barbed spear, and a sack of food for the equinna. Setting the last at the

beast's feet, whereupon it greedily started munching, he strapped both weapons to his back.

He looked as far as he could see left and right, but there was no obvious path down. It would be a steep and

potentially lethal climb. But something told him that this was the task he had been searching for - his own

personal demon to be conquered.

There was nothing for it but to start to climb down. And no place better than where he stood.

The first few yards were easy, footholds and hand-grips were easy to come by. It was almost as if someone

had deliberately dug out body-length holes in preparation for his quest. Memories of Uthron's comments

about people going but never returning from the dark side flooded back. Had those lost warriors and

adventurers created these convenient holes? If so, what became of them? Suddenly he realized he was

simply hanging there. He had reached the side of a smooth square of rock. No handholds. No footholds. Just

flat rock. He couldn't move any lower. His feet scrambled for even the slightest ridge but there was nothing.

Slowly he looked up - the top seemed far away and for a moment he felt dizzy. Was this it? The end? Where

all those that had preceded him had faltered, dropped and died'? Carefully, he moved one hand out of its hole,

gripping tighter with the other. He felt around him, but to no avail. With all his strength he took the whole

weight of his body, ignoring the natural pull of gravity, with his one hand and swung around so that he no

longer faced the rock but the horizon. He allowed himself a look down. Another hundred feet at least, and a

crop of lethal-looking rocks directly below him.

He noted that the rain had stopped, and the rock face kept the wind off him. The fruit trees below swayed in

only the slightest breeze. That was the secret - this rock wall protected the paradise below, blocking it in and

keeping the harsher elements out.

Sherak was not the greatest scholar but even he realized that the grass was short, the trees not unkempt.

Something looked after this paradise. What? A nomadic tribe of undiscovered Pels? The gods? A bestial roar

answered his question instantly and uncomfortably.

He looked down again. An equinna-sized monster was staring up at him. Crouched on all fours, its

black/brown fur stood on end. Even at this great height, Sherak could sense eyes boring into him. He took a

look at its head - a blunt snout ridged with bone and a lethal pointed horn, ready to gouge any foe. Long,

sharp claws at each foot probably ripped its prey apart and as it snarled at him he saw the rows of incisor

teeth, again long and sharp.

`By the gods, I think this was the mistake Uthron and my father claimed.'

With that he lost his grip and fell.

Sherak never actually saw the branches that hung outwards from tiny crevices in the rock but subconsciously

he must have been aware of them. He reached out as he fell and grabbed one. The jolt as he stopped not

only ripped all the ligaments in his left arm but caused him to swing around and slam into the rock face. He

knew from the sharp reports that more than a couple of ribs had broken and he gasped loudly. He was sure

that he hadn't damaged any internal organs - he could breathe and his heart was pumping fast but not

excessively.

He looked down. He had broken his fall ten feet above the creature and the rocks. Scattered round the rocks

were bones and at least two human-looking skulls, although one had clearly had its owner's head caved in at

some point. His forefathers had been this creature's lunch and he looked very likely to be next on the menu.

The pain in his wrecked arm reminded him of his injuries but before he let go, he wrestled the barbed spear off

his back.

Peladon's distant sun glinted briefly off the shaft and distracted the monster below for a second or two.

Sherak relaxed his grip on the cliff face and dropped.

He expected his last seconds to be a breaking of his bones as he hit the rocks, followed by shredding at the

claws of the monster. Instead he landed squarely on its back, knocking it to the ground and winding it. As

this realization dawned, Sherak rolled away, wincing as his damaged body complained at the treatment he

was giving it. `Give in and die,' his ribs seemed to say. `Let the beast eat,' pleaded his arm. `No,' Sherak's

inner strength replied, `not without a fight.'

He looked over at the beast and grabbed at the spear. Slowly shaking its head, it moved towards him. It

nudged at the ground with its tusked nose. Smelling Sherak out.

Of course, he realized, it must live inside the rock face, that's why I didn't spot it. It can't see out here very

well, so it's using smell.

