Read Online Doctor Who: The Masque of the Mandragora by Philip Hinchcliffe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Philip Hinchcliffe
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crescendo. ‘Oh no, I have him now!’ He clenched the palm of his hand in satisfaction. ‘I have him here! The Holy Father himself will kiss my hand for cleansing the state of San Martino.’ He touched his knuckles to his lips and leered malevolently at Rossini out of the corner of one eye.
The Doctor and Giuliano threaded their way slowly through the dark twisting tunnels. Every so often they were forced to stop and hide as members of the brethren flitted hack and forth like shadows. They seemed to be posted at all the entrances to the sacrificial chamber and the Doctor was obliged to pursue a circuitous route which grew more and more confusing at each intersection.
Somewhere, somehow they had taken a wrong turning. He had never been in such a maze—a rabbit warren of fetid, foul-smelling corridors. He felt baffled, impotent—a prisoner in some kind of hell. He realised he must be tired, having gone without sleep for several days now. The thought of finding Sarah was growing more and more remote and yet the Doctor knew he must keep on searching. Wherever she was and whatever had befallen her it was his responsibility and only he was capable of doing anything about it. He strengthened his grip on the wounded Prince and lengthened his stride.
For what seemed an eternity Sarah was half pushed, half dragged along an endless labyrinth of dark stone corridors. Cold, bruised, and utterly exhausted she at last fell into a semi-conscious haze, her body numbed by the tightness of her bonds. At one point she thought the ground began to slope upwards, but that could just have been the effects of tiredness. She remembered climbing a flight of steps, and being led into a warmer, closer atmosphere, heavy with a cloying sickly smell. Then she must have lost consciousness because when she came round she was lying on a rough pallet in the corner of a room. She was still bound and gagged.
A thick woollen curtain divided where she was lying from the rest of the room. She could hear voices muttering beyond it, but could not make out what they were saying.
‘Why did you call on our brethren to save the young Prince, Master?’
The speaker was the High Priest. He addressed Hieronymous in a low voice at the far end of the astrologer’s chamber. The old soothsayer had removed his cloak and mask and was now busy adding herbs and powders to a bubbling pot.
‘His life has yet some value,’ he replied quietly.
‘But he is no more in the eye of Demnos than any other unbeliever.’ Hieronymous ceased stirring his concoction and fixed the High Priest with a curious piercing stare. ‘Giuliano’s appointment with death is already written. Not Count Federico, nor any other mortal must anticipate the mighty Demnos.’
The High Priest nodded obediently. ‘Even so, I fear the Count will now bring all his soldiers to bear against us.’
Hieronymous raised his arms heavenwards in a ritual gesture.
‘Faith, Brothers! You have seen the sign of Demnos.’ His dark eyes burned in their sockets with manic fervour.
‘The miracle as written in the prophecies,’ incanted the Priest in reply.
‘Then let the word be spread through the city—guard the sacred temple. The great god’s dwelling-place must not be defiled by unbelievers in the last few hours. Now go! Hurry!’ He pointed commandingly to the door. The High Priest bowed low and left without further word.
Hieronymous returned to his brew. He ladled a measure from the pot, added water and sniffed the result carefully. Apparently satisfied, he poured the mixture into a glass and set it down gently on the table.
Then, crossing to the alcove, he snatched back the woollen curtain and stood gazing at the bound and gagged form on the pallet.
Sarah viewed his abrupt appearance with a mixture of alarm and curiosity. She had never seen this bearded oddly clothed figure
The Doctor and Giuliano threaded their way slowly through the dark twisting tunnels. Every so often they were forced to stop and hide as members of the brethren flitted hack and forth like shadows. They seemed to be posted at all the entrances to the sacrificial chamber and the Doctor was obliged to pursue a circuitous route which grew more and more confusing at each intersection.
Somewhere, somehow they had taken a wrong turning. He had never been in such a maze—a rabbit warren of fetid, foul-smelling corridors. He felt baffled, impotent—a prisoner in some kind of hell. He realised he must be tired, having gone without sleep for several days now. The thought of finding Sarah was growing more and more remote and yet the Doctor knew he must keep on searching. Wherever she was and whatever had befallen her it was his responsibility and only he was capable of doing anything about it. He strengthened his grip on the wounded Prince and lengthened his stride.
For what seemed an eternity Sarah was half pushed, half dragged along an endless labyrinth of dark stone corridors. Cold, bruised, and utterly exhausted she at last fell into a semi-conscious haze, her body numbed by the tightness of her bonds. At one point she thought the ground began to slope upwards, but that could just have been the effects of tiredness. She remembered climbing a flight of steps, and being led into a warmer, closer atmosphere, heavy with a cloying sickly smell. Then she must have lost consciousness because when she came round she was lying on a rough pallet in the corner of a room. She was still bound and gagged.
A thick woollen curtain divided where she was lying from the rest of the room. She could hear voices muttering beyond it, but could not make out what they were saying.
‘Why did you call on our brethren to save the young Prince, Master?’
The speaker was the High Priest. He addressed Hieronymous in a low voice at the far end of the astrologer’s chamber. The old soothsayer had removed his cloak and mask and was now busy adding herbs and powders to a bubbling pot.
‘His life has yet some value,’ he replied quietly.
‘But he is no more in the eye of Demnos than any other unbeliever.’ Hieronymous ceased stirring his concoction and fixed the High Priest with a curious piercing stare. ‘Giuliano’s appointment with death is already written. Not Count Federico, nor any other mortal must anticipate the mighty Demnos.’
The High Priest nodded obediently. ‘Even so, I fear the Count will now bring all his soldiers to bear against us.’
Hieronymous raised his arms heavenwards in a ritual gesture.
‘Faith, Brothers! You have seen the sign of Demnos.’ His dark eyes burned in their sockets with manic fervour.
‘The miracle as written in the prophecies,’ incanted the Priest in reply.
‘Then let the word be spread through the city—guard the sacred temple. The great god’s dwelling-place must not be defiled by unbelievers in the last few hours. Now go! Hurry!’ He pointed commandingly to the door. The High Priest bowed low and left without further word.
Hieronymous returned to his brew. He ladled a measure from the pot, added water and sniffed the result carefully. Apparently satisfied, he poured the mixture into a glass and set it down gently on the table.
Then, crossing to the alcove, he snatched back the woollen curtain and stood gazing at the bound and gagged form on the pallet.
Sarah viewed his abrupt appearance with a mixture of alarm and curiosity. She had never seen this bearded oddly clothed figure
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