There was a terrible roar.

It wasn't the creature in front of him. Sherak looked beyond it and coming out of a crevice were four identical

monsters, shaking their heads at the sudden light. Sherak brought the spear up, ready for a fight. The first

creature suddenly turned its back on him and roared at its associates. They roared back and Sherak winced

as his head ached at the terrible noises. Suddenly one of the newcomers stood up on its hind legs, waving its

paws towards Sherak and popping its claws. Sherak was convinced that what happened next was in slow

motion but that just had to be his memory playing tricks. The upright monster leapt forward but the first one,

`his' one, jumped up, raking its claws through the other one's belly in mid-air. With a screech of anguish, the

new one dropped short of Sherak and swung round on the first.

Sherak had no idea whether `his' one had done this because it wanted him for its own food or because, as he

hoped, it realized he posed no danger. Either way, it had helped him and was now engaged in battle. His

instinct told him to run away but his heart told him to help.

He leapt forward, waving the barbed spear. It slashed through the melee of fur but, Sherak realized in horror, it

missed his foe and sliced into `his' monster. Nevertheless, it carried on fighting. Sherak took a step too near

and was caught on the side of the head by a claw, gouging three scratches into his cheek. He yelled at the

pain and salty taste of blood in his mouth, then wiped at his cheek, to keep the blood from splashing into his

eye and drew Erak's double-bladed sword. He brought it down on the attacker's neck, severing whatever

muscles were there. It didn't even moan as it dropped dead to the ground, eyes staring wide.

Sherak's original foe grunted at him and turned towards the assembled group by the crevice. It roared, louder

than before and they slowly turned and went back in.

`You saved me, monster. You protected me. Why?' As if in answer, the creature stepped towards him,

staring at the double-bladed sword. Sherak noted that the sunlight glinted off it every time he moved, almost

rhythmically.

The creature seemed fascinated by the light. Sherak kept twitching the sword, making sure that the light

reflected back into the creature's small eyes. Instead of roaring, it seemed to almost purr and settle down in

front of him. Gingerly, Sherak reached out with his bloodsoaked hand and touched the creature's accidental

injury from the spear. As his blood touched the creature's, Sherak felt a thrill go through his body.

And he realized his quest was over.

He had tamed the savage beast. They had protected each other and were now some kind of simplistic blood

brothers.

After a few moments, the beast stirred. It looked up at Sherak and he momentarily wondered if he had been

wrong. Had it let him lower his guard only to strike him down?

No. The creature lurched away, licking at its wound. Just as it reentered the crevice it turned back and

roared. After it vanished, Sherak settled back on his haunches, looking at his two weapons.

A rustle behind him made him swing round. He winced as his ribs reminded him of his injuries. Munching at

the grass was his equinna, saddle intact.

`You found a route down? There is no doubt that Peladon animals are more intelligent than their masters.'

Slowly he remounted, strapped his blood-tainted weapons to his back and let the equinna return him to the

Citadel.

Sherak's return had been magnificent. Crowds had flocked to see him, cheer him and praise him. Two

medical men had attended his wounds and once he was comfortable, he returned to his throne room to rest -

one place where he could determine who could and could not disturb him.

He snatched a piece of parchment and quill and began to sketch out an image of the monster's face. His

protector. No - the Royal Protector. He glanced at the drapes adorning the plain throne room. Yes, the face

would be savage but a reminder of his humbling but exciting victory over legend.

He called for Uthron.

Moments later the old man hobbled in.

`My Chamberlain - I succeeded. And I have brought back a new love for the people. Something for them to

revere as I do. The Royal Protector and Sacred Beast of Peladon.' He held the sketch up to Uthron.

The old man took the picture. `Aggedor! You have seen the legendary beast?'

`We are blood-brothers, Uthron,' said Sherak and retold his adventure.

At the end he clasped Uthron's shoulder. `I want that put everywhere. On doors, on sculptures, within our

garments and drapes. It will be a symbol of the unified Peladon.'

`It will be done, my King.'

Sherak sat back, wincing slightly at his wounds. `So, where is my father? Where is the king's champion?

Why is he not here to help celebrate his son's victory over legend and the gods?'

Uthron swallowed and straightened himself up. `He is gone, Your Majesty. Shamed at his outburst, he

packed his belongings and left the Citadel shortly after you rode away.'

`We must find him!'

`Your father is a great warrior and a proud man, my liege. He has left the mountain altogether and no one

knows where he is. He does not wish to be found. Or shamed any further.' Uthron paused, waiting for a

response. Instead, Sherak stared at the floor, mute and . . . sad? Angry? Uthron could not tell. After a

moment, the king looked back at Uthron, the blue eyes again having turned cold as steel. `So be it, old man.

Take that parchment and do as I requested . . . ordered.'

Uthron bowed low and left the throne room. As he stood outside the double doors to catch his breath, he

thought he could hear laboured sobs from within. Clutching the parchment tightly, he sighed and went to see

the palace sculptors and painters.

Sherak, First King of Peladon, died aged sixty-five - a good age. He married a beautiful maiden, a distant

relation of Uthron's, and bore five children, including two boys. The eldest died in his teenage years after an

accident in the caverns and so the younger boy adopted his father's crown. The new king never met Gart, his

grandfather, but was filled with tales of the champion's bravery by his father. All records of Erak's pretence to

the throne were wiped from history - he was just remembered as an evil baron defeated by the young King

Sherak.

Aggedor went on to become a legendary beast and protector. To invoke his name was the ultimate praise and

to blaspheme it was punishable by death. A high priest of Aggedor was appointed to all subsequent royal

courts. These could also trace their lineage back to Uthron, making a vaguely incestuous but compact royal

bloodline.

Many generations later, a new young king sat on Peladon's throne. He was Kellian and his throne room was

forever occupied by two older men. Both brown-haired, in long flowing capes of burgundy and silver, their

burgundy hair stripes were also picked out in their beards. Cousins; Torbis was the king's chancellor whilst

Hepesh was the high priest of Aggedor. Kellian valued both men's friendship above all else, although he had

been heard to comment that Hepesh's interest in Aggedor verged more on the obsessive.

When the strange lights in the sky came, Hepesh said it was a portent of doom - Aggedor would one day rise

to smite his enemies and these lights were that enemy. Torbis was more rational and offered to take a party

out to see where these lights had landed.

Kellian agreed and Torbis set off. It was rumoured that pots of iron could be found where stars crashed, but

no one had yet proven this. Maybe Torbis would be the lucky one.

The prize Torbis returned with was not a pot of iron but something far more precious to the young king. She

had short blonde hair, large watery blue eyes and a broad, ingratiating smile. Her robes were tattered and

bloodsoaked, but she still carried herself with an air of nobility: `My name is Ellua, Princess of Europa. I am

from a planet called Earth, many light-years from here.' The words meant little to Kellian - perhaps she was

what she said, an alien. Perhaps she was an emissary from the gods. Either way, her beauty and charm

were worth far more to him than pots of iron.

It transpired that her ship and two escorts had been caught in an ion storm and lost their way. They were

heading for the Galactic Federation base on Analyas VII when they were caught in Peladon's forceful orbit.

`Your three moons are a very strong deterrent for low-level shuttle flying, my liege,' she said at one point. One

of her escort ships had gone too low and the other two had come in to try and mount a rescue. All three had

ultimately plummeted to the ground arid although the ships were wrecked. no lives had been lost, but one

pilot was severely injured.

`If we don't get him to Analyas VII urgently, he will die.' Kellian had been struck by her pain and anguish over

the man's well-being.

`But surely he is only a servant. A courtier? Is his life really worth that much to one such as you?'

It was the only time Kellian ever remembered Ellua getting angry. `His position is irrelevant! He is a man like

you. A living person. Of course his life matters. All life is sacred - it's not to be decided on royal favour!'

Using their communicators, Ellua's entourage contacted a Federation support ship and so received help.

They took away the wounded man, who was later reported to have made a full recovery. Kellian and Ellua,

however, never strayed from one another. She told him of the many worlds in the heavens, of the evil and the

good. Of the Federation and what it could do to help his planet.

She married him a year later - Torbis acting as regent although Hepesh refused to bless the couple; another

less xenophobic priest married them. Within six months Kellian had applied for Federation aid and

membership.

A diplomatic team arrived to assess the planet and quickly departed, suggesting that Peladon was still

needing to establish its own social structure before the Federation would interfere. They assured the king and

queen that they would return in about twenty years to reassess. Ellua alone was made aware of one other

thing about Peladon - the Federation were very interested in the natural trisilicate that lined its caverns.

Peladon would have a great economic future if the Federation could one day mine that trisilicate. Only as the

twenty-year deadline neared would Ellua tell her husband that. To announce that now would encourage him to

risk Federation involvement too early. She knew that the Federation were right - Peladon needed further social

development and, as queen, she could help foster that.

Another year later, a son was born. Kellian wanted to use a traditional royal name, passed through the

generations. `It would be appropriate as he will be king when we join the Federation. The name Sherak has

long been beloved of our people and a symbol of change for the better.'

Ellua disagreed. `I think the best name would be the one that would announce him on other worlds with great

flair and flourish. A memorable name. He should be Peladon of Peladon!' Over the next few years Kellian and

his wife, aided by Torbis and, to a small extent, by Hepesh, educated the boy.

The old men would place Peladon on his father's knee and tell him of Aggedor. Of his planet's history. Of the

Federation and of all the great things each could bring to the other.

One day Hepesh and Torbis quietly placed him upon the actual throne. He was twelve years old.

`I cannot sit here, my friends. Rightfully, it can only be my father's place!' Hepesh cleared his throat and with

a brief glance of disdain at Ellua, stared straight at Peladon. `Though the blood that flows in your veins is

mingled with that of strangers, yet you shall be Peladon of Peladon. Greater than your father. Greater than

any past or future king.'

Ellua knelt down beside him. `My son, your father has been taken from us. A hunting accident. You are now

the Prince Regent. Torbis and Hepesh will teach you and guide you. They shall do this until you are of age,

whereupon you will be anointed as king.' Ellua took Peladon's right hand and placed it in Torbis's. She then

took his left and placed that in Hepesh's hand.

Ellua then went to the front of the throne where her bewildered son sat. She sank onto one knee and placed

her right arm across her chest. `May 1 have permission to address the king?' Peladon of Peladon burst into

tears. He was only a boy.

But he was a prince. And he would grow into a wise king and lead his planet into a new future . . .

It was a graveyard in space.

But unlike traditional graveyards, it was not full of people buried beneath the ground, but a sector of deep

space, dotted with spaceships. Hundreds of ships, scattered aimlessly around as if put there and forgotten

over aeons. Ships from a hundred different planets and civilizations from thousands of years of their respective

space travelling. It was like a vast butterfly collection, a ship from every race and of every design imaginable.

Placed there by beings of immense power.

A short way beyond these wrecked hulls was something completely different, something in full working

condition. A vast, dark space station, so massive it could almost be mistaken for an entire city hovering in

space. Ovoid in shape, its centre was dominated by a huge communications tower, tapering upwards, tiny

lights blinking on and off around the spire. Smaller towers and pyramids dotted the rest of the surface, jutting

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LEGACYByGaryRussellTothebestMotherintheworld-forgettingmetoreadatsuchanearlyageandcultivatingmyinterestinallthingsreadable.Thanks.FirstpublishedinGreatBritainin1994byDoctorWhoBooksanimprintofVirginPublishingLtd332LadbrokeGroveLondonW105AHCopyright(c)GaryRussell1994`DoctorWho'seriescopyright(c)Britis...

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25 - Legacy

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